Mostly odds

The noble peasant

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Peasant blood flows through me. I like simple food, simple clothes, and a simple home. Even my mind is simple. I am a plodder and a hard worker – show me the broom, hand me the rag, and I will get to work and make it shine. Get me started; I will finish.

 

That is fancy talk for: I am a neurotic. I feel compelled to finish what I start, no matter how unpleasant it is, and I’ve convinced myself that there is something noble about doing so.

 

I also must take anything that is free. Two packets of artificial sugar are served with my coffee? I must take them home. Do I use artificial sugar? No. Have I ever used it? No. Does anyone in my family use it? (Note to self: Please stop asking questions you know the answer to.) But you never know, smarty-pants self. Occasionally, someone visits, asks for some, and I win.

 

When we travel I must take the toiletries placed in my room. If I don’t, the hotel will buy fewer products, which leads to a lower demand for products, fewer jobs, higher unemployment, and societal breakdown. So I do it for your sake, friend. I am noble that way.

 

Proof of how I am saving the economy. You're welcome.

 

I also ask others for their free toiletries, so I have bags of stuff. A number of years ago, I reached into one of those bags and pulled out a small, silver tube of toothpaste. I put all of it on my toothbrush and nearly gagged when I started brushing. Ack, I thought, this is disgusting. I continued brushing, gagging and sputtering the entire time, but finally completed the task I started out to do. After rinsing my mouth several times to get the taste out of my mouth, I looked at the little tube more closely. In tiny letters, it read: Shaving Cream.

 

Yes, I carefully brushed all of my teeth with shaving cream, starting at the back with my molars, working in a clockwise direction on each tooth, brushing both sides, and remembering to brush the tops of my molars. Did I brush my tongue? Probably. My neurosis goes to the dentist with me, so it knows the drill. (Gag alert: gratuitous pun.)

 

For a sparkling shave, I suggest Crest; for stubble-free teeth, my choice is Barbasol

 

If this neurosis had a blog, the comment section would be closed. So I’ve learned to live with it and call it being frugal or noble, but if you  read the fine print, you’ll see what it really is.

Awards for the rest of us

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When I started blogging, I checked the Freshly Pressed homepage to find blogs to read. Then I discovered the Topics page and searched that way. Once I found blogs I liked, I checked out their blog rolls or went to the blogs of those who commented. On those blogs I found more blog rolls and more comments.

 

I don’t cook anymore because I’m too busy learning how to make (and spell) bouillabaisse; my house is a mess, but I know how to make environmentally safe cleaning products and how to organize my closets; and I rarely speak to my husband because I’m too busy reading the five blogs I found that tell you the secrets to a happy marriage. Plus, there’s the stat-checking, which reminds me.

 

Hi. I’m back.

 

But that’s not what I want to talk about today. Yesterday I did check out Freshly Pressed, and I saw somebody I knew! In blog talk, that means a blogger that I follow and who follows me. Unlike in the real world, in the blog world, you want a bunch of strangers to follow you. Whoever has the most stalkers wins. But to have stalkers, you must stalk; so it’s difficult to know who is following who. It’s like riding a carousel but without the music. I’m the one on the Palomino.

 

But that’s not what I want to talk about today either. (Going round and round like that makes me dizzy!) Kate of Views and Mews of Coffee Kat got Freshly Pressed. Not Kate herself because that would hurt, but her blog. Go see right now; there is not a wrinkle in sight. That’s how good those WordPress ironers are.

 

Congratulations, Kate. Don’t worry about the rest of us and our wrinkly blogs. We’ll manage somehow.

 

I’ve been tirelessly working on a list of awards for the rest of us. See below. Please feel free to add your ideas.

Freshly Blessed – for blogs with a spiritual emphasis

Freshly Blessed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freshly Dressed (fowl division) – for cooking blogs

Freshly Dressed (fowl division)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freshly Dressed (human division) – for fashion blogs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freshly Messed – for blogs about home renovation

Freshly Messed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freshly Stressed – for mommy blogs

Freshly Stressed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freshly Tressed – for blogs about hair styling

 

Freshly Tressed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pressed Flesh (G-rated) – for blogs about pregnancy

Pressed Flesh (G-rated)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frenchly Pressed – for blogs about coffee and the French press

Frenchly Pressed

Are you dealing with the loss of imaginary friends this season?

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I am. As you may or may not know or care, I once had 265,194 imaginary Facebook followers. I checked in on them on Friday, December 16, at 2:28 p.m. and all seemed well. Tragically, one day later, they were gone.

 

Saturday morning, I woke up early and made coffee, confident that my tribe of imaginary followers had grown by the thousands during the night. I was even thinking of having a contest to let my readers guess when I would reach half a million. After checking the news on my computer, I reached for my phone for my Facebook follower fix.

 

At first, I didn’t believe it. Not one FB follower! I kept refreshing the website, expecting them to be there for me. Not having a Facebook account had lulled me into thinking I would always be popular on Facebook. When they weren’t there, I wailed, “Why me?” When that brought no response from my husband, I wailed louder. He, however, is used to my wailing and  didn’t even look up from his laptop.

 

Crushed by the loss, I called out in my most anguished voice, “The whole world is against me!” At this point, my husband looked up from his apparently-more-interesting-than-me laptop and pointed out that most of the smaller countries are neutral, so my statement was not technically true. He may have meant well, but I was not going to let logic or reason cheat me out of my imaginary sorrow.

 

Normally I do not eat chocolate early in the day nor do I recommend it. That is a slippery slope, friends, a dark chocolaty slope, almost bitter but still sweet, with extra chocolate drizzle on top. However, the magnitude of grief from losing that many imaginary followers drove me straight to the box of chocolate truffles that my husband bought for our anniversary. That plus another cup of coffee assuaged my pain, and I was able to move on. I did inform my husband that I might not be able to do any dishes on Saturday. Or cook. I still needed time (and chocolate) before I could look at my site stats again.

 

Losing over a quarter of a million followers isn’t easy; however, when they are imaginary, it is easier than I imagined.

 

I’m over them now. I know they’re out there, pretending to be friends with someone else. If you see them, say “hi,” and tell them I miss them.

 

 

Don’t answer the phone! It’s the zombie apocalypse calling

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This is what happens when you DON'T have a Facebook account

I have zombies on my mind this morning. Not literally, of course, because if I did, they would eat my brains, and this post would be full of nonsense.

 

Hmm…let’s give Mr. Awkward a minute to go away.

 

Okay. Yesterday I reported that my phone had 209,727 followers from a Facebook account that I don’t have. This morning it is 226, 336. That’s about 692 followers added per hour, or 11.5 added every minute.

 

Troubling, isn’t it? Particularly those .5 followers. What happened to their other .5?!

 

I think it will all become clear in a minute.

 

  • Someone (probably Mark Zuckerberg, the King of Facebook) is offing followers. (It’s a privacy issue, and he is working on a fix. In the meantime, watch your back.)

 

  • He needs a place to hide the bodies somewhere on the internet.

 

  • Sometimes he cuts the bodies in half because the internet wires get clogged, and they won’t fit otherwise.

 

  • He needs to put them somewhere on the internet that no one would think to look; a place on the internet no one goes. My blog is the perfect place.

 

  • I use to have a Facebook account, but now I don’t.

 

  • Mark Zuckerberg hates me and is out to punish me.

 

  • He’s sending dead followers to my account.

 

  • All that deadness is festering, slowly turning my so-called Facebook followers into zombies.

 

  • They are infecting other phones through my phone.

 

  • They are spreading throughout the world.

 

  • They are eating people’s brains through their phones!

 

 

Wikipedia posted this zombie choir singing songs from the Wizard of Oz

I’m sure that it has already started. More and more people with phones held tightly to their heads are walking around in their pajamas during the day in that slow death walk favored by zombies. It’s got to be the zombie apocalypse. How else do you explain what happened to their brains?

 

(TIP: When you answer your phone, if you hear the Wizard of Oz playing in the background and someone singing “If I Only Had a Brain,” hang up the phone!)

My iPhone has 209,727 Facebook followers

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It may happen sooner than you think

I’m afraid.

I’ve always been close to my iPhone, so I thought we had a good relationship, one built on mutual trust. But last Saturday, when I checked my WordPress account on my iPhone, I learned that it has a secret life on Facebook. I took a screenshot as evidence. Here is an enlarged picture:

164,335 Facebook followers!  I was beside myself, which is rather convenient when you want to have a conversation with yourself.

I: How did it get that many followers?

Myself: It has that two-way camera, and you walk around the house at night with nothing on but your winter pajamas and your robe!

I: Do you think it’s taking pictures when I’m not looking?

Myself: Probably. And remember, it has a built-in recorder.

I: Do you think it’s revealing all my secrets to the world?

Myself: No, you’re already doing that on your blog.

When my daughter came over, I showed her what I had found, and we deliberately talked about it in front of the phone. I hoped to shame the phone into removing its Facebook account and stop using my WordPress account to garner followers.

But, friends, it has gotten worse. Look at the screenshot I took last night:

Already up to 207,216 followers. That’s over 42,000 new followers in just two days. This morning the number was up over 2,000. At this rate, by March of next year, every single person on Facebook will be following my iPhone. World domination will follow.

I need your help, kind readers. You see, I don’t have a Facebook account. That’s why I’m afraid.  I am not on Facebook as yearstricken or under the name my mother gave me. Don’t laugh. Not everyone in the world is on Facebook. There are at least two tribes in the Amazon that don’t have any members on Facebook yet.

Would you please go to your Facebook account and see if there are any photos of a somewhat mature woman in a burgundy down-filled robe? If there are photos with her robe open *blush*, you may see blue pajamas with these very cute moose on them. Kindly remove the photos. If my phone insists on having an account, I don’t want it luring people in and gathering followers with risqué photos of me. That’s not the proper path to world domination.

Thank you for your help.

 

Yesterday I had a flare-up and needed an IV

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Hurry! The woman needs an IV and she needs it now!

Yesterday I was reading a blog and came across a sentence about an “alternate lifestyle.”  No doubt, the writer meant “alternative lifestyle.” Alternate in that context would mean rotating or taking turns; alternative, used with lifestyle, means an unconventional or nontraditional choice.

 

But because I really can’t help it, I started imagining a lifestyle where two people alternate.

 

“Okay, honey, now you are me, and I am you.”

 

“Whee, that was fun, now I’m me, and you’re you!”

 

“Let’s try it again.”

 

“Whoa, this alternate lifestyle is life-changing!”

 

After I amused myself for a while, I checked out the author of the blog. It was I, which is good grammar but it sounds wrong because “me” is what we always hear.

 

Yes, I was the blogger who typed alternate instead of alternative. The same blogger who is sometimes a slug, sometimes the Texan Word Slinger, sometimes a mouseburger, and sometimes other personas yet to be revealed. That may be the true “alternate lifestyle,” although maybe it’s multiple personality disorder. (I’ll leave the resolution of that argument to the slug and The Texan Word Slinger.)

 

As you know, from this previous post, I suffer from blog blindness. It’s chronic, intermittent, non-life threatening (so far), and incurable. Yesterday, I had an acute flare-up. So bad, in fact, that I needed intervention.

I needed an IV.

 

I corrected the problem last night, right after I got the IV: Alternate + IV = Alternative.

 

 

Sleeping with bears

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Let’s say you find yourself living with a bear. Let’s also say you are around 5’3” and said bear is almost 6’2”. You like bear; he cooks, does dishes, and changes the oil in your car. Bear is good.

But you must sleep with bear. In his bed. It is his because he needs all of it. The bed bears your name: Queen. That is a misnomer; it is a bear-size bed.

Sleeping with bear involves something we shall call cuddling. Cuddling is good. That is where baby bears come from. Or not. Either way, it’s nice to cuddle.

But sometimes you need to sleep. This is the hard part. Where are you going to put yourself? The bear is big and a little fluffy. You need guidelines. (Not on the bed, although that is a good idea.)

Guideline #1: Bears have diagonal dreams, so they must sleep diagonally. This means you must learn to sleep triangularly and will probably have a number of dreams involving an unsuccessful search for a lost hypotenuse.

Guideline #2: Bears need all of the blankets.

Sub-guideline 2a. Dress appropriately. If your birthday is in the summer months, your birthday suit may work. If not, I suggest pajamas. Long johns are de rigueur in the winter because they prevent the rigor associated with mortis.

Sub-guideline 2b. Bears care about the floor more than you do. Floors get cold, ergo the floor needs the blanket more than you do.

Guideline #3: Bears often snore, especially when they lie on their backs. When this happens, roll onto your back and shake your entire body as if you are one giant twitch. Continue to the point where the bear almost wakes up, then gently push on his side until he rolls over. Be careful not to fully awaken him. This leads to more cuddling and less sleep.

Guideline #4: Bears like your pillow. Several times during the night a bear may try to snuggle into your pillow. If he is a mouth-breather, he will huff and snuffle and blow on your face until you wake up. Grip your pillow tightly, roll over with your back to the bear, and secure the pillow in your corner. Sometimes you will notice a portion of the blanket on your side. Proceed with caution. Pull it gently toward your corner, and enjoy it while you can.

(Note: Sleeping with bears is an alternative lifestyle. As is my wont, I did extensive research for this post and discovered that there was more to the story of Goldilocks and the three bears than you were taught. The girl in the story actually had brown hair, but Brownilocks didn’t sound as good. The story didn’t end with her running away. She went back to the house in the woods in Wisconsin, got to know the family, and fell in love with baby bear, who was actually the same age as her. They got married and he has slept happily ever after. )

Remember: Bears shun parallel sleeping

Remember: The leading cause of triangular dreams is triangular sleeping

Remember: Those who dare to dream diagonally will live and sleep diagonally

World domination: Not for rats

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Rodents are on my mind. Not literally, although if they were, that would mean my brain was cheese. And if I had a cheese brain, it would surely be Swiss: not very sharp and full of holes. That in turn would give new meaning to the term “Cheesehead,” which refers to a fan of the Green Bay Packers. Which reminds me: We are the World Champions!

 

Did I mention that I had caffeine this morning?

Okay, back to rodents. I had two epiphanies this week related to them.

The last name is Burger. Why do you ask?

First, a confession. Up until now, I have been unable to describe myself in one word. In interviews and team-building exercises, I shyly stutter and stammer something about being slightly silly, but sentient. (I tend to alliterate when I’m nervous or upset.) But on Thursday, the word I’ve been searching for my entire life was revealed to me; it is “mouseburger.” Frankly, I’m a little disappointed that no one cared enough to tell me about it. It’s been around since at least 1971. But then, I’m used to that sort of thing. That’s what happens when you are “a drab, timid, or unexceptional woman.”

The song Nat sang that wasn't about me

If I had to describe myself with a song, it would be Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable,” except that I would have to remove the prefix –un and replace it with the word “so.” Ironically, no one usually remembers Irving Gordon, the man who wrote the song.

As proof of my forgettability, I offer the following. A number of times, I have been introduced to someone (let’s call him Nat and let’s say he has an incredible silky baritone voice and should really be a singer, but he’s not because he’s at the kind of gathering I attend). We chat a bit, say goodbye, and then I run into him later at another gathering. On being re-introduced, Nat will invariably say, “Hi, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Okay, maybe that’s happened to you once or twice. But don’t start feeling smug yet. When my children were in high school, I met a woman I’ll call Lethe. The school was small, so we’re not talking about thousands of parents. We met at a school concert and talked a bit. The next time I saw her, someone asked her if she knew me. No, she didn’t believe we had ever met. Then it happened again. And again. Yes, three meetings after the initial introduction. She seemed to remember everyone but me. So, don’t try to tell me you are more forgettable. I am drabber, more timid, and more unexceptional than you. So there. I win. Mouseburgers don’t usually win, so this totally makes my day.

This makes me want to rename my blog “Mouseburger” with the tagline “The tale of a mousy woman.”

The second epiphany came while listening to a story on NPR about rats working to free a fellow rat trapped in a cage. You can read or listen to it here. When a rat hears a caged rat in distress, it tries to help it get out. I know what you are thinking. Yes, Lassie could have been played by a rat. “Jimmy, help Lassie out of that rat trap, I think he’s trying to tell you something.”

Rats are sympathetic or empathetic – no one knows for sure because no one can clearly define the difference between the two. So, are they going to rise up in solidarity, form unions, and bring down this great nation of ours while corporations are left with nothing but boxes and boxes of greenbacks to dry their tears? I think not. Read the following and you’ll understand why.

Not only will rats frantically work to free their trapped cage mates; they will do so even when there’s a tempting little pile of chocolate chips nearby, the study reveals. Instead of leaving their pal in the trap and selfishly gobbling the candy all by themselves, rats will free their cage mate and share the chocolate.

Rats are all heart and no brain. World domination belongs to those of us who know the value of chocolate. In other words, Blogmate, suppose you are trapped in your blog and you can’t get out. So you whine about it. I will try to help you. Why? Because I am a sentient being with empathy and/or sympathy for other whining sentient beings. But, I will not share my chocolate. Why? Because I’m not a rat.

It’s been a good week. I can now describe myself in one word, and more importantly,  I can explain why I cannot share my chocolate with you.

Investors, forget blue chips. World dominators invest in chocolate chips!

Bonkers

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After exhaustive research on the web, which is to say, several hours, I have been unable to find any reference to what my mother called bonking. Yes, I know it’s a euphemism for sex and that’s not what she meant. People, including me, use it to describe colliding into another object, something my head does when it goes in search of open cupboards. It was also used during World War I to refer to shelling with artillery fire.

The manic metronome illustrates what mother meant by bonking. (Courtesy of Wikipedia)

But not a single reference to how my mother used it. When I was little, my favorite method of comforting myself was to rock my body back and forth, as if every chair, couch, or car backseat were a rocking chair. I would start with a gentle rocking motion, and slowly build up speed until I reached competition-level rocking. Thud, thud, thud, back and forth, like a manic metronome, I pounded out the rhythm of whatever music was playing in my head. This is what mother called bonking. I broke the springs in one of our couches because I could not sit on the couch to watch TV without bonking the entire time.

I also bonked across state lines. We used to drive from Texas to Arizona to visit my grandma, and I remember asking my mom once when we were going to get there. She said, “If you hadn’t been bonking so hard, we’d have already been there.” I guess the force of me bonking so hard in the backseat cancelled out the force of her foot on the gas pedal. One mile forward, half a mile backward.

Rocking is fairly common in babies. It soothes them. The rhythmic movement is calming, and most stop doing it around the age of three. I obviously needed a lot of self-soothing and comfort because I bonked passionately until I was at least eight years old.

I don’t remember anyone ever talking to me about it or trying to discover what compelled me to do it. My parents just accepted that I was a weird kid and that I’d probably grow out of. I did, kind of. I still love a rocking chair better than other kind of seating arrangement. And I still do some gentle rocking at times when I’m standing and waiting. And who doesn’t rock while listening to the blues?

Caption #1: Yearstricken rocks! Caption #2: Apple rocks! Caption #3: Yearstricken is off her rocker!

If I were a child now, I’d probably  have to see a shrink once a week, be on medication, have two or three psychological labels sewn to my psyche, and attend special classes for children who bonk.

Sometimes children have behaviors that require intervention, sometimes not. Sometimes kids are just weird. That, after all, is where all the weird adults come from.

 

This post was written from a rocking recliner.

My life with servants

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I love an obedient nightlight

Glutton or prankster -- I can't decide

Later I will wipe that smile off its face -- I prefer a less self-satisfied toilet lid, but my husband likes it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m old school and consider my appliances, furniture, and gadgets to be servants. I’ve heard all the debates about furniture rights and gadget liberation, but frankly, I find it beneficial to maintain clear boundaries. And although I’m worried that the bedroom set may read this blog, I’m going to write about some of the gadgets we use that have made my life bearable.

Those motion detector lights that I wrote about yesterday; we employ some in our house. One works in the garage, and as I leave each day to go to school, it says, “Watch your step, my lovely. And have a nice day.” Cheeky, but sweet.

Another one stays in the entryway between the garage and the office. This light usually says something like, “I’m sorry I can’t open the door for you, but I do what I can do.” It does double duty because the entryway is also the landing of the stairwell to the basement. That’s where the washer and dryer wait, wondering why they only see me on the weekends. We’re on speaking terms, but barely.

We also have motion detector nightlights in each bathroom and one in the front hall. They don’t require any arm waving to turn on, and they stay lit up almost two minutes after you leave the room. I love obedience, especially in nightlights. The bathroom ones are a bit chatty, and say things like, “May I help you tonight? Not sure where to put your hiney? Let me show you. No, I’m not looking.” The one in the hallway is a bit obsequious and always calls me Madam: “Good morning, Madam. Watch your toes. Madam looks like she needs coffee. The kitchen is this way.” I suspect it would like to move to the living room to be able to watch the TV. Not going to happen. My coffee pot is mercifully silent when it offers me a cup of freshly brewed coffee. It’s one of my favorites.

I try not to speak ill of the servants, but I am uneasy about the motion-operated garbage can. I haven’t decided if it is greedy or just likes to joke around. It works fine, but half the time when I walk by, it opens it maw and asks for more. It has startled both the grandchild and me several times.

My husband has his favorites, too. One is the automatic toilet lid. I personally think it puts on airs. It’s not really automatic. When it is in the upright position, you still have to give it a small push to make it go down. But once you do, it moves along at a steady pace. Then it settles down to do the somewhat thankless job of a toilet lid. I shouldn’t complain; it carries its load.

I could go on, but it’s Saturday. All week long I’ve pushed dirty clothes down the laundry chute. Now I’ve got two resentful appliances to face.