Powerless Over Hash Browns: A Limerick

Please forgive the short post, but I've had to go out of town suddenly to help with a family medical emergency. I hope to be home and back in the saddle very soon.

(As you can see from this morning's inspiration, if I keep stress-eating at the current rate, I will need a bigger mustache by the time you see me next.)

In the meantime, though, I wanted to send a humble thank you to BlogHer for selecting my recent post, "Wham. Bam. Mammogram," as BlogHer of the Week. I am truly honored.

A Potpourri, If You Will, Of Experiences

And How Was Your Weekend?

Don't get me wrong - mine wasn't bad. No, I wouldn't call it that. It was more like...well, let me put it this way:

When I was little, we had an annual carnival at my elementary school and one of the game prizes was called The Grab Bag. It was a pillow case, basically, and you could slink an arm down in there and pick your prize without seeing it. There was something about the mystery of not knowing what I'd pull out of that bag that made this prize my favorite.

(Do I still love being surprised by mysterious items in pillow cases? Not so much.)

Anyway, I'm still recovering from what I'd call a Grab Bag weekend, with each day presenting a fresh opportunity for me to plunge a twitching limb into the pillowcase of life and haul out a fresh, steaming experience to cherish forever...or at least until I can squeegee it off the windshield of my mind.

Friday: I Accidentally Eat A Flower

Friday night we're out to dinner for the first time with new family friends - lovely, civilized people on whom we hope to make a decent impression. Everything is going just fine until I take a bite of pasta and, when I start chewing, realize there's something floating around in my mouth that's not a member of the pasta family of foods.

Very suave-like, I glance down at my plate and see that, while there were formerly three little ornamental garnish flowers nestled against my ravioli, the head count now has dropped to two.

Play it cool, I tell myself. I can do this. I smile and nod along with the conversation as my molars clamp down on the intrepid daisy and it releases a stream of bitter flower venom in retaliation.

"Sounds like you've got a great vacation planned," I gasp at our friends and silently wonder if I can nonchalantly slip under the table on all fours, arch my back a couple dozen times and hork the blossom up without jeopardizing future dinner invitations.

Because, see, the thing about those little garnish flowers is this: on the plate they look all innocent and dainty like this...


But in your mouth, they are more like, um, this:


Saturday: I Am Traumatized By The Mail

I love getting the mail. It's just so...exciting. After all, "You may already be a winner!" Right?

Not this weekend.

Here's what I find when I skip down the steps with my little silver mailbox key:


What? Has my independence been confiscated? Am I going to have to somehow buy it back now, one compulsory orthopedic footwear purchase at a time?

I'm still reeling from this discovery when this falls out onto the driveway with a slap:


What the Buddy Ebsen is going on here? Wait a second, I know what this is! It's one of those catalogs that appears to be full of harmless sweaters, but actually contains jars of eye ointments with names like "Bag-Lift" and sexual aids marketed not by porn stars but by doctors.

What dark forces have conspired to rub my nose in my mortality ebbing youth in the sanctity of my own driveway? Which company sold me out? I swear, you buy one festive cheese log through the mail and suddenly the demographic gurus assume you're incontinent. Which is exactly what I almost become when this falls out of the catalog:


Sunday: A Trip And Fall Down Memory Lane

I pull out an old photo album to find a particular shot and end up flipping through all the pages with Morticia (not my daughter's real name).

Which is when she finds this photo (a Friday night in So Cal, circa early 80s) and dissolves into snorts of laughter:


(Granted, the uniform looks a lot more bad ass when I'm brandishing my clarinet. I love that blouse, though. Ironically, that's what I'm wearing when I eat the hateful flower at dinner Friday night. Funny how life works, huh?)

They say comedy = tragedy + time. Perhaps I should have given this photo a couple more years...?


Thank you to Tessa at An Aerial Armadillo for listing me as the person who makes her laugh until she's weak. What an amazing compliment from an amazing person! Thank you.

Thank you to Francies Fancies for the huge shout-out and link! Wow!

Thank you to Fragrant Liar for the Zombie Chicken Award! Get the cluck outta here!

And a huge thank you to everyone who's gone to the trouble to vote for our BlogHer Conference panel entitled "Dying is Easy, Comedy is Hard!" I'll let you know as soon as we find out whether we've made it on to the agenda. (Voting closes May 1.) We appreciate your support!

Our Man On The Inside

Well, That Explains Why The Hamper's Always Full

Do you ever wish you could get inside the head of the opposite sex (there are still only two, right?) and see first-hand how they think?

They say everyone has a masculine side and a feminine side. Well, after doing some in-depth research for almost four minutes on Google, I've discovered that science has made great strides in locating these personality aspects within the psyche.

In fact, the technology now exists to isolate our masculine and feminine personas and actually pull them out as separate entities. Naturally, I'm very excited about this, and I'm even more excited to introduce to you my masculine side:

Chet.

Anna: Welcome, Chet.

Chet: Yo.

Anna: I'm so happy to finally meet you. I have so many questions about men!

Chet: Oh, here we go.

Anna: Is something the matter?

Chet: This is what you always do, isn't it? Talk and share, talk and share. If you don't mind my saying so, it's a tad stifling.

Anna: Wait, what?

Chet: Maybe I just want to exist, all right? Maybe I don't want to be "sharing" every moment of the day.

Anna: Did you just air quote me?

Chet: And here comes the feigned outrage. Man, you are so predictable. [shakes head]

Anna: Did Jon Bon Jovi put you up to this?

Chet: Oh, please. Don't drag that poor guy into this. You think it's easy for him? He's not really losing his hearing, you know. He's just sick of you trying out material on him all the time. That's why he pretends all he can hear is the neighbor's dachshund.

Anna: And you can just sense this, can you?

Chet: [examines his nails] A man knows.

Anna: Chet, you're supposed to be on my side. You're an aspect of me, remember?

Chet: You know, your possessive tendencies are more than a little unattractive. Don't even get Jon Bon Jovi started on that. [snorts]

Anna: Are you kidding me? I'm not taking this crap from someone wearing George Michael's old earrings.

Chet: Stop smothering! [gasps, clutches chest] I need some "me" time!

Anna: Is that a mullet?

Chet: I think you're forgetting that I've seen you try on swimsuits in fluorescent-lit dressing rooms.

Anna: [gasps, whispers] We do not speak of that. [sniffles]

Chet: Oh, great. [throws up hands] Here come the waterworks!



Please vote to put me and four very talented humor-blogging colleagues on the agenda for BlogHer 2009! Our panel is titled DYING IS EASY, COMEDY IS HARD and you can go to our voting page by clicking here:


Then, after you've registered with the BlogHer site, just click on the link at the top of the page that reads "I would attend this session." It looks like this:

There's no obligation - you're just voting to put us on the schedule.

Polls close May 1 and every vote makes a huge difference! Thanks SO MUCH for your support! (And thanks to everyone who's already voted!)

Thank you to Tessa at An Aerial Armadillo for the Renee Award. I am truly honored.


Two new blog friends just added to my blogroll: Tim at The Blue Frog Says... and Sarah at Notes from the Toilet Bowl. Thank you for the generous shout-outs!

Thank you to Wendy at On The Front Porch for the Zombie Chicken Award! (That slapping sound is my waddle flopping in appreciation...)

And, lastly, thank you to everyone who passed my mammogram post (below) along to friends or linked to it or shared it on Facebook. I can't tell you how much that means to me.

I Feel You Judging Me, Facebook

I Am Oppressed By The Forces of Social Media

So...I finally joined Facebook.

(Please be my Facebook friend! Just search for me - I'm there, I swear! Wait, did that come across a little needy?)

Anyway...I finally joined Facebook and, um, not to put too fine a point on it, but...

Facebook hates me.

I know, it sounds like I'm being overly sensitive and childish, but Facebook started it!

How, you ask? With this little calling card:


Geez, you miss a week of lip-waxing and your whole gender's called into question.

Fine. I mark "her profile" and hit "Okay" and go on about my very important business of hearing about what people are having for lunch and whose child announced the arrival of stomach flu by spraying the inside of Mom's freshly detailed minivan with Spaghetti-Os like a human Gatling gun.

Then, next time I log in:


There it is again.

And the next time.

And the next time.

In fact, that same question pops up - and I answer it - for the next 3.2 million log-ins.

What I want to know is - is there some Facebook intern sitting there looking at the profile pictures and trying to figure out the ones that are, shall we say, "on the fence?" Or does their system scan the photos and electronically register facial hair and then compare it to the gender of the name?

And, more importantly, how can I get a job mocking Facebook profile pictures (because that job sounds awesome and right up my alley)?

So I keep logging in and answering the same question...until today. When I get this one:



Thank you to Lea Ann at Mommy's Wish List for including my "Smokey and the Bandit" post entitled "If the Bandit's Wrong, I Don't Want to be Right" in her blog!

Enlightenment Sounds Like A Lot Of Work

If I'd Known It Was A Meditation CD, I Wouldn't Have Played It While Driving All Night To Flagstaff

As may be apparent, I am a spiritually rudderless person. I know this about myself.

But it's cool. Why? Because I'm looking into it.

Yep, that's me out in the backyard, standing on a webbed lawn chair with my dinosaur floatie and peering into the rusty, above-ground pool that is my soul.

(And while we're on the subject, I don't need a magical third eye in my forehead to see that not everyone is showering off before jumping in there and splashing around, all right? You know who you are.)

Anyway, as you might suspect, a comprehensive discussion on the subject of spiritual enlightenment would take almost an hour to write and could easily fill three pages. And seeing as how some of the broads from my new meditation group are coming over in twenty minutes to play beer pong, that's just not going to happen.

Besides, I've only just launched my quest for enlightenment, so I'm thinking that for now I will instead share a few of my initial questions and observations as I set out on this exciting and probably expensive journey.

For those of you who also are interested in taking this walk along the lonely street of dreams (wait, that's a Whitesnake song) step onto the path toward a shinier, bouncier and more manageable consciousness, hopefully my questions will echo some of your own.

Like A Drifter I Was Born To Walk Alone
(Dammit, there's that song again)

A Few Starter Questions

• If I manifest massive amounts of wealth, say, in my room with the door locked, do I also need to manifest tax-reporting documents to go with them?
• If my consciousness is raised, will it pull other parts of me up with it?
• What's with all those jackets that don't have collars?
  
• So, the deal is that I raise my consciousness, then I recruit others to raise other people's consciousnesses and I get a percentage, right? No?

Hangin' On The Promises...
(Stop that!)

What I've Learned So Far (after watching almost half of a Deepak Chopra DVD)

• We are one with everything and everyone. (And he's not kiddin' around, either - he means everyone.)
• We are the eyes of the universe looking at itself. (Ummm...okay, I've got nothin'.)
  
• There is no need to fear death. (This is right where I stopped the DVD, but I'm pretty sure the next thing he's going to say is, "Once you're dead.")
• There is no distinction between the body and the mind. (I will now hypnotize myself into having firm thighs.)

Can you smell the enlightenment? Because I sure can.

Yes, I know, I've only just scratched the surface and I've got a long way to go, but here I go again on my own Oh, for cryin' out loud!

Going down the only road I've ever known
This is a serious topic you know!

Like a drifter I was born to walk alone
That was a cool video, though.

An' I've made up my mind
Tawny Kitaen dancing on the hood of that car, remember?

I ain't wasting no more time
I miss the 80s. All that hair.

But here I go again...

Three words: Brand. New. Blog. Brought to you by Blogtations, In Three Words has now launched. It's all about describing things in just three words. Like your childhood. (So. Long. Ago.) Or your first kiss. (Hold. The. Phone.) Intrigued? Me, too!

And thank you to The Retired One over at The Retirement Chronicles for this pretty package:

Welcome To Hell. Here's Your Hot Glue Gun.

Is It Spring Break Yet?

Ah, spring. The bulbs are blossoming. The birds are tweeting.

The school projects are festering.

Yes, this is the time of year when teachers assign parents students those full-bore, hail Mary, multi-dimensional projects that drive parents to homicide drink the crafts store [shudder]. Like the mythical Hydra, a beast who grew two new heads each time Hercules cut off one, these projects regenerate overnight, refusing to be beaten back until they have consumed your afternoons...your weekends...your very soul.

Think you're done? Ha - think again! Sure, the presentation board is finished, but what about the costume? The oral report? The collage? The epic poem? The interpretive dance?

Done? Foolish mortal! [Insert maniacal laughter.]


Are You Sure Evil Knievel Wasn't On The List?

Take Morticia, for instance. In her fourth grade class, they're doing reports on influential Californians and students were given a three-page list of people from which to choose. (There are all kinds of names running through your mind now, right? Like Minnie Mouse and Ryan Seacrest?)

After much angst and rending of clothing, she chose this person:


(I totally agree - she does look shifty.)

That's Mary See, of See's candy fame. Mary See who was born in (and died in) Canada.

Ahem.

Okay, so we're playing fast and loose with the term "Californian." Awesome. If that's the case, let's think outside the (candy) box here and take a look at the ol' map. It looks to me like Butte, Montana is closer to California than Canada is. Butte, Montana happens to be the birthplace of Evil Knievel...ergo...please tell me you get to dress up like your influential Californian because how cool would that be?!?

Top 3 Reasons Evil Knievel Is Cooler Than Mary See

1. Flared leather pants beat white shawl every time.
2. Mary See has completed no known canyon or school-bus jumps.
3. There is no biopic about Mary See starring George Hamilton.

BTW, Evil's real name is Robert, so if you have a child named "Robert," do them a favor and upgrade their nickname asap. They'll thank you for it later when they're in the Guinness Book of World Records.


Meanwhile, In Third Grade...

Gomez and all the other third-grade ankle-biters are immersed in a huge headache endeavor called "The City Project."

Basically, each classroom becomes its own city, complete with businesses, a government and a highly unstable economy. No bureaucratic stone is left unturned in this deal, including the requirement to file a business plan for city council review before opening your storefront.

[Side note: the town is so realistic that the Environmental Compliance Officer recently was voted out of his position for abusing his power and giving out too many citations. Okay, full disclosure: it was Gomez. That's my boy!]

And, yes, every child has a store that sells actual things. Things the parents children must think up. And things the parents children must manufacture. And then they sell them to other students. Did I mention it all must come in within budget?

For example, each store must have on-hand roughly a zillion little identical products and the total cost of producing these little products must not exceed, oh, say...eight bucks. Piece of cake!

Here's what Gomez is selling in his little store:


Behold the "Marble Buddy." We know he's got foam feet and pipe-cleaner antennae. Beyond that, he's an enigma.

Now, aside from building the storefront for this enterprise, we're also cranking out the inventory and, let me tell you, Kathie Lee Gifford's got nothing on me in the sweatshop department. It's never too early to learn the exquisite joy of repetitive assembly, yes?

It's like we always say around the kitchen table:

"Break's over, slackers! These orders aren't going to fill themselves!"


My buddy Florinda - who runs one of the best book blogs around - is collecting votes for her BlogHer Room of Your Own proposal entitled "So Many Books, So Little Time." If you'd be interested in attending or co-presenting with her, please check out the details and vote here. (There's no attendance commitment when you vote, BTW, they're just getting a feel for which proposals will generate the most interest on the agenda.) Thank you!

And I have to give a big shout-out to blog Jedi Self-Deprechaun, whose current post cracked me up (as every one of his posts does) and features a plush-toy version of tuberculosis - the OG (Original Gangsta) of infectious diseases - which is stalking him in his workplace. (Trust me, it sounds really funny when he says it.)