Yes, I Know How to Spell “Flagellum” – Why?

Note to self: When someone is spelling an unfamiliar (French) word out loud, resist the urge to yelp, “Anal Fabeetz?!”

Resist the urge, no matter how irresistible. Be strong.

Oop, I gave in.

[The word was “analphabetes.”]

Sounds Like a Haliburton Contract to Me

As we were passing my son's school this evening, he commented on the fact that lights were on outside many of the buildings, including the on-site daycare center.

"It's probably for security," I said.

"Daycare has security cameras," he said, "which is strange. They don't have anything worth stealing...except the security cameras."

Open Auditions for the Nutcracker

The following occurred shortly after I bought my son a jump rope for grownups.

David: I just wanted to let you know that it hurts when you hit yourself in the testicles with a jumprope.

Me (after noting that he was upright, not crying, etc.): That makes me glad I don't have testicles. But I did go through childbirth twice without drugs.

David: At this moment, I feel for you. I really mean that.

Me: But you're OK?

David (in extreme falsetto): Oh, yes, I'm OK. [Dances about, holds hand out toward me.] Come to me, my queen!

Irritable? ME?!?

Overheard in the grocery store checkout line:

"We shouldt get that gumbo out. It's cold."

"Yea, get the gumbo out."

"That stale bread wouldt go goood with that gumbo."

"Yea."

"We shouldt get that gumbo out."

"Before it goes bad."

....

(Changing her mind about a candy bar) "I have to get another one. I don' want this one. It has nougat. I don' like nougat."

"You don' like nougat."

"I don' like nougat."

For the love of the gods, would someone please get that woman a MedicAlert bracelet that reads:

Gumbo: YES
Stale Bread: Optional
Nougat: NO! I don' like nougat

Life and Dreams Intersect, Violently

I was dreaming that I'd gone to reunion event at my undergrad school. When I arrived (huff, puff) and ran to the official gathering spot, there were just a few people there, including my boss's boss (not an alum). I decided to backpeddle out of there quick-like.

I gave up trying to find my car, and rested on a lawn. A youngish man (anywhere between 20 and 40) was rehearsing a familiar-sounding cadence with a group of young women who were having trouble coordinating their movements to the beat. In the dream world, the cadence was an updated version of one that had been in use twenty-five years before, when I was a student. I tried to ask him about this, but couldn't articulate my question.

I left campus (must have found the car), intending to drive home, but took the wrong turn on a complex uber-cloverleaf. Headed back toward campus on a frontage road, I started to panic. "It's 7:05! I should have been home hours ago! I have to take my daughter somewhere!"

A great weight hit me in the midsection. I cried out and lost control of the car, which headed over an embankment and into a ditch, crashing into...

"Argggh! What?!? NO! GET THE DOG OFF ME!!"

My daughter had dropped the dog on me to wake me up.

I'm a Sick Puppy, and Proud Of It

Oh, those guys at NPR are such cards!

At least, according to the NPR Blooper Reel by Oliver Griswold, at The Morning News.

The "Hard to Type With Handcuffs On" Blues

The mail includes a surprise: a copy of a pamphlet called "No mandate, no surrender," by Sam Webb, National Chair, Communist Party, USA.

Great. Now the Repug overlords will probably become more interested in me.

Paging Mr. Dickens

It's freaking cold. (I realize that this statement is laughable to anyone in the Midwest or the Northeast, but it's my statement of personal discomfort, and I'm sticking with it.)

I like to have the dog next to me for friendship and warmth, but he keeps bouncing my right hand from underneath in an effort to induce me to pat his head nonstop. If I need to keep typing, I may push him gently away. If I push him forward rather than to the side, his nose comes closer to the keyboard.

Any typoos are the reslut of dog movng m rigt had. Great chunks of


white space


are caused by the dog's bouncing his muzzle on the "Enter" key.

Snowcones Thrive Where Bloggers Fear to Tread

This morning was the Platonic ideal of a snowcone morning. It took minutes to scrape the frost off the glass on my car.

After taking my daughter to public transit, I settled in for a day of telecommuting, only to find that we had no Internet connection.

After I regained the ability to contact the outside world through the 'Net, I still had no access to my work e-mail.

I fully expect that my office key will break in the lock tomorrow.

How Long Must I Dream?!? Part II

And I didn't even mention the unspeakable acts I had to perform for the alien overlord (who reigned over a somewhat primitive empire conveniently connected to campus by a series of hallways reminiscent of the inter-terminal structure at the Oakland Airport).

How Long Must I Dream?!? Part I

I was walking around (and round and round), getting oddly lost, on my old college campus. The major buildings now boasted upscale restaurants with entertainment, and exits were hard to find (maybe I was in the Psych building and had stumbled into a large maze). When I finally made my way out into the area that includes the post office and bookstore, I found that the formerly open, inviting space had been filled with tall, dark, menacing structures, covered with neon advertisements, that nearly met overhead. It was like "Blade Runner," but without the murderous androids.

I need an agent, or something to suppress REM sleep. Or both.

What a Relief, Legally Speaking

Mall-Wart (I mean Wal-Mart) will pay $14.5M as part of its settlement with the California Attorney General over thousands of "alleged" violations of laws relating to gun sales.

I'm so glad.

Back to selling cheap plastic crap from China, eh, Mall-Wart?

Where's Tom Lehrer When We Need Him?*

It's the Periodic Table of the Elephants! (site registration required)

*Yeah, I know: he's retired.

Beef: It's What's for Dinner for the Next Six Months

A family member (a vegetarian who disparages my food choices while I'm eating) asked me, "If you had to kill animals yourself for their meat, would that turn you into a vegetarian?"

I responded, "No...but I'd sure have a bigger freezer."

Poor Baby -- Go Have a Liedown and a Good Cry

Sign of the imminent collapse of the self-indulgent, overpriced restaurant meal?

This just in from the N.Y. Times:

Eric Ripert, the owner and chef [of four-star Manhattan restaurant Le Bernardin, where prix fixe is $92], winces every time a customer orders the wild salmon on a bed of asparagus.

...

"If you choose the salmon you kill us," Mr. Ripert said. "We are losing money every time we sell a portion."

...

The dollar's weakness, Mr. Ripert said, "is a real disaster at the level of the truffles."

Cry me a river.

No, wait, I'm being insensitive.

Here's a paper hankie.

Now go bleep off.

Oh, and if it helps at all, I promise never to come to your four-star restaurant and order the salmon.

Forget Inspired, Try Irritable

Jon Carroll's article about GOGs (Grumpy Old Guys) includes the following assessment:

I think this may be the GOG problem. They confuse what annoys them with what is wrong with the world.

So next time a GOG (and "guy" here should be considered gender-neutral) grumbles over the state of the world, or the state of the state, especially as it relates to the incomprehensible, unforgivable behavior and thoughtcrimes of those damned (fill in the blank: kids/gays/women/liberals), remember:

GOGs have boundary issues.

Nightmares Become Me

I dreamed that my mother came back to life.

It didn't improve her mood one bit.