I Don't Even Recognize Myself Anymore

Oh no.

I have a confession to make.

It's too horrible to mention, though it must be said out loud. Perhaps an open discussion will take the stigma out of it.

Here it goes:

: deep breath :

I've got the Christmas spirit and I don't know why.

This is a perplexing condition. Usually I'm very, very cranky from about November 15ish until about January 3ish.

I hate the music. Hate the cheesey decorations. Hate the whole hubbub.

For reasons I cannot explain, every once in a while, I get the spirit. I *want* to celebrate the season. I have a burning desire to decorate. I hum Christmas carols. I plan out gift lists and actually, *gasp*, send holiday cards out.

It's an illness for which there is no cure.

It's been about three years since I had this affliction. I cannot explain why it hit me so hard this year, but here it is with all its screaming tinsel and shouting jingle bells.

Halloween snuck up on me out of nowhere. Thanksgiving arrived and caught me unawares.

But Christmas? Nope. I've got my catcher's mitt on and I'm waiting for ya!

I even...well, I did a bad thing yesterday.

It looks like this:

I know! Don't look at me...I'm so ashamed.

At least it's not decorated yet.

But that's only because...

No, it's too terrible to speak.

But I must.

There are no ornaments on my tree yet because....

Ok fine.

Because I'm MAKING THEM ALL THIS YEAR!!!!

It's a sickness.

: hums : Just hear those sleigh bells ringing their jing-jing-jingling tuuuuune. C'mon it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with yoooouuuuu.

Photo by Karen Fayeth, taken with my iPhone 4

Waiter? I'd Like To Order....

The topic of Theme Thursday this week couldn't be more timely. In the lead up to the best eating holiday of the year, our topic, is: Food.

But here's my sideways twist on the theme.

Over the weekend, while on a fairly long drive, I began to riff on something The Good Man said, devolving, as I'm prone, to low brow humor. The stuff of twelve year old boys.

The Good Man isn't so much a fan of the twelve year old boy humor, so his side of the car went pretty quiet.

Well. Fine. I am who I am. If I can't let my inner twelve year old boy fly free at home, I'll take the next best option...imposing it on you, my fair readers.

So, herewith, my list of food names that are unintentionally rude, just in time for Thanksgiving.

1) Head cheese. You knew I had to start there, right? I'm not going to lie, I laughed right out loud typing the words. I wouldn't laugh out loud eating it though, because congealed gelatinous meat bits doesn’t really appeal to my palate. But whatever.

2) Cacahuete. Hee, hee, giggle *snort*. You said caca! Yeah, cacahuete is the Spanish word for peanut. But still, it's sooooo fun to say!

3) Bubble and squeak. It's just fried up meat, taters and cabbage and when done right is very tasty. That said, eating cabbage *does* cause certain parts of my anatomy to both bubble AND squeak. In addition, I rather like saying the name. Repeatedly. Like a toddler. Bubble and squeak! Bubble and squeak! Bubble and squeak! (making a squeaky noise as you say the word squeak is mandatory)

4) Rump roast. Yeah. Unh huh. And I'm supposed to ask for that at the butcher shop and not laugh? I've always been curious about what names were rejected in that marketing meeting. Ass brisket? Booty beef? 'Tocks steak? I mean, what exactly do you call a cut of beef that is sourced from, well, here. (link is TOTALLY safe for work)

And finally...

5) Spotted Dick. I think the gold standard for rude food names has to go to this British fare. It's a spongy concoction of dried fruit that is usually served in pudding. There is a version manufactured by Heinz available at my local grocery store. I always chortle inappropriately when I see it there on the shelves.

I mean, come on, Spotted Dick? Who thought that was a good idea?

You got any others I forgot? Leave 'em in the comments!

Keep Yer Politics Out of My Baseball

I have spent the past seven months watching my favorite baseball team, the San Francisco Giants, play incredibly imperfect (some say torturous) baseball.

I've experienced agony, ecstasy, and near ulcers but still I have watched because I'm a longtime fan. I've been there at Candlestick Park. I've been there at PacBell, SBC, AT&T Park. Heck, I've been there at Scottsdale Stadium.

Oh, I've been there.

I knew Tim Lincecum and Pablo Sandoval when they were playing for the farm team San Jose Giants.

Because I've been there, too.

And now...oh NOW that the team is getting coverage for making it to the National League Championship Series (NLCS) do all the politics and politicians come out in their shiny suits and gelled up hair to act like they've been there all along.

Our playoffs are their political opportunity.

Gah!

Baseball is not politics! Politics are not baseball!

The two don't mix because baseball has its own politics, thank you VERY much.

We don't need your stupid campaigning faces jack o' lantern grinning out of the stands, Ms. Boxer, Ms. Fiorina and Mr. Newsom.

I shall not vote for the lot of you!

And then....

There is the whole ongoing kefuffle regarding the BART policeman who shot an allegedly rambunctious BART rider in the back.

The case and the video footage from that day are a highly sensitive and a very concerning issue for the Bay Area for a lot of reasons.

The case went to trial. The jury made a decision. The case is pending sentencing.

So now both sides have decided to take their personal issues to the baseball game by painting banners, attaching them to sailboats and setting sail for McCovey Cove.

You know, McCovey Cove, famous for all the boats, pontoons and kayacks sailing about when Barry Bonds played for the Giants and regularly dunked homeruns in the water?

McCovey Cove, famous for Friday "Beer Can Regatta" sailboat races.

McCovey Cove, that beautiful body of water that sits next to my beautiful ballpark and helps make it one of the most unique sporting locations in the world.

As the Fox Sports cameras seek out something to focus on as we cut to commercial, the cove is always a favored spot, owing to the beautiful views.

But this week, the cameras take in the "Free Mehserle" or "Justice for Oscar Grant" signs, and our own problems here in the Bay Area take precedence over the baseball game.

It's a game. Just a game. It's supposed to be fun.

How about I think about politics and other difficult issues when the season is over, ok?

(McCovey seen to the right in this photo of AT&T Park)

Photo From 22Gigantes

An Open Letter on Behalf of Mankind

Dear engineer-type gentleman I just passed on the way into the cafeteria:

I appreciate that today is pretty warm day. The weatherman predicts temps as high at 95 degrees where we are.

I also appreciate that when the weather heats up, it's always nice to release your legs from the tyranny of pants.

Fair enough.

Given that our employer favors a "business casual" environment, shorts are, for the most part ok.

What I take issue with, sir, is not that you are wearing shorts, but rather the shorts you chose to wear. That garment was obviously bought in or around the year of 1985 when both you and Larry Bird had the legs to pull off a pair of uncomfortably short shorts.

The year is now 2010 and neither you nor Mr. Bird should put people through this. It's a lot to deal with while strolling the campus of this very conservative and well-respected multi-national corporation.

I fear for your manhood when you sit, good sir, because there is not enough cloth available, given the dimensions of your now engineer-like body, to cover all that needs to be covered.

No. Don't bend over. Please. I'm begging you.

Just take your cheeseburger and fries and head back to whatever research lab you emerged from.

I shall go cleanse my eyes with a Brillo pad.

Let's not have this chat again, eh?

Warm regards,

Karen

My Magnetic Personality

For years I have told friends that I am a "freak magnet," and for years, I've had them tell me, "Oh, don't be silly! Everyone says that."

Then we go out to a bar or a dance club or a restaurant and sure enough, the wackiest person in the room will find their way to me like a moth to a flame.

I don't head out to the bars and clubs much anymore, so I think I've grown a little soft in my ability to head off the loo-loos who inevitably end up sitting next to me.

Wednesday this week, I got invited to a "customer appreciation event" associated with my job.

Well, ok. Appreciate me!

It was a HUGE event with piles of free food, an endless flow of free booze and lots and lots of live musical entertainment.

While I had a gosh dang good time, I was always aware of the fact that I was having a gosh dang good time along with my boss and several coworkers.

I had a few glasses of wine then switched to water about two hours before my anticipated departure time.

At the end of the evening my boss, coworkers and I parted ways at the shuttle busses. The various busses were on different routes to take people back to their hotels and parking in different parts of the city.

Sadly, my route was the most popular, so I stood in a very long line for about forty-five minutes. People were yelling at each other for cutting in line, being snotty and aggressive, and generally at the end of their tether.

I practiced my meditation and art of being calm while I waited my way to the front of the line. Finally I got on a bus and found a seat.

And here's where my magnetic personality comes in.

The drunkest, largest male human I may have ever encountered stumbled his way onto the shuttle, looked over his seating opportunities, and flung himself into the seat next to me.

Then passed out.

Hey, fine. I'm down with that. It will make for a quiet ride.

Oh nooo. That would be too easy.

As the bus jerked to a start, The Mountain next to me woke up and began making those burping, choking sounds.

"Dude," I said, forcefully, "are you going to throw up?"

He looked at me somberly and nodded.

"THEN GET OFF THE BUS!" I hollered.

Well. He was at that stage of drunk where all your bones have gone gelatinous, and was unable to stand. Or move. Or do much of anything other than....

Begin vomiting.

He at least had the grace to vomit toward the aisle and not on me.

However...this is where I lost my mind.

I'd been up for a 7am meeting, working hard all day, celebrating heavily all night, and at 1:00 in the morning, wedged in at the window seat next to a vomit breathing dragon, I'd lost my sense of humor.

"Somebody help me! This guy is throwing up!" I yelled to my fellow travelers.

I heard someone go "Ew." But that was all.

So I tried again, "Help me! Please! This guy needs to get off the bus! He's throwing up all over the place!"

The bus driver walked down the aisle, saw the guy throwing up, make a "yuck" face and turned around and went back to the front of the bus.

"Are you serious?!? You aren't going to help me!?!" I yelled at his retreating back.

I was ignored.

So I ratcheted up my freak out and began yelling with renewed energy.

Finally, the guy who appeared to be the friend of Captain Puke came over and in the most condescending way possible asked, "Are you ok?"

"NO!" I replied.

"Do you want out of that seat?"

"YES!" I replied.

So he grabbed my arm and tugged and I pushed off with my legs and we sort of drag vaulted me over the top of the now passed out guy.

An incredible gentleman in the back of the bus stood up and told me that back home in Chicago he commutes to work every day on a bus, and was used to standing. He gave up his seat for me. I thanked him profusely.

When we finally arrived at our destination, as we exited the chartered shuttle bus, we all filed past Barf Boy. He was still passed out in the seat, vomit all down his front.

His friend...the guy that told me what a "good guy" his friend was as he dragged me out of the seat?

He left the unconscious man on the bus.

Fabulous.

What a talent I have, attracting the elite of the world to sit next to me.

I Believe...

If you've ever had occasion to see a "Blue Collar Comedy" live show, then you know they end each performance with a litany of items that each of the four comedians believes.

Here is my I Believe list for today. Subject to change. Some restrictions apply. Offer ends July 20, 2010. Not valid in all 50 states.

I Beeeelieve....

...that Costco stores, like casinos, pump some substance into their ventilation system that causes me to behave in odd ways. How else can you explain my hitting all the sample tables like a drunk at a buffet bar, then buying a two thousand pack of toilet paper?

...that the first Indiana Jones movie is the one true Indiana Jones movie, and all else are just weak riffs on the original. I rate the movies on likability in the order in which they were made.

That said...

I also beeelieve that the "Crystal Skull" movie was not quite as bad as everyone made it out to be.

...that green chile has curative powers that extend beyond just physical health. I think we can achieve world peace and fix the global economy over a plate of enchiladas. Sour cream and fried egg on top.

...that Paris Hilton did, indeed, inhale. Yea verily though she has been busted for possession twice and gotten off scott free twice, I believe the clock is ticking and she will soon be cellmates with Lindsey.

...that coffee is the work of dark, evil forces. For though I welcome coffee with both arms and hug it to my person like a long lost sibling, it does terrible things to my stomach causing pain and acid reflux and generally causing havoc. And yet, I can't seem to quit the dark beckoning brew.

...that red light cameras are patently unfair and unconstitutional and defy the Bill of Rights and upset the Code of Conduct and Robert's Rules of Order and some other stuff I can't think of right now. They don't allow me to face my accuser in court! It's bad! Real bad! Obviously, I'm still not over it.

...that AT&T is not quite as evil as we think (though they are still evil). Apple is not quite a cool as we think (though they are still cool). And that for some reason that I can't explain, I dreamt last night that I met Bill Gates. And he hit on me. : shudder :

...that the 1970's were weird and awkward during the 1970's, and somehow time has made us all forget that. Now we remember the decade as cool.

...that times have gotten a little tough when grownups are stealing girl scout cookies. And stealing their money. And stealing their cookies. What's next? Nun's stealing babies? Oh. Weird.

...that white chocolate is just as delicious as regular chocolate and should be afforded all rights pertaining thereto. Same goes for vanilla ice cream. Oh, and also that something must be done *immediately* regarding the vanilla shortage. Code Red, people.

...that by writing this list of I Believe items, I have successfully avoided doing any real work for an hour and a half.

And so...what exactly is this creature? Vol. 2

You'll recall I first asked this question back in November.

The answer then was: persimmon.

Today, in my continuing quest to understand what in the sam hell is growing in my own backyard, I bring you the next installment in the series.

Ladies and Gentlemen...ask you. What exactly is *this*:

(no fair answering first, Natalie!)

I have a tree laden with these little guys. The birds fight over the fruit that bears a color and skin resemblance to an apricot.

The neighborhood squirrels will come running up the power line, put their little paws together over their head, and swan dive into the tree to sample of these fruits.

The bugs love this tree so much, a spider has moved in and built one hell of a web. This allows him to freely sample of the bug buffet. There are bug carcasses strewn all over the place. I haven't seen a spider web like that since Hawaii!

The fruit on the tree looks a little bit like a small peach or a big apricot. But they aren't.

Curious, I pulled one that looked ripe from the tree and split it open.

This mutant fruit has not one but TWO stones at the center!

Another I opened had not two but THREE stones!

What the hell?

I didn't sample the fruit right away. The saliva-evaporating tannin in the under ripe persimmon I ate first and asked questions later taught me a huge lesson.

Nope, I was going to do some research before biting in this time.

With a little help of another overheard conversation between my landlord and his elderly father, I remembered them discussing the old man's love of something called a loquat.

Hmm. Loquat. It sounds like a concatenation of a couple other words...like lemon and apricot. Or lemon and kumquat.

Is this one of those weird hybrid fruits? No. It's not.

Loquat is actually an Americanized spelling of a Cantonese word, lou gwat, or the words mean "reed orange."

This is another tree that is found mainly in Asian countries and was brought along to the Bay Area. It's a very hardy tree!

Evidently the fruit has a mild sedative effect.

Evidently the seeds have a mild bit of cyanide. Yay.

Note to self: eat the fruit, not the pit.

Okay!

So today I dove in like a squirrel and picked a couple ripe samples.

It's very tart like a citrus fruit but a consistency much like an apricot.

I like it!

Ok, mystery solved! Off to find recipes for loquats!

Oh, by the by, I also have this creepy creature in my backyard:

It's almost a foot across and it looks like it could devour small animals.

Fortunately, I know what this bad boy is....

It's an artichoke that my neighbor grew and forgot to pick.

If it gets any larger, I may have to move.

Just sayin'.

New Mexifail!

Whoooo! Some homestate love once more on the Failblog!

Oh Fair New Mexico!!!

Wait. That's not the shape of New Mexico.

Uh.....

I know, I know...the *name* of the company is New Mexico Soap. But...it's still confusing.

Maybe the label could be..."State Shaped Soap, brought to you by New Mexico Soap" or something similar to avoid the perils of the Failblog?

For the record, the people at New Mexico Soap also carry this little product:

There ya go! That's the right shape! They left off that little jut up near Oklahoma, but that's ok.

I'm sure the people who live up in the jut (uh, that would be round about Clayton, NM) don't mind being left off the soap. Much.

By the by, this is not the only New Mexico fail on the failblog. Here's the one I posted back in October.

And so it came to pass....

....that living in the Land of Schwarzenegger, in the area of the Bay, there came to be a fish. A small fish. A fish who was filled with faith and hope.

A fish purchased under the accursed impulse-purchase vexation.

The fish was of the Betta clan, and was given the name of Benito, meaning "blessing" or "blessed one" in the Spanish culture (and meaning tiny little dictator in the Italian tradition).

And so it was that Benito came to live in the house of The Good Man and true to his name, blessed us all.

Benito swam and ate of the bloodworm. And it was good.

Until it wasn't good.

And forsooth, Benito ceased to eat, and lay on the floor of the tank, flat on his side, and took on a gray pallor.

Which only raised memories of Frank, also of the Betta clan, who came before Benito and expired so painfully.

And so it was that The Girl wept, felt necessary to rend her garments, gnashed her teeth and howled to the heavens, "Why! Why must I have the curse of killing helpless fish?"

Then The Girl resigned herself to the knowledge gained that she was not meant for fish ownership.

Another matchbox coffin was prepared, and sadness befell the house of The Good Man.

In the last, desperate hours, The Good Man proclaimed, "he who believeth in the bettas shall never die."

Thusly, The Good Man brought his mighty hand down and created freshly treated water and added the miracle of the antibiotic powder.

The limp body of Benito of the Betta clan was deposited into the fresh, medicated water and hope was not held out.

In the break of the morn, The Good Man, in his grace, went to the tankside of Benito of Betta, and proclaimed, "Yea, tho I believe this crazy fish is hungry!"

And chopped up pieces of bloodworm were deposited in the tank, and verily Benito of Betta did eat.

"No %$&#ing way!" came the cry from The Girl, who stared in disbelief at the miracle The Good Man had wrought.

"Yeah, don't get your hopes up," The Good Man admonished, but despite his downplaying the whole thing, The Girl did ignore him and did in fact get her hopes up.

And forsooth! Benito of Betta did continue to eat. And became more upright, and began to flap his fins in a normal manner.

And Benito of Betta was thusly nicknamed the Lazarus Fish, having risen from the dead.

So it is that some two weeks from coming to the house of The Good Man, Benito of Betta continues to live and eat and could almost be described as thriving.

And with the focus on a new, recovering fish, The Girl finds the sadness over the loss of Frank is beginning to ease.

With the help of The Good Man, guardian of the broken pets, The Girl may in fact learn to be a suitable owner of small helpless fish.

And for the moment, it was good again.

But don't get your hopes up.

P.S. Margaret, female of the Betta clan, and The Good Man's fish, continues to thrive quite nicely, thankyouverymuch.

When being thrifty throws you into the wayback machine

So I was at Target the other day, picking up many items on my household list.

You know, toilet paper, dish soap, etc.

On my list was a need for some new razors. You know, the weather is warming up a bit, might need to take a weed whacker to the ol' winter legs...

TMI, I know.

So anyhow...razors are expensive! Dang expensive. So being a child of depression era parents, I did what any overly fiscally conservative girl would do.

I grabbed a pack of razors from the clearance bin.

Hey, they are Schick Xtreme 3! That's a good brand!

So tonight, I decided to take a long soak in a bath after a chilly rainy day, and I broke out one of my new razors to get some smooth skin happenin'.

Suddenly, my bathroom smells like Louie's Backyard on South Padre Island at the high tide of Spring Break.

You know, that odd chemically tropical combination of Malibu spiced rum and way too much Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil?

Yeah.

That's weird.

Why does my bathroom smell like that?

Turns out the clearance rack razors come with "Scented Handles by Hawaiian Tropic".

Ew.

Apparently I'm not the only one that thinks a scented handle on my razor is weird. Hence the very deep discount in the clearance bin. Schick's weird marketing idea is my gain!

With three, count them, three blades, my legs are super smooth.

Spotty memories are but a small down payment on the steep price of beauty.

Clampetts come to town

So there I am today, at the Target store. They got in a fresh load of summer wear, so I tried a few on and made fun selections.

I'd picked out a pretty cute loose flowing skirt and had it in the basket, ready to buy. But then I wandered through more of the ladies clothing section and found another skirt almost exactly like it, but a bit different.

I thought I might like this newly found skirt better.

So did I go back to the dressing room and try it on?

Nope.

Did I toss it in the basket thinking I'd try it on later at home, and bring it back if it didn't fit?

Nope.

I yanked the skirt off the hanger and pulled it on and up over my jeans.

It had an elastic waist....(as if that's any defense).

Hey, you know what, it fit fine and so I bought it.

A few minutes later, The Good Man came over to the ladies section with a pile of clothes he'd found over in menswear.

"Hey, what do you think of this shirt?" he asked, holding it up.

"I like it," I replied. And I did.

"I wonder about the fit, though," he said.

So he whipped off his button down shirt (he had on an undershirt) and put on the store shirt.

"Yep, fits fine," he said, then took it off, and dropped it in the basket.

And then, I laughed.

This is what we've become.

The Clampetts. None of the class, all of the charm.

I remember as kid out shopping with mom, and she'd do the, "here, just try this sweater on over your tshirt."

"But moooohhhhhhhoooom!" I'd howl! It was *so* embarrassing.

Now I'm that lady, trying on stuff in the aisles. And I don't even care.

You know...Mark Chesnutt has this song about when "ol' country" comes to town.

That's my excuse. I just don't know any better.

I have no idea what excuse the city-born Good Man's is using.

Maybe I’m setting a bad example?

"Whooooa, let me tell ya story about a man named Jed....."

Strange day

Among other things, April 18th marks the date of:

The Great San Francisco Earthquake in 1906

And in 1881 Billy the Kid escapes from the Lincoln County jail in Mesilla, New Mexico. (the jail is now a tchotchke shop in Mesilla Plaza.)

My diphenhydramine reality

Whoa, man.

I mean, really.

Whoa.

So I've been having trouble sleeping. Don't know why. I got stuff on my mind, but no more than the usual suspects.

It's not waking up and worrying or thinking or whatever.

It's just waking up. And then not going back to sleep.

Exhausted, looking for some help, I decided I'd try some of that over the counter Tylenol PM.

Well, The Good Man astutely pointed out that Tylenol PM is just a mix of Tylenol and diphenhydramine, you know...Benedryl?

I already have Tylenol, so I bought a generic bottle of Benedryl.

Hoping for some quality rest, I followed the exact same doses from the Tylenol PM bottle, mixed up the recipe, swallowed it, then lay down in my bed.

It didn't take long before my head felt kind of thick and my eyes got heavy.

Awesome! Sleep is on the way!

Did I sleep? Yes, actually pretty well.

But the dreams. Oh the dreams!

Wild, vivid, lucid, long involved dreams.

In one dream, a carload of my friends and I drove over the Golden Gate Bride, but on the OUTSIDE of the asphalt roadway. We sort of floated alongside the bridge, over the water, as we cruised. I was in the passenger seat and I could see the bridge up close. It was the most amazing way to see the entire bridge.

In another I shook hands with Jesse Jackson because he saw me across the room and rushed over to meet me. Said he was a big fan. (not sure what corner of my psyche that came from. I'm not much of a Jesse Jackson person, but ok.)

In several I could run really fast and it felt so good.

In the best dream, turns out The Good Man could fly. If I held tight to his hand, I could fly too. He flew *fast*, we zipped all over, and the wind tugged at my shoes! It was awesome!

Wowowowowow maaaaaaahn. That is some freaky sh--! I had good sleep! Fabulous dreams! And clear sinuses!

Diphenhydramine! You can't beat this stuff!

So you know what I did, right?

I took it again the next night.

More wild, fabulous and fun dreams. Vivid, happy, trippy stuff.

Once again, I woke up feeling great. No residual antihistamine hangover, just calm and happy and best of all, rested.

So then, of course, owing to my Catholic upbringing or something, I realized that anything that feels that good can't possibly be good for me, right?

So I put the happy dreams away and tried to sleep on my own last night.

It worked. I actually slept pretty well.

You know, I had a few dreams. Nothing special. Very dull. No flying or anything.

*sigh*

Voice from the past

So I've been lightly reading the kerfuffle and conversation surrounding the new Nike ad featured Tiger Woods, with an overlay of the voice of his father, Earl Woods, taken from an interview in 1994.

Here's the ad, if you haven't already seen it:

Of the ad, Tiger has said: "...I think any son who has lost a father and who meant so much in their life, I think they would understand the spot."

Hmm.

I'm not a son, but I've lost a father and I have to say the ad makes me very uncomfortable. I'm not sure I do understand the spot.

While it might be "...very apropos. I think that's what my dad would say," the context of an advertising spot, intended to sell Nike gear, seems...a little wrong.

I've no doubt Tiger might have turned to his dad for guidance during the fallout from his recent troubles. But would his dad have chosen that forum to have that conversation with his son? I think not.

I find the ad very powerful and I think it's a very public reckoning for Tiger. But I still gotta say...it makes me uncomfortable. It just doesn't feel respectful to the memory of his dad. Just my .02

By the by, hearing your father's voice from the past can be an eerie thing. I recently found a video of my dad giving a presentation. It was filmed about five years before his passing. The Good Man and I watched it, and I found it difficult and a bit disturbing. And oddly, in some ways, comforting.

I've no plans yet to use it in a marketing campaign. I'll keep you posted on that.....

It's getting weird out there...

"New Mexico Gov. Bill Richardson is among more than 30 governors to receive a letter from an anti-government group saying they will be removed from office if they don't leave their elective positions within three days."

Source: Las Cruces Sun News

More from The State Column:

"The number of governors receiving letters from a anti-government fringe group now numbers around thirty. Governors from Arkansas, Oklahoma, Minnesota, New Mexico, North Carolina, Kentucky, Hawaii, Montana , Missouri, Mississippi, Virginia, Texas, Nebraska and Alaska all found letters similar to those received by governors yesterday.

The letters have been sent by Guardians of the Free Republics, a group that says it wants to "restore America" by peacefully dismantling parts of government.

The FBI warning comes at a time of heightened attention to far-right extremist groups after the arrest of nine Christian militia members last weekend accused of plotting violence.

.
.
.

The FBI has said it expects all 50 governors to eventually receive the group's letters."

Weird. And worrysome.

Ok, so go with me on this...

You ever have those moments where your monkey brain isn't working on anything in particular, and when given free rein, it jumps around from topic to topic? There it hops along and suddenly you end up in some crazy neighborhood in your mind, and you are unsure how you got there.

And at that point, it's best to just back out sloooowly.

Yeah. This happened to me the other night.

I was really, really tired. I hadn't been sleeping well and my fatigued brain wasn't making coherent thoughts. I oh so needed to get some work done at home, but couldn't get my head into the game.

Instead, I lay down in my bed figuring hell, I'll just sleep. Things will look better in the morning.

As I lay there trying to get to the REM's, I thought "man, wouldn't it be great to have one of those oxygen tents like Michael Jackson? I understand that a boost of oxygen can help you be more alert and think more clearly. That would be so rad."

So *then*, my untethered mind, thinking of oxygen tents, remembered that episode of Seinfeld where George and The Bubble Boy got into a big fight.

And so of course I laughed.

But THEN, The Bubble Boy reference made me think of that TOTAL made-for-TV movie, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble which oh yes I totally watched after school.

Which then made me think to myself, damn, who was that actor who played the boy in the bubble? Dark hair, kind of cute.

So then the other side of my brain hollered in response, "Robby Benson!"

And ta daaa! My brain was now stuck on, "So whatever happened to that guy?"

So there I am, trying to sleep but instead thinking about Robby Benson. You know, circa "Ice Castles" and "Ode To Billy Joe"?

Young, cute, all soft focused and baby faced? Quiet voice and acting chops suited for made-for-TV?

Yeah! That guy! Where the hell is he now?

And that's how I went to sleep.

Only trouble is...in the light of day, I realized. The Boy in the Plastic Bubble wasn't Robby Benson, it was John Travolta. You know, circa "Welcome Back, Kotter" and right before "Saturday Night Fever."

So I spent all that time pondering Robby when I should have been pondering John.

Damn. What a brain. Ain't worth the price of headcheese with mayo on marble rye from Molinari (a deli in North Beach, for my out of town friends).

I really gotta learn how to do Sudoku or something.....

Here's to the Firsties

Didja ever really take a look at an avocado hanging off of a tree (or in a pile at the grocery), with that pebbly green skin, and ponder why that fruit looks exactly like it's made outta frogs? Did you hold one in your hand and wonder who, exactly was the first person ever who took a look at that green pear-shaped fruit and said to themselves, "hey, that looks tasty!"

And what was that first experiment like? Did they bite into it like an apple, only to ptoo-ptoo out that ucky skin? "I rather dislike the outside, but the innards, oh sweet delicious surrender!"

What about the first person to sample a lemon? What musta been going through their minds? Hmm, looks pretty and yellow. Smells divine. Nibble, nibble, ZOWEEEEE! *ting at the back of the jaw*

And then, after that horrifying experience, what was the thought chain that led to, "you know...if I add some water and something sweet to that, it could be very refreshing!"

How about...Which of our early ancestors plucked the berries from a juniper bush, fermented them, distilled the whole mess and figured out how to make gin? I mean, who was the utter genius with that idea? Because I don't look at random berries on bushes and think, "hmm, martini!"

And what about coconuts? I mean, that's a two-step process to get one of them sumnabitches open. First someone has to shimmy up a palm tree, a rather uncomfortable proposition, I'd think, then hack down one of those bad boys. AND THEN the two-steps to first peel off the thick outer later and then knock that thing on a rock to get it open.

Who had that kind of patience?

I'm glad they did because oh how tasty is coconut?

What about aloe? Or cactus fruit? Artichokes? Or those god awful stinky yet tasty durian fruits you find in Malaysia?

Who are these people who gave them the first try?

And what about the downsides of being first? For example...

Who, exactly, was our test subject to sample a handful of those pretty red little holly berries? Hey, the birds eat them, must be good right? According to Wikipedia (so you know it must be true), it only takes about twenty berries to be fatal for an adult. Whooops.

Who went there so that we'd all know not to?

I'm pretty grateful to that person, and all the other firsties.

Thanks for wandering through my strange random thought for the day. It has a genesis in something I saw in a movie and was a long strange trip in my brain from there....

Anyhoo. Happy Friday!

Romeo, Romeo, I’m calling 911

So there you are, at home alone in your second story apartment doing whatever it is single ladies do at home at night. (I'm thinking eating raw chocolate chip cookie dough, but that's just me.)

You hear a rattle, rattle outside on your fire escape and realize someone is climbing onto your balcony.

What do you do?

Well you call the damn police, that's what.

And that's what a German woman did in this situation.

Problem was, the assumed burglar was her boyfriend, bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine in hand, trying to do something romantic.

Ah, ok, no harm no foul, right?

The police all have a good laugh and let the young lovers have their peace.

Whoops, seems the boyfriend had an outstanding warrant.

So when the police arrived, he jumped down from the balcony and tried to flee, only to be tackled by the officers on the scene.

Star crossed lovers, or something....

Bonus points to the guy for giving the arresting officers the bottle of wine.

Hopefully his Juliet has a good sense of humor.

I'm thinking chocolate chip cookie dough and a Netflix movie is one heck of a lot nicer way to spend the night than bailing your boyfriend out of jail...but that's just me.

Source.

I'm sayin'

"A Florida woman said her love handles saved her life when she was shot entering an Atlantic City bar"

I think I'll make a batch of chocolate chip cookies today.....

Not sharp enough to know I was supposed to be humiliated

Ok, so I thought this was an odd title for an online article:

"How not to feel humiliated when dining alone"

Um. Why would I? I rather enjoy eating out alone.

Given the photo of the sad lonely brunette (she HAD to be a brunette, right?) that accompanies the article, I think reading between the lines, the title of the article is more like:

"You sad lonely dried up old maid. How terrible that you have to eat alone."

Because *clearly* the target audience for this story isn't guys. I don't know that most guys would feel humiliated dining alone. They'd pull up a chair to the bar, order a beer and dive in. Isn't all this fuss and kerfuffle a girl thing?

The story goes on to offer several suggestions for how that lonely gal can make it through such a harrowing experience as having to dine alone like reading a book or staring into her mobile device.

Please. Eating out alone is great. You don't have to share your dessert, you can drink too many glasses of wine if you want, and you can burp at the table. What's not to love about this experience?

And oh the people watching. So much to take in!

Plus, plenty of couples look miserable dining together. But they are not "humiliated" because they are not alone, so it's ok? Bah!

I guess I sort of thought we were past the days when someone eating alone in a restaurant was a weird thing. So many people travel for business or just choose to spend time alone. In my book this is no longer odd.

And the conventional wisdom used to be that as a solo diner the wait staff wouldn't serve you as well (one person means smaller tab means smaller tip) but I have found the opposite to be true. I think wait staff rather enjoy the ease of just one person at the table. No question where the entrée goes!

I've not ever felt slighted or mistreated when dining alone. It works just fine.

Sure, I'd rather have The Good Man there because, mainly, he makes any thing I do a lot more fun (he could make going to the dentist for a root canal a worthwhile adventure!). But if I'm away from him and I'm hungry, well, a girl's gotta eat!

Honestly most of my girlfriends are the same way. Eating alone in a restaurant is no biggie.

Most girls half my age are twice as bold as me, so I don't think they have issues either.

Who is this story really aimed at? As I read the comments, most of the ladies chiming in seem to agree with my point of view on this.

And seems most agree that the title of the article is just plain terrible.

I guess my message to the author is to simply quote the comment left by a reader named Melissa:

"Thanks for bashing my confidence in eating alone. I guess now when I take myself out to lunch to be awesome I have to feel HUMILIATED instead."

So there!