Do You Suffer from Jam Side Down Syndrome?

The Scenario:    Shuffle to computer holding toast and jam.  Promptly drop toast and jam — jam side down — onto computer keyboard. 

Slather jam on second piece of toast and shuffle back to computer.  Promptly drop toast and jam — jam side down — onto computer keyboard.

Now most people would label this as the beginning of a very bad day – a Jam Side Down Day, if you will. But for me, it’s simply part of my normal, everyday, existence.

That’s because I suffer from a syndrome called  Jam-Side-Down Syndrome or JSDS.  You’ve probably never heard of it before due to the fact that I just now made it up.

Jam in happier times.

Now, even though I just this very moment made up Jam Side Down Syndrome, I’m sure there will be a pill for it coming out on the market any minute now.

Just because the pharmaceutical companies have never heard of JSDS, as yet, doesn’t mean they haven’t been busy busting their humps  developing a new, miracle drug that will lessen the incidence of dropping something jam side down — just in case.

Extremely rare photo of Jam Side Up. Experts cannot agree as to its authenticity.”

And the real kicker is that this new miracle drug will probably be no more addictive than your average heroin cigarette!

So no big whoop all the way around!  Wouldn’t you agree?

Now it seems the only thing left for me to do is think up a quiz that would indicate whether or not a person might be suffering from JSDS.  Well, that’s smple!

Do You Suffer from Jam Side Down Syndrome? The Quiz!

1) How many articles of clothing are hanging in your closet this very minute that have jam stains on them?

a) one

b) two

c) 17  perhaps?

2) How many times did you slip on some jam and fall down the stairs this morning?

a) one

b) two

c) 17 perhaps?

If a tree fell in the forest do you think it would land jam side down?

a) yes

b) no

c) 17 perhaps?

Suppose you were skydiving while eating toast and jam and your parachute failed to open. What odds would you give yourself of landing Jam Side Down?

A)  7 out of 23

B) 132 out of 6

C)  17 perhaps?

Suppose you were walking through a beautiful garden and were hit on the head by an asteroid with jam on it that was hurling to earth at a tremendous speed.  Would the undertaker have to charge extra for washing jam out of your hair?

A) yes

B) No

C) 17 perhaps?

So there you have it, Dear Reader.  If you answered yes, no, or 17 perhaps?  to any of the above questions, you are most definitely suffering from Jam Side Down Syndrome BIG TIME!

Quickly!! Put down that toast and jam and call your local pharmaceutical company immediately. . . there’s not a minute to lose . . .oh . .  and please, please try not to get jam all over the phone!

Until next time . . . I love you

 Memoirs of a Dilettante

Also today is the last day to pre-order Helena Hann Basquait’s book, Memoirs of a Dliettante so don’t forget to  pop on over to her site and click on Kickstart!  

Swearing Off My British Murder Addiction

Dear Readers!  I woke up this morning from a horrible nightmare in which I found a puppy the size of a humming-bird clinging to a branch at the bottom of a swimming pool.  

I managed to pry the puppy off the branch and attempted to get help for it by running with it in my arms over the Golden Gate bridge — which had washed out during the night and had to be replaced by a wobbly wooden bridge that didn’t quite meet the other side– even though they had gone to the trouble of painting it the actual color of the golden gate bridge.   (There was also a flood where people wearing soccer uniforms were rushing by.)  I woke up terrified!  I know it doesn’t sound all that scary — but it really was a terrifying nightmare!

This looks a lot like the puppy I was carrying.  It was absolutely terrifying!

This looks a lot like the puppy I was carrying.  It was beyond scary!

You see, Dear Readers, I’ve started having nightmares lately, and I’ve never been much of a nightmare person.  And so this morning, I was earnestly  trying to figure out the cause of these nightmares when it hit me what the culprit was:

Amazon Prime and the BBC

I signed up for Amazon Prime awhile back. I don’t remember why, I really think it might have been by accident.  Anyway, they have 40,000 movies and TV episodes to choose from.   So I started binge watching British detective TV shows in the evenings.

While my husband, 37, was happily watching the science channel, I would only be pretending to be awed about what will happen when the sun becomes a red dwarf — because all the while I was watching –with one eye and one earphone — murders galore!

Murders that were dark and bloody and creepy and murdery as all get out.

And I just realized this morning (about ten minutes ago) that watching all these murders night after night are giving me nightmares!

Oh sure, I know a nightmare about having to carry a puppy over the golden gate bridge doesn’t sound like much of a nightmare,  but you’ll have to take my word for it that it was not only a nightmare, it was my  nightmare wake-up call!

So Dear Readers, as of today, I’m swearing off my British murder addiction.

No more Amazon Prime for me.  I’ll go back to watching the science channel with 37.  I won’t even mind watching that girl scientist they have on sometimes with the weird bangs, because no matter how horrible her bangs are, they  won’t be murdering anybody now, will they?

"Stop!  I can't take it any more!"

Honestly, I don’t know why it took me so long to put 2 and 2 together about my nightmares.

I guess as much as I love British TV detectives, I’d make a lousy one.  First of all, I have trouble following plots, so I’d have to have a sidekick explaining things to me everywhere I went, and, of course,  I’d only be able to solve murders that didn’t involve any freeway driving to get to the crime scene (especially on that wrong side of the road the British are so fond of ).

And as much as I like faking an English accent, I’m horrible at it — so I guess it’s best for all involved I’m not a British TV detective.

I’ll keep you posted on how it’s going with swearing off my British murdering, Dear Readers.  I only hope I can do it on my own and won’t have to join a murderer’s anonymous support group.

Wish me luck!

Until next time . . . I love you

Spill the Beans Friday: 26 Confessions

Spill the Beans

Welcome, Dear Readers, to Spill the Beans Friday where I confess personal things about myself that you may have suspected but you were much too polite to mention.

 

#1)  I can’t type, I can’t proofread and if my life depended on spelling, I’d be dead by noone nune 2 p.m.

#2)  I  sugar coat my sweets addiction.

#3)  I don’t just hate algebra, I want it whacked.

#4)  My frontal lobes are abnormally small.

#5)  Practically everyday I think  it’s the day before the day it actually is. 

#6)  Both input and imput sound right to me. 

#7)  I am horrible at video games.  It once took me 40 minutes to successfully complete one lap in  Mario Kart and why do they need so much grass anyway?

#8)  I always hang back when it comes to being the bowling scorekeeper or the flag folder as I have no idea how to do either.

#9)  I’ve never tried green enchilada sauce and I’m never going to unless it’s fed to me through a tube while I’m in a coma.

#10) I’ve never been in a coma.

#11)  I always suspect I’m not going to have anything in common  with people who give their age by saying “years young.”

#12) I’m super excited about the first two pictures I see in an Art Museum then I’m over it.

#13)  I only spelled museum right in #12 because of  spelcheck  spellcehck, right click.

#14) If someone tells me a really long story they’ve told me before, I can never think of a polite way to say, “Yeah you already told me that” so I just listen to the whole story again.

#15) I think my horse knows more than he’s letting on.

#16)  I’m a total idiot about Bulgaria.

#17)  I love I Love Lucy.

#18) I’m a food kick person — if I make chili or soup, I eat it for every meal everyday until it’s gone.

#19) I’ve tried twice but I just can’t get into “Breaking Bad.”

#20) I’ve been kissed by Bill Murray.

#21) One time someone cut in front of me in line at the grocery store so I picked up a magazine and pretended to be reading it and pushed my cart into the back of them.

#22) I once got a flat tire while taking my daughter to school and had to walk 6 blocks  home in my stocking feet.

#23) I think Portlandia is equal parts hilarious and unhilarious.

#24)  The only newspaper I read everyday is the wonderfully skanky Daily Mail Online.  

#25) I had to watched The Talented Mr. Ripley four times before I understood what was going on.

#26) I once stood right behind a guy in line with tattoos all over his body while waiting to rent The Illustrated Man.

And there you have it, Dear Readers!  Drop by next week for another installment of  Spill the Beans Friday!  And if you have anything you’d like to spill the beans about, I’m all comment boxes!

Until next time . . . I love you

A Conversation with My Husband, 37

I’m not afraid of much, Dear Readers.

Spiders don’t scare me.  Clowns don’t scare me. Medical procedures don’t scare me.  (Heck, I’ve even been known to get  major surgery while totally sound asleep!)

I am, however, afraid of needles.  Not the kind that give you shots.  No. I’m afraid of the needles at the end of sewing machines.

Boy oh boy does my sewing suck!

You see, I’m a horrible sewer.  (No, no not the kind of sewer than needs Roto-Rooter, I mean the kind of sewer who sews — but I’d probably be a horrible sewer too now that I think about it.)

Oh how I wish I could sew!   If I could sew, I would sew myself a killer wardrobe where everything I made would make me appear 15 pounds thinner, 20 years younger and upwards of  50  I. Q. points smarter.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to sew

Once, when my daughter was seven, she had a little friend over while I was sewing myself a pair of pants.  I had just finished sewing in the elastic waistband and was feeling rather proud of myself when my daughter’s seven-year-0ld friend glanced over from across the room and innocently asked me why I was sewing a waistband in the bottom of one pant leg.

I quickly pulled the pants out from under the needle, held them up and sure enough the little brat was right.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete idiot just an unfinished one.

I suspect my sewing problem stems from my inability to be able to correctly distinguish  right from left.  Oh sure,  I can tell right from left — trouble is I’m only correct 50 percent of the time.

Frankly, I don’t understand people who can differentiate between right from left easily.  And it seems like these Left-from- Right Geniuses like to flaunt their god-given talent  in the face of those poor souls, such as myself, who consider themselves rather intelligent, overall, if you don’t count a major dumb streak punctuated by pockets of stupidity here and there.

My engineer-husband, 37, takes great delight in vexing me about my dyslexic tendencies:

37:  Honey, can you hand me my pocket protector? It’s in the right-hand desk drawer.

Me:  Okay, sure.  Wait . . .  it’s not in here.

37:  Yes it is.

Me:  No it’s not.

37:  That’s because you need to look on the right desk drawer instead of the left desk drawer.

Me:  But I am looking in the left drawer and it’s not in here!

37:  No, I didn’t mean YOUR right, I meant MY right which would make it YOUR left. So YOUR left is actually MY right so you need to look in the other drawer than the one you’re looking in.

Me:  Oh get your own *#@!# pocket protector!

Or  let’s say 37  is giving me directions to someone’s house over the phone:

Me:  What side of the street is their house on?

37:  Well that depends.  Are you going east or west?

Me:  East or west?  How would I know? Just tell me what side of the street it’s on!

37:   It’s on the RIGHT side of the street.

Me:  Ok, great, thanks.

37:  If . . . .

Me:  If what?

37:  If you’re heading east, that is.

Me:  I don’t know what direction I’m heading.

37:  Well that’s easy to tell.  If your going East, the shopping center will be on your left.

Me:  It’s not on my left.

37:  Not YOUR left! MY left!

It’s times like this when I want to get out my sewing machine and sew an elastic waistband into 37′s shirt collar.  Then slowly tighten it to MY left HIS right MY East and HIS West.

You’ll have to excuse me now, Dear Readers, I have some sewing to do.

Until next time . . . I love you

Ten Signs You Overdid Thanksgiving!

Welcome Dear Readers!! First I want to thank you all for  the lovely comments you’ve been kind enough to leave on my blog this past week.  I haven’t had a chance to respond to them as yet as I  have two new grand babies staying over Thanksgiving, and I have to get my adorable fix in while the gettin’s good! 

Now for today’s post:

Ten Signs You Overdid Thanksgiving

It’s been a couple of days since you’ve seen any of your pets.

The only thing you own that fits comfortably now is your trampoline.

You’ve worn your teeth down to such a degree that now they can only be described as “implied.”

You’re experiencing eater’s remorse over not taking the pies out of the pans before scarfing them down.

It’s official!  As of this morning, you are now storing the leftovers for every refrigerator within walking distance in your very own stomach.

You have to use sign language when you want to communicate because your tongue collapsed from exhaustion.

You cried yourself to sleep last night because you fear there may never again be room for Jello.

You have decided to replace the lion in your family crest with the more appropriate symbolism of the fatest person on earth.

You can now go through the rest of your life secure in the knowledge that nothing is too big for you to swallow.

And the Number One sign you ate too much at Thanksgiving Dinner:

Instead of crying tears of joy, you are now crying gravy of joy.

 

Until next time . . . I love you

Weird! My Back and Computer Are Both Out!

Welcome Dear Readers!  I have good news and bad news.

First the Bad News

I was flabbergasted to turn on my computer this morning and find absolutely everything on it wiped away.  All my pictures, my documents, my bookmarks –well just everything (even the restore settings).  I’d be really upset about it, but frankly. . .

The Good News

I’m kinda glad.

True Confession Time 

I am a computer slob.  Day after day, as I write my posts, I’ll scan in stuff from the thrift store, or fool around with pictures in Publisher or fiddle with Word documents only to leave everything lying around on the floor of my desktop.  When things finally get unmanageable, I shove everything in a folder and label it miscellaneous.

My Husband, 37, Isn’t Speaking to Me at the Moment

Naturally when I first turned on my computer this morning and found everything eerily “clean”  and an old computer screen greeting me that I haven’t seen since 2009, I knew something was terribly wrong.  Then I remembered 37 turned off my computer last night!  Which meant I had someone to blame!  Wonderful!

I just called 37 at the office a minute ago and the conversation when like this:

37:  Hello

Me:  Did you turn off the computer last night?

37:  Yes why?

Me:  How did you turn it off, using the mouse or using the button?  (37  knew what I was talking about because we often use cutting-edge computer terms such as this.)

37:  Using the mouse.

Me.  Everything is gone.

37:  What?

Me:  Everything is gone. (I had a lot of fun being dramatic about it, btw.)

37:  You got a virus! We’ll have to take the hard drive in! (In where he didn’t say.)

Me:  Oh no!  We’re getting a new computer!

37:  Oh no we’re not!

Me:  Oh yes we are!

37:  Oh yes we are!

Me:  Oh no we’re not!

37:  I’m hanging up now.

Me:  Oh yes you are!

Maybe I’ll try calling 37 back right now.

Only we won’t tell him that I am writing everything down he says in this post! Want to? Okay here goes:

37:  Hello (hey he’s still speaking to me!)

Me:  I want a new computer.

37:  Why are you laughing?

Me:  No reason.  Why can’t we get a new computer?

37:  There’s nothing wrong with the computer we have! We’ll just have to back everything up.

Me:  We have Carbonite and everything is backed up.  Besides there’s nothing left on the computer to back up. (I got all dramatic again, Dear Reader –just for your benefit.)

37:  You better go check.

Me:  Check what?

37:  I don’t know.  I have to work all week-end by the way.

Okay, well, that wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.  Anyway, let’s scan a picture now and see if the scanner still works, ready?

Let's use this one.  Let's call her Computer Virus Girl.  Let's make up a poem about her.

Hey it worked! Let’s call her Computer Virus Girl. Let’s make up a poem about her.

There once was a computer virus Lady

She’s always game to be pretty shady . . . ouch!! ow!! ouch!!

I’m sorry Dear Readers, you’ll have to excuse me but in the middle of this poem I got up to go get a banana, and I am not kidding you.  I put my back out!!  (Just as well.  The poem wasn’t going very well anyway.)

Now, I’ll have to make an appointment at urgent care!  I’d wonder if they’d mind taking a look at my computer too . . .

Anyway, wish me luck!

Until next time . . . I love you

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Brain Peanuts Remembers: My Mother Janey

Hello Dear Readers and welcome to my brain, Peanuts remembers. Today’s topic is my mother, Janey.

Janey - Copy

My Mom Janey

Janey was a Fainter

When my mother was  little, my grandparents had a record they would play of a bird singing.  Every time, my mother heard it, she would  pass out by  falling over backwards.

You’d think after the initial discovery, my grandparents wouldn’t have played that record anymore, but people just thought things like that were funny in those days.

Janey and her parents

Here’s my mom with her parents, who apparently weren’t playing the bird song at the moment, anyway, since my mom is upright

Janey also fainted in movie theaters and department stores.  Once when I was in the 8th grade, we were shopping in the Crescent Department Store in downtown Spokane looking at sweaters.  I hadn’t seen my mother for awhile so I thought she was trying on clothes.  Well, it turns out she had fainted and woken up in the manager’s office.

Funny, it never occurred to me until just now that when Janey fainted, the clerks must have drug her into the manager’s office — like in the movies when somebody gets murdered!  (If my mother was alive today, I’d call her up right now with this new revelation!)

Janey had a delicate appetite

One of my mother’s main themes in life was that her appetite was easily ruined.   Any number of things could occur in which Janey could lose her appetite, not the least of which being unpleasant conversational topics at the dinner table, as well as having to observe someone (such as one of her kids) not using good  table manners.

One never knew  exactly what would set off  Janey’s “loss of appetite” but looking back on it now,  she never seemed to equate it with the case of Nestle Crunches she always kept on the top shelf of the cupboard and that she was always nibbling on — as being a factor in her  “loss of appetite.”

The only thing standing between my mother and starvation!

The only thing standing between my mother and starvation!

The time Janey was a trooper

Janey was never big on water sports, but one summer Janey bucked up and decided to try her hand at water skiing behind my dad’s new fishing boat.

His boat  had a weak outboard motor that was about as powerful as a sick kitten.  It barely managed to pull a child up out of the water on skis, let alone an adult.

But for some reason, Janey, who had never been much into water sports decided to try water skiing.  We were all a little shocked when she suggested it, as we had never see her swim without keeping her hair from getting wet, but try she did.

Stand back! Janey’s going in!

She slipped right into the water, oblivious to the fact that she could ruin her hairdo  as well as  smudge her fire-engine red lipstick.  My brother, Peter,  helped her position herself in the water with her skis.  When she was finally ready,  Peter gave the signal and my dad gunned it as it were.

But instead of popping Janey up  out of the water, the boat pulled her  along underneath the water.

I’ll never forget the image of Janey’s fire-engine red lipstick shimmering from beneath that green wake of water  that was pouring over the top of her head.

But still,  she  hung on for dear life.  And she hung on and she hung on until finally a miracle occurred!  She suddenly popped up from beneath the water, and proceeded to water ski in a big circle around Williams Lake — albeit in a squatting position, but still!  

Janey was water skiing! Hurray!

I hope it’s true what they say about your whole life flashing before you eyes when you die.  Because I do so want to see that part again, Dear Readers!

Until next time . . . I love you

Janey

Janey? Is that you?

Screw It Monday: Pictures of Stuff on My Desk

The Bored Family

Welcome, Dear Readers.  Do you ever wake up in “one of those moods”  where the whole world is just one big ball of bleh?  

Well, this blog is officially announcing a new holiday.

National Bleh Day!  

And in honor of National Bleh Day, let’s do something bleh by taking stupid pictures of the stuff on our desks.  Here, I’ll get us started:

desk 1

Bleh doesn’t really get any more Bleh than this. The centerpiece of this picture is the spoon I ate my cereal with. I don’t know what happened to the bowl. I think I might have accidentally eaten it. How does it fee to eat a bowl?  Frankly, I don’t even remember it.

Here's the Old Fogey cereal that was in the bowl I ate.  It's got fiber and 80 calories so I ate four (4) bowls which probably means I ate the same amount of calories and sugar as two maple bars.  Why didn't I just eat Maple Bars instead?  Because today is National Bleh day.  And what better way to Bleh Out!

Here’s the Old-Fogey cereal that was in the bowl I ate. It’s got fiber and 80 calories so I ate four (4) bowls which probably means I ate the same amount of calories and sugar as two maple bars. Why didn’t I just eat two Maple Bars instead? Because today is National Bleh Day which I am beginning to hate already.

Here's a notebook I've had in my desk drawer for probably 6 years.  Just judging from this note I made myself, you can kind of see why I'm always missing appointments and why I'm not a millionaire.  I start to doodling half-way through every note rendering every note I've ever made totally useless.  Frankly that's one of the reasons I've started National Bleh Day.  So I can finally get some use out of all this pointless stuff I have/

Here’s a notebook I’ve had in my desk drawer for probably 6 years. Just judging from this note I made myself, you can kind of see why I’m always missing appointments and why I’m not a millionaire. I start  doodling half-way through every note rendering it totally useless. Frankly, that’s one of the reasons I’ve started National Bleh Day. So I can finally get some use out of all this pointless stuff I have. ( I would have turned this vertically so you could read it better, but what with it being National Bleh Day, why bother?)

How much more uninspiring can this picture get?  The answer is none more inspiring

How much more  Bleh can this picture get? The answer is none more Bleh.  I probably went to too much work for this picture as it is.   Anyway, that pen is the pen I sometimes use when I need to write something with a pen.  The nail polish I have on right now (see below).  That’s my coffee in the background (it’s cold).  And that little green block is something I bought one time.  Why?  

Okay, here's what the nail polish looks like on my fingernails.  I know they kind of look like my toes, but their not.  My toes are shorter and fatter.  I kind of like clear nail polish because when it chips off, you don't really notice.  Who do I even bother with the clear?  Well, it's the kind of thing one contemplates on National Bleh Day.

Okay, here’s what the nail polish looks like on my fingernails. I know they kind of look like my toes, but they’re not.  My toes are shorter and fatter. I kind of like clear nail polish because when it chips off, you don’t really notice.
But then you have to ask yourself, if you can’t tell if it’s chipped, it probably doesn’t show enough to even bother with.
I don’t’ know whether to put a question mark after the above sentence because I can’t tell if it’s a question or not.
See this is the kind of stuff discussed on National Bleh Day.  Aren’t you glad I started National Bleh Day? No? Me neither. (Wait . . . did  I just agree or disagree with myself?)

Oh hey!  Here's an old piece of candy I found in my desk.  It looks old.  It looks like it would taste pretty Bleh.

Oh hey! Here’s a piece of candy I found in my desk. It looks old.  It looks like it would taste pretty Bleh.  Let’s find out shall we?

Yup I was right.  It does taste Bleh.  Probably because I think it's been in my desk drawer since 2012.  Of course, that doesn't stop me from eating the whole stale piece.  Why?  Because that's what people do on National Bleh Day.

Yup I was right. It does taste pretty Bleh. Probably because I think it’s been in my desk drawer since 2009. Of course, that won’t  stop me from eating the whole stale piece. Why? Because that’s what people do on National Bleh Day.

And there you have it, Dear Reader, our very first celebration of National Bleh Day.  I hope your day will be as bland, and mediocre and uneventful  as is humanly possible on, this, our very first National Bleh Day!

Until next time . . . I love you

I Twitter and I Don’t Know Why

Dear Readers, I have a confession.

I twitter and I don’t know why.  In fact, speaking as a baby boomer that’s not getting any younger at an alarming rate,  I predict that  “I twitter and I don’t know why!” will be the new aging-boomer catch phrase that officially replaces,  “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”

I have a feeling it all boils down to Bob Hope

Do I have any idea why I twitter?  I have tweeted 696 times. But to what purpose? To what end?  Frankly,  I suspect since I have to ask, I’m too old to be twittering (or is it tweeting?).

I think understanding Twitter is one of those generational-gap phenomenons that were so popular in back the 60′s — where we baby boomers would roll our eyes when our parents laughed at Bob Hope wearing a Beatles wig while singing, “she loves you,  yeah yeah yeah”.  Only now instead of Bob Hope, hashish and shaggy hair we’ve got Louis CK, hash tags and Friday Follow.

Hey what’s everybody talking about?  I said what’s everybody talking about?  Hello?

Twitter, for me, is like being in a group of people where everyone is laughing and talking about something — but I’m late to the conversation and I can never quite get the gist of what they are discussing.

So I just try faking it by smiling and laughing along hoping I’ll figure it out in minute. During a lull, I might ask the person next to me what everyone is talking about, and just as they are about to fill me in, somebody says something funny and the person starts laughing again and never gets back to me.

Now Just Slow Down There A Minute Sonny . . . Granny don’t go that fast!

Take this morning for instance.  I went to my twitter account and I saw that a blogger who used to have a funny WordPress blog is now a comedian.  So I tweeted a reply congratulating him and went to click out of Twitter one second later  and saw that he had  already replied to my reply.   And he has thousands of followers!  How can he go so fast?  That’s what this old lady wants to know?  (Btw, you can follow Rob https://twitter.com/MyHairyLife — maybe, I don’t know.)

And so I put it to you, Dear Readers.  Why do you tweet?  What is the purpose of tweeting?  I would love to know why I tweet from those of you young enough to understand why.

I thank you in advance, and, as a lovely parting gift for reading this far, I will leave you with a few of my  favorite tweets:

Rob@imaudihere 2 Nov 11

Good friends are a lot like this can of Spam in my cupboard; always there for me, and I know I can eat them in an emergency.

Will Phillips@TheThryll 30 May

Giving up on your dreams can actually be very relaxing.

Genius is 16% ‘G’ and 84% ‘enius’

These days George Lucas’s first film is just known as “Thanks! 1138″.

I’m trouble with a capital ‘T’. But only when I’m at the start of a sentence or a proper noun.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Until next time . . . I love you

 

Things I’m Not Doing While I’m Doing Nothing

Hello Dear Readers.  I thought today might be a good day here at the blog to just kick back and do nothing. 

And so what better way to spend time doing nothing than to think about all the things you could be doing if you weren’t already committed to doing nothing:

Four Things I Could Be Doing If I Weren’t Already Committed to Doing Nothing.

1) I could be reading a book . . . here’s one:

Philosophical Problems of Natural Science

Doesn’t it look horribly horribly boring? Don’t ask me why it’s laying on my desk.  (I couldn’t answer you even if I knew because, as I said, I’m committed to doing nothing.)  And what are those strips on the bottom suppose to represent? Bookmarks?  People?  Pasta?

Opening to a page at random (78), Dudley Shapere actually writes, and I am not making this up:

“The work that has been done, and the work currently being done so far as it is manifest, on objective-formal simplicity cannot plausibly be viewed to have brought us to a complete and adequate explication of the concept.”

Dudley Shapere or Dudley Prepositional Phrase Shapere as he is probably referred to by his tea sipping buddies, seems to have — ahem . . .  explicated one too many concepts, shall we say?

I think it would behoove Dudley to maybe try doing what I’m doing; nothing!  Think how well he could document his “doing nothing” experience!

2) I could cut something with these scissors:

scanned in scissors

These are the official Linda Vernon Humor blog scissors. They aren’t very funny in and of themselves. But they are cut ups. Ha ha! (See I told you they weren’t very funny.)

3) I could use the official Linda Vernon Humor Blog Scissors to cut something but what?  Well let’s see here . . .  Oh here’s another book laying on my desk:

Henri Rousseau Art book 1946

It smells like mildew. I got it at a different thrift store than the one I usually go to. (The one that doesn‘t smell like mildew.) I don’t like to go to the one that smells like mildew very often because everything smells like mildew.

4)  Now if I wanted to actually cut something (if I weren’t already committed to doing nothing) I would cut out this picture by Henri Rousseau:

1908 a game of football by Henri  Rouseau

Isn’t this just the best picture ever?  I just love everything about this picture. (Except for the fact that it smells like mildew.)

I would love to tell you all about this picture that Henri Rousseau drew or painted or colored or whatever the case maybe –  besides the fact that  it smells like you know what –but as I have already stated far too many times in the same post  — I am committed to doing nothing.  Sorry, but that’s all there is to it.

Until next time . . . I love you

Life Is Very Beautiful

Hello Dear Readers.  I am happy to announce something wonderful.  My daughter, Nikki, and her husband, Matt, welcomed their first daughter, Lily Lucille, to her new life on January 15th  in the wee hours of the morning.

Lily Lucille Kaiser

Lily Lucille and Nikki Kaiser

Lily Lucille and  Nikki

Life is very beautiful . . .

Until next time . . . I love you all

Recapturing the Happiness of Being Ten!

Remember being ten?  When  life was fresh and easy and filled  with simple pleasures?

We were light as a feather when we were ten!  We turned cartwheels and skipped and hopped  for no other reason than because we could.

At ten, the present moment unfolded naturally. We just were and it just was. We were a part of “all that is” and our ten-year-old hearts knew it!

It was a time when we were sure about where we belonged in the world, and what was expected of us.  We were satisfied to accept each day as it came.  Most of us had no idea of what the future held nor did we care!

Oh we had our little setbacks. We laughed and we cried, but either way, we were real and true to ourselves.  Why?  Because we didn’t know any different.

We were traveling light – in a fresh, new world.

Me at ten, peeling the world’s largest potato!

This is is me at ten.  As you can see, I’m wearing an outfit that doesn’t match.  The skirt was red plaid and the sweater was blue and white plaid.  Did I care?  Of course not.  It was my most comfortable outfit, and I remember wearing it often.

I was at my grandparent’s house when this picture was taken,  and I had just learned how to peel potatoes. I remember being happy about that.  I was capable and I was making a contribution. Grandad even got out the camera, so I must have been peeling pretty impressively.

But, alas,  like everything else, the thrill of potato peeling eventually wore off (probably later that night).   So that today, the only thrill I get around potatoes is when they happened to be mashed with lots of gravy sitting on my plate.

eeeeeYummmmm!

Still, what if we were to take that essence of being ten and incorporate  into our everyday lives.  If we could somehow conjure up that feeling of having every possibility open to us —  unjaded and shining —  and with all the time in the world to explore!

What if  we could just look at life through the uncomplicated eyes of our ten-year-old selves — maybe we’d remember how it was when we were experts at life —  before we grew up and lost our way.

I say we go peel some potatoes?   I will if you will!

 

Until next time . . . I love you

“Quick! Get Clark and Hold Him Over the Toilet!”

When I was growing up, we always had lots of kitties living with us.  There was Taffy May and Buzzel and Merv — but the kitty that stands out the most in my mind is Clark.

Clark was the kitty my mother got my brothers and I to help ease the pain of the divorce.  We moved to a new town after that and took Clark with us.

Unfortunately, the only way we could have Clark in our new place was if we agreed to have him de-clawed.

For some reason, in 1965, landlords thought that one little kitty could destroy an entire property.

Thinking back,  it was a horrible thing to do to our beloved Clark, and I hope it is a practice that has long since been  abandoned.  For you see, Clark was never quite right in the head after that.

Clark had a chip on his shoulder and he liked to take it out on  bare legs. God help you if you walked by him in shorts, he would attack by jumping on your legs and sliding slowly down them like he was a fireman.

Clark also had a weak stomach.  Every couple of days or so, he would meow in a certain way just before loosing his lunch.  When we finally caught on to this idiosyncrasy of his and when we heard “the call” my mother would always yell for one of us to get Clark and hold him over the toilet.

This became a pretty regular routine.  One day my brothers got the genius  idea to impersonate Clark’s up-chuck distress call.

This proved to be great fun especially when our friends were over.  If things started getting dull or the conversation would lull, somebody would impersonate Clark’s up-chuck distress call and without missing a beat my mother would yell from the other room,  “Quick somebody get Clark and hold him over the toilet!”

At this point in time, we also had very old furniture and our couch had holes in it.  My mother was always sewing them up to prevent someone from falling through.

One day my mother couldn’t find her reading glasses and surmised that they must have fallen off while she was sewing up the couch.

So here we all were – a room full of teenagers — watching TV.  In walks my mother with a pair of scissors and asks one of the boys to scoot over a little, he complies whereupon my mother cuts a hole in the couch, reaches in, pulls out her reading glasses, puts them on and leaves the room without saying a word.

Five minutes later someone gave the, by now, infamous up-chuck distress call to which my wonderful mother responded in true Pavlovian fashion by yelling from the other room,

“Quick, somebody get Clark and hold him over the toilet! “

Ah! Those were the days!

Until next time . . . I love you

The Taffy May Incident

Convicts I have Known

Hello Dear Readers!  Today, I thought it might be fun to talk about convicts I have known. 

When I was 19, I was a waitress in the coffee shop of the Marcus Whitman Hotel in Walla Walla Washington.  For those of you unfamiliar with Walla Walla — besides hearing it referred to as the town they liked so well they named it twice, Walla Walla is also home to the Washington State Penitentiary.

The Walla Walla State Pen
(P.S. I got such a kick out of stealing this picture!)

In the early seventies, somebody (probably one of the “Screws”) said, “I know! Let’s take hardened criminals who have made a few tiny mistakes in their lives like perhaps pillaging, raping and murdering and let them out everyday to go to work as cooks at the Marcus Whitman Hotel!”

The Marcus Whitman Hotel — it’s not really this tall, the photographer must have been lying flat on his back when he took this picture.

And so that’s what they did and that’s how I got to know a few of our nations finest criminals.

George

George was a sweet little man, polite, personable and quiet. All the waitresses really liked George.  One day somebody got up the nerve to ask George why he was in prison.  Turns out retiring, polite, little George had murdered his wife with a butcher knife.  But not to worry there were extenuating circumstances.

It seems George had been a cook in the army for 20 years where he had developed a horrendous drinking problem.  One morning after a night of heavy drinking, he woke up to find he had stabbed his wife to death and he didn’t remember a thing.  He said he had no idea why he did it — because he didn’t remember having any problem with his wife.

Nine out of ten Washington State Convicts prefer butcher knives for all their murdering needs!”

Unfortunately, George eventually discovered that the Marcus Whitman Hotel Bar was 20o feet away from the kitchen.  One day George went into the bar and squirted the nozzle of whiskey directly into his mouth for a really, really long time.  We didn’t see George anymore after that. On a bright side, he didn’t use any of the kitchen knives to stab anybody.

Pineapple

Pineapple was a big tall guy with a crazy look in his eye who could barely string  two words together.  I don’t know why they called him Pineapple.  Maybe he was from Hawaii, or maybe it was because he had the IQ of a pineapple either way, one day he got a toothache while he was working in the kitchen, and so he decided the best course of action would be to extract his own tooth with a butcher knife.  We never saw Pineapple again after that.

Nine out of ten Washington State Convicts prefer butcher knives for all their tooth extraction needs!

Billy

Billy was a smooth talker who got “sent up” for possession of pot or so he liked to tell everyone.  And the pot wasn’t even his, he was just holding it for a friend.  Billy was like the smart prison guy in movies who was the mastermind behind the scenes and who got the likes of Pineapple to implement his schemes.

One day Billy talked one of the waitresses, Robin, into driving him to the airport after his shift.  The authorities were waiting for him when he got off the plane in the next town, and we never saw Billy again.

“No of course the prison won’t mind if you take me to the airport! Trust me Robin!”

Robin said the authorities came to talk to her but she didn’t get in any trouble for helping Billy escape.  Probably because they could see that in a game of Jeopardy between Pineapple and  Robin, Pineapple’s IQ would have won hands down.

Then there was the guy who got drunk, put on a Cher wig and wandered around the coffee shop incoherently until the police finally came and took him away.  Oh, but that wasn’t a convict, that was the hotel manager.  (But that’s another story for another day.)

The Manager of the Marcus Whitman Hotel

Until next time . . . I love you

My Butler’s Toupee or Living in Hotsy Totsy Land

Welcome!  Isn’t this a fine June morning Dear Readers?  I’m leaving for the mall in just a few minutes to meet a very good friend where we will shop for items that we will eventually donate to the thrift store and later inadvertently buy back again.  I’m sorry to have to say I didn’t have time to cook up a new, fresh essay for you, but I have taken a leftover essay and stuck it in the oven at 350 degrees. 

This, Dear Reader, is the view from my Morning Room.

Ok, I don’t really have a Morning Room, as such, it’s actually just a fancy way of saying a chair by the window in the bedroom.

But I like to refer to it as my Morning Room whenever I am giving instructions to my Butler.

Ok, I don’t really have a Butler, as such, it’s just a fancy way of referring to my little dog who looks like a really bad toupee that a Butler might wear.

Picture of a yorkshire terrier
My Butler’s Toupee

So this morning, Dear Reader, whist sitting in my Morning Room admiring the view, I soon found myself ringing for the Butler with the Butler Bell.  Which is to say,  I called at the very tip-top of my very best lung,

“Here Chancey!  Here Chancy!”

. . . because what I refer to as my Butler’s Bell isn’t really a Butler’s Bell, as such, but just a fancy way of saying ‘calling the dog’.

To which my Butler responded by running over and jumping onto my lap –  or at least his toupee did.

Twas shortly after that,  I instructed my Lady-in-Waiting to bring my breakfast to the Morning Room for my Butler and I — that we might dine whilst partaking of the View of the Estate from the Window of the Morning Room,

Ok, it isn’t really an Estate, as such, it’s just a fancy way of saying ‘tree’.  But a pretty one it is.  I would even go so far as to say that my Butler’s Toupee and I think it very grand indeed!

But alas, all good things must come to an end.

It seems my Lady-in-Waiting refused to serve us our breakfast due to the fact that she isn’t really a Lady-in-Waiting, as such, but just a fancy way in which I sometimes refer to myself.

And I never make breakfast.

Until next time . . . I love you