Well, I hope everyone had a holly-jolly Christmas or something along those lines. If you don't celebrate Christmas, that's a shame — it's quite the experience.
I'd love to go into detail about my own Christmas dinner adventures yesterday, but I'm still recovering somewhat. Suffice to say that if you put four Egyptian families in the same room, the words "silent night" and "heavenly peace" definitely won't apply.
Especially at the kids' table. Over which, at the age of 31, I still proudly preside, joined by an entourage of other "youngsters" (who are, in no particular order, various ages that I can't remember, but which range from early teens to 26).
But anyway, enough about me!
Just want to wish you all the best of the rest of the season, and a fun, happy, and safe New Year's! I'll be going on vacation for awhile (from the blog at least; I still have to work — bah humbug!), so please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible (in 2007).
Until then, be nice, play fair, and miss me, my darlings.
Kisses from the frogg princess...
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
The Twelfth Day of Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a… partridge.
The frogg passed by her window, looked out and stared
In hopes that her true love soon would be there.
The swans were nestled all snug on the lawn
While Leo in his cage opened his beak in a yawn,
And the frogg with her cocoa and Schnapps (I mean marshmallows)
Had just settled herself in a chair by the, um, fire (sorry, but nothing rhymes with marshmallows)
When suddenly outside there arose such a clatter!
The frogg sprang from her chair to see what was the matter!
Away to the window she flew like a flash
Tore open the shutter and threw up the sash.
Out on the lawn, in the glow of the moon,
She saw her true love, and he was singing a tune!
As the Four Calling Birds backed him up, all a'swaying
To the accompanying strains of Six Policeman Playing!
The Frogg's true love grinned, and blew her a kiss
As she laughed and waved back with a heart full of bliss!
And suddenly the swans were joining the throng
And the French Kens were there, laughing along!
The nine British lords were leaping and dancing
Around the eight quilting grannies, whose needles were flashing
While they sat in their rockers and continued to sew
Smiling and winking with their faces aglow!
And oh! what was this! Twelve drummers drumming?
(Then Leo II surprised her by joining in, humming)
It was a rockin' good party, all could agree
Everyone was jolly and happy and free!
The frogg's true love beckoned, and in her heart she did wonder
What other gift he could possibly have got her.
“Frogg Princess,” he said, “I just want you to know
That I’ll always love you—but now I must go.”
And suddenly, he disappeared and all of his gifts
Were only a memory in a matter of minutes.
She couldn’t believe that he would leave her that way,
And she hung her head, in utter dismay.
Til she went in the house, and what should she see
But a beautiful ring, and a note: “Wait for me.”
She smiled then, though her eyes filled with tears,
She knew that she would... even if it took years.
Now I'll say merry Christmas to all my readers and friends
Who’ve followed along to this story’s end.
I hope you enjoyed it, and I wish you the best
I know I’ve had fun—thanks for being my guest!
(If you think the ending was cheesy, I’m sorry,
But what can I say—I’m running out of ideas!
Argh, the last line I wrote did not even rhyme!
So I’m going to go—isn’t it about time?!)
Not a creature was stirring, not even a… partridge.
The frogg passed by her window, looked out and stared
In hopes that her true love soon would be there.
The swans were nestled all snug on the lawn
While Leo in his cage opened his beak in a yawn,
And the frogg with her cocoa and Schnapps (I mean marshmallows)
Had just settled herself in a chair by the, um, fire (sorry, but nothing rhymes with marshmallows)
When suddenly outside there arose such a clatter!
The frogg sprang from her chair to see what was the matter!
Away to the window she flew like a flash
Tore open the shutter and threw up the sash.
Out on the lawn, in the glow of the moon,
She saw her true love, and he was singing a tune!
As the Four Calling Birds backed him up, all a'swaying
To the accompanying strains of Six Policeman Playing!
The Frogg's true love grinned, and blew her a kiss
As she laughed and waved back with a heart full of bliss!
And suddenly the swans were joining the throng
And the French Kens were there, laughing along!
The nine British lords were leaping and dancing
Around the eight quilting grannies, whose needles were flashing
While they sat in their rockers and continued to sew
Smiling and winking with their faces aglow!
And oh! what was this! Twelve drummers drumming?
(Then Leo II surprised her by joining in, humming)
It was a rockin' good party, all could agree
Everyone was jolly and happy and free!
The frogg's true love beckoned, and in her heart she did wonder
What other gift he could possibly have got her.
“Frogg Princess,” he said, “I just want you to know
That I’ll always love you—but now I must go.”
And suddenly, he disappeared and all of his gifts
Were only a memory in a matter of minutes.
She couldn’t believe that he would leave her that way,
And she hung her head, in utter dismay.
Til she went in the house, and what should she see
But a beautiful ring, and a note: “Wait for me.”
She smiled then, though her eyes filled with tears,
She knew that she would... even if it took years.
Now I'll say merry Christmas to all my readers and friends
Who’ve followed along to this story’s end.
I hope you enjoyed it, and I wish you the best
I know I’ve had fun—thanks for being my guest!
(If you think the ending was cheesy, I’m sorry,
But what can I say—I’m running out of ideas!
Argh, the last line I wrote did not even rhyme!
So I’m going to go—isn’t it about time?!)
Saturday, December 23, 2006
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas...
...I had severe Blogger difficulties, which prevented me from logging in to my account until now. Also I was *gasp* out shopping. I have a headache.
I'm going to watch TV now, because I'm tired. Amuse yourselves thinking about the story I might have written. Better yet, if you want, tell me what you think my true love got me today! I'd be interested to hear.
I'm going to watch TV now, because I'm tired. Amuse yourselves thinking about the story I might have written. Better yet, if you want, tell me what you think my true love got me today! I'd be interested to hear.
Friday, December 22, 2006
The Tenth Day of Christmas
I just realized I got my days of Christmas mixed up. Argh I hate that song!
My true love was supposed to send me nine ladies dancing yesterday, not nine lords a'leaping. But who cares. What would I have done with nine ladies dancing? I ask you.
So, let's skip the ladies altogether. Today he got me...
...10 lift tickets for snowboarding!
(Oh how I wish.)
My true love was supposed to send me nine ladies dancing yesterday, not nine lords a'leaping. But who cares. What would I have done with nine ladies dancing? I ask you.
So, let's skip the ladies altogether. Today he got me...
...10 lift tickets for snowboarding!
(Oh how I wish.)
Thursday, December 21, 2006
The Ninth Day of Christmas
I was swimming through the mall, which had somehow become filled with water. Hapless shoppers floated by, along with various potential gifts that were always just a little out of reach. Suddenly, a shark appeared out of the mall's darkened depths, jaws open for the kill. It was coming straight for me! I tried to scream but I was underwater. I swam as fast as I could, but it was nowhere near fast enough. The shark was closing in...
I awoke suddenly, in a sweat. I looked around wildly. I was in my room, and the shark-infested mall was gone. It had been a nightmare, that's all. The ringing phone had yanked me out of sleep. I leaned across the bed to the nightstand and picked it up, still groggy.
"Hello?" I mumbled.
"Hi, is this Grackyfrogg?"said a woman's voice.
"I think so," I said.
"Oh, well, this is Annie from across the street."
"Hi Annie," I said, waking up a bit more now. What could my neighbor want at this hour? But then I looked at my bedside clock, and saw that that it was 11am. Oh.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you, but... well, I just wondered if you knew that there are a bunch of strange men leaping about in front of your house."
"Strange men? Leaping?"
"Yes, and they are dressed like... like British lords."
"Hmm," I said. "What do British lords typically dress like, Annie?"
"Like these guys!" she said, sounding irritated. "I just told you!"
11am or not, it was way too early for this conversation.
"Ok, sorry," I said. "I think they're from my true love. It's all good."
"From your true love?"
"Yes, he's been sending me weird gifts lately."
"I... see."
I yawned. "Anyway, thanks for letting me know. I'm sure they'll go away soon."
"Wait a minute," she said. "Do you think... could I have one?"
"Have one what?"
"One of the leaping lords."
"Uh," I said. "How many of them are there?"
She paused, and I imagined her staring out her window, counting.
"Nine," she finally said. "And they're really cute."
"Sure, help yourself," I said. Then I hung up and went back to sleep, but not before thinking that it takes a very secure man to send nine handsome British lords to leap and prance in front of his beloved's house.
Of course, it would take an even more secure man to be one of those lords.
I awoke suddenly, in a sweat. I looked around wildly. I was in my room, and the shark-infested mall was gone. It had been a nightmare, that's all. The ringing phone had yanked me out of sleep. I leaned across the bed to the nightstand and picked it up, still groggy.
"Hello?" I mumbled.
"Hi, is this Grackyfrogg?"said a woman's voice.
"I think so," I said.
"Oh, well, this is Annie from across the street."
"Hi Annie," I said, waking up a bit more now. What could my neighbor want at this hour? But then I looked at my bedside clock, and saw that that it was 11am. Oh.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you, but... well, I just wondered if you knew that there are a bunch of strange men leaping about in front of your house."
"Strange men? Leaping?"
"Yes, and they are dressed like... like British lords."
"Hmm," I said. "What do British lords typically dress like, Annie?"
"Like these guys!" she said, sounding irritated. "I just told you!"
11am or not, it was way too early for this conversation.
"Ok, sorry," I said. "I think they're from my true love. It's all good."
"From your true love?"
"Yes, he's been sending me weird gifts lately."
"I... see."
I yawned. "Anyway, thanks for letting me know. I'm sure they'll go away soon."
"Wait a minute," she said. "Do you think... could I have one?"
"Have one what?"
"One of the leaping lords."
"Uh," I said. "How many of them are there?"
She paused, and I imagined her staring out her window, counting.
"Nine," she finally said. "And they're really cute."
"Sure, help yourself," I said. Then I hung up and went back to sleep, but not before thinking that it takes a very secure man to send nine handsome British lords to leap and prance in front of his beloved's house.
Of course, it would take an even more secure man to be one of those lords.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
The Eighth Day of Christmas
So, for those just tuning in, it is now the eighth day of Christmas (meaning there are only four days left—I think I got the math right this time!). I have not done any Christmas shopping to speak of, though I did some that I am trying to forget. On the other hand, here’s what my true love has given me so far:
-A partridge, whom I have christened Leo II in honor (if that’s the right word, which I doubt) of the cowgirl’s demon cockatiel. There was also a pear tree, but I kind of forgot about that til just now.
-A pair of turtle gloves.
-A thorough housecleaning, courtesy of three French Kens.
-Singing telegrams, delivered by Four Calling Birds.
-Five golden rings on a necklace.
-Six Policeman Playing (aka SPSquared), a musical sextet who serenaded me with weird, I mean awesome, arrangements of Christmas songs.
-Seven swans a’swimming in my backyard pool—swans who may or may not be able to talk. There was some debate about this, but since the debate was actually with the swans, I’m inclined to think they may have some skills in the verbal arena after all.
Which brings us to today.
I had woken up to the sound of Leo II’s high-pitched whistling, which startled me because I’d sort of forgotten about him, thanks to the silencing sheet I kept over his cage. Unfortunately, forgetting about him meant I had also forgotten to feed him, and he was now reminding me. Vociferously.
I went downstairs to give him some food and make him shut up. First goal accomplished, second one not so much. Groaning, I went outside to pick up the morning paper and get away from him for a minute, and stopped suddenly on my porch. There on the lawn were eight charming little old ladies in rocking chairs, rocking away as they laughed and chatted and worked on a gigantic quilt, upon which they were embroidering a huge picture of… my own face?!
I blinked. Several times. I was speechless.
“It was your true love’s idea,” said one of the grannies.
“I can’t imagine how to thank him,” I said.
“Oh I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said, and winked.
“Oh I really doubt it,” I said, smiling.
I picked up the paper and went back in the house. For awhile, I had forgotten to worry about my true love’s sanity but now, suddenly, I remembered.
I sighed. I had another, more immediate problem demanding my attention. Namely, what sort of breakfast I could offer to eight ladies quilting.
How do you think they’d feel about fresh partridge?
-A partridge, whom I have christened Leo II in honor (if that’s the right word, which I doubt) of the cowgirl’s demon cockatiel. There was also a pear tree, but I kind of forgot about that til just now.
-A pair of turtle gloves.
-A thorough housecleaning, courtesy of three French Kens.
-Singing telegrams, delivered by Four Calling Birds.
-Five golden rings on a necklace.
-Six Policeman Playing (aka SPSquared), a musical sextet who serenaded me with weird, I mean awesome, arrangements of Christmas songs.
-Seven swans a’swimming in my backyard pool—swans who may or may not be able to talk. There was some debate about this, but since the debate was actually with the swans, I’m inclined to think they may have some skills in the verbal arena after all.
Which brings us to today.
I had woken up to the sound of Leo II’s high-pitched whistling, which startled me because I’d sort of forgotten about him, thanks to the silencing sheet I kept over his cage. Unfortunately, forgetting about him meant I had also forgotten to feed him, and he was now reminding me. Vociferously.
I went downstairs to give him some food and make him shut up. First goal accomplished, second one not so much. Groaning, I went outside to pick up the morning paper and get away from him for a minute, and stopped suddenly on my porch. There on the lawn were eight charming little old ladies in rocking chairs, rocking away as they laughed and chatted and worked on a gigantic quilt, upon which they were embroidering a huge picture of… my own face?!
I blinked. Several times. I was speechless.
“It was your true love’s idea,” said one of the grannies.
“I can’t imagine how to thank him,” I said.
“Oh I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said, and winked.
“Oh I really doubt it,” I said, smiling.
I picked up the paper and went back in the house. For awhile, I had forgotten to worry about my true love’s sanity but now, suddenly, I remembered.
I sighed. I had another, more immediate problem demanding my attention. Namely, what sort of breakfast I could offer to eight ladies quilting.
How do you think they’d feel about fresh partridge?
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
The Seventh Day of Christmas
With only, let’s see, five (wait, six? having trouble counting!) days left before Christmas actually hits, I began to freak out. I needed a seriously good present for my true love, but I had not done one iota of Christmas shopping. (Not that this was any sort of big departure from the norm, of course.)
Oh wait. I’m sorry, I did in fact do one little iota. I went shopping the other day, but apparently all I could find was a pothole. While I’m sure my true love would graciously accept anything at all I cared to give him, just like any other guy would (right, guys? right, ladies?), I was concerned about this particular gift. Its intangibility was not in its favor, to begin with.
So that meant I had to go back to the drawing board, otherwise known as—the mall.
I sighed. Deeply. Tragically. Exasperatedly.
I have a love-hate relationship with the mall, if by “love-hate” you mean “hate” and if by “relationship” you mean “not remotely on speaking terms.” And never do my emotions reach such a zenith as at the Christmas season.
I mean, how could one not adore driving around endlessly looking for a non-existent parking space in a vast, several-storied concrete wasteland? How could one not be joyous while getting jostled and bumped by countless harried shoppers as they dash through stores leaving chaos and cranky clerks behind?
Of course, the answer to both of those questions is, "With amazing ease." But frankly, time was running out to order anything online, and I was getting desperate. I knew I wanted to get something really good, really amazing, really different for my beloved. But what?
I considered whale barf, but changed my mind. Quickly. (Anyway, I don't think they carry it at the mall.)
As I sat at my kitchen table racking my beleaguered brains for other ideas, I heard a noise outside. It sounded like something splashing in my pool. I jumped up and ran out to the backyard, just in time to see six huge swans land in the water, joining the one who was already there, paddling around as if it owned the place.
I noticed that there was a little jingle bell and piece of holly hanging around each of their necks, tied with a silver ribbon.
Were they a gift from my true love? Or should I call pest control?
Thankfully I didn’t have to wonder too long, because one of them cleared its throat and said, “Sorry for the dramatic entrance. We were supposed to arrive last night to surprise you in the morning. Your true love gave us directions but, well, we took a little detour and..."
“Detour! You mean we got lost!” snapped another swan.
“Mere semantics,” said the first swan loftily. The other swans laughed in what I couldn't help but think was a mocking tone. I stared at them all, stunned.
“I’m sorry,” I said, addressing myself to the first swan. “I’m a little concerned that I may be hallucinating. Did you... say something just now?”
“Of course not,” it said. “Swans can’t talk. Everyone knows that.”
"So I am hallucinating?"
"Not at all," said the swan. "You're just imagining things."
“Oh good,” I said in a relieved voice, and started back to the house, when the swan called out, "Wait a minute!"
"Yes?" I asked, turning around.
"I almost forgot to give you this," and he arched his beautiful neck and plucked a rolled piece of paper under his wing. "This is from your true love. But," he winked, "you didn't hear it from me."
"Hear what?" I said, and went back into the house, where I read the note. It said:
Birds of a feather
Show my love forever...
Ok, so it wasn't his best poetic moment. But the sentiment was very sweet. I had to smile.
However, the problem of what to get my true love remained; it had unfortunately not gone away while I was having my little metaphysical debate at the pool. Whereas he had just symbolized his undying love with a flock of seven swans a-swimming!
In other words, my true love was waaaay ahead of me in the "creative gifts" department.
I groaned. What was I going to do??
Oh wait. I’m sorry, I did in fact do one little iota. I went shopping the other day, but apparently all I could find was a pothole. While I’m sure my true love would graciously accept anything at all I cared to give him, just like any other guy would (right, guys? right, ladies?), I was concerned about this particular gift. Its intangibility was not in its favor, to begin with.
So that meant I had to go back to the drawing board, otherwise known as—the mall.
I sighed. Deeply. Tragically. Exasperatedly.
I have a love-hate relationship with the mall, if by “love-hate” you mean “hate” and if by “relationship” you mean “not remotely on speaking terms.” And never do my emotions reach such a zenith as at the Christmas season.
I mean, how could one not adore driving around endlessly looking for a non-existent parking space in a vast, several-storied concrete wasteland? How could one not be joyous while getting jostled and bumped by countless harried shoppers as they dash through stores leaving chaos and cranky clerks behind?
Of course, the answer to both of those questions is, "With amazing ease." But frankly, time was running out to order anything online, and I was getting desperate. I knew I wanted to get something really good, really amazing, really different for my beloved. But what?
I considered whale barf, but changed my mind. Quickly. (Anyway, I don't think they carry it at the mall.)
As I sat at my kitchen table racking my beleaguered brains for other ideas, I heard a noise outside. It sounded like something splashing in my pool. I jumped up and ran out to the backyard, just in time to see six huge swans land in the water, joining the one who was already there, paddling around as if it owned the place.
I noticed that there was a little jingle bell and piece of holly hanging around each of their necks, tied with a silver ribbon.
Were they a gift from my true love? Or should I call pest control?
Thankfully I didn’t have to wonder too long, because one of them cleared its throat and said, “Sorry for the dramatic entrance. We were supposed to arrive last night to surprise you in the morning. Your true love gave us directions but, well, we took a little detour and..."
“Detour! You mean we got lost!” snapped another swan.
“Mere semantics,” said the first swan loftily. The other swans laughed in what I couldn't help but think was a mocking tone. I stared at them all, stunned.
“I’m sorry,” I said, addressing myself to the first swan. “I’m a little concerned that I may be hallucinating. Did you... say something just now?”
“Of course not,” it said. “Swans can’t talk. Everyone knows that.”
"So I am hallucinating?"
"Not at all," said the swan. "You're just imagining things."
“Oh good,” I said in a relieved voice, and started back to the house, when the swan called out, "Wait a minute!"
"Yes?" I asked, turning around.
"I almost forgot to give you this," and he arched his beautiful neck and plucked a rolled piece of paper under his wing. "This is from your true love. But," he winked, "you didn't hear it from me."
"Hear what?" I said, and went back into the house, where I read the note. It said:
Birds of a feather
Show my love forever...
Ok, so it wasn't his best poetic moment. But the sentiment was very sweet. I had to smile.
However, the problem of what to get my true love remained; it had unfortunately not gone away while I was having my little metaphysical debate at the pool. Whereas he had just symbolized his undying love with a flock of seven swans a-swimming!
In other words, my true love was waaaay ahead of me in the "creative gifts" department.
I groaned. What was I going to do??
Sunday, December 17, 2006
The Sixth Day of Christmas
Well, it had been several days since I’d last seen my true love, and I was starting to wonder where he was. True, he kept sending his love in the form of gifts—but what strange gifts! (See the five previous posts.) I didn’t know what to make of any of them.
At any rate I was tired of trying to figure it out. When evening came, I wandered through the empty rooms of my house, disconsolate. I even considered taking the sheet off of Leo II’s cage and listening to him sing for awhile, just for the illusion of company.
The fact that I could entertain that idea for one millisecond made me more depressed than ever.
I went outside onto my front porch and sat in a deck chair, leaning forward and putting my chin in my hands as I stared out to the street. The plain fact was, I was feeling lonely. I wanted to see my true love in person again. I wanted to see his warm, silly smile. I sighed as the setting sun slanted its rays across my lawn (well-watered and trimmed thanks to the three French Kens, who really went above and beyond their housecleaning duties).
As I watched the sun go down, I realized that I hadn’t even gotten a message from my true love today. No random cryptic notes, no odd presents. Nothing. And I have to admit, I was disappointed.
But oh me of little faith.
Twilight was falling when two police cars pulled up to the curb right in front of my house, and six officers got out. I sat up quickly, noticing that each officer was carrying something—something large. My eyes narrowed. What was going on?
“Excuse me, miss?” said one of the policeman.
“Yes, officer. Is there a problem?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Your true love sent us to play for you.” Behind him, the other police officers had set down the things they were carrying, which turned out to be instrument cases.
“Play for me?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“Oh well, we are a musical sextet,” he answered matter-of-factly. “We’re called SPSquared.”
“What does that mean?”
“Six Policemen Playing,” he said. “We thought it sounded catchy.”
“I didn’t,” said one of the other officers, under his breath. But the first one heard him anyway, and whirled around.
“Well, it’s better than Sixy Nights, which was your idea” he snarled. Someone else snickered.
“Ok, ok,” I said. I wanted to make peace, and the lead guy was looking miffed, so I tried to say that I thought Six Policemen Playing was a great name for a band, but I choked instead. When I recovered, I decided to just ignore the whole issue of their name and move on to more important matters.
“So, what are you going to play?” I asked.
“Oh, we’re just going to serenade you for awhile. We have some nice arrangements of popular Christmas tunes,” he said. “We made them up ourselves! And we brought you a little something else to help set the mood, courtesy again of your true love,” and he whipped out a bottle of shiraz, a bar of dark chocolate, and a silver-glitter-dusted envelope.
“Ok. I guess I can deal with that,” I said, taking them. “Play on, boys.”
And that’s what they did. They began with “Away in a Manger” which I only recognized because the first guy sang the words; they had arranged it in a minor key, which was certainly… well, different. I began to appreciate having the wine. Then they moved on to “Jingle Bells” which was entirely performed on percussion instruments—primarily bongos and a glockenspiel. I found myself thinking that Leo II with all his screeching wasn’t such a bad deal after all.
Better yet, maybe he could be a useful addition to their band. Hmmm.
I was debating whether or not it would be bad form to give the loud-mouthed partridge away, considering that my true love had bestowed him upon me, when the group began playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” (an accordion featured prominently) and I started getting misty-eyed in spite of myself. Then I remembered the silver envelope. I opened it, and pulled out the note inside. There was just enough light to read the words:
Dear frogg princess,
Enjoy the music! See you soon…
Your true love
P.S. I miss you, too.
I smiled, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes while the Six Policeman Playing launched into an intriguing version of “Angels We Have Heard On High” complete with washboard and maracas…
At any rate I was tired of trying to figure it out. When evening came, I wandered through the empty rooms of my house, disconsolate. I even considered taking the sheet off of Leo II’s cage and listening to him sing for awhile, just for the illusion of company.
The fact that I could entertain that idea for one millisecond made me more depressed than ever.
I went outside onto my front porch and sat in a deck chair, leaning forward and putting my chin in my hands as I stared out to the street. The plain fact was, I was feeling lonely. I wanted to see my true love in person again. I wanted to see his warm, silly smile. I sighed as the setting sun slanted its rays across my lawn (well-watered and trimmed thanks to the three French Kens, who really went above and beyond their housecleaning duties).
As I watched the sun go down, I realized that I hadn’t even gotten a message from my true love today. No random cryptic notes, no odd presents. Nothing. And I have to admit, I was disappointed.
But oh me of little faith.
Twilight was falling when two police cars pulled up to the curb right in front of my house, and six officers got out. I sat up quickly, noticing that each officer was carrying something—something large. My eyes narrowed. What was going on?
“Excuse me, miss?” said one of the policeman.
“Yes, officer. Is there a problem?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Your true love sent us to play for you.” Behind him, the other police officers had set down the things they were carrying, which turned out to be instrument cases.
“Play for me?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“Oh well, we are a musical sextet,” he answered matter-of-factly. “We’re called SPSquared.”
“What does that mean?”
“Six Policemen Playing,” he said. “We thought it sounded catchy.”
“I didn’t,” said one of the other officers, under his breath. But the first one heard him anyway, and whirled around.
“Well, it’s better than Sixy Nights, which was your idea” he snarled. Someone else snickered.
“Ok, ok,” I said. I wanted to make peace, and the lead guy was looking miffed, so I tried to say that I thought Six Policemen Playing was a great name for a band, but I choked instead. When I recovered, I decided to just ignore the whole issue of their name and move on to more important matters.
“So, what are you going to play?” I asked.
“Oh, we’re just going to serenade you for awhile. We have some nice arrangements of popular Christmas tunes,” he said. “We made them up ourselves! And we brought you a little something else to help set the mood, courtesy again of your true love,” and he whipped out a bottle of shiraz, a bar of dark chocolate, and a silver-glitter-dusted envelope.
“Ok. I guess I can deal with that,” I said, taking them. “Play on, boys.”
And that’s what they did. They began with “Away in a Manger” which I only recognized because the first guy sang the words; they had arranged it in a minor key, which was certainly… well, different. I began to appreciate having the wine. Then they moved on to “Jingle Bells” which was entirely performed on percussion instruments—primarily bongos and a glockenspiel. I found myself thinking that Leo II with all his screeching wasn’t such a bad deal after all.
Better yet, maybe he could be a useful addition to their band. Hmmm.
I was debating whether or not it would be bad form to give the loud-mouthed partridge away, considering that my true love had bestowed him upon me, when the group began playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” (an accordion featured prominently) and I started getting misty-eyed in spite of myself. Then I remembered the silver envelope. I opened it, and pulled out the note inside. There was just enough light to read the words:
Dear frogg princess,
Enjoy the music! See you soon…
Your true love
P.S. I miss you, too.
I smiled, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes while the Six Policeman Playing launched into an intriguing version of “Angels We Have Heard On High” complete with washboard and maracas…
The Fifth Day of Christmas: A Mad Lib
Hey everybody. Since I was feeling creatively challenged, today's installment of my Christmas story was done as a Mad Lib. I wrote up the story, then took out some key words and had a friend fill in the blanks without letting her look at the story. The blanks are indicated by the underlined words. Hope you enjoy the results of our experiment as much as I did—though I readily admit it doesn't take much to amuse me.
Once upon a time, the frogg princess woke up on the eighth day before Christmas and had a panic attack, because she had not done any shopping for her true love, even though she had already gotten some gooey(adjective) gifts from him. So she decided it was time to go shopping!
The frogg chased(verb) around the mall slowly(adverb). In the first store she went to, she found a crusty(adjective) cheese(noun) but she wasn’t sure it was quite his style. For one thing, it was too manila(color). Then she thought that maybe he would like a camel(animal). But then she remembered his allergies. If she got one of those he would soar(verb) constantly. So she changed her mind about a pet, and went out and found a place that sold potholes(plural noun).
“Hey,” she said to the clerk, picking up a pothole. “This is pretty greasy(adjective). How much is it?”
“21(number) dollars,” said the clerk, who was squatting(verb) her nails, which were a rusty(adjective) shade of pea-green(color).
“Well, that sounds reasonable,” said the frogg creepily(adverb). “I’ll take it.”
“Whoa(exclamation!)” said the clerk. “I know your true love will squeeze(verb) it.”
“Yeah, well, he better,” said the frogg.
“Here you go,” said the clerk, putting the pothole in a shopping bag.
The frogg drove home grumpily(adverb). She was so prickly(adjective) that she had found such an itchy(adjective) gift.
When the frogg arrived at her house, she saw an envelope taped to the door with her name on it.
“Oh!” she thought quickly(adverb). “This is surely from my true love!”
She opened the envelope loudly(adverb). Inside was a sweet(adjective) necklace with a pendant of five interlocking rings—kind like the Olympic logo.
“Hmm,” thought the frogg. “Five golden rings! This is a very clear(adjective) necklace. How dirty(adjective) of my true love! I just swing(verb) him so much.”
And the frogg went to sleep that night, feeling flashy(adjective).
Once upon a time, the frogg princess woke up on the eighth day before Christmas and had a panic attack, because she had not done any shopping for her true love, even though she had already gotten some gooey(adjective) gifts from him. So she decided it was time to go shopping!
The frogg chased(verb) around the mall slowly(adverb). In the first store she went to, she found a crusty(adjective) cheese(noun) but she wasn’t sure it was quite his style. For one thing, it was too manila(color). Then she thought that maybe he would like a camel(animal). But then she remembered his allergies. If she got one of those he would soar(verb) constantly. So she changed her mind about a pet, and went out and found a place that sold potholes(plural noun).
“Hey,” she said to the clerk, picking up a pothole. “This is pretty greasy(adjective). How much is it?”
“21(number) dollars,” said the clerk, who was squatting(verb) her nails, which were a rusty(adjective) shade of pea-green(color).
“Well, that sounds reasonable,” said the frogg creepily(adverb). “I’ll take it.”
“Whoa(exclamation!)” said the clerk. “I know your true love will squeeze(verb) it.”
“Yeah, well, he better,” said the frogg.
“Here you go,” said the clerk, putting the pothole in a shopping bag.
The frogg drove home grumpily(adverb). She was so prickly(adjective) that she had found such an itchy(adjective) gift.
When the frogg arrived at her house, she saw an envelope taped to the door with her name on it.
“Oh!” she thought quickly(adverb). “This is surely from my true love!”
She opened the envelope loudly(adverb). Inside was a sweet(adjective) necklace with a pendant of five interlocking rings—kind like the Olympic logo.
“Hmm,” thought the frogg. “Five golden rings! This is a very clear(adjective) necklace. How dirty(adjective) of my true love! I just swing(verb) him so much.”
And the frogg went to sleep that night, feeling flashy(adjective).
Friday, December 15, 2006
The Fourth Day of Christmas
When I got back from the day spa yesterday afternoon, all refreshed and relaxed, I found the house sparkling clean, the French Kens gone, Leo II moved into a brand-new cage with a very thick sheet over it to encourage his silence, and the pear tree planted appropriately in the backyard.
I slept very well that night.
The next day, I got up and went for a walk, enjoying the bright summery December weather. Flowers were blooming, birds were singing, and squirrels were chattering to each other as they scrabbled around in the oak trees that spread their strong branches over the wide, quiet streets.
Ah, California Christmas...
As I was returning home, I thought over all the things my true love had sent so far—Leo II the partridge (if that's what he really was) in a pear tree, the two turtle gloves (that I had yet to wear; I mean, who wears gloves in California?) and the three French Kens who had done such an excellent job of making my house habitable (er, not that it wasn't before, of course). It was all very sweet of him, but what did it all mean?
I was sure of only one thing: I was going to have the heck of a time finding an Equivalent Gift.
I was still mulling over this sobering realization, when I turned up my driveway, and saw four figures standing in front of my door. I stopped. They looked like people-sized white birds with long spindly legs and huge wings.
"H-hello?" I called out, tentatively. "Can I help you?"
They turned around and I saw that they actually were people. Who happened to be dressed in the costume of giant white birds, with wide-open beaks so you could see the person's face inside. What a relief, I thought.
Wait a second.
I was rethinking the relief aspect of the situation—after all, people dressing up like birds and wandering around in broad daylight might not exactly be evidence of sound minds at work—one of the birds spoke up and said, "Are you Miss Grackyfrogg?"
"Uh, yeah. Who are you?"
"We're the Four Calling Birds," she said brightly. "And we have a Christmas Song-a-Gram for you!"
"A Christmas sonogram?" I asked, baffled.
Her smile faded. "No, SONG-a-gram. You know, a singing telegram."
"Oooh." This time I was definitely relieved.
"Ahem," she said, and turned to her fellow Calling Birds. They lined up dutifully in a row, and the first bird put a little pitch pipe to her mouth and blew a single clear note. Then they all began to sing in perfect four-part harmony:
God rest ye, merry Grackyfrogg, let nothing you dismay!
We're here to sing a song for you, because your true love paid!
He says he's sorry he's not here, but though he's far away
He sends tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,
He sends tidings of comfort and joy!
"Uh, thanks," I said. "That was... nice."
"Wait, we're not done," said one of the other birds. "We have one more!"
They fluttered their wings and sang:
Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la!
Kiss the frogg and let's be jolly, fa la la la la la la la la!
Your true love wants to say "I love you," fa la la la la la la la LA!
Hope you like this gift he got you, fa la la la la la la la LAAAAA!
"Cool," I said. "So what's the gift?"
The birds looked at each other. "Er, well, we are," said the first one.
"Oh."
"So, you know, we're saying, 'hope you like the songs!'"
"And the singing, too, of course," one of the other birds broke in.
"Of course. Right. Got it," I said. There was an awkward pause.
The first Calling Bird made a motion as if to look at her watch, but if she was wearing one it was hidden due to the fact that her arm was lost inside a gigantic wing. She cleared her throat. "Well anyway. Um. Guess we'll be going," she said. The Four Calling Birds then stood at attention one last time. "Merry Christmas!" they cried, before running in a flurry of feathers toward a tiny car parked by the sidewalk. Somehow they all piled in, and sped away.
I watched the car careen around the corner, then laughed and turned to go into the house. I couldn't imagine what tomorrow would bring...
I slept very well that night.
The next day, I got up and went for a walk, enjoying the bright summery December weather. Flowers were blooming, birds were singing, and squirrels were chattering to each other as they scrabbled around in the oak trees that spread their strong branches over the wide, quiet streets.
Ah, California Christmas...
As I was returning home, I thought over all the things my true love had sent so far—Leo II the partridge (if that's what he really was) in a pear tree, the two turtle gloves (that I had yet to wear; I mean, who wears gloves in California?) and the three French Kens who had done such an excellent job of making my house habitable (er, not that it wasn't before, of course). It was all very sweet of him, but what did it all mean?
I was sure of only one thing: I was going to have the heck of a time finding an Equivalent Gift.
I was still mulling over this sobering realization, when I turned up my driveway, and saw four figures standing in front of my door. I stopped. They looked like people-sized white birds with long spindly legs and huge wings.
"H-hello?" I called out, tentatively. "Can I help you?"
They turned around and I saw that they actually were people. Who happened to be dressed in the costume of giant white birds, with wide-open beaks so you could see the person's face inside. What a relief, I thought.
Wait a second.
I was rethinking the relief aspect of the situation—after all, people dressing up like birds and wandering around in broad daylight might not exactly be evidence of sound minds at work—one of the birds spoke up and said, "Are you Miss Grackyfrogg?"
"Uh, yeah. Who are you?"
"We're the Four Calling Birds," she said brightly. "And we have a Christmas Song-a-Gram for you!"
"A Christmas sonogram?" I asked, baffled.
Her smile faded. "No, SONG-a-gram. You know, a singing telegram."
"Oooh." This time I was definitely relieved.
"Ahem," she said, and turned to her fellow Calling Birds. They lined up dutifully in a row, and the first bird put a little pitch pipe to her mouth and blew a single clear note. Then they all began to sing in perfect four-part harmony:
God rest ye, merry Grackyfrogg, let nothing you dismay!
We're here to sing a song for you, because your true love paid!
He says he's sorry he's not here, but though he's far away
He sends tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy,
He sends tidings of comfort and joy!
"Uh, thanks," I said. "That was... nice."
"Wait, we're not done," said one of the other birds. "We have one more!"
They fluttered their wings and sang:
Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la!
Kiss the frogg and let's be jolly, fa la la la la la la la la!
Your true love wants to say "I love you," fa la la la la la la la LA!
Hope you like this gift he got you, fa la la la la la la la LAAAAA!
"Cool," I said. "So what's the gift?"
The birds looked at each other. "Er, well, we are," said the first one.
"Oh."
"So, you know, we're saying, 'hope you like the songs!'"
"And the singing, too, of course," one of the other birds broke in.
"Of course. Right. Got it," I said. There was an awkward pause.
The first Calling Bird made a motion as if to look at her watch, but if she was wearing one it was hidden due to the fact that her arm was lost inside a gigantic wing. She cleared her throat. "Well anyway. Um. Guess we'll be going," she said. The Four Calling Birds then stood at attention one last time. "Merry Christmas!" they cried, before running in a flurry of feathers toward a tiny car parked by the sidewalk. Somehow they all piled in, and sped away.
I watched the car careen around the corner, then laughed and turned to go into the house. I couldn't imagine what tomorrow would bring...
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Third Day of Christmas
That night, I slept very badly. For one thing, Leo II wouldn’t shut up, which led to increased doubts about his partridge-iness. I mean honestly, do partridges make noise? What are they supposed to sound like? For that matter, does anyone even know what a partridge looks like?
Anyway. Leo II’s screeching voice finally gave out somewhere around 4am, and I managed to catch a few precious zzzz’s. I woke up late, with a headache, to a totally different sound.
Someone was… running the vacuum cleaner??
I jumped out of bed in a hurry, threw on some clothes and grabbed the baseball bat that, amazingly, lay under my bed in spite of the fact that I don’t even play baseball. I crept to the stairs and stood on the landing, listening carefully. Yes, that was definitely the vacuum. I had not been hallucinating after all. But… why? What was going on?
Why on earth would someone break into my house to clean? I glanced around. Ok, sure, it had been awhile since I’d given the place a good scrubbing—or a bad one, for that matter—but was it really so dirty that they felt they couldn’t even rob it before they tidied up a bit?
Well, it was hard to keep being afraid of someone who was, technically, doing me a favor—whoever they were. As I stood there trying to figure out what to do, the blaring strains of the Mexican Hat Dance cut through my concentration and scared me half to death before I realized it was my cell phone ringing, back in my bedroom. I scrambled back to answer it before the intruder noticed anything. The screen was flashing with my true love’s phone number. I snatched it up and hit the answer button.
“Hi there princess,” said my true love.
“Hey,” I whispered urgently. “There’s someone in my house! And they’re cleaning!”
“Oh good,” he said. “That means they’ve arrived!”
“What? Who’s arrived? What are you talking about?”
“The cleaners. I sent them. Hey listen, I have to run, but I just wanted to make sure they were there. I’ll catch you later, ok? Kiss kiss.”
“Wait, what…” I began, but he had already hung up.
I stared at my phone. I was really, really starting to worry about my true love.
I looked out my window, and saw a white van in my driveway with the words “We Ken Clean” on it, thoroughly outraging my finely tuned proofreading sensibilities so that I completely forgot to be afraid and became annoyed instead. Still gripping my baseball bat, I marched downstairs and into the kitchen, where a man in a black-and-white striped sailor shirt and a red beret was unloading the dishwasher, and another man in the same attire was tsk-tsking over the dying plants on the windowsill as he watered them.
“Ahem,” I said.
Both men looked up. “Enchante, mademoiselle,” the first one said, putting the dish he was holding on the counter, before coming over to me and kissing my hand. I frowned and pulled my hand back.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“We are ze cleanairs,” he said. “My name is Ken.”
“As is mine,” said the other man, bowing.
“And mine,” said a third man, who came walking in just then. He must have been the one vacuuming, I thought. He was also wearing the same style of clothes.
“Well, that explains the van,” I muttered. Then I raised my voice and asked, “What are you all doing here?”
“Of course we are cleaning, mademoiselle!” The first man, who was apparently the spokesperson, looked offended at my stupidity.
“I can see that you’re cleaning,” I snapped. “I meant, why? And how did you get in?”
“We are told to clean, we come and clean,” Ken #1 said, with a haughty sniff. “Your true love, he gives us ze key.” I opened my mouth to protest, but Ken #3 cut in before I could say everything that was on my mind—which, right then, was an awful lot. “Yes, and he told us to give you this also,” he said, handing me an envelope.
I took it from him, and went into the living room to open it privately, leaving the three French Kens still polishing up the kitchen. I opened the envelope, and found... a gift certificate to a local day spa, along with another note from my beloved:
Frogg Princess,
Saw this and thought of you!
I laughed. He was listening after all! What a surprise.
Ken #2 was suddenly standing next to me. “You go and have fun today,” he said, pushing me gently toward the door. “We take care of everything.”
“But…”
“No no, there is no ‘but’! That is why your true love got you this gift! Go now! Relax! Have fun!”
And suddenly I was standing on my porch with my carkeys in my hand, the door shut behind me.
Well.
If you think it’s crazy that I’d go off to a day spa and leave a bunch of strange men in my house cleaning it, you are absolutely right! But I don't care. I did anyway. This is my story and I can do what I want to.
Besides, if nothing else, it was a chance to get away from Leo II...
Anyway. Leo II’s screeching voice finally gave out somewhere around 4am, and I managed to catch a few precious zzzz’s. I woke up late, with a headache, to a totally different sound.
Someone was… running the vacuum cleaner??
I jumped out of bed in a hurry, threw on some clothes and grabbed the baseball bat that, amazingly, lay under my bed in spite of the fact that I don’t even play baseball. I crept to the stairs and stood on the landing, listening carefully. Yes, that was definitely the vacuum. I had not been hallucinating after all. But… why? What was going on?
Why on earth would someone break into my house to clean? I glanced around. Ok, sure, it had been awhile since I’d given the place a good scrubbing—or a bad one, for that matter—but was it really so dirty that they felt they couldn’t even rob it before they tidied up a bit?
Well, it was hard to keep being afraid of someone who was, technically, doing me a favor—whoever they were. As I stood there trying to figure out what to do, the blaring strains of the Mexican Hat Dance cut through my concentration and scared me half to death before I realized it was my cell phone ringing, back in my bedroom. I scrambled back to answer it before the intruder noticed anything. The screen was flashing with my true love’s phone number. I snatched it up and hit the answer button.
“Hi there princess,” said my true love.
“Hey,” I whispered urgently. “There’s someone in my house! And they’re cleaning!”
“Oh good,” he said. “That means they’ve arrived!”
“What? Who’s arrived? What are you talking about?”
“The cleaners. I sent them. Hey listen, I have to run, but I just wanted to make sure they were there. I’ll catch you later, ok? Kiss kiss.”
“Wait, what…” I began, but he had already hung up.
I stared at my phone. I was really, really starting to worry about my true love.
I looked out my window, and saw a white van in my driveway with the words “We Ken Clean” on it, thoroughly outraging my finely tuned proofreading sensibilities so that I completely forgot to be afraid and became annoyed instead. Still gripping my baseball bat, I marched downstairs and into the kitchen, where a man in a black-and-white striped sailor shirt and a red beret was unloading the dishwasher, and another man in the same attire was tsk-tsking over the dying plants on the windowsill as he watered them.
“Ahem,” I said.
Both men looked up. “Enchante, mademoiselle,” the first one said, putting the dish he was holding on the counter, before coming over to me and kissing my hand. I frowned and pulled my hand back.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“We are ze cleanairs,” he said. “My name is Ken.”
“As is mine,” said the other man, bowing.
“And mine,” said a third man, who came walking in just then. He must have been the one vacuuming, I thought. He was also wearing the same style of clothes.
“Well, that explains the van,” I muttered. Then I raised my voice and asked, “What are you all doing here?”
“Of course we are cleaning, mademoiselle!” The first man, who was apparently the spokesperson, looked offended at my stupidity.
“I can see that you’re cleaning,” I snapped. “I meant, why? And how did you get in?”
“We are told to clean, we come and clean,” Ken #1 said, with a haughty sniff. “Your true love, he gives us ze key.” I opened my mouth to protest, but Ken #3 cut in before I could say everything that was on my mind—which, right then, was an awful lot. “Yes, and he told us to give you this also,” he said, handing me an envelope.
I took it from him, and went into the living room to open it privately, leaving the three French Kens still polishing up the kitchen. I opened the envelope, and found... a gift certificate to a local day spa, along with another note from my beloved:
Frogg Princess,
Saw this and thought of you!
I laughed. He was listening after all! What a surprise.
Ken #2 was suddenly standing next to me. “You go and have fun today,” he said, pushing me gently toward the door. “We take care of everything.”
“But…”
“No no, there is no ‘but’! That is why your true love got you this gift! Go now! Relax! Have fun!”
And suddenly I was standing on my porch with my carkeys in my hand, the door shut behind me.
Well.
If you think it’s crazy that I’d go off to a day spa and leave a bunch of strange men in my house cleaning it, you are absolutely right! But I don't care. I did anyway. This is my story and I can do what I want to.
Besides, if nothing else, it was a chance to get away from Leo II...
The Second Day of Christmas
On the eleventh day before Christmas, I woke up refreshed and happy, sure that I had merely dreamed the terrible events of the day before. My true love couldn’t possibly have brought me a bird as a gift, especially one that reminded me of Leo, the demon cockatiel. No, it must have been nothing more than a nightmare.
“Ha ha,” I thought to myself. “I really should lay off the bourbon before bedtime!”
Then I went downstairs and saw the pear tree and its Resident Evil by the fireplace.
“This is going to be a very long day,” I thought.
As if in answer to my unspoken remark, the creature started trilling and shrieking at the top of its voice. Who would have thought the old bird would have so much volume in him? I closed my eyes and groaned. Just then the doorbell rang.
“Shut up!” I yelled at the partridge, which ignored me. I went to the door, opened it, and saw…
No one!
How strange. But there at my feet was a little box with a bow on it. I picked it up. Tucked into the lid was a card. I pulled it out and opened it.
My dear frog princess,
I’m afraid I can’t stay
Business calls me away.
But in the meantime it’s true
I got this present for you!
And I hope that you’ll have a great day.
Love,
Your true love
“I hope he got the hint about the jewelry,” I thought as I untied the bow. But alas, no sparkling gems were inside—just a pair of soft, black mittens. With a repeating pattern of green and yellow tortoises embroidered on them.
I stared at this strange gift, wondering. Had my true love gone insane? What on earth did he mean by buying me a pair of turtle gloves? There was a mystery here, and I was going to get to the bottom of it…
“Ha ha,” I thought to myself. “I really should lay off the bourbon before bedtime!”
Then I went downstairs and saw the pear tree and its Resident Evil by the fireplace.
“This is going to be a very long day,” I thought.
As if in answer to my unspoken remark, the creature started trilling and shrieking at the top of its voice. Who would have thought the old bird would have so much volume in him? I closed my eyes and groaned. Just then the doorbell rang.
“Shut up!” I yelled at the partridge, which ignored me. I went to the door, opened it, and saw…
No one!
How strange. But there at my feet was a little box with a bow on it. I picked it up. Tucked into the lid was a card. I pulled it out and opened it.
My dear frog princess,
I’m afraid I can’t stay
Business calls me away.
But in the meantime it’s true
I got this present for you!
And I hope that you’ll have a great day.
Love,
Your true love
“I hope he got the hint about the jewelry,” I thought as I untied the bow. But alas, no sparkling gems were inside—just a pair of soft, black mittens. With a repeating pattern of green and yellow tortoises embroidered on them.
I stared at this strange gift, wondering. Had my true love gone insane? What on earth did he mean by buying me a pair of turtle gloves? There was a mystery here, and I was going to get to the bottom of it…
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The First Day of Christmas
It was the first day of the twelve days before Christmas. Outside, the air was crisp and cool and clear, and the leaves were changing and falling off the trees. The expected highs were in the scant 70s.
California was finally in the throes of winter.
I was tra-la-la-ing as I sashayed through the house, hanging stockings with care, and lights by the chimney, and all that lovely Christmasy stuff. I put Handel's Messiah on the stereo, and made some hot chocolate. I pulled my copy of Dickens' A Christmas Carol off the shelf, settled into an overstuffed chair, and flipped open to the first page.
I had just gotten past "The Marleys were dead to begin with" when suddenly, the doorbell rang.
"Oh it must be my true love!" I cried. I ran to the door, threw it open, and found myself face to face with... A pair of beady little eyes, a sharp little beak, and a fluffing of feathers.
"L-Leo!!" I screamed.
"Surprise!" shouted my true love's voice, and he jumped out from behind the leafy branches of the pear tree in which the malevolent avian creature was sitting.
"Um," I said. "Sweetheart. Shmoopie pie. Would you mind explaining just WHAT THIS IS?"
He beamed. "It's a partridge in a pear tree! I saw it and instantly thought of you."
I glared at him. "Thanks a lot."
"Who's Leo, by the way?"
"Er, nobody. Just someone I used to know."
The bird turned its head to blink at me with one of its eyes, and I couldn't help but notice the grim resemblance to the cowgirl's evil demon-cockatiel, who had supposedly passed away a couple months ago. As if to confirm my suspicions that reincarnation might, after all, be a tenable theory, the partridge opened its beak and gave a loud HISSSSSS! I jumped back.
"Oh he likes you," said my true love, grinning. "I can see you guys are going to get along great."
Inside the house, the Hallelujah chorus began thundering through the loudspeakers. I stomped to the stereo and shut it off. Behind me, my true love was hauling the tree and its seething occupant into my living room.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!" I shrieked. "The bird stays outside!"
My true love looked pained. "My darling frogg princess, you can't mean it. It's cold out there. He might die!"
I bit my lip. "Yes, that would be a terrible shame," I said, staring at the bird as very unChristmaslike visions danced through my head.
"He'll be fine right here by the fireplace. He'll sit in the tree, and keep you company!" My (clueless) true love pecked me on the cheek and dashed to the door. "Sorry, gotta run, but I'll be back tomorrow...!"
"Yeah, well, why don't you see if some jewelry might make you think of me next time! Or a ski lift ticket!! OR A SPA VACATION!!!" I called after him, but he was already out the door...
California was finally in the throes of winter.
I was tra-la-la-ing as I sashayed through the house, hanging stockings with care, and lights by the chimney, and all that lovely Christmasy stuff. I put Handel's Messiah on the stereo, and made some hot chocolate. I pulled my copy of Dickens' A Christmas Carol off the shelf, settled into an overstuffed chair, and flipped open to the first page.
I had just gotten past "The Marleys were dead to begin with" when suddenly, the doorbell rang.
"Oh it must be my true love!" I cried. I ran to the door, threw it open, and found myself face to face with... A pair of beady little eyes, a sharp little beak, and a fluffing of feathers.
"L-Leo!!" I screamed.
"Surprise!" shouted my true love's voice, and he jumped out from behind the leafy branches of the pear tree in which the malevolent avian creature was sitting.
"Um," I said. "Sweetheart. Shmoopie pie. Would you mind explaining just WHAT THIS IS?"
He beamed. "It's a partridge in a pear tree! I saw it and instantly thought of you."
I glared at him. "Thanks a lot."
"Who's Leo, by the way?"
"Er, nobody. Just someone I used to know."
The bird turned its head to blink at me with one of its eyes, and I couldn't help but notice the grim resemblance to the cowgirl's evil demon-cockatiel, who had supposedly passed away a couple months ago. As if to confirm my suspicions that reincarnation might, after all, be a tenable theory, the partridge opened its beak and gave a loud HISSSSSS! I jumped back.
"Oh he likes you," said my true love, grinning. "I can see you guys are going to get along great."
Inside the house, the Hallelujah chorus began thundering through the loudspeakers. I stomped to the stereo and shut it off. Behind me, my true love was hauling the tree and its seething occupant into my living room.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!" I shrieked. "The bird stays outside!"
My true love looked pained. "My darling frogg princess, you can't mean it. It's cold out there. He might die!"
I bit my lip. "Yes, that would be a terrible shame," I said, staring at the bird as very unChristmaslike visions danced through my head.
"He'll be fine right here by the fireplace. He'll sit in the tree, and keep you company!" My (clueless) true love pecked me on the cheek and dashed to the door. "Sorry, gotta run, but I'll be back tomorrow...!"
"Yeah, well, why don't you see if some jewelry might make you think of me next time! Or a ski lift ticket!! OR A SPA VACATION!!!" I called after him, but he was already out the door...
Monday, December 11, 2006
Winner of the Frogg's "So Funny I Forgot To Laugh" Award
Once upon a time, and quite likely in a galaxy far, far away, writers used to write stories based on actual facts. Then one day, one of them (who was probably suffering a severe case of writer's block at the time) had the following illuminatory brainwave:
Who needs facts when you can have opinions?
And Christopher Hitchens was born.
To be fair—which I don't have to be, seeing as how I, too, am a writer—I wouldn't necessarily single out Hitchens for my ire (I mean award) because he's hardly alone in the land of Writers Who Simply Spout Off. Today, though, he really deserves some special recognition, thanks to his article "Why Women Aren't Funny" in Vanity Fair, which details his entirely reasonable and scientifically supportable opinion that women are just not as funny as men.
Oh wait. That's neither reasonable nor scientifically supportable! My mistake. And Hitchens' too, as it happens.
At the risk of sounding rather humorless myself (but hey, we all know that I am absolutely not funny at all), I'm going to venture to say that Hitchens might be just a little off track with his thesis (literary term alert!). It would have made far more sense for him to claim that women have a DIFFERENT sense of humor, than to postulate that women are simply not as funny as men. And a lot easier to back up with the conglomeration of anecdotal "evidence" he compiles to support his hypothesis (which is a scientific term—see, I'm bilingual! But don't laugh, I'm not funny!).
Let's take a look at some of his observations, shall we? Here's an excerpt from the beginning of his manifesto:
Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: "He's really quite cute, and he's kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he's so funny ... However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: "She's a real honey, has a life of her own … [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] … and, man, does she ever make 'em laugh."
Hmm, well, that's a pretty convincing premise so far. Nothing unscientific there! In fact, it makes me want to read right the heck on, fully convinced of Hitchens' formidable reasoning powers. And thus I find this intriguing bit a few paragraphs down:
In any case, my argument doesn't say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three.
Wow. I am blinded by the shining light of his perspicacity. And I am also relieved to hear that women CAN be funny in Hitchens' world after all! As long as they are fat, lesbian, and/or Jewish.
Thank God. I thought for a minute there he was generalizing madly or something.
We continue on, caught in the tractor beam of his bold, bright intellect:
Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals.
Well, there's a double-edged sword. Women are smart, but don't want to show it by being the hilarious creatures they COULD be, because it might make men feel threatened. Which means, I think, if I follow his argument to its logical conclusion, that women AREN'T smart (since they prefer to hide their funniness so that men won't dislike them), and that men (SOME men—let's not generalize!) are still sexist pigs.
Not that I know anything about logic, of course. Hello—woman, remember?
But now at last, we get to the joke, and oh boy, is it a knee-slapper. Surprise! Hitchens is on the side of women after all! Hahaha! Just check this out:
...the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates. This is the unspoken compromise.
So women, in case you were tempted to be upset that you aren't funny, don't be! You're the ones secretly ruling the world! All those years of repression and, in some cases, oppression were merely affectations on your part and not a representation of the true(thy) reality.
Oh, you cunning minxes, all of you!
Somehow, I have a feeling that we are not amused. But then why should we be? Hitchens' article isn't so much funny as laughable, and believe me, there is a BIG difference. On the other hand, maybe by not finding the humor in his rambling attempt at wit, I am just proving his entire supposition: that women lack a fundamentally male anatomical reference point... also known as the Funny Bone.
(Which reminds me—another literary term is double entendre. Just, you know, in case you were wondering.)
Who needs facts when you can have opinions?
And Christopher Hitchens was born.
To be fair—which I don't have to be, seeing as how I, too, am a writer—I wouldn't necessarily single out Hitchens for my ire (I mean award) because he's hardly alone in the land of Writers Who Simply Spout Off. Today, though, he really deserves some special recognition, thanks to his article "Why Women Aren't Funny" in Vanity Fair, which details his entirely reasonable and scientifically supportable opinion that women are just not as funny as men.
Oh wait. That's neither reasonable nor scientifically supportable! My mistake. And Hitchens' too, as it happens.
At the risk of sounding rather humorless myself (but hey, we all know that I am absolutely not funny at all), I'm going to venture to say that Hitchens might be just a little off track with his thesis (literary term alert!). It would have made far more sense for him to claim that women have a DIFFERENT sense of humor, than to postulate that women are simply not as funny as men. And a lot easier to back up with the conglomeration of anecdotal "evidence" he compiles to support his hypothesis (which is a scientific term—see, I'm bilingual! But don't laugh, I'm not funny!).
Let's take a look at some of his observations, shall we? Here's an excerpt from the beginning of his manifesto:
Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: "He's really quite cute, and he's kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he's so funny ... However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: "She's a real honey, has a life of her own … [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] … and, man, does she ever make 'em laugh."
Hmm, well, that's a pretty convincing premise so far. Nothing unscientific there! In fact, it makes me want to read right the heck on, fully convinced of Hitchens' formidable reasoning powers. And thus I find this intriguing bit a few paragraphs down:
In any case, my argument doesn't say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three.
Wow. I am blinded by the shining light of his perspicacity. And I am also relieved to hear that women CAN be funny in Hitchens' world after all! As long as they are fat, lesbian, and/or Jewish.
Thank God. I thought for a minute there he was generalizing madly or something.
We continue on, caught in the tractor beam of his bold, bright intellect:
Precisely because humor is a sign of intelligence (and many women believe, or were taught by their mothers, that they become threatening to men if they appear too bright), it could be that in some way men do not want women to be funny. They want them as an audience, not as rivals.
Well, there's a double-edged sword. Women are smart, but don't want to show it by being the hilarious creatures they COULD be, because it might make men feel threatened. Which means, I think, if I follow his argument to its logical conclusion, that women AREN'T smart (since they prefer to hide their funniness so that men won't dislike them), and that men (SOME men—let's not generalize!) are still sexist pigs.
Not that I know anything about logic, of course. Hello—woman, remember?
But now at last, we get to the joke, and oh boy, is it a knee-slapper. Surprise! Hitchens is on the side of women after all! Hahaha! Just check this out:
...the explanation for the superior funniness of men is much the same as for the inferior funniness of women. Men have to pretend, to themselves as well as to women, that they are not the servants and supplicants. Women, cunning minxes that they are, have to affect not to be the potentates. This is the unspoken compromise.
So women, in case you were tempted to be upset that you aren't funny, don't be! You're the ones secretly ruling the world! All those years of repression and, in some cases, oppression were merely affectations on your part and not a representation of the true(thy) reality.
Oh, you cunning minxes, all of you!
Somehow, I have a feeling that we are not amused. But then why should we be? Hitchens' article isn't so much funny as laughable, and believe me, there is a BIG difference. On the other hand, maybe by not finding the humor in his rambling attempt at wit, I am just proving his entire supposition: that women lack a fundamentally male anatomical reference point... also known as the Funny Bone.
(Which reminds me—another literary term is double entendre. Just, you know, in case you were wondering.)
Sunday, December 10, 2006
'Tis the Season...for a Bigger Pair of Jeans!
So you know how people talk about gaining the "Freshman Fifteen" when you go off to college? Well, I've had occasion to observe another weight-gain phenomenon, to which I, being the public-service-minded pontiff that I am (deep down inside where no one can see), desire now to draw your attention.
I call this phenomenon "The Month of December."
Catchy name, huh?
Unlike The Freshman Fifteen, The Month of December is unavoidable, unless of course you've figured out the secrets of time travel, and if you have I don't even want to hear it. The point is, there is absolutely nothing we can do—all the fitness magazine articles to the contrary—to avoid the weight that piles on during the holiday season. It's like magic. December 1st rolls around, the body goes, "Oh, it's December!" and presto! Your favorite jeans are tighter, and you are five pounds heavier! Just like that! Without even trying!!
It really is a hopeless time of year in some ways. You want to eat healthy, but every time you turn around, someone is putting food in your face. Cookies, candy, chocolate—whatever it is, there is no escape. Even if you don't actually eat it, you are breathing air weighted down with all the high-calorie emissions that surround these rich foods. Breathing has never been so bad for you, believe me.
"What about exercise?" I can hear you ask. To which I politely respond, "Hahahaha." Which is about all the exercise I'll do this season—and you too, I'll bet.
So my scientific conclusion is that there is no way to prevent the weight gain. However, I believe you can at least minimize it somewhat. Here are a few ideas that should help...
...Ok, I lied. I have no ideas. There is nothing to be done. Just accept it and pray for January to come quick, when you can start your New Year's Resolution gym membership.
Hahaha.
I call this phenomenon "The Month of December."
Catchy name, huh?
Unlike The Freshman Fifteen, The Month of December is unavoidable, unless of course you've figured out the secrets of time travel, and if you have I don't even want to hear it. The point is, there is absolutely nothing we can do—all the fitness magazine articles to the contrary—to avoid the weight that piles on during the holiday season. It's like magic. December 1st rolls around, the body goes, "Oh, it's December!" and presto! Your favorite jeans are tighter, and you are five pounds heavier! Just like that! Without even trying!!
It really is a hopeless time of year in some ways. You want to eat healthy, but every time you turn around, someone is putting food in your face. Cookies, candy, chocolate—whatever it is, there is no escape. Even if you don't actually eat it, you are breathing air weighted down with all the high-calorie emissions that surround these rich foods. Breathing has never been so bad for you, believe me.
"What about exercise?" I can hear you ask. To which I politely respond, "Hahahaha." Which is about all the exercise I'll do this season—and you too, I'll bet.
So my scientific conclusion is that there is no way to prevent the weight gain. However, I believe you can at least minimize it somewhat. Here are a few ideas that should help...
...Ok, I lied. I have no ideas. There is nothing to be done. Just accept it and pray for January to come quick, when you can start your New Year's Resolution gym membership.
Hahaha.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Apologies...
...for my cranky, illness-induced sarcasm of yesterday. Of COURSE I care if people are having trouble posting comments every now and then. It's just that I'd care a lot more if I could actually do something about it. Since I can't, I think we should all just move on and get along with our lives. I know it is not the perfect solution, but it's the best I can do with a stuffy head, a cough, the sniffles, and continuing exhaustion.
Yes, that's right. I'm still sick. And thanks to my illness, I am also behind on my writing assignments for my master's program. Which means that I am stressed, and stress, as we all know, is bad for health. This is what is known, in literary terms, as a vicious cycle.
On the plus side, the weather has been great in California lately, my hair still looks quite good, and it's almost the weekend.
In literary terms, that's called the silver lining. There always is one, isnt't there?
Yes, that's right. I'm still sick. And thanks to my illness, I am also behind on my writing assignments for my master's program. Which means that I am stressed, and stress, as we all know, is bad for health. This is what is known, in literary terms, as a vicious cycle.
On the plus side, the weather has been great in California lately, my hair still looks quite good, and it's almost the weekend.
In literary terms, that's called the silver lining. There always is one, isnt't there?
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Technical Difficulties Again?
It has recently come to my attention that people are having difficulty posting comments to my blog. Thank you, all of you who kindly informed me of this fact. Please accept my sincere apologies, as well as my assurances that, seeing as how I am not Frank the Super TechnoGeek, I am going to do nothing whatsoever to fix the problem.
Feel free to vent your frustrated feelings in the comments section.
Ha.
Feel free to vent your frustrated feelings in the comments section.
Ha.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
It Ain't Lean Cuisine...
So the other day, I was driving and listening to the radio, and a commercial came on for Carl's Jr.'s latest addition to their fast-food menu: The Philly Cheesesteak Burger.
And yes, it is exactly what it sounds like; namely, a burger patty with steak and cheese piled on top of it. Also known as "Heart Attack on a Plate."
I cannot adequately express what a good idea the Philly Cheesesteak Burger is, mainly because I think it's stupid. And I have a feeling I'm not the only one. Because right after the commercial for this unique culinary inspiration finished, the song "American Idiot" by Green Day began to play.
Someone at the radio station has a sense of humor.
And yes, it is exactly what it sounds like; namely, a burger patty with steak and cheese piled on top of it. Also known as "Heart Attack on a Plate."
I cannot adequately express what a good idea the Philly Cheesesteak Burger is, mainly because I think it's stupid. And I have a feeling I'm not the only one. Because right after the commercial for this unique culinary inspiration finished, the song "American Idiot" by Green Day began to play.
Someone at the radio station has a sense of humor.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Descent Into Delirium
Alright, it's officially official: I am sick of being sick.
I'm tired of having a runny nose, which makes me sniffle. I'm tired of having dry skin around and under my nose thanks to blowing it all the time. I'm tired of being a grouch (and I'm sure everyone I know is tired of this also). I'm tired of everything I eat tasting the same; i.e., like paper. Not that I know what paper tastes like. I mean, I do, because I ate it once when I was a kid. But I was a kid so long ago that I probably don't remember.
Look, it's just a figure of speech, ok? I'm cranky enough already, especially now that I've reminded myself that I am also old. So let's just move on.
What was I talking about?
Oh, right. I was complaining about being sick.
Forget it. I'm too tired.
But the worst thing about being sick is that yesterday I got my hair cut and styled and looked about as gorgeous as it's possible for me to look (except I was wearing my glasses, which fit crooked), but couldn't properly flaunt my stunningness because I felt too ill to even think about going out anywhere, and ended up just going home.
Lame. Kind of like this blog post, in fact.
I'm tired of having a runny nose, which makes me sniffle. I'm tired of having dry skin around and under my nose thanks to blowing it all the time. I'm tired of being a grouch (and I'm sure everyone I know is tired of this also). I'm tired of everything I eat tasting the same; i.e., like paper. Not that I know what paper tastes like. I mean, I do, because I ate it once when I was a kid. But I was a kid so long ago that I probably don't remember.
Look, it's just a figure of speech, ok? I'm cranky enough already, especially now that I've reminded myself that I am also old. So let's just move on.
What was I talking about?
Oh, right. I was complaining about being sick.
Forget it. I'm too tired.
But the worst thing about being sick is that yesterday I got my hair cut and styled and looked about as gorgeous as it's possible for me to look (except I was wearing my glasses, which fit crooked), but couldn't properly flaunt my stunningness because I felt too ill to even think about going out anywhere, and ended up just going home.
Lame. Kind of like this blog post, in fact.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Home Sick
Daytime TV is really a good reason to never get sick.
Unfortunately, I am sick. Which means I'm stuck at home watching "King of the Hill" reruns. I think I can actually feel brain cells leaking out of my head into oblivion.
I tried to find a lame movie to make fun of, but no luck.
Oh wait, "Elf" is on now!
Awesome. Bye bye, brain cells...
Unfortunately, I am sick. Which means I'm stuck at home watching "King of the Hill" reruns. I think I can actually feel brain cells leaking out of my head into oblivion.
I tried to find a lame movie to make fun of, but no luck.
Oh wait, "Elf" is on now!
Awesome. Bye bye, brain cells...
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Why Grammar Matters
I found this intriguing sentence while browsing around on the Web site for a well-known university:
The English Faculty at [XX] and the Graduate School are the largest in the United Kingdom.
Hmmm. I guess the English Faculty ought to lay off the bangers and mash...
The English Faculty at [XX] and the Graduate School are the largest in the United Kingdom.
Hmmm. I guess the English Faculty ought to lay off the bangers and mash...
Happy Feet
This blog is dedicated with deep gratitude to Aunt B, who treated me to my first-ever pedicure before I left Maryland. I don't know why I waited so long to have one, but it may have something to do with the fact that:
1) I hate my feet; and
2) See previous.
I've had issues with my feet ever since I was a young, impressionable teenager and I was told I had feet "like a duck." This is actually true in a way: My feet get wider the further they get from my heels, and they have large spaces between all the toes. If I focus, I can spread them out almost like fingers. It's very weird. I used to hate wearing flip-flops because people were always commenting on the big spaces between my toes, as if I didn't know about them. "Oh look!" they'd say. "You have such big spaces between your toes!"
It was like telling me I had brown eyes. Believe me, I already knew.
So my feet were sort of a sore point for me, often literally. During my backpacking adventures in New Zealand, I lost not one, but three toenails. They eventually grew back, but then I went to the Middle East, and spent a good portion of my short time there walking around in shoes that fit badly (a prevailing theme of my existence), meaning that I ended up with cuts and blisters all over my feet. Those eventually healed, in time for me to again damage my podiatric extremities by running a half-marathon last year which claimed yet another toenail (after bruising it very unattractively).
My feet, in short, have looked pretty bad for the past few years, and the absolute last thing I ever wanted to do was subject some poor stranger to the awful task of touching them and making them presentable.
But when Aunt B suggested it, I had to admit I was interested. My toenails were (finally) all present and accounted for, and I thought that maybe it would be nice to have my feet massaged and pampered a little. After all, I've put them through a lot in my life. They'd more than earned some TLC.
So we headed to a spa called (a little presumptuously) "Paradise," in Mt. Airy, Maryland. I guess it's called that because there are pictures of palm trees painted on the walls inside. And palm trees, as we all know, are a paradisiacal requirement. Anyway, they were able to take us immediately, so first we had to choose a nailpolish color (I almost didn't, being utterly overwhelmed by about fifty different shades of red alone). Then we sat in massage chairs and our pedicurists got to work.
I was a tad anxious about the fact that the pedicurists started out wearing surgical masks. But the massage chair made it hard to stay worried about anything for very long (no doubt that's why they have them).
Finally, after a blissfully relaxing half hour, my toenails were trimmed, smoothed, and colorful, and my feet felt minty-fresh and soft. Just in time for getting on the plane back to southern California...
Now here I am, back home and in bed at 2 in the afternoon, nursing a sore throat and determinedly not doing all the reading and writing that I am already behind on for my graduate program.
But at least my feet are pretty!
1) I hate my feet; and
2) See previous.
I've had issues with my feet ever since I was a young, impressionable teenager and I was told I had feet "like a duck." This is actually true in a way: My feet get wider the further they get from my heels, and they have large spaces between all the toes. If I focus, I can spread them out almost like fingers. It's very weird. I used to hate wearing flip-flops because people were always commenting on the big spaces between my toes, as if I didn't know about them. "Oh look!" they'd say. "You have such big spaces between your toes!"
It was like telling me I had brown eyes. Believe me, I already knew.
So my feet were sort of a sore point for me, often literally. During my backpacking adventures in New Zealand, I lost not one, but three toenails. They eventually grew back, but then I went to the Middle East, and spent a good portion of my short time there walking around in shoes that fit badly (a prevailing theme of my existence), meaning that I ended up with cuts and blisters all over my feet. Those eventually healed, in time for me to again damage my podiatric extremities by running a half-marathon last year which claimed yet another toenail (after bruising it very unattractively).
My feet, in short, have looked pretty bad for the past few years, and the absolute last thing I ever wanted to do was subject some poor stranger to the awful task of touching them and making them presentable.
But when Aunt B suggested it, I had to admit I was interested. My toenails were (finally) all present and accounted for, and I thought that maybe it would be nice to have my feet massaged and pampered a little. After all, I've put them through a lot in my life. They'd more than earned some TLC.
So we headed to a spa called (a little presumptuously) "Paradise," in Mt. Airy, Maryland. I guess it's called that because there are pictures of palm trees painted on the walls inside. And palm trees, as we all know, are a paradisiacal requirement. Anyway, they were able to take us immediately, so first we had to choose a nailpolish color (I almost didn't, being utterly overwhelmed by about fifty different shades of red alone). Then we sat in massage chairs and our pedicurists got to work.
I was a tad anxious about the fact that the pedicurists started out wearing surgical masks. But the massage chair made it hard to stay worried about anything for very long (no doubt that's why they have them).
Finally, after a blissfully relaxing half hour, my toenails were trimmed, smoothed, and colorful, and my feet felt minty-fresh and soft. Just in time for getting on the plane back to southern California...
Now here I am, back home and in bed at 2 in the afternoon, nursing a sore throat and determinedly not doing all the reading and writing that I am already behind on for my graduate program.
But at least my feet are pretty!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Happy Thanksgiving
Well, it's that time of year again, when we determinedly set ourselves the task of being dutifully thankful for all the things that annoyed, frustrated, or disappointed us during the year: family, friends, our jobs, our lives, the universe, and everything.
Kidding, kidding.
I actually like Thanksgiving a lot. I like it more than Christmas, in fact, because even though Christmas is about the birth of the Lord Jesus and other things that are deeply important to me, it's also (sadly) about going crazy trying to buy the "right" gifts for people and not forget anyone who might get mortally offended and never speak to you again. There's a lot of stress attendant upon Christmas, and quite frankly, the last thing I need in my life is more stress.
I admit, though, that I do not cultivate a grateful spirit throughout the year as a rule, so when I get to Thanksgiving and start trying to make the requisite list of all the things I'm thankful for, it's the mental and emotional equivalent of running a marathon when you've spent the year eating Big Macs and avoiding all exercise that does not involve sitting on the couch in front of the TV. Suddenly, I'm trying to flex gratitude muscles that I never knew I had. And it's tough. Watch, I'll show you what happens:
I am thankful for my family, who have supported and encouraged and loved me... but sometimes they get on my nerves. I am thankful that I have a job that pays my bills... but it's kind of boring at times. I am thankful that being single allows me to live fairly freely, going where I want when I want... but I'm sad that I'm missing out on being in love. I am thankful for my health, but... hey, I have no "buts" about that! I am very healthy! YAY!!!!
Whew, I was getting depressed.
But you see what I mean? Everything I am thankful for has a Dark Side. The thing I like about Thanksgiving is that it's a time to forcibly shake off the darkness, and really make an effort to focus on the light that fills my life. And I do wonder what it would be like to work at this focus throughout the year, instead of waiting for a particular weekend in November to roll around. If I were to make a New Year's resolution, that would be it. (Unfortunately if there is one thing I am not thankful for at all, it's the concept of the New Year's resolution.)
So today, I'm thankful for Thanksgiving itself. I'm thankful for a holiday that reminds me not to give in to the Dark Side. I'm thankful that I have people to celebrate the holiday with, and lots of food to eat (and believe me, there are no "buts" about that, either!).
And most of all, I'm thankful that it is not Christmas yet, because I still haven't done any gift shopping. Yikes!
Kidding, kidding.
I actually like Thanksgiving a lot. I like it more than Christmas, in fact, because even though Christmas is about the birth of the Lord Jesus and other things that are deeply important to me, it's also (sadly) about going crazy trying to buy the "right" gifts for people and not forget anyone who might get mortally offended and never speak to you again. There's a lot of stress attendant upon Christmas, and quite frankly, the last thing I need in my life is more stress.
I admit, though, that I do not cultivate a grateful spirit throughout the year as a rule, so when I get to Thanksgiving and start trying to make the requisite list of all the things I'm thankful for, it's the mental and emotional equivalent of running a marathon when you've spent the year eating Big Macs and avoiding all exercise that does not involve sitting on the couch in front of the TV. Suddenly, I'm trying to flex gratitude muscles that I never knew I had. And it's tough. Watch, I'll show you what happens:
I am thankful for my family, who have supported and encouraged and loved me... but sometimes they get on my nerves. I am thankful that I have a job that pays my bills... but it's kind of boring at times. I am thankful that being single allows me to live fairly freely, going where I want when I want... but I'm sad that I'm missing out on being in love. I am thankful for my health, but... hey, I have no "buts" about that! I am very healthy! YAY!!!!
Whew, I was getting depressed.
But you see what I mean? Everything I am thankful for has a Dark Side. The thing I like about Thanksgiving is that it's a time to forcibly shake off the darkness, and really make an effort to focus on the light that fills my life. And I do wonder what it would be like to work at this focus throughout the year, instead of waiting for a particular weekend in November to roll around. If I were to make a New Year's resolution, that would be it. (Unfortunately if there is one thing I am not thankful for at all, it's the concept of the New Year's resolution.)
So today, I'm thankful for Thanksgiving itself. I'm thankful for a holiday that reminds me not to give in to the Dark Side. I'm thankful that I have people to celebrate the holiday with, and lots of food to eat (and believe me, there are no "buts" about that, either!).
And most of all, I'm thankful that it is not Christmas yet, because I still haven't done any gift shopping. Yikes!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Still Kickin' it in Kentucky...
I have been absolutely swamped this week, but I'm coming up for air long enough to tell you all that I am still alive. Overwhelmed, slightly stressed, and severely sleep-deprived due to the fact that my inner clock still hasn't clicked over to East Coast time--but alive.
Most of my days are taken up by the writing program, but today I did manage to leave my well-worn two-block territory and venture further afield into the city, thanks to a fellow student who lives in the area and has a car. He acted as a tour guide for me and a few friends, driving us through the Historical District of Louisville, with its huge old mansions and quiet streets, and then on to the center of religious fervor in the Bluegrass State, otherwise known as Churchill Downs. We got there just after the last race of the day, but had the chance to see the thoroughbreds being walked along the track back to the stables.
We also learned that box seats at the Kentucky Derby can easily go for $10,000. Wow.
Highlight of the Day: the free Smashmouth concert staged at Fourth Street Live (the hip restaurant/shopping area of downtown), outdoors in the freezing cold. Random, I know.
Most of my days are taken up by the writing program, but today I did manage to leave my well-worn two-block territory and venture further afield into the city, thanks to a fellow student who lives in the area and has a car. He acted as a tour guide for me and a few friends, driving us through the Historical District of Louisville, with its huge old mansions and quiet streets, and then on to the center of religious fervor in the Bluegrass State, otherwise known as Churchill Downs. We got there just after the last race of the day, but had the chance to see the thoroughbreds being walked along the track back to the stables.
We also learned that box seats at the Kentucky Derby can easily go for $10,000. Wow.
Highlight of the Day: the free Smashmouth concert staged at Fourth Street Live (the hip restaurant/shopping area of downtown), outdoors in the freezing cold. Random, I know.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Bluegrass Blues
So here I am in Louisville.
Er, I mean Loovle.
I'd like to tell you all about the city and describe my impressions of it, but unfortunately, I've only seen two blocks of it so far. I am becoming very familiar with those two blocks, however. There are brick buildings, which is cool. You don't see those in California, because of the earthquake codes. There are also autumn leaves on the ground. You don't see those much in California either, mostly because our leaves don't fall til sometime in January, which doesn't really count as autumn.
I also saw a billboard advertising gas as a great gift idea.
Oh, and here's something funny. Remember a post or two ago, I was worried about the weather and what to wear? Well, I arrived all bundled up in a coat, scarf, and Ugs, prepared to face the worst--and stepped out of the airport terminal into a balmy 70+ degree day, with humidity to match. What a surprise. I wish I could say it was a pleasant one.
Naturally, based on yesterday's experience, I woke up this morning and dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and wore a light fleece jacket--which meant that temperatures dipped right down to the 40s. I believe a wind chill was also involved. Hahaha! Imagine my amusement.
But enough about the weather. I'm happy to report that I am settling in well to the writing program, in spite of the fact that I lost my welcome packet the same day I got it (i.e., yesterday; thankfully I found it in the office today) and the printout of my schedule for the next two weeks, which I had brought with me from home because the administration had made a point of telling us to (had to get another one from the office). I also missed a lecture, a fact which only came to my attention when I was talking to the professor who gave it and he happened to ask if I'd attended. "Your lecture was today?" I asked.
So yeah. I'm doing great.
Er, I mean Loovle.
I'd like to tell you all about the city and describe my impressions of it, but unfortunately, I've only seen two blocks of it so far. I am becoming very familiar with those two blocks, however. There are brick buildings, which is cool. You don't see those in California, because of the earthquake codes. There are also autumn leaves on the ground. You don't see those much in California either, mostly because our leaves don't fall til sometime in January, which doesn't really count as autumn.
I also saw a billboard advertising gas as a great gift idea.
Oh, and here's something funny. Remember a post or two ago, I was worried about the weather and what to wear? Well, I arrived all bundled up in a coat, scarf, and Ugs, prepared to face the worst--and stepped out of the airport terminal into a balmy 70+ degree day, with humidity to match. What a surprise. I wish I could say it was a pleasant one.
Naturally, based on yesterday's experience, I woke up this morning and dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and wore a light fleece jacket--which meant that temperatures dipped right down to the 40s. I believe a wind chill was also involved. Hahaha! Imagine my amusement.
But enough about the weather. I'm happy to report that I am settling in well to the writing program, in spite of the fact that I lost my welcome packet the same day I got it (i.e., yesterday; thankfully I found it in the office today) and the printout of my schedule for the next two weeks, which I had brought with me from home because the administration had made a point of telling us to (had to get another one from the office). I also missed a lecture, a fact which only came to my attention when I was talking to the professor who gave it and he happened to ask if I'd attended. "Your lecture was today?" I asked.
So yeah. I'm doing great.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Keep Dreaming
In my wildest dreams, I am this incredibly organized person, who looks wisely to the future so that she does not perpetually find herself doing things at the last minute; like packing and shopping the night before departing on an extended trip, just as a totally random example.
Then I wake up laughing. Assuming, of course, that I get any sleep in the first place. Which I haven't for the past three days, due to the aforementioned last-minute shopping and packing I've been doing. Tomorrow night, I get on the plane for Louisville. I have no idea anymore if I am taking enough clothes, or whatever else I think I need, and I don't much care. All I know is, if I don't sleep during the flight, I think I'm going to die.
Or at the very least, be extremely unpleasant when I arrive. Which could mean someone else might die.
Just kidding. I hope.
Well, considering how much packing I still have to do, you are probably surprised that I would take valuable time out to write this incredibly unmeaningful blog. I wish I could say I was surprised, too. Unfortunately, I know myself all too well.
I think I was sort of hoping that my packing would just start magically doing itself, actually. I am very depressed that this is not, in fact, happening. What wouldn't I give for Mary Poppins' powers of finger-snapping her chores to their completion right now.
Sigh. One can always dream...
Then I wake up laughing. Assuming, of course, that I get any sleep in the first place. Which I haven't for the past three days, due to the aforementioned last-minute shopping and packing I've been doing. Tomorrow night, I get on the plane for Louisville. I have no idea anymore if I am taking enough clothes, or whatever else I think I need, and I don't much care. All I know is, if I don't sleep during the flight, I think I'm going to die.
Or at the very least, be extremely unpleasant when I arrive. Which could mean someone else might die.
Just kidding. I hope.
Well, considering how much packing I still have to do, you are probably surprised that I would take valuable time out to write this incredibly unmeaningful blog. I wish I could say I was surprised, too. Unfortunately, I know myself all too well.
I think I was sort of hoping that my packing would just start magically doing itself, actually. I am very depressed that this is not, in fact, happening. What wouldn't I give for Mary Poppins' powers of finger-snapping her chores to their completion right now.
Sigh. One can always dream...
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
What Weather Shall I Wear?
I found out that the story I mentioned in the last post actually started floating around awhile back. As in, 2002 (I think). But I don't care, it's still funny.
In other earth-shaking news, yesterday I went out and bought my first real raincoat.
Yes, I mean ever.
I am a true Southern California girl in a sartorial* sense, which means that my wardrobe almost entirely consists of tank tops, T-shirts, flip-flops, etc. Summer clothes, in other words. My "cold-weather" clothes amount to a few sweatshirts, one coat (which I never wear) and jeans. But that's ok, because summer never really ends here. In fact, today the highs are supposed to hit upper 80s-low 90s (late 20s-early 30s for the Celsius lovers)! Nice.
However, in a couple of days, I'll be leaving Summerland and going to a state where they have weather that actually dips below 65 degrees. And rain. And that mysterious element known as a "wind chill factor." All these things add up to the need for an entirely new wardrobe, a wardrobe that includes items I barely ever have occasion to even pronounce out here on the West Coast--scarves, gloves (!), and boots.
So, as you can imagine, I am freaking out (like, totally).
The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I should just take my snowboarding clothes and wear them the whole time, but they would probably take up too much room in my suitcase. Boo.
*"Sartorial" does not, unfortunately, translate to "fashionable." For more details on the distinction, click here.
In other earth-shaking news, yesterday I went out and bought my first real raincoat.
Yes, I mean ever.
I am a true Southern California girl in a sartorial* sense, which means that my wardrobe almost entirely consists of tank tops, T-shirts, flip-flops, etc. Summer clothes, in other words. My "cold-weather" clothes amount to a few sweatshirts, one coat (which I never wear) and jeans. But that's ok, because summer never really ends here. In fact, today the highs are supposed to hit upper 80s-low 90s (late 20s-early 30s for the Celsius lovers)! Nice.
However, in a couple of days, I'll be leaving Summerland and going to a state where they have weather that actually dips below 65 degrees. And rain. And that mysterious element known as a "wind chill factor." All these things add up to the need for an entirely new wardrobe, a wardrobe that includes items I barely ever have occasion to even pronounce out here on the West Coast--scarves, gloves (!), and boots.
So, as you can imagine, I am freaking out (like, totally).
The thought crossed my mind that perhaps I should just take my snowboarding clothes and wear them the whole time, but they would probably take up too much room in my suitcase. Boo.
*"Sartorial" does not, unfortunately, translate to "fashionable." For more details on the distinction, click here.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Winner of the Frogg's "I'm Stupider Than Jerry Rose" Award
In one of the more bizaare criminal-incident articles I've ever read, a man gets caught robbing banks because, much to his surprise, he is not, in fact, invisible.
As an added bonus, this story features a fake wizard.
Fav excerpt:
The man's ill-fated heist attempt started to go wrong shortly after he entered the bank, as he started snatching money from the hands of customers. For some reason, rather than being terrified of the mysterious invisible poltergeist stealing their cash, the customers quickly overpowered the hapless thief.
I can hardly stand how funny that is.
(Via Dave Barry's Blog.)
As an added bonus, this story features a fake wizard.
Fav excerpt:
The man's ill-fated heist attempt started to go wrong shortly after he entered the bank, as he started snatching money from the hands of customers. For some reason, rather than being terrified of the mysterious invisible poltergeist stealing their cash, the customers quickly overpowered the hapless thief.
I can hardly stand how funny that is.
(Via Dave Barry's Blog.)
Winner of the Frogg's "Oops, Did I Say That Out Loud?" Award
If he ever finds himself playing the "What's the stupidest thing you've ever done?" party game again, I bet Jerry Rose will have a slightly different answer.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Death Becomes Him
The cowgirl was home this past week, and one night we were sitting in the living room chatting over cups of tea, when she turned to me and said, "Did you hear that Leo died?"
I stared at her. The words were too magical to be believed. "What? Really?"
"Yeah."
"How??"
"I don't know. The lady I gave him to said she just found him dead one morning. He'd been singing his heart out the night before."
I glowered. "I bet." I was all too acquainted with Leo's "singing."
The cowgirl and I then fell silent for a moment, and I'd like to say that I felt a twinge of conscience for all my Leo-hating now that I knew he had kicked the bucket, but I would, of course, be lying. I am not sorry at all. If I had known how to dance a jig, I would have. But I didn't. So I contented myself with inward rejoicing. Of which there was plenty.
In the midst of my doubtless unholy glee, though, I was also a trifle annoyed. I had wished for Leo to die many a time when he lived here, but would he oblige me? No! Not on your life! At last, after ages of enduring his demonic, achingly painful shrieks, the cowgirl FINALLY takes him away from this house, and gives him to some lady who only has to put up with it for a couple months before he just... keels over one day. Peacefully, with no complaints or resistance. Argh, that jerk (Leo, not the lady)! Even in death he mocks me!
I guess I'd better watch what I say, though. I would hate to have that little avian Fury come back to haunt me. Gah. What a horrible fate that would be.
I stared at her. The words were too magical to be believed. "What? Really?"
"Yeah."
"How??"
"I don't know. The lady I gave him to said she just found him dead one morning. He'd been singing his heart out the night before."
I glowered. "I bet." I was all too acquainted with Leo's "singing."
The cowgirl and I then fell silent for a moment, and I'd like to say that I felt a twinge of conscience for all my Leo-hating now that I knew he had kicked the bucket, but I would, of course, be lying. I am not sorry at all. If I had known how to dance a jig, I would have. But I didn't. So I contented myself with inward rejoicing. Of which there was plenty.
In the midst of my doubtless unholy glee, though, I was also a trifle annoyed. I had wished for Leo to die many a time when he lived here, but would he oblige me? No! Not on your life! At last, after ages of enduring his demonic, achingly painful shrieks, the cowgirl FINALLY takes him away from this house, and gives him to some lady who only has to put up with it for a couple months before he just... keels over one day. Peacefully, with no complaints or resistance. Argh, that jerk (Leo, not the lady)! Even in death he mocks me!
I guess I'd better watch what I say, though. I would hate to have that little avian Fury come back to haunt me. Gah. What a horrible fate that would be.
Monday, October 30, 2006
A Sign of Clip-Art To Come
So I was walking in my neighborhood this morning before work and...
Ok, ok, you can stop looking so shocked. Yes, I was walking. Yes, it was in the morning. And yes, it was before work. (And no, work does not start at noon!)
Ahem. When were you thinking you might pick your jaw up from the floor? Because I was thinking now would be a good time, so I can finish this story.
Thanks.
ANYWAY. As I was walking, I passed a telephone pole with an 8.5" x 11" piece of paper stapled to it. The sign was for pool and spa maintenance, and had the requisite phone numbers printed vertically along the bottom in little strips that had been scissored so you could tear them off easily. Above the strips was a black and white line drawing of a child in the air, looking terrified as he either jumped or fell (impossible to tell which) into the waiting arms of a man whose mouth was open in an apparent scream. Another man, who was also waist-deep in what I could only assume was the pool (but judging from their expressions, you'd have thought it was a vat of hot, flesh-melting lava), had a similar look of hellish torment on his undetailed face.
I had to read the headline again to remind myself it was pool service that was being offered and not, say, the ever-popular Vacation Getaway Package in Hades. I mean, who wouldn't want to call guys who use such persuasive images to promote their product? "Dying to get your pool fixed? We can help!"
So, my big question is, how much does Clip Art actually cost? Do these guys need to drum up some pool and spa maintenance business before they can afford any? Because if so, they might be in a little bit of trouble.
Ok, ok, you can stop looking so shocked. Yes, I was walking. Yes, it was in the morning. And yes, it was before work. (And no, work does not start at noon!)
Ahem. When were you thinking you might pick your jaw up from the floor? Because I was thinking now would be a good time, so I can finish this story.
Thanks.
ANYWAY. As I was walking, I passed a telephone pole with an 8.5" x 11" piece of paper stapled to it. The sign was for pool and spa maintenance, and had the requisite phone numbers printed vertically along the bottom in little strips that had been scissored so you could tear them off easily. Above the strips was a black and white line drawing of a child in the air, looking terrified as he either jumped or fell (impossible to tell which) into the waiting arms of a man whose mouth was open in an apparent scream. Another man, who was also waist-deep in what I could only assume was the pool (but judging from their expressions, you'd have thought it was a vat of hot, flesh-melting lava), had a similar look of hellish torment on his undetailed face.
I had to read the headline again to remind myself it was pool service that was being offered and not, say, the ever-popular Vacation Getaway Package in Hades. I mean, who wouldn't want to call guys who use such persuasive images to promote their product? "Dying to get your pool fixed? We can help!"
So, my big question is, how much does Clip Art actually cost? Do these guys need to drum up some pool and spa maintenance business before they can afford any? Because if so, they might be in a little bit of trouble.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Excuses, Excuses!
After I posted my last entry, I had this revelatory thought: What am I waiting for, anyway??
So heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it looks like it's off to work I go! Yee-ha.
Until I resurface from the morass of busywork and errands that threatens to drown my beleaguered but unconquered spirit (how's that for being dramatic?), I wish you all an awesome weekend. And in the midst of all the stuff there is to be done, take some time to do a little bit of nothing. I'm quite convinced that it's good for the soul.
Take it from me--I'm an expert at doing nothing.
Hey, at least I know what I'm good at, yeah?
Oh yeah.
So heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it looks like it's off to work I go! Yee-ha.
Until I resurface from the morass of busywork and errands that threatens to drown my beleaguered but unconquered spirit (how's that for being dramatic?), I wish you all an awesome weekend. And in the midst of all the stuff there is to be done, take some time to do a little bit of nothing. I'm quite convinced that it's good for the soul.
Take it from me--I'm an expert at doing nothing.
Hey, at least I know what I'm good at, yeah?
Oh yeah.
Undone and Waiting
Right now, there is a pile of clean laundry on my bed, waiting to be folded, and a pile of dirty laundry in a plastic basket, waiting to be taken down to the washing machine. There are piles of mail waiting to be sorted--one on the bed, one on top of a portable filing box, one scattered around on the floor next to the same filing box. There is a house waiting (probably in vain) to be cleaned. There is an envelope waiting to be taken to the post office.
There is a Beethoven sonata waiting to be practised. There is a piano composition by a woman whose name I can't remember, waiting to be started.
There are novels and stories and poems by other people waiting to be read. There are my stories, waiting to be written.
Ah, the day is slipping by so fast. I am leaving so much undone... and waiting.
There is a Beethoven sonata waiting to be practised. There is a piano composition by a woman whose name I can't remember, waiting to be started.
There are novels and stories and poems by other people waiting to be read. There are my stories, waiting to be written.
Ah, the day is slipping by so fast. I am leaving so much undone... and waiting.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Smile
So I was sitting in traffic on the way home from work, getting cranky because traffic puts me in a bad mood, when I looked up at an overpass and saw a man with a little boy on his shoulders. The little boy was waving to all the people locked away in their iron coffins below. Beside these two was a little girl with long brown hair, in a bright yellow dress. She kept jumping up and down like she couldn't imagine a more exciting view than the one she was looking at right then--miles of glinting metal cartops and flashing red brake lights as far as she could probably see.
In that moment, as I looked up at the cheerful little group on the overpass, I didn't mind that I was stuck in the inevitable Los Angeles gridlock. I didn't mind that I was exhausted, because of not getting enough sleep last night. I didn't mind that I have to wake up earlier than usual tomorrow because of a meeting at one of client's offices.*
I smiled up at the man, the boy, and the little girl as I passed beneath them, and I kept smiling as I left them behind.
*Of course, I mind that now.
In that moment, as I looked up at the cheerful little group on the overpass, I didn't mind that I was stuck in the inevitable Los Angeles gridlock. I didn't mind that I was exhausted, because of not getting enough sleep last night. I didn't mind that I have to wake up earlier than usual tomorrow because of a meeting at one of client's offices.*
I smiled up at the man, the boy, and the little girl as I passed beneath them, and I kept smiling as I left them behind.
*Of course, I mind that now.
Pensivity
It's nearly 1 a.m., and I can't sleep.
It's been a long couple of days. My mother had surgery on Tuesday, and is still in the hospital recovering. Everything went well, and she is doing fine. I'm not sure how I'm doing. Tired, I guess. Stressed.
I'm empty of things to say, but full of the desire to say something. The story of my life.
I'm so tired. Why won't sleep come?
It's been a long couple of days. My mother had surgery on Tuesday, and is still in the hospital recovering. Everything went well, and she is doing fine. I'm not sure how I'm doing. Tired, I guess. Stressed.
I'm empty of things to say, but full of the desire to say something. The story of my life.
I'm so tired. Why won't sleep come?
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Three More Weeks...
Well, the countdown is upon me. Only three more weeks until I hop on a plane to Kentucky, to do the first 10 days of my first semester in a graduate writing program.
I'm a little nervous for lots of reasons, not least of which is the fact that I apparently cannot pronounce the name of the city where I'll be staying—Louisville—correctly. I didn't even know I was saying it wrong, until I randomly met a sweet Southern lady at a friend's parents' going-away party, who kindly informed me that it isn't pronounced "Lou-ee-ville" as I thought but "Loovle" or something like that. (If I can't even WRITE it, how am I supposed to say it?! Gah.) Anyway, I dutifully repeated the word "Louisville" after her a few times, doing my best to train my barbaric say-all-the-syllables West Coast accent into something that sounded like I was swallowing my tongue. The sweet Southern lady finally said that I got it, but I think she was just being, well, sweet.
Aside from not speaking Southern, I am excited about all the attractions and activities that Louisville offers to the tourist. Not that I am going to have time for touristing, but anyplace that puts The American Printing House for the Blind at the top of their sightseeing page gets an appreciative round of applause from me. (Also the coveted Frogg Award for Excellence in Irony.)
This is going to be fun.
I'm a little nervous for lots of reasons, not least of which is the fact that I apparently cannot pronounce the name of the city where I'll be staying—Louisville—correctly. I didn't even know I was saying it wrong, until I randomly met a sweet Southern lady at a friend's parents' going-away party, who kindly informed me that it isn't pronounced "Lou-ee-ville" as I thought but "Loovle" or something like that. (If I can't even WRITE it, how am I supposed to say it?! Gah.) Anyway, I dutifully repeated the word "Louisville" after her a few times, doing my best to train my barbaric say-all-the-syllables West Coast accent into something that sounded like I was swallowing my tongue. The sweet Southern lady finally said that I got it, but I think she was just being, well, sweet.
Aside from not speaking Southern, I am excited about all the attractions and activities that Louisville offers to the tourist. Not that I am going to have time for touristing, but anyplace that puts The American Printing House for the Blind at the top of their sightseeing page gets an appreciative round of applause from me. (Also the coveted Frogg Award for Excellence in Irony.)
This is going to be fun.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
I Left My Heart In San Franisco!!!
If by "heart," you mean "favorite jeans EVER" and if by "San Francisco," you mean "the outer limits of the East Bay."
I cannot adequately describe my severe trauma upon unpacking my bags from the weekend trip and NOT seeing my favorite pair of jeans. Apparently I left them on the floor at becca's house. I have no idea what I am going to wear until I get them back. Oh. My. Gosh. WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR?!?!
My "skinny" jeans, I guess. Thank God I still have those. Whatever would I do without them.
Besides breathe, that is.
I am so depressed.
I cannot adequately describe my severe trauma upon unpacking my bags from the weekend trip and NOT seeing my favorite pair of jeans. Apparently I left them on the floor at becca's house. I have no idea what I am going to wear until I get them back. Oh. My. Gosh. WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR?!?!
My "skinny" jeans, I guess. Thank God I still have those. Whatever would I do without them.
Besides breathe, that is.
I am so depressed.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Wine Tasting Tips(y)
So on Saturday, I went wine tasting with friends in lovely Sonoma, CA. In addition to spending too much on wine (I bought a pinot and a zin from Gundlach-Bundschu, and a very refreshing moscato from Ravenswood), I also learned a valuable lesson, which can be summarized most succinctly as follows:
Don't go wine tasting on an empty stomach.
Er, not that I'm saying I learned that by personal experience or anything. Because of course I wouldn't do anything so silly.
Ahem.
Let's talk about something else now, shall we?
Such as the weather. Getting cold, isn't it? The high today in SoCal was only 75 degrees F! Brrr. Sweater season has arrived in the Golden State...
Don't go wine tasting on an empty stomach.
Er, not that I'm saying I learned that by personal experience or anything. Because of course I wouldn't do anything so silly.
Ahem.
Let's talk about something else now, shall we?
Such as the weather. Getting cold, isn't it? The high today in SoCal was only 75 degrees F! Brrr. Sweater season has arrived in the Golden State...
Friday, October 13, 2006
Fleeing The Scene
Sometimes, I think I go to the Bay Area specifically to experience the drive. Don't get me wrong; I love arriving and being there, of course, but I find myself oddly looking forward to the six hours I have all to myself in the car, between Los Angeles and San Francisco. Six hours of a long, flat (except for the Grapevine) and straight road that keeps heading into a far horizon, between groves of citrus trees, cotton fields, and emptiness. Six hours to think, to sing along with whatever music I'm playing, to pray, to daydream, to think some more.
I'll be taking that drive today, because I feel desperately the need to get out of town. It's been a very tiring week and I'm, well, tired. But not too tired to hit the road... speaking of which, I need to pack so I can get going!
While I'm away, be good, play nice, and enjoy your weekend. Do something fun! Read a book, or part of one. Watch a movie. Eat pizza. Try to survive the Apocalypse, if it happens.
And as always when I leave — miss me, my darlings!
Kisses from the frogg princess...
I'll be taking that drive today, because I feel desperately the need to get out of town. It's been a very tiring week and I'm, well, tired. But not too tired to hit the road... speaking of which, I need to pack so I can get going!
While I'm away, be good, play nice, and enjoy your weekend. Do something fun! Read a book, or part of one. Watch a movie. Eat pizza. Try to survive the Apocalypse, if it happens.
And as always when I leave — miss me, my darlings!
Kisses from the frogg princess...
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Swamped
Been a crazy couple of days in agency land, big red project folders flying everywhere.
I am not sure why we have our projects in red folders. I suppose to draw attention to them, so we don't forget to work on the projects they contain, but their sheer size should ensure our rememberance--I mean, they're like 2' x 3'. Kind of hard to miss, I'd say.
Frankly, I hate the red folders, because they're so alarming. Around 1 pm, the traffic manager (who monitors where and at what stage all the jobs are as they go through the agency process) came over and dropped off not one, but FOUR of these giant red folders on my desk. That was in addition to the three she had put there just moments before. I immediately felt my heart rate increase in stressed response.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but these are all rather hot." (She's British, as you can tell from the "rather.")
Well, of course they are hot. They are in red folders! How could they be anything other than a rushing, life-and-death emergency? I could probably count the number of times a project landed on my desk that wasn't due the exact same day on one red-ink stained hand.
Deadlines will be deadlines regardless of chromatic affiliations, but if anyone had asked me (and as usual, no one did), I would have chosen a different color for these stress-inducing folders in the interests of, well, reducing at least some of that stress. Like, say, the color yellow. It's hard to be angry and irritable in the face of such a cheery hue. Unless, of course, you get mad because it has no business being cheery when you are so stressed.
Ok, so maybe not yellow. Blue? No, that would be too cold. You wouldn't want to touch it for fear of the arctic chills. Orange? Eew.
Maybe green. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I think it would be the ideal color. Not hot, not cold, not ugly. Just a pleasant shade that reminds one that there is green grass somewhere beyond the cubicle walls, and outside the building where the sun (one hopes) still shines.
On second thought, green is depressing. Boo.
I am not sure why we have our projects in red folders. I suppose to draw attention to them, so we don't forget to work on the projects they contain, but their sheer size should ensure our rememberance--I mean, they're like 2' x 3'. Kind of hard to miss, I'd say.
Frankly, I hate the red folders, because they're so alarming. Around 1 pm, the traffic manager (who monitors where and at what stage all the jobs are as they go through the agency process) came over and dropped off not one, but FOUR of these giant red folders on my desk. That was in addition to the three she had put there just moments before. I immediately felt my heart rate increase in stressed response.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but these are all rather hot." (She's British, as you can tell from the "rather.")
Well, of course they are hot. They are in red folders! How could they be anything other than a rushing, life-and-death emergency? I could probably count the number of times a project landed on my desk that wasn't due the exact same day on one red-ink stained hand.
Deadlines will be deadlines regardless of chromatic affiliations, but if anyone had asked me (and as usual, no one did), I would have chosen a different color for these stress-inducing folders in the interests of, well, reducing at least some of that stress. Like, say, the color yellow. It's hard to be angry and irritable in the face of such a cheery hue. Unless, of course, you get mad because it has no business being cheery when you are so stressed.
Ok, so maybe not yellow. Blue? No, that would be too cold. You wouldn't want to touch it for fear of the arctic chills. Orange? Eew.
Maybe green. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I think it would be the ideal color. Not hot, not cold, not ugly. Just a pleasant shade that reminds one that there is green grass somewhere beyond the cubicle walls, and outside the building where the sun (one hopes) still shines.
On second thought, green is depressing. Boo.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Adventures in Proofreading
Some may think that proofreading (my profession du jour) is boring. I say it's an adventure. You just never know what you might find.
In the interests of not getting fired, I will refrain from posting some of the more intriguing errors, typos, innuendos, and awkward grammatical constructions I've found in client material as it goes the rounds in our agency. But don't worry — I find mistakes all over the place, not just at work, and sometimes it can be quite entertaining.
As in this sentence, culled from the Pittsburgh Tribune Review (via Critical Mass):
"DeYoung, a prize-winning Washington Post reporter, is the kind of biographer every pubic figure hopes for, or ought to: judicious, thorough, unstinting." (emphasis mine)
Classic. Gotta love the typos that don't get caught by spell check because they happen to be reel words.
In the interests of not getting fired, I will refrain from posting some of the more intriguing errors, typos, innuendos, and awkward grammatical constructions I've found in client material as it goes the rounds in our agency. But don't worry — I find mistakes all over the place, not just at work, and sometimes it can be quite entertaining.
As in this sentence, culled from the Pittsburgh Tribune Review (via Critical Mass):
"DeYoung, a prize-winning Washington Post reporter, is the kind of biographer every pubic figure hopes for, or ought to: judicious, thorough, unstinting." (emphasis mine)
Classic. Gotta love the typos that don't get caught by spell check because they happen to be reel words.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
A Memory
My favorite earrings were given to me by a girl I met at a university in Ramallah, two years ago.
She had a pale face, dark hair, and very light blue eyes. When S-- saw her, she wanted to photograph her. The girl seemed hesitant at first, wary, but she said ok. S-- asked the girl if she wanted the boy she was sitting next to in the picture as well, but the girl shook her head emphatically and drew away from him.
(We did see co-ed groupings sitting together and talking on the campus, but it was much more common to see girls with girls and men with men. Apart from the tendency toward gender segregation, I was startled to realize that I felt as if I were walking around any university campus back home. The atmosphere of eager learning and potential was the same.)
I think the girl's name was Fatima. I made the mistake of telling her I liked her earrings, which are long and dangly and have old Palestinian coins on them, at which she immediately reached up and began to take them out of her ears.
"Here," she said.
"Oh no," I protested. "I can't take them."
"You like them?" she asked.
"Yes, but I don't want to take them from you."
"It's ok, I can get more any time," she said, holding them out to me.
I still tried to refuse, but the virtues of giving and hospitality are so important to Middle Eastern culture, and I began to worry I would hurt her feelings or dishonor her if I did not take the earrings. Also, in truth, I wanted them. So in the end I allowed her to put them in my hands.
"I have nothing to give you in return," I said, uncomfortably aware of the weight of a necklace at my throat, which in fact was something. But my cousin in Egypt had given it to me, and I felt wrong about giving away another's gift. Also, in truth, I wanted to keep it. So I did.
"It's ok," she said. "That would not be proper anyway."
She gave me her cell phone number in case I had any free time to meet with her later. As it turned out, we left Ramallah that afternoon, and in our short time remaining in Israel, did not go back. So I never saw her again, and probably never will.
But I think of her whenever I wear her earrings.
Now I wish I had given her the necklace. It broke before I even returned home, which was only a couple weeks after I met her. I still have the necklace, somewhere, but I cannot wear it.
She had a pale face, dark hair, and very light blue eyes. When S-- saw her, she wanted to photograph her. The girl seemed hesitant at first, wary, but she said ok. S-- asked the girl if she wanted the boy she was sitting next to in the picture as well, but the girl shook her head emphatically and drew away from him.
(We did see co-ed groupings sitting together and talking on the campus, but it was much more common to see girls with girls and men with men. Apart from the tendency toward gender segregation, I was startled to realize that I felt as if I were walking around any university campus back home. The atmosphere of eager learning and potential was the same.)
I think the girl's name was Fatima. I made the mistake of telling her I liked her earrings, which are long and dangly and have old Palestinian coins on them, at which she immediately reached up and began to take them out of her ears.
"Here," she said.
"Oh no," I protested. "I can't take them."
"You like them?" she asked.
"Yes, but I don't want to take them from you."
"It's ok, I can get more any time," she said, holding them out to me.
I still tried to refuse, but the virtues of giving and hospitality are so important to Middle Eastern culture, and I began to worry I would hurt her feelings or dishonor her if I did not take the earrings. Also, in truth, I wanted them. So in the end I allowed her to put them in my hands.
"I have nothing to give you in return," I said, uncomfortably aware of the weight of a necklace at my throat, which in fact was something. But my cousin in Egypt had given it to me, and I felt wrong about giving away another's gift. Also, in truth, I wanted to keep it. So I did.
"It's ok," she said. "That would not be proper anyway."
She gave me her cell phone number in case I had any free time to meet with her later. As it turned out, we left Ramallah that afternoon, and in our short time remaining in Israel, did not go back. So I never saw her again, and probably never will.
But I think of her whenever I wear her earrings.
Now I wish I had given her the necklace. It broke before I even returned home, which was only a couple weeks after I met her. I still have the necklace, somewhere, but I cannot wear it.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Conversation With Steve: The Pot Luck
So yesterday the redoubtable Steve and I were chatting about his upcoming talk to a group of high school students from his church, and, as tends to happen in our conversations, we went off on a tangent. In this case, the tangent was: pot luck food.
The pot luck has a long and inspiring history, which is far too fascinating to go into here, but read on and you just might learn a thing or two about this unique culinary phenomenon. And when you're done, please post your comments voting for your favorite pot luck food or sharing any fun pot luck stories! I always love to hear from you.
A votre sante!
Conversation with Steve: The Pot Luck
5:25:34 PM steve: well i can wrap [my high school talk] up with- "So where does that leave us?"
5:25:42 PM steve: and then emphasize community
5:26:03 PM steve: finish it
5:26:04 PM steve: pray
5:26:08 PM steve: and go eat cookies
5:26:17 PM grackyfrogg: the main goal of any christian get-together
5:26:24 PM grackyfrogg: survive till cookie time
5:26:28 PM steve: i love circus cookies
5:26:36 PM steve: and for some reason they are at EVERY christian event
5:26:46 PM grackyfrogg: i dont think it would be christian otherwise
5:27:00 PM grackyfrogg: or do you mean specifically that circus cookies are at every event?
5:27:05 PM steve: ive eaten whole meals of circus cookies
5:27:22 PM grackyfrogg: lol
5:27:57 PM grackyfrogg: i should write a blog about how being a christian makes you fat
5:28:03 PM steve: i KNOW
5:28:08 PM steve: single even more
5:28:21 PM steve: well fat and/or unhealthy
5:28:51 PM steve: its hard to be in shape or try to eat healthy being a single christian
5:29:00 PM steve: pot lucks are the worst
5:29:02 PM steve: i hate those
5:29:10 PM steve: im anti potluck
5:29:31 PM steve: "there no luck in that pot!"
5:30:39 PM grackyfrogg: you shouldn't talk, though
5:30:45 PM grackyfrogg: you have NEVER been overweight in your LIFE
5:31:18 PM steve: but trying to eat healthy is hard
5:31:27 PM grackyfrogg: thats true
5:31:35 PM steve: and i need to because i have high cholestorol
5:31:38 PM grackyfrogg: right
5:31:43 PM steve: which is worst than being fat really
5:31:46 PM grackyfrogg: its funny the stuff that people bring to pot lucks
5:31:53 PM grackyfrogg: like that weird ambrosia stuff
5:31:56 PM grackyfrogg: what IS that?
5:31:59 PM steve: lol, i like that!
5:32:08 PM grackyfrogg: goopy marshmallows and random bits of unidentified fruit?!
5:32:22 PM grackyfrogg: gross
5:32:23 PM steve: yeah!!!! it rules!!! the savior of the potluck in my opinion
5:32:28 PM grackyfrogg: ewww no
5:32:36 PM grackyfrogg: its like vomit
5:32:42 PM grackyfrogg: i mean, look at it
5:32:48 PM steve: hmmm maybe that explains why i like it
5:33:00 PM grackyfrogg: hmmm, maybe you're right!
5:33:19 PM steve: and then there are those potlucks where 35 people bring Doritos
5:33:23 PM grackyfrogg: LOL
5:33:30 PM grackyfrogg: at least doritos come in different flavors
5:33:32 PM grackyfrogg: that helps
5:33:40 PM grackyfrogg: although... probably not 35 different flavors
5:33:46 PM grackyfrogg: what are some other weird pot luck foods?
5:34:02 PM grackyfrogg: casserole always makes an appearance in some shape or form
5:34:19 PM steve: lasagne
5:34:19 PM grackyfrogg: some sort of macaroni dish, with meat mixed in and some kind of sauce baked over it
5:34:22 PM grackyfrogg: LOL
5:34:34 PM grackyfrogg: thats funny
5:34:46 PM grackyfrogg: i wasnt thinking of lasagna, but i described it! i realized that after i read what you said
5:34:58 PM steve: but see its just not good because you put like 22 different things on your plate
5:35:08 PM grackyfrogg: yeah, you never have enough plate
5:35:12 PM steve: thats not normal
5:35:13 PM grackyfrogg: and then there's dessert
5:35:17 PM steve: and then things start to mix together
5:35:18 PM grackyfrogg: dessert is the savior of the pot luck, for me
5:35:20 PM steve: on your plate
5:35:24 PM grackyfrogg: yeah i hate that
5:35:33 PM grackyfrogg: especially if there werent separate plates for the dessert
5:35:37 PM steve: the lasagne and ambrosia MIX!
5:35:41 PM grackyfrogg: *gag*
5:35:48 PM grackyfrogg: thats the apocalypse, right there
5:35:52 PM grackyfrogg: it should NEVER happen
5:35:58 PM grackyfrogg: when it does, the world will end
5:36:18 PM steve: maybe thats the secret formula for a nuclear bomb?!?!?
5:36:25 PM grackyfrogg: LOL
5:36:37 PM grackyfrogg: yeah, the deep dark secret... the nuclear bomb was invented at a church picnic
5:36:51 PM steve: there it is! the title for your blog entry
5:37:43 PM steve: i suck at bringing good potluck food
5:37:50 PM grackyfrogg: what do you usually bring?
5:37:50 PM steve: im "dessert" guy
5:37:55 PM grackyfrogg: yeah, good call
5:38:30 PM steve: i go to safeway and bring the typical "Gross cookies in a plastic carrier"
5:38:42 PM grackyfrogg: LOL
5:38:43 PM steve: or a safeway "pie"
5:38:51 PM grackyfrogg: you mean the cookies with giant fake m&ms
5:39:00 PM steve: yeah! that would be them
5:39:21 PM steve: or if you time it right you can get some sort of holiday theme like hearts for valentines or pumpkins
5:39:29 PM grackyfrogg: what is the deal with the fake m&ms tasting so different from real m&ms?
5:39:40 PM grackyfrogg: i mean, how many different ways are there to have chocolate surrounded by a candy shell???
5:39:54 PM grackyfrogg: but they DO taste different
5:39:57 PM grackyfrogg: the fake ones taste icky
5:39:58 PM steve: one costs .000002 cents and the other .000001 cent
5:40:03 PM grackyfrogg: lol
5:40:22 PM grackyfrogg: i'm trying to think of what i've brought to pot lucks
5:40:25 PM grackyfrogg: i think i usually don't
5:40:45 PM steve: there is ONE item that, according to mark, is universally loved
5:40:46 PM grackyfrogg: either i don't go, or i don't bring anything
5:40:49 PM steve: can you guess?
5:40:49 PM grackyfrogg: hmmm
5:40:51 PM grackyfrogg: let me think
5:40:53 PM grackyfrogg: is it a drink?
5:40:56 PM steve: no
5:40:59 PM grackyfrogg: dessert?
5:41:01 PM steve: dinner food
5:41:10 PM grackyfrogg: spinach dip in the bread bowl
5:41:13 PM steve: LOL
5:41:16 PM steve: thats a good one
5:41:18 PM grackyfrogg: you KNOW thats good
5:41:18 PM steve: but no
5:41:20 PM grackyfrogg: oh
5:41:24 PM grackyfrogg: ok, second guess
5:41:33 PM steve: thats always there though, the bread bowl thing
5:41:37 PM grackyfrogg: kentucky fried chicken
5:41:43 PM steve: YYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
5:41:45 PM grackyfrogg: HA!
5:41:50 PM grackyfrogg: yes!!!
5:41:54 PM steve: good job
5:42:02 PM grackyfrogg: its annoying when people bring that though
5:42:08 PM grackyfrogg: because there is NEVER enough to go around
5:42:09 PM steve: you cant go wrong with that one
5:42:13 PM grackyfrogg: so you have to fight for your position in line
5:42:24 PM grackyfrogg: and there is never white meat, because the white meat is more expensive
5:42:28 PM grackyfrogg: i HATE it when they bring KFC!!!
5:42:38 PM steve: its "potluck in a tub"
5:42:57 PM grackyfrogg: its "get an elbow in your eye as you jockey for first in line" in a tub
5:43:12 PM steve: lol
5:43:27 PM grackyfrogg: i think i grew up with the pack mentality when it came to food
5:43:34 PM grackyfrogg: i still have trouble not being near the front of the line
5:43:39 PM grackyfrogg: like the food is going to disappear if i wait
5:43:42 PM steve: jeez thats not noticeable
5:43:45 PM grackyfrogg: comes of being in a family of 6
5:43:46 PM grackyfrogg: oh ha
The pot luck has a long and inspiring history, which is far too fascinating to go into here, but read on and you just might learn a thing or two about this unique culinary phenomenon. And when you're done, please post your comments voting for your favorite pot luck food or sharing any fun pot luck stories! I always love to hear from you.
A votre sante!
Conversation with Steve: The Pot Luck
5:25:34 PM steve: well i can wrap [my high school talk] up with- "So where does that leave us?"
5:25:42 PM steve: and then emphasize community
5:26:03 PM steve: finish it
5:26:04 PM steve: pray
5:26:08 PM steve: and go eat cookies
5:26:17 PM grackyfrogg: the main goal of any christian get-together
5:26:24 PM grackyfrogg: survive till cookie time
5:26:28 PM steve: i love circus cookies
5:26:36 PM steve: and for some reason they are at EVERY christian event
5:26:46 PM grackyfrogg: i dont think it would be christian otherwise
5:27:00 PM grackyfrogg: or do you mean specifically that circus cookies are at every event?
5:27:05 PM steve: ive eaten whole meals of circus cookies
5:27:22 PM grackyfrogg: lol
5:27:57 PM grackyfrogg: i should write a blog about how being a christian makes you fat
5:28:03 PM steve: i KNOW
5:28:08 PM steve: single even more
5:28:21 PM steve: well fat and/or unhealthy
5:28:51 PM steve: its hard to be in shape or try to eat healthy being a single christian
5:29:00 PM steve: pot lucks are the worst
5:29:02 PM steve: i hate those
5:29:10 PM steve: im anti potluck
5:29:31 PM steve: "there no luck in that pot!"
5:30:39 PM grackyfrogg: you shouldn't talk, though
5:30:45 PM grackyfrogg: you have NEVER been overweight in your LIFE
5:31:18 PM steve: but trying to eat healthy is hard
5:31:27 PM grackyfrogg: thats true
5:31:35 PM steve: and i need to because i have high cholestorol
5:31:38 PM grackyfrogg: right
5:31:43 PM steve: which is worst than being fat really
5:31:46 PM grackyfrogg: its funny the stuff that people bring to pot lucks
5:31:53 PM grackyfrogg: like that weird ambrosia stuff
5:31:56 PM grackyfrogg: what IS that?
5:31:59 PM steve: lol, i like that!
5:32:08 PM grackyfrogg: goopy marshmallows and random bits of unidentified fruit?!
5:32:22 PM grackyfrogg: gross
5:32:23 PM steve: yeah!!!! it rules!!! the savior of the potluck in my opinion
5:32:28 PM grackyfrogg: ewww no
5:32:36 PM grackyfrogg: its like vomit
5:32:42 PM grackyfrogg: i mean, look at it
5:32:48 PM steve: hmmm maybe that explains why i like it
5:33:00 PM grackyfrogg: hmmm, maybe you're right!
5:33:19 PM steve: and then there are those potlucks where 35 people bring Doritos
5:33:23 PM grackyfrogg: LOL
5:33:30 PM grackyfrogg: at least doritos come in different flavors
5:33:32 PM grackyfrogg: that helps
5:33:40 PM grackyfrogg: although... probably not 35 different flavors
5:33:46 PM grackyfrogg: what are some other weird pot luck foods?
5:34:02 PM grackyfrogg: casserole always makes an appearance in some shape or form
5:34:19 PM steve: lasagne
5:34:19 PM grackyfrogg: some sort of macaroni dish, with meat mixed in and some kind of sauce baked over it
5:34:22 PM grackyfrogg: LOL
5:34:34 PM grackyfrogg: thats funny
5:34:46 PM grackyfrogg: i wasnt thinking of lasagna, but i described it! i realized that after i read what you said
5:34:58 PM steve: but see its just not good because you put like 22 different things on your plate
5:35:08 PM grackyfrogg: yeah, you never have enough plate
5:35:12 PM steve: thats not normal
5:35:13 PM grackyfrogg: and then there's dessert
5:35:17 PM steve: and then things start to mix together
5:35:18 PM grackyfrogg: dessert is the savior of the pot luck, for me
5:35:20 PM steve: on your plate
5:35:24 PM grackyfrogg: yeah i hate that
5:35:33 PM grackyfrogg: especially if there werent separate plates for the dessert
5:35:37 PM steve: the lasagne and ambrosia MIX!
5:35:41 PM grackyfrogg: *gag*
5:35:48 PM grackyfrogg: thats the apocalypse, right there
5:35:52 PM grackyfrogg: it should NEVER happen
5:35:58 PM grackyfrogg: when it does, the world will end
5:36:18 PM steve: maybe thats the secret formula for a nuclear bomb?!?!?
5:36:25 PM grackyfrogg: LOL
5:36:37 PM grackyfrogg: yeah, the deep dark secret... the nuclear bomb was invented at a church picnic
5:36:51 PM steve: there it is! the title for your blog entry
5:37:43 PM steve: i suck at bringing good potluck food
5:37:50 PM grackyfrogg: what do you usually bring?
5:37:50 PM steve: im "dessert" guy
5:37:55 PM grackyfrogg: yeah, good call
5:38:30 PM steve: i go to safeway and bring the typical "Gross cookies in a plastic carrier"
5:38:42 PM grackyfrogg: LOL
5:38:43 PM steve: or a safeway "pie"
5:38:51 PM grackyfrogg: you mean the cookies with giant fake m&ms
5:39:00 PM steve: yeah! that would be them
5:39:21 PM steve: or if you time it right you can get some sort of holiday theme like hearts for valentines or pumpkins
5:39:29 PM grackyfrogg: what is the deal with the fake m&ms tasting so different from real m&ms?
5:39:40 PM grackyfrogg: i mean, how many different ways are there to have chocolate surrounded by a candy shell???
5:39:54 PM grackyfrogg: but they DO taste different
5:39:57 PM grackyfrogg: the fake ones taste icky
5:39:58 PM steve: one costs .000002 cents and the other .000001 cent
5:40:03 PM grackyfrogg: lol
5:40:22 PM grackyfrogg: i'm trying to think of what i've brought to pot lucks
5:40:25 PM grackyfrogg: i think i usually don't
5:40:45 PM steve: there is ONE item that, according to mark, is universally loved
5:40:46 PM grackyfrogg: either i don't go, or i don't bring anything
5:40:49 PM steve: can you guess?
5:40:49 PM grackyfrogg: hmmm
5:40:51 PM grackyfrogg: let me think
5:40:53 PM grackyfrogg: is it a drink?
5:40:56 PM steve: no
5:40:59 PM grackyfrogg: dessert?
5:41:01 PM steve: dinner food
5:41:10 PM grackyfrogg: spinach dip in the bread bowl
5:41:13 PM steve: LOL
5:41:16 PM steve: thats a good one
5:41:18 PM grackyfrogg: you KNOW thats good
5:41:18 PM steve: but no
5:41:20 PM grackyfrogg: oh
5:41:24 PM grackyfrogg: ok, second guess
5:41:33 PM steve: thats always there though, the bread bowl thing
5:41:37 PM grackyfrogg: kentucky fried chicken
5:41:43 PM steve: YYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
5:41:45 PM grackyfrogg: HA!
5:41:50 PM grackyfrogg: yes!!!
5:41:54 PM steve: good job
5:42:02 PM grackyfrogg: its annoying when people bring that though
5:42:08 PM grackyfrogg: because there is NEVER enough to go around
5:42:09 PM steve: you cant go wrong with that one
5:42:13 PM grackyfrogg: so you have to fight for your position in line
5:42:24 PM grackyfrogg: and there is never white meat, because the white meat is more expensive
5:42:28 PM grackyfrogg: i HATE it when they bring KFC!!!
5:42:38 PM steve: its "potluck in a tub"
5:42:57 PM grackyfrogg: its "get an elbow in your eye as you jockey for first in line" in a tub
5:43:12 PM steve: lol
5:43:27 PM grackyfrogg: i think i grew up with the pack mentality when it came to food
5:43:34 PM grackyfrogg: i still have trouble not being near the front of the line
5:43:39 PM grackyfrogg: like the food is going to disappear if i wait
5:43:42 PM steve: jeez thats not noticeable
5:43:45 PM grackyfrogg: comes of being in a family of 6
5:43:46 PM grackyfrogg: oh ha
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Untitled
In just a few more days, the frogg files will be two whole years old.
Who would've thought?
I'm trying to remember where I was at just this time two years ago, September 30, 2004. I believe I was in Egypt, my last night there after a three-week sojourn in the Middle East. I believe I was at a restaurant with my friends, having a last "Egyptian" meal before we all went our separate ways, back to our own countries. I believe I was wishing we'd opted to go to someplace like Chili's instead, because oh Lord, I was so sick of pita bread by that time, and nearly choked on every bite.
I believe I was a little broken-hearted.
Sometimes, I will get these odd flash-backs to places I've traveled. I'll be walking along the street and suddenly I will smell a certain aroma, like washing detergent, and I'll see myself walking along a broken sidewalk down to the outdoor laundromat we went to in Bangkok, when we finally got sick of washing our clothes by hand. Sometimes, I will crawl into bed, and for a fleeting moment my mind will be filled with a flashing stretch of sea alongside a black, rugged beach on Auckland's west coast. Sometimes, I will have a sudden vision of the crowded streets of Cairo, and a woman I passed by, who was sitting against a wall near Old Cairo's markets, with a tear running down her cheek.
Sometimes, I'll think of the morning when I caught the sunrise as it glinted off the golden Dome of the Rock behind the walls of Old Jerusalem.
It's not just that I've left pieces of my heart in all these places. I think they left pieces of themselves in me, too.
Who would've thought?
I'm trying to remember where I was at just this time two years ago, September 30, 2004. I believe I was in Egypt, my last night there after a three-week sojourn in the Middle East. I believe I was at a restaurant with my friends, having a last "Egyptian" meal before we all went our separate ways, back to our own countries. I believe I was wishing we'd opted to go to someplace like Chili's instead, because oh Lord, I was so sick of pita bread by that time, and nearly choked on every bite.
I believe I was a little broken-hearted.
Sometimes, I will get these odd flash-backs to places I've traveled. I'll be walking along the street and suddenly I will smell a certain aroma, like washing detergent, and I'll see myself walking along a broken sidewalk down to the outdoor laundromat we went to in Bangkok, when we finally got sick of washing our clothes by hand. Sometimes, I will crawl into bed, and for a fleeting moment my mind will be filled with a flashing stretch of sea alongside a black, rugged beach on Auckland's west coast. Sometimes, I will have a sudden vision of the crowded streets of Cairo, and a woman I passed by, who was sitting against a wall near Old Cairo's markets, with a tear running down her cheek.
Sometimes, I'll think of the morning when I caught the sunrise as it glinted off the golden Dome of the Rock behind the walls of Old Jerusalem.
It's not just that I've left pieces of my heart in all these places. I think they left pieces of themselves in me, too.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Battle of the Sexes: Who Writes Better Romance?
An interesting article in the Telegraph, (courtesy of Arts & Letters Daily), all about who is better at writing romantic literature: women or men?
The argument was apparently sparked by BBC television personality Daisy Goodwin saying that men "...don't figure very largely as writers in the romantic fiction pantheon", as she puts it on her website. She continues:
Am I wrong? I'm thinking of Jane Eyre and Rochester, Cathy and Heathcliff and so on, as well as the broader field of popular romantic fiction. Of course there are many men writing amazing love poetry, but I can't think of many male prose writers whose work I would term "romance".
I considered the question for myself after reading both sides of the argument presented in the Telegraph piece--which, not too creatively, were put forward by a man, Ray Connolly, defending men and a woman, Liz Hunt, defending women. (I would have been intrigued to see the opposite, or perhaps better yet, one of each gender on each side. But, as usual, no one asked me. Sigh...)
As far as I could see, Hunt's argument boiled down to the simple fact that women make romance the center of the story, whereas for men, the larger story carries an equal, if not greater, level of importance. Specifically, she writes:
...too often male writers get caught up in the story – "Events, dear boy, events" – whereas women writers better understand that they must keep the romance central, that it drives a narrative better and faster than any other device. For women, it is the ultimate reason to turn a page.
I don't know if it's just a native contrariness that makes my hackles rise at that last sentence, but as soon as I read it, I began thinking of other books that I deemed "page-turners" and how few of them were necessarily because I wanted to know the outcome of a romantic relationship. Today, for instance, I couldn't stop reading The House of Sand and Fog, and believe me, the "romance" in that book was, well, questionable. What drove me to keep reading was the escalating tension, the very separate worlds of the groups of characters moving inexorably toward each other until they collided with fatal force.
In my mind, the reason to turn the page hinges on the nature of the conflict presented in the story. That conflict, if the book is a romance, will necessarily involve the two people caught up in their love for each other, but the story will necessarily be bigger than the two of them. Otherwise, one may just as well pick up the Harlequin, right?
Hunt further damaged her case with this incriminating paragraph:
The Da Vinci Code, though thinly written (by a man), was attention-grabbing enough with its mutilated curator and self-flagellating albino monk, but I persevered with it because – I'm ashamed to admit – I was curious to find out what would happen between the hero Robert Langdon and his sidekick Sophie Neveu.
Is she kidding? That was absolutely the LAST reason I persevered with that book. Why? Because there was so clearly NO romantic chemistry between those characters anywhere in the pages. There were about as many sparks flying between Langdon and Sophie as there are on a dud firecracker. Give me a break.
In this case, I have to side with the man, Ray Connolly. Mostly because I just can't swallow the sort of wild generalization that Goodwin (and Hunt, by defending her) embraces. Connolly is right to point out that Goodwin "really is talking through a prism of prejudice and stereotype." He concludes:
It seems to me that we're all romantics, and the idea that one sex is simply emotionally incapable of understanding the way the other thinks is to deny everything men and women share – and, worryingly from a creative point of view, to deny all authors the possibility of understanding anyone of the opposite sex. And I can't believe that.
I agree. Who cares if romance isn't at the center of a story, or if it is? What makes "romantic" literature romantic is far more than the question of "is the boy going to get the girl" or vice versa. Romantic literature is about love and loss and possibility and missed opportunities and sometimes, the world and its circumstances are a participant in the story of necessity, because history and its events conspire against love and possibility in all sorts of ways, when they are not being complicit in it. A good writer of romance, man or woman, will understand this and write accordingly.
And a bad writer of romance will take refuge in the smoky pools of a rich, devastatingly beautiful Contessa's eyes, tucked away between Fabio-laden covers.
The argument was apparently sparked by BBC television personality Daisy Goodwin saying that men "...don't figure very largely as writers in the romantic fiction pantheon", as she puts it on her website. She continues:
Am I wrong? I'm thinking of Jane Eyre and Rochester, Cathy and Heathcliff and so on, as well as the broader field of popular romantic fiction. Of course there are many men writing amazing love poetry, but I can't think of many male prose writers whose work I would term "romance".
I considered the question for myself after reading both sides of the argument presented in the Telegraph piece--which, not too creatively, were put forward by a man, Ray Connolly, defending men and a woman, Liz Hunt, defending women. (I would have been intrigued to see the opposite, or perhaps better yet, one of each gender on each side. But, as usual, no one asked me. Sigh...)
As far as I could see, Hunt's argument boiled down to the simple fact that women make romance the center of the story, whereas for men, the larger story carries an equal, if not greater, level of importance. Specifically, she writes:
...too often male writers get caught up in the story – "Events, dear boy, events" – whereas women writers better understand that they must keep the romance central, that it drives a narrative better and faster than any other device. For women, it is the ultimate reason to turn a page.
I don't know if it's just a native contrariness that makes my hackles rise at that last sentence, but as soon as I read it, I began thinking of other books that I deemed "page-turners" and how few of them were necessarily because I wanted to know the outcome of a romantic relationship. Today, for instance, I couldn't stop reading The House of Sand and Fog, and believe me, the "romance" in that book was, well, questionable. What drove me to keep reading was the escalating tension, the very separate worlds of the groups of characters moving inexorably toward each other until they collided with fatal force.
In my mind, the reason to turn the page hinges on the nature of the conflict presented in the story. That conflict, if the book is a romance, will necessarily involve the two people caught up in their love for each other, but the story will necessarily be bigger than the two of them. Otherwise, one may just as well pick up the Harlequin, right?
Hunt further damaged her case with this incriminating paragraph:
The Da Vinci Code, though thinly written (by a man), was attention-grabbing enough with its mutilated curator and self-flagellating albino monk, but I persevered with it because – I'm ashamed to admit – I was curious to find out what would happen between the hero Robert Langdon and his sidekick Sophie Neveu.
Is she kidding? That was absolutely the LAST reason I persevered with that book. Why? Because there was so clearly NO romantic chemistry between those characters anywhere in the pages. There were about as many sparks flying between Langdon and Sophie as there are on a dud firecracker. Give me a break.
In this case, I have to side with the man, Ray Connolly. Mostly because I just can't swallow the sort of wild generalization that Goodwin (and Hunt, by defending her) embraces. Connolly is right to point out that Goodwin "really is talking through a prism of prejudice and stereotype." He concludes:
It seems to me that we're all romantics, and the idea that one sex is simply emotionally incapable of understanding the way the other thinks is to deny everything men and women share – and, worryingly from a creative point of view, to deny all authors the possibility of understanding anyone of the opposite sex. And I can't believe that.
I agree. Who cares if romance isn't at the center of a story, or if it is? What makes "romantic" literature romantic is far more than the question of "is the boy going to get the girl" or vice versa. Romantic literature is about love and loss and possibility and missed opportunities and sometimes, the world and its circumstances are a participant in the story of necessity, because history and its events conspire against love and possibility in all sorts of ways, when they are not being complicit in it. A good writer of romance, man or woman, will understand this and write accordingly.
And a bad writer of romance will take refuge in the smoky pools of a rich, devastatingly beautiful Contessa's eyes, tucked away between Fabio-laden covers.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
I Finally Have A Goal In Life
I have a new mission, a new reason for existence.
Someday I want to be on the American Library Association's Banned or Challenged Books List. Because being controversial never goes out of style. In fact, it seems like just about everyone who IS anyone is doing it!
I found out yesterday that this week is Banned Books Week, and in between bouts of work I've been perusing the lists of Banned/Challenged Books over the years. The ALA's Web site defines "challenges" as ...formal, written complaints filed with a library or school requesting that materials be removed because of content or appropriateness.
For those of you wondering what the difference is between a challenge and a banning, the ALA has more helpful information:
A challenge is an attempt to remove or restrict materials, based upon the objections of a person or group. A banning is the removal of those materials. Challenges do not simply involve a person expressing a point of view; rather, they are an attempt to remove material from the curriculum or library, thereby restricting the access of others. The positive message of Banned Books Week: Free People Read Freely is that due to the commitment of librarians, teachers, parents, students and other concerned citizens, most challenges are unsuccessful and most materials are retained in the school curriculum or library collection.
I am intrigued by some of the books mentioned on the ALA's site. Huckleberry Finn is fifth on the list of Top 100 Most Frequently Challenged Books of 1990-1999. I actually don't care for that book much, so even though I'm against censorship, I wouldn't really have cried if it had been taken off of my curriculum, back when I was in school.
(Oh, but wait. If I never read it, how would I know I didn't like it? Hmmm, a quandary.)
Moving on, I note that Madeleine L'Engel's fantastic novel A Wrinkle in Time is only a little further down on the same list as good ol' Huck. Strange, I guess people have a thing about stories where good battles against evil and imaginary characters abound.
Then there's The Giver, by Lois Lowry, which I believe my Aunt B told me was a "great book" when she encouraged me to read it a couple years ago. Sowing the seeds of rebellion as usual, eh, Aunt B?
By the way, To Kill A Mockingbird and Brave New World? Also on the list. Oh, those wacky, rabble-rousing social-commentary authors! Trying to raise our awareness and sense of conscience! Take them away!!
For the 21st Century, apparently we should all steer clear of the "Captain Underpants" series, and I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou.
I know what you are all thinking. There's a series called Captain Underpants?? Shame knows no bounds.
But please, let's not get distracted from the main attraction! Join me in applauding the most frequently challenged book of the still-young 21st century (drum roll please)... The Harry Potter series!
I am probably one of the few people on the planet who still has not read a single one of the Harry Potter books. And it's not because I have an issue with the themes, or the characters, or anything. I just never got interested.
Oh well. I like being anomalous. Especially if I can't be controversial.
Yet.
Someday I want to be on the American Library Association's Banned or Challenged Books List. Because being controversial never goes out of style. In fact, it seems like just about everyone who IS anyone is doing it!
I found out yesterday that this week is Banned Books Week, and in between bouts of work I've been perusing the lists of Banned/Challenged Books over the years. The ALA's Web site defines "challenges" as ...formal, written complaints filed with a library or school requesting that materials be removed because of content or appropriateness.
For those of you wondering what the difference is between a challenge and a banning, the ALA has more helpful information:
A challenge is an attempt to remove or restrict materials, based upon the objections of a person or group. A banning is the removal of those materials. Challenges do not simply involve a person expressing a point of view; rather, they are an attempt to remove material from the curriculum or library, thereby restricting the access of others. The positive message of Banned Books Week: Free People Read Freely is that due to the commitment of librarians, teachers, parents, students and other concerned citizens, most challenges are unsuccessful and most materials are retained in the school curriculum or library collection.
I am intrigued by some of the books mentioned on the ALA's site. Huckleberry Finn is fifth on the list of Top 100 Most Frequently Challenged Books of 1990-1999. I actually don't care for that book much, so even though I'm against censorship, I wouldn't really have cried if it had been taken off of my curriculum, back when I was in school.
(Oh, but wait. If I never read it, how would I know I didn't like it? Hmmm, a quandary.)
Moving on, I note that Madeleine L'Engel's fantastic novel A Wrinkle in Time is only a little further down on the same list as good ol' Huck. Strange, I guess people have a thing about stories where good battles against evil and imaginary characters abound.
Then there's The Giver, by Lois Lowry, which I believe my Aunt B told me was a "great book" when she encouraged me to read it a couple years ago. Sowing the seeds of rebellion as usual, eh, Aunt B?
By the way, To Kill A Mockingbird and Brave New World? Also on the list. Oh, those wacky, rabble-rousing social-commentary authors! Trying to raise our awareness and sense of conscience! Take them away!!
For the 21st Century, apparently we should all steer clear of the "Captain Underpants" series, and I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou.
I know what you are all thinking. There's a series called Captain Underpants?? Shame knows no bounds.
But please, let's not get distracted from the main attraction! Join me in applauding the most frequently challenged book of the still-young 21st century (drum roll please)... The Harry Potter series!
I am probably one of the few people on the planet who still has not read a single one of the Harry Potter books. And it's not because I have an issue with the themes, or the characters, or anything. I just never got interested.
Oh well. I like being anomalous. Especially if I can't be controversial.
Yet.
Monday, September 25, 2006
A Void
A co-worker of mine passed away on Friday night. He was 33 years old.
It all happened so fast. I can hardly believe he's gone. It was only 5-6 weeks ago that he started feeling sick.
He went to the doctor, and they kept him in the hospital. They ran tests, and the next thing I heard, he had started chemo. Advanced lymphoma...
On Monday of last week, they let him go home, and from all accounts that I heard, he was doing well--or at least, the doctors seemed optimistic. But on Wednesday, he was back in the hospital. And on Friday night... he died.
I wouldn't say I was close to him. We joked around and chatted at work every now and then, but that's about it. Still, I'll miss him. And when I get to work later this morning, I'll see the silly little note he scrawled for me one day, and which I taped up in my cubicle: "Proofreaders fight the war on error."
I'll smile, but I'll be a little sad, too.
It all happened so fast. I can hardly believe he's gone. It was only 5-6 weeks ago that he started feeling sick.
He went to the doctor, and they kept him in the hospital. They ran tests, and the next thing I heard, he had started chemo. Advanced lymphoma...
On Monday of last week, they let him go home, and from all accounts that I heard, he was doing well--or at least, the doctors seemed optimistic. But on Wednesday, he was back in the hospital. And on Friday night... he died.
I wouldn't say I was close to him. We joked around and chatted at work every now and then, but that's about it. Still, I'll miss him. And when I get to work later this morning, I'll see the silly little note he scrawled for me one day, and which I taped up in my cubicle: "Proofreaders fight the war on error."
I'll smile, but I'll be a little sad, too.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
I Love The Smell Of Sulfur In The Morning...
So, the Venezuelan president, Mr. Hugo "El Lococito" Chavez, had some choice words for President Bush at the U.N. this week. Calling Bush "the devil," he said that he could still "smell sulfur" at the podium the day after Bush's U.N. address.
Personally, I think maybe Bush just had a few too many beans in his breakfast burrito, or something. The idea that he could be the Angel of Darkness incarnate, masquerading as a long, tall Texan with a speech impediment (elpublico nilcomprenditis, I believe it's called) is tantalizing on so many levels, but I reluctantly admit it's unlikely.
Sigh.
I was actually quite irritated by El Lococito's remarks, because he has forced me into the position of defending a man (Bush) that I don't even like. But for all my criticism of our current administration, I find it appalling and reprehensible that a foreign leader would come to a solemn assembly of the United Nations and viciously insult the host nation's president--our president--in front of the rest of the world.
To call his behavior "unprofessional" is an understatement on a par with calling Vietnam a "skirmish."
Not to mention the utter irony of people like Chavez and, God help us, Ahmaisndgagkhjhasdbgebd, or however you spell the name of Mr. "I Am A Logical, Reasonable Man Who Loves Everyone, So Don't Take It The Wrong Way When I Say 'Death To America!'" Iranian president, calling Bush on the carpet for being a tyrant and a dictator and flouting human rights all over the place.
Is Venezuela or Iran such a beacon of democratic light that they can really pretend to shine the beams of their enlightenment on our woefully benighted society? Please.
But perhaps I am being uncharitable. Maybe these two vitriolic psychos (El Lococito and Mr. Nuclear Love) just need to take a break from all their efforts at inducing the birth pangs of World War III and come chill out on the west coast for a bit. Have a margarita, kick back on the golden beaches, and watch a pretty sunset. Get a new perspective. Maybe they'll even try surfing!
Hopefully without any napalm or valkyries to accompany them...
Personally, I think maybe Bush just had a few too many beans in his breakfast burrito, or something. The idea that he could be the Angel of Darkness incarnate, masquerading as a long, tall Texan with a speech impediment (elpublico nilcomprenditis, I believe it's called) is tantalizing on so many levels, but I reluctantly admit it's unlikely.
Sigh.
I was actually quite irritated by El Lococito's remarks, because he has forced me into the position of defending a man (Bush) that I don't even like. But for all my criticism of our current administration, I find it appalling and reprehensible that a foreign leader would come to a solemn assembly of the United Nations and viciously insult the host nation's president--our president--in front of the rest of the world.
To call his behavior "unprofessional" is an understatement on a par with calling Vietnam a "skirmish."
Not to mention the utter irony of people like Chavez and, God help us, Ahmaisndgagkhjhasdbgebd, or however you spell the name of Mr. "I Am A Logical, Reasonable Man Who Loves Everyone, So Don't Take It The Wrong Way When I Say 'Death To America!'" Iranian president, calling Bush on the carpet for being a tyrant and a dictator and flouting human rights all over the place.
Is Venezuela or Iran such a beacon of democratic light that they can really pretend to shine the beams of their enlightenment on our woefully benighted society? Please.
But perhaps I am being uncharitable. Maybe these two vitriolic psychos (El Lococito and Mr. Nuclear Love) just need to take a break from all their efforts at inducing the birth pangs of World War III and come chill out on the west coast for a bit. Have a margarita, kick back on the golden beaches, and watch a pretty sunset. Get a new perspective. Maybe they'll even try surfing!
Hopefully without any napalm or valkyries to accompany them...
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Arrrrrrrre You Ready...
...for International Talk Like A Pirate Day?
Well, be ye ready or no, 'tis a day that has crept upon ye like a scurvy knave on a black night! Aye, me hearties--today be the day when English grammar be thrown to the four winds of the seven seas!
But if it be lessons ye're needin', on how to speak like a proper miscreant pirate wretch, sail on over to this video and watch Cap'n Slappy and Ol' Chumbucket pontificate on the finer points of pirate language. Such as, the meaning of "Ahoy!" (trans: "Hello!")
Yo ho ho!
Well, be ye ready or no, 'tis a day that has crept upon ye like a scurvy knave on a black night! Aye, me hearties--today be the day when English grammar be thrown to the four winds of the seven seas!
But if it be lessons ye're needin', on how to speak like a proper miscreant pirate wretch, sail on over to this video and watch Cap'n Slappy and Ol' Chumbucket pontificate on the finer points of pirate language. Such as, the meaning of "Ahoy!" (trans: "Hello!")
Yo ho ho!
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