The evil peepers have infiltrated our routine as faux family members. Daily they’re brought food, water, hay and fresh straw. I see them out there, clucking around the yard in what appears to be normal barnyard behavior.
They think they have me fooled.
I know that a chicken’s brain is the size of a pea. This brings me no comfort as that’s one honker of a microchip. Have no idea what their armament capabilities might be. Hidden arsenal of WMD’s suspected.
Military training exercises apparent. Yesterday I watched them ice skate down their ramp from a strategic position. One after another. They did not fly, slip or falter down the icy slope into a confused heap. Oh no, one by one they struck a pose and SKATED. Once they reached the bottom, they laughed (laughed, I say!), fluttered back up into Hell’s Henhouse and repeated the exercise.
Deployment may be imminent.
Using a high-end Codex, I deciphered some of the encrypted cackling in their native tongue:
“Dude! Watch this gnarly tube..”
“Pffft! That ain’t nothin’. Lookit, I can bunny hop the rail!”
“RADICAL! Seriously sick!”
Intentions unknown at this time. Will continue covert op to stockpile weapons and observe enemy movements.
Today as I sat typing, a bird flew by the living room window near my desk. The blinds were closed, so only a shadow was visible.
About the third time it flew past, Fisher, our almost 20 lb. cat, jumped straight up from the floor, hooked the blinds with his claws, scrabbled in mid-air like a cartoon Wile E Coyote on the side of a cliff, and then plunged to the floor–taking broken pieces of the blind with him.
ArraaaAAGHHHHH!
And then…as if that weren’t enough damage, he had the audacity to leap onto my desk and prepare to pounce upon BLIND #2!
I grabbed the cat by whatever appendage was available–probably his tail–and unceremoniously removed him from my desk.
He was not happy.
I pointed to the broken blind. I was not happy. We squared off and agreed to be mad at each other for the rest of the day. So far, he’s kept up his end of the bargain.
Ayup, I’m back. Thanks to everyone for the prayers, hugs and well-wishes. You folks are the best. (((readers)))
On a more pleasant note, I bring you the Great Ugly Sweater Contest of 2008. Last Christmas, my sisters, Mom and I challenged one another to find the ugliest Christmas sweaters in all the land. We had a year to poke through after Christmas specials, sidewalk sales and secondhand shops in our quest. As you can see, we did indeed unearth the fugliest sweaters to be had.
Down front we have sister Skinny Rat, who won second place with her fabulously fugly tinsel-bedecked, Elvis-inspired masterpiece. Extra credit for the nasty vest factor, but she loses a couple of points for decorating the turtleneck rather than just the sweater. Let’s look at that bad boy in slow motion, shall we?
I like this sassy little addition, too, don’t you?
Right on her heels and to the far right we have me wearing far too many Christmas cookie pounds and the nastiest ornamental sweater I could find. You can’t tell in the photo, but they sparkled. The only thing that could have made it uglier would be if they actually lit up.
Next to me we have Mom, with her pink (pink?) Christmas sweater complete with attached boob warmers scarf.
Beside Mom you’ll note sister Mouse (mother of month and 1/2 old Mini-Mouse) sporting her fancy snowman vest. The picture doesn’t begin to do it justice, as all the snowmen had beadwork that didn’t match anything at all. Faces were on their chests, some had 3 eyes, mouthes on their hats–it was a real mess. Bonus points for the turtleneck that was ugly even back in ’74.
And finally we have sister Paulie Precious, who actually won this contest with her purple Barney sweater adorned with WORKING Christmas lights in the button holes.
Ugly enough, I dare say, to warrant yet another photo.
Yes indeedy, sister Paulie won the contest. Girl knows how to work a room.
So tell me…got any fun Christmas traditions in YOUR family?
My aunt passed away late last night. It was a blessing for her–she was suffering and ready to go Home. But it’s hard for the rest of us. I’ll be gone for a bit. Carry on.
You know what? I miss the good old days of beating messages in Morse code on a rock, or painting them on cave walls with smushed up berries. I hold the ‘latest and the greatest’ in complete disdain. You’d think my friends and family would know this by now.
“How come you never answer my text messages?” Because I don’t read them, silly! Most of the texts I get are spam, and the phone truncates the addies so I have to jump through hoops to find who sent what anyway. I hate responding by hunting and pecking letters on minuscule keys and tend to get lost somewhere in the eight THOUSAND menus of features I don’t use…so I have a blanket policy to just delete them all.
Yes, I admit it. The old people Jitterbug phone is made for people like me.
I hate the learning process that comes with new programs and gadgets. It’s like an undesirable puzzle I have no choice but to solve. And as the most technically proficient humanoid in our household (believe it or not–although our 13 year old is catching up), everyone comes to ME for direction. This is not a good thing.
I can put music on my Mp3. I can listen to it, too. How to find a particular song? Not a clue. How to organize it by genre, or delete Dominick the Donkey that my daughter added as a joke? No idea. I push Play and the thing goes. That’s what I know.
Dh was given a Garmin for his birthday. A fine present for any truck driver. He promptly asked me how to work it. Uh, I don’t know. See that manual thingie? Read it. Let me know when you figure out how it works–I might want to borrow it sometime.
And yet.
Somehow I Forrest Gump my way through. Yesterday, I managed to set up a secure network, change our laptop’s AV program and get our daughter’s PSP online. It took about 4 hours and I have absolutely no idea how I did it and couldn’t repeat it on a bet, but I did it!
My computer guru loves me. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the challenge. When I have computer issues, he’ll say, “Well what did you do/try/change?” Ummm…I don’t really know. There was a pop up thingie, and it asked me something, and I clicked Yes. That didn’t work, so I got into the settings and kept trying different boxes and stuff.
There is a strange phenomenon that occurs once every millenium or so. (At least, according to my children.) That strange event is informally known as Mom Gets Sick.
While my nasty sinus-headache-flu-ey thing is nothing to write home about, it does warrant a few temporary changes in our household. Seriously, I’m dragging ass and prefer few demands are made upon me. The more chores I can shuck, the better. And really, our kids are 9 and 13. Is it asking so much for them to pitch in?
Mo-ommmm! The dog wants out. (As I lay there on the couch, hugging a heating pad and honking into a kleenex.)
Then take him.
But I had to take him last time. It’s not my turn!
Sweetie, I don’t feel well. Your sister’s in the bathroom, please take the dog for a walk.
But Mo-ommmm! I’m busy! (She’s sitting in the recliner, working a Rubik’s cube.)
-Dexter the dog crosses his eyes and whines profusely-
Child, (which sounds like ‘Chide’ when one’s doze iss stuvved ub.) I want you to know I say this with love in my heart. But if you don’t take the dog outside right. stinking. now. I’m going to sell you AND your sister. Together. To a militant dog-walking academy that ignores all child labor laws.
Do I really haavvvve to?
Unless you want him to crap in your snow boots, then yes, you do.
Dexter the dog is a wonderful pet, but he has one major flaw. He loves to walk up unannounced and take a big swipe with a wet tongue about four feet long.
Who loves ya, Baby?
Dog spit is not high on my list of happy things.
It’s not really an issue when I’m wearing long pants, or when he catches a sleeve. But when I’m stepping out of the shower and he barges in and schloops up the side of my leg…? Or when I’m trapped on the toilet and he comes slurping on my nekkid knees?
This is the way of Madness.
I mean really–picture yourself upon the throne. You’re committed, unable to leave. In barges a 50 lb. mutt intent on swiping his happy-go-lucky tongue on your person! If you’re home alone, how do you finish the process and attend to the details?
Surely you understand my concern.
I don’t even know how he gets into the bathroom. Honest, I don’t. It’s a brand new trick he’s discovered, and he does the same thing with bedroom doors. This makes getting dressed an awkward sort of chicken dance across the bed, because Dexter’s not allowed on furniture. (Of course, he’s not allowed to lick me nekkid, either, but the furniture thing he actually obeys.)
I know, I know. Lock the doors.I just don’t think about it. I mean really–how often do you lock yourself inside rooms in your home when you’re there all by yourself? I’d better start remembering, though, because SuperTongue is really creeping me out.
I guess I should just be thankful Dex doesn’t open the front door and go licking the neighbors. One of them is an exhibitionist, and y’allllll…I’d need four tubes of toothpaste and a vat of Clorox before I’d let him back inside again.
There we were–in the parking lot of Kmart on Black Friday. Two kids in the back seat, Hubby at the wheel, our dually pickup (Big Fat Mama, she’s called) slipped and slid her way though a pile of slush.
Since the kids were amused, my husband immediately headed for the emptiest part of the parking lot to do some additional (minor, I assure you) slip sliding. Not exactly the donuts we used to do 20 years ago, (sigh) but shhhhh! Don’t tell the kids.
As they laughed at their Dad’s antics, one of those family moments began to develop. Namely, the creation of a song. One giggling girl would start a line, while another finished. Hubby and I chimed in when they got stuck. It’s not traditional Christmas music, but it sure was fun. And so I bring you the Trainor Family tune, Crazy Dad:
Crazy Dad (to the tune of Jingle Bells…more or less.)
Dashing through the snow, in a 4-wheel Ford today,
over people we go, screaming all the way…AHHHHH!
The snow is turning red, All the folks are dead
We woke up in the pokey with 6 glocks aimed at our heads!
Oh! Crazy Dad, Crazy Dad, cuckoo all the way!
Pulled over because he didn’t have his license today-hey!
Crazy Dad, Crazy Dad, where the heck is Mom?
We’re pretty sure she wouldn’t like the crap that’s going on!
People screamed real loud, what was going on?
Right about then’s when we saw a head roll ‘cross the lawn!
And now Dad’s doing time. His stretch is 5 to 9,
and Mom is getting married to some guy she met online.
Oh Crazy Dad, Crazy Dad, crazy all the way!
People should’ve stayed home and they wouldn’t be dead today-ay!
Crazy Dad, Crazy Dad, mowing over friends!
Thank goodness you wound up in jail–that’s how this story ends!
(Oh. Like your kid never made up homicidal show tunes.) 😛
Thanks for the tremendous bounty we have, for warm houses and running water and electricity. Thanks for living in a country where we can speak our minds. Thanks for family and friends, and the ability to suck air for another day.
Plus, y’all know how much I love the thought of mass slaughter of evil Chickenzillas.
My taste in music is all over the place. ‘Eclectic’ is a kind way of saying, “Girl can’t make up her mind,” I think. From Nazareth to Nickelback, Waylon Jennings to Lou Rawls to the soundtrack from Titanic and the Free Credit Report dot com commercials, honest, I like it all. Well, almost. I have a limited capacity for country, and I only like hip hop or rap when the lyrics are within reason.
I tell you that to tell you this:
I get on music kicks where I’ll play the same cd repeatedly for days. Even though I do it with all sorts of music, one of my common wear-the-cd-out favorites is Chuck Berry. For reasons unknown, my 13 year old has decided I have a crush on the man.
Not an appreciation, mind you, but a starry-eyed crush.
“You doooo, Mom! I know you do!”
“Uh, I don’t think so.”
“Yes you do! You think he’s HAWT!”
“Hon…? Have you ever seen Chuck Berry? The man’s in his eighties.”
“Well age doesn’t matter so much when you’re as old as you. You SAID THAT!”
“I said a five year age difference matters a whole lot when you’re a teen, but not so much when you’re my age.”
“Seeeeee?!! I KNEW you had a crush on him!”
Oy. Somebody explain the hormonal teen mind to me.
Saw Twilight last night and my ears are still ringing. What’s Twilight, you ask? Good gravy! You need to get off the internet and look around once in awhile. Twilight is THE teen date movie of the year. My date was our 9 year old and I was one of the 4 oldest people in the room, but I digress.
The movie’s based on a book series by Stephenie Meyer. (I can tell you right now–Book 1 is great. 2-sucks, but hang in there. 3-better, but not the former glory of the first. 4-that’s more like it!) When a series leaves you wanting more, that’s a good thing.
Now then. Back to the movie.
For the lost: The story goes something like this: Girl with angst falls for vampire boy with more angst. Much young romance ensues. That, and it has enough action to keep things moving along. It’s a touch cheesy, but then so were the books. If you want to remember the aching sweetness of teen puppy-love, this is the story for you.
For those who have read the books: I think they did a good job nailing the story. I was pleased. The only thing out of place to me was the peek at Edward’s chest. For a guy described as being ‘hard as marble’, soft, fluffy chest hair didn’t seem to fit.
For the worried parents: There was no excessive gore, and no sex–just a slooooow romantic kiss. If it had bad language, it was minimal because I didn’t catch it. I was ok with our 9 year old watching the show.
If you’re thinking of going, go. Just take earplugs to the theater. At the first few glimpses of Edward and Jacob, you’d think the Beatles entered the room.
Before you read this post, you must (MUST, I say!) play the audio. To get the full effect of this post, you must be ready to ingest a dozen raw eggs and punch hanging meat. Or at least scramble an egg and chew bacon with your mouth open.
Are you ready?
Whilst absent from the blogging universe for the last several days, I have SINGLE HANDEDLY finished the bulk of a huge work project that was hanging over my head like a guillotine, caught up on laundry right down to the critter bedding AND had a brand spanking new baby niece. (Not that I had anything to do with the birth, mind you, but I’m feeling so good at the moment, I think I’ll take credit anyway. Thank you veddy much!)
Since I have no theme for this blog post save sheer relief, I bring you some smiles from home:
…As I pulled up the Rocky clip on YouTube, my 13 year old put her hands on her hips and said, “Yes. THAT’S the sound you hear when I walk into a room!” Crying shame that kid has no self-esteem.
…Our 9 year old answered a Math question in class today. Her teacher asked her to explain how she’d come to that conclusion. Em’s answer? “It’s just common sense, Mrs. A.” I love that girl!
The History Channel is airing a show that describes how certain aspects of the Star Wars movies could be technologically possible today. As in a parade of bespeckled geeks proclaiming that yes an armless, legless Anakin Skywalker lying on the edge of a volcano and suddenly on fire really could survive the ordeal if placed inside a bionic, liquid-diet-dispensing suit…provided his lungs weren’t too badly damaged and he occasionally pees on the batteries.
Don’t ask.
My husband is WATCHING this program. It’s an HOUR LONG! And what’s more, I know that my brother in law is probably putting it on Tivo. (He asked for a light saber for Christmas last year.) I’ve seen a lot of useless TV in my day, but I’m thinking this one rates right up there with South Park. Or maybe Baywatch. My brain is melting…I’m sure of it!
…And what is the most useless thing YOU’VE watched on TV lately?
I love to read. I love to write. I love words so full of comfort they make the reader an instant friend; and words that flow in such a way they seem to sing from the page. (Elena’s blog is one of my favorite places to find beautiful writing.) What I do not like, cannot fathom, and in general find little use for, is GRAMMAR.
Not just any grammar. There is normal, useful grammar that indicates intelligence. When I view a resume, misspellings and poor word choices make a definite negative impression. What I take issue with is fussy grammar that wanders into the realm of overkill and makes itself at home.
Who vs. Whom? Don’t care. One vs. Oneself? Bleah–scrap ’em both. People lie, things lay. I know this because it was ground into my head at a young age. Does it matter to me? Nope. If you want to go lay down, you go right ahead. I’ll just be over here typing.
I could write for an hour on this subject, but I’ll stick to Adverbs to keep it brief.
“If you see an adverb, kill it.” Who said that…Twain? My daughter’s class is studying parts of speech, and she’s required to use adverbs in all her creative writing. An adverb is a useful tool when used with discrimination. Used too often, it wrecks the whole flow of the page.
“Are you happy?” he asked wistfully. She sadly replied, “No…awfully miserable, actually.” He immediately moved in more closely, carefully grasping her face between his hands, fervently hoping it wasn’t really over.
Ew…Ew…Ew.
I despise adverb overkill so much I almost couldn’t finish the first Harry Potter book. That woman was so adverb-happy I found it frustrating to read and couldn’t imagine why the book was so popular. I was so grateful to see her editor kill the excess in subsequent novels!
My 40th birthday is tomorrow. That’s four-O. As in four decades. Middle age. Older than dirt. Since I refuse to celebrate a traditional 40th birthday, <cringe!> my family was kind enough to throw me a 39.9th birthday a few days ago. Aren’t they sweet?
However. I cannot let the occasion pass without some nod in its general direction, and so here is what I propose we do. (I say ‘we’ but I’m really putting this one on you, dear readers.) I want you to come up with the best 40th birthday razzies you can possibly throw in my direction. The more, the merrier. Have no fear of hurting my widdle bitty feewings, I have thick (and very old) skin.
Kelly is SO old she was Hugh Hefner’s first date.
Kelly knows how the dinosaurs died out.
Kelly makes Joan Rivers look young again.
Whoever makes me laugh the hardest will get a special blog post just for them. (No, I won’t razz you unless that’s what you request.)
Comments, poems, old fogey haiku, links to videos or pictures are also welcome. Get creative and have some fun with it. C’mon people. Bring on the old folk jokes!
Our teenager was assigned to accompany a parent to the voting booth today. Don’t ya just love it when the school gives homework to parents? I intended to vote during non-peak hours, when most folks are at work. But nooOOOOooo. Now I have to wait for her to get out of school this afternoon. There’ll be a MOB by then.
I can’t let her blow off the assignment, it’s a big part of her grade. And so I’ll be standing in a long line today. Joy.
Election day. Otherwise known as, “The day I vote for a man who cannot possibly win, just because he’s the only one I can vote for with a clear conscience.” I cannot bring myself to vote based on “lesser of all evils” mentality. Especially in front of my kid.
But that’s me.
I encourage you to vote today for someone you can believe in. No matter who your choice is–feel free to cancel my vote! Just make your voice heard. It’s your privilege and right. I don’t care if you vote McCain or Obama or Barr or McKinney or Nader or Norris or Mickey. Just vote!
And remember…if you don’t exercise your right to vote, you can’t exercise your mouth to complain later.
Now then. If your trick or treaters are as hopped up on sugar this morning as my kids are, you should get off your puter right now and go check on the status of the chocolate supply!
I’m serious. Before all the Kit Kats are gone and all that’s left are gummi eyeballs and tootsie rolls. Snag the good stuff. Snag it now, I say!
Dexter the dog is no longer an underwear chewer. A fact for which my husband is profoundly grateful. However, he does have a thing for shoes and socks. He doesn’t chew them, exactly…he inhales from them deeply while in a euphoric trance — as though they’re the elixir of life.
Weirdo.
To each their own, but frankly I don’t get the fascination with feet. Few body parts are less sexy in my view, and when Fergie got caught toe sucking I verped just a little.
Feet are not my thing.
When we first got internet, I had no clue how to search. While looking for something innocent (I no longer recall what), I surfed my way into a foot fetish video.
Oh yes. I did.
I didn’t realize what it was at first. There were no nekkid bodies or guttural sounds, just slinky music and plenty of feet. Feet in high heels, and peeking out of blankets. Feet slathered with lotion and entwined with fake pearls. After watching a feather slide sloooooowly over a heel, it finally dawned on me what I was watching. Foot porn.
Well alrighty, then.
Not that I’m bashing any foot-fetish folk. Harmless pursuits between consenting adults–you have my blessing, just keep the door shut. Actually, the point of this post was to ponder the NON-X-rated question,
Have you ever surfed into something you found inexplicably odd?
Dexter the dog has learned a few new words. Sit, Speak and SNEAK. Ohhh yes, he has Sneak just about down pat.
Due to a condition called Incorrigible Puppyness, Dexter chews on everything. Puppy toys, rawhide, furniture, fingers. He doesn’t care, they’re all chew toys. We’re constantly tripping over half-chewed pig ears and rawhide strips, yet he’s left a permanent impression on our coat rack and kitchen cupboards. (sigh)
In an effort to preserve our furniture, dh won’t allow him in the whole house yet. He only has access to about half of it until he outgrows the chewing stage. Dexter is not happy with this arrangement, and so he sneaks.
ting-ting-ting! I’ll hear the sound of his metal ID tag tinkling from the wrong direction. Look around, and there’s Dexter hiding under the coffee table. ting-ting-ting! What…? Oh. There’s Dexter behind the recliner; looking pitiful because he knows he’s not supposed to be there.
Sometimes I’ll just get seated on the bathroom throne and hear ting-ting-ting! from behind the door. Upon exit, I’ll usually find Dexter feigning innocence, laying on the kitchen floor. He’s allowed in the kitchen, but generally there’ll be some sort of contraband half-hidden beneath his body that came from an off-limits room.
Reminds me of Gollum in Return of the King. Sam: “What are you doing, then?” Gollum: “Sneeeeaking!”
Found on BasicJokes.com: “I had been teaching my three-year old daughter, Caitlin, the Lord’s Prayer. For several evenings at bedtime, she would repeat after me the lines from the prayer. Finally, she decided to go solo. I listened with pride as she carefully enunciated each word, right up to the end of the prayer: “Lead us not into temptation,” she prayed, “but deliver us some E-mail. Amen.” -Author Unknown
Everywhere I look, people are skeert. I see somber folks with worry lines on their faces and a nervousness that wasn’t there before. They’re worried about jobs, money, medical bills. They have fears about what the future holds and are unnerved by the uncertainty of it all.
That’s no way to be. The battle’s already been won.
Prayer is our most powerful weapon, and I say we use it. Don’t know who to vote for? Pray on it. Don’t know how you’ll make the house payment? Pray about it. Got health problems? You know the drill. The thing is, you can’t demand what you want and expect it to arrive wrapped in silver paper topped with a big red bow. Maybe the thing that you want isn’t what God has in mind for you. Ask, and expect answers. But understand that the answer might not be as you imagined.
Pray for your family, your country and yourself. Pray for strangers and folks you don’t even like. And if you need prayers, ask others to pray for you, too. You can even do it right here, in the Comments section. If your request is too personal to share with a bunch of strangers, just leave an ‘Unspoken’ prayer request. Folks can still pray on your behalf–God knows what’s what.
Don’t be shy; I intend to ask for some prayers m’self. ;0)
————-
Now then–for the folks whose teeth I just set on edge: If you don’t believe in God as I do, that’s your prerogative. Refrain from trying to convert me, please–use your own blog for your views. But I will ask you to entertain one last thought before you go.
If you’re right, prayer won’t hurt anything–it’ll make no difference. But if I’m right, it can make all the difference in the world. Is there something you really, really need?
My teenager has an oddball sense of humor. Yesterday, an evil chicken stood on the roofpeak of the henhouse, with one leg way higher than the other and bent at the knee to keep its balance on the steeply pitched roof.
Tasha pointed to it, then assumed the pose from the Captain Morgan rum commercials and quipped, “Got a little egg in ya? Cluck responsibly.”
That kid cracks me up! (Egg humor fully intended.)
Halloween is almost upon us, which means time to put together a fantastic costume for our 9 year old (who wants to be Pocahontas this year.) Oh joy.
Weighing heavily on my mind is last year’s “I can make it cheaper myself” fiasco. (Not so much. The $30 Genie costume I balked at cost close to $60 to make. Although mine looked better, between spilled red pop and an altercation with a hedge it was still trashed by the end of the night.) Not looking for a repeat, I sucked it up and headed to WalMart.
I discovered something important. WalMart doesn’t sell costumes for 9 year old children. They sell little cutesy baby and small child costumes, and slutty adult costumes. That is the range of their Halloween costuming expertise.
Frustrated, I started looking through the slutty adult costumes in hopes that some additional fabric could make them tolerable. (Last year’s genie costume had flesh colored fabric in lieu of a bare midriff, for example.) And that’s when I saw it. The slutty nun costume.
Now, I admit I have issues with WalMart. If not for the fact that it is the only store for miles and miles that carries certain products, I would never go there. But the sleazy nun costume was tasteless even by their standards. Seriously. And I’m not even Catholic.
Yes, there’s a market for these types of costumes, but a few other options sure would be nice. Flipping through the racks…slutty vampiress…sleazy nurse…lady pirate showing her booty…why are there almost no costumes without fishnets?
Dear WalMart,
Sleaze is not appropriate for 9 year old children, who are major participants in the Halloween season. Oh, and not all adult women want to dress whore-ish while walking their kids around town.
Sincerely,
Dusgruntled yet again
——
(sigh) Anyone got a neat indian costume they want to sell?
(Not really, I just made that up.)
I may have one to contribute to the cause.
You know what? I miss the good old days of beating messages in Morse code on a rock, or painting them on cave walls with smushed up berries. I hold the ‘latest and the greatest’ in complete disdain. You’d think my friends and family would know this by now.
While my nasty sinus-headache-flu-ey thing is nothing to write home about, it does warrant a few temporary changes in our household. Seriously, I’m dragging ass and prefer few demands are made upon me. The more chores I can shuck, the better. And really, our kids are 9 and 13. Is it asking so much for them to pitch in?
There we were–in the parking lot of Kmart on Black Friday. Two kids in the back seat, Hubby at the wheel, our dually pickup (Big Fat Mama, she’s called) slipped and slid her way though a pile of slush.
No, not the chest hair of 400 squealing girls.
The History Channel is airing a show that describes how certain aspects of the Star Wars movies could be technologically possible today. As in a parade of bespeckled geeks proclaiming that yes an armless, legless Anakin Skywalker lying on the edge of a volcano and suddenly on fire really could survive the ordeal if placed inside a bionic, liquid-diet-dispensing suit…provided his lungs weren’t too badly damaged and he occasionally pees on the batteries.
Are you ready? This could be good.
Our teenager was assigned to accompany a parent to the voting booth today. Don’t ya just love it when the school gives homework to parents? I intended to vote during non-peak hours, when most folks are at work. But nooOOOOooo. Now I have to wait for her to get out of school this afternoon. There’ll be a MOB by then.
Today's Musings 