Tonight I'll be hanging with PBS as they start their new series: Colonial House. This is the third PBS reality series dealing with life during a specific period of history. It started with The 1900 House, in which a modern (The year was 1999) family of five lived for three months in a house and environment that recreated life one hundred years earlier. There were rules for authenticity, but a diary room (more like a closet) somewhere in the house where you could vent your 20th century frustrations.
Several years later PBS produced another series called Frontier House. This time it was a five-month project with three separate families recreating life in the Montana Territory in the year 1883. One family moved into a pre-existing cabin. A second family had their partially completed and the third -- a man and his father -- had to build it from scratch. This was another extremely fascinating series, because each family came from widely different backgrounds. The first family was quite affluent in present-day America. The family broke the rules right and left, and then couldn't understand it when they received the final "report" showing that in all likelihood, they would not have survived the first winter on the frontier. The second family adjusted to the rules more easily than the first, but when the five months were over, the parents split. The third family (the young man got married during the five month series, at which point his bride arrived and his father left) fared the best and had the most optimistic outlook on the experience. All agreed, though, that it was very difficult.
Tonight we begin Colonial Life in the year 1628. There are five houses and twenty seven participants (including two dogs). Tonight's Episode: A New World, Harsh Reality. From TV-Guide Online:
Time travelers from the 21st century start a 17th-century colony in coastal Maine from scratch (almost) in this four-part series. As it opens, it's 1628 and 25 men, women and children are sailing for the colony they'll call home for five months. It's cold and damp on-board, but they'll have to get used to that. They'll also have to get used to illness, having to go to the bathroom in the woods and dealing with Native Americans. And they must get used to backbreaking work ("Every minute," moans one woman -- and she's the governor's wife). It must be smart work, too. "We must get beyond just surviving the day," admits the governor, and that means planting maize. But soon a tragedy hits and the colonists lose their focus.
Monday, May 17, 2004
Channel Surfing
Tonight I'll be hanging with PBS as they start their new series: Colonial House. This is the third PBS reality series dealing with life during a specific period of history. It started with The 1900 House, in which a modern (The year was 1999) family of five lived for three months in a house and environment that recreated life one hundred years earlier. There were rules for authenticity, but a diary room (more like a closet) somewhere in the house where you could vent your 20th century frustrations.
Several years later PBS produced another series called Frontier House. This time it was a five-month project with three separate families recreating life in the Montana Territory in the year 1883. One family moved into a pre-existing cabin. A second family had their partially completed and the third -- a man and his father -- had to build it from scratch. This was another extremely fascinating series, because each family came from widely different backgrounds. The first family was quite affluent in present-day America. The family broke the rules right and left, and then couldn't understand it when they received the final "report" showing that in all likelihood, they would not have survived the first winter on the frontier. The second family adjusted to the rules more easily than the first, but when the five months were over, the parents split. The third family (the young man got married during the five month series, at which point his bride arrived and his father left) fared the best and had the most optimistic outlook on the experience. All agreed, though, that it was very difficult.
Tonight we begin Colonial Life in the year 1628. There are five houses and twenty seven participants (including two dogs). Tonight's Episode: A New World, Harsh Reality. From TV-Guide Online:
Time travelers from the 21st century start a 17th-century colony in coastal Maine from scratch (almost) in this four-part series. As it opens, it's 1628 and 25 men, women and children are sailing for the colony they'll call home for five months. It's cold and damp on-board, but they'll have to get used to that. They'll also have to get used to illness, having to go to the bathroom in the woods and dealing with Native Americans. And they must get used to backbreaking work ("Every minute," moans one woman -- and she's the governor's wife). It must be smart work, too. "We must get beyond just surviving the day," admits the governor, and that means planting maize. But soon a tragedy hits and the colonists lose their focus.
Several years later PBS produced another series called Frontier House. This time it was a five-month project with three separate families recreating life in the Montana Territory in the year 1883. One family moved into a pre-existing cabin. A second family had their partially completed and the third -- a man and his father -- had to build it from scratch. This was another extremely fascinating series, because each family came from widely different backgrounds. The first family was quite affluent in present-day America. The family broke the rules right and left, and then couldn't understand it when they received the final "report" showing that in all likelihood, they would not have survived the first winter on the frontier. The second family adjusted to the rules more easily than the first, but when the five months were over, the parents split. The third family (the young man got married during the five month series, at which point his bride arrived and his father left) fared the best and had the most optimistic outlook on the experience. All agreed, though, that it was very difficult.
Tonight we begin Colonial Life in the year 1628. There are five houses and twenty seven participants (including two dogs). Tonight's Episode: A New World, Harsh Reality. From TV-Guide Online:
Time travelers from the 21st century start a 17th-century colony in coastal Maine from scratch (almost) in this four-part series. As it opens, it's 1628 and 25 men, women and children are sailing for the colony they'll call home for five months. It's cold and damp on-board, but they'll have to get used to that. They'll also have to get used to illness, having to go to the bathroom in the woods and dealing with Native Americans. And they must get used to backbreaking work ("Every minute," moans one woman -- and she's the governor's wife). It must be smart work, too. "We must get beyond just surviving the day," admits the governor, and that means planting maize. But soon a tragedy hits and the colonists lose their focus.
Weekend Roundup
First of all, let me just say ... *phew* ...
Friday night TinyTuna sang her last choir concert of the year on the big stage at TunaU. The University runs an auxiliary Community Music School, and one of the major components of the school are several children's choirs. TinyTuna has been singing since she was just a guppy, so now, three years later, she's an old pro.
I'm constantly amazed, baffled and embarrassed by behavior at these concerts. We are increasingly becoming a community of TV and movie watchers with little to no real experience in live performances. But maybe I shouldn't be too hard on them. After all, they are just kids, and they will learn.
Except that I'm not talking about the kids -- I'm talking about the adults in the audience. In behavior that ranged from the mildly irritating to the variety of me-me-me attention-getting ploys, I just shook my head until it nearly disconnected from my body. First there is the pop goes the weasel *SPROING* from the chair once you catch sight of your child entering the auditorium. The jump-up leads directly into the incessant waving that ranges from the five-finger wiggle to the beauty queen wrist-wrist-elbow-elbow to the full fledged Gilligan's Island RESCUE ME flail. It's a bit much.
But the kids perservered, and sang their concert. Their long concert. Their two hours and twenty minutes long concert. Without intermission. (Very. Long.)
Saturday was the usual Grill Dogs - Grocery Stores - Errands type day. The weather improved a bit in the afternoon, and a quick "I'm going to mow the lawn" led to pulling some weeds which led to moving some plants which led to moving a lot of plants, which led to planting more plants in the newly created holes, which led to one extremely sore Tuna on Sunday.
Sunday was a graduation extravaganza for the newest sucker of "hey, I need some free legal advice!" I'd brag about all the food, except that the culinary highlight of the party was TinyTuna's plate of Shrek sugar cookies. Who could resist green frosting and a picture of donkey?
I liked that cookie. That was a NICE cookie.
Friday night TinyTuna sang her last choir concert of the year on the big stage at TunaU. The University runs an auxiliary Community Music School, and one of the major components of the school are several children's choirs. TinyTuna has been singing since she was just a guppy, so now, three years later, she's an old pro.
I'm constantly amazed, baffled and embarrassed by behavior at these concerts. We are increasingly becoming a community of TV and movie watchers with little to no real experience in live performances. But maybe I shouldn't be too hard on them. After all, they are just kids, and they will learn.
Except that I'm not talking about the kids -- I'm talking about the adults in the audience. In behavior that ranged from the mildly irritating to the variety of me-me-me attention-getting ploys, I just shook my head until it nearly disconnected from my body. First there is the pop goes the weasel *SPROING* from the chair once you catch sight of your child entering the auditorium. The jump-up leads directly into the incessant waving that ranges from the five-finger wiggle to the beauty queen wrist-wrist-elbow-elbow to the full fledged Gilligan's Island RESCUE ME flail. It's a bit much.
But the kids perservered, and sang their concert. Their long concert. Their two hours and twenty minutes long concert. Without intermission. (Very. Long.)
Saturday was the usual Grill Dogs - Grocery Stores - Errands type day. The weather improved a bit in the afternoon, and a quick "I'm going to mow the lawn" led to pulling some weeds which led to moving some plants which led to moving a lot of plants, which led to planting more plants in the newly created holes, which led to one extremely sore Tuna on Sunday.
Sunday was a graduation extravaganza for the newest sucker of "hey, I need some free legal advice!" I'd brag about all the food, except that the culinary highlight of the party was TinyTuna's plate of Shrek sugar cookies. Who could resist green frosting and a picture of donkey?
I liked that cookie. That was a NICE cookie.
Weekend Roundup
First of all, let me just say ... *phew* ...
Friday night TinyTuna sang her last choir concert of the year on the big stage at TunaU. The University runs an auxiliary Community Music School, and one of the major components of the school are several children's choirs. TinyTuna has been singing since she was just a guppy, so now, three years later, she's an old pro.
I'm constantly amazed, baffled and embarrassed by behavior at these concerts. We are increasingly becoming a community of TV and movie watchers with little to no real experience in live performances. But maybe I shouldn't be too hard on them. After all, they are just kids, and they will learn.
Except that I'm not talking about the kids -- I'm talking about the adults in the audience. In behavior that ranged from the mildly irritating to the variety of me-me-me attention-getting ploys, I just shook my head until it nearly disconnected from my body. First there is the pop goes the weasel *SPROING* from the chair once you catch sight of your child entering the auditorium. The jump-up leads directly into the incessant waving that ranges from the five-finger wiggle to the beauty queen wrist-wrist-elbow-elbow to the full fledged Gilligan's Island RESCUE ME flail. It's a bit much.
But the kids perservered, and sang their concert. Their long concert. Their two hours and twenty minutes long concert. Without intermission. (Very. Long.)
Saturday was the usual Grill Dogs - Grocery Stores - Errands type day. The weather improved a bit in the afternoon, and a quick "I'm going to mow the lawn" led to pulling some weeds which led to moving some plants which led to moving a lot of plants, which led to planting more plants in the newly created holes, which led to one extremely sore Tuna on Sunday.
Sunday was a graduation extravaganza for the newest sucker of "hey, I need some free legal advice!" I'd brag about all the food, except that the culinary highlight of the party was TinyTuna's plate of Shrek sugar cookies. Who could resist green frosting and a picture of donkey?
I liked that cookie. That was a NICE cookie.
Friday night TinyTuna sang her last choir concert of the year on the big stage at TunaU. The University runs an auxiliary Community Music School, and one of the major components of the school are several children's choirs. TinyTuna has been singing since she was just a guppy, so now, three years later, she's an old pro.
I'm constantly amazed, baffled and embarrassed by behavior at these concerts. We are increasingly becoming a community of TV and movie watchers with little to no real experience in live performances. But maybe I shouldn't be too hard on them. After all, they are just kids, and they will learn.
Except that I'm not talking about the kids -- I'm talking about the adults in the audience. In behavior that ranged from the mildly irritating to the variety of me-me-me attention-getting ploys, I just shook my head until it nearly disconnected from my body. First there is the pop goes the weasel *SPROING* from the chair once you catch sight of your child entering the auditorium. The jump-up leads directly into the incessant waving that ranges from the five-finger wiggle to the beauty queen wrist-wrist-elbow-elbow to the full fledged Gilligan's Island RESCUE ME flail. It's a bit much.
But the kids perservered, and sang their concert. Their long concert. Their two hours and twenty minutes long concert. Without intermission. (Very. Long.)
Saturday was the usual Grill Dogs - Grocery Stores - Errands type day. The weather improved a bit in the afternoon, and a quick "I'm going to mow the lawn" led to pulling some weeds which led to moving some plants which led to moving a lot of plants, which led to planting more plants in the newly created holes, which led to one extremely sore Tuna on Sunday.
Sunday was a graduation extravaganza for the newest sucker of "hey, I need some free legal advice!" I'd brag about all the food, except that the culinary highlight of the party was TinyTuna's plate of Shrek sugar cookies. Who could resist green frosting and a picture of donkey?
I liked that cookie. That was a NICE cookie.
Friday, May 14, 2004
Whether the Weather
It is near pointless to complain about Mitten weather. We generally have four lovely seasons and a respectable amount of variation between them all. However, for the past seven days, the weather has been either:
1. Quite lovely, or
2. Run for your lives.
There is no in-between. There is no warning. There is no waxing and waning from one to the other. Oh, no. It has been a meteorological on/off switch all week.
And yes folks, we're number two!
1. Quite lovely, or
2. Run for your lives.
There is no in-between. There is no warning. There is no waxing and waning from one to the other. Oh, no. It has been a meteorological on/off switch all week.
And yes folks, we're number two!
Whether the Weather
It is near pointless to complain about Mitten weather. We generally have four lovely seasons and a respectable amount of variation between them all. However, for the past seven days, the weather has been either:
1. Quite lovely, or
2. Run for your lives.
There is no in-between. There is no warning. There is no waxing and waning from one to the other. Oh, no. It has been a meteorological on/off switch all week.
And yes folks, we're number two!
1. Quite lovely, or
2. Run for your lives.
There is no in-between. There is no warning. There is no waxing and waning from one to the other. Oh, no. It has been a meteorological on/off switch all week.
And yes folks, we're number two!
The Birth of Me
The very first GreenTuna post on HamsterTime was July 8, 2003 at 3:47pm. I'm pleased to report that since that time I've managed to incorporate occasional elements of English grammar into my posts, but to this day I remain hopelessly devoted to both the ellipsis (now with more dots for extra emphasis!) and the m-dash.
~~~
GreenTuna here.....it's my very first post, though I was a devoted lurker last summer. I'm also a TWoP fanatic, and was grateful this site popped up when they closed the recaps across town.
Being an Eastern Daylight Time kinda gal, I'll be bringing you the extraliciously exciting "sleeping-snoring-showering-drinking coffee-playing cards" kind of recaps we know and love.
I got the live feeds here so...let the games begin!
~~~~
... and it was all downhill from there.
~~~
GreenTuna here.....it's my very first post, though I was a devoted lurker last summer. I'm also a TWoP fanatic, and was grateful this site popped up when they closed the recaps across town.
Being an Eastern Daylight Time kinda gal, I'll be bringing you the extraliciously exciting "sleeping-snoring-showering-drinking coffee-playing cards" kind of recaps we know and love.
I got the live feeds here so...let the games begin!
~~~~
... and it was all downhill from there.
The Birth of Me
The very first GreenTuna post on HamsterTime was July 8, 2003 at 3:47pm. I'm pleased to report that since that time I've managed to incorporate occasional elements of English grammar into my posts, but to this day I remain hopelessly devoted to both the ellipsis (now with more dots for extra emphasis!) and the m-dash.
~~~
GreenTuna here.....it's my very first post, though I was a devoted lurker last summer. I'm also a TWoP fanatic, and was grateful this site popped up when they closed the recaps across town.
Being an Eastern Daylight Time kinda gal, I'll be bringing you the extraliciously exciting "sleeping-snoring-showering-drinking coffee-playing cards" kind of recaps we know and love.
I got the live feeds here so...let the games begin!
~~~~
... and it was all downhill from there.
~~~
GreenTuna here.....it's my very first post, though I was a devoted lurker last summer. I'm also a TWoP fanatic, and was grateful this site popped up when they closed the recaps across town.
Being an Eastern Daylight Time kinda gal, I'll be bringing you the extraliciously exciting "sleeping-snoring-showering-drinking coffee-playing cards" kind of recaps we know and love.
I got the live feeds here so...let the games begin!
~~~~
... and it was all downhill from there.
"T" is for Me!
Three cheers and a tuna for me, today is food Friday, and Chef Grace, The Friday Chef has declared T IS FOR ME!
It's TUNA DAY, which is certainly a CAPS-LOCK event, don't you agree? I think Me day should start with a little quiz: Chicken or Tuna?
It's TUNA DAY, which is certainly a CAPS-LOCK event, don't you agree? I think Me day should start with a little quiz: Chicken or Tuna?
"T" is for Me!
Three cheers and a tuna for me, today is food Friday, and Chef Grace, The Friday Chef has declared T IS FOR ME!
It's TUNA DAY, which is certainly a CAPS-LOCK event, don't you agree? I think Me day should start with a little quiz: Chicken or Tuna?
It's TUNA DAY, which is certainly a CAPS-LOCK event, don't you agree? I think Me day should start with a little quiz: Chicken or Tuna?
Thursday, May 13, 2004
Pins and Needles
Today is Yellow Hard Hat Day. Which means it is the annual Fire Drill a-rama. Yesterday those of us unfortunate enough to be in possession of a yellow hard hat stamped with "Emergency Coordinator" had to go to the pre-drill meeting. I can't tell you what we talked about because it's super-secret hard hat stuff, and if I told you, I'd have to kill you.
HA! Not only will I tell you, but I'd be happy to let somebody (anybody) take over my hard hat duty. It comes with a lovely assortment of emergency coordinator gifts. In addition to the fetching yellow hard hat (fresh from it's appearance in a recent fourth-grade presentation on the history of Michigan), you also receive a waterproof pouch, complete with emergency slips that must be filled out, absolutely nothing with which to write, a mini flashlight that doesn't work and a whistle heretofore untested.
Feel the power.
So, the meeting. The meeting is the same every year: three people ask the same questions over and over again, and the rest of us look for the quickest escape route out of the conference room. After we've gone over THE PLAN eighty or ninety times, we are finally free to go and preach THE PLAN to our fellow coworkers.
Now today we sit and wait on pins and needles. Waiting for the ALARM to go off so we can SPRING into ACTION! It's a very CAPS LOCK kind of event, if you can't tell.
It makes the daily grind rather exciting -- Should I go to the bathroom? Will the blast of the alarm blow me clear off the porcelain? Will I ever be able to eat lunch?
Once outside, I have to bum a pencil off of somebody to fill out my report and turn it into Heap Big Chief Hard Hat with the Fetching Green Stripe. He's our leader. All hail Chief Green Stripe!
And then we sit around and wait for the all clear....
...
...
...
Which now, at 11:42 am, it is. Safe for another year!
HA! Not only will I tell you, but I'd be happy to let somebody (anybody) take over my hard hat duty. It comes with a lovely assortment of emergency coordinator gifts. In addition to the fetching yellow hard hat (fresh from it's appearance in a recent fourth-grade presentation on the history of Michigan), you also receive a waterproof pouch, complete with emergency slips that must be filled out, absolutely nothing with which to write, a mini flashlight that doesn't work and a whistle heretofore untested.
Feel the power.
So, the meeting. The meeting is the same every year: three people ask the same questions over and over again, and the rest of us look for the quickest escape route out of the conference room. After we've gone over THE PLAN eighty or ninety times, we are finally free to go and preach THE PLAN to our fellow coworkers.
Now today we sit and wait on pins and needles. Waiting for the ALARM to go off so we can SPRING into ACTION! It's a very CAPS LOCK kind of event, if you can't tell.
It makes the daily grind rather exciting -- Should I go to the bathroom? Will the blast of the alarm blow me clear off the porcelain? Will I ever be able to eat lunch?
Once outside, I have to bum a pencil off of somebody to fill out my report and turn it into Heap Big Chief Hard Hat with the Fetching Green Stripe. He's our leader. All hail Chief Green Stripe!
And then we sit around and wait for the all clear....
...
...
...
Which now, at 11:42 am, it is. Safe for another year!
Pins and Needles
Today is Yellow Hard Hat Day. Which means it is the annual Fire Drill a-rama. Yesterday those of us unfortunate enough to be in possession of a yellow hard hat stamped with "Emergency Coordinator" had to go to the pre-drill meeting. I can't tell you what we talked about because it's super-secret hard hat stuff, and if I told you, I'd have to kill you.
HA! Not only will I tell you, but I'd be happy to let somebody (anybody) take over my hard hat duty. It comes with a lovely assortment of emergency coordinator gifts. In addition to the fetching yellow hard hat (fresh from it's appearance in a recent fourth-grade presentation on the history of Michigan), you also receive a waterproof pouch, complete with emergency slips that must be filled out, absolutely nothing with which to write, a mini flashlight that doesn't work and a whistle heretofore untested.
Feel the power.
So, the meeting. The meeting is the same every year: three people ask the same questions over and over again, and the rest of us look for the quickest escape route out of the conference room. After we've gone over THE PLAN eighty or ninety times, we are finally free to go and preach THE PLAN to our fellow coworkers.
Now today we sit and wait on pins and needles. Waiting for the ALARM to go off so we can SPRING into ACTION! It's a very CAPS LOCK kind of event, if you can't tell.
It makes the daily grind rather exciting -- Should I go to the bathroom? Will the blast of the alarm blow me clear off the porcelain? Will I ever be able to eat lunch?
Once outside, I have to bum a pencil off of somebody to fill out my report and turn it into Heap Big Chief Hard Hat with the Fetching Green Stripe. He's our leader. All hail Chief Green Stripe!
And then we sit around and wait for the all clear....
...
...
...
Which now, at 11:42 am, it is. Safe for another year!
HA! Not only will I tell you, but I'd be happy to let somebody (anybody) take over my hard hat duty. It comes with a lovely assortment of emergency coordinator gifts. In addition to the fetching yellow hard hat (fresh from it's appearance in a recent fourth-grade presentation on the history of Michigan), you also receive a waterproof pouch, complete with emergency slips that must be filled out, absolutely nothing with which to write, a mini flashlight that doesn't work and a whistle heretofore untested.
Feel the power.
So, the meeting. The meeting is the same every year: three people ask the same questions over and over again, and the rest of us look for the quickest escape route out of the conference room. After we've gone over THE PLAN eighty or ninety times, we are finally free to go and preach THE PLAN to our fellow coworkers.
Now today we sit and wait on pins and needles. Waiting for the ALARM to go off so we can SPRING into ACTION! It's a very CAPS LOCK kind of event, if you can't tell.
It makes the daily grind rather exciting -- Should I go to the bathroom? Will the blast of the alarm blow me clear off the porcelain? Will I ever be able to eat lunch?
Once outside, I have to bum a pencil off of somebody to fill out my report and turn it into Heap Big Chief Hard Hat with the Fetching Green Stripe. He's our leader. All hail Chief Green Stripe!
And then we sit around and wait for the all clear....
...
...
...
Which now, at 11:42 am, it is. Safe for another year!
On Wisconsin
There are some days when I just couldn't say it any better! Finally, a current event appropriate for a 10-year old.
On Wisconsin
There are some days when I just couldn't say it any better! Finally, a current event appropriate for a 10-year old.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
MPF
Hello Kitty! I'm not sure if this is the Japanese version of a happy meal or what. Despite the artistic arrangement of the intestines and internal organs, this meal would certainly come back to haunt me.
But I guess what they say is true....
You can have your face and eat it too.
Courtesy of BoingBoing and some whacked out guy at that school down the road.
MPF
Hello Kitty! I'm not sure if this is the Japanese version of a happy meal or what. Despite the artistic arrangement of the intestines and internal organs, this meal would certainly come back to haunt me.
But I guess what they say is true....
You can have your face and eat it too.
Courtesy of BoingBoing and some whacked out guy at that school down the road.
Smells Like Teen Spirit
The Scene: Grocery Store
The Time: Saturday Morning
The Pervading Attitude: Get out of my way NOW.
With me is my general list of this-and-that. I have made the unilateral decision that it is time. Taking a big breath TinyTuna and I scout the HBA section (because they delight in moving things around on a weekly basis) until I come across...
I look at TinyTuna and I say, "Well, I thought it was time that you picked out some of your very own deodorant."
Her eyes grow wide as saucers, her jaw drops with an audible gasp, and she looks at me as if I have just informed her that she can have Spaghetti-Os, chocolate pudding and Doritos in her lunch from now until forever.
Big smile. HUGE smile. CAPS LOCK-HUGE SMILE.
"Really???" She asks.
Half grin. Lord-save-me-now-from-the-DRAMA-I-just-know-is-coming half grin.
"Really," I nod and tell her.
And then. Which to choose? We scout around a bit, and find some Teen Sticks. Just having the word TEEN in the title nearly sends her over the edge. But we can't just grab one and go. Oh no. That would shorten the DRAMA of the selection. We have to whiff each and every whiff, and then discuss and then debate and then not be able to choose and then be threatened to hurry up and just pick one or we won't buy any.
That drama.
Whiff number one was "Berry Blossom". TinyTuna smells it and says "Oooo, that's nice." I take one whiff, feel woozy and wonder why I can suddenly see three of everything. "Woah! That's a bit strong, don't you think?" Honestly, in a battle of whiffs, I think I'd pick Au Naturale over this stuff. One swipe of "Berry Blossom" and her pits would be an open invitation to every bee on the continent.
We put it back.
Whiff number two was "Caribbean Cool." Yet another obtuse scent-title, meaning nothing. Blossoms whiff. Berries whiff. Caribbean? I've not been there, so I can't speak to it's whiffitude. As for cool, the closest thing I can think of for cool isn't so much whiff as anti-whiff. "Hot" would whiff -- and in the pit world, not so hot. Ditto for warm, muggy, humid or partly cloudy with a 90% chance of rain.
But we must proceed. So we whiff Caribbean Cool. I'd describe it, but I can't. The best I can say is that it is not offensive, which, if you ask me, is good enough. I'm ready to grab and go. But not TinyTuna. This is science! This is Teen Spirit Stick Deodorant! This is important dramatic type stuff.
We whiff a "powder fresh" and an "unscented" (yes we whiffed Unscented, because I guess it's important to be thorough in these matters). Both are rejected. Powder fresh is too baby-ish and unscented (for very obvious reasons) just isn't whiffy enough.
So, it's a whiff-off between Berry Blossom and Caribbean Cool. Whiff one, whiff the other. Back and forth, back and forth. I'm getting irritated. Back and forth, back and forth. As a surprise to absolutely nobody, she can't decide. Back and forth, back and forth.
"Pick one, or we're leaving!" I bark.
Caribbean Cool it is. We have now selected the whiff. And now the fun begins.
"GRAM!" She shouts halfway across the store. "GUESS WHAT I HAVE!" She grabs it out of the cart and goes racing down the aisle. My eyes roll out of my head.
Home we go. After surviving the severe angst of not finding it in the grocery bags, we found it and gave it a special home in the bathroom. Drama over? Not even.
Sunday after church. Sitting at brunch. With two adult friends of the male persuasion.
"Guess what!" She says happily.
"What?" They ask.
She shoots me a look and starts talking out one side of her mouth, as if nobody will hear her. With teeth clenched in that I-can't-say-this-out-loud kind of way she asks me "Can I tell them what I got at the store yesterday?"
Oh brother. "I suppose," I answer. If you really want to, go ahead." Who am I to rain on her whiff?
"I got something at the store yesterday," she says in a super-secret eyebrowish kind of way.
"What did you get?"
Does she tell them? No. She DOES CHARADES. And not charades of the application. Charades of the pit check itself.
In horror, I stop her, mid-sniff. "No!" I say, wishing for Abraham and his angels to take me away. "If you have something to say, then just SAY it. You don't need to do a demonstration."
Not at all deterred, she continues. "I got deodorant," she says proudly.
Everybody looks at me. I just smile, shake my head and say, "Yep, she sure did," and keep eating my lunch. If I'm going to suffer, I figured everybody else should come along for the ride.
Was that the end? You're kidding, right?
We told Dad on Monday.
We told the Fourth-Grade Teacher on Monday.
We probably told the Dance Teacher on Tuesday.
That leaves three choir teachers, one art teacher, one gym teacher, the principal, every friend in the world and most importantly -- her cousin. And that's the one that matters. The eight year old cousin. The one that wants deodorant more than ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD. And now TinyTuna can Lord over her with her sceptre of Teen Stick.
It's good to have a whiff. Even if it's Caribbean Cool.
The Time: Saturday Morning
The Pervading Attitude: Get out of my way NOW.
With me is my general list of this-and-that. I have made the unilateral decision that it is time. Taking a big breath TinyTuna and I scout the HBA section (because they delight in moving things around on a weekly basis) until I come across...
I look at TinyTuna and I say, "Well, I thought it was time that you picked out some of your very own deodorant."
Her eyes grow wide as saucers, her jaw drops with an audible gasp, and she looks at me as if I have just informed her that she can have Spaghetti-Os, chocolate pudding and Doritos in her lunch from now until forever.
Big smile. HUGE smile. CAPS LOCK-HUGE SMILE.
"Really???" She asks.
Half grin. Lord-save-me-now-from-the-DRAMA-I-just-know-is-coming half grin.
"Really," I nod and tell her.
And then. Which to choose? We scout around a bit, and find some Teen Sticks. Just having the word TEEN in the title nearly sends her over the edge. But we can't just grab one and go. Oh no. That would shorten the DRAMA of the selection. We have to whiff each and every whiff, and then discuss and then debate and then not be able to choose and then be threatened to hurry up and just pick one or we won't buy any.
That drama.
Whiff number one was "Berry Blossom". TinyTuna smells it and says "Oooo, that's nice." I take one whiff, feel woozy and wonder why I can suddenly see three of everything. "Woah! That's a bit strong, don't you think?" Honestly, in a battle of whiffs, I think I'd pick Au Naturale over this stuff. One swipe of "Berry Blossom" and her pits would be an open invitation to every bee on the continent.
We put it back.
Whiff number two was "Caribbean Cool." Yet another obtuse scent-title, meaning nothing. Blossoms whiff. Berries whiff. Caribbean? I've not been there, so I can't speak to it's whiffitude. As for cool, the closest thing I can think of for cool isn't so much whiff as anti-whiff. "Hot" would whiff -- and in the pit world, not so hot. Ditto for warm, muggy, humid or partly cloudy with a 90% chance of rain.
But we must proceed. So we whiff Caribbean Cool. I'd describe it, but I can't. The best I can say is that it is not offensive, which, if you ask me, is good enough. I'm ready to grab and go. But not TinyTuna. This is science! This is Teen Spirit Stick Deodorant! This is important dramatic type stuff.
We whiff a "powder fresh" and an "unscented" (yes we whiffed Unscented, because I guess it's important to be thorough in these matters). Both are rejected. Powder fresh is too baby-ish and unscented (for very obvious reasons) just isn't whiffy enough.
So, it's a whiff-off between Berry Blossom and Caribbean Cool. Whiff one, whiff the other. Back and forth, back and forth. I'm getting irritated. Back and forth, back and forth. As a surprise to absolutely nobody, she can't decide. Back and forth, back and forth.
"Pick one, or we're leaving!" I bark.
Caribbean Cool it is. We have now selected the whiff. And now the fun begins.
"GRAM!" She shouts halfway across the store. "GUESS WHAT I HAVE!" She grabs it out of the cart and goes racing down the aisle. My eyes roll out of my head.
Home we go. After surviving the severe angst of not finding it in the grocery bags, we found it and gave it a special home in the bathroom. Drama over? Not even.
Sunday after church. Sitting at brunch. With two adult friends of the male persuasion.
"Guess what!" She says happily.
"What?" They ask.
She shoots me a look and starts talking out one side of her mouth, as if nobody will hear her. With teeth clenched in that I-can't-say-this-out-loud kind of way she asks me "Can I tell them what I got at the store yesterday?"
Oh brother. "I suppose," I answer. If you really want to, go ahead." Who am I to rain on her whiff?
"I got something at the store yesterday," she says in a super-secret eyebrowish kind of way.
"What did you get?"
Does she tell them? No. She DOES CHARADES. And not charades of the application. Charades of the pit check itself.
In horror, I stop her, mid-sniff. "No!" I say, wishing for Abraham and his angels to take me away. "If you have something to say, then just SAY it. You don't need to do a demonstration."
Not at all deterred, she continues. "I got deodorant," she says proudly.
Everybody looks at me. I just smile, shake my head and say, "Yep, she sure did," and keep eating my lunch. If I'm going to suffer, I figured everybody else should come along for the ride.
Was that the end? You're kidding, right?
We told Dad on Monday.
We told the Fourth-Grade Teacher on Monday.
We probably told the Dance Teacher on Tuesday.
That leaves three choir teachers, one art teacher, one gym teacher, the principal, every friend in the world and most importantly -- her cousin. And that's the one that matters. The eight year old cousin. The one that wants deodorant more than ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD. And now TinyTuna can Lord over her with her sceptre of Teen Stick.
It's good to have a whiff. Even if it's Caribbean Cool.
Smells Like Teen Spirit
The Scene: Grocery Store
The Time: Saturday Morning
The Pervading Attitude: Get out of my way NOW.
With me is my general list of this-and-that. I have made the unilateral decision that it is time. Taking a big breath TinyTuna and I scout the HBA section (because they delight in moving things around on a weekly basis) until I come across...
I look at TinyTuna and I say, "Well, I thought it was time that you picked out some of your very own deodorant."
Her eyes grow wide as saucers, her jaw drops with an audible gasp, and she looks at me as if I have just informed her that she can have Spaghetti-Os, chocolate pudding and Doritos in her lunch from now until forever.
Big smile. HUGE smile. CAPS LOCK-HUGE SMILE.
"Really???" She asks.
Half grin. Lord-save-me-now-from-the-DRAMA-I-just-know-is-coming half grin.
"Really," I nod and tell her.
And then. Which to choose? We scout around a bit, and find some Teen Sticks. Just having the word TEEN in the title nearly sends her over the edge. But we can't just grab one and go. Oh no. That would shorten the DRAMA of the selection. We have to whiff each and every whiff, and then discuss and then debate and then not be able to choose and then be threatened to hurry up and just pick one or we won't buy any.
That drama.
Whiff number one was "Berry Blossom". TinyTuna smells it and says "Oooo, that's nice." I take one whiff, feel woozy and wonder why I can suddenly see three of everything. "Woah! That's a bit strong, don't you think?" Honestly, in a battle of whiffs, I think I'd pick Au Naturale over this stuff. One swipe of "Berry Blossom" and her pits would be an open invitation to every bee on the continent.
We put it back.
Whiff number two was "Caribbean Cool." Yet another obtuse scent-title, meaning nothing. Blossoms whiff. Berries whiff. Caribbean? I've not been there, so I can't speak to it's whiffitude. As for cool, the closest thing I can think of for cool isn't so much whiff as anti-whiff. "Hot" would whiff -- and in the pit world, not so hot. Ditto for warm, muggy, humid or partly cloudy with a 90% chance of rain.
But we must proceed. So we whiff Caribbean Cool. I'd describe it, but I can't. The best I can say is that it is not offensive, which, if you ask me, is good enough. I'm ready to grab and go. But not TinyTuna. This is science! This is Teen Spirit Stick Deodorant! This is important dramatic type stuff.
We whiff a "powder fresh" and an "unscented" (yes we whiffed Unscented, because I guess it's important to be thorough in these matters). Both are rejected. Powder fresh is too baby-ish and unscented (for very obvious reasons) just isn't whiffy enough.
So, it's a whiff-off between Berry Blossom and Caribbean Cool. Whiff one, whiff the other. Back and forth, back and forth. I'm getting irritated. Back and forth, back and forth. As a surprise to absolutely nobody, she can't decide. Back and forth, back and forth.
"Pick one, or we're leaving!" I bark.
Caribbean Cool it is. We have now selected the whiff. And now the fun begins.
"GRAM!" She shouts halfway across the store. "GUESS WHAT I HAVE!" She grabs it out of the cart and goes racing down the aisle. My eyes roll out of my head.
Home we go. After surviving the severe angst of not finding it in the grocery bags, we found it and gave it a special home in the bathroom. Drama over? Not even.
Sunday after church. Sitting at brunch. With two adult friends of the male persuasion.
"Guess what!" She says happily.
"What?" They ask.
She shoots me a look and starts talking out one side of her mouth, as if nobody will hear her. With teeth clenched in that I-can't-say-this-out-loud kind of way she asks me "Can I tell them what I got at the store yesterday?"
Oh brother. "I suppose," I answer. If you really want to, go ahead." Who am I to rain on her whiff?
"I got something at the store yesterday," she says in a super-secret eyebrowish kind of way.
"What did you get?"
Does she tell them? No. She DOES CHARADES. And not charades of the application. Charades of the pit check itself.
In horror, I stop her, mid-sniff. "No!" I say, wishing for Abraham and his angels to take me away. "If you have something to say, then just SAY it. You don't need to do a demonstration."
Not at all deterred, she continues. "I got deodorant," she says proudly.
Everybody looks at me. I just smile, shake my head and say, "Yep, she sure did," and keep eating my lunch. If I'm going to suffer, I figured everybody else should come along for the ride.
Was that the end? You're kidding, right?
We told Dad on Monday.
We told the Fourth-Grade Teacher on Monday.
We probably told the Dance Teacher on Tuesday.
That leaves three choir teachers, one art teacher, one gym teacher, the principal, every friend in the world and most importantly -- her cousin. And that's the one that matters. The eight year old cousin. The one that wants deodorant more than ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD. And now TinyTuna can Lord over her with her sceptre of Teen Stick.
It's good to have a whiff. Even if it's Caribbean Cool.
The Time: Saturday Morning
The Pervading Attitude: Get out of my way NOW.
With me is my general list of this-and-that. I have made the unilateral decision that it is time. Taking a big breath TinyTuna and I scout the HBA section (because they delight in moving things around on a weekly basis) until I come across...
I look at TinyTuna and I say, "Well, I thought it was time that you picked out some of your very own deodorant."
Her eyes grow wide as saucers, her jaw drops with an audible gasp, and she looks at me as if I have just informed her that she can have Spaghetti-Os, chocolate pudding and Doritos in her lunch from now until forever.
Big smile. HUGE smile. CAPS LOCK-HUGE SMILE.
"Really???" She asks.
Half grin. Lord-save-me-now-from-the-DRAMA-I-just-know-is-coming half grin.
"Really," I nod and tell her.
And then. Which to choose? We scout around a bit, and find some Teen Sticks. Just having the word TEEN in the title nearly sends her over the edge. But we can't just grab one and go. Oh no. That would shorten the DRAMA of the selection. We have to whiff each and every whiff, and then discuss and then debate and then not be able to choose and then be threatened to hurry up and just pick one or we won't buy any.
That drama.
Whiff number one was "Berry Blossom". TinyTuna smells it and says "Oooo, that's nice." I take one whiff, feel woozy and wonder why I can suddenly see three of everything. "Woah! That's a bit strong, don't you think?" Honestly, in a battle of whiffs, I think I'd pick Au Naturale over this stuff. One swipe of "Berry Blossom" and her pits would be an open invitation to every bee on the continent.
We put it back.
Whiff number two was "Caribbean Cool." Yet another obtuse scent-title, meaning nothing. Blossoms whiff. Berries whiff. Caribbean? I've not been there, so I can't speak to it's whiffitude. As for cool, the closest thing I can think of for cool isn't so much whiff as anti-whiff. "Hot" would whiff -- and in the pit world, not so hot. Ditto for warm, muggy, humid or partly cloudy with a 90% chance of rain.
But we must proceed. So we whiff Caribbean Cool. I'd describe it, but I can't. The best I can say is that it is not offensive, which, if you ask me, is good enough. I'm ready to grab and go. But not TinyTuna. This is science! This is Teen Spirit Stick Deodorant! This is important dramatic type stuff.
We whiff a "powder fresh" and an "unscented" (yes we whiffed Unscented, because I guess it's important to be thorough in these matters). Both are rejected. Powder fresh is too baby-ish and unscented (for very obvious reasons) just isn't whiffy enough.
So, it's a whiff-off between Berry Blossom and Caribbean Cool. Whiff one, whiff the other. Back and forth, back and forth. I'm getting irritated. Back and forth, back and forth. As a surprise to absolutely nobody, she can't decide. Back and forth, back and forth.
"Pick one, or we're leaving!" I bark.
Caribbean Cool it is. We have now selected the whiff. And now the fun begins.
"GRAM!" She shouts halfway across the store. "GUESS WHAT I HAVE!" She grabs it out of the cart and goes racing down the aisle. My eyes roll out of my head.
Home we go. After surviving the severe angst of not finding it in the grocery bags, we found it and gave it a special home in the bathroom. Drama over? Not even.
Sunday after church. Sitting at brunch. With two adult friends of the male persuasion.
"Guess what!" She says happily.
"What?" They ask.
She shoots me a look and starts talking out one side of her mouth, as if nobody will hear her. With teeth clenched in that I-can't-say-this-out-loud kind of way she asks me "Can I tell them what I got at the store yesterday?"
Oh brother. "I suppose," I answer. If you really want to, go ahead." Who am I to rain on her whiff?
"I got something at the store yesterday," she says in a super-secret eyebrowish kind of way.
"What did you get?"
Does she tell them? No. She DOES CHARADES. And not charades of the application. Charades of the pit check itself.
In horror, I stop her, mid-sniff. "No!" I say, wishing for Abraham and his angels to take me away. "If you have something to say, then just SAY it. You don't need to do a demonstration."
Not at all deterred, she continues. "I got deodorant," she says proudly.
Everybody looks at me. I just smile, shake my head and say, "Yep, she sure did," and keep eating my lunch. If I'm going to suffer, I figured everybody else should come along for the ride.
Was that the end? You're kidding, right?
We told Dad on Monday.
We told the Fourth-Grade Teacher on Monday.
We probably told the Dance Teacher on Tuesday.
That leaves three choir teachers, one art teacher, one gym teacher, the principal, every friend in the world and most importantly -- her cousin. And that's the one that matters. The eight year old cousin. The one that wants deodorant more than ANYTHING ELSE IN THE WORLD. And now TinyTuna can Lord over her with her sceptre of Teen Stick.
It's good to have a whiff. Even if it's Caribbean Cool.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Onward and Upward!
Enough tweaking for now. I'm happy with lots of things, although with my resolution settings, I get a big wad of wasted space on the right hand side. I've emailed Blogger about various things, including the "Anonymous Comments" issue, so we'll see where that gets us. Most likely nowhere fast.
In the meantime, I've added several more links of sites I have stumbled across and added to my collection of daily diversions. You might want to check out:
The Ocracoke Journal
For those interested in the Outer Banks, North Carolina, Islands and Pirates, this is the site for you. Brief updates near daily keep Ocracoke Island close at hand. Vacation, I hear you calling. I do believe in ferrys! I do! I do!!
Shhh!
Over the years I've learned that librarians are smart, funny and a dangerous crowd. Keep us happy, or you'll never find that obscure citation in that big blue book on the top shelf. We know where ALL the blue books are, and will hide them when provoked. Knowledge is power. Fear the librarian!
Photography
I previously mentioned the APOD web site (Astronomy Picture of the Day). Photography sites fascinate me. What can't you do with a camera these days?
Shrubbery
Bring me one. But not that one. Please, just take that one away.
In the meantime, I've added several more links of sites I have stumbled across and added to my collection of daily diversions. You might want to check out:
The Ocracoke Journal
For those interested in the Outer Banks, North Carolina, Islands and Pirates, this is the site for you. Brief updates near daily keep Ocracoke Island close at hand. Vacation, I hear you calling. I do believe in ferrys! I do! I do!!
Shhh!
Over the years I've learned that librarians are smart, funny and a dangerous crowd. Keep us happy, or you'll never find that obscure citation in that big blue book on the top shelf. We know where ALL the blue books are, and will hide them when provoked. Knowledge is power. Fear the librarian!
Photography
I previously mentioned the APOD web site (Astronomy Picture of the Day). Photography sites fascinate me. What can't you do with a camera these days?
Shrubbery
Bring me one. But not that one. Please, just take that one away.
Onward and Upward!
Enough tweaking for now. I'm happy with lots of things, although with my resolution settings, I get a big wad of wasted space on the right hand side. I've emailed Blogger about various things, including the "Anonymous Comments" issue, so we'll see where that gets us. Most likely nowhere fast.
In the meantime, I've added several more links of sites I have stumbled across and added to my collection of daily diversions. You might want to check out:
The Ocracoke Journal
For those interested in the Outer Banks, North Carolina, Islands and Pirates, this is the site for you. Brief updates near daily keep Ocracoke Island close at hand. Vacation, I hear you calling. I do believe in ferrys! I do! I do!!
Shhh!
Over the years I've learned that librarians are smart, funny and a dangerous crowd. Keep us happy, or you'll never find that obscure citation in that big blue book on the top shelf. We know where ALL the blue books are, and will hide them when provoked. Knowledge is power. Fear the librarian!
Photography
I previously mentioned the APOD web site (Astronomy Picture of the Day). Photography sites fascinate me. What can't you do with a camera these days?
Shrubbery
Bring me one. But not that one. Please, just take that one away.
In the meantime, I've added several more links of sites I have stumbled across and added to my collection of daily diversions. You might want to check out:
The Ocracoke Journal
For those interested in the Outer Banks, North Carolina, Islands and Pirates, this is the site for you. Brief updates near daily keep Ocracoke Island close at hand. Vacation, I hear you calling. I do believe in ferrys! I do! I do!!
Shhh!
Over the years I've learned that librarians are smart, funny and a dangerous crowd. Keep us happy, or you'll never find that obscure citation in that big blue book on the top shelf. We know where ALL the blue books are, and will hide them when provoked. Knowledge is power. Fear the librarian!
Photography
I previously mentioned the APOD web site (Astronomy Picture of the Day). Photography sites fascinate me. What can't you do with a camera these days?
Shrubbery
Bring me one. But not that one. Please, just take that one away.
LANCELOT LINKS
Links have returned. The page is settling into something workable. Thanks to all of you who have passed along your suggestions and encouragement. Tomorrow (ugh, today) I'll put the links in some sort of order. Until then, enjoy.
LANCELOT LINKS
Links have returned. The page is settling into something workable. Thanks to all of you who have passed along your suggestions and encouragement. Tomorrow (ugh, today) I'll put the links in some sort of order. Until then, enjoy.
Monday, May 10, 2004
YIKES
Well, so far I've managed to make a few changes and really irritate a lot of people. I've got the color going, I've got the fishies back in place, I've widened the main column, and fixed some of the link / subheader colors so they are legible. I'm going to re-edit a few of my older posts to incorporate the "Title" thingee, so just a title will appear at the right, and not the title plus five or six extra words.
The comments section is a double-edged sword. Some people like comments attached to each individual post. I don't have an opinion one way or another, but I suppose I may be inclined to "comment back" in this format rather that the old "guestbook" deal. I can't find any quick work-around to the "anonymous" problem within the comment section. Perhaps I'll send an email to the King of Blogger and see what he has to say for himself.
Meanwhile, hold tight -- more changes still to come. If you have any other thoughts or ideas, please be sure to pass them along.
The comments section is a double-edged sword. Some people like comments attached to each individual post. I don't have an opinion one way or another, but I suppose I may be inclined to "comment back" in this format rather that the old "guestbook" deal. I can't find any quick work-around to the "anonymous" problem within the comment section. Perhaps I'll send an email to the King of Blogger and see what he has to say for himself.
Meanwhile, hold tight -- more changes still to come. If you have any other thoughts or ideas, please be sure to pass them along.
YIKES
Well, so far I've managed to make a few changes and really irritate a lot of people. I've got the color going, I've got the fishies back in place, I've widened the main column, and fixed some of the link / subheader colors so they are legible. I'm going to re-edit a few of my older posts to incorporate the "Title" thingee, so just a title will appear at the right, and not the title plus five or six extra words.
The comments section is a double-edged sword. Some people like comments attached to each individual post. I don't have an opinion one way or another, but I suppose I may be inclined to "comment back" in this format rather that the old "guestbook" deal. I can't find any quick work-around to the "anonymous" problem within the comment section. Perhaps I'll send an email to the King of Blogger and see what he has to say for himself.
Meanwhile, hold tight -- more changes still to come. If you have any other thoughts or ideas, please be sure to pass them along.
The comments section is a double-edged sword. Some people like comments attached to each individual post. I don't have an opinion one way or another, but I suppose I may be inclined to "comment back" in this format rather that the old "guestbook" deal. I can't find any quick work-around to the "anonymous" problem within the comment section. Perhaps I'll send an email to the King of Blogger and see what he has to say for himself.
Meanwhile, hold tight -- more changes still to come. If you have any other thoughts or ideas, please be sure to pass them along.
SPLOOSH
OK, I'm going to take the plunge. Meaning I'm going to change a few things around here in the virtual Tuna Tank. Hang on for the next hour or so, as I try to figure out what works best. And never fear, if it looks craptacular when I'm done, I saved my old template and I'll smash it back in.
Here goes nothing....
Sign My Guestbook!
Here goes nothing....
Sign My Guestbook!
SPLOOSH
OK, I'm going to take the plunge. Meaning I'm going to change a few things around here in the virtual Tuna Tank. Hang on for the next hour or so, as I try to figure out what works best. And never fear, if it looks craptacular when I'm done, I saved my old template and I'll smash it back in.
Here goes nothing....
Sign My Guestbook!
Here goes nothing....
Sign My Guestbook!
CAST YOUR VOTE
Ewww. Total Blogger overhaul. People, I don't have time for this right now! Needless to say, everything is all anew and askew and a-I-don't-know-what. For the time being, I'm not changing anything because I need to time to figure out what's better and what's worse.
A guarded and generally uninterested "well done" to the winner of Survivor All-Stars. I've tried to view some of the groveling videos for the 2nd million give-a-way on Thursday. The CBS site is a bit wonky this morning (read: slammed), so viewing the videos of groveling has been a bit tough. In case you can't see them, this is what you've missed:
1. Oil of Olay Ad -- gah, these are annoying --
Alicia -- When you start your begging by saying "LOOK" in a way that you're certain a lecture is bound to follow, people might not be too sympathetic. Her argument: Always honest. Always truthful. Tell's it to you straight. Always She speaks her mind. If you're strong and you speak your mind, then vote for her dag-nab-it.
Amber -- Giddy. Dumbah. She already has a million! She has a beautiful ring! But give her another million anyway! ! !! !!!!
Colby -- He's the only guy in the history of ever that has stuck to his alliance knowing it would cost him the million. Give it to him because he's most deserving. I don't know about deserving. Maybe most gullible.....
Ethan -- Would give this million away to all the other Survivor's charities. Meh. Who needs a middle-man? Sorry Soccer-boy.
Jenna L. -- Well...there was something about twins, I think. And having a million dollars so she wouldn't have to ask for a million dollars. Honestly, I can't understand half of what she's talking about. But the last half of her mile-a-minute rant was appealing to all the tye-dyers, pirates and Dead-Heads, telling everybody to vote for Rupert because he's going to win anyway. Uh, word.
Jenna M. -- Breast Cancer research. She promises.
2. Tide Ad. Grrrrr.
Black Screen of "Jerri Elected Not to Participate"
Kathy -- Works hard, appreciates the players, got robbed in Marquesas. Works hard. Knows how to play. Works hard.
Lex -- Played the game twice with his heart. I thought he played the first game with his GUT? Thinks America should vote with their hearts.
Richard -- Give it to the guy who played the game the best. That's Richard! The best. Don't forget, he's the best.
Rob C. -- He'll give half the money to Rupert and take Big Tom out to dinner. Heh. Cesternino...Out!
Rob M. -- He was strongest. Everybody else is sour grapes. Honest. This time. Not like the other times. Ignore those times. This time he's honest. Honest. Really.
3. Toothpaste Ad. Oy.
Rudy -- Give him the million and he'll give it to his kids. And the next time somebody wants money, he'll say "go talk to my kids." He doesn't like moochers.
Rupert -- Needs it for family. And his mama. And his kids that he mentors. And gosh golly he could help so many people.
Shii-Ann -- She deserves the million because of her strategy. I guess her strategy included getting voted out.
Sue -- If you don't vote for Sue, she wouldn't give you water in the desert and hopes the vultures come out and ... well, you know the rest.
Tina -- Doesn't need the money and doesn't want the money.
Tom -- His speech did not come with subtitles. Something about losing weight and being out there the longest of both Survivor shows. And he'd 'preciate it. Yessir he would!
Sign My Guestbook!
A guarded and generally uninterested "well done" to the winner of Survivor All-Stars. I've tried to view some of the groveling videos for the 2nd million give-a-way on Thursday. The CBS site is a bit wonky this morning (read: slammed), so viewing the videos of groveling has been a bit tough. In case you can't see them, this is what you've missed:
1. Oil of Olay Ad -- gah, these are annoying --
Alicia -- When you start your begging by saying "LOOK" in a way that you're certain a lecture is bound to follow, people might not be too sympathetic. Her argument: Always honest. Always truthful. Tell's it to you straight. Always She speaks her mind. If you're strong and you speak your mind, then vote for her dag-nab-it.
Amber -- Giddy. Dumbah. She already has a million! She has a beautiful ring! But give her another million anyway! ! !! !!!!
Colby -- He's the only guy in the history of ever that has stuck to his alliance knowing it would cost him the million. Give it to him because he's most deserving. I don't know about deserving. Maybe most gullible.....
Ethan -- Would give this million away to all the other Survivor's charities. Meh. Who needs a middle-man? Sorry Soccer-boy.
Jenna L. -- Well...there was something about twins, I think. And having a million dollars so she wouldn't have to ask for a million dollars. Honestly, I can't understand half of what she's talking about. But the last half of her mile-a-minute rant was appealing to all the tye-dyers, pirates and Dead-Heads, telling everybody to vote for Rupert because he's going to win anyway. Uh, word.
Jenna M. -- Breast Cancer research. She promises.
2. Tide Ad. Grrrrr.
Black Screen of "Jerri Elected Not to Participate"
Kathy -- Works hard, appreciates the players, got robbed in Marquesas. Works hard. Knows how to play. Works hard.
Lex -- Played the game twice with his heart. I thought he played the first game with his GUT? Thinks America should vote with their hearts.
Richard -- Give it to the guy who played the game the best. That's Richard! The best. Don't forget, he's the best.
Rob C. -- He'll give half the money to Rupert and take Big Tom out to dinner. Heh. Cesternino...Out!
Rob M. -- He was strongest. Everybody else is sour grapes. Honest. This time. Not like the other times. Ignore those times. This time he's honest. Honest. Really.
3. Toothpaste Ad. Oy.
Rudy -- Give him the million and he'll give it to his kids. And the next time somebody wants money, he'll say "go talk to my kids." He doesn't like moochers.
Rupert -- Needs it for family. And his mama. And his kids that he mentors. And gosh golly he could help so many people.
Shii-Ann -- She deserves the million because of her strategy. I guess her strategy included getting voted out.
Sue -- If you don't vote for Sue, she wouldn't give you water in the desert and hopes the vultures come out and ... well, you know the rest.
Tina -- Doesn't need the money and doesn't want the money.
Tom -- His speech did not come with subtitles. Something about losing weight and being out there the longest of both Survivor shows. And he'd 'preciate it. Yessir he would!
Sign My Guestbook!
CAST YOUR VOTE
Ewww. Total Blogger overhaul. People, I don't have time for this right now! Needless to say, everything is all anew and askew and a-I-don't-know-what. For the time being, I'm not changing anything because I need to time to figure out what's better and what's worse.
A guarded and generally uninterested "well done" to the winner of Survivor All-Stars. I've tried to view some of the groveling videos for the 2nd million give-a-way on Thursday. The CBS site is a bit wonky this morning (read: slammed), so viewing the videos of groveling has been a bit tough. In case you can't see them, this is what you've missed:
1. Oil of Olay Ad -- gah, these are annoying --
Alicia -- When you start your begging by saying "LOOK" in a way that you're certain a lecture is bound to follow, people might not be too sympathetic. Her argument: Always honest. Always truthful. Tell's it to you straight. Always She speaks her mind. If you're strong and you speak your mind, then vote for her dag-nab-it.
Amber -- Giddy. Dumbah. She already has a million! She has a beautiful ring! But give her another million anyway! ! !! !!!!
Colby -- He's the only guy in the history of ever that has stuck to his alliance knowing it would cost him the million. Give it to him because he's most deserving. I don't know about deserving. Maybe most gullible.....
Ethan -- Would give this million away to all the other Survivor's charities. Meh. Who needs a middle-man? Sorry Soccer-boy.
Jenna L. -- Well...there was something about twins, I think. And having a million dollars so she wouldn't have to ask for a million dollars. Honestly, I can't understand half of what she's talking about. But the last half of her mile-a-minute rant was appealing to all the tye-dyers, pirates and Dead-Heads, telling everybody to vote for Rupert because he's going to win anyway. Uh, word.
Jenna M. -- Breast Cancer research. She promises.
2. Tide Ad. Grrrrr.
Black Screen of "Jerri Elected Not to Participate"
Kathy -- Works hard, appreciates the players, got robbed in Marquesas. Works hard. Knows how to play. Works hard.
Lex -- Played the game twice with his heart. I thought he played the first game with his GUT? Thinks America should vote with their hearts.
Richard -- Give it to the guy who played the game the best. That's Richard! The best. Don't forget, he's the best.
Rob C. -- He'll give half the money to Rupert and take Big Tom out to dinner. Heh. Cesternino...Out!
Rob M. -- He was strongest. Everybody else is sour grapes. Honest. This time. Not like the other times. Ignore those times. This time he's honest. Honest. Really.
3. Toothpaste Ad. Oy.
Rudy -- Give him the million and he'll give it to his kids. And the next time somebody wants money, he'll say "go talk to my kids." He doesn't like moochers.
Rupert -- Needs it for family. And his mama. And his kids that he mentors. And gosh golly he could help so many people.
Shii-Ann -- She deserves the million because of her strategy. I guess her strategy included getting voted out.
Sue -- If you don't vote for Sue, she wouldn't give you water in the desert and hopes the vultures come out and ... well, you know the rest.
Tina -- Doesn't need the money and doesn't want the money.
Tom -- His speech did not come with subtitles. Something about losing weight and being out there the longest of both Survivor shows. And he'd 'preciate it. Yessir he would!
Sign My Guestbook!
A guarded and generally uninterested "well done" to the winner of Survivor All-Stars. I've tried to view some of the groveling videos for the 2nd million give-a-way on Thursday. The CBS site is a bit wonky this morning (read: slammed), so viewing the videos of groveling has been a bit tough. In case you can't see them, this is what you've missed:
1. Oil of Olay Ad -- gah, these are annoying --
Alicia -- When you start your begging by saying "LOOK" in a way that you're certain a lecture is bound to follow, people might not be too sympathetic. Her argument: Always honest. Always truthful. Tell's it to you straight. Always She speaks her mind. If you're strong and you speak your mind, then vote for her dag-nab-it.
Amber -- Giddy. Dumbah. She already has a million! She has a beautiful ring! But give her another million anyway! ! !! !!!!
Colby -- He's the only guy in the history of ever that has stuck to his alliance knowing it would cost him the million. Give it to him because he's most deserving. I don't know about deserving. Maybe most gullible.....
Ethan -- Would give this million away to all the other Survivor's charities. Meh. Who needs a middle-man? Sorry Soccer-boy.
Jenna L. -- Well...there was something about twins, I think. And having a million dollars so she wouldn't have to ask for a million dollars. Honestly, I can't understand half of what she's talking about. But the last half of her mile-a-minute rant was appealing to all the tye-dyers, pirates and Dead-Heads, telling everybody to vote for Rupert because he's going to win anyway. Uh, word.
Jenna M. -- Breast Cancer research. She promises.
2. Tide Ad. Grrrrr.
Black Screen of "Jerri Elected Not to Participate"
Kathy -- Works hard, appreciates the players, got robbed in Marquesas. Works hard. Knows how to play. Works hard.
Lex -- Played the game twice with his heart. I thought he played the first game with his GUT? Thinks America should vote with their hearts.
Richard -- Give it to the guy who played the game the best. That's Richard! The best. Don't forget, he's the best.
Rob C. -- He'll give half the money to Rupert and take Big Tom out to dinner. Heh. Cesternino...Out!
Rob M. -- He was strongest. Everybody else is sour grapes. Honest. This time. Not like the other times. Ignore those times. This time he's honest. Honest. Really.
3. Toothpaste Ad. Oy.
Rudy -- Give him the million and he'll give it to his kids. And the next time somebody wants money, he'll say "go talk to my kids." He doesn't like moochers.
Rupert -- Needs it for family. And his mama. And his kids that he mentors. And gosh golly he could help so many people.
Shii-Ann -- She deserves the million because of her strategy. I guess her strategy included getting voted out.
Sue -- If you don't vote for Sue, she wouldn't give you water in the desert and hopes the vultures come out and ... well, you know the rest.
Tina -- Doesn't need the money and doesn't want the money.
Tom -- His speech did not come with subtitles. Something about losing weight and being out there the longest of both Survivor shows. And he'd 'preciate it. Yessir he would!
Sign My Guestbook!
Sunday, May 09, 2004
HELLO, MUDDAH
It's Happy Me Day. Well, me, and one heck of a lot of other people. In case you're wondering how I'll spend this grand and glorious Mother's Day, I have to admit -- I'll spend it the same way I spend most other Sundays:
Shower
Church
Brunch
Home
So really, it's just another busy day. But, speaking as a mother, that's the way it should be. There is no point in making the world stop to pay homage. After all, we do our best work in overdrive and on rollerskates.
Happy Mothers Day One and All!
Sign My Guestbook!
Shower
Church
Brunch
Home
So really, it's just another busy day. But, speaking as a mother, that's the way it should be. There is no point in making the world stop to pay homage. After all, we do our best work in overdrive and on rollerskates.
Happy Mothers Day One and All!
Sign My Guestbook!
HELLO, MUDDAH
It's Happy Me Day. Well, me, and one heck of a lot of other people. In case you're wondering how I'll spend this grand and glorious Mother's Day, I have to admit -- I'll spend it the same way I spend most other Sundays:
Shower
Church
Brunch
Home
So really, it's just another busy day. But, speaking as a mother, that's the way it should be. There is no point in making the world stop to pay homage. After all, we do our best work in overdrive and on rollerskates.
Happy Mothers Day One and All!
Sign My Guestbook!
Shower
Church
Brunch
Home
So really, it's just another busy day. But, speaking as a mother, that's the way it should be. There is no point in making the world stop to pay homage. After all, we do our best work in overdrive and on rollerskates.
Happy Mothers Day One and All!
Sign My Guestbook!
Friday, May 07, 2004
S IS FOR ....
Well, you'll never guess.
Today is Friday (thank Buddha!) and that means it's culinary alphabet soup day. Chef Grace, The Friday Chef has designated this particular Friday as S is for Seafood day. Being the Tuna that I am, I think it would be somewhat tacky to offer up a set of instructions for eating ME, or my aquatic pals. That would be like serving Minnie and Moo some steak tartare. It just isn't done. It's Tacky -- which is a bird of a different feather. Or something.
And besides, when have I ever submitted an actual recipe for food Friday?
But I am a team player, and I have something that fits in just perfectly with today's theme.
S is for Crabby and Nabby!
Aren't they cute? Crabby is the boy crab on the left, and Nabby is the girl crab on the right with the long flirty eyelashes and the come hither half-smile. Crabby and Nabby are part of a nature series, educating kids on animals found in or near the seashore.
Crabby and Nabby, the very first book in the series, tells about the life-cycle of the blue crab in a very cute if not occasionally hinky kind of way. One reason I love Crabby and Nabby and the other books in this series is because of their unabashed use of CAPS LOCK! In Crabby and Nabby CAPS LOCK is used to talk about MAN, who is generally not the friendliest character on the block. In later books, CAPS LOCK is used for HELPFUL HUMANS -- a much more positive approach, albeit with a sledgehammer (font-istically speaking).
Here is a portion of their heartwarming tale:
--------------------------------------------------------
"Crabby and Nabby were two blue crabs. They swam and ate and lived in the water all of the time. Crabby was a jimmy crab and Nabby was a she-crab..."
Arrrgh! I keep typing "crap" instead of "crab"
"Crabby was crabby
(har-de-har-har)
because he only had two little claws. One was a little hard claw, and the other one was a little soft one just beginning to grow back. You see Crabby had an accident
(in the war)
--- one day he bumped into a big fish and lost both his claws. But when crabs lose their claws, they can grow them back!"
Do you suffer the embarassment of having a little soft claw? A new day is dawning. Crab-agra is here. For those times when only a bigger harder claw will do.....HINKY!
"Nabby had two large claws. She could easily catch plenty of food....So Crabby and Nabby swam along until they saw a school of fish....There was lots of food for Crabby and Nabby....Crabby's claws grew bigger and stronger. And Nabby began to get bigger and bigger under her shell from eating so much food. She was getting too big for her house!"
In this picture, Crabby has this totally lecherous grin happening and Nabby looks like she just ate 12 pizzas and drank a two-liter of Mountain Dew. She's Nabby the Hutt!
"Nabby was becoming a "buster crab." Her shell was cracking more and more. It was time for her to be a soft crab! But wait
(insert Ginsu knife pause)
--- it was more than that! It was time for Nabby to be a mama crab. She was old enough to have little crabs."
Awwwwwwww
"Crabby knew it was that time. (How he knew, nobody knew)"
HINKY!
"Nabby turned and twisted and slipped out of her shell backwards! Now she was a soft crab. Everything likes to eat soft crabs -- birds, fish, snakes, MAN (CAPS LOCK, YO!) and even other crabs! But along came a MAN (WOOT) with a dip net!
(as opposed to a dip with a ... nevermind)
"Oh, there's a 'doubler' -- two crabs together," he said to himself. "I will catch me some crabs two at a time."
'I will catch me some crabs.' Dang! Not only is he a MAN, but he's a GOOBER as well.
"But Crabby was too quick for that MAN! (CAPS LOCK AND ALL) He carried Nabby and swam quickly to deeper water."
Exciting, eh?
"Crabby picked up Nabby and cuddled her again -- this time upside down....
Danger ... Warning ... hinky levels rising ...
"And just like that, Crabby and Nabby became Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab!"
--------------------------------------------------------
You know when you're reading a bedtime story for the first time, and you're tired and not really paying attention, and you just sort of trip along blah-de-blah, it sounds something like "And just like that, Crabby and Nabby became Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab! WHAT???"....and then we all burst into gales of laughter. And read it again. And laughed again. Except TinyTuna who kept asking "What's so funny??" Yessirree, Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab. Seriously, in this picture, the only thing missing is Crabby's cigarette. For the record, Nabby is look pretty pleased herself, eyelashes and all.
Now I can't give away the ending, so I think each and every one of you should go plunk down your $4.95 ($79.83 Canadian) and get yourself a copy.
Maybe next week: Oozey Octopus : A Tale of a Clever Critter.
Sign My Guestbook!
Today is Friday (thank Buddha!) and that means it's culinary alphabet soup day. Chef Grace, The Friday Chef has designated this particular Friday as S is for Seafood day. Being the Tuna that I am, I think it would be somewhat tacky to offer up a set of instructions for eating ME, or my aquatic pals. That would be like serving Minnie and Moo some steak tartare. It just isn't done. It's Tacky -- which is a bird of a different feather. Or something.
And besides, when have I ever submitted an actual recipe for food Friday?
But I am a team player, and I have something that fits in just perfectly with today's theme.
S is for Crabby and Nabby!
Aren't they cute? Crabby is the boy crab on the left, and Nabby is the girl crab on the right with the long flirty eyelashes and the come hither half-smile. Crabby and Nabby are part of a nature series, educating kids on animals found in or near the seashore.
Crabby and Nabby, the very first book in the series, tells about the life-cycle of the blue crab in a very cute if not occasionally hinky kind of way. One reason I love Crabby and Nabby and the other books in this series is because of their unabashed use of CAPS LOCK! In Crabby and Nabby CAPS LOCK is used to talk about MAN, who is generally not the friendliest character on the block. In later books, CAPS LOCK is used for HELPFUL HUMANS -- a much more positive approach, albeit with a sledgehammer (font-istically speaking).
Here is a portion of their heartwarming tale:
--------------------------------------------------------
"Crabby and Nabby were two blue crabs. They swam and ate and lived in the water all of the time. Crabby was a jimmy crab and Nabby was a she-crab..."
Arrrgh! I keep typing "crap" instead of "crab"
"Crabby was crabby
(har-de-har-har)
because he only had two little claws. One was a little hard claw, and the other one was a little soft one just beginning to grow back. You see Crabby had an accident
(in the war)
--- one day he bumped into a big fish and lost both his claws. But when crabs lose their claws, they can grow them back!"
Do you suffer the embarassment of having a little soft claw? A new day is dawning. Crab-agra is here. For those times when only a bigger harder claw will do.....HINKY!
"Nabby had two large claws. She could easily catch plenty of food....So Crabby and Nabby swam along until they saw a school of fish....There was lots of food for Crabby and Nabby....Crabby's claws grew bigger and stronger. And Nabby began to get bigger and bigger under her shell from eating so much food. She was getting too big for her house!"
In this picture, Crabby has this totally lecherous grin happening and Nabby looks like she just ate 12 pizzas and drank a two-liter of Mountain Dew. She's Nabby the Hutt!
"Nabby was becoming a "buster crab." Her shell was cracking more and more. It was time for her to be a soft crab! But wait
(insert Ginsu knife pause)
--- it was more than that! It was time for Nabby to be a mama crab. She was old enough to have little crabs."
Awwwwwwww
"Crabby knew it was that time. (How he knew, nobody knew)"
HINKY!
"Nabby turned and twisted and slipped out of her shell backwards! Now she was a soft crab. Everything likes to eat soft crabs -- birds, fish, snakes, MAN (CAPS LOCK, YO!) and even other crabs! But along came a MAN (WOOT) with a dip net!
(as opposed to a dip with a ... nevermind)
"Oh, there's a 'doubler' -- two crabs together," he said to himself. "I will catch me some crabs two at a time."
'I will catch me some crabs.' Dang! Not only is he a MAN, but he's a GOOBER as well.
"But Crabby was too quick for that MAN! (CAPS LOCK AND ALL) He carried Nabby and swam quickly to deeper water."
Exciting, eh?
"Crabby picked up Nabby and cuddled her again -- this time upside down....
Danger ... Warning ... hinky levels rising ...
"And just like that, Crabby and Nabby became Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab!"
--------------------------------------------------------
You know when you're reading a bedtime story for the first time, and you're tired and not really paying attention, and you just sort of trip along blah-de-blah, it sounds something like "And just like that, Crabby and Nabby became Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab! WHAT???"....and then we all burst into gales of laughter. And read it again. And laughed again. Except TinyTuna who kept asking "What's so funny??" Yessirree, Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab. Seriously, in this picture, the only thing missing is Crabby's cigarette. For the record, Nabby is look pretty pleased herself, eyelashes and all.
Now I can't give away the ending, so I think each and every one of you should go plunk down your $4.95 ($79.83 Canadian) and get yourself a copy.
Maybe next week: Oozey Octopus : A Tale of a Clever Critter.
Sign My Guestbook!
S IS FOR ....
Well, you'll never guess.
Today is Friday (thank Buddha!) and that means it's culinary alphabet soup day. Chef Grace, The Friday Chef has designated this particular Friday as S is for Seafood day. Being the Tuna that I am, I think it would be somewhat tacky to offer up a set of instructions for eating ME, or my aquatic pals. That would be like serving Minnie and Moo some steak tartare. It just isn't done. It's Tacky -- which is a bird of a different feather. Or something.
And besides, when have I ever submitted an actual recipe for food Friday?
But I am a team player, and I have something that fits in just perfectly with today's theme.
S is for Crabby and Nabby!
Aren't they cute? Crabby is the boy crab on the left, and Nabby is the girl crab on the right with the long flirty eyelashes and the come hither half-smile. Crabby and Nabby are part of a nature series, educating kids on animals found in or near the seashore.
Crabby and Nabby, the very first book in the series, tells about the life-cycle of the blue crab in a very cute if not occasionally hinky kind of way. One reason I love Crabby and Nabby and the other books in this series is because of their unabashed use of CAPS LOCK! In Crabby and Nabby CAPS LOCK is used to talk about MAN, who is generally not the friendliest character on the block. In later books, CAPS LOCK is used for HELPFUL HUMANS -- a much more positive approach, albeit with a sledgehammer (font-istically speaking).
Here is a portion of their heartwarming tale:
--------------------------------------------------------
"Crabby and Nabby were two blue crabs. They swam and ate and lived in the water all of the time. Crabby was a jimmy crab and Nabby was a she-crab..."
Arrrgh! I keep typing "crap" instead of "crab"
"Crabby was crabby
(har-de-har-har)
because he only had two little claws. One was a little hard claw, and the other one was a little soft one just beginning to grow back. You see Crabby had an accident
(in the war)
--- one day he bumped into a big fish and lost both his claws. But when crabs lose their claws, they can grow them back!"
Do you suffer the embarassment of having a little soft claw? A new day is dawning. Crab-agra is here. For those times when only a bigger harder claw will do.....HINKY!
"Nabby had two large claws. She could easily catch plenty of food....So Crabby and Nabby swam along until they saw a school of fish....There was lots of food for Crabby and Nabby....Crabby's claws grew bigger and stronger. And Nabby began to get bigger and bigger under her shell from eating so much food. She was getting too big for her house!"
In this picture, Crabby has this totally lecherous grin happening and Nabby looks like she just ate 12 pizzas and drank a two-liter of Mountain Dew. She's Nabby the Hutt!
"Nabby was becoming a "buster crab." Her shell was cracking more and more. It was time for her to be a soft crab! But wait
(insert Ginsu knife pause)
--- it was more than that! It was time for Nabby to be a mama crab. She was old enough to have little crabs."
Awwwwwwww
"Crabby knew it was that time. (How he knew, nobody knew)"
HINKY!
"Nabby turned and twisted and slipped out of her shell backwards! Now she was a soft crab. Everything likes to eat soft crabs -- birds, fish, snakes, MAN (CAPS LOCK, YO!) and even other crabs! But along came a MAN (WOOT) with a dip net!
(as opposed to a dip with a ... nevermind)
"Oh, there's a 'doubler' -- two crabs together," he said to himself. "I will catch me some crabs two at a time."
'I will catch me some crabs.' Dang! Not only is he a MAN, but he's a GOOBER as well.
"But Crabby was too quick for that MAN! (CAPS LOCK AND ALL) He carried Nabby and swam quickly to deeper water."
Exciting, eh?
"Crabby picked up Nabby and cuddled her again -- this time upside down....
Danger ... Warning ... hinky levels rising ...
"And just like that, Crabby and Nabby became Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab!"
--------------------------------------------------------
You know when you're reading a bedtime story for the first time, and you're tired and not really paying attention, and you just sort of trip along blah-de-blah, it sounds something like "And just like that, Crabby and Nabby became Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab! WHAT???"....and then we all burst into gales of laughter. And read it again. And laughed again. Except TinyTuna who kept asking "What's so funny??" Yessirree, Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab. Seriously, in this picture, the only thing missing is Crabby's cigarette. For the record, Nabby is look pretty pleased herself, eyelashes and all.
Now I can't give away the ending, so I think each and every one of you should go plunk down your $4.95 ($79.83 Canadian) and get yourself a copy.
Maybe next week: Oozey Octopus : A Tale of a Clever Critter.
Sign My Guestbook!
Today is Friday (thank Buddha!) and that means it's culinary alphabet soup day. Chef Grace, The Friday Chef has designated this particular Friday as S is for Seafood day. Being the Tuna that I am, I think it would be somewhat tacky to offer up a set of instructions for eating ME, or my aquatic pals. That would be like serving Minnie and Moo some steak tartare. It just isn't done. It's Tacky -- which is a bird of a different feather. Or something.
And besides, when have I ever submitted an actual recipe for food Friday?
But I am a team player, and I have something that fits in just perfectly with today's theme.
S is for Crabby and Nabby!
Aren't they cute? Crabby is the boy crab on the left, and Nabby is the girl crab on the right with the long flirty eyelashes and the come hither half-smile. Crabby and Nabby are part of a nature series, educating kids on animals found in or near the seashore.
Crabby and Nabby, the very first book in the series, tells about the life-cycle of the blue crab in a very cute if not occasionally hinky kind of way. One reason I love Crabby and Nabby and the other books in this series is because of their unabashed use of CAPS LOCK! In Crabby and Nabby CAPS LOCK is used to talk about MAN, who is generally not the friendliest character on the block. In later books, CAPS LOCK is used for HELPFUL HUMANS -- a much more positive approach, albeit with a sledgehammer (font-istically speaking).
Here is a portion of their heartwarming tale:
--------------------------------------------------------
"Crabby and Nabby were two blue crabs. They swam and ate and lived in the water all of the time. Crabby was a jimmy crab and Nabby was a she-crab..."
Arrrgh! I keep typing "crap" instead of "crab"
"Crabby was crabby
(har-de-har-har)
because he only had two little claws. One was a little hard claw, and the other one was a little soft one just beginning to grow back. You see Crabby had an accident
(in the war)
--- one day he bumped into a big fish and lost both his claws. But when crabs lose their claws, they can grow them back!"
Do you suffer the embarassment of having a little soft claw? A new day is dawning. Crab-agra is here. For those times when only a bigger harder claw will do.....HINKY!
"Nabby had two large claws. She could easily catch plenty of food....So Crabby and Nabby swam along until they saw a school of fish....There was lots of food for Crabby and Nabby....Crabby's claws grew bigger and stronger. And Nabby began to get bigger and bigger under her shell from eating so much food. She was getting too big for her house!"
In this picture, Crabby has this totally lecherous grin happening and Nabby looks like she just ate 12 pizzas and drank a two-liter of Mountain Dew. She's Nabby the Hutt!
"Nabby was becoming a "buster crab." Her shell was cracking more and more. It was time for her to be a soft crab! But wait
(insert Ginsu knife pause)
--- it was more than that! It was time for Nabby to be a mama crab. She was old enough to have little crabs."
Awwwwwwww
"Crabby knew it was that time. (How he knew, nobody knew)"
HINKY!
"Nabby turned and twisted and slipped out of her shell backwards! Now she was a soft crab. Everything likes to eat soft crabs -- birds, fish, snakes, MAN (CAPS LOCK, YO!) and even other crabs! But along came a MAN (WOOT) with a dip net!
(as opposed to a dip with a ... nevermind)
"Oh, there's a 'doubler' -- two crabs together," he said to himself. "I will catch me some crabs two at a time."
'I will catch me some crabs.' Dang! Not only is he a MAN, but he's a GOOBER as well.
"But Crabby was too quick for that MAN! (CAPS LOCK AND ALL) He carried Nabby and swam quickly to deeper water."
Exciting, eh?
"Crabby picked up Nabby and cuddled her again -- this time upside down....
Danger ... Warning ... hinky levels rising ...
"And just like that, Crabby and Nabby became Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab!"
--------------------------------------------------------
You know when you're reading a bedtime story for the first time, and you're tired and not really paying attention, and you just sort of trip along blah-de-blah, it sounds something like "And just like that, Crabby and Nabby became Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab! WHAT???"....and then we all burst into gales of laughter. And read it again. And laughed again. Except TinyTuna who kept asking "What's so funny??" Yessirree, Mr. & Mrs. Blue Crab. Seriously, in this picture, the only thing missing is Crabby's cigarette. For the record, Nabby is look pretty pleased herself, eyelashes and all.
Now I can't give away the ending, so I think each and every one of you should go plunk down your $4.95 ($79.83 Canadian) and get yourself a copy.
Maybe next week: Oozey Octopus : A Tale of a Clever Critter.
Sign My Guestbook!
ONE IS THE LONELIEST NUMBER
Maybe. But I will survive.
1 GreenTuna -- 3171
2 buffs4vol -- 3168
3 VivaLaFisty -- 3055
4 Honeylife -- 3030
5 copssister -- 2915
6 Amazingrace -- 2796
7 The Sketch Factor -- 2714
8 Snappie -- 2533
I know this won't last. No doubt Karma is knocking on my door. But until then, WOOT!
Sign My Guestbook!
1 GreenTuna -- 3171
2 buffs4vol -- 3168
3 VivaLaFisty -- 3055
4 Honeylife -- 3030
5 copssister -- 2915
6 Amazingrace -- 2796
7 The Sketch Factor -- 2714
8 Snappie -- 2533
I know this won't last. No doubt Karma is knocking on my door. But until then, WOOT!
Sign My Guestbook!
ONE IS THE LONELIEST NUMBER
Maybe. But I will survive.
1 GreenTuna -- 3171
2 buffs4vol -- 3168
3 VivaLaFisty -- 3055
4 Honeylife -- 3030
5 copssister -- 2915
6 Amazingrace -- 2796
7 The Sketch Factor -- 2714
8 Snappie -- 2533
I know this won't last. No doubt Karma is knocking on my door. But until then, WOOT!
Sign My Guestbook!
1 GreenTuna -- 3171
2 buffs4vol -- 3168
3 VivaLaFisty -- 3055
4 Honeylife -- 3030
5 copssister -- 2915
6 Amazingrace -- 2796
7 The Sketch Factor -- 2714
8 Snappie -- 2533
I know this won't last. No doubt Karma is knocking on my door. But until then, WOOT!
Sign My Guestbook!
Thursday, May 06, 2004
MOSTLY MOZART
The purpose of my trip to the Upper Peninsula was for a performance of the Mozart Requiem. This would be my fourth appearance with the Keweenaw symphony. I was quite touched during the usual introductions to the troops when the conductor said, "they are more than soloists, they're family." Being a soloist isn't necessarily an adversarial role, but some performers -- singers in particular -- come into rehearsals with ascots and Opera News hair a-blazing, reveling in the attention and folderol, be it authentic or perceived. It can become a real parade of the pompous.
The choir was comprised of college students and locals. In Yooper country, "local" can mean an hour away (or more), but nobody seems to mind. Some symphony members travel greater distances, coming from Wisconsin or even Minnesota to play a concert series. All things considered, it's an amazing congregation of people dedicated to making music in this corner of the world.
The Mozart Requiem is an interesting piece in and of itself. Commissioned in July 1791, it was only partially completed at the time of Mozart's death, a short six months later. Eventually the project was handed over to Franz Xaver Sussmayr, a student of Mozart. With what few compositional scraps he was given, Sussmayr finished the work, leaving scholars ample ammunition to argue every chord progression and cadence not written in Mozart's own hand.
The Requiem has all the hallmarks of Mozart's latter style: It is dark, stately, even brooding. The instrumentation includes the more somber sounding trombones and basset horns, while omitting both flutes and oboes. It is neither frothy nor flirty. It is not the sound of strings merrily flying through intricate passages like you might hear in the Overture to Marriage of Figaro. That kind of light-hearted No matter what happens we KNOW everything in the end will just just fine music is perfect for cinematic romps such as Trading Places ("Looking Good, Billy Ray! Feeling Good, Louis!").
The Requiem is not that kind of music. What it is is complicated, complex, unexpected and imperfect. If I had to describe the work in a single word, I would say it is human.
Being a singer can be a great gig. Your requirements are to correctly sing the notes and words assigned to you and then collect your flowers and paycheck at the end of the evening. Throw in a sparkly dress and some obligatory post-concert shmoozing and you're good to go. But being a musician is more than getting a gig. It is a great honor that carries a greater responsibility. Past the fancy dresses, the flowers and the arguments of authenticity lay bigger questions:
How did this piece come into being?
What did it mean to the composer?
What does it mean to me?
How do all the elements of this piece combine to form a work so very much more than each of its parts?
How do I become a seamless component of its existence and not an intrusive and selfish focal point?
These are all very difficult questions. But to dig into the soul of of a piece of music requires an inquisitive mind and soul open to possibilities. At the end of the digging, you may not have all the scholarly answers, but you will have taken an incredibly journey through all the complexities and unexpected turns and imperfections of the music...and yourself.
Although I had performed this piece some ten or twelve years earlier, singing the Requiem again I was struck by the intense emotions that would simmer, boil over, and then cool to something entirely different. You cannot pin down this work with a single adjective. It isn't just sad or somber. Parts of it were fearful, while other parts were downright angry. Sorrow and lamenting were juxtaposed with peace, tranquility...even hope. Mozart was dying. He must have been feeling all of these emotions. The more I looked, the more I realized that there is so much to this piece. There was so much to Mozart. This time around I made the discovery of the humanity within the rigid rules of composition, and I loved the imperfection within the genius. I felt comfortable, rather than intimidated.
It was a little like driving eight hours through farm land and forests, past lakes and bays, through quirkily-named towns until you find a beautiful performing arts center tucked in the midst of a Technological University. I had done it before, but each time the drive was a little bit different, and so was I. The best part of all, though, was at the end of the journey, I felt comfortable. I felt like I was family.
Sign My Guestbook!
The choir was comprised of college students and locals. In Yooper country, "local" can mean an hour away (or more), but nobody seems to mind. Some symphony members travel greater distances, coming from Wisconsin or even Minnesota to play a concert series. All things considered, it's an amazing congregation of people dedicated to making music in this corner of the world.
The Mozart Requiem is an interesting piece in and of itself. Commissioned in July 1791, it was only partially completed at the time of Mozart's death, a short six months later. Eventually the project was handed over to Franz Xaver Sussmayr, a student of Mozart. With what few compositional scraps he was given, Sussmayr finished the work, leaving scholars ample ammunition to argue every chord progression and cadence not written in Mozart's own hand.
The Requiem has all the hallmarks of Mozart's latter style: It is dark, stately, even brooding. The instrumentation includes the more somber sounding trombones and basset horns, while omitting both flutes and oboes. It is neither frothy nor flirty. It is not the sound of strings merrily flying through intricate passages like you might hear in the Overture to Marriage of Figaro. That kind of light-hearted No matter what happens we KNOW everything in the end will just just fine music is perfect for cinematic romps such as Trading Places ("Looking Good, Billy Ray! Feeling Good, Louis!").
The Requiem is not that kind of music. What it is is complicated, complex, unexpected and imperfect. If I had to describe the work in a single word, I would say it is human.
Being a singer can be a great gig. Your requirements are to correctly sing the notes and words assigned to you and then collect your flowers and paycheck at the end of the evening. Throw in a sparkly dress and some obligatory post-concert shmoozing and you're good to go. But being a musician is more than getting a gig. It is a great honor that carries a greater responsibility. Past the fancy dresses, the flowers and the arguments of authenticity lay bigger questions:
How did this piece come into being?
What did it mean to the composer?
What does it mean to me?
How do all the elements of this piece combine to form a work so very much more than each of its parts?
How do I become a seamless component of its existence and not an intrusive and selfish focal point?
These are all very difficult questions. But to dig into the soul of of a piece of music requires an inquisitive mind and soul open to possibilities. At the end of the digging, you may not have all the scholarly answers, but you will have taken an incredibly journey through all the complexities and unexpected turns and imperfections of the music...and yourself.
Although I had performed this piece some ten or twelve years earlier, singing the Requiem again I was struck by the intense emotions that would simmer, boil over, and then cool to something entirely different. You cannot pin down this work with a single adjective. It isn't just sad or somber. Parts of it were fearful, while other parts were downright angry. Sorrow and lamenting were juxtaposed with peace, tranquility...even hope. Mozart was dying. He must have been feeling all of these emotions. The more I looked, the more I realized that there is so much to this piece. There was so much to Mozart. This time around I made the discovery of the humanity within the rigid rules of composition, and I loved the imperfection within the genius. I felt comfortable, rather than intimidated.
It was a little like driving eight hours through farm land and forests, past lakes and bays, through quirkily-named towns until you find a beautiful performing arts center tucked in the midst of a Technological University. I had done it before, but each time the drive was a little bit different, and so was I. The best part of all, though, was at the end of the journey, I felt comfortable. I felt like I was family.
Sign My Guestbook!
MOSTLY MOZART
The purpose of my trip to the Upper Peninsula was for a performance of the Mozart Requiem. This would be my fourth appearance with the Keweenaw symphony. I was quite touched during the usual introductions to the troops when the conductor said, "they are more than soloists, they're family." Being a soloist isn't necessarily an adversarial role, but some performers -- singers in particular -- come into rehearsals with ascots and Opera News hair a-blazing, reveling in the attention and folderol, be it authentic or perceived. It can become a real parade of the pompous.
The choir was comprised of college students and locals. In Yooper country, "local" can mean an hour away (or more), but nobody seems to mind. Some symphony members travel greater distances, coming from Wisconsin or even Minnesota to play a concert series. All things considered, it's an amazing congregation of people dedicated to making music in this corner of the world.
The Mozart Requiem is an interesting piece in and of itself. Commissioned in July 1791, it was only partially completed at the time of Mozart's death, a short six months later. Eventually the project was handed over to Franz Xaver Sussmayr, a student of Mozart. With what few compositional scraps he was given, Sussmayr finished the work, leaving scholars ample ammunition to argue every chord progression and cadence not written in Mozart's own hand.
The Requiem has all the hallmarks of Mozart's latter style: It is dark, stately, even brooding. The instrumentation includes the more somber sounding trombones and basset horns, while omitting both flutes and oboes. It is neither frothy nor flirty. It is not the sound of strings merrily flying through intricate passages like you might hear in the Overture to Marriage of Figaro. That kind of light-hearted No matter what happens we KNOW everything in the end will just just fine music is perfect for cinematic romps such as Trading Places ("Looking Good, Billy Ray! Feeling Good, Louis!").
The Requiem is not that kind of music. What it is is complicated, complex, unexpected and imperfect. If I had to describe the work in a single word, I would say it is human.
Being a singer can be a great gig. Your requirements are to correctly sing the notes and words assigned to you and then collect your flowers and paycheck at the end of the evening. Throw in a sparkly dress and some obligatory post-concert shmoozing and you're good to go. But being a musician is more than getting a gig. It is a great honor that carries a greater responsibility. Past the fancy dresses, the flowers and the arguments of authenticity lay bigger questions:
How did this piece come into being?
What did it mean to the composer?
What does it mean to me?
How do all the elements of this piece combine to form a work so very much more than each of its parts?
How do I become a seamless component of its existence and not an intrusive and selfish focal point?
These are all very difficult questions. But to dig into the soul of of a piece of music requires an inquisitive mind and soul open to possibilities. At the end of the digging, you may not have all the scholarly answers, but you will have taken an incredibly journey through all the complexities and unexpected turns and imperfections of the music...and yourself.
Although I had performed this piece some ten or twelve years earlier, singing the Requiem again I was struck by the intense emotions that would simmer, boil over, and then cool to something entirely different. You cannot pin down this work with a single adjective. It isn't just sad or somber. Parts of it were fearful, while other parts were downright angry. Sorrow and lamenting were juxtaposed with peace, tranquility...even hope. Mozart was dying. He must have been feeling all of these emotions. The more I looked, the more I realized that there is so much to this piece. There was so much to Mozart. This time around I made the discovery of the humanity within the rigid rules of composition, and I loved the imperfection within the genius. I felt comfortable, rather than intimidated.
It was a little like driving eight hours through farm land and forests, past lakes and bays, through quirkily-named towns until you find a beautiful performing arts center tucked in the midst of a Technological University. I had done it before, but each time the drive was a little bit different, and so was I. The best part of all, though, was at the end of the journey, I felt comfortable. I felt like I was family.
Sign My Guestbook!
The choir was comprised of college students and locals. In Yooper country, "local" can mean an hour away (or more), but nobody seems to mind. Some symphony members travel greater distances, coming from Wisconsin or even Minnesota to play a concert series. All things considered, it's an amazing congregation of people dedicated to making music in this corner of the world.
The Mozart Requiem is an interesting piece in and of itself. Commissioned in July 1791, it was only partially completed at the time of Mozart's death, a short six months later. Eventually the project was handed over to Franz Xaver Sussmayr, a student of Mozart. With what few compositional scraps he was given, Sussmayr finished the work, leaving scholars ample ammunition to argue every chord progression and cadence not written in Mozart's own hand.
The Requiem has all the hallmarks of Mozart's latter style: It is dark, stately, even brooding. The instrumentation includes the more somber sounding trombones and basset horns, while omitting both flutes and oboes. It is neither frothy nor flirty. It is not the sound of strings merrily flying through intricate passages like you might hear in the Overture to Marriage of Figaro. That kind of light-hearted No matter what happens we KNOW everything in the end will just just fine music is perfect for cinematic romps such as Trading Places ("Looking Good, Billy Ray! Feeling Good, Louis!").
The Requiem is not that kind of music. What it is is complicated, complex, unexpected and imperfect. If I had to describe the work in a single word, I would say it is human.
Being a singer can be a great gig. Your requirements are to correctly sing the notes and words assigned to you and then collect your flowers and paycheck at the end of the evening. Throw in a sparkly dress and some obligatory post-concert shmoozing and you're good to go. But being a musician is more than getting a gig. It is a great honor that carries a greater responsibility. Past the fancy dresses, the flowers and the arguments of authenticity lay bigger questions:
How did this piece come into being?
What did it mean to the composer?
What does it mean to me?
How do all the elements of this piece combine to form a work so very much more than each of its parts?
How do I become a seamless component of its existence and not an intrusive and selfish focal point?
These are all very difficult questions. But to dig into the soul of of a piece of music requires an inquisitive mind and soul open to possibilities. At the end of the digging, you may not have all the scholarly answers, but you will have taken an incredibly journey through all the complexities and unexpected turns and imperfections of the music...and yourself.
Although I had performed this piece some ten or twelve years earlier, singing the Requiem again I was struck by the intense emotions that would simmer, boil over, and then cool to something entirely different. You cannot pin down this work with a single adjective. It isn't just sad or somber. Parts of it were fearful, while other parts were downright angry. Sorrow and lamenting were juxtaposed with peace, tranquility...even hope. Mozart was dying. He must have been feeling all of these emotions. The more I looked, the more I realized that there is so much to this piece. There was so much to Mozart. This time around I made the discovery of the humanity within the rigid rules of composition, and I loved the imperfection within the genius. I felt comfortable, rather than intimidated.
It was a little like driving eight hours through farm land and forests, past lakes and bays, through quirkily-named towns until you find a beautiful performing arts center tucked in the midst of a Technological University. I had done it before, but each time the drive was a little bit different, and so was I. The best part of all, though, was at the end of the journey, I felt comfortable. I felt like I was family.
Sign My Guestbook!
MOSTLY MANGLED
I shoulda known. Spend all day writing a post, and the Gods decide they just HAVE to have a snack. While I take a few minutes to regain my composure, why don't you tell me about yourselves...?
stupid.blogging.program.eats.my.posts.evil.ducks.maybe.evil.tipsy.trees.
Sign My Guestbook!
stupid.blogging.program.eats.my.posts.evil.ducks.maybe.evil.tipsy.trees.
Sign My Guestbook!
MOSTLY MANGLED
I shoulda known. Spend all day writing a post, and the Gods decide they just HAVE to have a snack. While I take a few minutes to regain my composure, why don't you tell me about yourselves...?
stupid.blogging.program.eats.my.posts.evil.ducks.maybe.evil.tipsy.trees.
Sign My Guestbook!
stupid.blogging.program.eats.my.posts.evil.ducks.maybe.evil.tipsy.trees.
Sign My Guestbook!
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
CLOSE
But no cigar. Not tipsy enough. It is interesting to note, however, that the elusive Tipsy Tree is pondered abroad as well as at home. However, unlike in Iceland, we actually have trees here.
Sign My Guestbook!
CLOSE
But no cigar. Not tipsy enough. It is interesting to note, however, that the elusive Tipsy Tree is pondered abroad as well as at home. However, unlike in Iceland, we actually have trees here.
Sign My Guestbook!
PAUSING AT THE TIPSY TREE
One of my favorite highway signs is The Tipsy Tree. It is a graphic depiction of a picnic table accompanied by a single tree, slightly askew. I can't say that I know why, exactly, the tree suffers from severe slantiness. I suppose it is meant to represent idyllic shady groves which lure passing motorists to pull over and rest for awhile. "Come, weary traveler," the sign beckons. "Enjoy thy peanut butter and jelly whilst cavorting in nature's ample bosom."
Hint to Weary Travelers: The sign isn't big enough to depict EVERYTHING in nature's ample bosom. Otherwise there would be mosquitoes, overflowing trash cans and a deathly black cloud of automotive exhaust. All you get is a picnic table and a single tipsy tree that looks like it's about flatten any picnic enthusiasts that happen to drop by.
I tried hard to find an image of a tipsy tree sign. Unfortunately, my boyfriend gave me a virtual "What you talking about, Tuna?" and offered up his best guess: The Tipsy Toad.
Today I am pausing at the Tipsy Tree of Outer Blogenia to salute a fellow traveler and lover of The Tipsy Tree. Some days it requires the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of a patient person to travel with Clan Tuna. Many would have crumbled at the multiple readings of Brown Bear, Bear Bear, What do you See? throughout the entire state of Ohio. Others would have had their faith sorely tested as prayers that a truck might put all Four Fur Feet out of its misery went unanswered. And then there was the memorable impromptu 90 minute country western backseat crooning at the top the lungs of Away in the Manager that contained one hundred or so extra verses. All of which (somehow) managed to rhyme.
From finding ourselves in Copenhagen instead of Berlin, to stumbling across Johannesfest in Mainz during a downpour, to hiking the San Bernadino mountains (just one more switchback), to thunderstorms at Tanglewood, to scary motorcycle ex-convict campers wanting their picture taken, to reenacting The Perfect Storm on the USS Minnow trying to leave Mackinac Island at midnight because we missed the ferry regular people ride because some little tuna brother just HAD to have fudge, to bears at our campsite in Yellowstone, to a ten year old reprimanding us last weekend for embarrassing her in a restaurant as we fell into unspeakable fits of hysteria (yet again) because you had "squeaky green beans."
To a mighty traveler and a mighty mom -- Happy Birthday GramTuna. What a wonderful, amazing adventure it's been! You just say the word, TinyTuna will bring the Edmund Fitzgerald, we'll hop into the 1969 VW Bus, take all the corners in third, and do lunch at the Tipsy Tree.
But please, leave the squeaky green beans at home.
Sign My Guestbook!
Hint to Weary Travelers: The sign isn't big enough to depict EVERYTHING in nature's ample bosom. Otherwise there would be mosquitoes, overflowing trash cans and a deathly black cloud of automotive exhaust. All you get is a picnic table and a single tipsy tree that looks like it's about flatten any picnic enthusiasts that happen to drop by.
I tried hard to find an image of a tipsy tree sign. Unfortunately, my boyfriend gave me a virtual "What you talking about, Tuna?" and offered up his best guess: The Tipsy Toad.
Today I am pausing at the Tipsy Tree of Outer Blogenia to salute a fellow traveler and lover of The Tipsy Tree. Some days it requires the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of a patient person to travel with Clan Tuna. Many would have crumbled at the multiple readings of Brown Bear, Bear Bear, What do you See? throughout the entire state of Ohio. Others would have had their faith sorely tested as prayers that a truck might put all Four Fur Feet out of its misery went unanswered. And then there was the memorable impromptu 90 minute country western backseat crooning at the top the lungs of Away in the Manager that contained one hundred or so extra verses. All of which (somehow) managed to rhyme.
From finding ourselves in Copenhagen instead of Berlin, to stumbling across Johannesfest in Mainz during a downpour, to hiking the San Bernadino mountains (just one more switchback), to thunderstorms at Tanglewood, to scary motorcycle ex-convict campers wanting their picture taken, to reenacting The Perfect Storm on the USS Minnow trying to leave Mackinac Island at midnight because we missed the ferry regular people ride because some little tuna brother just HAD to have fudge, to bears at our campsite in Yellowstone, to a ten year old reprimanding us last weekend for embarrassing her in a restaurant as we fell into unspeakable fits of hysteria (yet again) because you had "squeaky green beans."
To a mighty traveler and a mighty mom -- Happy Birthday GramTuna. What a wonderful, amazing adventure it's been! You just say the word, TinyTuna will bring the Edmund Fitzgerald, we'll hop into the 1969 VW Bus, take all the corners in third, and do lunch at the Tipsy Tree.
But please, leave the squeaky green beans at home.
Sign My Guestbook!
PAUSING AT THE TIPSY TREE
One of my favorite highway signs is The Tipsy Tree. It is a graphic depiction of a picnic table accompanied by a single tree, slightly askew. I can't say that I know why, exactly, the tree suffers from severe slantiness. I suppose it is meant to represent idyllic shady groves which lure passing motorists to pull over and rest for awhile. "Come, weary traveler," the sign beckons. "Enjoy thy peanut butter and jelly whilst cavorting in nature's ample bosom."
Hint to Weary Travelers: The sign isn't big enough to depict EVERYTHING in nature's ample bosom. Otherwise there would be mosquitoes, overflowing trash cans and a deathly black cloud of automotive exhaust. All you get is a picnic table and a single tipsy tree that looks like it's about flatten any picnic enthusiasts that happen to drop by.
I tried hard to find an image of a tipsy tree sign. Unfortunately, my boyfriend gave me a virtual "What you talking about, Tuna?" and offered up his best guess: The Tipsy Toad.
Today I am pausing at the Tipsy Tree of Outer Blogenia to salute a fellow traveler and lover of The Tipsy Tree. Some days it requires the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of a patient person to travel with Clan Tuna. Many would have crumbled at the multiple readings of Brown Bear, Bear Bear, What do you See? throughout the entire state of Ohio. Others would have had their faith sorely tested as prayers that a truck might put all Four Fur Feet out of its misery went unanswered. And then there was the memorable impromptu 90 minute country western backseat crooning at the top the lungs of Away in the Manager that contained one hundred or so extra verses. All of which (somehow) managed to rhyme.
From finding ourselves in Copenhagen instead of Berlin, to stumbling across Johannesfest in Mainz during a downpour, to hiking the San Bernadino mountains (just one more switchback), to thunderstorms at Tanglewood, to scary motorcycle ex-convict campers wanting their picture taken, to reenacting The Perfect Storm on the USS Minnow trying to leave Mackinac Island at midnight because we missed the ferry regular people ride because some little tuna brother just HAD to have fudge, to bears at our campsite in Yellowstone, to a ten year old reprimanding us last weekend for embarrassing her in a restaurant as we fell into unspeakable fits of hysteria (yet again) because you had "squeaky green beans."
To a mighty traveler and a mighty mom -- Happy Birthday GramTuna. What a wonderful, amazing adventure it's been! You just say the word, TinyTuna will bring the Edmund Fitzgerald, we'll hop into the 1969 VW Bus, take all the corners in third, and do lunch at the Tipsy Tree.
But please, leave the squeaky green beans at home.
Sign My Guestbook!
Hint to Weary Travelers: The sign isn't big enough to depict EVERYTHING in nature's ample bosom. Otherwise there would be mosquitoes, overflowing trash cans and a deathly black cloud of automotive exhaust. All you get is a picnic table and a single tipsy tree that looks like it's about flatten any picnic enthusiasts that happen to drop by.
I tried hard to find an image of a tipsy tree sign. Unfortunately, my boyfriend gave me a virtual "What you talking about, Tuna?" and offered up his best guess: The Tipsy Toad.
Today I am pausing at the Tipsy Tree of Outer Blogenia to salute a fellow traveler and lover of The Tipsy Tree. Some days it requires the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of a patient person to travel with Clan Tuna. Many would have crumbled at the multiple readings of Brown Bear, Bear Bear, What do you See? throughout the entire state of Ohio. Others would have had their faith sorely tested as prayers that a truck might put all Four Fur Feet out of its misery went unanswered. And then there was the memorable impromptu 90 minute country western backseat crooning at the top the lungs of Away in the Manager that contained one hundred or so extra verses. All of which (somehow) managed to rhyme.
From finding ourselves in Copenhagen instead of Berlin, to stumbling across Johannesfest in Mainz during a downpour, to hiking the San Bernadino mountains (just one more switchback), to thunderstorms at Tanglewood, to scary motorcycle ex-convict campers wanting their picture taken, to reenacting The Perfect Storm on the USS Minnow trying to leave Mackinac Island at midnight because we missed the ferry regular people ride because some little tuna brother just HAD to have fudge, to bears at our campsite in Yellowstone, to a ten year old reprimanding us last weekend for embarrassing her in a restaurant as we fell into unspeakable fits of hysteria (yet again) because you had "squeaky green beans."
To a mighty traveler and a mighty mom -- Happy Birthday GramTuna. What a wonderful, amazing adventure it's been! You just say the word, TinyTuna will bring the Edmund Fitzgerald, we'll hop into the 1969 VW Bus, take all the corners in third, and do lunch at the Tipsy Tree.
But please, leave the squeaky green beans at home.
Sign My Guestbook!
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
TRAVELS WITH TUNA: PART B
Once over the bridge, and after the customary Yooper McDonald's pit stop, driving falls into a steady rhythm of quiet punctuated by the frequent Just look at the water! After awhile, though, even the water can't be seen, leaving me no other humors than to loudly announce the name of each Yooper Townlet on our route.
"Next stop....CHRISTMAS!"
"What?" Yells TinyTuna, interrupting her third viewing of Mulan by ripping off the earphones in the midst of the battle with the Huns. "Christmas? Christmas? What about Christmas?"
"Relax," I tell her. It's the name of the town. See, there's Santa. And Mrs. Santa. And her ... (how do I pronounce this again? Oh yeah) ... Pass-tees. And right down the road is the Christmas Casino where all the good girls and boys play the slots so Mitten children will have new Xerox sheets to color in school.
I maybe didn't say all of that.
Yooperland has the greatest town names ever, and many of the good ones (like Vulcan, Norway, Phoenix and Florida) are omitted from this list. Plus, if you mispronounce them just a wee bit, it makes it that much more fun. There's Skankey (ok, Skanee) and Raco (where Rastro and Rorge from the Retsons racation), Assinins (we call it Assassins), L'anse and (Yogi) Baraga, site of the enormous Priesty Boy on the hill who squashed super huge killer spiders with his trusty cross and size 856 snowshoes.
Really!
Or not. But you gotta love 'em, because small towns give Yooperland its charm. Up here it's the land of pastys and taxidermy, snowmobiles and snowshoes, huntin' and fishin'. Maybe it isn't exactly milk and honey, but up here, it's heaven on earth.
As we got closer to our destination, I returned to my mantra: Just look at the water. By now we were on the Lake Superior edge of the UP with all its inlets, bays, lakes and rivers. It's so beautiful, and you are so far north, you feel like you're on the edge of the earth. I suppose it's like driving on the outside lane of the Mackinac bridge, but less scary and much, much prettier.
Finally, destination Michigan Tech. My home away from home for the next couple of days.
Sign My Guestbook!
"Next stop....CHRISTMAS!"
"What?" Yells TinyTuna, interrupting her third viewing of Mulan by ripping off the earphones in the midst of the battle with the Huns. "Christmas? Christmas? What about Christmas?"
"Relax," I tell her. It's the name of the town. See, there's Santa. And Mrs. Santa. And her ... (how do I pronounce this again? Oh yeah) ... Pass-tees. And right down the road is the Christmas Casino where all the good girls and boys play the slots so Mitten children will have new Xerox sheets to color in school.
I maybe didn't say all of that.
Yooperland has the greatest town names ever, and many of the good ones (like Vulcan, Norway, Phoenix and Florida) are omitted from this list. Plus, if you mispronounce them just a wee bit, it makes it that much more fun. There's Skankey (ok, Skanee) and Raco (where Rastro and Rorge from the Retsons racation), Assinins (we call it Assassins), L'anse and (Yogi) Baraga, site of the enormous Priesty Boy on the hill who squashed super huge killer spiders with his trusty cross and size 856 snowshoes.
Really!
Or not. But you gotta love 'em, because small towns give Yooperland its charm. Up here it's the land of pastys and taxidermy, snowmobiles and snowshoes, huntin' and fishin'. Maybe it isn't exactly milk and honey, but up here, it's heaven on earth.
As we got closer to our destination, I returned to my mantra: Just look at the water. By now we were on the Lake Superior edge of the UP with all its inlets, bays, lakes and rivers. It's so beautiful, and you are so far north, you feel like you're on the edge of the earth. I suppose it's like driving on the outside lane of the Mackinac bridge, but less scary and much, much prettier.
Finally, destination Michigan Tech. My home away from home for the next couple of days.
Sign My Guestbook!
TRAVELS WITH TUNA: PART B
Once over the bridge, and after the customary Yooper McDonald's pit stop, driving falls into a steady rhythm of quiet punctuated by the frequent Just look at the water! After awhile, though, even the water can't be seen, leaving me no other humors than to loudly announce the name of each Yooper Townlet on our route.
"Next stop....CHRISTMAS!"
"What?" Yells TinyTuna, interrupting her third viewing of Mulan by ripping off the earphones in the midst of the battle with the Huns. "Christmas? Christmas? What about Christmas?"
"Relax," I tell her. It's the name of the town. See, there's Santa. And Mrs. Santa. And her ... (how do I pronounce this again? Oh yeah) ... Pass-tees. And right down the road is the Christmas Casino where all the good girls and boys play the slots so Mitten children will have new Xerox sheets to color in school.
I maybe didn't say all of that.
Yooperland has the greatest town names ever, and many of the good ones (like Vulcan, Norway, Phoenix and Florida) are omitted from this list. Plus, if you mispronounce them just a wee bit, it makes it that much more fun. There's Skankey (ok, Skanee) and Raco (where Rastro and Rorge from the Retsons racation), Assinins (we call it Assassins), L'anse and (Yogi) Baraga, site of the enormous Priesty Boy on the hill who squashed super huge killer spiders with his trusty cross and size 856 snowshoes.
Really!
Or not. But you gotta love 'em, because small towns give Yooperland its charm. Up here it's the land of pastys and taxidermy, snowmobiles and snowshoes, huntin' and fishin'. Maybe it isn't exactly milk and honey, but up here, it's heaven on earth.
As we got closer to our destination, I returned to my mantra: Just look at the water. By now we were on the Lake Superior edge of the UP with all its inlets, bays, lakes and rivers. It's so beautiful, and you are so far north, you feel like you're on the edge of the earth. I suppose it's like driving on the outside lane of the Mackinac bridge, but less scary and much, much prettier.
Finally, destination Michigan Tech. My home away from home for the next couple of days.
Sign My Guestbook!
"Next stop....CHRISTMAS!"
"What?" Yells TinyTuna, interrupting her third viewing of Mulan by ripping off the earphones in the midst of the battle with the Huns. "Christmas? Christmas? What about Christmas?"
"Relax," I tell her. It's the name of the town. See, there's Santa. And Mrs. Santa. And her ... (how do I pronounce this again? Oh yeah) ... Pass-tees. And right down the road is the Christmas Casino where all the good girls and boys play the slots so Mitten children will have new Xerox sheets to color in school.
I maybe didn't say all of that.
Yooperland has the greatest town names ever, and many of the good ones (like Vulcan, Norway, Phoenix and Florida) are omitted from this list. Plus, if you mispronounce them just a wee bit, it makes it that much more fun. There's Skankey (ok, Skanee) and Raco (where Rastro and Rorge from the Retsons racation), Assinins (we call it Assassins), L'anse and (Yogi) Baraga, site of the enormous Priesty Boy on the hill who squashed super huge killer spiders with his trusty cross and size 856 snowshoes.
Really!
Or not. But you gotta love 'em, because small towns give Yooperland its charm. Up here it's the land of pastys and taxidermy, snowmobiles and snowshoes, huntin' and fishin'. Maybe it isn't exactly milk and honey, but up here, it's heaven on earth.
As we got closer to our destination, I returned to my mantra: Just look at the water. By now we were on the Lake Superior edge of the UP with all its inlets, bays, lakes and rivers. It's so beautiful, and you are so far north, you feel like you're on the edge of the earth. I suppose it's like driving on the outside lane of the Mackinac bridge, but less scary and much, much prettier.
Finally, destination Michigan Tech. My home away from home for the next couple of days.
Sign My Guestbook!
TRAVELS WITH TUNA: PART ONE
TRAVELS WITH TUNA -- PART ONE
With props or perhaps apologies to John Steinbeck, we could make that Travels with Charley Tuna.
Traveling to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is often an interesting if not daunting proposition. First of all, it's at least an eight hour haul from TunaVille to Houghton, and that's only if traffic is light, the wind isn't blowing you off the bridge, all the state troopers are taking their break at Krispy Kreme, and getting gas rivals an Indy 500 pit stop.
Driving nort to Houghton (that's Yooperspeak, yo) means adding layers of clothes for warmth while simultaneously sloughing off the daily grind home. Goodbye student population! Goodbye rush hour traffic! Goobye strip malls and chain stores! I'm going up nort!
At a milemarker unknown things start to change. The landscape slowly morphs from thick leafy trees to skinny birch trees with blinding white trunks, just now waking up after a long winter. And evergreens. Lots and lots of evergreens. Fir trees are designed to outlast the brutal cold and snows of winter. They don't make a big deal out of the weather -- why should I? Somewhere along the way time and attitude changes as well, and it isn't until I figure out that what's so different is the absence of bustle that I finally notice that peace and quiet have come along for the ride.
There often isn't much to see traveling up US-127 and I-75. Farmland, trees, red-winged blackbirds and the odd billboard or two. It's just enough scenery to keep you awake, while leaving you the opportunity to be alone with your thoughts. That doesn't happen much in TunaVille either, as defensive driving consists largely of dodging the scenery, be it pedestrian, automotive or antlered.
After several hours and some rolling hills, you finally catch a glimpse of the bridge. For many, it brings great excitement. For me it brings a clenched jaw and white knuckles on the steering wheel. There's nothing quite like a five-mile, one million ton bridge to get that heart racing. The biggest decision in crossing the "Mighty Mac" is which do you fear more: Driving on the outside lane where you could drive right over the edge and die (very, very bad), or driving on the inside lane that blocks other drivers from passing (potentially bad), but is away from the edge (better), but on a lane that is made of steel mesh (bad) which makes alot of noise (bad) and will come apart at any second causing you to plummet into the Lake (very, very, very bad)?
My choice? Inside lane. Hold on tight. Eyes focused on the other side. Talk gently to cars and trucks nearby. Pray for it all to be over soon.
In my defense, I would like to add that at least I'm not quite so chicken-hearted that I require assistance driving across the bridge. In fact such a service does exist for crossing the "Mighty Mack". The Bridge Authority has a "Timid Driver Program" and for a fee "they throw you in the back seat, put a towel on your head and drive."
Once you're successfully over the bridge, and have paid for the pleasure of the automotive hysteria that accompanies gephyrophobia (fear of bridges), you are officially a Yooper. You say "ya" for "yes" and "da" for "the" and "nort" for "north". You instantly begin mocking anybody living "down dere" by calling them a "troll" -- because they live under da bridge. Get it? Ya, dat's Yooper Humor. You wave goodbye to anything resembling a Highway or an Interstate, because it's two-lane from here on in, baby, with a passing lane once in a great while, just to keep life exciting.
And it's beautiful. It's awe-inspiring unbelievably beautiful. Lake Michigan is everywhere. Turn a corner -- there it is again. Past some trees -- there it is again. And without fail, every single time I said just look at the water... as if I had never seen such a thing before. It's not as if I were gazing at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or walking among the ruins of the Roman Forum. It's Lake Michigan.
But seriously, just look at the water.
Sign My Guestbook!
With props or perhaps apologies to John Steinbeck, we could make that Travels with Charley Tuna.
Traveling to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is often an interesting if not daunting proposition. First of all, it's at least an eight hour haul from TunaVille to Houghton, and that's only if traffic is light, the wind isn't blowing you off the bridge, all the state troopers are taking their break at Krispy Kreme, and getting gas rivals an Indy 500 pit stop.
Driving nort to Houghton (that's Yooperspeak, yo) means adding layers of clothes for warmth while simultaneously sloughing off the daily grind home. Goodbye student population! Goodbye rush hour traffic! Goobye strip malls and chain stores! I'm going up nort!
At a milemarker unknown things start to change. The landscape slowly morphs from thick leafy trees to skinny birch trees with blinding white trunks, just now waking up after a long winter. And evergreens. Lots and lots of evergreens. Fir trees are designed to outlast the brutal cold and snows of winter. They don't make a big deal out of the weather -- why should I? Somewhere along the way time and attitude changes as well, and it isn't until I figure out that what's so different is the absence of bustle that I finally notice that peace and quiet have come along for the ride.
There often isn't much to see traveling up US-127 and I-75. Farmland, trees, red-winged blackbirds and the odd billboard or two. It's just enough scenery to keep you awake, while leaving you the opportunity to be alone with your thoughts. That doesn't happen much in TunaVille either, as defensive driving consists largely of dodging the scenery, be it pedestrian, automotive or antlered.
After several hours and some rolling hills, you finally catch a glimpse of the bridge. For many, it brings great excitement. For me it brings a clenched jaw and white knuckles on the steering wheel. There's nothing quite like a five-mile, one million ton bridge to get that heart racing. The biggest decision in crossing the "Mighty Mac" is which do you fear more: Driving on the outside lane where you could drive right over the edge and die (very, very bad), or driving on the inside lane that blocks other drivers from passing (potentially bad), but is away from the edge (better), but on a lane that is made of steel mesh (bad) which makes alot of noise (bad) and will come apart at any second causing you to plummet into the Lake (very, very, very bad)?
My choice? Inside lane. Hold on tight. Eyes focused on the other side. Talk gently to cars and trucks nearby. Pray for it all to be over soon.
In my defense, I would like to add that at least I'm not quite so chicken-hearted that I require assistance driving across the bridge. In fact such a service does exist for crossing the "Mighty Mack". The Bridge Authority has a "Timid Driver Program" and for a fee "they throw you in the back seat, put a towel on your head and drive."
Once you're successfully over the bridge, and have paid for the pleasure of the automotive hysteria that accompanies gephyrophobia (fear of bridges), you are officially a Yooper. You say "ya" for "yes" and "da" for "the" and "nort" for "north". You instantly begin mocking anybody living "down dere" by calling them a "troll" -- because they live under da bridge. Get it? Ya, dat's Yooper Humor. You wave goodbye to anything resembling a Highway or an Interstate, because it's two-lane from here on in, baby, with a passing lane once in a great while, just to keep life exciting.
And it's beautiful. It's awe-inspiring unbelievably beautiful. Lake Michigan is everywhere. Turn a corner -- there it is again. Past some trees -- there it is again. And without fail, every single time I said just look at the water... as if I had never seen such a thing before. It's not as if I were gazing at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or walking among the ruins of the Roman Forum. It's Lake Michigan.
But seriously, just look at the water.
Sign My Guestbook!
TRAVELS WITH TUNA: PART ONE
TRAVELS WITH TUNA -- PART ONE
With props or perhaps apologies to John Steinbeck, we could make that Travels with Charley Tuna.
Traveling to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is often an interesting if not daunting proposition. First of all, it's at least an eight hour haul from TunaVille to Houghton, and that's only if traffic is light, the wind isn't blowing you off the bridge, all the state troopers are taking their break at Krispy Kreme, and getting gas rivals an Indy 500 pit stop.
Driving nort to Houghton (that's Yooperspeak, yo) means adding layers of clothes for warmth while simultaneously sloughing off the daily grind home. Goodbye student population! Goodbye rush hour traffic! Goobye strip malls and chain stores! I'm going up nort!
At a milemarker unknown things start to change. The landscape slowly morphs from thick leafy trees to skinny birch trees with blinding white trunks, just now waking up after a long winter. And evergreens. Lots and lots of evergreens. Fir trees are designed to outlast the brutal cold and snows of winter. They don't make a big deal out of the weather -- why should I? Somewhere along the way time and attitude changes as well, and it isn't until I figure out that what's so different is the absence of bustle that I finally notice that peace and quiet have come along for the ride.
There often isn't much to see traveling up US-127 and I-75. Farmland, trees, red-winged blackbirds and the odd billboard or two. It's just enough scenery to keep you awake, while leaving you the opportunity to be alone with your thoughts. That doesn't happen much in TunaVille either, as defensive driving consists largely of dodging the scenery, be it pedestrian, automotive or antlered.
After several hours and some rolling hills, you finally catch a glimpse of the bridge. For many, it brings great excitement. For me it brings a clenched jaw and white knuckles on the steering wheel. There's nothing quite like a five-mile, one million ton bridge to get that heart racing. The biggest decision in crossing the "Mighty Mac" is which do you fear more: Driving on the outside lane where you could drive right over the edge and die (very, very bad), or driving on the inside lane that blocks other drivers from passing (potentially bad), but is away from the edge (better), but on a lane that is made of steel mesh (bad) which makes alot of noise (bad) and will come apart at any second causing you to plummet into the Lake (very, very, very bad)?
My choice? Inside lane. Hold on tight. Eyes focused on the other side. Talk gently to cars and trucks nearby. Pray for it all to be over soon.
In my defense, I would like to add that at least I'm not quite so chicken-hearted that I require assistance driving across the bridge. In fact such a service does exist for crossing the "Mighty Mack". The Bridge Authority has a "Timid Driver Program" and for a fee "they throw you in the back seat, put a towel on your head and drive."
Once you're successfully over the bridge, and have paid for the pleasure of the automotive hysteria that accompanies gephyrophobia (fear of bridges), you are officially a Yooper. You say "ya" for "yes" and "da" for "the" and "nort" for "north". You instantly begin mocking anybody living "down dere" by calling them a "troll" -- because they live under da bridge. Get it? Ya, dat's Yooper Humor. You wave goodbye to anything resembling a Highway or an Interstate, because it's two-lane from here on in, baby, with a passing lane once in a great while, just to keep life exciting.
And it's beautiful. It's awe-inspiring unbelievably beautiful. Lake Michigan is everywhere. Turn a corner -- there it is again. Past some trees -- there it is again. And without fail, every single time I said just look at the water... as if I had never seen such a thing before. It's not as if I were gazing at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or walking among the ruins of the Roman Forum. It's Lake Michigan.
But seriously, just look at the water.
Sign My Guestbook!
With props or perhaps apologies to John Steinbeck, we could make that Travels with Charley Tuna.
Traveling to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is often an interesting if not daunting proposition. First of all, it's at least an eight hour haul from TunaVille to Houghton, and that's only if traffic is light, the wind isn't blowing you off the bridge, all the state troopers are taking their break at Krispy Kreme, and getting gas rivals an Indy 500 pit stop.
Driving nort to Houghton (that's Yooperspeak, yo) means adding layers of clothes for warmth while simultaneously sloughing off the daily grind home. Goodbye student population! Goodbye rush hour traffic! Goobye strip malls and chain stores! I'm going up nort!
At a milemarker unknown things start to change. The landscape slowly morphs from thick leafy trees to skinny birch trees with blinding white trunks, just now waking up after a long winter. And evergreens. Lots and lots of evergreens. Fir trees are designed to outlast the brutal cold and snows of winter. They don't make a big deal out of the weather -- why should I? Somewhere along the way time and attitude changes as well, and it isn't until I figure out that what's so different is the absence of bustle that I finally notice that peace and quiet have come along for the ride.
There often isn't much to see traveling up US-127 and I-75. Farmland, trees, red-winged blackbirds and the odd billboard or two. It's just enough scenery to keep you awake, while leaving you the opportunity to be alone with your thoughts. That doesn't happen much in TunaVille either, as defensive driving consists largely of dodging the scenery, be it pedestrian, automotive or antlered.
After several hours and some rolling hills, you finally catch a glimpse of the bridge. For many, it brings great excitement. For me it brings a clenched jaw and white knuckles on the steering wheel. There's nothing quite like a five-mile, one million ton bridge to get that heart racing. The biggest decision in crossing the "Mighty Mac" is which do you fear more: Driving on the outside lane where you could drive right over the edge and die (very, very bad), or driving on the inside lane that blocks other drivers from passing (potentially bad), but is away from the edge (better), but on a lane that is made of steel mesh (bad) which makes alot of noise (bad) and will come apart at any second causing you to plummet into the Lake (very, very, very bad)?
My choice? Inside lane. Hold on tight. Eyes focused on the other side. Talk gently to cars and trucks nearby. Pray for it all to be over soon.
In my defense, I would like to add that at least I'm not quite so chicken-hearted that I require assistance driving across the bridge. In fact such a service does exist for crossing the "Mighty Mack". The Bridge Authority has a "Timid Driver Program" and for a fee "they throw you in the back seat, put a towel on your head and drive."
Once you're successfully over the bridge, and have paid for the pleasure of the automotive hysteria that accompanies gephyrophobia (fear of bridges), you are officially a Yooper. You say "ya" for "yes" and "da" for "the" and "nort" for "north". You instantly begin mocking anybody living "down dere" by calling them a "troll" -- because they live under da bridge. Get it? Ya, dat's Yooper Humor. You wave goodbye to anything resembling a Highway or an Interstate, because it's two-lane from here on in, baby, with a passing lane once in a great while, just to keep life exciting.
And it's beautiful. It's awe-inspiring unbelievably beautiful. Lake Michigan is everywhere. Turn a corner -- there it is again. Past some trees -- there it is again. And without fail, every single time I said just look at the water... as if I had never seen such a thing before. It's not as if I were gazing at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or walking among the ruins of the Roman Forum. It's Lake Michigan.
But seriously, just look at the water.
Sign My Guestbook!
Monday, May 03, 2004
PEANUT BUTTER!
Peanut Butter Jelly!
Peanut Butter Jelly!
Peanut Butter Jelly with a baseball bat!
How much longer until it's Peanut Butter Jelly Time? Check out the countdown at the bottom of the links. As to the aforementioned ditty, the critical word here appears to be "with". Is the baseball bat meant to be included in the sandwich, or does it just accompany one to lunch? I don't know, and the banana is too busy dancing and singing...
Sign My Guestbook!
Peanut Butter Jelly!
Peanut Butter Jelly with a baseball bat!
How much longer until it's Peanut Butter Jelly Time? Check out the countdown at the bottom of the links. As to the aforementioned ditty, the critical word here appears to be "with". Is the baseball bat meant to be included in the sandwich, or does it just accompany one to lunch? I don't know, and the banana is too busy dancing and singing...
Sign My Guestbook!
PEANUT BUTTER!
Peanut Butter Jelly!
Peanut Butter Jelly!
Peanut Butter Jelly with a baseball bat!
How much longer until it's Peanut Butter Jelly Time? Check out the countdown at the bottom of the links. As to the aforementioned ditty, the critical word here appears to be "with". Is the baseball bat meant to be included in the sandwich, or does it just accompany one to lunch? I don't know, and the banana is too busy dancing and singing...
Sign My Guestbook!
Peanut Butter Jelly!
Peanut Butter Jelly with a baseball bat!
How much longer until it's Peanut Butter Jelly Time? Check out the countdown at the bottom of the links. As to the aforementioned ditty, the critical word here appears to be "with". Is the baseball bat meant to be included in the sandwich, or does it just accompany one to lunch? I don't know, and the banana is too busy dancing and singing...
Sign My Guestbook!
WHO'S THAT GIRL?
Now that I've had a chance to suck down a couple of Diet Brown Beverages, catch up on my email, put out several small office fires and hire a dumpster and crew to clean up after the chew toys, I have something to say:
I'm not that guy.
And do you know what else? He's not that guy either.
The critical difference here, is that I never claimed to be that guy. I just linked to the now infamous eBay Wedding dress page, and then cut-and-pasted the "description" for posterity's sake. Those things don't stick around forever, and like the rest of the free world, I thought it was funny.
Somehow, some people thought I was that guy. Some people congratulated me on getting so much money. Others encouraged me to write them. I got lots of LOLs and WTG and virtual high-fives for being the funniest person ever. But it wasn't me. It was that guy -- Who I am not.
Not being that guy has it's benefits. It means I don't have to run a spell-checker on my tattoos. It means I have a real face instead of a blob of Wite-Out from the neck up. But it also means I don't have four grand to drink beer and watch the Mariners, which is a bit of a bummer. Of course, if I HAD four grand, I wouldn't spend it on beer OR baseball. Well, I might spend it a little bit on beer, and baseball too, if it made you happy.
But what I DO have is a basement full of memories. All I need is a witty story and a bottle of Wite-Out to go along with all the junk I own and who knows...
I could be that guy.
Sign My Guestbook!
Now that I've had a chance to suck down a couple of Diet Brown Beverages, catch up on my email, put out several small office fires and hire a dumpster and crew to clean up after the chew toys, I have something to say:
I'm not that guy.
And do you know what else? He's not that guy either.
The critical difference here, is that I never claimed to be that guy. I just linked to the now infamous eBay Wedding dress page, and then cut-and-pasted the "description" for posterity's sake. Those things don't stick around forever, and like the rest of the free world, I thought it was funny.
Somehow, some people thought I was that guy. Some people congratulated me on getting so much money. Others encouraged me to write them. I got lots of LOLs and WTG and virtual high-fives for being the funniest person ever. But it wasn't me. It was that guy -- Who I am not.
Not being that guy has it's benefits. It means I don't have to run a spell-checker on my tattoos. It means I have a real face instead of a blob of Wite-Out from the neck up. But it also means I don't have four grand to drink beer and watch the Mariners, which is a bit of a bummer. Of course, if I HAD four grand, I wouldn't spend it on beer OR baseball. Well, I might spend it a little bit on beer, and baseball too, if it made you happy.
But what I DO have is a basement full of memories. All I need is a witty story and a bottle of Wite-Out to go along with all the junk I own and who knows...
I could be that guy.
Sign My Guestbook!
WHO'S THAT GIRL?
Now that I've had a chance to suck down a couple of Diet Brown Beverages, catch up on my email, put out several small office fires and hire a dumpster and crew to clean up after the chew toys, I have something to say:
I'm not that guy.
And do you know what else? He's not that guy either.
The critical difference here, is that I never claimed to be that guy. I just linked to the now infamous eBay Wedding dress page, and then cut-and-pasted the "description" for posterity's sake. Those things don't stick around forever, and like the rest of the free world, I thought it was funny.
Somehow, some people thought I was that guy. Some people congratulated me on getting so much money. Others encouraged me to write them. I got lots of LOLs and WTG and virtual high-fives for being the funniest person ever. But it wasn't me. It was that guy -- Who I am not.
Not being that guy has it's benefits. It means I don't have to run a spell-checker on my tattoos. It means I have a real face instead of a blob of Wite-Out from the neck up. But it also means I don't have four grand to drink beer and watch the Mariners, which is a bit of a bummer. Of course, if I HAD four grand, I wouldn't spend it on beer OR baseball. Well, I might spend it a little bit on beer, and baseball too, if it made you happy.
But what I DO have is a basement full of memories. All I need is a witty story and a bottle of Wite-Out to go along with all the junk I own and who knows...
I could be that guy.
Sign My Guestbook!
Now that I've had a chance to suck down a couple of Diet Brown Beverages, catch up on my email, put out several small office fires and hire a dumpster and crew to clean up after the chew toys, I have something to say:
I'm not that guy.
And do you know what else? He's not that guy either.
The critical difference here, is that I never claimed to be that guy. I just linked to the now infamous eBay Wedding dress page, and then cut-and-pasted the "description" for posterity's sake. Those things don't stick around forever, and like the rest of the free world, I thought it was funny.
Somehow, some people thought I was that guy. Some people congratulated me on getting so much money. Others encouraged me to write them. I got lots of LOLs and WTG and virtual high-fives for being the funniest person ever. But it wasn't me. It was that guy -- Who I am not.
Not being that guy has it's benefits. It means I don't have to run a spell-checker on my tattoos. It means I have a real face instead of a blob of Wite-Out from the neck up. But it also means I don't have four grand to drink beer and watch the Mariners, which is a bit of a bummer. Of course, if I HAD four grand, I wouldn't spend it on beer OR baseball. Well, I might spend it a little bit on beer, and baseball too, if it made you happy.
But what I DO have is a basement full of memories. All I need is a witty story and a bottle of Wite-Out to go along with all the junk I own and who knows...
I could be that guy.
Sign My Guestbook!
Sunday, May 02, 2004
I'M BAAACK
That's right one and all, I have survived my excursion to Yooperland, complete with stories of green beans, locks without keys, little horses, and (of course) The Edmund Fitzgerald. Unfortunately, I'm about five minutes from passing out completely (four with good spelling and punctuation), so all stories will have to wait until tomorrow. Three days finds me frighteningly behind in online reading, but I did scan several important Blogs, and I'm astounded that nobody mentioned a certain Survivor Fantasy Team standings.
We're...No...I'M Number Two!
Rank--Team Name--Score
1 -- buffs4vol -- 3123
2 -- GreenTuna -- 3086
3 -- VivaLaFisty -- 2970
4 -- Honeylife -- 2945
5 -- copssister -- 2830
6 -- Amazingrace -- 2711
7 -- The Sketch Factor -- 2669
8 -- Snappie -- 2448
I'm getting the gloating in while I can, since I'm sure Karma is going to do a drive by and bite me in the butt in the next week or so. I figure I'm a fantasy league version of Puxtatawney Phil, peeking out for a bit of sunlight before I crawl back into the hole again. Still in all, Buffs better be on the lookout. If you hear an "OW, My Knees!" and "Why me...Whyyyyy?" well, I'm telling you right now, I had nothing to do with it.
Sign My Guestbook!
That's right one and all, I have survived my excursion to Yooperland, complete with stories of green beans, locks without keys, little horses, and (of course) The Edmund Fitzgerald. Unfortunately, I'm about five minutes from passing out completely (four with good spelling and punctuation), so all stories will have to wait until tomorrow. Three days finds me frighteningly behind in online reading, but I did scan several important Blogs, and I'm astounded that nobody mentioned a certain Survivor Fantasy Team standings.
We're...No...I'M Number Two!
Rank--Team Name--Score
1 -- buffs4vol -- 3123
2 -- GreenTuna -- 3086
3 -- VivaLaFisty -- 2970
4 -- Honeylife -- 2945
5 -- copssister -- 2830
6 -- Amazingrace -- 2711
7 -- The Sketch Factor -- 2669
8 -- Snappie -- 2448
I'm getting the gloating in while I can, since I'm sure Karma is going to do a drive by and bite me in the butt in the next week or so. I figure I'm a fantasy league version of Puxtatawney Phil, peeking out for a bit of sunlight before I crawl back into the hole again. Still in all, Buffs better be on the lookout. If you hear an "OW, My Knees!" and "Why me...Whyyyyy?" well, I'm telling you right now, I had nothing to do with it.
Sign My Guestbook!
I'M BAAACK
That's right one and all, I have survived my excursion to Yooperland, complete with stories of green beans, locks without keys, little horses, and (of course) The Edmund Fitzgerald. Unfortunately, I'm about five minutes from passing out completely (four with good spelling and punctuation), so all stories will have to wait until tomorrow. Three days finds me frighteningly behind in online reading, but I did scan several important Blogs, and I'm astounded that nobody mentioned a certain Survivor Fantasy Team standings.
We're...No...I'M Number Two!
Rank--Team Name--Score
1 -- buffs4vol -- 3123
2 -- GreenTuna -- 3086
3 -- VivaLaFisty -- 2970
4 -- Honeylife -- 2945
5 -- copssister -- 2830
6 -- Amazingrace -- 2711
7 -- The Sketch Factor -- 2669
8 -- Snappie -- 2448
I'm getting the gloating in while I can, since I'm sure Karma is going to do a drive by and bite me in the butt in the next week or so. I figure I'm a fantasy league version of Puxtatawney Phil, peeking out for a bit of sunlight before I crawl back into the hole again. Still in all, Buffs better be on the lookout. If you hear an "OW, My Knees!" and "Why me...Whyyyyy?" well, I'm telling you right now, I had nothing to do with it.
Sign My Guestbook!
That's right one and all, I have survived my excursion to Yooperland, complete with stories of green beans, locks without keys, little horses, and (of course) The Edmund Fitzgerald. Unfortunately, I'm about five minutes from passing out completely (four with good spelling and punctuation), so all stories will have to wait until tomorrow. Three days finds me frighteningly behind in online reading, but I did scan several important Blogs, and I'm astounded that nobody mentioned a certain Survivor Fantasy Team standings.
We're...No...I'M Number Two!
Rank--Team Name--Score
1 -- buffs4vol -- 3123
2 -- GreenTuna -- 3086
3 -- VivaLaFisty -- 2970
4 -- Honeylife -- 2945
5 -- copssister -- 2830
6 -- Amazingrace -- 2711
7 -- The Sketch Factor -- 2669
8 -- Snappie -- 2448
I'm getting the gloating in while I can, since I'm sure Karma is going to do a drive by and bite me in the butt in the next week or so. I figure I'm a fantasy league version of Puxtatawney Phil, peeking out for a bit of sunlight before I crawl back into the hole again. Still in all, Buffs better be on the lookout. If you hear an "OW, My Knees!" and "Why me...Whyyyyy?" well, I'm telling you right now, I had nothing to do with it.
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