Velcrometer
Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
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M. Giant's Velcrometer Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks |
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Wednesday, February 23, 2005 Humpblog (2/23/05) Let's see if I remember how to do one of these things… The posting's been dropping off a little lately, what with the 24 recaps and nine or ten other freelance writing projects on top of that. Aside from my day job, which, damn. And I'm pretty sure there's still a baby around here somewhere. I am finishing up a few writing projects, though, so things should pick up here again soon. Or they might not. You'll just have to check in every day to see. * * * Courtesy of Zen Viking, take a look at Gizoogle. It's certainly worth investigating, particularly for those among you who possess a certain linguistic affinity. It's difficult to do it justice in this space, but I will say that as an informal exploration of non-normative grammatical texture, syntax, and phonemes, particularly with regard to a specific phylum of contemporary urban vernacular, it's quite meritorious. Bitches. * * * Speaking of bitches, check out this clown, from the Star Tribune: Cecchini, 33, who once was sentenced to three years and seven months in prison for a stabbing years ago, said he has standards for the people with whom he does business, such as being truthful and refraining from drug use. "And, unfortunately," he added, "you have to be white." My, that is unfortunate, isn't it? It's out of his control, you see. His hands are tied. He can only do business with us white folks. See, this guy used to run a white supremacist record company (you heard me) was in business with a partner who got arrested on drug charges. But the real tragedy, you see, is that his partner got busted on drug charges. And then turned out to be half-Mexican. "What kind of person would I be if I let that stuff slide in order to make a profit?" he asked. What kind, indeed, Mr. Cecchini? What kind of person, indeed? * * * More coming in the next few weeks, including stuff about M. Tiny's developmental progress, my current downtown parking situation, and the process of helping Trash's brother and sister-in-law move to the neighborhood with Deniece (who is very excited about living as she puts it, "in Minnneapolis, with the PoopSMITH!"). Not that that last thing has happened yet, but I'm sure something interesting will happen in the course of the upcoming weekend. It's our first road trip with the kid, you see. Something tells me we might end up giving new meaning to the term "rest area." Today's best search phrase: "Need a sentence using the word malaise." Okay. "Hey, get your own bag of potato ships and keep your grubby hands off malaise!" You're welcome. posted by M. Giant 9:29 PM 4 comments 4 Comments:Oh my word, Gizoogle. Have you done your own site? Hysterical.
By That's nice. So he has no problem recording neo-nazi hate music, but he won't work with drug dealers. At least he has standards.
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Yeah, I have to say that the Shizzolator rawks. A friend showed it to me a few years ago. Try entering http://www.savethechildren.org/
By I'm with drunkkitty. Tha Shizzolator is the best. I sometimes shizzolate every site I can imagine just for kicks.
By Thursday, February 17, 2005 Blow, Dryer I hate our dryer. I've disliked it for a while, but it wasn't until the baby arrived, with his three million items of laundry per week bearing their various crusty loads, that I begin to really despise it. I can't even blame the previous owner, because the washer and dryer didn't come with the house. She took hers with her, so we had to buy new appliances when we moved in. It was either that or the laundromat, but to be honest, going back to an existence that includes rolls of quarters and huge canvas sacks doesn't seem to bad now. The washer works fine, of course. The clothes come out pristine, with a minimum of color bleed and shrinkage. Then we pop them in the dryer. Which is great for towels and sheets, because you can just turn it to the "high" setting and let it run for three days. Sadly, the "high" setting would be inadvisable on baby clothes, because by after a couple of trips through the laundry he's outgrown them anyway. No need to accelerate that process. There is one process I would like to accelerate, however. Can you guess what it might be? Right now, we pop the clean, damp clothes from the washer into the dryer and let it run on the "low" setting. For reasons whose logic utterly escapes me, you can't set the timer to run on the "low" setting for more than fifty minutes. How is that helpful? Your clothes are already going to be less dry just by virtue of the "low" setting. And now we can't even make up for it by letting it run longer. So now, after putting our clean, damp clothes in the dryer, we turn it on and come back fifty minutes later to slightly less clean, slightly less damp clothes. It's like the washing machine in reverse, only slower. "So why not run it twice?" you ask. Well, of course we run it twice. Ever since Trash got her new office job a few years ago that required an almost exclusively "tumble dry low" wardrobe, I've been getting used to the reality of going downstairs in the middle of loads to restart the washer. It didn't strike me as ridiculous as it does now. Because, honestly, if Trash and I still had time to run down and restart the washer in the middle of every load, it would be because we didn't have so many loads. And everything those additional loads entail. But we do. The most frustrating loads are the ones that require three restarts. I could get better results with a clothesline. In Minnesota, in February. And to add injury to insult, it's actually damaging our clothes now. Our light-colored garments have started to come out with these little brown scorch marks, like a mouse wiped his ass with them. A few of my collar points look like they've been dipped in coffee, and that shit doesn't come out. That's the entire reason I don't drink coffee, so my collar points don't get besmirched, and it's not doing me a damn bit of good any more. So it occurs to Trash and me that, hey, we've had this dryer for going on twelve years; why not replace it? Eureka! Let's go spend some money! Sadly, the big box superstore didn't want our money on Saturday. Why else would they have one guy in appliances with four couples stacked up waiting to talk to him? I guess they've gotten used to having the world corporate headquarters a few blocks away and have therefore decided to go back to sucking. And then Sam's Club didn't have one we wanted. I'm probably going to be using this one for the next twelve years, and I don't want one where that will annoy me more than not being able to use it for the next twelve years. Specifically, I want one that has a "low" setting that will actually run long enough to dry clothes despite the lowness of the heat, but we couldn't find a gas dryer that fit the bill. I suppose we could have gotten the electric one that did, but there was some reason we didn't twelve years ago, although I can't remember what it is. Maybe it's because the gas line already runs downstairs, and if we switched to an electric dryer it would leave the line open to vent natural gas into our basement until the furnace kicked on and blew us into the Minneapols-St. Paul airport's northwest approach vector. That would be bad, I guess. So then we got home empty-handed, and my dad reminded us about this thing we pay for through our gas company. It's basically a monthly warranty payment, and if we need to have them come out and fix something, it's free. We'd already gotten more our money's worth a few years ago while our furnace was dying, even though they'd raised the monthly payment since then (actually, I think we were the reason they raised the rate. Sorry, local gas customers). Sure enough, a guy from the gas company came out on Monday and did enough work to make up for another year of the appliance protection plan. And now our dryer is as good as new again. Dammit. Today's best search phrase: "A poems that never exist." Feeling a little Zen today, are we, best search phrase? posted by M. Giant 10:01 PM 6 comments 6 Comments:
Getting the old dryer fixed just isn't as sexy as a shiny, new one, is it? I was all set to get new kitchen cabinets with our tax returns this year, and ended up settling for paying off our car.
By I feel your pain too. included with my extravagant rent is the ability to use the coin-ops in my utility room. It is very weird to have coin-ops in your own house, let me tell you, although it is convenient. They finally fixed the heating thingy on my dryer this week, so that it actually dried instead of tumbling things for an eternity and letting me waste 5.00 in quarters because I thought that I had just forgotten to turn it on after inserting the money. Stupid dryers. I'll be happy when I can use the clothesline again.
By Weirdly enough, J-Walk Blog had a dryer-related post today from Snopes.com.
By You can also speed up the drying process by adding a dry towel to your regular load of wet things.
By We also have a dryer from hell. We have MANY restarts and ours also makes some sort of weird clanging noise. We don't know why, but we've been saying we'll fix it for a year.
By Possibly belated question, but have you cleaned or replaced the vent hose?
By Monday, February 14, 2005 That’s My Line Every Valentine’s Day, our local newspaper has this thing called “Love Lines” It’s basically a gigantic personals section where people in the first few years of their relationships take out ads to each other. Red text and little heart graphics are extra. You probably have something similar in your local paper. If not, move. When Trash and I were first dating, there were a couple of years when she pointed out the distinct lack of a Love Line from me to her in the Valentine’s Day paper. Then I finally got around to taking out an ad one year, and it cured that craving. I don’t remember what the ad said, but it cured it good. Most Sunday mornings, Trash, who needs less sleep than I do (of course, bears need less sleep than I do this time of year) reads the paper while I sleep in and M. Tiny sleeps off his breakfast. I don’t know exactly how awake I was when Trash said what she said yesterday, but I’m pretty sure the answer is “not very.” “Look, honey, it’s the Love Line I put in for you!” The ad she pointed to was short, simple, and primarily comprised of the words, “I love you, dude.” But it was more than I’d accomplished, and I felt like a bit of a cad. With all the other stuff going on in the past week, I hadn’t had time to write so much as a blog entry, let alone a romantic, crimson-tinted epigram for the dead-tree media. “Oh, that’s so sweet!” I said. “Thank you!” I then went on to explain that she should just wait until she got to my ad. But alas, apparently the people at the paper had forgotten to run it! It was a great one, too. It was full of romantic stories and poems. And a full color picture of our entire family. Covering an entire page. And also including money-saving coupons. “Money-saving coupons?” She gasped in mock amazement. “Yeah,” I said. “You would have loved it.” She laughed, and I congratulated myself on goofing my way out of a potentially awkward situation. And then I started wondering where this renewed interest in Love Lines had come from. And then I quite sincerely thanked her for the lovely message. “That wasn’t me,” she said. “You thought I actually took out a Love Line?” “Um,” I said. “You’re such a geek.” Can’t argue with that. See, until she said that, I’d forgotten about the tradition we’d kept for a few years following the placement of my ad. We’d both go through the Love Lines and find ads that we could plausibly have placed for each other and then point them out. I’m using the term “plausibly” exceedingly loosely, of course. The correct name or initial or reference to cats in a given ad carried much more weight than the likelihood that either of us would actually ever say what was in the invariably cheesy items in question. Trash’s adopted “I love you, dude” was about the closest we ever came. It’s much better than taking out our own actual ads. We both get to be surprised, and it’s cheaper, too. Yesterday, after she totally hoodwinked, me without even trying, she found another ad that could have been from me. Actually, from “all of us.” By which it could have meant myself, one of the cats we had as of last Valentines’s Day, and the two we’ve gained since then, as well as the wee little human. Our family’s been through a lot of changes in the past year, losing one member and gaining three, but I’m more in love than ever with her, even more than fifteen years ago when it was just the two of us. And we can still make each other laugh. I can’t help suspecting that those two facts are connected somehow. Today’s best search phrase: “Vocab blows answers.” And happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Vocab and Answers. Knock yourselves out. posted by M. Giant 7:42 PM 5 comments 5 Comments:
Oh man. We have one of those back home. Last year my stepdad put one in for my mom, and let me tell you, that house was not a happy place. You see, I have made a career of taking hideous pictures of my mother and she'll see them, gripe about it and then forget that I ever took them. I had taken a truly fugly photo of her standing in front of the bear's den at our local zoo the summer before. To make a long story short, one would be confused as to which was the bear in the photo. I left it sitting on the dining room table and my stepdad submitted it. Wow, I actually had to field complaints from the neighbors. Not pretty.
By FINALLY! I was wondering when you would write again. Dude, you should give us warning when you plan to take off for a week.
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Your last three sentences were absolutely beautiful. Now, THAT is a LoveLine.
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Our local newspaper VD Love Notes yesterday included this one, my favorite: "Well, Podus Ann, here it is. Smiley"
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My husband surprised me with a DQ Ice Cream Cake on Valentine's Day. Thing is, he didn't get to the DQ until late in the day, and there was only one cake left, and it read, "You're Alright." Nothing says I love you on a romantic holiday like "You're Alright." We got a good laugh out of that one. Oh, and a tasty cake, too.
By Monday, February 07, 2005 Sibling Revelry So I may have mentioned recently that our niece Deniece and her parents are moving back up to the Twin Cities later this year. It'll actually be at the end of this month. They've succeeded in selling their house, and they spent this weekend looking for a house to rent for the next year or so (Deniece was back in Iowa, staying with her grandma, so sadly she didn't get to give her input, which is probably good considering that her only criterion probably would have been a fireman's pole). Last night they knocked on our door to let us know that they'd found a place, and to tell us exactly how much closer to us they were going to be living now. I won't pretend that we weren't disappointed when they named a northern outer-ring exurb that's about half the distance from our house that their current home in suburban Des Moines is. We did manage to conceal our disappointment from them when they gave us the news. By which I mean that we didn't immediately shout, "you IDIOTS!" Instead we set right in on mocking about how they'd need to get a Camaro with a mismatched door, and how Brother-In-Law's daily commute would involve a bush pilot, and how they'd be trading for goods and services using livestock. To their credit, they seemed kind of embarrassed about it, but we kept pushing until Sister-In-Law asked if we'd prefer they lived, like, four blocks away or something. "YES!" Trash and I shouted in unison. BIL said, "So you'd like it if we were living at—" and then he rattled off an address four blocks away. Trash got it much faster than I did. She figured out that they are moving to a house four blocks away from us while I was still going, "Wait, what? Duh?" So now Deniece is going to be living across the street from a park and four blocks from her cousin (whom she adores and sends presents to) and, better yet, us, so we get to see her all the time and she won't forget about us while we're anchored at home by a new baby during this, her formative fourth year in her life. I hope she'll be as excited about this as we are. So to celebrate (and also because none of us had eaten anything for going on eight hours), we decided to order some Chinese food to be delivered. We'd never ordered from this particular restaurant before, although we had been to it in person a time or two. The staff there tended to make us feel about as welcome as the Japanese army, but we figured that delivery would be okay. Trash made the call, and then we all tried not to laugh too loud as she cringed and held the phone away from her head, allowing us all to hear the high-volume, rapid-fire Miss Othmar wah-wah-wah-ing noise coming through the receiver. Trash finally got the order in and gave our credit card number. Before hanging up, the lady at the other end screamed, loud enough for everyone in the room to understand (including M. Tiny), TIP THE DRIVER IN CASH!!! While all of our ears were still ringing, we left M. Tiny with SIL for a few minutes while BIL drove us past what would be their house in a few weeks. We also did drive-bys at a few other houses in the immediate neighborhood, but the Chinese food arrived faster than we expected because by the time we got back onto our block the delivery car was idling in front of our house and the driver was headed for our door. I think Trash, BIL, and I all had the same idea at the same time. We pulled into the driveway, and when Deniece's mom answered the doorbell to accept the food, BIL hollered out his window, "TIP HIM IN CASH!" The driver looked at us in surprise. SIL tipped him and the driver waved it happily at us. And then we drove away. Actually we just went around the block, knowing the driver would be gone when we returned. Although we did consider following him to the next house and doing the same thing. And then, outside the restaurant, we'd shake him down for our "commission." But we prefer to think of him considering us his "tip angels," showing up in a rented pickup with out-of-state plates, acting as enforcers, and vanishing into the night. We know he told someone about it when he got back, and he may well wonder about it for the rest of his life. Maybe it'll even become some kind of urban legend among delivery drivers, like the naked housewife or whatever. In any case, we're looking forward to having Trash's brother and his family in the neighborhood. I'm sure that together we can figure out lots of other ways to mess with the heads of hardworking local businesspeople. Today's best search phrase: "Product you put on your car it has to beep before you can." I think you can find that right next to the Turtle Wax. posted by M. Giant 8:19 PM 1 comments 1 Comments:4 blocks away! Just think! You can go on Trading Spaces now. ;)
By Saturday, February 05, 2005 Final Descent This morning’s flight home to my family from Flint, Michigan represented a number of firsts: 1) The first time I had a three-seat exit row all to myself. I debated putting up the armrests and stretching out along that whole empty expanse. But by the time the “fasten seatbelt” sign went dark after takeoff, I was already fast asleep sitting up. 2) Sat awake on a plane for more than a half hour with nothing to read. The flight back from Hawaii doesn’t count; I had stuff to read, I just couldn’t reach it without waking the wife sleeping on my shoulder. My plan this time was to spend the flight working on the laptop, but of course there are those lacunae around takeoff and landing where portable electronic devices aren’t permitted. I figured that those were short enough that I’d be able to keep myself “entertained” by the in-flight magazine. Upon return, the wheels came off that theory, because see #4. 3) Spotted my actual house from the air. In the dozens of flights we’ve taken in and out of Minneapolis over the past decade or so, we’ve never managed to spot our house from the plane, even though we live a mere eleven miles from the airport. We’re always on the wrong side of the plane, or using the wrong runway, or it’s dark, or there’s a blizzard and visibility is about ten feet. Until today, when I watched our neighborhood scroll beneath me on the right, spotted the school in our neighborhood, and triangulated our house from there. From above, it pretty much just looks like a gray roof with a freakishly large triangular driveway. From which I was pleased to see that most of the ice had melted. 4) Sat next to an emergency exit and gave serious thought to the possibility that I might actually have to use it. About a half hour out, the captain came on the PA. I planned to tune him out and go right back to sleep, but his opening made that a little tricky. “Just wanted to update you on a situation we’re having up here in the cockpit…” As he explained it, there was a problem with an indicator light on the control panel. It wasn’t indicating, you see. What it’s supposed to indicate is that the landing gear door has closed properly after the landing gear is deployed. Which surprises me for two reasons. First of all, why is it normal for the door to close on something that’s sticking out of the bottom of the plane? And secondly (although this didn’t occur to me until later), how did they know there was a problem with a post-landing-gear-deployment item when we were still a good long way from deploying the landing gear in the first place? The pilot continued to explain that this was a minor problem, really. We were just going to be landing on an inactive runway, just in case. And those fire engines and other emergency vehicles that would swarm around the aircraft once we came to a stop were simply a precaution. A formality, really. I was pretty much awake after that. The pilot updated us later, somewhere over rural Wisconsin (a phrase which sounds pretty redundant when you're looking down at it from 25,000 feet). We would in fact be using a regular runway. It’s just that we’d have to wait a little bit longer because they wanted to clear all of the planes ahead of and behind us. You know, in case we hit the ground and blew the fuck up. Although he didn't swear. It occurred to me that this was the first flight I’d ever taken since watching the premiere of Lost. I was stuck in that episode of The West Wing, but since we weren’t on Air Force One, weren’t no one gonna send up an F-14 Tomcat to check on our ass. I still wasn’t worried, because this wasn’t the kind of problem that was going to affect us until we were already on the ground. The chances of a landing-gear door failure resulting in, say, the back of the fuselage breaking off and dumping me somewhere outside Eau Claire. Worst-case scenario, the landing gear would collapse, the fuselage and engines would scrape along the tarmac, sending up a shower of sparks that would ignite our remaining fuel and immolate us in our seats. Except for me, sitting next to my emergency exit. I just hoped there would be time to grab my laptop out of the seat pocket before the inferno commenced. Another reassuring fact was that the pilot didn’t come on the PA and give us permission to use our cell phones during approach, in case there were people we wanted to call. That would have scared the bejeezus out of me. And also Trash, because you think I would have been brave enough to protect her from that shit? Hell no. I don’t know if we would have gotten permission to use our cell phones even if we were headed for certain death. I prefer to think so, and if you know different, keep it to your own damn self. Seeing my house from the air actually scared me worse than anything. It was for purely superstitious reasons, and I recognize that. It’s kind of been on my unofficial mental list of things I hope to do before I die (an admittedly boring list, which isn’t surprising given the fact that I’m scared of, like, roller coasters), and checking it off seconds before we met an uncertain fate on the ground didn’t fill me with confidence. It didn’t fill my pants, either, so there’s that. The control tower apparently decided that once we landed, it would be a good idea to keep our taxiing to a minimum. So we got an arrival gate real close to the runway. I never realized how quickly a passenger plane could come to a complete stop after landing if it really wanted to. In terms of plane-lengths, it felt like we used about as much runway length as the equivalent of an aircraft carrier. I was quite impressed. Of course, after reading The Right Stuff, I always say that any landing you walk away from is a good one. Or at least I did, until Trash asked me to stop saying it. But today, after we were safely on the ground, not even a little busted open or on fire, with maintenance and emergency vehicles swarming around us and other passengers applauding, I was glad to be able to call Trash and have the first thing I said be “Hi, I just landed.” Today's best search phrase: "FUN FACTS AND ANIMAL THAT TURNS ITS STOMACH INSIDE OUT" Both at the same time? posted by M. Giant 8:58 PM 6 comments 6 Comments:
Congrats on the whole avoiding of a fiery death thing.
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Wait, no. There's a species of frog that throws up by expelling its stomach, scraping out the context with its hands, and then swallowing it stomach again. That counts as turning it inside out, doesn't it?
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Wow. The Velcrometer readers are making me sorry for the first time in over a decade that I should, by all rights, have flunked Biology. (I had a kick-ass lab notebook because of the time-honored strategy for the squeamish: hook up with the person who has terrible note taking skills and a strong stomach.) That's the only reason I got a C instead of an F. (Physics and chemistry, yes. Biology not so much. I actually changed my first degree over from A.S. to A.A. in order to avoid taking it again, and did double chem instead.)
By MG, I'm mighty impressed that you didn't expel your entire digestive tract upon landing. That might have been another first, a first you don't want on your to-do list. ~Laura
By I might be flying in March, for the first time, at age 30. My own stomach nearly turns inside-out at the prospect of flight. I'm not sure if this entry helps with that anxiety, but I'm glad that the landing gear was OK.
By A similar thing happened to me on a return trip from Switzerland. Halfway over the Atlantic (we'd just spotted Iceland) our pilot realized the landing gear wasn't working and thought it would be good to crash and burn in France, so we turned around and dumped our fuel before we went feet-dry. (Sorry, shores of England!) We had an impressive retinue of flame-retardant foam and emergency vehicles on the runway to greet us. Unfortunately--because I was a thrill-seeking 12-year-old--our gear went down successfully at the last minute, and we had to wait a few hours in France for a new plane.
By Wednesday, February 02, 2005 Humpblog (2/2/05) The Sisters' Tragedy is now available on Amazon, for any of you who may have been waiting to buy your copy until you could get it from the online corporate monolith. Link's here, which, since it goes through my kickback program, gives me a slightly bigger piece of the pie as an author. Thanks for waiting, both of you. * * * After Orca died, I promised to donate that month's income from my Google Ads to an animal rescue organization. The next day's clickthrough rate on those ads was 7.8%, which I would say is pretty good if I knew the first thing about it. In any case, by clicking on the ads for the next month, you raised 53.16, which is going to the Minnesota Humane Society. We also put down a fifty-dollar deposit when we borrowed the trap from them to catch Phantom. I tried to get them to keep the deposit when I returned the trap, but since I'd put it on a credit card that would screw up their books or something. I keep meaning to write them a check, but I haven't gotten around to it until now. But this week I'm going to go ahead and sent them a hundred dollars and change, from me and you. The lost and homeless animals of the Twin Cities thank you. * * * Trash came home from Tampa early last weekend, but she had to get to the airport even earlier. Because it was Pirate Day. I asked what that meant when we spoke on the phone early Saturday morning, but she refused to get into it. It wasn’t until I picked her up at the MSP airport that I got an explanation out of her. Apparently it was some kind of anniversary of the day that pirates founded Tampa Bay, ensuring that they would be forever immortalized in the name of the city's NFL team. The official name of the event was Gasparilla Day, a day when the streets are clogged with people dressed as every imaginable (and many unimaginable) varieties of pirate. Why? They just arrrrrrre. In addition to regular pirates, there were gay pirates, wenches, damsels in distress, and probably software and video pirates for all I know. I was very disappointed that she didn't even bring me a hook or an eyepatch. See if she gets to go to Gasparilla day again. * * * Our niece Deniece, whose third birthday was just a couple of weeks ago, is very happy about her new cousin. I think she wishes she could see him more, but she makes up for it by talking about him a lot. They're still living in Iowa for another month or so, until they move back up here. For now, the distance means that there's very little jealousy over the addition of a newer, smaller cousin to the family. She's even sent him some of her used toys and unused diapers. Except that there's one thing M. Tiny has that she wants. "Trash?" she asked my wife over the phone the other day. "Yes?" Trash answered. "Do you call M. Tiny Poopsmith?" "Why yes!" Trash said. Deniece collapsed into gales of laughter, as she does whenever someone mentions the nickname "Poopsmith." Even, as is increasingly the case, when it's her mentioning it. "Because he poops a lot?" Deniece continued. Trash confirmed that it is so. "I poop a lot," Deniece boasted. Yes, Deniece dearly covets her cousin's scatological nickname. The Poopmeister or Sir Poopsalot will not do. She must be Poopsmith or nothing. That's how she pronounces it. Poopsmith. We can only hope that once she and M. Tiny are in the same city, she won't do something desperate to claim the nickname for herself. Especially if we happen to be babysitting her at the time. Today's best search phrase: "Vocab blows answers." Damn, there's a fetish for everything. posted by M. Giant 7:44 PM 5 comments 5 Comments:Wow, Trah got out of there just in time. I lived in Tampa for a few years, and never got over hating Gasparrila. Or as we called it, Mardi Gras without any of the class.
By
Anybody know if that Pirate Day thing is the same event that was going on in the movie "Sunshine State"?
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I now know where I need to take the Artist for a surprise next year when he's in the throes of SAD.
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I've always loved hearing about Deniece, from nose-grabbing to cell-phoning to Meryl Streep overacting. She's a couple of weeks older than my daughter Rosalba, and they appear to come from the same mold of small assertive girl-ness. I look forward to hearing about her interaction with M. Tiny aka The Poop Ubermensch.
By Okay, is your niece's name really Deneice, or is that just for blog purposes? That would be too funny for coincidence! Of course, I'm assuming your son's name really isn't M. Tiny.
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