NaBloPoMoDay 30! Mwah! Mwah! Mwah!

Those big hunky kisses are for YOU, Dear Readers!

I couldn't have done it without you all - givin' me the big ole commenty love, cheering me on, not correcting my myriad grammatical mistakes and wholesale slaughtering of Strunk & White with each next paragrpah. That all MEANS something, man. I sincerely mean that.

Also, thank you to my husband who only complained twenty-eight times about my late-night computering.

Nah...I jest!

He was a rock of support, standing by with a neck rub and a glass of Frangelico on ice, and that puppy-dog look that says, "I gave you Frangelico and a neck rub and let you tap-tap-tap at the computer. Now when do Daddy and Mommy get to play Curious George at the Mustang Ranch? I have your yellow hat ready."


This month did not come without its challenges. Sick kids, homework, vomiting, ice skating lessons, vomit, work, sick kids, Girl Scout meetings, puking, birthday parties, puking, Thanksgiving, and...did I mention vomit? I think I did. In fact, my husband made sure to note the other day how proud he was that I had gone twenty-five days before I resorted to blogging about vomit, and even longer before I pulled-out the flatulence jokes. That in and of itself is a major breakthrough in my writing.

But despite the gauntlet that I had to run every day in order to find an hour of time to sit down and write, I did it.

I freakin' did it.

And if you consider that for the previous months I had been struggling to get even two posts thrown onto my blog, well hell...thirty posts in a row is something to hoot about. No offense intended to my sister and her dead raptor.

(Okay...let me post this now. I just got back from work at 11:30 to a lovely bottle of Frangelico on my front porch. I'll be back in a sec with my Geek of the Week.)

And by the way, how cool and funny and an all-around impressive writer is my sister? And keep in mind, that although her kids are bigger and can feed and toilet themselves (for the most part, I'm sure), this woman is working full-time and then coming home to tend horses and dogs and cats and goats and dead owls and tapeworms. Damn. Makes three kids sound easy. And I don't care that she missed one day due to the flu...

I won't tell the Perrier story.

The woman really was very ill. And anyway, I need to keep that in my back pocket as blackmail material for next year.

And so, with my sister in mind, here is my Geek of the Week and final NaBloPoMo Ugly Sister 2007 Awardee.

Uhm.

It would be me.

For reasons which will become immediately apparent.


Madame Jozet: Hey!

Jozet's Seestor: Hey?

Jozet: Hey. It's me. Your sister.

Seestor: Hey!

Jozet: Hey!

Seestor: Hey!

Jozet: Hey, how do you jump start a car?

Seestor: It's easy. Put your key in the ignition....

Jozet: Oh. You need to have the key?

Seestor: Uh...don't you have the key?

Jozet: No. I, uh, have to get to work, but I was getting the van inspected today and took the van keys off my key ring and left the rest of the key ring in the car and then the husband and I switched cars and then he drove off with my keys to the Volkswagen and then I had to get to work but he's not answering his phone and so I thought I'd just push the car down the hill and jump start it.

Seestor: Hmmm. I don't know if it will work without the keys.

Jozet: Hmmm.

Seestor: Hmmm.

Jozet: Hmmm.

Seestor: Say!

Jozet: Say!

Seestor: Say! Do you have a screwdriver? Not a big screwdriver. Something flat, no bigger than about 3/8 inches.

Jozet: Why I happen to have one right here next to the blender!

Seestor: Well, you know, you might be able to turn it in the ignition and start the car.

Jozet: Wow! How did you learn that?

Seestor: That's how someone stole my Corolla.

Jozet: Whoa. Good to know...do you think it will set off the car alarm? You know, if I try to jimmy the ignition with a screwdriver?

Seestor: Hmmm. It might. If you know where the fuse box is and have the owner's manual....

Jozet: What if I just start yanking wires under the dashboard to stop the alarm? I did that once to stop the car horn on my Tempo.

Seestor: That would work, too.

Jozet: Great! They should have a Girl Scout badge for this!

Seestor: So, are you gonna try it?

Jozet: What's the worst that could happen?

Seestor: What's the worst that could happen?

Jozet: So I break the steering column and the car drifts into the neighbor's driveway and into his new BMW and both alarms goes off and I have to yank all the wires and the front end of the Volkswagen catches fire and I'm on the eleven o'clock news?

Seestor: Oh yeah. That could happen.

Jozet: But you know what?

Seestor: It would make a good blog post?

Jozet: Exactly.

Seestor: High five.

-----------------------------------------

And what did happen?

Well, Dear Reader, that's a blog post for another day.

Keep 'em coming back for more, I always say.


And so, on this last day of NaBloPoMo, I bid my daily readers adieu.

I fully intend to post waaaaaay more often than I used to. I'm in the groove, man. More importantly, I've carved out this time and space for myself to write, and I'm not giving it up without some kicking and screaming and pouty faces and threats to hide my yellow hat. Just like Virginia Woolf did it.

And if you don't want to check back here every day, use one of those little RSS feed button thingies to the left and the bottom of the page to get updates when I do post. I don't understand the binary witchery behind those magic buttons, but someone somewhere does, and oh yeah, Google.

xxoo

Love,

Madame Jozet

P.S. Oh, okay. As I was about to completely eff-up the steering column on the VW Golf, my husband finally returned my call, brought home the keys, and saved us from probably thousands of dollars worth of damage. I mean, c'mon...if you want that kind of bloggy reading material, I'm going to have to put ads up to fund my stupidity. :-)

NaBloPoMoDay 29: Question From My Sister

One more day!

One more day!

One more day!

Hey!

Hey, look at my sidebar!

Look at the nifty badge-thingy I made to link to my sister's blog! I've been playing around with two illustratorish and photoshoppy programs I downloaded for free on The Internets. Okay, I'm no Roy Lichtenstein with the mad graphic skillz, but c'mon, I'd say that's pretty good for a first try, ain't?

Also, also....what did Slouching Mom do? Do you see what she did, that naughty minx? Do you see that other badge icon thing over there for the Blogger's Choice Awards? Do you see how she nominated my little ole blog in the category of Best Humor Blog?

Well, I'll be!

Dang.

I owe her a Pepsi.

That was the nicest thing anyone's done for me since...since yesterday when my sister gave me a Quintessence Award for being her older sister - and not just because I still have one day to reveal the Perrier story, and she was buttering me up so I would not do just that.

Anyway, if you want to vote for my blog as Funniest Ha-Ha, well sir, I'd be much obliged. I think you have to log in to the site first, but after that you can vote away to your heart's content.

I don't expect I'll make much of a dent in the final outcome, what with being up against the likes of Puntabulous - who I just discovered and now have a mad and unrequited crush on. And Dooce, who - hello - I'm not going to even link to because that's like giving Bill Gates milk money. Not that I don't esteem and greatly admire and like Dooce, but really, she don't need me pedaling her wares.

But anyway, if I get ten votes altogether, that would be like better than sex.

Not that I don't esteem and greatly admire and like sex, but I just wish the boys would love me for my mind and not my hot...pedals.


Okay, onward and upwards!

Question From My Seestor

Someone famous is in town and hanging out with you for the day. Assuming you can get a babysitter, how would you spend the day and who is that lucky person?

Hmmmmm.

Several people come immediately to mind.

And all of them for completely mercenary reasons.

I'd love for Bob Vila to come by and we'd spend the day putting a new roof on my house. Because I just got a new roof priced and, holy crap, $6,000. And I'm pretty sure that the shingles themselves only cost around $34.95, with the rest being labor and sunscreen and falling-off-the-roof insurance.

Although, I'd equally adore hanging out with Christopher Guest. We'd go to the Pennsylvania State Farm Show, and while fondling the John Deere tractors, I'd pitch him my idea for a mockumentary on the personalities and behind-the-scene shenanigans in the high-profile world of Indoor Chicken Dance competitors. (It's fer real, folks. Go ahead and click that link). This would be as opposed to Outdoor Chicken Dance competitors, because the X-games are a whole different scene.

Of course, I'd have a role written for myself as way to finally showcase my brilliant acting chops and extreme Chicken Dance mojo. (And, of course, I'd have to take Parker Posey out at the knees to ensure my spot in the film. I hear she gives wicked Chicken Dance.)

Last but certainly not least, I think I'd really enjoy an afternoon with Madonna, sorting through my old clothes, getting them ready for the thrift store. She and I are about the same size, and I think she'd very much appreciate some of my hand-me-down Payless Shoes.

Oh wait. That would be the other way around.

I'd very much appreciate some of her hand-me-down Dolce & Gabbana...uh...Jell-O molds.

NaBloPoMoDay 28: Halushki Award Day

I have to make this quick.

Today was one of those days...again.

My big project was making a spinach lasagna using this fabu recipe from Cook's Illustrated. It took me all day and half of yesterday to finally get this lasagna in the oven. That's because I had a very sad croupy-coughy-fever baby who could only be made happy by a) hanging on my leg or b) helping me whisk the bechamel.

Whisking bechamel is not typically a toddler-friendly activity. And yet with our giant blue and yellow Little Tykes Bechamel Whisk and a pair of fire-retardant pajamas, cooking at a gas range while holding a 15-month-old kid isn't quite as daunting as one would think. I still kept a dousing tub on hand. And there may be a Froot Loop or two in the bechamel. (Can you tell that I love saying the word bechamel? Seriously...every time I type bechamel, I'm saying it out loud. If I ever have another daughter - or a cat, more likely - I'm naming her Bechamel.)

But, ahhhhh, Froot Loops would be my secret ingredient.

That and the leeks.

The recipe originally called for five minced shallots.

I had zero shallots.

And there was no way I was going to load up Mr. Cranky Cook in the car just to drive to the grocery store to find shallots. They always keep those things hidden in some odd corner of the store, like hanging in little mesh bags off the corner of a forgotten dried soup display. And I'd tell myself I was just going in for shallots, but along the wandering-way, I'd end up picking up a bunch of stuff I didn't need, and eventually leave the store with tofu blocks and goat yogurt and dried soup, but no shallots.

So. What I did have on hand was leeks. I had about eight leeks in my fridge.

So, a leek is sorta like a shallot, right? Onion-y, but not so strong as an onion. Also, much easier to cut than an onion - or a shallot - for that matter. Leeks slice right up into cute, round leek coins that separate into delightful, green leek streamers when you sauté them in oh so much butter. It's like a little party, really, with festive leek confetti!

Anyway, even though a leek is about three times larger than your typical shallot, I got it into my head that eight leeks chopped would somehow equal five shallots chopped. However, once I started chopping the leeks and they began unraveling, the eight leeks turned into the equivalent of ninety chopped shallots, and that's a lot of shallots, anyone will tell you. The leeks kept expanding and expanding and suddenly I had chopped-leeks in Biblical proportions.

Jesus would have been proud of my food-doubling skills.

It had crossed my mind at one point to add to the bechamel only the amount of leeks as seemed equal to five chopped shallots. But I have little opportunity for madcap adventure in my life, and so I got all crazy and just tossed the whole shebang of leeks into the pot, damn the torpedoes! For a second, the heap of leeks just lay on top of the cream sauce and towered over the top of the pot. Then, as I was wondering whether to begin un-heaping the leeks and even, perhaps, starting the whole thing from scratch by just ordering pizza for dinner, the bechamel rose up and surrounded the tower of leeks like some oozing white primordial swamp creature, and sucked them all under. I think there was even a menacing Gloop sound. It was all quite astonishing, and even the baby stopped crying and began to watch the bechamel in amazement. Or maybe it was in horror.

Anyway, long story short, the addition of the leeks made for an amazing spinach lasagna. Although, in all honestly, I should probably call it a leek lasagna because, damn, that was a lot of leeks.

And so, in conclusion, today's Halushki Award goes to the incredible, expandable, and oh-so-delectable leek.


This isn't the first time I've written about the Joy of Leeks, either. Some blogs, you can read for years and years and never come across a leek post. And here, there's been two. Not to toot my own horn, but I think that's the main reason that readers keep coming back to this fabulous blog time and time again:

You just never know when there's going to be another leek post.

NaBloPoMoDay 27: Get To Know Me!

Well, here we are on the last Tuesday of NaBloPoMo. Tuesday is the day that my Seestor and I have designated as the day to get a bit autobiographical and fill yous guys in on the days of our lives before we became international blog stars.

We’ve been using the questions from To Our Children's Children by Bob Greene & D.G. Fulford. It’s a handy dandy little book that simplifies writing your autobiography by asking series of questions on things like home life growing up, holidays, your neighborhood, siblings, school, first jobs, etc. There are a few questions here and there that I’ll need to skip - things like “Where were you on VJ Day?” - only because, okay, I’m old but I’m not THAT old. Sheesh. Unless we’re going to get all past life regression, in which case my answer is “I was in Liverpool, kicking a can down the street.”


So, onto the question I’m going to tackle today. Actually, I’m going to choose two from Chapter 13: Romances and Relationships. Two quick ones. I’m almost finished sorting laundry while watching the BBC miniseries version of Jane Eyre. When I left off, Jane had just told Mr. Rochester that she’d marry him, and the wedding was about to begin. I love happy endings! And yet there are seven more episodes to follow. Hmm. I guess that is where they sort out bank accounts and decide whether to pool their money or split the bills down the middle; and then there might be an episode where she gets all

“Mr. Rochester, Sir, I must speak plainly for it is not in my nature to use those fripperies of word or phrase such as might make niceties of difficult truths - “

And he would be all

“And you shall do no such thing! Speak plainly, Janet, my little wife! Criticize me if you must, but you will be answerable for it!"

And she would be all

“Then, Sir, as men and women die; philosophers falter in their wisdom, and Christians in goodness, then I must speak plainly and tell you that in our bedchamber last night, I did suffer in the stale air of your self-made Dutch Oven. And, Sir, it was a much unpleasant thing for me, if I may speak plainly. And I must.”

And he would be all

“Ah! By my word, Janet! There is something singular about you! I shall instruct Mrs. Fairfax to dispense with the minted pea soup, forthwith. It does gas me, but not so much as your brusque manner and plain speaking!”

Bronte makes marriage sound so romantic! First with the plain speaking and the ghosts and the scary Jamaican guy who gets attacked by - I assume! - Grace Poole. Then with the happy wedding and the plain speaking and the fancy way she writes about flatulence, and I just can’t wait for the episode about the toothpaste being squeezed from the bottom, not the middle, and just who left the cap off the orange juice carton.

Maybe that’s what I need to inject a bit of passion into my marriage - more plain speaking and a scary Jamaican guy that gets attacked on the eerie third story of our house. Of course, that would be right after we built a third story onto our house. There’s not enough turrets in our neighborhood, anyway, if you ask me.

So….

Onto some illuminating questions regarding my romances and relationships.


Question 1: Do you remember your first kiss?

Yes, Dear Reader, I do remember it.

I was young, a small girl still wrapped in the world of fairy tales and ballads. And although my feelings were undeveloped and threw me at times into tumults of agitation, yet I was happy in my own way.

I was unaware of the deep and mysterious passions of 9 year-old boys. And it was into this lair of mystery that I walked one winter afternoon in the hallway outside Miss Diane’s third grade classroom.

It happened during the recess before the lunch hour. Having forgotten my red woolen mittens in my book bag, I had returned to the warm, darkness of the school to retrieve them, for the day was cold and the air biting upon my small fingers. I reached into my green satchel and first grasped my afternoon repast of buttered peanuts and grape jam on wondrous bread. The nutty stench evoked pangs of hunger as I had naught but a bowl of cheeried O's upon breaking that morning’s fast five hours past, and for a brief moment, I wavered in a moment of bodily weakness.

Then, in the bleak coldness - wait…I mean stale warmth- of the hallway, I felt a sudden rush of air as a door opened somewhere farther down the black passageway, and there was all at once a presence, the breathing and sniffling audible and endeavoring to move closer toward me.

“Who is there!” I shouted. For a moment, I was beyond my own mastery. I was alone and became frightened at the prospect of this unknown being making its way toward me. Was this a ghost? Or just some trickery of peanut butter upon my famished constitution?

“Why do you tremble so? It is but I, your schoolyard playmate, Jamie.”

I did not at first believe my eyes, but upon closer examination, I did see that it was my dear friend. As he moved into a split of light emanating through the transom above the classroom door, his countenance became clear and I could see that he looked bemused at my evident discomfort.

"I'm trying to find my mittens. I do think I have left them at home."

Jamie came closer and I could smell the scent of Pez on his breath.

"You can borrow mine, if you will. I don't mind."

I regretted to find myself in this position, but the air was cold outside, and moreover the smell of Pez on his lips made my stomach cry out in needfulness.

"Gee, thanks", said I.

Jamie pulled his black gloves from his pocket, and before I knew what was happening, he grabbed me and laid a big Pez-flavored smooch on my lips.

Lime, I think it was.

Oh Reader! We were married!

Wait, no...we weren't.

Oh Reader! How wondrous that afternoon in the playground! Such feelings as I have never felt before! We were ever together all that long recess, at once as free in society as we were in solitude!

Until, I tagged Jamie hard and knocked him over and he took back his gloves.


Question 27: What feeling to you equate with feelings of love?

Love makes me feel exactly like Kate Bush in this video. Except I'm wearing an orange dress, not red.



Meanwhile, my sister has completely lost her mind. In the best way possible, of course. Just remind me to ask before reaching into her freezer for...anything.

NaBloPoMoDay 26: Ceci N'est Pas Une Blog Post

I am accepting Painted Maypole’s Monday Mission of writing a post in a series of directions.

Done!

Well, not done yet. I’m going to write something right now.

I mean, right NOW.

NOW.

NOW.

Isn’t the present tense fun?

Okay, enough of that.

My helpful instructions today are on how to write a blog post when you have nothing in particular to write about.

This is a sort of mobius strip of a post that turns back in on itself while writing about writing it. Mobius is a great word. But there’s another great word which means "that kind of activity that is an activity about the activity". However, I don’t know what that word is. I wonder whether my husband knows. Hold on, I’ll ask him.
.
.
.
.
.
Alright, well that wasn’t helpful. See...


Me: Hey, I’m writing a blog post and I need some help. What’s that great word…

Husband: Botulism.

Me: What?

Husband: Botulism is a great word. Use that one.

Me: No. Listen. What’s that word that means, like, when you’re doing an activity, but the activity is about describing the activity that you’re doing? You know. That word?

Husband: Oh! I know! It’s like that painting. “This is not a bowl of flowers.” That one.

Me: Bowl of…No, no, no. It’s “This is not a pipe.”

Husband: Oh yeah?

Me: So, what’s the word?

Husband: I don’t know…meta? No, that’s not it.

Me: That’s only part of a word anyway.

Husband: It’s like that Norman Rockwell painting…

Me: The one of him painting a portrait of himself painting a portrait of himself?

Husband: Yeah.

Me: Okay! Yeah! So what’s that called?!

Husband: A painting.

Me: No! It’s not a painting!

Husband: A pipe?

Me: No! Stop it!

Husband: A bowl of flowers, then.

Me: Just forget it.


Anyway, that is what this post will have to be for now: a mobius strip post. Thanks - and no thanks - to my husband.


How To Write A Blog Post When You Have Nothing In Particular To Write About

1. Make some tea.

2. Have a bowl of ice cream.

3. Turn on the computer.

4. Check your email.

5. Check to see whether your penis needs to be enlarged. (It doesn’t.)

6. Click on the bookmark for your blog.

7. Check for new comments.

8. Read the new comments.

9. Wonder why everyone’s comments are more witty and well-written than your original post.

10. Wonder why Bossy hasn’t commented in a while.

11. Wonder when Wil Wheaton will comment on Lawyer Mama’s blog.

12. Wonder what that itchy spot on your upper thigh is.

13. Have another bowl of ice cream.

14. Open a NEW POST window.

15. Click back to see whether anyone has commented on your blog in the past two minutes. (They haven't.)

16. Stare at screen.

17.

18. Wonder what to write for number 17.

19. Hope your husband comes into the room and says something odd and random.

20. He doesn't.

21. Go find your husband and ask him some odd and random question. (This works especially well if he's on heavy-duty painkillers for his rotten tooth.)

22. Write down his answer verbatim.

23. Find a suitable photo by Googling "odd husband."

24. Hit PUBLISH POST.

25. Congratulate yourself for marrying good blogging material.


As it turns out, meta is a word unto itself, not just when combined with another word.

See here:

Webster's New Millennium™ Dictionary of English

Main Entry:	meta
Part of Speech:	adj
Definition:	self-referential; referring to itself or its characteristics, esp. as a parody; about
Example:	That book is so meta.
Etymology:	meta 'beyond'

That book is so meta?

That phrase is so pretentious.

I be metablogging. How's that?

NaBloPoMoDay 25

Mother: Hello, my darling...what..what are you doing up so early? It's...it's 5 AM.

6yo Child: I don't feel good.

Mother: Oh no! What's wrong?

6yo Child: I have a sore throat and I can't sleep.

Mother: Oh, dear. Do you want to get in bed with Mommy?

6yo Child: Yes.

Mother: Here we go. That's right. Snuggle up with Mommy....you feel warm.

6yo: I don't feel good.

Mother: Just put your head on the pillow with Mommy and close your eyes. Does that feel better?

6yo: My tummy hurts.

Mother: Oh...do you feel like you're going to throw up?

6yo: No.

Mother: Okay.

6yo: BBBLLLLLLLLUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPPP!

Mother:

6yo: BBBBBLLLLLLAAAAAAARRRRPPP!

Mother: You threw up.

6yo: I did throw up.

Mother: Twice.

6yo: I feel better now.

Mother: I'm so glad.


FIN

NaBloPoMoDay 24: Sisterly Smackdown: Final Rumble?

GGOOOOOOOOOOODDDDD EEVEEENNIINGGGGG BLLOOOGGGOOOSSSPHERRRRE!! (SPPeeeerre) (sppphhhere) (ssphere) (spheeere)

IT'S SATURDAY NIIIIGGGHHTTTT! (NNIGGHT) (Niight) (night) (ight)

ARE YOU READY?

I SAID, ARE YOU READY??!!!!!!

Welcome one and all to the final Sisterly Smackdown Super Cage Match of NaBloPoMo 2007!

In one corner - wearing the bright green double-knit polyester hippie gown and knee-high white socks - we have Ugly Sister 1, Madame Jozet from Haluski, who way back in December 2006 came out swinging with a Liberace to the old Che Guevara.

In the other corner - wearing the hip waders and the Super Chevy Sunday sweatshirt - we have Ugly Sister 2, Ms. Anne "Call Me Cordelia" Quintessence, who answered with a sweatheart smack to the old ego with this doozy - terry cloth shorts, knobby knees and beer T-shirts.

It only got more ugly, with underage tequila drinking with overage Hobbits, head doilies, Kiss make-up, and much, much worse.

And now, we've come to the last Saturday Smackdown, and we're sure that the Ugly Sisters won't disappoint!



Alright, I'm tired of writing in third person omniscient.


I just got back from work and I really need to sit my bum in front of some cartoons and veg out.

And so, my final entries for this session of smackdowns...

Behold!

The coolness that was us!

This would be us at around, oh, third grade and seventh grade? I'm trying to gauge from my sister's Corvette shirt and my Cheap Trick t-shirt and my ...uh...those would be rainbow suspenders. You know, like Mork from Ork wore? Uh huh.

I'm also guessing that this vignette was composed at the photo booth in Space Port at Fairlane Village Mall. And, from our looks of simultaneous elation and supercoolness (see Photo 3), right after we had just kicked butt at Miss Packman.

Or maybe Centipede.

Or maybe, both.









And although you might say that this photo was smackdown material enough, I just can't hold back with one more. Even if, well, it might be a hit below the belt, as they say. Although, I'm not sure whether hits below the belt are quite as painful when it's two girls duking it out. Unless you're hitting me way below the belt, like in the foot. Because my feet are already killing me from standing all day. So, ouch, man! Ouch! My foot!


That would be me. And that would be my sister. And that would be...underwear...on our heads.

Men's briefs, to be precise.

Eh-hem.

Yes, well...there isn't too much more to say about that, then, is there....


Now, from the photos we've been posting these past few weeks, I'm sure it has become increasingly obvious that growing up, my sister and I were very, very special young ladies.

Special, meaning...creative...and joie de vie! and...okay, weird.

And seeing just these anonymous photos, one might wonder what would have become of such girls. Did they graduate from school? Did they find gainful and satisfying employment other than as sideshow barkers or the people who mold tabs onto the end of shoelaces? Did they find friendship? Did they find happiness? And did they find true love?

Well, sir, I am happy to report that the answer to all of the above is yes, and a resounding yes!

Weep not, all you young geeks and oddballs, twisted sisters and children of the polyester terry cloth revolution, ye of permed-hair and ratted bangs! You shall clean-up and you shall clean up well! Hair shall be smoothed and hemlines dropped to fetching levels! You shall put on a little makeup, restrict your conversations to the weather and price of daffodils! And you shall marry, and marry the princes of your dreams!

Behold again! The Ugly Sisters Redone!

Look how adorable we are. Aw, shucks.

See! Take heart, you goofuses! If there is a fairytale ending to our story, then surely there is a happy ending for one and all. All comedies end with a wedding. And all cinder girls shall find their Prince Charming.

As we did ours....

NaBlackFriPoDay 23

Black Friday.

I have to go out into the broil.

I have to work tonight at a retail store.

Not as bad as working during the morning, alright. But still....

Think of me.

Were you out shopping today? What did you buy? Any good bargains?

Any frightening bloodthirsty shoppers?

I'll be back later with a Geek of the Week. I'm sure I'll stumble upon at least one.




UPDATE:

It wasn't too bad.

Mostly a lot of college kids home from the holiday getting all wild and crazy on pricey caffeinated beverages.

Although, I did have to remove several Playboys from the Kids Section. Seems that younger teenagers especially like to take the "anatomy" magazines and "hot, wet, naked yoga" books into dark corners of the Kids Section and pretend to read them under cover of a Tiger Beat magazine. Then they stash the smut mags and sex education manuals behind the Nancy Drew books. So, if your 9 year old daughter is looking for a copy of The Mystery of the Old Clock, you'd best be prepared to answer some questions about why Nancy is splayed across the hood of a Chevelle in her altogether. With a cherry on top.

So, my belated Geek of the Week award will this week reflect the true meaning of the word "geek" (see my sister's entry).

Oh teenagers!

The young ladies in their tight sweaters and their big-girl make-up, fondling lattes and striking "come-hither" type poses against the Best Seller octagon display -

The young gentlemen strutting their stuff, dropping overly-loud yet tres amusement bon mots for our entertainment (although, mostly, for their own), poking each other in the ribs and adjusting their jeans as they pass the Best Seller octagon display and the very serious young ladies who have all just snatched-up copies of Tom Brokaw's Boom! and are now intently discussing the sociological importance and long-lasting cultural resonance of the events of 1960s -

(Right.)

It's so refreshing to know that these otherwise worldly and sexually with-it young people can still be sent into fits of embarrassed giggling over page 32 in The Position of the Day Playbook.

Because that page sends me into fits of giggling, too.


So, that's my belated Geek of the Week award.

To teenagers and the young at...heart...everywhere who are now going to slip into the Sex and Relationships aisle to go check out page 32, and then try to hold back their giggles.

(Raising hand.)

NaBloTurkeyMo Day 22: Thanksgiving

Just in case I don't get on later today to post something more substantial - what with being on a tryptophan high and all - here are some words of wisdom on Thanksgiving and being grateful for all our many blessings. Enjoy! And don't eat all the pumpkin pie!

The children have been a wonderful gift to me, and I'm thankful to have once again seen our world through their eyes. They restore my faith in the family's future.

~ Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis


Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful.

~ Buddha


“In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”

~ Albert Schweitzer


If you would cure anger, do not feed it. Say to yourself: 'I used to be angry every day; then every other day; now only every third or fourth day.' When you reach thirty days offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving to the gods.

~ Epictetus


“And Lord, we are especially thankful for nuclear power, the cleanest, safest energy source there is. Except for solar, which is just a pipe dream.”

~ Dan Castellaneta


“There's one thing for which you should be abundantly thankful -- only you and God have all the facts about yourself.”


“And oh, what a mercy it is that these women do not exercise their powers oftener! We can't resist them, if they do. Let them show ever so little inclination, and men go down on their knees at once: old or ugly, it is all the same. And this I set down as a positive truth. A woman with fair opportunities, and without an absolute hump, may marry whom she likes. Only let us be thankful that the darlings are like the beasts of the field, and don't know their own power. They would overcome us entirely if they did.”

~ William Makepeace Thackery



I am thankful for laughter, except when milk comes out of my nose.

~ Woody Allen


In this world of sin and sorrow there is always something to be thankful for; as for me, I rejoice that I am not a Republican.

~H. L. Mencken


If the only prayer you ever say in your whole life is "thank you," that would suffice.

~ Meister Eckhart


Thank you.

NaPoBloMeDay 21: Halushki Award

I had a tough day.

I had a 24lb parasite twin with achy teeth and bumbly ear clinging to my leg and/or boob all day long. The part where he was clinging to both required me to assume this position:


And now I am cranky.

And my neck hurts. Did you know that I have arthritis in my neck? Just a touch. Just enough to justify my whining about it.

My sister has a kick butt award post going on.

My award post will only be poke in the ribs kind.

My Halushki Best Of Award today goes to Mr. Arlo Guthrie.

Because tomorrow is Thanksgiving.

And along with turkey and cranberries and filling and kielbasa, it just ain't Thanksgiving without a round of Alice's Restaurant.

Even the pilgrims thought so.

So here it is, just in case you find yourself being drafted:

The Alice's Restaurant Anti-Massacre Movement

Happy Thanksgiving!

Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!

And don't forget to take out your garbage.


-----

I'm back again.

You have to go over to Professor J's Place. Seriously

She has a Thanksgiving video on there that is making me LOL and ROFL and ROFLPIMP. You won't regret it!

NaBloPoMoDay 20: Question From My Sister

AHHHHHH DRAT! This was supposed to be Ugly Sisters Remember When! I completely messed up the template! I suck out loud! Darn. Ah well...I'll flip-flop Tuesday and Thursday. Give me a break, I'm begging you. I have a teething baby who also seems to have an ear infection. Good times. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

You have a whole day to live a...let's say less than model life. The very next day everything will be back to normal with no legal ramifications and no permanent black marks on your soul. What bad things would you do?

I love the way my sister's imagination works.

But, I have to honestly say that I just can't answer this question. I sincerely cannot imagine a version of myself that could or would knowingly cause suffering or pain to another human, even one who I might think - in my weakest moment - might justly "deserve" the consequences of my bad behavior. My sense of empathy is just too well-formed; my depths of compassion too well dug; my moral compass, steadily set. To knowingly jeopardize my own soul is simply unfathomable. For mercy and truth have met together, and righteousness and bliss shall kiss one another. And even to think the unthinkable, is...thinkless.

Thank you.

Good night.




Okay.

Now that I got that out of the way.


10:00 AM

Sleeping-in. Older kids can get to school on their own. If not, there's a ton of movies and cereal to keep them occupied and fed. Baby is...somewhere. Somewhere safe. The baby kennel or something.


11:00 AM

Breakfast.

Eggs Benedict on soft-shell crabs, with bacon, four cups of coffee, bagel with cream cheese and whitefish salad and the stinkiest onion in existence, a Boston Cream dough nut, and an entire jar of Nutella. And a Bloody Mary with extra horseradish.

And a Bloody Mary chaser, this time with wasabi.


12:00 PM

Wake up again. Begin walking door to door with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a shotgun in the other, demanding that my neighbors surrender their leaf blowers, which I collect in a heap and burn in the center of town. Warn them that I want quiet around here from now on. If they have any lawn mowing or tree cutting or leaf clean-up to do, they best do it with a pair of rubber scissors and a chenille rake. I moved out of the city for a reason, ya hear? If I wanted my ears and nerves destroyed by useless noise, I would have moved next door to Nigel Tufnel. His leaf blower goes up to 11.


1:00 PM

Steal books. Blame it on the teenagers hiding in the back of the store giggling over the Kama Sutra manuals.


2:00 PM

Steal a Hummer and drive it over every other Hummer in the county until they are flattened like the oil supply plot line in the year 2200. Oh sure, technology will have caught up by then. Hopefully. In the meantime, I'm crushin' Hummers.


3:30 PM

I crush a McDonald's. But not until after I buy a Big and Tasty, no cheese. What can I say? I'm a study in duality.

Oh, alright...I'm a hypocrite! Back the hell off! This is my Fantasia of Depravity! Go get your own!


4:00 PM

I drive the Hummer into a Wal-Mart, shoot out the windshield, jump onto the hood, and sing March of the Volunteers over the store PA system. Drive into the toy section and shoot out an Elmo Stacking Ring still on the shelves.


5:00 PM

Right about now, the acid kicks in.










11:00 PM

I wake up in the back seat of an Amish buggy.

My head is shaved.

There is a tattoo of Noam Chomsky on my butt.

The man driving the buggy says his name is Chickie Abner.

And it's okay about the rooster.


11:59 PM

I have three beers in quick succession, and begin saying the Sorrowful Mysteries on the rosary. Just in case the magic doesn't wear off.



(Brought to you by Archie McPhee.)

P.S. I dig this song. The video is Teh awezome and so so very shuddersome.

NaBloPoMoDay 19: Random Love Notes

Before there was Halushki.

From dog-eared notebook pages

and miscellaneous scraps of paper.

From some different initials from a time long, long ago....

--------------------------------------------------------------------

dear miss apathy

i am sorry for being crazy.

i guess I really flipped my wig.


i was jealous.

and I missed you.


if you ever leave limbo,

perhaps you will visit me

in

the

snow.


you can bring a bottle of wine

(it doesn't matter what kind)


and I will give you

a bouquet

of brightly colored

socks.


wendy

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I flip through my files: my choices.
always watching the curtains and your will be done." dirty old man. stupid girl. i wanted to be the other choice A, for example, is the dark night, starry sky, talking to that boy - my boy - telepathic directions to this hothouse, hugging myself, wishing sister joan of arc's Young Husband would kiss me, a real first kiss, wondering whether sister immaculata would be jealous (shrew, she would nag and how could he ever be that loving and merciful?) i was supposed to be that blue-ish girl, silent, pious, tiptoe and dare to tilt eyes upward, occasionally. "here i am. see how silent I can be? if you need me, if you have anything to say to me, just flutter the curtains...or something. i'mmary. the mary that pierced her own ears and wore pink quartz in her bellybutton. the mary that slapped around in bare feet and laughed to herself, low, low, low, when girls were around to hear her laugh - they called her screwy, and the boys got hardons, convinced that only they could make her laugh that way. she laughed like that, alone. and mary yelled and threw tantrums and broke clay urns. and she stole horses and rode bareback and didn't wash for days - she slept, knees to chest, smelling the horse sweat soaked deep into her thighs. and she prayed to god, but she shouted, with head thrown back, "stop coming by in the middle of the night, hiding in my windows, talking to me in my sleep. i want to look You in the eye" she asked for things. she asked for someone to dance for. someone to drink with. someone to laugh with and fling urns at. someone to lie with and curl around like gabriel's wings, and she could whisper, "listen, i'm really not so good" and she wouldn't have to pretend anymore that she wasn't.

(instead, i grew my hair - long enough to wash my own feet)

that mary probably calls him baby. still.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Mr. Toscanini,

Hello.

I am sane.

Inexplicably.

If you ever have the urge to
call/write/send up a flare

(now
or ever in the nonexistent future)

to communicate your interest
in getting together for

a. beer
b. show
c. cigar
d. game of Parcheesi

I won't misinterpret it as a pathetic, lovelorn expression
of preternatural desire
to bask in my presence.

I promise not to pinch you
or do girl things.


Honest injun.
Cross my heart and pizza pie.


(I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.
I starred in a documentary on the trucking industry.)


Miss Demeanor
Cell Block D

---------------------------------------------------------------------------


Who was that girl?

NaBloPoMoDay 18: Punt

Please promise me you'll go check out my sister's post after you read this. Or even before you read this. Ahhhh...now that's where I want to hunker down.

Well, since TheUglySisters@yahoo.com mailbox is dry, I'm going to weasel out on this post and just do a Slice O' Life ramble.

I had a long day which began with me dragging my blessed butt out of bed to attend 8:00 AM Mass with Prima's third grade CCD class. It's ironic in that 8:00 AM Sunday morning is ungodly early to do anything, if you ask me, let alone attend Mass, what with all the standing and kneeling and standing. As my husband noted: "Didn't God supposedly rest on Sunday?" My idea of "rest" is hunkering down under the comforter until at least 11:00 AM, and finally stumbling out of bed to grab the newspaper and a tall glass of Alka-Seltzer. God, evidently, is one of those up-at-the-crack-of-dawn-for-an-invigorating-run types. I'm guessing He also does some puttering about the garden and then cleans-up quickly for Mass, after which He settles down for a fry-up with bacon, sausage and tomatoes, immediately followed by elvenses and a pot of tea with some scones. God, I'm also guessing, has high cholesterol and should cut down on the smoked meats.

After Mass, we hauled blessed butt over to Hershey's Zoo America for Girl Scout Day At The Zoo. The purpose of the event was to observe the animals, and then complete various badge activities at outdoor stations set-up throughout the zoo.

I knew that the day was going to be cold, and by the time we got there not only was the day cold, but it was raining.

And then it was sleeting.

And then it was snowing.

And we walked outside for two and a half hours in the rain and the sleet and the snow.

And amazingly, even after my morning's recommendation to my daughters that they should probably strongly consider wearing several layers of clothing - including, but not limited to, long underwear, gloves, hats, wool sweaters and socks, and a layer of beaver pelt to ensure that they stay warm and dry - both my daughters made the outstanding choice to instead dress in attire rather better suited for a July afternoon at Pismo Beach. I suppose Girls Scouts needs to be more specific in their "Be prepared" motto.

Or at least add a codicil.

Something like "...or suck it up, kiddo."

Because if there's something I hate more than walking around a zoo in the rain and the sleet and the snow trying to observe the non-existent animals - animals who had the better sense to hunker down in their dens under their comforters - that something I hate more would be my walking around a zoo in the rain and the sleet and the snow with two Whiney-Pants McFreezy Girls. Natural consequences are a bitch. Mostly for me, it turned out. On top of the whining, the weather turned so cold that I had to stop the lesson in "I told you so and now maybe you'll listen to me next time" because it doesn't look good if the leader's kids get hypothermia. And so I lost my own hat and gloves to my chilly children.

Anyway....

I finished off the day with a turn at work, and I'm at least happy to report that all the customers are back to normal.

There was one moment when an older gentleman in a curiously stained shirt asked for assistance finding the new Playboy boxed collection, and he started talking just a bit too long and just a bit too enthusiastically about the portrait poses of nude women in the 1950s as compared to portrait poses of nude women from today; when he began to detail to me all the Playboy magazines in his collection and which magazines were keepsakes and which ones he "used"; when he kept backing me around the 20%-off Holiday Books table, and every time I tried to make a break for the information desk, he'd cut around the table to block my escape, all while continuing to regale me with the specifics of his grand plan to pay for his kids' college tuition by selling nudie magazines on eBay.

It wasn't a particularly awful moment as far as "slightly creepy customer service moments" go. Although, half-way through the encounter, I did make a quick judgment call as to whether Sopranos: The Book or The Annotated Secret Garden weighed more - just in case the conversation and the cornering took a more confrontational turn and I was forced to brain the guy. (The Annotated Secret Garden, I decided, would be the heavier and more likely choice for sufficiently braining someone. My day was rife with irony.) But all turned out well, and Mr. Hefner finally got bored with my noncommittal "Hmmmmm" s and, I'm guessing, my paucity of nudeness. It wasn't, after all is said, one of those (still infrequent) times when I do feel the need to completely shower-down after a particular encounter with The Public. This time, I was able to make do with a good dousing of hand sanitizer. And a renewed commitment to learning the Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique.

The rest of the evening was quiet, and once the snow began to pick-up, I was shooed-home early with a chocolate croissant and a grande Chai.

And now I'm in cozy pajamas and about to - finally - hunker-down under my comforter.

There will be more randomness tomorrow.

Yawn!


Sweet dreams, Dear Readers.


Oh!

I almost forgot!


If you are this person


you need to send me your new email address. I tried to get in contact with you using your old address, but the message got sent back. And I KNOW you wouldn't be ignoring me. Eh-hem.


'Night 'night!

NaBloPoMoDay 17: Ugly Sister Smackdown

I can't tell you how much it pains me to do this.

But these photos will not be denied.

One word:




Perms.

(I am so in trouble, yous guys.)




ETA: Okay. I don't feel that bad.

NaBloPoMoDay 16: Geek Of The Week

I have eight minutes to post this whole story.

Here's the short version:

Don't come into my place of business and pull the Queen Horse's Ass routine with me, and I won't pull out my red hot GOTW iron and brand your Talbots-swathed butt.

Agreed?

Okay...watch this space and I'll fill in the blanks.

So what was it...full moon tonight? Barometric pressure dropped? Fire sale on poopy-head pills?

Whatever it was, the folks out shopping tonight were in a singular mood. And that mood would be "pissy". A few customers were only mildly snarky, but mostly, everyone was marching around the store as if they had a Lego shoved sideways up their bum.

Let me back up...

I work at a bookstore. A rather large bookstore that you've probably heard of. It would be the largest bookstore on Earth, Jupiter, and Betelgeuse. Yup, that one.

Here are some of my previous posts regarding bookstore employee hijinks and escapades.

A Heartwarming Encounter With A Customer-For-Jesus

Customers Say The Darndest Things!

Another Post about Bookstores In Which I Mention The Barometric Pressure


What fun!

Except, tonight was not fun.

Tonight, a lady customer was a bit of a snot to me.

Let me set the scene:

On this evening, I arrived at work for my seven o'clock shift and was immediately dispensed to the Children's Section. Normally, I absolutely love working in "Kids" (that's bookseller lingo for the Children's Section, if you haven't figured it out.) I usually take a spin around the sales floor, tidy up the one or two books that have slipped from the shelf or were re-shelved backwards and upside-down; make sure all the Thomas The Tank Engine trains are on the table and not on the floor, where I am sure to later step on one and end up skating headlong into the Backyardigans display; and then, I window shop.

It's a living.

It's not difficult.

In fact, my shifts at the bookstore are often very relaxing, and honestly, quite an enjoyable way to spend an evening all while earning eight-twenty-five an hour.

On occasion, a herd of toddlers will run crazy-koo-koo through Kids, pulling books from shelves hither and thither, and making a general mess of things. The adorable munchkins run into the Kids section full-steam, beeline to the first book at eye-level, yank the book off the shelf, plop their diapery butts onto the floor and flip through the pages one-two-three, and then chuck the book over their shoulder where, by now, a jogging parent balancing a venti latte has caught-up just in time to save the book mid-flight and with an impressive one-handed grab. At this point, the parent usually turns to me with a twisted look of apologetic panic and says something like, "Where does this...Tilly, come back! Wait for...where did she...NO! NO! Get off that table!...I'm not sure...this book? Where...?"

Oh, ho, ho, says I! Not to worry, oh Valued Customer! You just hand me the book and I'll be ever so glad to put it back on the shelf while you wrangle your clever kidlet. I know what it's like to be out and about with little ones, oh boy, but do I. If you want to direct Tilly to the Thomas table, I shall be ever so happy to fetch a chair so you can have a set-down and enjoy your drink while you mind your little poppet.

I'm so awesome like that.

It's the Children's Section. We expect a modicum of low-level mayhem. We know that sometimes a mom might leave a stack of books on