The Wearing of the Condiment. Happy Halloween!

Disclaimer: This blog post contains somewhat graphic references to certain condiments and the wearing thereof. Reader discretion is gleefully advised.

In the grand tradition of generations that have gone before me, I have donned a Halloween costume and paraded around town with the express intent of mortifying my offspring, yes.




Note: Thank goodness for the Internet, which allows me the ability to embarrass not only my own offspring but to mortify tens, if not hundreds of other innocents who are simply minding their own business and googling about the appropriate and safe use of condiments.

This Halloween is the first time that I have ever worn a condiment.

Note: Simmer down, everyone. If you can't take the mustard, then stay away from the picnic, if you know what I mean.

Additional Note: How can you possibly know what I mean? I do not even know what I mean.

To accompany the Condiments, the Wealistic Wubber Chicken makes his Halloween debut. He is dressed as a sandwich, yes. Please note the bun.




Note: Although he is a sandwich, he does not require the wearing of a condiment, because he is made of wubber, you see.

I am done. My offspring are mortified. Mission complete.

Happy Halloween!

Heck, yes!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad Paddy, or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Very. Suspicious. Packages.

So, apparently, a worldwide security alert has been issued due to some Yahoo from Yemen claiming to have sent bombs via UPS or something. UPS planes are grounded and guys in bomb suits are checking out the suspicious packages with bomb-sniffing dogs and x-ray vision goggles.

Note: The Bomb Guys are wearing the x-ray vision goggles, not the dogs, although that would be awesome, yes.

Meanwhile, although nothing particularly concrete has been found, airport security has tightened. News reports indicate that women can expect to be patted down on their bra lines.

Note: I'm flying to Fargo soon. Can't wait!

Additional Note: I cannot wait to visit the Daughter and I also cannot wait for the patdown, yes.

The Reporter is asking The Expert about the effectiveness of the increased security measures on account of these packages. Suspicious ones. She asks the Expert if such measures can find explosives in say, one's underwear, such as the Underwear Bomber, of Bombs in the Britches Fame.

The Expert advises that even increased security measures cannot find all bombs, and it is particularly difficult to pinpoint gunpowder in the underwear.

Wow.

Talk about your Suspicious Packages ...

Sweet Holy Moses!

Those. People.

I am one of those people.

No, I am not an 'In-The-Car- So No-One-Can-See-Me Through-My-Windshield Nosepicker' and I am not a 'No-Longer-Want-This-Item From-the-Cold-Case so I will Leave-It-To-Spoil- in the Pasta-Aisle-Food Waster' nor am I an 'Ignoring the-Checker-By-Chatting on the Phone- While-Using-My-Outdoor Voice, No-Less, During-Checkout-Insulter."

Those people sicken me, yes.

But, perhaps, I am even worse.

Note: My head hangs in shame.

Today, I find myself to be a "Dog Doodle Wrapped in Kleenex Slinger" with the aforementioned doodle, which has become warm in my kleenex-protected hands, flying through the air and landing in a bush. A spiky, nasty bush. In front of The K-Mart, yes.

Yes. The K-Mart.

And that is my excuse.

The K-Mart turns me into 'one of those people'.

Note: I am sorry, but it is true.

And if you can keep a secret, lean closer: I may have picked my nose a little on my way out of the parking lot ...

Let Me Introduce My Pet, Peeve.

I have a few Pet Peeves.

Note: I am considering if actually have Pets Peeve. I believe I will go with the former.

Oddly, I can never remember my Pet Peeves until that particular Pet is happening. At the very moment. And then I forget. About the Pet Peeve. Until it happens again, as it usually does.

So I am considering my Pets Peeve.

Note: Simmer down. I'm just trying out the latter. You are getting on my nerves.

Additional Note: I just remembered a Pet Peeve! I am peeved when questioned about my grammar skills.

I am also peeved when "people" say things like Not all Women are Size 2's. Well, guess what? Some are. I also get peeved when "people" say they are just too busy to help.While smiling and nodding, I am musing, Dude I think your day has twenty-four hours just like us folks who must sit around on our Size 2 butts all day doing nothing. I also experience peeving when bloggers whine about not blogging because same blogger has nothing to blog about.

Note: Has that ever stopped me?

Sweet Holy Moses!

Heck, no!

So, what's your Pet Peeve?

One of Life's Unanswered Questions. Eeew.

Why did the crawdad cross the road?

Oh. My.

I guess that the world will never know, no.

Carry on!

Wascally Wubber Wooks Wealistic!

I own a rubber chicken!

Note: Most excellent. I can now check #436 off my bucket list!

I own 'The World Famous Original Realistic Rubber Chicken," made in China. But it has come to my attention, however brief that attention span may be, that maybe chickens look different in China.

When I think of chickens, American chickens, yes, I think of big, plump, juicy, hormone-laden, saline-injected birds with large breasts, yes, and thick legs, heck yes. I do not visualize my Original Realistic Rubber Chicken, which is either on meth, apparently, or has been shot out of a cannon, recently, and is traveling at some warp speed.

I also doubt that many other folks would find my Original Realistic Rubber Chicken to look realistic. Realistic maybe, if you're Mr. Magoo, the tragically-nearsighted gentleman of the 70's cartoon that finds him driving off cliffs with his dog, McBarker, or answering the banana when the phone rings. And it is likely that Elmer Fudd, the tragically speech-impeded gentleman of Looney Tunes fame wouldn't really care if that 'wascally wubber chicken' wooks wealistic or not because as he is a hunter, his job is to hunt.

Note: Really? Mocking the visually-impaired and those with speech-impediments was ever really acceptable in our world?

Yet, my Original Realistic Rubber Chicken is very cool. I look into his (freakishly) gaping mouth and I see all the way to his scrotum area, yes, and if I peer to the side a little, I see his feet. Extended in cannon-induced flight.

I believe that my Original Realistic Rubber Chicken may become a regular component of my musings.

Note: Maybe you'd better get yourself one.

I'm just saying.

Heck, yes!

Oops. I Did It. Again.

So, I am in a local market, the purveyors of fine organic cheeses, fine organic produce and fine organic meats.

Fine meaning overpriced, yes.

I am discussing local cheeses with the Cheese Man, who is clearly charmed by me, which means that he is mid-fifties with a bit to be desired, yes.

We are sampling hard goat cheese while I try to remain suave, which is difficult while stifling the urge to gag. I realize that I am in over my head with the Cheese Man, largely because I am not a great fan of cheese in general, let alone cheese that has been expressed from goats and somehow, hardened.

A small group has gathered, interested in learning about the cheeses and the pairings. I thank the Cheese Man, too profusely perhaps, but I really need to get away from the cheeses and focus on something more palatable, such as liver.

I explain that I will return in a few days with my Partner to make our selection. Cheese Man looks a little crestfallen. About my Partner.

Sweet Holy Moses, did I really say that?

I want to say I don't mean my Partner-Partner, I mean my Catering Partner, who is my Lovely DIL, which means she is married to my son, which means I have a Son, which means, oh forget it.

Won't he be impressed when I show up in a day or two with a Hot 20-something brunette?

Howdy, Pardner!

A Noteless Discovery, Yes.

I am here to tell you about my new discovery!

Well of course the discovery is new. Please excuse the redundancy implied by a new discovery, but as is the case with discoveries, new or otherwise, I am excited! About my discovery, yes.

I must admit that discovering the new world or discovering the law of gravity or discovering gold in them thar hills' would be infinitely more gratifying (read: financially rewarding) than my new discovery, but those discoveries are already ... discovered, leaving regular folks like me to discover the more mundane stuff.

This is not my first discovery. I have discovered lots of things. In the past. I discovered that Mr. Waller, my neighbor when I was a kid, spent his afternoons 'visiting' a single older lady down the street which made it lots easier for us kids to sneak into his orchard and steal his peaches on hot summer afternoons. I also discovered that my parents disapproved of his delightful afternoon visits, but I didn't understand why.

But now I get it, yes.

So I am here to tell you about my new discovery!

And here it is: I am a Miss! Not a Ma'am. I am not Ma'am or a Madame or even a Hey Lady. How can that be? you ask, because you embrace the old notion that women of a certain, um,age or women of a certain, um, stature in society, perhaps, are Ma'ams.

False.

Actually, I learned that when I am not in the presence of a distinguished and handsome gentleman (read: The Hub) I become a Miss. Right before my eyes! The handsome early-30's gentleman at Costco says Thanks for shopping here, Miss. The clerk at FoodMaxx bags my food and with a smile and says, Here you go Miss. Even the fellow at the Halloween store with the fake scar asks, Can I help you, Miss?

Sadly, he did not have any rubber chickens available for purchase.

So, no. It is not Mom Jeans or under-eye puffiness or slightly-drooping jowls that constitute aMa'am.

It's a Man that constitutes a Ma'am.

Sweet Holy Moses!

And I Mean No Disrespect.

Through a series of (un)fortunate circumstances, I find myself thinking about breakfast cereal lately. A great deal of thinking, in fact.

And it really doesn't matter why all this space in my brain is occupied with thoughts of whole grain puffs and fruity loops, but of course I will tell you anyway.

I have written a catchy little musical about breakfast cereal. And costuming has proven to be most amusing. We have a dashing mafia-type Tony the Tiger and a winged Honey Nut Bee. We have a wiry green Lucky Charms leprechaun and a large pink Frankenberry monster.

And I have uncovered a well-kept secret that may rock your world.

And I mean no disrespect, but is it possible ...








Twins, separated at birth?

Maybe it's just the hat ...




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad Paddy, or Paddington, if you prefer the more formal approach.

Location:Orinda,United States

Forgive and Forget. Well, I've Got the Forgetting Part Down Pat ...

I am having trouble remembering things lately.

Well, it's not so much that I can not remember, it's more like I forget.

So, I am forgetting things lately. At least I think I am forgetting things. Truthfully, I am not sure about the things I may have forgotten. I mean, I don't know what they are. Because I forgot, you see. I mean, if I actually remember the things, whatever they may be, I would not have forgotten.

Let me clarify: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it fall, does it still make a sound? When it falls, yes. That is the question.

Application of Clarification: If I forget something, whatever it may be, but don't remember, did I really forget anything at all?

Chew on that one for awhile.

Heck, yes!

Dressing a Russian, I Guess.

We are in the market, theoretically at least, for a new home.

Note: Theoretically, of course, because the purchase of our new home requires the selling of our current home. And yes, the real estate market SUCKS and yes, we must be PATIENT but if anyone tells me even one more time that God has a plan for me I'm going to scream.

Anyhow, the process involves lots of driving around and peeing in supermarket restrooms and cursing the dude who plants that gosh-darn pumpkin patch and corn maze on Highway 101 and adds an extra half-hour to the drive because apparently, no one on Highway 101 has ever seen a gosh-darn pumpkin patch and corn maze before. Ever. So they have to drive 18 miles an hour and clog up the freeway just to sneak a peek. At a freaking corn patch, yes.

Note: No, I am not bitter. Well, maybe a little bit, yes.

We also meet many real estate agents. Agents like Kevin, a mid-fifties fellow who finds me, frankly, quite irresistible and serves dum dums at his open houses. And Cell Phone Dude, who sits on the couch in a very creepy living room, frankly, playing with his phone and not even bothering to grunt at his visitors. And oh yes, THE MAYOR who knows everything about the city, frankly, because did she mention that she is THE MAYOR?

But THE MAYOR wilts at a the sight of THE RUSSIAN.

Note: I am wilting right here on the couch just thinking about THE RUSSIAN.

She is young, trim and blonde, with wide animae eyes and some sort of nuclear detonator in her spy shoe, quite possibly. Her name sounds like a combination of a female body part and a Yiddish holiday casserole.

Her accent is heavy. Are you vreddy to buy a house today? Before I can even whip out my checkbook and write a check for $992,000, she steps closer. The questions come faster.

Vhat are you looooking for in a house? Why deeed you come here? Who eees your agent? Geeve me the name of your agent or I will keeel you with my bare hands. Tell me!

Simmer down chick, I am saying. Our countries are pals. The Cold War is over.

Note: Okay, fine. I really deedn't say that. But I wanted to, yes.

Additional Note: I do not understand The Cold War. I google it to get more information. But my mind wanders as I read words like proxy wars and glasnost and non-aligned movement.

Note to the Additional Note: Doesn't non-aligned movement sound like a chiropractic diagnosis? Maybe The Cold War was exacerbated by Chronic Back Pain of the Glasnosts.

The only real escape seems to be either leaping over the deck railing or writing that doggone check. No problem. I will pull my disappearing ink pen from the sole of my shoe.

Oh, Americans will always win the Shoe War, Baby.

Heck, yes!

Note: I am just having fun here. I love Russians. Really. They make a really great salad dressing.

Additional Note: Sorry. I could not resist. Will someone just please take my computer away before I wind up in some prison, suffering from chronic back pain ...

Societal Observations. Of Oddness.

I am shopping at my local Lucky's supermarket. I note the following atrocity:



An Observation:
This horse does not appear to be handicapped to me. Not at all.


The Hub and I are shopping at the mall. We are perusing women's shoes. Not unexpectedly, he needs to pee.

An Observation:
Well, duh. That's just obvious. And the dudes have to wander through the lingerie department to get there ....


I am strolling through the Monterey Bay Aquarium With my Dottie. We note the following:


An observation:
Don't be ridiculous.
Everyone knows that it's way more fun to flash the penguins. In those adorable little tuxedos!

Heck, yes!

Calgon, Take Me Away!

I am online, reading about amplifying and normalizing and WAV and GIFF or WHIFF or something, I forget.

My mind wanders. I really just need to know how to work the darn program. So, I search. The archives. And the Tips. And the Help. Searching. About removing vocals from WAVs or GIFFs or JIFs or whatnot.

I find the answer! It is not good. But it is hilarious, yes.

"Vocal Removal: There is no magic bullet to solve what is in theory an insoluble problem."

Insoluble? The problem is insoluble?

I disagree. Absolutely.

There is no problem that can't be fixed by a long soak in a hot bath. Filled with bubbles. And those little duckies, certainly.

Insoluble?

Heck, yes!

Ducks Doing Disco. Icy Souls. Whatnot.

I am spending too much time in the car.

Translation: I am being exposed to way too much crappy music.

I am fortunate; I grew and matured in an era of classic music, such as but not limited to Disco Duck by Rick Dees and his Cast of Idiots or Get Dancin' by Disco Tex and the Sex-O-Lettes. Oh, I am not kidding, unfortunately.

Note: What is it with kids' music nowadays?

So, I am minding my own business, cruising along with The Hub, when Christina Perri comes on the radio. Again.

Note: Didn't we just hear this song twelve minutes ago?

The lyrics to her song, "Jar of Hearts" are so vapid. Way too much rhyming, lame metaphors.

And who do you think you are

Running 'round leaving scars

Collecting your jar of hearts

And tearing love apart

You're gonna catch a cold

From the ice inside your soul.

Somebody gets paid to write this stuff?

Note: Everybody knows that you can't catch a cold from the cold. It's a virus. Sheesh.

I realize now that I have missed my calling. I should be writing song lyrics! I should be rich! I should be living in a house on a hill. Wait, I already do. But a bigger house on a bigger hill! With views! Of stuff!

Heck, I will prove it by writing a verse right now. It will be a love song, of course.

I wrote about you in my blog

Because I love you like my Dog

So please don't lick your parts

But go and fetch my heart

Then Sit. And Stay.

With Me. All Day.

Yeah.

Note: There's more where that came from. Contact my agent for more details.

Heck, yes!

I Have a Sudden Urge. To Fetch.

It seems that I am feeling the teeniest bit anxious lately.

Note: Gross understatement.

Okay, fine. I am feeling quite anxious lately, but it's nothing that a little postural deep breathing and mindfulness and moderate exercise can't handle.

Note: False.

Okay, fine. Thank the Heavens Above for medication. And plenty of it.

It seems that I am feeling the teeniest bit anxious lately.

And during this time of anxiety, I am noticing a bit of a behavioral change in my trusty dog, Rubi.

Note: Rubi is freaking out.

Maybe it's my pheromones or my hormones or just my regular moans, but the Rube is fretting. About me. She does not let me out of her sight.

Note: I know that you are thinking snide thoughts about her somewhat-freakishly large eyes. Shame on you.

If I am in the garage, Rubi is in the garage. If I am stepping outside to pick a plump juicy tomato, Rubi is outside to watch me pick the plump juicy tomato. If I am not sleeping well, Rubi is not sleeping well. If my appetite is poor, Rubi does not eat her dinner. If I drown my sorrows in whipped cream, Rubi is sitting beside me, licking her troubles away.

But now I am wondering which way the ball is bouncing. I am wondering who's the train and who's the caboose? I am wondering Who's the Boss and who's the Minion?

I notice Rubi is itchy. Suddenly, I am itchy. I notice Rubi wants a cookie. Suddenly, I want a cookie. I notice Rubi has sprouted a few new chin hairs. Suddenly, I ...

Sweet Holy Moly.

I am Rubi's Mini-Me!