Confessions of a Strange Woman

The lovely lady who is responsible for my new header, April, tagged me with this thing where you confess to seven weird things about you. Normally I avoid these things since I tend to give away far too much questionable information as it is, but since she is up with the awesome I will do her bidding.

1. No, I most certainly do NOT have a Barbie doll collection so why does everyone keep asking me that?! Just because I have 15 Barbies in pristine condition displayed in our den on shelves does not constitute a Barbie collection in my mind. I just happen to have 15 different Barbies that represent things that interest me, but Barbies in general hold no interest on their own. For example, I have Presidential Candidate Barbie, which represents my love for politics; I have Swan Lake, Nutcracker, and Romeo & Juliet Barbies, which represents my love for ballet; I have Beatrix Potter Barbie, which represents my love for her books that I was raised with; I have BYU Cheerleader Barbie, which is in honor of my alma mater; and I have various Barbies in traditional attire from countries around the world, which I just think is fine. BUT I DON'T HAVE A BARBIE COLLECTION. SO SHUT UP ALREADY.

2.) I know how to fix toilets. My father taught us so we would quit whining. I've fixed the one that keeps breaking at church more times than you can shake a stick at. You're welcome.

3.) I am an avid egg nog connoisseur. I love egg nog, but it has to taste just right. For example, the egg nog I excitedly purchased last evening at Costco (first of the season no less!) is the Land O'Lakes brand. It has the right texture and thickness, but the flavor is lacking. It is on the right track, but it's slightly too dull. Amazingly enough, it tastes a lot like butter (can't imagine why). I haven't had the perfect egg nog since I was a child and we had it delivered to our home each holiday season. My mother signed up for Royal Crest Dairy milk delivery starting in November every year simply to have their brand of egg nog (the premium stuff, not that lite crap) delivered as often as we wanted up through the New Year. The likes of this egg nog have never been equalled, I assure you. If you hate egg nog, it's because you never tasted Royal Crest. Probably because you weren't raised in Colorado. I can't help it if you weren't.

4.) I am in love with Gregory Peck. Favorite G.P. movie: Twelve O'Clock High. Second favorite: To Kill a Mocking Bird.

5.) One of my favorite things to do is watch people get their hair cut. Fascinates me. If I could have been something I'm not, it would have been a hairdresser.

6.) I am annoyingly tidy in other people's houses. It is second nature for me to push in the dining room chairs, to straighten armchair covers, turn off unused lights, etc. I have to actively tell myself not to do those things in other people's houses so they won't be offended; unfortunately, the more comfortable I am in your house, the more likely I am to do it because I let my guard down. Honestly, if you see me doing that in your house, I'm not saying anything about your homemaking skills--I do the exact same thing in my own home, too. It's just a habit I don't even think about. I'll apologize now so I don't have to later.

7.) Despite my blogheader, I hate parades. They're boring. They're boring because they're slow. Now, if everyone in the parade were running, that would be awesome. Parade floats whipping down the road, honking, marching band members running in every direction. Perfect.

If It Helps, I'm Not That Deep, Either

OK, FINE. So you're not sports fanatics. How about humor? Do you like that? One would never know since apparently you're less likely to find it here than in a Robin Williams film, but in case you do, have I got the website for you! Actually, it's a blog, but that still counts, right?

You know how my posts go on and on and on and on and on and never seem to end and you never even make it to the end of them because you're so completely exhausted by then that you pass out? Imagine a humor blog but with really short posts...as in, posts that are able to cram all that funny in one itty-bitty tiny space. Can you imagine it? I sure can! And it's the subject of this week's/month's/year's Abby's Website Pick! It is my new favorite website and/or blog that is fully worthy of my precious, precious stalking time.

So go right now to Notthatdeep.com and merrily enjoy! And subscribe! And comment! And beware the saucy language!

As for the rest of you jerks, I know you're reading! I can see you there! Well, I can't actually see you, I can just see a bunch of numbers. But I know that loads of people I can't readily identify read this friggin' blog every day and YET YOU DO NOT COMMENT. SO THE REST OF THE WORLD THINKS I'M A LOSER. DON'T THINK I DON'T HOLD THAT AGAINST YOU, YOU BLOG-LOOKING THIEVES. Just for that, I'm not going to post for a really, really long time. Which is fairly fortunate, since I couldn't think of anything else to write about anyway.

Je Suis Hilare Dans Toutes les Langues

Read my blog in French! Go on, it's fun!

Ah, Society's Norms: I Hardly Knew Ye

Holy crap, people! I neglect my Google Reader for two days and I come back to 36 unread posts! What in the name of Bill Clinton is going on here? I just spent the last hour catching up, each time expecting to run across that one nutjob-jerk who decided to put out 18 posts in 24 hours. Turns out everyone I know just wrote one-to-two posts per day. That's not nearly as exciting as I'd anticipated, and here I got my panties in a bunch over nothing. Who am I going to yell at now? Quit posting so much, people! I have a life you know! Obviously!

Here's a tidbit I was greeted with on Comcast's news feed today; I'll let you pick out the one glaring word that makes this statement unfathomable: "Former 'Idol' Clay Aiken tells People magazine that he could no longer hide his homosexuality." Let me just get the obvious over with here and ask, was he even trying?

Speaking of Clay Aiken, a few women, including Stephanie and Kristen, and I were playing Catchphrase, a game where you get a word or phrase, describe it, and the others guess. My phrase was "Clay Aiken."

Me: "That idiot from American Idol."
My team: "Ryan Seacrest! Simon Cowell!"
Me: "No, a singer."
Stephanie: "Clay Aiken!"
Ta-da.

I was going to post something about a website I've had an idea for for a while now--an idea that left me completely in stitches over my brilliant sense of humor. However, the more I thought about posting about it, the more I decided I would look incredibly insane doing it. And that while I might be laughing, everyone else would likely be staring at their computer screens in horror, wondering which authorities they should notify first. I considered asking someone like Stephanie if my attempt at humor would translate to anyone else outside of my own brain, but her brother's in town so she's busy thinking about someone besides me for once. It's a shame though--it cracks me up even thinking about it. It was going to have photoshopped pictures, music, a FAQ section, and everything. Oh well. Some crazy things are best left unexplored. NOW DON'T YOU FEEL BAD FOR SUPPRESSING MY CREATIVE GENIUS?!

Randomness I've seen

Back when I lived in No. Virginia ages and ages ago, I frequently went to the IHOP in Alexandria with my friend, Teri. Actually, there were two IHOPs in Alexandria, but once we discovered the second, we never went back to the first. Sure, the first one had good pancakes, but the second. Well, the second one had dinner and a show for the same price! She was there every night we went, leading me to surmise that she simply lived at work, possibly in a stall in the bathroom. She was our Crazy Waitress and we looked forward to seeing her every time. Crazy Waitress would wander from table to table taking people's orders while simultaneously carrying on her own long-running conversation with herself. "I told him, I tells him, hi ladies, can I take your order? I tells him "If you think I'm working this Sunday, you've got another thing coming!" and I'm afraid we're out of that drink, how about a Coke instead? and my boss continues to yell at me so I tells him, you want that with the pancakes or the hashbrowns ma'am? OK, so I tells him that if I don't get off Sunday I'm finally quitting! and how would you like your eggs done? I'm telling you, your order will be out shortly, I'm telling you I'm not doing this anymore!! We'll have words and...." And the conversation would fade as she moved on to the next table of enthralled, incredulous customers. When Teri moved away I never went back to that IHOP, but I sure hope Crazy Waitress patched things up with her boss because I would hate knowing the establishment had thrived without her.

I was at the mall the other day munching on a slice of pizza in the food court. We sat right next to one of those Tetris-like stand-alone games called "Stacker." The prizes you can win ranged from crappy, cheap stuffed animals to PlayStation 2s. I was entertained by two young future juvenile hall candidates who were thrilled out of their brains that they could possibly win a PS2 just by playing a lousy mall game. I was even more entertained noting that they didn't bother to notice that the PS2 box they so lusted after was twice as big as the prize claim chute and door they would supposedly retrieve it from. How can such a thing not totally make my day?

I saw a bumper sticker on a car in the mall parking lot one day. It said "Fat people are harder to kidnap." I've pondered the depth of this statement and have come to the conclusion that truer words have never been communicated via car appendage. I'm going to switch from eating donuts for breakfast to serving them for dinner instead.

I had a friend in elementary school named Joey. He was a delicate, sensitive boy, and the only boy among several sisters; he was spoiled like crazy. Joey, the little flower, had a penchant for passing out when he saw gross things. In 5th grade we were watching a film of a woman being X-rayed while eating an apple. When the apple began to move through her digestive system, we heard a loud SMACK on the floor. The teacher turned on the lights and we all crowded around the limp form of Joey sprawled out on the floor. The teacher, an elderly lady (she was our 6th grade teacher's teacher back when he was a boy, if that's any indication), grabbed his hand and dragged a newly conscious and confused Joey down the hallway to the nurse's office. The next year, we were watching Eskimos gut a seal when, again, a loud WHAP disrupted our fascination and turned it toward Joey's body. Andy had the sensitivity to inquire if Joey was dead this time around. The teacher, a fairly large and fit man, kindly carried poor confused Joey to the nurse's office. I think Joey got notes from his mom after that. Later, his mom confessed that Joey frequently passed out while watching TV at home, which only raised even more obvious questions like "What the hell are you letting your son watch at home?" and "Why are you letting him watch it?" *Sigh* Poor sensitive, girly Joey. He's making a dollar-a-minute as a concert pianist now, so I guess it all worked out for him, especially considering the comparative lack of gross things associated with piano-playing and all. And I guess classical concerts in general.

And finally, Stephenie Meyer. Ah, Stephenie. Do you hate us that much? Or did you just get bored and decide to stop writing? You know, before the last Indiana Jones film came out George Lucas said he knew some people would hate the ending. I said at the time, "Well I refuse to be one of those people!" Well, I hated it. Before Breaking Dawn came out, Stephenie Meyer said she knew some people were going to hate how it ended. I thought, "Well I'm not going to be one of those people!" Again, I hated it. I've come to the intelligent conclusion that I am in fact "some people" and "one of those people." I think I should just start listening to folks when they tell me I'm not going to like their work and take their word for it.

My Own Personal Edwards

I apologize for my brief hiatuses. For those that don't know me well, it should prove interesting to know that I talk on my blog precisely as frequently as I talk in reality. I'm still unsure how I have friends at all since I rarely, if ever, speak to them. Shockingly, I was actually talking to one of them yesterday and we mused over our penchant for emailing friends who live two minutes away. Myself, I like to change things up once in a while. Sometimes calling them, sometimes emailing them, sometimes showing up at their houses unexpectedly and demanding answers, and sometimes writing my questions in their front lawns with gasoline (pricey means I love you!). Regardless of the vehicle, I only talk when something needs to be said.

I've discovered that I subconsciously seek out chatty friends. I have very few friends who are as quiet as I am; otherwise, the conversation transforms from the obligatory small talk to a perpetual staring contest. We have to be Made For Each Other for me to be friends with a quiet person and obviously, my list of that type of friend is short. Otherwise, I seek out talkative friends who can carry the conversation for me so I can nod and express my interest through a series of grunts and raised eyebrows. Don't get me wrong; if you ask me a direct question, or if I have something to add that is pertinent enough to the conversation you're engaged in, I'll say it. Aside from that, don't expect me to say much, if ever. It's not that I don't like you. I just don't like people and talking to them. See? We're still cool, right?

On to today's business. It has come to my marvelous attention via my personal informer that there are several people out there who either know me only vaguely or not at all who read this blog on a regular basis. My source also tells me that these people seem to be embarrassed by this because they don't know me well and don't want to be seen as "creepy" or "stalkerish." First of all, it's obvious that they don't know me because it takes a lot to scare me. Commenting on my blog is not only not creepy in any fashion, but also very fun for me. I do not think you are a stalker simply because we have not been properly introduced. Perhaps if you were to secret yourself away in my window well, or maybe mail me Hallmark cards made out of bullets, well then, I might be a tad concerned and suggest you save those well-thought out activities for someone who can appreciate your time and talents a bit more. But reading and commenting on my blog? Please. Nothing would give me more joy. (Please note the stress I'm placing on the word "comment." There's a reason for that. Go do it.)

Second of all, have you looked at my sidebar recently? The one titled "Websites and Blogs I Regularly Stalk"? I am so not kidding about the stalking part. And that's not even all the blogs I frequent, just the ones I think large audiences would also be interested in visiting. I have a ready list of total and complete strangers that I keep up with. Why? Because I stumbled upon their blogs one day and had to come back to see how it turned out. I even comment on their blogs when it strikes me to do so. They may think it's weird, but who cares? If you don't want me reading your blog, then switch off the option that allows your blog to be found via search engines (you can do that you know). Anyone who enables that option clearly doesn't mind visitors. I take full advantage of that invitation.

And lastly, I especially love knowing that there are people out there who know me but pretend they don't know I have a blog they read despite the contrary. They think because they weren't specifically invited to this party that they are unwelcome. Pfft. I specifically invited about three of my readers personally--the rest came by word-of-mouth. Obviously I'm fine with it and I even encourage it in a passive sort of way. So for all of my neighbors named Melissa who live three doors down who think I don't know they read my blog but probably shouldn't have told Stephanie if they wanted to keep it a secret, I love that you're here. The fact that I'm watching you right now through your front window should indicate just how much. Oh, I'm not there? I probably just went on a bathroom break. I'll be right back so just hang tight. Next time you could be a little more supportive and offer your own bathroom so I don't have to walk so far and lose my concentration.

Please, by all means everyone, read away. If I didn't want you here I would make my blog private so all of three people could read it. If I didn't want you to comment on anything I would turn off that option. If I didn't want you as friends I would never talk to y--...wait, scratch that. Point is, stay. Feel welcome. And for the love of Michael Phelps, comment when you have something to say, OK? Don't make me come to your house to get what I want. Gas is so expensive these days.

I'm Afraid to Say It....

The Husband and his father are at an Orioles game tonight. I was so excited to have an evening to myself to blog that I stuffed the kids in bed by 7:30 (it would have been sooner if PW had not insisted we count all the doughnuts pictured in her Curious George book--I stopped those goings-on at 201). I took out the trash and recycling, did the dishes, ran around the house with Clorox Everywhere sanitizing everything under the sun (finally, after the year of 10,000 diseases), and ran to the computer confident that I could take my time. And now I sit here, staring at the computer with nothing to say.

In lieu of anything interesting in my life to report, I'll resort to embarrassing myself and my family for your reading pleasure. PW recently took swimming lessons. And by "took swimming lessons" I mean "she screamed that she was drowning every second she was in the pool," despite the lifejacket, swimming teacher holding her, and lifeguards staring at her intently. By the end of six lessons, she wouldn't go anywhere near the pool. Nay, she wouldn't even go in the baby pool that had all of four inches of water in it. Sure, she finally got brave enough to sit next to the baby pool and play with a random rubber ducky she found (a pirate ducky no less--I'll have to find one of those), but that was as far as she would venture. How in the world did she turn out like this? The two previous years I had held her while in the pool but admittedly she wasn't a huge fan. Lately she's been screaming "TURN IT OFF, TURN OFF THE WATER!!" in the bathtub if the water even approaches her bellybutton while seated. She's completely insane.

Which leads me to conclude that phobias are indeed inherited (or at least in part) as some suspect. My father's not a huge fan of water. He'll go in if forced, but he doesn't enjoy it. I used to swim (well, got in the pool anyway) as a child, but I've become less fond of the water the older I've become. I'm not scared of the water in the pool (despite several early near-drownings), and I know how to swim just fine, I just derive no enjoyment from it whatsoever. It's as enjoyable for me as sitting in the parking lot of Safeway; at least you don't have to shave your body for the latter activity.

Now, the ocean is another matter entirely. I have no qualms about looking at the ocean from the shore. Lovely. But I don't get in it. I don't like boats. I don't like deep water. And here's a fun fact for all of you taking notes at home: if I see a picture of an iceberg, I get severly nauseated. Why? Because those suckers are FRICKING UNNATURALLY HUGE. And that's just the part that you see sticking up out of the water! That's only an average of 10% of those suckers, and there's a whole 90% hidden, lurking under that mountain of ice, floating silently in the icy, dark depths of a seemingly bottomless ocean. Icebergs make the true depth of the ocean a sudden and unwelcome reality in my mind. I'm gonna find you the worst picture of one (it was photoshopped actually, but it's still the same idea) and then I'm going to stop speaking of it as I'm on the verge of puking on my keyboard. I will not include the actual photo here (as if I want to taint my blog with that business), but here is a link if you care: http://www.snopes.com/photos/natural/iceberg.asp

You're welcome for that. I nearly lost my dinner in the process for you ingrates (is it any wonder PW is such a freak? I didn't think so).

Now how about heights? Dad hates heights. You guessed it: so do I. We don't even like climbing on stepladders to change a lightbulb. We've discussed this many times together and we agree with the analysis one set of professionals gave about why some people are scared of heights: we're scared that if we're, say, on top of a building, that we'll suddenly go nuts and just start running and take a flying leap off the roof. Accidental falling is a worry, too, naturally. But the one where you think you're going to do it to yourself is much worse. Oh, and the husband is also none the fan of high places, either (which is why I'm especially proud of him for cleaning our gutters on the roof). Is it any wonder PW freaks out about that, as well? Mind you, none of us are scared of speed. A fast carnival ride that whips your brains around inside your head is great fun and PW agrees. She is fearless when it comes to that. But up high? No.

Shall I go on? Of course I shall. Who's to stop me? You? I didn't think so. Punk.

Spiders/bugs. Not a fan of spiders and neither is Dad. Now, at this point some might speculate that my father passed all of these fears on to me nearly intentionally. However, I never witnessed him showing his fears about these things until well after my own were considerably developed on their own. In fact, when I had hissyfits over spiders, he would scold me for sending the little beasts (Satan's Pets, they are) back to their Maker and insist I should be setting them free outside. Pffft, whatever. SQUISH.

It is at this point that I would like to point out that PW has a very kind side to her. Despite her distaste for spiders in general, she will frequently see to their welfare. She locates the spiders and I squash them, as a rule. But on occasion she will spot a small one and I will give her the choice of killing it or giving it its freedom. She always chooses to spare its life. So we let it crawl into one of her play dishes, carry it outside, and let it crawl out again. She has a good heart. And it is for this very reason why I tortured the nasty bee that stung her twice two weeks ago. She never knowingly disrupted it; in fact, it climbed into her clothing and had the gall to sting her when she tried to figure out what was rummaging around inside her shirt sleeve. That little bastard died a very unpleasant death, I can assure you of that. So now if she sees anything that flies--including gnats and butterflies--she FREAKS OUT. Great.

On to my next phobia. (Why no, I haven't seen a professional about these. Why do you ask?) Fire. I'm convinced I'm going to die in a house fire. I'm absolutely certain that's how I'm going to leave this life. I have every possible escape route planned out of my house and I'm still certain I'm going to die in it. No, we don't have a fireplace in our house. Screw that.

Large dogs. In my defense, a dog attacked me when I was very young (perhaps 2 or 3 years old) and bit me in the face. And then another dog cornered me when I was ten. If your dog is quiet, appears happy and stable, and is on a leash if outside, I'll pat it. No, I will not play with it. But I will pat it. But if your dog barks at me, I will cry. So keep that in mind.

Speaking in public? Sure, why not. I hate it and avoid it at all costs as many others do (and yet I'll perform for an audience without too much trouble--go figure). I knew I was going to quit my last job before getting married, but I hadn't decided when to officially tell my bosses. That decision practically made itself when they told me I was going to have to brief a general and his staff to "further my career." "Oh man, what a bummer I'm gonna have to miss that. Take care!"

Did you know that there are people who are genuinely afraid of the number 13? Now, those people are nuts.

I hope I've given you enough here to make you feel better about yourselves. I'm such a giver.

A Word About Baltimore

As opposed to its evil twin, Baltimore is a pretty good city as far as large metropolitan cities go. While not as easily navigated as someplace like SLC, it's easier than even Denver, and especially all Nine Circles of Hell found in Annapolis. Parts of Baltimore scare me, as well they should. But by and large, it's not such a bad place. One now well-known establishment in Baltimore is Charm City Cakes, the cake making/decorating business featured on the Food Network's reality program "Ace of Cakes." I like Ace of Cakes for one specific reason: it makes me think I could do that. You watch some of these cake decorating shows and wonder how the crap they manage to pull it off; and that's even with them showing you how they pull it off, too. But with Ace of Cakes, a part of me honestly believes I could do what they do on that show. As we may recall, I am not a master of cake decorating. In addition, the cakes that come out of that shop don't look horrible--they actually look really good. But what they do somehow makes me think I can do it, too, given time, patience, and possibly hallucinogens.

As you know (and if you care) the musical "Hairspray" is set in Baltimore. Ace of Cakes was asked to create a cake for the Baltimore premiere of "Hairspray." Duff Goldman, who owns Charm City Cakes and is a huge fan of "Hairspray," commented during the TV show that "'Hairspray put Baltimore on the map." He was very excited about it. Perhaps it was his level of excitement that prevented him from realizing what he was saying. Fortunately, that is not going to stop me from making fun of him for it.

To "put [a location] on the map" suggests that the location in question had not been on the map previously, figuratively speaking of course. We can accurately state, for example, that Coors Beer put Golden, Colorado on the map. Golden had been something of a large city in its day a century ago as Colorado Territory's capital. However, it gradually faded into obscurity until Coors beer commercials stated that's where their beer was brewed. It wasn't until Coors told the country about Golden that anyone knew of its existence. Thus, Coors did indeed "put Golden on the map."

Now let us look at Baltimore. If Wikipedia is to be trusted (although I refuse to believe "Baltimore was founded by crack addicts"), Baltimore is not only one of the oldest and largest cities and seaports in the United States, but is also the 20th largest metropolitan area in the country, larger than the nation's capital region. With a rich heritage and cultural center, it is a hotbed for tourism, particularly the lovely Inner Harbor region of the city. It is the largest city in the state of Maryland, far larger than its capital, Annapolis (mostly due to the previously mentioned evil contained therein). Baltimore is also home to the vast complex of Johns Hopkins institutions, Johns Hopkins Hospital being named the best hospital in the country for years, and also home to the National Aquarium, one of the largest in the world. Hairspray was set in Baltimore because Baltimore is a well-known city, not the other way around. "Hairspray" did not "put Baltimore on the map."

Stick to cakes, Duff; leave the commentary to the rest of us.

Doth I offend?

I gotta get this off my chest while I can still remember it. For a few years I taught the young women in our ward here. There was a ward missionary assigned to the Young Women who would show up once every few months to see how we all were doing. The two of us got along pretty well together as our senses of humor seemed to click. She would even stay past opening exercises to sit in on my lesson once in a while in hopes of being amused. I was always happy to see her and I'd strike up a conversation with her when I did. I had been told that she can be easily offended, that she left the church for a while because someone offended her. But I didn't believe it. How can someone with a sense of humor like that get offended so easily?

One day I came in and sat in front of her in YW. She hadn't been in for a while so I said with a smile, "Good to finally see you again. I had started to take it personally." Minus a smile, she countered with, "Really? I would think you'd be used to rejection by now." Huh. Ouch. That's something that my good friends would say to me. I rarely see this woman and I would not consider her a good friend so it surprised me that she wanted to take it to that level. But hey, I can kick it up a notch too, so I laughed it off and asked how she was. She went into a long tirade about how her dog was dying, her job sucked, etc. I joked, "Wow. You're the type of friend I call when I'm having a bad day so I can feel better about myself." Now, I've said this to applicable friends in the past, mostly Misty because, holy crap, she has the worst luck of nearly anyone I know. Anyway, I felt it was a mild comment, particularly given her comment to me before that. Did she laugh like my friends with crappy lives do? No. She ran out of the room in a fit of tears and hid in the women's bathroom. After that she ran off and the YW President had to go look for her to comfort her, after which the bishop had found her crying and was also comforting her. What the huh? Needless to say, the "easily offended" label came true for me. I even called her that night to apologize and she curtly replied, "I know you didn't mean to," and hung up. That was the last time she ever spoke to me. She avoided me thereafter like the plague and I haven't seen her back at church for at least a year now.

Holy crap in a hat, what is WITH people? If you can't take it, then don't dish it out, lady. To this day her reaction bothers me. Not because I think I was at fault, because she indicated that's where she wanted the conversation to go. You lead me down a certain path, I'll follow. It bothers me because she seemingly had humor about her previously--a sarcastic humor at that. So where did it go? If she was honestly in a bad mood that day, why respond to me at all? If you're going to be snarky to me, I'm going to be snarky back, particularly if I've been led to believe you were only joking. See, this is why I hate people.

The War of the Pinks

For those of you that are unaware, and given just how many random people apparently read this blog, that would be a lot, I teach pre-school with three of my friends from church. Our three-year-olds go to church classes together anyway, so it was any easy jump to a co-op school program. We each teach twice a week for two hours at a time, every four weeks. We teach from a mail delivery curriculum called Mother Goose Time Preschool, which provides the lesson plans, craft materials, music, calendars, etc. We've been pleased overall.

This was my week to teach, with the second of my days being today. Including my own kid, there are three girls and one boy in the group. For no reason at all, I will change the other children's names to Peter, Flopsy, and Mopsy. Our first day this week went beautifully. Today, not so much. I had never before been witness to the Color Wars. Peter loves the color red. If there is an object to be had that is red, he demands it. Given that he lacks competition for it, he usually gets it. Thus, all is well in his world. On the other hand, there are Flopsy and Mopsy, both of whom love pink. Now Flopsy and Mopsy are good friends, each also attending ballet together during the week.

Part of the lesson today was an activity involving porcupine balls and various games that can be played with them (spoon races, etc.). There were no red balls and Peawhistle doesn't care about colors as long as she gets the object displayed; thus, both toddlers were content. However, there was no joy in Mudville. Alas, Mother Goose Time provided but ONE pink porcupine ball. When I asked the kids to pair off for the ball-tossing game, Flopsy and Mopsy quickly embraced one another and declared their undying love for each other. And then came the tears, threats, and general disharmony aboard this ship. The Pink Ball had previously caused much strife when each girl wanted it; I had attempted to be fair by giving it to the girl who had asked for it first (who was by then pouting in the corner after a brief burst of tears), followed by her blood oath that she would trade with the other at a prescribed moment (much the same with the Battle for the Pink Chair vs. the Brown Chair at the beginning of class). But when the pairing-off game began, we saw Peawhistle and Peter happily tossing their ball between them, while Flopsy and Mopsy clawed and grabbed at each other as they raced around the room in an attempt to monopolize time with the infamous ball. I ended the dastardly game and stripped them of the Ball to End All Balls, sending them upstairs for the themed lunch of the day, pizza. As we waited for Mopsy's mother to show up with it, Flopsy and Mopsy continued their war with The Cups. Yesterday, to prevent such arguments, I made sure all children had the same kind of cup, despite Flopsy's request for the Dora cup. Today, I didn't have enough similar cups, and when both girls asked for the Dora cup, I felt it only fair to give it to Flopsy since she had been denied it previously. Mopsy burst into tears, inconsolable. A half an hour later, she was finally pleased to realize that she not only had a pink cup (which she had previously decried as inferior to the Dora cup), but a pink plate and a pink Disney Princess placemat. And finally all was well again with Flopsy and Mopsy. And their fued was repaired just as quickly as it had begun. Peter's mother, obviously unsurprised by the morning's clashes, informed me that we have not seen the end of the Pink Wars by any stretch of the imagination. Hard lesson learned: hide everything pink.

You're Who Now?

So I had a dream last night that I met Matt Damon. I was ecstatic.

MD: Hi.

Abby: Oh my gosh!!! Can you sign some of my Star Wars Stuff??

MD: ...You know I'm not Ewan McGregor, right?

Abby: Huh.

If memory serves, he signed them anyway, which means my subconscience is totally rich right now. Or at least it will be once it sells it all on eBay.


I was going to include a photo of Matt here in case you all forgot what he looked like, too, but I found this artist's rendering of him as Jason Bourne and I decided it was better than a photo. (Courtesy beFrank's @ coolshots.blogspot)





I love the internet.

Crazy for Elvis Tote Bags!!

On any given day I get between 3,000 and 5,ooo catalogs in the mail. I estimate that I personally invited around five of those catalogs to be sent to me; the rest I assume are being sent by terrorists.

Now, don't get me wrong. Terrorist-sent or not, I love me some catalogs. I've loved leafing through them since I was a tot; it's an obsession that haunts me and my mailbox continually. I get a strange sense of satisfaction when I've been able to go through an entire catalog without wanting anything contained therein. It's comforting to know that I'm not missing anything essential (or more likely non-essential) in my life.

When I picked up "The Lighter Side" last night, I was relieved to know that I would be satisfied by the end of it even before I opened it (much like my level of confidence before browsing through "Lamps Plus."). "The Lighter Side" is a new company to my collection, but not unknown to me entirely given my lifelong affair with the catalog industry. Their particular collection of products is eclectic, but at least they all have one thing in common: they're pure crap. John Wayne throw blankets, light-up Shamrock hats, Hillary Clinton nutcrackers, "Future Redneck" toddler t-shirts, Elvis bobbleheads, home pole dancing kits, illuminated pink corset lamps, and animated "deer with a target on its chest" hitch covers that move their legs while you drive: all these products and more are to be found in "The Lighter Side."

The trainwreck that I can't ignore is the novelty t-shirt section. With printed sayings like "I get enough exercise pushing my luck!" and "Only 1 shopping day left until tomorrow!" I fail to see how they ever sell any t-shirts at all. One t-shirt caught my eye though: "Am I getting older or is the supermarket playing really great music?" I've thought my supermarket has been playing great music for a long time. So just how old am I?

This catalog also sells a "Red Carpet Runway With Lights, Applause, and Music." I should also mention that it comes with a tent designed to look as if your obviously deprived child is emerging from behind her (or his I suppose) red curtain-draped dressing room. First of all, who would buy this monstrosity? How spoiled does your bratty child have to be to need this product to lift his or her tiny little self-esteem? And exactly how many times is your kid likely to even use it? If your child is normal, once to try it out, and perhaps two more times with her friends (a boy would not use it with his friends because they would beat him if he even suggested it) before they tired of it. That was a waste of your $50, plus added heartbreak from discovering that maybe your child will not turn out to be that runway model or film star like you'd hoped.

Finally, my favorite products, the "The ORIGINAL Founding Fathers" line of goods. In case you're having difficulty imagining what that involves, it is a picture of Mount Rushmore overshadowed by the heavenly apparitions of Chief Joseph, Sitting Bull, Geronimo and Red Cloud. Now, that's a perfectly nice sentiment and all, but who exactly is purchasing throw blankets and t-shirts with that picture on them? Are there that many Indians in the U.S. who actually buy these things? Or are they progressive/guilt-ridden crackers who want to show the world how sorry they are for slaughtering the Native Americans 200-300 years ago? These are the things that keep me up at night.

In summary: if you need a doormat that tells your visitors that Yorkies are proof that God loves you and wants you to have a happy home, or a set of personalized angel car mats, then boy howdy, do I have the catalog for you.

Take Heart, Freaky American Moms and Dads!

We here in the United States of Awesome are free to name our children any completely ludicrous and asinine thing we see fit. Why aren't more parents here thanking their lucky stars? By gosh, we could be living under the totalitarian, fascist society of Italy where courts can legally prevent you from naming your baby something stupid and negatively life-altering. An article published today by the AP details an Italian couple who were stopped by courts from naming their boy after Robinson Crusoe's companion, Friday, because "they thought that it recalled the figure of a savage, thus creating a sense of inferiority and failing to guarantee the boy the necessary decorum." See, "ridiculous or shameful" names are illegal in Italy and vital records personnel are required to report names for review that they suspect may fall into that category (Rizzo, AP). Also, apperently if you don't go along with this and rename your kid something acceptable (or perhaps you've proven yourself incapable of selecting fit names for other humans so you're stripped of your privilege to do so entirely), the courts will name your child for you.

I can't comprehend a law like that EVER flying in the US, but it sure would be nice, wouldn't it? Then we wouldn't have to live with people named Ketchup, Seven, Spot, or La-Ciir'styyne''. You know those people.

The Mail Carrier Cometh....

I have just answered the door for the 56th time today, resulting in an entryway full of boxes and mail. This last time, our mail-lady-carrier-person just delivered a box from a catalog company I frequent. Enclosed therein is an item that I ordered for Peawhistle, hoping to give it to her for Christmas. I ordered the item (a musical jewelry box) no later than March of 1917; it's taken this long to deliver?? Back-order is one thing, but this is ridiculous. I had very nearly forgotten about it in the process, meaning they could very well have stolen my $7.12 and gotten away with it.

Welcome to Me.

Considering my LiveJournal still has two entries (and only two entries) going on five years, I can't fathom why I'm starting a blog now. Probably jealousy that everyone else has one with pretty pictures, and boredom with reading those other blogs that have far too few references to me. I'm amused by myself. I can't think of a better way to stay constantly entertained than being able to come to a blog where everything is about me. It should put a smile on my face. I'll let you know if it doesn't.