Take Your Mama Out Tonight, dammit!

Are you sure this isn't Elton John circa Goodbye Yellow Brick Road?My flashbacks seem to think it is.

OK, it may be a little gay* for some tastes and I'm not sure I fully understand the lyrics, but it's definitely Rockin' my Friday!


Take Your Mama,Scissor Sisters, Scissor Sisters

(Apologies for the sucky video quality. I can't find a "clean" one.)

* And I mean that in the best possible way.
 

This is your brain

I was thrashing about this morning with no clue about what to write. Long post(s) for the week? Done them. Internet humor? Ditto. Fridays Rock? Wait for it....

Oh dear, oh dear, what to say, what to say?

Then I saw this video. Instead of trying to sum it up, I'll kife the description straight from TED:

Stroke of insight: Jill Bolte Taylor on TED.com

Neuroanatomist Jill Bolte Taylor had an opportunity few brain scientists would wish for: One morning, she realized she was having a massive stroke. As it happened -- as she felt her brain functions slip away one by one, speech, movement, understanding -- she studied and remembered every moment. This is a powerful story of recovery and awareness -- of how our brains define us and connect us to the world and to one another. (Recorded February 2008 in Monterey, California. Duration: 18:44.)



Hearing Dr. Taylor's story told from both a left- and right-brain perspective; as an objective scientist and a deeply affected human being... wow. It moved me. It also pointed out to me (rather painfully) how very left-brained I can be, almost to a fault. Ouch! Yes, it's my safe place but that doesn't make it the right* place.

As a bonus, she's from Indiana**!

Not familiar with TED? Click here. Scads of TED talks on a mind-boggling list of topics await you.

* Sorry -- bad pun. I often make them without even knowing it. That's pretty sad.

** As if you couldn't tell from the non-accent....
:)

 

Ides of Meatloaf

Gather 'round, children, and I'll tell the story of the very first Ides of Meatloaf... or at least what I remember of it, which isn't much.

Many, many years ago -- three time zones away and a couple of decades past -- Evil Twin, Ms C*, and I were comparing our Midwestern roots and the foods of our childhood, back when canned cream soups were king. Tales were spun of potatoes from a box, boiled vegetables, Evil Twin's step-mom's "fried" chicken, and hot dishes, Jello molds, and meatloaves of every hue.

As we giggled, the strangest thing happened; even as we mocked our elders, our stomachs started rumbling. We were stunned to realize that, as 'evolved' and 'sophisticated' as we were**, we still had a primordial connection to the convenience foods of the mid-20th century.

I can't remember how it happened -- although I guarantee there was alcohol involved -- but we started joking about doing a pot luck of all our childhood favorites. Gravy mix from a pouch! Things from boxes! Artificial colors and flavors! Jello mold***! Schedules were compared, someone mentioned that the weekend of the 15th would work, then someone realized that that was the Ides of March...

And from derision and booze, the Ides of Meatloaf was born.

The 15th arrived. We each made our favorite meatloaf; we had gravy from a pouch and mashed potatoes from a box and the green bean casserole with the crunchy onions and other beloved dietary atrocities that I can't recall. And yes, there was Jello. We drank and laughed and mocked the whole enterprise while stuffing our faces. You know what? Laugh we did, but between the three of us, the two husbands, and two rug rats, every single scrap was consumed.

Burp! I tell ya, that was some good eatin'!

As with most golden eras of our youth, we were only able to celebrate the IoM maybe a handful of times before the winds scattered us. Sometimes over the years I would remember to make a meatloaf on March 15th and Hubby and I would laugh about it. Good times, good times....

Then a couple of years(?) ago, I got an email from Evil Twin declaring that the Ides of Meatloaf lived! She and her sister had not only revived the tradition, but had spread the joy to their most disturbed and insane friends. Last year I received pictures of their festivities that both warmed my heart and filled me with envy. I, too, would find a way to bring this unsung celebration to the light.

A scant few weeks later, I randomly stumbled across what may be the ultimate expression of the wonder that is IoM: The Meat Cake!

Could it be any more glorious? I forwarded it to Evil Twin and Ms C; both were transfixed. Yes, with a Meat Cake in our pockets (ick!), how could 2008 be anything but the best IoM in (recorded) history?

As 2007 slipped past (hey, I was busy!), I somehow forgot about Meat Cake until I received the warning bell from Evil Twin a few weeks back. The Mid-Atlantic Chapter was revving their engines for the biggest, baddest, best IoM ever. A new feature for 2008: an apron contest! Tell me, how can it get any better than that?

Unfortunately, this year I will be unable to fully participate in the IoM as I lack the minimum number of local wacky pals. The doctrine is quite clear: without the pot luck component and the traditional sharing of food abominations with insane companions, there can be no true IoM. Although I might well whip up a suitably pedestrian meatloaf-n-taters-w-canned-peas meal in solidarity.

Mid-Atlantic Chapter, you rock! You set the standard that others can only aspire to. Next year Mr B and I are so flying back east....

Hey, if anyone else decides to partake, photos and/or stories are welcomed. Spread the joy and glory! Show us your Meat Cake!

* The third leg of our trio. The three of us were so goddamned funny that leakage was a constant threat, even in my 20s.

** Way back in our late 20s/early 30s -- punks!

*** Which, back in the day, used to count as a vegetable. For real.
 

We wants it!

Today I must send you off to Amazon.com for your cheap thrills.

Note: The following web page is safe for general consumption but may present a choking hazard for readers with poor self-control. Be sure to read the reviews -- that's the best part.

Click here for hilarity!

At first I was positive that it was just for fun, but the more I look at it, I'm not so sure. I can see where some clueless toy designer might have thought this was a good idea. Would have loved to have heard the pitch for it!

So, whaddya think? No-shitter or bullshitter?
 

Key words and tricky phrases

My long years of hard-lesson learning have left me with, among other things, a Top Ten List of Key Words and Tricky Phrases. I'm not saying these are inherently good or bad; just that I've learned -- the hard way, of course -- that when these come out, it means that I could stand to pay attention to the little yellow flags waving off in the distance.

Let's review, shall we?

Always: IMHO, few things in life are that absolute. Usually, often, or sometimes? Maybe. Always? Rarely. When applying it to others, note that most people do not react well to being covered by the Always Blanket.

Never*: See above. The Never Blanket is just as ill-received, although I am rather fond of saying Never say never!

Should: This is usually found preceding either expectations or advice, both of which need to be considered before utterance. Unfortunately, this still comes out of my mouth way too often. It can have some unpleasant side effects when used improperly. Applying it to yourself is a good set up for a guilt party; aka should-ing all over yourself. As for dropping the flaming bag of should on others, well, explaining what's wrong with that is beyond the scope of this silly little blog post. To paraphrase Sister: "Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised." Yes, I am guilty of it, but at least now I think about it a little. Usually afterwards.

Hey, I was just thinking,** aka let's put on a show!: When I hear myself say this, I now know I need to stop and think a little more and/or check my meds. It often springs from that Shiny thing that I suffer from.

Not tonight: As a veteran of an X-treme LTR, my experience has been that if the use of this becomes a habit, the yellow flags on the horizon may be turning orange and it's probably worth considering why.

We need to talk, aka pulling out the big guns: Ex and I joked for years that no good conversation starts with that sentence. Then one day we found ourselves in a situation where I had to say it for real. And guess what? It was no joke. 'Nuff said. Definitely big fat red flags here.

I'll do it later: Translation: "Nope, don' wanna and don' wanna admit it." Maybe I will; maybe I won't. Yes, I am a procrasticator!

I'll try: It's the best (read: worst) of both worlds: a do it later crossed with a self-directed should. Almost always means I'd rather not and I feel bad about that. I'm... trying to cut down on this one.  ;)

It's all good: Most of the times someone has said this to me, it has meant exactly the opposite and ended up as a rather ominous warning. But YMMV.

It'll be fun!: Yep, a sales pitch, pure and simple. Good indicator that it probably won't be.

So there's my list of verbal potholes. How 'bout yours?

* OK, OK, twin sides of the same coin, but I could only come up with 9 other things.

** So that's where that came from!
 

Sledgehammer

This one definitely takes me back to those early golden days of MTV and is guaranteed to Rock this Friday.


Sledgehammer,Peter Gabriel, So

Gee, that reminds me of that time back in '86 or '87, when Lovely Daughter was 3 or 4 years old....

We had had company that evening, so it must've been the weekend; perhaps a Friday? Our guests had just left; it was about 9 or 10 pm. This video came on and I started dancing around with LD. At one point I picked her up by an arm and a leg to swing her around* and something... happened.

She started screaming. I practically dropped her, trying to get her back down on the floor. She was holding her arm, screaming, obviously in pain. After a couple of minutes of trying to calm her down and see what was going on, we had to make the call: do we pump her full of Tylenol or go to the ER?

Shit. It's almost 10 pm and we have to go to the ER. Ugh.

And so it goes. After a l-o-n-g wait, we saw the doc. Parents, you know what happened next.

Doctor, leaning down to talk to LD: Hi, Sweetie. How did this happen?
Lovely Daughter, tearstained and pitiful: Mommy did it! She pulled my arm really hard. (whimper, sniff, sniff)

Sigh... The first time you realize that ER doc thinks you might be abusing your child is one of those watershed moments in the life of a young parent. I got so self-conscious about it that I'm sure I looked guilty as hell. And the smell of beer didn't help. The doc scowled at me, looked her arm briefly and banished us to the X-ray Dept. I'm sure he told the nurse to flag LD's record. "Keep an eye on that one!"

After a l-o-n-g wait, the tech set LD up at the table and arranged her arm, went out to take the shot, and came back to gently rotate her arm just so for the next shot. I braced myself for the screams. She gave a yelp, then... nothing. All of a sudden it was all better!

Wha...huh?

Relief, puzzlement, frustration. Can we go home now? Oh, but no. After another l-o-n-g wait, we met with the doc for the wrap-up portion of the program. He explained that it was "Nursemaid's Elbow", where the tendon can slip out of the little groove in the joint when the arm is yanked. It's is fairly common in young children (insert scowl at Mom here.) It can usually be fixed by rotating the arm just so.

It was almost 2am. We had been there almost 4 hours. Why, in the name of all that's fair and just in the universe, couldn't he have done that hours ago?!?

Lessons learned: Don't lift your child by the arm. Don't lift your child by the arm at 10pm after having some beers. And if you do, and the kid starts screaming, for chrissakes try rotating the arm just so before heading off to the ER.

Thanks, Peter Gabriel. Really.

* Hey, it seemed like a good idea at the time. What can I say?
 

Cowinkydink?

And now for something completely random.

Yesterday I ended up sitting behind the exact same truck at the exact same intersection (going the opposite way, of course) on my way to and from work.


I know it was the same truck because it had several unusual bumper stickers, including some that seemed to be simply odd phrases in gothic-y-looking fonts, white on black, that gave me impression that they were names of goth/metal/whatever-they're-called bands. I remember staring at them for several seconds that morning, trying to discern what they might mean.

Considering that I am rarely conscious during my commutes*, I thought it remarkable that A) it happened and B) I noticed.

* Which reminds me that I feel rants coming on about obscene bumper stickers and drivers who give up their right of way, but I'll save those for another day.
 

Blogwatch: 15 Minute Lunch

It's official: I'm addicted to reading blogs.

My Google Reader now lists 34 blogs and those are just the ones that I follow regularly. Some are by people I know, some relate to whatever shiny project I'm into, and some are just f'n funny*. Good thing they don't all post every day or I'd have to quit my day job to keep up**.

I've listed some of my favorites in my Blogroll to the left for your enjoyment. I cycle new ones in and out occasionally as the mood strikes. One of the ones I eagerly anticipate is Johnny Virgil's 15 Minute Lunch. It falls into the 'Just f'n funny' category; in fact, he's produced three of my all-time favorite PMP, snot-blowing posts, which I've linked to below.

Safety first, though: If you are at all prone to any sort of leakage and/or asphyxiation due to Hysterical Paroxysmal Laughing Disorder (as I am), then you may wish to use the restroom and close the office door before proceeding.

My Favorite 15 Minute Lunch posts

• Creepy Baby Head


• Artist formally know as...


• And the one that got me hooked, The 1977 JC Penney's catalog

Every time I think I'm funny, I go read his stuff and then I STFU.

I love his posts because he combines my favorite elements: sharp writing, rude language, twisted humor, and the occasional obscene reference. Can it get any better than that?

What can I say; I'm a cheap date.

* And one is by me. Just Me Eating is where I write about my... eating. Hey, don't smirk -- I'm doing it for you. If I write about it there, then I don't have to inflict it on y'all. No, I'm not from the South. Sometimes I just like to throw out a little y'all.

** Hmmm... waitaminnit! That's not such a bad idea
 

Septic Follies

One Sunday long ago, our morning reverie was shattered by a frantic yell from Lovely Daughter.
Mom! There are turds in my shower!
Hubby and I thundered down the stairs and we all crowded into the small bathroom. Yes, those were turds sitting on the floor of her shower. We stared in wonder. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if maybe someone broke into the house and took a crap in there. But all became clear when Hubby flushed the toilet. We saw the sight no septic owner ever wants to see: toilet water backing up into the shower stall. The shower, apparently, was the lowest drain in our split-level house.

We had a potential septic failure on our hands. Which is not nearly as much fun as it sounds. And did I mention it was Sunday?

Don'tpanicdon'tpanicdon't panic... a new septic field costs what? $25K? Shit! Inspectors and permits and digging and... shit!! And I have to clean up that... shit!!!

While I ran in circles fearing the worst, Hubby called a septic guy and, shovel in hand and determined look on his face, headed out back to locate the septic tank lid. Which also is not nearly as much fun as it sounds.

The giant tank truck pulled up in short order. The patient, long-suffering tech snaked the monster hose around the house, taking care to avoid the series of pits now decorating the area. After some fussing and swearing, the lid was lifted and the full glory that is a failing septic tank was revealed.

Instead of the lovely "crust" that is supposed to form on top of the contents of a healthy septic tank, ours was a roiling, seething mass of putrescence. Horrified and fascinated, I couldn't look away. For bobbing gently on the surface of the turmoil were several sewer-gas inflated condoms, fully erect and proud, like sentries ready for action from whichever quarter it may come.

It was magnificent.

After a moment of silence, the tank was pumped. The verdict? Most likely damage from roots of the millions of giant freakin' cedars adorning the property. The tech slipped us the name of a guy who could make some repairs and do 'things' to the septic field to milk a few more years out of it. Legal? Well, just hope that none of the neighbors calls the county to check out the odd goings on.

Happy ending: all was resolved. The magic septic field man fixed us up, the neighbors didn't rat us out, and our septic tank was clean as a whistle. We cut down some of the trees out of spite.

The condoms were a bit puzzling, though. They weren't ours. We had a serious talk with (the teen-aged) Lovely Daughter, but she insisted that they weren't hers. I think we decided they probably belonged to a friend of hers with a... checkered past. Whew! Not my daughter! Security was tightened to prevent future incidents. Not my daughter, yeah, but still not in my house.

But the memory of those proud, glistening, erect warriors standing guard over their battlefield of filth will stay with me for a long, long time. Magnificent!
 

Instructional Video for Women

Aha! So that's my problem.



It's not Monty Python, at least as far as I can tell, but it should be. Lovin' it!

Thanks to Ex for sending this along.
:)