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In Tarboro, NC, from 6th through 8th grade, I had an accelerated English teacher named Mrs. Babcock. She made me a big part of who I am today and, no, I am not exaggerating. She was the best teacher I ever had. When I first started attending her classes, I thought I was pretty hot stuff in the writing department. I had won awards; I was the star pupil; I was resented by my peers. And, as a bonus, when I went potty, it smelled like roses and jasmine. What else did an on-the-edge-of-pubescence child need?
The first paper I wrote for Mrs. Babcock’s class was a sobering, demoralizing experience. My college-lined, three-holed notebook paper came back splashed with red ink as if a bottle had spilled. I did not pass muster. My writing was subpar and she let me know about it. My confidence was shot and, from that point on, when I used the restroom, it didn’t smell all that nice.
After my humiliation, and for a long time period hence, all sentences needed to be diagramed. All verbs needed to be conjugated properly and labeled by tense. I hated/loved her.
I would not be the writer I am today without her. Although she’s probably long passed, I salute Mrs. Babcock. And I still feel guilty each time I start a sentence with “so,” “but,” or in this example, “and,” or when I use the word “really” because she felt “truly” was a better substitute. She didn’t like “there” either. To this day, she probably rolls in her grave over all my incomplete sentences. I like them; so sue me.
Now that that’s out of the way, Melanie, awesome maple syrup tapper and fellow animal freak/farmer had a great idea. I’m not quite sure how it relates to Mrs. Babcock other than the fact that I was going to start this post with “So I got this great idea from Melanie.” Nuff said.
Das boot, Frankenboot, boot of torture, ill-favored ankle stabilizer, your time is short. Or at least in this neck of the desert (I’m sorry to make you roll again, Mrs. Babcock, but you probably need the exercise). Melanie had a flash of brilliance as to the future of das boot. Her words:
I say you should make a traveling exhibit of the boot when you are finally finished with it. We blog followers take turns adding something from our farms/homes to it, and mailing it on to the next, and so on, then finally back to you. Fully decorated, it should be a better conversation piece than the stream of foul language and woe it currently inspires, no?
I love it! Granted, it would involve some shipping costs and mind power (the latter of which we all have in droves) but I think it’s an opportunity not to be missed. So (sorry Mrs. Babcock), if you’re interested, leave a comment or send an email and I’ll put together a database. I want photographic documentary evidence of all the places the boot goes sent to me in fairly real time. Captions would be an added bonus. Strangers posing with the boot would be nice as well. It really wants to see The Black Hills of South Dakota and Rocky Raccoon and I don’t think anyone from there reads the blog. Someone from New Zealand does but the shipping might be prohibitive. Today, I noticed via the way cool new map on the left that I have readers in Beirut, Iran, Manchester, and Nottingham. I love saying Nottingham; it makes me feel aristocratic.
Now, where is that lazy butler Alistair with my tea and crumpets?
Now, where is that lazy butler Alistair with my tea and crumpets?
What is a crumpet anyway?
I think the boot is willing to travel for at least a year as long as it checks in on a regular basis.
I've always wanted to have a neighbor just like you.
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.
So, let's make the most of this beautiful day.
Since we're together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?
Won't you please,
Won't you please?
Please won't you be my neighbor?
Fred Rogers was born 80 years ago today. I loved and miss him. His cardigan is on display at the Smithsonian; his mother knit it for him. See? Knitting inspires greatness.
Today is also the Vernal Equinox. Happy, Happy Spring!
It came to my attention quite a while ago that somehow my little blog here had been deemed a "sex site" by the powers that be. I wasn't sure why, though I thought it might have something to do with those photos of the now-dead-and-gone turkey humping the plush sheep toy. Or maybe it was my many references to sheep uteri. Or maybe the internet police, unbeknownst to me, have implanted a sensor in my head and can read my many dirty thoughts. Who knows? I do know, however, that this has never been a sex site.
Today, all that is going to change. Through the powers of YouTube, I am about to share two of the funniest, and admittedly, filthiest (other than that movie "The Aristocrats," that was beyond the pale) videos I have seen.
First from Sarah Silverman (who is in "The Aristocrats," surprise, surprise):
And an answer from Jimmy Kimmel:
Personally, I can't stop cracking up but that's just me; I'm easily amused.
Internet censor people, I have become what you have made me.
I picked up a bad penny this morning. I never do this but was possessed by the ebullient spirit of one who was, for a change, going to have household help. As this is a rare occurrence, I obviously lost my giddy little head.
Although I am not typically a superstitious person, I refuse to pick up tail-up pennies. Anyone with a lick (or not) of sense knows they are bad and avoids them at all cost. Around my house, they gather like dog hair. Occasionally, I’ll kick one to try to flip and reform it but, honestly, once a penny has gone bad, it’s usually rotten to the core. It’s one of the sad facts of life.
Yet, as I said, I was possessed. Someone was actually going to come clean the house for me. Two saints were traveling in my direction to clean my dust bowl blinds, sweep my furry floor, and scrub my rusty bathrooms. I, being both delirious and appreciative, decided I needed to pick up as much detritus as possible and, as I was bustling (as in those funky give-me-more-back-because-I-don’t-have-enough-already skirts), that’s when it happened. My fingers were already around it by the time I had realized what I had done. Even though I’m not Catholic (because of that whole Henry the VIII wanting Anne Boleyn and her three breasts thing, I am Whiskeypalian which is basically the same thing except we don’t have to confess our many sins), I said ten Hail Marys and did the sign of the cross (spectacles, no testicles, wallet, and watch) in an effort to counter what I had just done. Alas, it was too late.
It started innocuously enough; the Pint-Sized Farmer began testing me more than usual. Any direction or correction on my part fell on deaf ears. His excitement over having two women cleaning our house surpassed mine and he became plain out of control. Releasing his joy, he jumped onto Robert’s bed, the bed that had just been militarily-bounce-a-nickel-on-it made, threw his baggy of un-inflated balloons everywhere, and destroyed any hopes I had of retaining the room’s pristinity until Robert’s arrival home from school.
Take him somewhere, I decided. I had errands to do. Since Hunky Husband was working from home and could supervise/answer questions, I decided to run Forest, run as fast as I could. In my hightailing sprint, I got lost going to the bank, a bank I had been to at least ten times. Even though I had left the scene of the crime, the penny was still after me. After 45 minutes of driving, I found it (okay I had to call David and ask where I had gone wrong but I got there).
Next, we went to Target, got a few needed (and a few unneeded) items, and as I was holding a toddler and plastic bags on hip and in hand, I searched in my pocketbook and realized I had no keys. Grrr. Turning 180 degrees, I went back inside Target, thinking I had perhaps placed them on the counter as I paid and left them there. Nope, that would have been too easy. Once again, I had to call my knight in shining armor to come to my by-now emotional rescue. He called me back; he couldn’t find the spare set. Breathing deep, I opened the back of our thankfully shell (not the sea kind)-covered pickup and tried umpteen million times to open the back cab window.
Finally accepting failure and resigned to my copper-caused fate, Pint and I sat in the bed of the truck eating Captain Crunch with Crunchberries out of the box and sharing a Mountain Dew. Please don’t lecture me on what that consumable combination will do to a toddler or about the fact that I bought these things in the first place. I had a three-year-old in Target. Captain Crunch box-holding shuts him up; the Mountain Dew was supposed to be for me and I was going to hide it but, by now, I was in survival mode. HH called; he had located the keys, in Jessica’s possession at work. Thank goodness he is her boss and was able to dispatch her in my direction.
Twenty minutes or so later, she showed up with rescue keys in hand, which thrilled Pint beyond belief until he realized he was staying with me, the Wicked Witch of the North (Carolina), his terrible grandmother who only bathes and feeds him and reads “Everyone Poops” to him over and over even though it grosses me out every time. Do you know how hard it is to buckle a flailing, in-full-temper toddler into a car seat? Damned penny.
I’ll just gloss over the fact that, once home, the school nurse called to say Robert has an infected toe and was in great pain, and the other fact that when he came home, he broke a bowl and cut his middle finger so deep that it almost made him faint and did make him vomit. I’ll just say this.
I will never, ever, ever again pick up a bad penny.
Oh, and my house is clean (except for the balloons).
Pint woke up from his nap kidnapped by Grumpy MacGrumpster which in turn made me Grumperina MacGrumbler and then, to add insult to injury, Celine Dion is on Ellen.
Did you know that Celine Dion is the highest selling female "artist" ever? More than Aretha? More than Fiona Apple? (Not that I thought Fiona Apple would be the highest selling female artist but I really like her so there.)
Celine Dion gags me with a spoon. She can't even write her own songs. That is all.
It would be nice if everyone could pay him a visit and let him know personally how much you enjoyed it. Thanks again, Johnny!
One of Hunky Husband's co-workers (thank you Susan) sent this to him and we decided it was too awesome not to share. I wish I could give credit to whomever wrote it because the comments are right up my alley but, alas, I cannot. Witty writer out there wherever you are, great job and thanks for the blog fodder!
Last weekend I put an exhaust fan in the ceiling for my wife's grandfather. While my wife's brother and I were fitting the fan in between the joists, we found something under the insulation. What we found was this:
A JC Penney catalog from 1977. It's not often blog fodder just falls in my lap, but holy hell this was two solid inches of it, right there for the taking. I thumbed through it quickly and found my next dining room set, which is apparently made by adding upholstery to old barrels:
There's plenty more home furnishings where those came from, however I'm not going to bore you with that. Instead, I'm going to bore you with something else. The clothes.
The clothes are fantastic.
Just look at that belt. It's like a boob-job for your pants. He probably needed help just to lift it into place. The belt loops have to be three inches long. And way to pull them up to your armpits, grandpa.
This kid looks like he's pretending to be David Soul, who is pretending to be a cop who is pretending to be a pimp that everyone knows is really an undercover cop. Who is pretending to be 15.
This "all purpose jumpsuit" is, according to the description, equally appropriate for playing golf or simply relaxing around the house. Personally, I can't see wearing this unless you happen to be relaxing around your cell in D-block. Even then, the only reason you should put this thing on is because the warden made you, and as a one-piece.
If you look at that picture quickly, it looks like Mr. Bob "No-pants" Saget has his hand in the other guy's pocket. In this case, he doesn't, although you can tell just by looking at them that it's happened - or if it hasn't happened it will. Oh yes. It will. As soon as he puts down his matching coffee cup.
He looks like he's reaching for a gun, but you know it's probably just a bottle of suntan lotion in a holster.
If you wear this suit and don't sell used cars for a living, I believe you can be fined and face serious repercussions, up to and including termination. Or imprisonment, in which case you'd be forced to wear that orange jumpsuit.
Dear god in heaven, I don't believe that color exists in nature. There is NO excuse for wearing either of these ensembles unless you're working as a body guard for the Lucky Charms leprechaun.
As does your search for chest hair.
Oh wait, it turns out that there are words after all. Those words are What. The. H*** . I'm guessing the snap front gives you quick access to the chest hair. The little tie must be the pull tab.
And nothing showcases your everlasting love more than the commitment of matching bathing suits. That, and a blonde girl with a look on her face that says "I love the way your junk fights against that fabric."
Man, that's sexy.
David the Husband found this photo on the BMW Adventure Rider website and kindly shared it with me. I assume it is in South America.
Although I am rarely left speechless, this picture has that effect on me. All this time I thought I needed a specialty trailer (which we do not have) to haul our alpacas, much less a whole mess of llamas. Can anyone tell me how the llamas, being naturally distrustful and somewhat flighty animals, are staying on the roof of the station wagon, much less how they got the rest of them to cram into the vehicle itself? This just blows me away so call me flummoxed.
By the way, everyone get your creative writing skills warmed up. Next week, we'll be having another relate-unrelated-items contest, though this time I have gathered some things to put together (unless by happenstance I find another strange grouping like the last time). Also, to be fair and to give all you wonderful reader people incentive, the prize will be for knitters and non-knitters alike. Mysterious, very mysterious.