For Wuss And For All.

For some reason, there is a belief floating about, and I don't know why, that I am a wuss. For once and for all, I plan to put such preposterous-ness to rest.

Now let's be clear: I have given birth to two full-size babies, yes, without the use of an epidural or, in one ridiculous case, without the use of drugs of any kind, which is just silly.

Now let's be clearer: I have endured a brain explosion, or more precisely, a brain implosion, and yet I live to tell about it. In very lively verbage, yes, because that's how I roll.

Now let's be clearest: I have removed an actual bullet from my arm using only my teeth.

Note: No, I haven't.

So, I'm in Fargo for Thanksgiving. And it's cold. Some people, wusses yes, may even call it frigid. Sure, it's negative-something but I can handle it. In fact, I wish to experience the negativity and prove I am not a wuss, once and for all.

So, I decide to go outside and make a snowman, but I change my mind on account of I lost my mittens. I decide to go outside and make snow angels, but I change my mind on account of laying in the snow seems a bit silly. Because getting snow down one's pants is not ideal.

So, I decide on the next-best non-wussy thing to do.

Yes, that is my hand. Sticking out of the doggy door.

I'm no wuss.

Heck, yes!

I Guess I'll have It On Ice, Yes.

Actual conversation overheard at the entrance of an Air Canada Regional Jet, which is too small for my liking, yes, parked at the terminal at Hector International Airport, located in Fargo, North Dakota where a foot of snow rests on the ground and the temperature at 6:00 a.m. is a brisk 4 degrees, not including the wind-chill factor, no.

Pilot, looking through sheets of paper: Hey, do you know how to de-ice this thing?

Co-Pilot: I'm not quite sure.

Pilot: Okay.

I am sorry, Mr. Pilot with the snazzy Michael Jackson jacket, but you are really chapping my hide.

Holy Moly.


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

Ouch. That's Got to Hurt.

Breaking News Alert as Reported by the Associated Press, Sort Of:

Bristol Palin Targeted in Dancing White-Powder Scare?

A Los Angeles studio was evacuated Friday evening after a threatening letter containing white powder was received at the Dancing With the Stars production office. Further investigation revealed that the suspicious white powder was talcum powder, also known as baby powder.

Apparently, Bristol has been experiencing some chafing.

Those little outfits can be a teeny bit on the tight side, yes.

Carry on!

The Second Sign. Of the Apocalypse.

Sweet Holy Moses, the end is in sight. Or perhaps The Hub's end is in sight, if you know what I mean.

Note: How can you possibly know what I mean? I don't even know what I mean.

The Apocalyptic Scenario: I'm just minding my own business, as I am apt to do, when it hits me. While eating my giant dinner salad it hits me, yes. With my can of seasonally-available Diet Cranberry Splash Sierra Mist, purchased for me in a handy 12-pack. By the Hub.

It's delicious.

Lemon-lime soda with cranberry flavor, the can reads. Caffeine free, the can reads. Naturally Sweetened, the can reads.

That's hilarious, I'm thinking. Since when is Splenda natural?

So, I'm laughing in my mind at the hilarity of Natural Splenda.

Why does the can read 'Made With Real Sugar'? I am wondering when I realize that I don't see the word Diet on the can. I don't see it anywhere.

I am shaking a bit as I turn the can to read the bitter truth. I am not sure if I am shaking from fear or shaking from the natural sweetening.

160 calories per serving.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

I am spewing Sierra Mist Cranberry Splash all over my dinner salad. Darn! I am thinking, or something similar, yes, I spewed 160 calories all over my salad! And I am thinking Exactly how many of these seasonally-available sugar bombs have I consumed today? I am thinking How many sugar-free jellos must I skip to make up for thousands of calories of NATURAL SWEETENING?

I have a headache.

Probably from the Freaking Sugar.

First, Bristol Palin and now THIS? The end is near.

Signs of the Apocalypse.

The end of the world may be closer than we think.

So, Bristol Palin advances to the Dancing with the Stars Finals.

Batten down the hatches and hang on. It's going to be a wild ride.

Holy Moly.

The Living is Easy. Hopefully!

Hunting for houses is interesting. And amusing, sometimes. Like the time we sneak into the backyard of an empty house with The Son to peek through the windows and show him the lovely view, except the house isn't empty.

Note: Oops.

And we see a lot of interesting decor, yes. Like mauve carpet and dusty blue curtains. And Southwest-patterned sofas and lots and lots of The Barcoloungers. And weird stuff, like the Pirates of the Caribbean Basement and a house full of hundreds of birds, real ones yes, that whistle at me like a construction worker.

Note: That bird makes a grown girl blush, yes.

Additional Note: Simmer down, everyone. The bird is a parrot. Not a woodpecker.

Note to the Additional Note: Oh for goodness sake!

And we refer to houses by their street names. Like Sycamore or Oak or Freeway View. Sometimes the street names are pleasing such as Stargazer Court or Happy Valley Road. Other street names can be aggravating, especially the Spanish ones, because everybody pronounces them as if the words are in English, which they are not.

Note: California was once a Spanish territory, yes, which accounts for the missions and the architecture and the abundance of streets with pretty Spanish names, which when translated to English, are pretty stupid names for streets. Just saying. Proof: Via Hermana is roughly translated to 'View of the Sister' and she must have been one very fine-looking nun, yes. But shame upon the creep who was enjoying his clandestine view and named a street after her. Eeew.

And some houses are eliminated simply by the street name. I cannot bear the concept of living on Tam-O'Shanter, which sounds like an off-season residence for leprechauns or Wee Donegal, which sounds like, well, an unfortunately tiny Donegal.

Not good. Not good at all.

I hope to find a house on one of my favorite streets, like Lois Lane or Bacon Way or Easy Street.

But until then...

Carry on!

Stop. The. Madness. Happily.

It's like I'm on a covert mission, almost. I glance around the room, recognizing no one. That's good, I think. I must focus but I can't stop thinking about those poor children. In San Francisco. And what they are missing, yes.

The Girl in the Visor nods. At me. It is my turn.

I would like a Happy Meal, I say, nonchalantly, of course.

What kind would you like?

Is this a trick question? The Girl in the Visor blinks at me, waiting. The Happy kind, of course, I say.

Oh, my bad. I may choose a hamburger or chicken nuggets and fries or apples and soda or chocolate milk in a cute little jug or apple juice.

It doesn't matter, because I'm here for the Happy part. I'm here to Stop the Madness. I'm here for the toy prize, yes.

Note: Okay, fine. I might not really be here to Stop the Madness, but I like to multi-task, yes.

So. Please push the little sideways triangle to see what the children are missing. But prepare yourselves. It's riveting.

Note: No, it's not.

Can you imagine the sad but admittedly trim children that may be denied such joy?

Stop the Madness!

Heck, yes!

Friends, Romans, Countrymen; Lend Me Your (Right) Ears!

My bluetooth headset has not been working well in my right ear.

Note: Do not ask why.

Okay, fine. I will tell you: I am hoping that I suffer from allergies which produce fluid and plug the ear from the inside, making hearing more difficult. Unfortunately, it is more likely that my ear is plugged from the outside and such talk makes poor blog fodder, yes.

Regardless of the cause, my bluetooth headset has not been working well in my right ear. So, I switch it to the left ear.

Note: Switching the little ear-scoop on the headset is rather complicated and not for the faint of heart so please do not attempt to do so without a pre-pubescent child to help you. And mock you.

The switch, however, has resulted in a somewhat remarkable discovery.

I appear to be right-eared, yes.

And why not be right-eared? We all understand the concept of right-handed or left-handed and even right-legged or left-legged or peg-legged, if you're a pirate, and we understand the concept of right wing or left wing, politically speaking, so why not right-eared? It is a completely logical conclusion, yes.

So, although the sound in my left ear is louder, yes, the words are now in some sort of foreign language, I believe. Or perhaps because I am right-eared, apparently, the sound enters my brain but runs into a roadblock, such as my huge gigantic brain's parietal lobe or maybe my occipital lobe or even my plush bathrobe, for all I know. The passage is somehow blocked and sadly, as a right-eared individual, I cannot simply erase 47 years of phones held to my right ear.

Yes, I am right-eared.

So, I must switch the little ear-scoop back to the right-ear position. Because accepting my right-earedness is a far better alternative than a visit to the drug store to buy one of those nasty kits with syringes and pictures of old people's gigantic earlobes on the carton.

I'm glad that I cannot hear your mockery.

Carry on!

If You Give a Dog a Cookie.

It appears that I have created a monster.

It's my dog, Rubi.

Note: Well, Rubi is not my literal creation, no, because not only does that concept make no sense, it is also a bit creepy, yes.

Additional Note: Don't you dare make snide comments in your mind about my little monster's MONSTER eyes. Such as Her eyes are straight out of a horror movie or Hey! She looks like a Gremlin or Is she related to Lady Gaga?

Additional Note to the Note: No. No. And I don't believe so, but I cannot entirely rule it out.

Rubi does not speak English verbally, but she uses a mix of vocal cues and physical cues to let me know of her needs. Exactly her needs, yes.

Note: She is, after all, a woman.

Rubi vocalizes through a sound low in her throat, guttural even, that sounds a little like a growl but without the menace.

Note: Granted, a fifteen pound dog has to work at menacing. Still.

By vocalizing in a given location, she expresses her needs. For example:

Sitting at the front door: I want to GO! Please get my leash!

Sitting at the back door: I want to go out. I need to Pee/Poop or Harass the Cats/Raccoons/Turkeys. Please.

Sitting in the entrance of the Pantry: I want a cookie. NO! Not that cookie. ANOTHER cookie.

Sitting by the Bed: I want up. I want to climb to the highest point on the pillows and survey my kingdom.

However, her latest location stumps me. She sits by the refrigerator and vocalizes. OVER and OVER. Nothing appeases her.

Huh.

I give up. I decide to have a jello. Sugar-free of course. I pull out the canister of whipped cream. Rubi jumps up and down, spinning with delight.

Oh my. I've created a Monster!

Heck, yes!

Martha Stewart On a Roll. A Crusty Sourdough Roll, Yes.

Martha says the wildest things. And she is never mocked by her staff. Or her guests. Or her polite studio audience.

That's why Martha has me.

Let the mocking commence.

This weekend Martha Stewart went to Manitoba Canada to view the polar bear migration with leading scientists in polar bear migration, apparently.

Martha is showing a close-up photo of a polar bear which, when the ice hardens on the Hudson Bay which is in Canada, I presume, ventures out upon the frozenness to find seals for supper, yes. I took this photo myself, Martha says, beaming, and the bear was exactly, about, oh, maybe two feet from my face.

Note: Exactly? About? Maybe?

Huh.

Martha is now gushing over Curtis Granderson, centerfielder for the New York Yankees, who is pretty darn attractive, yes.

Note: It is possible that I may be gushing also.

Apparently, today is Curtis' first appearance on the show. Martha is sharp as a tack, however and notes to Curtis that I wanted you to be on the show last year but you had an indescribable groin injury.

Note: Oooh! Choose me, choose me! I would like to describe it.

Additional Note: Is it possible for all the color to drain from the face of an African American centerfielder? Oh my.

Ouch.

Martha is now in a fancy pants restaurant in New York, rated with THREE Michelin stars.

Note: I had no idea that a tire company had such an interest in fine dining.

Additional Note: Simmer down. It's a joke. Please don't write letters describing the Michelin ratings system. I know a good tire when I see one.

Martha's dining companions, ordinary folk that she has taken out for a night on the town to enjoy the finer things in life, yes, ask Martha if other diners are always so nonchalant about dining in the same room with Martha Stewart. The great celebrity, yes.

Martha demurs the comment with a sweep of the hand. I'm not so special, she says. It's not like they are sitting in the same room with Paul Newman.

Note: Paul Newman died two years ago, so she makes a valid point. That would really be something.

So. Groin injuries, polar bears which may or may not be exactly and precisely two feet away, maybe, and dining with the dead.

Not a bad day for Martha!

Heck, yes!

Just Call Me Sarah. Jessica. Parker.

I have a great idea for a new invention. I'm not talking about flying cars or something silly like that.

Note: Don't we already have those anyhow? I believe they are called airplanes, yes.

I get the inspiration for my new invention while cleaning my ovens. I simply push the buttons with the word 'clean' on them and four hours later, I wipe the insides of the ovens, quite briefly, yes, and I am done. With the cleaning.

I will now unveil my great idea for a new invention: A self-cleaning refrigerator, yes! It is high time that refrigerators come with a clean button. Imagine pressing the button, grabbing a handbag and lunching with the girls while the refrigerator cleans itself!

Note: Lunching with the girls? Who am I, Sarah Jessica Parker?

But, imagine coming home from lunching and what the heck, why not add a little shopping to the afternoon while I'm dreaming here and tada! There is no sticky syrup on the shelves! There is no tupperware filled with unreconizeable leftovers. And there is no over-sized zucchini sitting in a bag, turned into a puddle of mush.

Brilliant.

So I'm toying around with other self cleaning ideas.

Note: Although at first glance, the concept of a self cleaning dog seems sound, after watching Rubi scooting her bum along the floor, I am moving on to other self- cleaning invention projects, yes.

But I am also open to stealing your invention ideas, cleaning or otherwise. Together, perhaps we can make the world a better place.

Lunch date, anyone?

Heck, yes!

And the Dish. Ran Away. With the Spoonerism.

I suffer from an embarrassing impeach sediment.

Note: Oops. Speech Impediment.

I am talking to The Son about election results and mentioning my viewing of the President's televised speech and his willingness to work with the gosh-darned Republicans, if he must. So, I say to the Son, Oarack Bahama is trying to make nice!

Oarack Bahama?

Note: The Son doesn't even flinch.

Oops. I did it again. When my brain gets moving real fast, as it is prone to do, yes, my tongue often falls prey to The Spoonerism, a speech malfunction named after Dr. William Archibald Spooner, in which corresponding consonants, morphemes or sowels are vitched.

Oops. Vowels are switched.

Note: The 'V' and 'B' sounds are very close, yes. Very close indeed.

It happens regularly. For example, I am in rehearsal with the cast for my cereal-inspired musical, 'Got Milk?'

Note: No, this is not a joke.

I am giving the cast a pep talk. I am giving the cast notes of their performance. I am giving the cast a whopper of a Spoonerism. Somehow, in my tongue-tied enthusiasm for all things sugar-frosted, I assure the cast that the Show will be a Hit! except it sounds something like the Ho will be a .... !

So, I am searching the Internet to verify that only the most intelligent and articulate percentages of the population are prone to the Spoonerism. I am searching the Internet to verify that only the most creative and energetic percentages of the population are prone to the Spoonerism.

I can't find it.

Huh.

Must be a stroke of lumb duck.

Hmmn. That sounds kind of delicious. Maybe I'll make some Lumb Duck for dinner tonight.

Heck, yes!

In Defense. Of Happy. And Sugar. And Prizes.

The Happiest Place on Earth isn't quite so happy anymore.

I'm not talking about Disneyland, no. I am talking about the other "happiest" place on earth. San Francisco, yes.

Note: I do not make up the news, folks. I simply report the news. Because that's what I do.

Additional Note: No I don't.

In a strange turn of election results, the Supervisors of San Francisco (which would make a snappy name for a Rock Band) have outlawed, yes, the serving of The Happy Meal as we know it. The Happy Meal will now simply be a meal. The Happy part has been removed.

Note: I am referring to the prize, yes.

Apparently, it is a known fact that PRIZES promote OBESITY and although HAPPINESS is found in PRIZES, it also remains a fact, apparently, that OBESITY does not produce HAPPINESS.

Sorry kids. No more Strawberry Shortcake Happy Meal toys for you.

What the heck? When I was a kid, cereal boxes had prizes in them. Cool stuff like secret decoder rings and bracelets and disappearing ink pens.

Note: The ink disappeared, not the pens, usually.

And yes, we selected our cereal based on the prize factor, and yes, it made us Happy. And it was fun! It was exciting! And the sugary flakes were delicious!

Note: In fact, They were GREEEAAAT!

This whole anti-prize theory reeks of conspiracy. Yes, I believe it is a conspiracy theory! Have you looked at cereal boxes lately? All they contain is whole grains and fiber. Not a prize in sight.

And Happy Meals without prizes?

America was built on prizes. And sugar. And "Contains small parts. Not intended for Children Under 3".

Heck, yes!

I. Got. Nothing.

Unbelievable, I know.

I got nothing.

I am keeping my eyes open all day long for great blog topics.

But I got nothing.

I am thinking that perhaps morphing Justin Bieber with my dog, Rubi, might be excellent fodder for blogging.

But the resulting image is a trifle upsetting, although I do feel pretty darn good about the stripe on the forehead and the enormous right eye.

Note: It is Jubi's right eye, not the right eye from the reader's perspective. Sheesh.

But I got nothing.

So I am thinking that I can blog about the subtle variations in texture and flavor of the pinto bean and the navy bean, so named because it was a staple for seamen.

Note: I am referring to seamen, as in sailors. Sheesh.

But I got nothing.

So I am thinking that I can blog about how the last sixteen phone calls to my house (yes, I counted and that fact pretty much sums up the pathetic state of my existence, perhaps) were either from a terribly sincere politician, no, who cares about me personally, no, or were from my Dad.

But I got nothing.

But actually, that's something! I've got a dog that's way cuter than Justin Bieber and I've got navy bean soup cooking with a big old hambone and I've got politicians who really care about me.

Well, at least I've got my Dad!

Heck, yes!