Monday, November 29, 2010

Microfiction Monday

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,
where a picture paints 140 characters, or even fewer.

“Where did you get this to-die-for purple linen?” Leopardus purred.

He paid his sister handsomely to direct traffic while he made his move.


But wait, there’s more! Now you can get two wooly bully bicep building oxen for the price of one. Just pay shipping and handling.

Check out if you want to play

A Lot of Flocking Questions

Wikileaks, eh?  I guess I could write about this for many, many days.  But I don't want to. As my friend Helen would say, the whole thing makes my ass tired. Let me just say this, if it's sauce for the goose, it's probably sauce for the flock as well as the gander.

Was network news actually hinting that someone at a website (other than their own) should be prosecuted for publishing information that was illegally obtained, just after they made sure I knew the juiciest, most damaging bits?  Um. . . anybody else see the silliosity of this? What's wrong with people? Is there a line between freedom of speech and treason? 

If it's wrong for a person to lie and spread gossip, is it ok for a government? What is a government?

While I'm asking questions, is it possible to impose freedom on people?  Is it possible to forcibly install democracy? Can you be spontaneous right now?  Can you choose not to make a choice?  Can you fight for peace? Can you turn on a light to see in the dark?

If any of you other geese can answer any of these, please let me know.

Saturday, November 27, 2010

I won, I won!

I received this award from Barb at This and That (As I Bounce Thru Life)   How fun is that!
So now I'm supposed to bestow this award on 7 more bloggers that I think deserve this funny blog award.  However, I'm just piss poor at following directions.  Therefore, only the first 5 are fun/funny and I've always been bad at math.
I  encourage you to tickle each of these.

1.  Professor B. Worm.  My Charlie has a wicked weird wit, which leaves one wanting more.  
2.  The Warden Files.  This is what happens when you combine yummy recipes with a sharp perspective and a thesaurus.  Good fun, even if he won't marry me.
3.  Monkey Man.  Slightly off center.  Ok. . . way off center.  Love it.
4.  The Occasional Chicken.  Has me planning my own urban herd of hens.
5.  Placebo Journal Blog.  Oh so funny and unfortunately true.

6.  CBDG.  Not funny.  Amazing.  Wonderful.  Courageous.  WiseInsightful.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Thought Erosion

This morning about 7:30, I walked into my office and looked around and stopped to think.  I forgot to start thinking again until about 5:30.  I really don't know what I did all day but I know I was really busy.

We had a staff breakfast this am.  After class last night I came home to put together my usual breakfast casserole.  I cut the crusts from nice whole grain and seed bread,  crisply fried some bacon, chopped herbs, shredded cheese and then realized I had one egg.  I needed about ten.

So I stopped by a bakery on my way to work this am and picked up a scrumptious-looking loaf of pumpkin-walnut bread.  I got to my office; fed Brandiss, my gold fish; started some coffee and that's when it happened.  My brain shifted into slo-mo.

I think there is something wrong with  my transmission too, because I couldn't up-shift all day.  I'd find myself sitting at the computer and wondering what the heck I was supposed to be doing.  I remember staring at the word prescription - a word I type several hundred times per day - trying to remember if it was spelled pre or per. Seriously.  Is that scary or what?

If I were sixteen I'd think I was spacey.  If I were thirty I'd think I was preoccupied.  But since I'm fiddy fav, the first thing I think when I do something like that (when I start thinking again, that is) is that I'm getting senile.

Of course, I'm not getting senile at all.  That's just a silly idea.

The literature and liturgy were bright. . . the moon is.

But sometimes my mind does wander and that's when I wonder.  I wonder as my mind wanders and then I forget again, so it's OK.  But I'm not going senile.  That's just silly.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Sunday 160

For Steamy Love of Coconut Ice Cream

You wait just one mile away.
I hear you. I feel you calling me.
I need you tonight even though I know I’ll regret our secret union
Each time I look in the mirror.

For the original Sunday 160 post click here.

If you wish to take the challenge, here is a quick look at the rules:

1. The Sunday 160 only uses 160 characters (including spaces).

2. Keep on schedule - post Sunday.

3. Let me know you have posted via a comment on my site.

4. Visit at least one other Sunday 160.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Time for Friday Flash 55, that online carnival of stories told in precisely 55 words.

And if you play be sure to let the G-Man know

Here’s mine:


“I’d like to go to the other side,” she sighed, “But there is no bridge.”

Having heard about the magic in the cool, green forest across the gorge, she stood at the edge and peered longingly across until the light was gone. Behind her, the faeries went about their silent work in the tall trees.

Listen Up You Gosh Dang Politicians

Ok, I'm fiddy fav, which gives me the good sense to not try to please everyone.  And that's a dang good thing, since I haven't, don't and won't.

I have faith in American people.  I think we have, can and will take care of people all over the world.  However, there's this little thing I've noticed and I'd like to draw to the attention of my "representatives."  Our government is called the American government.  There's that little phrase that another Illinois boy came up with about our government being of the people, by the people, for the people. That Mr. Lincoln may have been the last true representative of the people elected to the White House.  But that may be another blog all together.  Has American science come far enough to reanimate him, you think?

Anyway, why can't the American government stop blowing up and taking care of people outside of America and concentrate on playing nice right here.  We can still have military.  Heck, we can even have the draft.  Let's just keep our trained military here fixing our roads, our buildings, our natural resources, our schools, hospitals, clinics. . . .you know. . . our people.  Us.  Americans. And then American individuals can go out and do what we like to do best, which is take care of others. 

We can't give what we don't have and look around.  Our roads, power systems, sewer and water systems, transportation systems - the things that we sort of need to do as a big organized group (read government) are falling apart.  Yet we have gazilions of trained American troops deployed to the other side of the globe.

If I were an enemy of America, I don't think I'd waste energy attacking us.  I think I'd just stand back and let us stupid ourselves into the ground.  The thing that ticks me off the most is that we aren't naturally stupid.  We are the nation that took the best from every culture on the globe and made a great new one.  It seems that one big thing we

forget to do is act like it.

What? Tell your "representatives" you say?  I do.  I email them regularly.  They don't listen because they don't have to.  They can just assume I one crazy old broad and what they heck, they're already elected.  But that doesn't excuse us from yelling at them at every chance we get.  Maybe we can talk some sense into them.  Frankly, I don't know what else to do.  Elections obviously don't work.

It's not hard to find out how to get in touch with your "representatives."  Here's a place to start.

If you can't think of anything to say, feel free to send them a copy of this blog.  You might also mention that at least one old broad in SC is mad as hell.

Friday, November 12, 2010

Feelling Fonts

There is a great need for a sarcasm font. Although typed communication has made great leaps in the age of emails, texting and online communities, we continue to have misunderstandings due to lack of much of the nonverbal communication we use. In fact, as typed online communications become increasingly intimate, the danger of really screwing up increases.

I belong to an online congregation. I started to put the word congregation in quotation marks because it seems as if people can’t really congregate online. But we do. We gather at certain places at certain times and share our thoughts and ideas. We share praise and gratitude and challenge each other. In fact, I think that many of us are much more open than we would be face-to-face and that’s another essay altogether.

Because my congregation is world-wide and all ages, we often face language challenges. For example, some of our most active members don’t speak American. They speak British or Australian, or English is not their primary language. It’s not the accents (obviously) that are troublesome online, but the word usage.

A Brit might say “I’ll be back after a quick trip to the loo and a fresh cuppa.”

An Aussie might say, “Gotta walkabout now. Have a bonza day, mate."

A young person who’s grown up with the Internet might say, “OMG, gotta P. BRB.”

We can deal this that type of gaff because usually when we don’t understand the words we feel free enough to ask. However sometimes, we understand the words, but we can’t see if eyes are rolling, or people are scowling, laughing, or crying.

Of course we can use the little faces, but sometimes they are just too cutesy. If my underlying meaning is that I think you are a real horse’s back end and what you just typed is the biggest pile of steaming dung I’ve read in a long while, somehow a little frowny face just doesn’t cut it. Of course I can type everything in bold all caps, maybe even use a red font, but that’s about as far as I can go.

So let's leave it like this.  If I want to type to you that I think you are pig, I'll say something like, "I think you are a pig."  And if you think I'm off my nut, you can say, "I think you're off your nut." 

That should save us all a lot of grief.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

My Father's Eyes

Everyone who can see my face can pretty much tell how I’m feeling. I come by this trait naturally. My father communicated so effectively through facial expressions that spoken words were often just a courtesy.

He could cure a case of the giggles across a crowded sanctuary without so much as clearing his throat. If I was two minutes past my curfew he could put The Fear into my date at 25 feet in the dark.

I often reminded him – and it was true – that he had the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen. (I wasn’t stupid. Alas, neither was he!) They were a clear, crisp blue. Very striking, and very, very expressive.

Dad’s ability to communicate complete thoughts with his eyes was especially convenient for us the last two days of his life when his voice stopped working.

One of my greatest gifts in life was to be able to be with him as he died in his own home fourteen years ago. Just before we brought him home from the hospital, he told my sister and me that the doctors told him he didn’t have more than six months to live, but he didn’t want us to tell our mother because it would upset her. Our mother had just told us that Dad didn’t know it, but he didn’t have more than six months to live. They protected each other as best they could and God help anyone who got in their way.

Dad told me a lot of things with his eyes those last two days. He told me that his body hurt. He told me that it was beautiful, peaceful, pain-free where he was going. He said it was a scary thing he was doing. He told me to be good to this family. He said, “See! There they are! Right there!” He told me he loved me. He said, “See you there.”

He explained that as much as he was looking forward to the next life, he didn’t want to leave us. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to do this thing without Mom with him. Their relationship was more than close. It was symbiotic. They were joined at the soul.

I held his hand and I told him things, too. I sang to him, told him I loved him. I thanked him. I said, “It’s O.K. We’ll all be all right,” although I only half believed it. I said, “It’s time.”

I know that a lot of people tend to turn their relatives into saints after they die. I also know that a lot of times the baby of the family tends to attribute undeserved greatness to her father. However, neither of those is true in my case.

It just happens that my Papa really could do anything. He really did know everything. Well, everything except how to dress.

I still miss him fiercely. I still pick up the phone to call and ask him things sometimes. I surely wish he could see my garden. Sometimes I can’t picture his face now. But always, just a blink away, are the most beautiful clear blue eyes, twinkling at me.

Goldfish Terrorism

In my office I have a little aquarium in which Brandiss, my goldfish lives. Brandiss was a “feeder fish” at PetSmart, which means he would have been someone’s dinner long ago had I not adopted him.

At first he lived in a traditional goldfish bowl with a second goldfish and a snail. But Brandiss sort of picked on the other fish and it died. It could have been a coincidence.

It wasn’t long after that the snail was nothing but an empty shell. Brandiss said he had nothing to do with it.

I found the little aquarium at GoodWill one day, which gave Brandiss two and a half times the swimming room. He also now has a filter, some aeration, a light and a little palm tree. We’ve been through several snails, which I continue to get because they eat the algae from the sides of the tank. Every Monday, I change about a third of the water.

Brandiss would always get excited whenever I got near the tank. He’d swim up to the surface because he knew he was going to get flakes. That fish loves him some flakes.

But the snails - Klugh, Green, Carl, and others, kept disappearing. They’d be eating away at algae one Friday afternoon and the next Monday morning they’d just be the shell of their former selves. Even though he proclaimed his innocence, I found the whole thing a bit fishy and blamed Brandiss. So when I recently saw him nibbling on his new roommate, Chambliss, I jumped toward the aquarium and yelled at him.

Now whenever I go to his aquarium, talking nicely, Brandiss hides behind his filter, his tiny fins shaking in fear.

I feel terrible. Does anyone know how long it takes a goldfish to forgive?

Thursday, November 4, 2010


When I was in driver education, my Papa made sure I knew how my Honey, my ’66 Galaxy 500, worked. I could point to all the parts of that V-8 and tell you what they did and what they were called. When Honey got flooded, I could take off the air filter and hold open the butterfly valve while my friend cranked the engine. I understood Honey and she understood me. There were no computerized whatseediddles in Honey.

Glynda, my ’05 Hyundai, is a totally different story. I don’t know what it is, but it sure as hell isn’t a V-8 Ford. But Monday she was officially paid off. Mine, mine, mine. Whooo hoooo. Monday on the way home from work the “check engine” light came on. I had to chuckle at that. I mean, it had to be a little fuse or something, right? That light had never been on before.

So I took it to a dealership Tuesday morning and left my cell phone number. Tuesday afternoon, I realized that I’d left my cell phone home – something I never do. So I called the dealership back and, in a totally serious voice, the lady said, “Blah, blahdee blah, the hoofadidious from the whatchamacallit, blah, $310.”

“Excuse me?”

“Gobbledygook yacketta yacketta $310”

“That’s what I thought you said. Do I need one of those?”


Then we talked warranty. It seems my warranty expired while I was asking questions. So I really had no choice but to have them install a new thingamagig. But I didn’t want them to think I fell of the turnip truck yesterday so I told them I wanted the old thingamagig. Papa told me to always do that. I didn’t want the mechanic to know that I might not be able to tell a thingamagig from a hoistavarious.

So I went to pick up car and the man said, “Oh, and the mechanic said you needed new brakes, too.”

“HAH! I know what brakes are. I don’t need new brakes. My car stops fine. It doesn’t make grindy noises or squeally noises and my brakes are just hunky dory thank you very much. NO, NO, NO.”

He handed me my keys and a tiny little bag with some part he probably picked up from a big box where they keep broken bits for people who demand to see the part that needed replaced. It was just a little metal thing that looked like a big spark plug and a dirty black cable thing about 8 inches long.

My car seems happy enough now. No lights flashing where they ought not be flashing. Stops just fine. I miss Honey.