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The Possum I’m Not Herding

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The Department of Feasting

My family – the one MH and I created – has several holiday season traditions, some of our own making and some adopted/adapted from our respective families of origin.  The elves that hide in every downstairs room to watch you from atop the curtain rod, hanging from the bathroom lights or peeking out from a potted plant watching you – that’s from my family.  The every-piece-of-art-with-a-face-wears-a-Santa-hat mandate, that’s from the weirdo festive mind of moiself.

a clock may not be art, but it has a face.

a clock may not be art, but it has a face.

 

Many of our traditions involve (surprise!) dining.  Depending on when the Solstice falls, there are several days in a row of special meals.  Solstice Soup & Salad Supper; Little Christmas Eve,[1]  and of course Christmas Eve. [2]  On Christmas Day we go out for lunch to a fancy-schmancy restaurant, then for dinner it’s homemade pizza. Come Boxing Day, I swear I’m never going to cook/eat again…a vow that I am most happy to break in the New Year.

 

Mmmmm...lefse.

Mmmmm…lefse.

*   *   *

Department of Holiday Guerrilla Art Projects

Much to the chagrin pride of my family, I’ve been working on a…new project.  Friend and legitimate artist LAH refers to my project as a kind of performance art.  I’ve composed a variation on the typical lost pet posting that you see on kiosks, neighborhood post office boxes and lampposts, and for the past few days I have been posting these flyers around the “greater” [3] Hillsboro area.

LOST PET: REWARD FOR RETURN OF OUR BELOVED DOG!
503-555-9929
He is a purebred Welsh possum herder, answers to the name of:

Llanfairpwllgwyngyll

uglycat

Physical description: 15 years old,weighs approx. 10 lbs, brown, mange-ridden fur
blind in left eye, arthritic, toothless, asthmatic, incontinent….

On second thought, never mind.

 

* Yes, Virginia, Llanfairpwllgwyngyll is the actual name of a Welsh village;
* Yes, Virginia, there is no such thing as a Welsh possum herder dog;
* Yes, Virginia, the picture is not of a dog, but that of a pretty sorry looking cat

 

*   *   *

pagantree

“Thus saith the Lord, learn not the way of the heathen, and be not dismayed at the signs of heaven; for the heathen are dismayed at them.
For the customs of the people are vain: for one cutteth a tree out of the forest, the work of the hands of the workman, with teh axe. They deck it with silver and with gold; they fasten it with nails and with hammers, that it move not.”

(Jer. 102-4)

 After last week’s post, specifically the blurb about the essay No, Virginia, There is NO Santa Claus, I feel compelled to explain that I like the Santa Claus thing.

I loved the folklore of Santa Claus when I was a child, even as I can’t remember a time that I actually believed Santa was a real entity.  It was a marvelous make-believe that got both kids and grownups to play an elaborate kind of dress up.

Being raised in a religious family, I took the various birth-of-JC stories for granted, although they didn’t interest me nearly as much as the other trappings of the Solstice season.  All the things I loved most about Christmas – Santa and the reindeer, candles and lights, festive greenery and Christmas fir trees, the idea of giving and receiving gifts – were, I later realized, secular traditions and symbols predating Christianity. These traditions and symbols were later stolen adopted and adapted by Christians, in a practice called Interpretatio Christiana, as a strategy for relating to and ultimately converting their pagan neighbors.

I know all that.  Still, I love the Santa thing for several reasons, including the fact that Santa Claus is a Freethinker/Bright?Atheist/Rationalist/Humanist’s best friend.  Or, as author and educator Dale McGowan put it, Santa Claus is “the greatest gift a rational worldview ever had.”

Asanta

Santa Claus is an entertaining and culturally acceptable way to introduce children to the fact that sensible-appearing people who claim to have good or altruistic reasons for doing so often “believe in” something that is exceptionally improbable…and these same, otherwise sensible people tap dance their way around answering the sticky questions children ask when they notice things like, “How come Santa brings more gifts to rich kids than to poor kids?”

By allowing our children to participate in the Santa myth and find their own way out of it through skeptical inquiry, we give them a priceless opportunity to see a mass cultural illusion first from the inside, then from the outside. A very casual line of post-Santa questioning can lead kids to recognize how completely we all can snow ourselves if the enticements are attractive enough.
Dale McGowan, from his essay “Santa Claus, the Dry Run

*   *   *

uglyXmas sweater

Only 364 days until the next UCS [4] Fest.

*   *   *

Happy Boxing Day!  And may the hijinks ensue.

*   *   *

 Make it so...festive

Make it so…festive

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] Little Christmas Eve is the Eve before Christmas Eve, an obscure – to everyone but my family – holiday supposedly celebrated by my paternal grandfather’s tiny Norwegian village.  The LCE dinner menu varies year to year; this year, at K’s & Belle’s request, roast rack of lamb.

[2] CE menu never varies: Norwegian lefse and meatcakes.

[3] The farther away from Hillsboro, the greater you get.

[4] Ugly Christmas Sweater.

The Dead Beatle I’m Not Impressing

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Yes, Virginia , There is no Santa Claus

“Adults know that there is no Santa Claus. If they tell you otherwise, they are lying to you. That’s okay: some parents tell their children that Santa Claus is real as a sort of game, and there’s no evidence that this does any real harm. But if anyone keeps lying to you — about Santa Claus, or anything else — when you ask them a direct question and explicitly ask them to tell you the truth? That’s a problem. And if anyone tries to make you feel ashamed, or inferior, or like your life will be dreary and intolerable, simply because you don’t believe in this lie they’re telling you… you should be extremely suspicious. They are trying to manipulate you. It is not okay.”
(from “Yes, Virginia, There is No Santa Claus,” Greta Christina’s blog)

I think this essay should be required reason for the holiday season – anyone’s holiday season. You can read the entire essay, which is a satirical commentary on the original “Yes, Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus,” on the mahvelous Greta Christina’s blog.

badsanta

*   *   *

Thank You For Not Axing

Dateline: Wednesday, out for my a.m. walk, listening to a podcast of author Steven Pinker being interviewed about his latest book, The Sense of Style: A Thinking Person’s Guide to Writing in the 21st Century.  The interview touched on several interesting issues (well, interesting, if you’re a linguistics/usage groupie), including how dictionaries reflect (the always-evolving) common usage, the differences between elucidative prose and speech, and all that grammatical gobbledygook.

Which reminded me about my own usage peeve.

Calling persons of all genders, nationalities, ethnicities, political and artistic preferences – can we agree on this fact:

There is no “x” in the English language word, “ask.”

Therefore, don’t be surprised if and when you say, “I want to axe you something,” I run away screaming.

axe

*   *   *

Department of Somebody Please Tell Them (preferably, in their native language)

MH took me for a foot reflexology massage on my birthday….

Happy Feet

…followed by a sushi lunch. The sushi restaurant had a sign up on their electronic menu board reminding patrons to check out their 37 new menu items. One of the new items has a name which, I presume, was chosen in honor of someone, by someone else who is unfamiliar with American slang.  Golly gee, no, thank you, but I’d rather not try your Johnson Roll.

OHNOSUSHI

*   *   *

Department of Random Reflections

If I’m standing by a door that has one of those status sign indicators underneath the lock, it’s because I’m waiting to use the facilities.  Thus, it’s a good thing when the status changes from “Occupied.”  Still, a part of me feels I’m in danger of dropping 10 IQ points by entering a room that says “vacant.”

vacant

Department of If I Had the Power To Do So…

I’d like to change, or make an addition to, those door lock status indicators. Occupied; Vacant – there needs to be a third option.

occupied

There needs to be an option to alert people that it might be some time before the room is available, as the occupant is not merely taking a leak but is trying to collect her thoughts, and this room is the only place she may find some peace and quiet away from co-workers/family-friends:  PreOccupied.

Also, I’d like the following occupancy indicator sign implanted in my forehead.  For those special moments, where my cognitive activity may not be apparent to others:

INUSE

*   *   *

Random Scenes from the Past [1]

Dateline:  A long, long time ago [2] in a galaxy far, far, away. [3]  I was standing in a checkout line at a Safeway, holding my basket of ten-items-or-less[4] The line moved slowly, and after performing my customary assessment of the basket items of the people in line ahead of me, [5] I looked around for something else to scrutinize, and beheld a rack of cut flowers by the counter.  What held my attention was that I could actually smell the flowers from several feet away; they were not the usual, cheap/five-minutes-before-wilt-mode bouquets to tempt harried dinner guests/dates into a last minute guilt-grab.

An arrangement of humble but incredibly fragrant carnations attracted my attention, and after checking the price [6] I added it to my basket.

“What a pretty bouquet!” the cashier cooed, as she rang up my items.  “For someone special?

“Ah…” I chuckled.  “Well, yes.  They’re for me.”

“For you?  You’re treating yourself to flowers?”

“Why not?”

“Oh, what a nice idea!”  The Cashier leaned toward me and, with a gal-to-gal conspiratorial sigh, added, “But it’s just not the same, is it, when you have to buy them for yourself?”

By the time I got back to my apartment, the flowers were not as fragrant as they’d seemed in the store.  I gave the bouquet to my next door neighbor, who’d picked up my mail for me when I was on a business trip.

wiltedbouquetjpg

*   *   *

Pre-Christmas/post-birthday blues:  It’s that time of the year: here come the the lists.  You can’t spit without hitting someone’s inventory of the Best/Top 100/15/20 People/Neologisms/Inventions of the year.

And then, there’s that pissin’ John Lennon Christmas Song, [7] with its nagging opening line that really, really, really bothers me, for some reason:

♫  And so this is Christmas/and what have you done?  ♫

And what have I done?  Not enough, apparently – I’m not doing enough, okay, John?  Could you please chill out with the guilting, and shut up Yoko, while you’re at it?

Then, of course, I find myself thinking, I am sniping at my radio; I’m yelling at a dead man, through my car radio.  How pathetic is that?

She's suck a fookin' disappointment.

She’s such a fookin’ disappointment.

*   *   *

About those lists.  If you can’t beat ’em…[8]

I’ve got one, that has nothing to do with 2014 or the year’s end, but that was prompted by hearing a song on the radio – in this case. R.E.M’s Losing My Religion. After which I said to moiself, That’s one of the best songs ever written about alienation...which led me to ponder  other best-songs-written-about categories.

Song title (Performer)

-Best song about paranoia: Get In Line (Bare Naked Ladies)

-Best song about heading-for-a-breakup defiance: You’re Breaking My Heart (Harry Nilsson)

-Best song about why you shouldn’t get drunk and look through your high school and/or college yearbooks: Need You Now (Lady Antebellum)

-Best song you’re embarrassed to admit you like, but dang if it don’t have a catchiest, earwormiest tune: M-m-m-Bop (Hansen)

-Best song with incredible Emmy Lou Harris harmonizing about a woman’s love for her incarcerated son: The Sweetest Gift (Linda Ronstadt)

-Best song that lives up to its title: Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner (Warren Zevon)

-Best song about Patti Smith falling in love: Frederick (Patti Smith)

-Best song about knowing the right thing to do but putting it off until later: “Come Tomorrow” (Patti Scialfa)

-Best Beach Boys tribute/parody song: Back in the USSR (The Beatles)

-Best song about Portland hipsters: Bohemian Like You (The Dandy Warhols)

-Best song by Portland hipsters who’ve unfortunately heard the term “literary” applied to their music by a few slavering critics and thus take themselves way too seriously: Down By the Water (The Decemberists)

-Best song to snap your fingers and sing along and pretend you’re a hipster: Danny’s All-Star Joint (Rickie Lee Jones)

hipster

 

-Best Bob Dylan song neither written nor sung by Bob Dylan: You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away (The Beatles) [9]

-Best song to explain the visceral appeal of punk: I Wanna Be Sedated (The Ramones)

-Best song about what you wish you’d said to the drunken jerks who hit on you at the concert/club even after you’d made it clear you were not seeking male companionship but just wanted to have a good time with your girlfriends: U + Ur Hand (Pink)

-Best song that illustrates why radio censorship was a good thing, because composers had to write clever, read-between-the-lines lyrics and it was so much fun to “get it” when your parent’s didn’t: Lola (The Kinks)

-Best song to get the boys (drunk or sober) to sing the chorus: 8 Miles Wide (Storm Large)

-Best song about sexual infatuation from one woman’s POV:  Why Can’t I (Liz Phair)

-Best song about cows with guns: Cows With Guns (Dana Lyons)

-Best song about not regretting taking a stand: Not Ready to Make Nice (Dixie Chicks)

-Best song about honky hip hop ineptitude: Help, I’m White and I Can’t Get Down (The Geezinslaws)

-Best song that would be my anthem if I were a pre-operative trannie: Stand By Your Man (Lyle Lovett)

-Best not-your-parents’ Christmas song: Christmas in Hollis (Run DMC)

*   *   *

May all your favorite songs make someone’s best-of list, and may the ho-ho-ho hijinks ensue.

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

[1] Not as random as some, this recollection was prompted by my receiving a lovely birthday bouquet from friend LAH.

[2] In the 1980’s.

[3] The Bay Area.  Specifically/probably, Palo Alto or Menlo Park.

[4] Which should be “or fewer” not less, I know.

[5] Dude, with that beer gut, do you really need three bags of pork rinds?

[6] I was living hand to mouth or hand to foot or foot and mouth disease – or whatever in those days – and flowers or any kind of “luxury” item was not in the budget.

[7] Not the official name, which is Happy Xmas/War is Over.

[8] “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em? Nah. Take a page from Dick Cheney’s book, torture ’em, and call it, “Enhanced Interrogation.”

[9] Okay, maybe a tie, with the mahvelous Roy Zimmerman’s  Christmas is Pain.

The DMV I’m Not Suing

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My apologies to those of you wretched, lonely hearts devoted readers who have told me you look forward to sitting down with your coffee on Friday morning and reading my blog.[1]  Technical difficulties delayed its usual early morning posting.  Let’s just say I oppose the death penalty, except for those who create and distribute computer viruses.

 *   *   *

Dateline: Wednesday. Birthday coming up in less than a week.  Driver’s license renewal.  Fastest time ever at the DMV – in and out.  Worst. Picture. Ever.

Not this bad.

Not this bad.

“I need an override,” the woman at the camera station called out to her supervisor.

“What, my face broke the camera, ” I mumbled half-heartedly. The supervisor smiled, clickety-clacked on the computer keyboard and replied, “Only cracked it.”  After she left I asked Camera Woman, “No, really – what did you need to override?”

“When there’s a discrepancy with your past picture, the computer calls for a compare.”  It seems the DVS’s picture processing software is sophisticated enough to opine, “There’s no way this can be the same person…and even if it is, holy facial recognition software, do people have no pride?  She could have at least brushed her hair; oh yeah, lady, but it’s raining outside yada yada yada, nice try with that excuse….”

Really.  A bad picture.

Almost this bad.

Almost this bad.

*   *   *

That was no way to start a Wednesday, or any day, but especially the second Wednesday in December, which was my annual Ladies’ Lefse Party.  But, the day was soon redeemed

Returning home from the DMV, still pissed about the picture incident [2] I decide to play a word game to calm myself down before getting down to work.  It’s the little things that matter, you know?  Like the oh-so-special feeling I get when playing Jumble Jong and I get an AWESOME! message plus bonus points for using the available tiles to spell the word, smuttily.

Also, there was the lefse party.

Lady Marmalade, just some of the Lucky Ladies invited to the Ladies Lefse Party.

Lady Marmalade, just some of the Lucky Ladies invited to the Ladies Lefse Party.

*   *   *

Department of Pretend There Was An Artful Segue

Friend fellow writer and self-described reluctant homeschooler [3] SCM has had trouble “finding her tribe” as she put it… as so sharply evidenced by a local homeschooling list serve posting she sent me (to which she has since unsubscribed), which she titled, From the “I can’t make up this shit” files…

(my emphases)

Messages: Classic Literature I don’t let my kids read.
Posted by: (redacted)[4]
I had a frank discussion with my kids literature teacher after one of my own picked up Grapes of Wrath, which I’ve never read, and read it during our reading time, not outloud. Apparently there are some rather gratuitous love scenes in there or at least one. Never having read it, I’m kicking myself for having trusted the many “classic literature” lists that I’ve printed and clung to while shopping for books to build our home library with.

 I emailed their teacher my list and she went through it and marked the ones that were safe, the ones that weren’t, and the ones she either couldn’t remember or hadn’t personally read. What an eye opener! For starters, here are the ones we removed from our shelves because of such love scenes.

 1984
Candide
Grapes of Wrath 

I’m sure there will be others, but this is just a startling starting point. I don’t mind an occasional bad word or even a string of bad words.

It’s the erotic love scenes that disgust me when I think of my teenage son picking up and reading from material I HAVE PROVIDED! It’s sad to think about the books they’ll be missing out on because of unnecessary inappropriate scenes.

If you know of other not-so-classy “classics”; I would steer away from that are usually found on classics lists, please let me know.

advisorypng

Holy fucking inappropriate love scenes.

I mean, objecting to “love scenes”? In “classic” literature, that you yourself admit you’ve NEVER READ?

And, “Grapes of Wrath,”  really?

REALLY

For the love of butt-fucking pornography, I’m trying to remember what might be determined “inappropriate” about The Grapes of Wrath, a book which  was one of many triggers responsible for the awakening of my political consciousness….. Ah, maybe that’s it. That and, you know, all the scenes featuring poor people striving for a better life amidst political forces determined to keep them in their place.

“It’s sad to think about the books they’ll be missing out on because of unnecessary inappropriate scenes.”

No, ladyass, it’s sad to think about the books your kids will be missing out on because their mother has a frigid, rigid, prude-drooling fear bucket where her brain should be.

I’m trying to imagine her and others of her ilk, going through her books [5] and marking which ones are “safe.”

NOVELS AREN”T SUPPOSED TO BE “SAFE” – THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT.

And that message of hers sparked replies – a back and forth from fellow home- obscurants schoolers who seemed to be almost bragging about the fact that they have lists of “Classic Literature I Don’t Let my Kids Read.”

I just feel like kicking something.

ignorance

*   *   *

Department of, awwwww…..

A week ago this afternoon, at the invitation of a staff member, I did a reading of The Mighty Quinn followed by a Q & A session [6] at the Hillsboro Boys and Girls Club.  The group of kids attending would be in the 4th – 8th grade age range…or so I was told.  The kids seemed younger; the coordinator explained that, just before she made the announcement to gather in a meeting room for the reading, someone else announced that a movie was going to be shown in another room, and most of the older kids went to the movie.

Well, yeah.

After the reading (and a Q & A session seriously in need of some mediating [7] ) the event coordinator took a picture of me and the kids, and then dismissed the kids to their other activities.  One girl, who had been one of the most enthusiastic Q & A participants, approached me with a shy gleam in her eye.

“Here,” she said, holding out a coin.  “This is for you.”

I must have had a confused look on my face.  “It’s a nickel,” she explained.

Actually, it was a quarter.

Of course I had to take it.  For two reasons

  1. You cannot refuse such an act of generosity from a child.
  2. Have you seen my last royalty statement? I think she may have.
  3. I said, for two reasons.

*   *   *

The Return of the Santa Hats

As a part of our household’s seasonal décor, anything that can be classified as art, that has a face, must wear a miniature Santa Hat. Don’t ask for an explanation because I don’t understand it myself (and I’m the one who insists on the practice). This has made for a whole lotta Santa hat-making as the years go by and we keep collecting specimens for our Wall of Faces:

This image represents less than 10% of the faces. Be afraid; be very afraid.

This image represents less than 10% of the faces. Be afraid; be very afraid.

 *   *   *

May your days be merry and bright, may you read the classic books and fight the good fights, may your Santa hats fit you just right, and may the holiday hijinks ensue.

 

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] Yep, I’m talkin’ you, BOM.

[2] And then more pissed for being so petty as to care about a driver’s license picture.

[3] With a near genius child, no money for non-public school options, living where the public school choice is in the lowest 15% of everything (and sends out how-to-keep-your-grade-schooler gang-free info)

[4] Or should I say, retarded. Which I would, if I thought I could get away with the (now) non-PC epithet.

[5] Or, worse, yet, taking some other patsy prig’s  word for it, as she doesn’t seem to be familiar with the books she criticizes.

[6] “Meet a REAL author, who lives in Hillsboro…and you can ask her why the heck she hasn’t moved to Portland!”

[7] At least these kids didn’t ask me how much money I made, but they did ask why I wasn’t giving them free copies of the book.

The Accordion I’m Not Throwing

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As we dive into the holiday season, that time of year when some members of the human race strive to hold charitable thoughts for all members of the human race, I can’t help but reflect upon the fact that my nutmeg grater resembles a Star Trek shuttlecraft. [1]

 

shuttlecraftnutmegshuttlecraft

*   *   *

Chappy Chanukah [2]

Truly, the FSM has touched me with his noodly appendage. I felt his presence – what other possible, earthly explanation could there be for my good fortune? – while searching for Hanukah-themed bling décor for a friend’s upcoming party.  What unbridled joy, to stumble upon a holiday-themed kitchen gadget that incorporated one of my favorite words: [3]

Gentlemen and Ladies, start your latkes.

Gentlemen and Ladies, start your latkes.

*   *   *

While We’re on the Holiday Theme:
Department of Not Passing the Holiday Breathalyzer Test

Fruitcake for the Holidays:  A Special Recipe  [4]

 

Ingredients:
– one cup each of water and white table sugar
– four large eggs
– two cups of dried fruit
– one teaspoon baking soda
– one teaspoon salt
– one cup brown sugar
– lemon juice
– nuts
– one bottle of whisky

Instructions:
Get out a large mixing bowl.   To ensure whiskey is the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink.   Repeat.

Turn on the electric mixer; beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.  Add one teaspoon of sugar and beat again.

Make sure the whisky is still okay.  Cry another tup.  Turn off the mixer. Break two leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried furit.  Mix on the turner. If the fried druit gets tuck in the beaterers pry it loose with a drewscriver.

Sample the whisky to check for tonsisticity.  Next, sift two cups of salt.  Or something. Who cares?  Check the whisky.  Now sift the lemon juice and strain the nuts.  Add one table.  Spoon.  Of sugar or something.  Whatever you can find.

Grease the oven.  Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees.  Don’t forget to beat off the turner.  Throw the bowl out of the window, check the whisky again and go to bed.

Yet another victim of Aunt Erva's Holiday Fruitcake.

Yet another victim of Aunt Erva’s Holiday Fruitcake.

*   *   *

By the end of this day, publicity-shy moiself will have survived enjoyed another public appearance re The Mighty Quinn, this one involving a reading and Q & A session with thirty-to-forty 4th – 8th graders at the Hillsboro Boys & Girls Club.  If only I had some fruitcake to see me through the ordeal.

myfruitcake

*   *   *

The Department of Not Holding My Breath…

In this case I’m not holding it for an apology [5] from anyone else in the paranoid conservative talk show radio foghorns  media, now that the House Intelligence Report on Benghazi has been released.

Brian Joyce, one member of the talk show radio host contingent, wrote a persuasive and seemingly heartfelt apology. I wonder what we’ll hear from the rest of his colleagues?

We told you the President was covering up what happened in Benghazi. We told you the President didn’t have a “shred of integrity” on Benghazi. We told you the President was providing “cover” for the terrorists who killed four Americans in Benghazi. We told you that the President could have helped the four Americans who were killed in Benghazi, but instead ordered the military to “stand down.” Heck, we even told you the President’s Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, faked a concussion just to avoid testifying on Benghazi!

And after two years of trying our best to convince you that all these things were true, it turns out that we, the media, were the ones who were lying.

To those members of the media – specifically, the unmedicated, verbal crap-wiping legion of Fox News-parroting twitclowns – who created the nonexistent “cover-up” of the Benghazi attack, this Asshat of the Week award is for you.

AHat640

*   *   *

Dateline: Last week.  Scenario: offspring (Belle and K) are home for Thanksgiving break. Belle wanted me to run some errands with her after I was done exercising.  After completing my workout I showered and dressed, and as I exited my room, Belle eyed my shirt and gasped.

“Is that velvet?  Velvet and plaid?”

I nodded, and let her caress my sleeve.

“Oh, wow,” she said.  “It’s like the 90s all rolled into one.”

velvetplaid

*   *   *

Department of What If

What if the paper towel dispensers in public restrooms were not motion-activated, but rather emotion-activated?  It wouldn’t be enough to need to dry your hands – you’d have to really, really, demonstrably, want to dry your hands.

dispenser

*   *   *

As my birthday approaches, I’m going to step out of my comfort zone [6] and reveal something personal.  Not only have I never (successfully) played a musical instrument, [7] it has been said (by moiself) that you could inscribe my innate musical ability on the tip of my pinkie finger and still have room for the Declaration of Independence.

However….

Another little-known personal fact:  despite my lack of musical talent, I have demonstrated perfect pitch. I once threw an accordion in a dumpster, where it landed on a vuvuzela.

vuvu

*   *   *

 

May all your pitches strive for such perfection, and may the holiday hijinks ensue.

 

Thanks for stopping by.  Au Vendredi!

 

 

[1] If you fail to see the resemblance, a little more eggnog might do the trick.

[2] Y’all know the rules, about the ch- pronunciation, right?

[3] That would be spatula.

[4] Too many people, most of them fruitcake recipe testers (hic), I imagine, claim credit for this recipe, so I’ll leave attribution to the Collective Consciousness of Christmas Culture.

[5] Or even explanation for their fear-mongering slathering passing as “investigative concern.”

[6] I hate that phrase – “comfort zone.” Just typing it makes me feel like a slimy mattress salesman with an ill-fitting toupee.

[7] Being the leader of my high school’s AWMKB (All Women’s Marching Kazoo Band) doesn’t count.