Foolery

Hanging Pictures Would Be Difficult

 


(Photo stolen from The Boy Scouts)

I think the Zulu people of South Africa have the right idea: houses should be round so it isn't possible to back anyone into a corner.

That's probably not why their houses are round.

And this doesn't protect you from having your back against a wall.

*sigh*

Relationships are so complicated. I guess we still need architects.

Tomato, Tomahto, Tokidoki . . .

I'm very interested in language, though I'm not particularly educated in the matter. Most of my language education has been informal, observational, and force-fed to me by my father.

My brother Bocci commented to me a while back that I have a habit of identifying the source of surnames, and I hadn't realized it. I have no idea why I know that Hakkarainen is a Finnish name (other than I Googled it for an example), I just know. And, apparently, I over-share (sorry, Bocci. How did you avoid Dad all these years, she wonders aloud?).

I am constantly  brow-beating  highlighting interesting linguistic bits to my daughters, such as

• Domingo, the Spanish name for Sunday, did NOT derive from Domino's Pizza and they will NOT give you a free pizza for knowing this fact.

 

               (Photo stolen from these guys)

• Afternoon means "after noon." Please do not try to complicate this.

• The word pastor comes from the same root word as pastoral, meaning "of or related to shepherds or herders." This follows because a pastor leads his/her flock in worship and study. Pastor can also refer to animal husbandry. To me pastor means an ordained Christian minister. Either way there is NO WAY I'll be ordering tacos al pastor any time soon.

• A pupu platter is extremely nasty and we shall not discuss it further.

• Tokidoki means "sometimes" in Japanese. Clearly I have been using this wrong. Carry on.

• The exception that proves the rule is some silly nonsense like "the sound of one hand clapping." The other hand is slapping some sense into someone.

• There is no R in Washington, Dad.

• Pickles is the funniest word in the English language, followed closely by tushie.

 

           (Original photo stolen from these guys)

• Usedta-couldn't and a'sposedta-be are not real words, outside of Orland.

That's all I've got for now.



Pickles.  Heh heh heh.

Is It Just Me?

Or are these two guys probably never in the same room together?

 

(Bob's Big Boy logo stolen from these guys)

 


(Astroboy logo stolen from these guys)

Where the Green, Green Grass of Home Comes From

(Photo stolen from these guys)

I know this won't make any sense to you, but I am sitting by my open office window, and the cool night air smells like cow poop.

This should annoy me -- it would nauseate a lot of people -- and sometimes? It does annoy me. But mostly, it comforts me. I know that if I can smell cow poop, there are cows out there in the dark. I smell no smoke, chemicals, cigarettes, exhaust, or other inorganic materials. Just good old organic cow poop.

All is right with the world.

p.s. I do NOT, however, offer the same homage to pig poop.

Disaliefment

You know how it feels when there's something you think you might want, but you don't know yet, but you think you might, so you make a play for it, and then you don't get it?

It's a mixture of relief and disappointment.



WHEW! I don't have to try anything new, because I'm really pretty tired right now.



DARN. I did think I wanted to stretch my wings a bit.



WHEW! I have too many balls in the air as it is -- what was I thinking?



DARN. What every woman really needs is MORE BALLS.



WHEW! That was close. What would I have done with it, anyway?



DARN. Now I'll never know.

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.

Can't Decide Which Way to Fall

I've taken a lot of photos of this old barn over the years.



Like me, it's seen better days.  It's seriously rickety, it's graying around the edges and it has bats in the rafters.



Also like me, it is vastly improved by the presence of children.



Unlike me, however, this barn's butt isn't getting any wider.

Ponder THIS

We've all seen a cat (or dog) give itself a bath.  To the obvious questions of "how can he STAND it?" and "who designed such a disgusting system?" I'd like to add the following question:

"How does he know when he's DONE?"


(Photo stolen from ponceypix on Flickr)

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye

(Graphic stolen from these guys)

Work friendships are usually characterized by either shallowness or by unlikely intensity.

Think of five people you've worked with in the past.  How close are you with any of them?  Was there a time when you felt an unbreakable bond, and yet now you have little to say to each other?

Work friendships tend to form because of adversity.  Mind-numbing boredom is adversity; so is a cruel or idiotic manager.  Bonds forged by the flames of injustice feel as solid as iron; in time they crumble like sandstone.  And sometimes you realize too late that your work friend just bores you to tears.

This sounds like a tragedy; it's not a tragedy.  People I've become close to in jobs over the years have included out-of-control alcoholics, drug dealers, home-wreckers, unapologetic Internet Explorer users, and surf bums.  I had nothing in common with any of them outside of the job, and yet we felt such strong bonds at the time.  Illusory.  Wonderful acquaintances, within the scope of time and place, but never meant to last.

The work friendships I do mourn, however, are those that were founded on sturdier principles -- world view, values, Macintosh devotion -- but were ended prematurely because the job changed.  Those are the sad ones.  Outside of work the circumstances cannot sustain the friendship, and yet if given common ground the friendship would endure.  Differences in age, social strata, marital status, religion, upload speed, or zip code can erode what would have been a beautiful friendship in another time or place.  Those losses hurt.

I write this tonight as I begin to mourn the departure of a work friend who was -- is -- a real friend.  Oh, sure, it's easy to say we'll keep in touch, but differences in our individual lives outside of work make that unlikely.  It's a drag, and I'll miss my friend.

I just keep reminding myself that it wasn't THAT long ago that he used a Dell.

Smell ya later, dude.

How to Handle Your 25th High School Reunion Party

1.  Go.  Visit.  Marvel at how young some look, and how you never realized that some of your class must have been in their 20s in high school.  Eat.  Drink.  Dance a goofy dance.  Request "Celebration" from the band.

2.  Ignore the invitation.  You hate these things.

3.  Go.  Take your husband.  Drape yourself over him in a defensive cocoon that keeps others at a healthy distance.  People watch.

And then there's how you handle your 25th high school reunion party if you're me:

1.  Answer the phone at 3:00 p.m. while watering your anemic tomatoes.  Learn of the high school reunion at 3:01.  Furiously clean the kitchen counters and make salsa while you try to decide what to do.  You did, after all, tell Janice you'd meet her there an hour into it.  But what about Date Night with Mom, chocolate, pinot noir and the new Adam Carolla movie?  Out the window, apparently.  Sigh.

2.  Change out of your jammie pants after a shower.  Stare into your closet with the resigned solemnity of a doctor performing his 1000th colonoscopy:  "I'm going in."  Find pretty much what you'd find during a colonoscopy.  Settle on a dress you wear entirely too much, but one at least you don't hate.

3.  Remember that you didn't lose those 35 pounds and embark on a fabulous new career and become interesting and end world hunger since the last time you saw these people.  How to explain that?  Maybe you can get those done in the car on the way?

4.  Include the following things in your pre-party routine:  microdermabrasion, a partial pedicure, extensive eyebrow deforestation, shaving of the legs, a little makeup, jewelry, and even lipstick.  Realize why you rarely do any of these things.

5.  Want a beer so bad while you get ready that your teeth hurt.  Pass on the beer since you will be driving.  Pass on dinner other than some of that salsa because you are too nervous.  Have I lost any of the weight yet?

6.  Transfer important stuff to your summer purse.  Search for recent photos of your children, and realize you never print out photos of your children.  Find some your sister-in-law mercifully sent.

7.  Arrive at the casino, which is where the party will be, alone.  Remember: you are crashing this party, because you didn't send in your $25, because you never got the e-mail.  Oh well.  It could only be a coup to be thrown out of an Orland high School reunion.  Cut through the gambling floor of a casino dressed NOT in the apparently requisite attire of cut-offs, flip-flops and Marlboro t-shirt; try not to meet any of the disapproving stares.

8.  Sidle up to the bar and encounter one of about ten people at this event who you know could make you feel totally insignificant and ridiculous.  Engage him in idle chit-chat until the inevitable lull, which you fill with the phrase,"Oh yeah, I'm DEFINITELY gonna need a drink to get through this."  Realize too late that you used your outside voice on that last thought as you are met with an incredulous stare.  Leave the bar.

9.  Enter the busy party room and feel all of your Miss America training kick in.  Throw your shoulders back, plaster on a Mona Lisa smile and glide across the empty dance floor as it suddenly dawns on you that your Miss America training was, like the best parts of your life, purely imaginary.  Slink to the back of the room to find someone you recognize.

10.  Find a group of people you've never been gladder to see in your whole life.  Share kid pictures and funny stories.  Laugh, laugh, laugh.  Forget to finish your drink, and you really don't care.

11.  Say hi to Larry, who was a very special classmate.  (Special in the "slam-dancing all by himself on the dance floor" kind of way.  Yeah, THAT special.)  Receive three hugs and two kisses from Larry, which is down from your 20th reunion peak of four hugs/four kisses from Larry.  BUT elicit a "Larry Memory Moment," -- "Do you thtill like the Beatlesthz?" -- which is worth at least one of those kisses.  Feel smugly self-satisfied.

12.  Wander so far away from your drink and your purse while visiting, that someone turns your purse over to security.  Waste valuable drinking time getting that straightened out.

13.  Spend the rest of the night catching up: talk about the ins and outs of locksmithing, computers, getting around Tokyo, the Air Force, the volunteer fire department, golf, and teenagers.  Answer only a handful of questions; keep the focus on the other person almost exclusively.  Manage to get through the evening with only one person finding out that you blog, but don't offer the link.

Regardless of how snarky this sounds, I really did enjoy myself and loved seeing my old classmates.  I can't say I recommend my approach to the dreaded 25th high school reunion, but it worked out great for me, and at least I didn't sweat it for more than four hours.  With any luck I won't know the 30th is upon me until an hour before.

Why, Again, Are We Revisiting the '80s?

I just saw my first picture of The Jonas Brothers.*  I still can't tell you who they are, but at least I have a vague notion that they are NOT a cheesy nightclub juggling act like I may or may not have thought.  They are some kind of cheesy gender nonspecific singing group, I think.  (The word "Brothers" was probably incorporated into the name to clear things up for us.  Thanks, brand marketers at Disney -- I owe you one.)

This is the picture I saw, taken this week some time:

Now this got me thinking (no easy feat these days): who do these youngsters remind me of, with their tortured fashions and fuss-fuss-fuss hair?

Well, that's close, but not quite.

Oh, I remember:

Take another look.

I think I'm right about this.  In fact, I suspect some of these people may be in both photos.

Especially this guy:

*Yes, I do live under a rock, and I like it here, thanks.

No Goats Were Harmed (By Me) For This Post

I never intended to buy this soap.

 

 

I had to buy this soap to justify having accidentally purchased a refill size of Softsoap foaming hand wash.  I don't care if it foams or not, but if it looks like a lot of fun, you can bet my girls will be covering all available skin with it when I'm not looking.

 

So I bought it, and WOW! does it ever smell nice.  Pure Cashmere, that's what it's called.  So, of course, having taken package design classes and being a huge fan of lying bastard marketers clever copywriting on packages, I had to look closer.  Here's what they claim, direct from the Softsoap web site:

 

 

Did you catch the BUY NOW button?  I knew you did; silly douchebags marketers.

 

Were any of you thinking what I'm thinking?  Where does cashmere come from, anyway?  That's right, it'd be THIS:

 

(Photo stolen from Fiberjoy on Flickr)

 

Cashmere extracts would be . . . what, exactly?  Goat squeezin's?  So I utterly failed in my heroic attempts to find for you a picture of the goat squeezer who gamely provides me with Pure Cashmere Softsoap*, but I'm still trying.

 

*In the interest of Fair Advertising I plan to petition Softsoap to rename this product Goat Squeezin's.  In the interest of Fair Play I must tell you that this soap is my new favorite bathroom accessory and/or perfume.

Bag It

Yesterday morning, on my way to work, with no time or gnarly camera to take a picture, I saw a startling sight.  I have recreated it for you through the magic of stealing photos on the internet Graphic Converter.


(Original bag photo stolen from charlotteV. on Flickr; original osprey photo stolen from Forget Me Knott Photography on Flickr)

Smedley later guessed the osprey was planning to use it to build its nest.  Sparky said she thought maybe the osprey was going shopping.

Sideshow Malcolm

One of these is Canadian Malcolm Gladwell, author of two New York Times best-sellers and a writer for The New Yorker.  One of these is Sideshow Bob from "The Simpsons."

Meh.  The differences are uninteresting.

"That's Incredible!"

(Photo stolen from this site, which doesn't even exist anymore.  Can you blame them?)

Remember this show?  We all learned to yell, "THAT'S INCREDIBLE!" every time something wasn't.  We collectively began to hate the word incredible after this show had been on for about two weeks.  It's taken our country YEARS to get over it.

 

I'm gonna ruin your day now.  Maybe even a lot of your days.  Sorry, that's my job . . . today.

 

You know the old saying that when you buy a white car, you suddenly notice 50 million white cars everywhere?  You're not paranoid (though perhaps not too observant) -- they were always there, you're just sensitized to white cars now.

 

Here's where the day-ruining part comes in:  I'm going to sensitize you to something that's all around you.  Some time today, whether it's near the coffee maker in your office, or coming through your TV set, or overheard in a store, SOME TIME TODAY, the word amazing will be floated.  Amazing.  We all say it, don't we?  It used to be used in sentences like these:

 

"Those Chinese acrobats have amazing balance"

 

and

 

"It was amazing that he lived after falling 1000 feet."

 

Those things are amazing.

 

Here's how this word is used lately, most often by starlets on "Access Hollywood":

 

"He is amazing!"

 

"You look amazing!"

 

"It was so amazing!"

 

"The food was amazing!"

 

"This Kleenex is amazing!"

 

"You still look amazing!"

 

"Single-celled animals with no social skills are amazing!"

 

None of those things are amazing.

 

Let's recap:

(Photo stolen from redheadablaze on Flickr)   

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

(Photo stolen from this site, which may or may not be amazing)

 

Sorry to ruin your day.  Go out and make it

Nice Tata(s)

This is the car making headlines in the U.S. this week: the Tata Nano.  From India, I think.  Where it is apparently appropriate to poke fun at small, er, um . . . kindergarten chests.  Ha ha.  Very funny.  Yeah, like a guy is really going to buy one of these, right?  At least not in North America.

I hear the Chinese have stepped up production on a car they hope to get into our market BEFORE the Tata, or the Nano, or whatever.  It will be called, of course, the Wang.  Make or model, I dunno -- I haven't thought it all through yet, smartypants.

Not sure ANYBODY will be ready to buy one of those, either.

What I Have Learned

What I have learned this holiday season:

• Cats who, in years past, have never bothered the Christmas tree, can suddenly go postal on this year's Christmas tree.

• Cats who aren't guilty of dismantling the Christmas tree may still harbor ill feelings toward said tree.  Cat may act upon his anger at the tree with long stare-downs, or, I don't know, maybe by peeing on the goose ornament.

• Goose ornaments are washable.

• Goose ornaments which have been washed are virtually indistinguishable from goose ornaments which never needed a bath in the first place.  However, should you come to my house next Christmas, I wouldn't recommend nibbling any of the Christmas ornaments.

• For a long winter's nap on an inflatable bed, you really should put a thick blanket between the mattress and your person.  Otherwise, all the blankets in the house won't be enough to keep you warm.*

• If your elbow touches the floor when you roll over in your inflatable bed, your mattress doesn't have enough air.*

• When sleeping on an inflatable bed, the only thing between you and the floor is air, which wants OUT, apparently.  Your sleep will only be as snug as the fit of the air valve plug thingy.*

(Photo stolen from this guy)

• No matter how cold the ocean is, no matter how uncomfortable wet sandy jeans may be, children -- even children who cannot swim -- will get completely soaked at the beach at new year's.

• The beauty of a sunset is in direct proportion to the crappiness of your camera.

 

• The drive home is always harder than the drive to the vacation destination.

• The more beautiful your holiday destination is, the uglier the drive home.

• Nothing will make you rethink having children faster than taking a child -- or two -- into a public restroom in a gas station along I-5 on New Year's Day.  Best birth control there is, I guarantee it.

• This sign will always make Chas say, "But I don't even KNOW her!"  And if you didn't understand that, you're probably either very very pure of heart, or you're saying "Wasco" first.

• Never take a slingshot to the zoo.

*I want my very dear mother in law to know that I actually slept very well, but truth must never, ever get in the way of [my admittedly feeble attempts at] comedy.

On Friendship and Grief

(Photo stolen from Jesterry on Flickr)

 

I'm having a hard time focusing today, so please bear with me.  This blog entry will be a bit meandering, I think.

 

Peripheral relationships.  Think of five people you know and really like who are not part of your family or group of friends that you do things with.  Did your list include your mailman?  Probably not.  How about your hair stylist?  Well, maybe . . . do you refer to those five people as "friends?"

 

I heard once that people from other countries are often surprised (and maybe even offended, who knows?) by the casual way Americans use the word "friend."  We can talk to someone for 20 minutes in a waiting room, and then refer to that person as my new friend.  I've done it myself.  I guess acquaintance is just too clumsy and formal a word for our casual, breezy society.

 

Yesterday I was blown backward by tragic news of two peripheral friends of mine -- one I used to see a few times a month, one I will never meet face to face.  Both tragedies have had a big effect on me, though I can't really call either of the people friends in the traditional sense of the word.

 

The sense of loss I feel over Chuck is real, however.  I've known him for about three years (he co-owned the courier service we use here at work).  This week he lost a battle with cancer that all of us thought he had won.  The cancer came back and knocked him down, at age 53, in about three weeks.

 

How much did my life overlap with Chuck's?  Not much.  I saw him for a couple of minutes a few times a week, maybe.  I know he loved the Lakers, like Chas does, so we'd joke about their rivals, the Kings.  I know he grew his hair out just to annoy his wife.  I know he met San Francisco mayor Gavin Newsome at a Giants game last year.  I know that this summer Chuck had his wife drive him around to all of his regular customers, including us, the first day he felt up to it, just to say hi and to see everybody, and to feel normal again.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

Bits and pieces.  And yet . . . Chuck had become part of the fabric of my work life.  I will miss his big laugh and his faux crankiness.

 

Twenty minutes after learning of Chuck's passing I read the blog entry of a woman whose blog I read every day.  Her little girl was attacked by a dog, and is now waiting to learn if her skin graft will be successful.  I don't know this mother or her daughter, will never meet them, and yet . . . it sounds so silly to say I feel as if I know their family, but that's how I feel.  This new blog medium is surprisingly personal, unexpectedly potent.

 

I may not define my friendships the way my grandparents did, or as formally as do people of other cultures, but I do know hurt and loss when I feel it.

 

My heart goes out to the families of my two friends.

Four-Foot iPod

I think I may have inadvertently intercepted my Christmas present from Chas.

As I was talking to my mother-in-law on the phone Saturday, I saw a car circle our driveway.  It honked.  The car, not the driveway.

"Gotta go, Mom," I said.  "Mail lady must have a package for us."  I padded to the front gate in my disgusting socks (years of padding to the front gate'll make socks disgusting).

 

"Here you go," said the mail lady from her passenger-side driver's seat.  The end of the package appeared in the window, and I grabbed it.  But the box kept coming through the window as, hand-over-hand, the mail lady fed it out to me.

 

"Good Golly, Miss Molly, that's a long box," I thought.  And then it hit me.  My iPod!  The iPod I haven't even asked for for Christmas -- this must be it!  What a slyboots that Chas is.  I never would have guessed it.

 

And of course he'd know that I'd see it in its original mailing carton under the tree -- with a crumpled yellow-green bow half-heartedly clinging to it -- and never guess that it was my iPod.

Yep, he's a clever one, that Chas.  He even tried to throw me off the scent by arranging to have it shipped from a fake shipper -- MasterGrip Golf, I think it was.  HA!  Like he'd be ordering a new golf club this close to Christmas.  Yeah, right, it must be my iPod.  My four-foot iPod.

 

Wonder what color it's gonna be.

Mea Culpa

(Photo stolen from these guys)

 

I'm sorry; I didn't know.

 

I didn't mean to offend a huge chunk of the world's population by naming my teddy bear Mr. John the Baptist.  I'm sorry; consider his name changed.  I'll call him Juan instead.  Juan Bautista.

 

And while I'm at it, should I look into changing my cat's name?  His name is Campos, but his middle name is Jim Jones.  Perhaps a name change is in order; I wouldn't want any People's Temple enthusiasts showing up on my doorstep with Kool-Aid.  That's it -- Campos Kool-Aid it shall be.

 

I'm SO glad I decided not to name my garden gnome Buddha when I was in my Asian period back in the 80s.  I called him Adolf instead, and he was destroyed by a flying brick.  But it could have been so much worse -- there are a whole lot more Buddhists out there to offend than there are Nazis (at least, I hope so).  Buddhists with bricks.

 

We're done having children, so I guess we can put the name Mohammed safely away.  I'd hate to face a Sudanese firing squad  over a possible spelling error.

(Photo stolen from AP Photos/Abd Raouf)

 

Now, let's go burn us some books, shall we?