Considering the title of this blog, it should not be surprising that poop is recurring theme. This was not intentional. And yet, as the months have passed, and my scribal duties have continued, I've actually found it necessary to include a tag for aggregating all poop-related entries. It's frankly a little alarming.
But with this entry, I may need to designate a new tag, something along the lines of "poop/Christmas." The last entry of this designation involved a particularly apt gift I supplied to the Casey boys.
This time, I'm reporting of an oddly similar poop/Christmas decoration, this with a century's old European heritage: The Caganer. I heard of it via email from my good friend and generally non-poop-story-telling associate Christine Gaiden. Learn more about this fun holiday tradition here!
And if you're still planning to send me a late holiday gift, add it to your list!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #152: The part where my neighbors redefine the nativity
I just returned from a five-day Yuletide sojourn in sunny SoCal, followed by a cozy overnight in Grafton, Wisconsin, with many tales of amusement and photos to upload. But since that will take awhile to process, I will, in the meantime, regale one and all with an account of a Casey Nativity.
The Caseys, as you will recall, are our splendid neighbors. Besides providing endless hours of entertainment via their two sons, Jack and James, they are the source of plentiful other benefits, including occasional gratis snowshovelings, helpings of smoked pork, out-of-town plant waterings, and general neighborly conversation. We try to reciprocate with remarkable Halloween displays, cookie parties, and the like, but I fear we are always in arrears, neighborly gesture-wise.
Upon my return from the land of my birth this holiday season, I received a cheery email from Ann, noting that I had several packages on my back porch that I should be aware of, as well as some lovely photos of this year's Casey Nativity Scene.
The CNS (as it shall henceforth be known) is an extravagant affair. I conjecture that it entails somewhere in the neighborhood of 4,768 separate figures. Lovingly crafted angels. Porcelain renditions of sheep so lifelike you can almost hear them bleat. And the capper, a beautifully Italianate sculpture of the holy family, flanked by camels and asses. Each year, Jim Casey oh-so-carefully arranges these figurines to accurately capture of wonder of the season. Jack and James gaze in awe.
Until this year. This year, it seems, small hands have meddled. New figures have been introduced. While James may have had a hand in things, I suspect, considering Jack's ruling obsession, that the elder Casey may have played the larger role in this year's enhancement of the CNS.
So it was that I received from Ann an email with several photos, with the following explanation:
"I'm attaching some pictures that I took of our nativity scene. I have not yet photographed the civil war soldiers or Yoda (from star wars) but you get the idea."
Enjoy the full splendor here.
The Caseys, as you will recall, are our splendid neighbors. Besides providing endless hours of entertainment via their two sons, Jack and James, they are the source of plentiful other benefits, including occasional gratis snowshovelings, helpings of smoked pork, out-of-town plant waterings, and general neighborly conversation. We try to reciprocate with remarkable Halloween displays, cookie parties, and the like, but I fear we are always in arrears, neighborly gesture-wise.
Upon my return from the land of my birth this holiday season, I received a cheery email from Ann, noting that I had several packages on my back porch that I should be aware of, as well as some lovely photos of this year's Casey Nativity Scene.
The CNS (as it shall henceforth be known) is an extravagant affair. I conjecture that it entails somewhere in the neighborhood of 4,768 separate figures. Lovingly crafted angels. Porcelain renditions of sheep so lifelike you can almost hear them bleat. And the capper, a beautifully Italianate sculpture of the holy family, flanked by camels and asses. Each year, Jim Casey oh-so-carefully arranges these figurines to accurately capture of wonder of the season. Jack and James gaze in awe.
Until this year. This year, it seems, small hands have meddled. New figures have been introduced. While James may have had a hand in things, I suspect, considering Jack's ruling obsession, that the elder Casey may have played the larger role in this year's enhancement of the CNS.
So it was that I received from Ann an email with several photos, with the following explanation:
"I'm attaching some pictures that I took of our nativity scene. I have not yet photographed the civil war soldiers or Yoda (from star wars) but you get the idea."
Enjoy the full splendor here.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #151: The part where I start a new holiday tradition
During the long, cold winters, I see very little of my small neighbors. Which is too bad, because they are remarkably entertaining.
So, I thought recently, how could I entice the teenies to my very doorstep? Perhaps, I thought, a sort of small shindig. A holiday gathering, in which we decorate sugar cookies. Thus it was that Cookie Party was born.
This past Friday saw the First Annual Cookie Party. To prep, I cleaned the house, made a messload of sugar cookies in fanciful holiday shapes, then bought an obscene amount of white frosting, tubes of colored gel frosting, and many wee jars of sprinkles, jimmies, decorating candies and the like.
The wee folk, with moms, began arriving around 3pm. Here are some highlights:
* Emmett succeeding in hiding his frosted cookie in a huge pile of sprinkles.
* Calvin rapidly producing a massive number of artfully decorated, neatly executed cookies, using only colored gel.
* Jack repeatedly discovering that the little red hot candies are REALLY HOT, eating some more to confirm, then scaring the bejeezus out of Ruth and myself by seeming to choke.
* Opening the front door to discover James, who shouts "PRESENT" and thrusts a wrapped package into my hands.
* A brief respite watching videos and lounging on our lush couches.
* Fiona performing a leaping, skipping dance for me, and announcing that she is not a ballerina, but a princess ballerina.
* Looking upward to find some strange lumps stuck to my livingroom ceiling, and realizing from this that small boys had found my dish of "spaghetti and eyeballs" (a leftover from Halloween), pried out the eyeballs, and launched them thitherward. It was the only act of desecration in the household, so I guess I got of lightly.
To sample more of Cookie Party, check out these terribly blurry photos.
So, I thought recently, how could I entice the teenies to my very doorstep? Perhaps, I thought, a sort of small shindig. A holiday gathering, in which we decorate sugar cookies. Thus it was that Cookie Party was born.
This past Friday saw the First Annual Cookie Party. To prep, I cleaned the house, made a messload of sugar cookies in fanciful holiday shapes, then bought an obscene amount of white frosting, tubes of colored gel frosting, and many wee jars of sprinkles, jimmies, decorating candies and the like.
The wee folk, with moms, began arriving around 3pm. Here are some highlights:
* Emmett succeeding in hiding his frosted cookie in a huge pile of sprinkles.
* Calvin rapidly producing a massive number of artfully decorated, neatly executed cookies, using only colored gel.
* Jack repeatedly discovering that the little red hot candies are REALLY HOT, eating some more to confirm, then scaring the bejeezus out of Ruth and myself by seeming to choke.
* Opening the front door to discover James, who shouts "PRESENT" and thrusts a wrapped package into my hands.
* A brief respite watching videos and lounging on our lush couches.
* Fiona performing a leaping, skipping dance for me, and announcing that she is not a ballerina, but a princess ballerina.
* Looking upward to find some strange lumps stuck to my livingroom ceiling, and realizing from this that small boys had found my dish of "spaghetti and eyeballs" (a leftover from Halloween), pried out the eyeballs, and launched them thitherward. It was the only act of desecration in the household, so I guess I got of lightly.
To sample more of Cookie Party, check out these terribly blurry photos.
Crazy Crap Item #150: The part where Eamon is the champion!
At this point, I will pause to update a story previously begun here. This concerns Eamon's involvement in Mustaches for Kids, the fundraising effort supporting Chicago's Off the Street Club.
As is well known, Eamon has participated as a fundraiser, gathering pledges from those who wish to see him grow a corner-to-corner, unironic mustache. Clearly, given Eamon's usual appearance of general hairiness, mustache-growing entails first a stripping down to the bare wood. Before going bare, he briefly tried out this handsome handlebar variant.
Over the course of the month, many of our friends donated funds, which Eamon tracked with this lovely mustache graphic. He vowed that if he met his target of $2,000, we'd kick in a matching $2,000. Well, in the 11th hour, after a last-ditch fundraising email, Eamon overshot his amount, raising a total of $2,075.16 from our generous friends, neighbors and associates. So pleased was he with his achievement, he pledged an additional $500 from the Daly household, so all told, we donated a total of just over $4,500 to this great charity! Kick ass! Kick ass stache!
The fundraising month was concluded with the final event, the Stache Bash, a rip-roaring capper of event, which featured two bands, and appearance by some of the great kids who attend Off the Street Club, and a parade of mustaches. Many participants also participate in a costume competition, choosing alter-egos that nicely enhance the appearance of a hairy upper lip.
Despite Eamon's remarkable attire (seen here and here), he did NOT win the costume contest. I was crushed. However, even more importantly, he won the coveted Abe Frohman Award for TopFundraising! For this honor, he received a beautiful framed portrait of the mustache of all mustaches, Tom Selleck.
Since I can muster only the scraps of facial hair that are native to all women of Italian descent, I got into the swing of things with this cunning prosthesis.
Experience all the fun of Stache Bash by reviewing the photo set on our Flickr site.
As is well known, Eamon has participated as a fundraiser, gathering pledges from those who wish to see him grow a corner-to-corner, unironic mustache. Clearly, given Eamon's usual appearance of general hairiness, mustache-growing entails first a stripping down to the bare wood. Before going bare, he briefly tried out this handsome handlebar variant.
Over the course of the month, many of our friends donated funds, which Eamon tracked with this lovely mustache graphic. He vowed that if he met his target of $2,000, we'd kick in a matching $2,000. Well, in the 11th hour, after a last-ditch fundraising email, Eamon overshot his amount, raising a total of $2,075.16 from our generous friends, neighbors and associates. So pleased was he with his achievement, he pledged an additional $500 from the Daly household, so all told, we donated a total of just over $4,500 to this great charity! Kick ass! Kick ass stache!
The fundraising month was concluded with the final event, the Stache Bash, a rip-roaring capper of event, which featured two bands, and appearance by some of the great kids who attend Off the Street Club, and a parade of mustaches. Many participants also participate in a costume competition, choosing alter-egos that nicely enhance the appearance of a hairy upper lip.
Despite Eamon's remarkable attire (seen here and here), he did NOT win the costume contest. I was crushed. However, even more importantly, he won the coveted Abe Frohman Award for TopFundraising! For this honor, he received a beautiful framed portrait of the mustache of all mustaches, Tom Selleck.
Since I can muster only the scraps of facial hair that are native to all women of Italian descent, I got into the swing of things with this cunning prosthesis.
Experience all the fun of Stache Bash by reviewing the photo set on our Flickr site.
Crazy Crap Item #149: The part where James masters a new skill. Kind of.
Three years ago, I had the opportunity to witness the acquisition of skills vis-a-vis jokes. Young Jack, then three years old, made a huge semantic leap forward by learning the form of the riddle. Question? Answer. The form he had down pat. The content was less certain. Generally, his riddles consisted of questions followed by nonsense answers, and much giggling on his part.
Then, at age 4, he took another leap forward, and figured out that in addition to the question/answer format, the content actually had to make sense. And be funny.
This led to his first successful telling of a joke, which actually elicited a laugh out loud from me:
Q: What did the lion eat at the restaurant?
A: The waitress.
An amusing joke, only enhanced by its telling by a bright-eyed four-year-old who is equal parts delighted and surprised that you find his joke funny.
So now that Jack's little brother James has passed the three-year-old mark, I guess it's no surprise he, too, has stumbled on joke format. But as you can see from these latest samples, content still eludes him:
Q: What did the chocolate milk say to the white milk?
A: You're not tasty.
Q: What did the dark say to the light?
A: You're too bright.
Q: What did the Halloween thing say to Santa Claus?
A: You're Christmas.
Q: What did the apple cider say to the chocolate milk?
A: Lone Ranger and Tonto.
Watch this space for future developments.
Then, at age 4, he took another leap forward, and figured out that in addition to the question/answer format, the content actually had to make sense. And be funny.
This led to his first successful telling of a joke, which actually elicited a laugh out loud from me:
Q: What did the lion eat at the restaurant?
A: The waitress.
An amusing joke, only enhanced by its telling by a bright-eyed four-year-old who is equal parts delighted and surprised that you find his joke funny.
So now that Jack's little brother James has passed the three-year-old mark, I guess it's no surprise he, too, has stumbled on joke format. But as you can see from these latest samples, content still eludes him:
Q: What did the chocolate milk say to the white milk?
A: You're not tasty.
Q: What did the dark say to the light?
A: You're too bright.
Q: What did the Halloween thing say to Santa Claus?
A: You're Christmas.
Q: What did the apple cider say to the chocolate milk?
A: Lone Ranger and Tonto.
Watch this space for future developments.
Crazy Crap Item #148: The part where Piatt cracks wise
My good friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was kind of enough to take me as his "plus one" to a sneak preview of the movie Sweeney Todd. The game plan was that he was to arrive at the Thorndale El stop at 5:45. I would pick him up and we would fly, on wings of doves, up to Evanston for the screening.
So I was caught unawares when the doorbell rang at 5:30 and I was in the midst of household chores. I didn't answer, as we live in prime territory for door-to-door sorts who in this instance would no doubt throw my last-minute schedule into chaos. "If it's Piattarriving early,arriving early," I thought, "he will ring again, and only then will I run downstairs."
At the sounding of the bell a second time, I flew downstairs, and found him perched on my doorstep in the midst of calling me on is cell phone. I ushered him in. He explained he'd gotten done early, and decided to head on over. I explained the delay in my door-answering, and my current immersion in last-minute housewifely duties.
"I was changing the sheets on the beds," said I.
"Oh, I've seen that before," he replied, "on Nick at Nite."
And ... scene.
So I was caught unawares when the doorbell rang at 5:30 and I was in the midst of household chores. I didn't answer, as we live in prime territory for door-to-door sorts who in this instance would no doubt throw my last-minute schedule into chaos. "If it's Piattarriving early,arriving early," I thought, "he will ring again, and only then will I run downstairs."
At the sounding of the bell a second time, I flew downstairs, and found him perched on my doorstep in the midst of calling me on is cell phone. I ushered him in. He explained he'd gotten done early, and decided to head on over. I explained the delay in my door-answering, and my current immersion in last-minute housewifely duties.
"I was changing the sheets on the beds," said I.
"Oh, I've seen that before," he replied, "on Nick at Nite."
And ... scene.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #147: The part where housecleaning raises questions
This Friday, I'm hosting the first-ever Daly household Cookie-Party (tm). The concept is simple. I clean the house. I prepare sugar cookies. I stock up on frosting and sprinkles. I spread a tarp. Small people come over and create their tributes to the holiday season. Moms attend along with, eat snacks and sip wine. Simple brilliance.
So at the moment, I'm at step one: cleaning the house. Which raises two questions:
1. Why do we have tent stakes?
2. Why are they in the diningroom?
No answers forthcoming.
So at the moment, I'm at step one: cleaning the house. Which raises two questions:
1. Why do we have tent stakes?
2. Why are they in the diningroom?
No answers forthcoming.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #146: The part where I wonder why Christmas thinks it has something to prove
When Christmas time rolls around, I listen to Christmas music. Probably more than is healthy or prudent. And in my listening, I've noticed something strange. A remarkably large number of Christmas song express the fact that Christmas is, in one way or another, the best time of the year. This is often followed by some meta-carol, Russian doll moment, where the image of groups of children caroling is evoked.
Now first off, what self-respecting holiday needs to have sung about it the fact that it's being sung about?
Secondly, and more insidiously, why do pop carol singers feel the need to reiterate so frequently that Christmas is not just a perfectly good holiday, but is, in fact, "The best time of the year"? Halloween makes no such claims. Thanksgiving seems, by comparison, serenely content in its own sense of goodness, without the need for such braggery. And Easter. There is moderate glee at the notion of hopping down bunny trains and such like, but no need to self-promote.
So my question: What is Christmas' deal? Is it really so insecure? Did somebody disparage Christmas during its awkward adolescence? Or is this sense of slackjawed seasonal wonder just a placeholder for divinity in an increasingly secular society that wants to hold onto that "magical night" feeling, but without putting a manger in front of city hall?
Weighty holiday question, all.
Now first off, what self-respecting holiday needs to have sung about it the fact that it's being sung about?
Secondly, and more insidiously, why do pop carol singers feel the need to reiterate so frequently that Christmas is not just a perfectly good holiday, but is, in fact, "The best time of the year"? Halloween makes no such claims. Thanksgiving seems, by comparison, serenely content in its own sense of goodness, without the need for such braggery. And Easter. There is moderate glee at the notion of hopping down bunny trains and such like, but no need to self-promote.
So my question: What is Christmas' deal? Is it really so insecure? Did somebody disparage Christmas during its awkward adolescence? Or is this sense of slackjawed seasonal wonder just a placeholder for divinity in an increasingly secular society that wants to hold onto that "magical night" feeling, but without putting a manger in front of city hall?
Weighty holiday question, all.
Crazy Crap Item #145: The part where I find the perfect holiday gift
On a recent trip to the market, while perusing the "seasonal" aisle, I found a most remarkable item. A plastic reindeer. Filled with candy. When you press down on it, it emits a piece of candy and drops it into a sack marked "Santa's 'presents.'" As you can imagine, it's quite classy.
So needing to purchase this item, and similiarly needing to spread it as far and wide as possible, I picked up three of them. One I deposited in Eamon's stocking. The other two, I crammed into the Caseys' mailslot. They just barely fit.
Later, I emailed Ann to ensure she was aware of this offering an its source. I wrote:
I left a small offering in your mail slot. It's for the boys. It's ... strange.
She replied:
So you're the one responsible for my boys talking about "super yummy reindeer poop?" You have given them the opportunity to talk about poop and eat candy at the same time - the perfect gift. We spent some time trying to figure out which neighbor might have left the pooping reindeer in our slot - when I mentioned your name among a series of neighbors Jack yelled "Yes, Kay!"
I am renowned.
So needing to purchase this item, and similiarly needing to spread it as far and wide as possible, I picked up three of them. One I deposited in Eamon's stocking. The other two, I crammed into the Caseys' mailslot. They just barely fit.
Later, I emailed Ann to ensure she was aware of this offering an its source. I wrote:
I left a small offering in your mail slot. It's for the boys. It's ... strange.
She replied:
So you're the one responsible for my boys talking about "super yummy reindeer poop?" You have given them the opportunity to talk about poop and eat candy at the same time - the perfect gift. We spent some time trying to figure out which neighbor might have left the pooping reindeer in our slot - when I mentioned your name among a series of neighbors Jack yelled "Yes, Kay!"
I am renowned.
Crazy Crap Item #144: The part where I get delicious chills down my spine
Anyone who has visited Chez Daly knows this is a delightful abode. They also know that it is in sad need of refurbishment.
Besides requiring all the infrastructure upgrades one would expect in a house just shy of 100 years old, our cozy nest sports a number of other "opportunities for improvement," as I like to call them. To whit: cracked plaster, dented plaster, patched plaster, wood paneling, more wood paneling, faux wood paneling, broken floor tiles, inspiring light switches, and numerous other astonishing features. Yup, it's a "fixer-upper."
As I contemplate the many changes we hope to make, I never fail to think of the previous inhabitant, Mrs. "Babe" O'Malley (mentioned briefly, once before). She and her husband raised no fewer than eight children in this home, and we hear that is was she who performed what appears to be the one and only renovation to the home, which occurred in the early '70s. Hence the gold and avocado wall paper. I respect the efforts she made, wallpaper roll in one hand, scruff of insolent child's neck in the other, when she first moved in, and wonder whether she takes our plans to update as an insult or, as I hope, a tribute.
It was with this thought in mind that I contemplate a recent occurrence. Our architect, Megan, stopped by to do some measurements of our attic and back porch. Our attic is accessible only through a portal located in the ceiling of my office closet. After inspecting the attic, she stopped at my desk, where I was working away, and said she had some updated plans for us to review. She asked we take a look and provide some feedback. She left the plans on the right-hand corner of my desk. I escorted her downstairs, where she did some more snooping. As she left, she reminded me about the plans. I promptly forgot them.
Until the next day, a saturday. I recalled the plans, and mentioned to Eamon we should take a look. He asked where they were. I said, on the corner of my desk. He headed upstairs, and shouted down, where on your desk? The right-hand corner, I answered. There's nothing here, he claimed.
I sighed, silently cursed his inability to see something right in front of his face, and went upstairs. I pointed dramatically to the corner of the desk, where I found... nothing. Strike that. There was a magazine, a small stack of CDs, and sheet music for a flapper-era song called "Don't Bring Lulu." Nothing else. I check the floor. Nothing. I check the rest of the desk. Nothing. I recall what projects I was working on when Megan was here, and check all related file folders in my work drawer. Nothing.
So, I think, I hallucinated the desk corner. Megan must've dropped the plans on /some/ corner of /some/ piece of furniture, and I've filled in the blank in my mind. So i check all the tables downstairs. And upstairs. I check the bathrooms. I check the floor of my office. Again. I check the front entryway, the radiators, and any of other flat rectangular piece of furniture. When Eamon suggests we ask Megan for another copy of the plan, I agree, and tell him to tell her I'm an idiot.
I do another search, smaller this time, on Sunday. I resign myself to the fact that I am, indeed, and idiot.
Monday morning, I oversleep. Eamon has just left for work as I arise. I go to the office. I sit down. On the corner of my desk, right next to my laptop, is a scroll -- three floor plans rolled up and bound with a rubber band. I hadn't recalled the plans were in a scroll. I hadn't seen a scroll before.
I text eamon online:
-- So, you found the plans!
-- Where were they?
Eamon replies:
-- I didn't.
And then he texts the exact thought I had:
-- I guess Mrs. O'Malley wanted to approve them before we saw them.
I can only assume she approves.
Besides requiring all the infrastructure upgrades one would expect in a house just shy of 100 years old, our cozy nest sports a number of other "opportunities for improvement," as I like to call them. To whit: cracked plaster, dented plaster, patched plaster, wood paneling, more wood paneling, faux wood paneling, broken floor tiles, inspiring light switches, and numerous other astonishing features. Yup, it's a "fixer-upper."
As I contemplate the many changes we hope to make, I never fail to think of the previous inhabitant, Mrs. "Babe" O'Malley (mentioned briefly, once before). She and her husband raised no fewer than eight children in this home, and we hear that is was she who performed what appears to be the one and only renovation to the home, which occurred in the early '70s. Hence the gold and avocado wall paper. I respect the efforts she made, wallpaper roll in one hand, scruff of insolent child's neck in the other, when she first moved in, and wonder whether she takes our plans to update as an insult or, as I hope, a tribute.
It was with this thought in mind that I contemplate a recent occurrence. Our architect, Megan, stopped by to do some measurements of our attic and back porch. Our attic is accessible only through a portal located in the ceiling of my office closet. After inspecting the attic, she stopped at my desk, where I was working away, and said she had some updated plans for us to review. She asked we take a look and provide some feedback. She left the plans on the right-hand corner of my desk. I escorted her downstairs, where she did some more snooping. As she left, she reminded me about the plans. I promptly forgot them.
Until the next day, a saturday. I recalled the plans, and mentioned to Eamon we should take a look. He asked where they were. I said, on the corner of my desk. He headed upstairs, and shouted down, where on your desk? The right-hand corner, I answered. There's nothing here, he claimed.
I sighed, silently cursed his inability to see something right in front of his face, and went upstairs. I pointed dramatically to the corner of the desk, where I found... nothing. Strike that. There was a magazine, a small stack of CDs, and sheet music for a flapper-era song called "Don't Bring Lulu." Nothing else. I check the floor. Nothing. I check the rest of the desk. Nothing. I recall what projects I was working on when Megan was here, and check all related file folders in my work drawer. Nothing.
So, I think, I hallucinated the desk corner. Megan must've dropped the plans on /some/ corner of /some/ piece of furniture, and I've filled in the blank in my mind. So i check all the tables downstairs. And upstairs. I check the bathrooms. I check the floor of my office. Again. I check the front entryway, the radiators, and any of other flat rectangular piece of furniture. When Eamon suggests we ask Megan for another copy of the plan, I agree, and tell him to tell her I'm an idiot.
I do another search, smaller this time, on Sunday. I resign myself to the fact that I am, indeed, and idiot.
Monday morning, I oversleep. Eamon has just left for work as I arise. I go to the office. I sit down. On the corner of my desk, right next to my laptop, is a scroll -- three floor plans rolled up and bound with a rubber band. I hadn't recalled the plans were in a scroll. I hadn't seen a scroll before.
I text eamon online:
-- So, you found the plans!
-- Where were they?
Eamon replies:
-- I didn't.
And then he texts the exact thought I had:
-- I guess Mrs. O'Malley wanted to approve them before we saw them.
I can only assume she approves.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #143: The part where Eamon is spurned by lesbians
As many of you know, Eamon is, once again, participating in Mustaches for Kids. It's a fundraiser in which participants (called "growers") pledge to shave any existing facial hair and grow in a non-ironic, corner to corner mustache. Friends and well-wishers--desiring to witness such absurdity--pledge money to reward these mustachioed do-gooders. Proceeds go to a local charity; in Chicago, the designated charity is Off the Street Club.
As some may recall, Eamon participated last year, and swept the final prize for most money raised. It was a proud moment. (View his victory dance here.) Once again, he's growing for the kids, and once again, you can bask in the fuzzy glow of his hairy lip, as well as check his progress on the money raising.
As part of this grand endeavor, he participated this week in a fundraising event at T's Bar and Restaurant in Andersonville. In addition to donating 10% of all drink and food purchases from patrons mentioning the charity, T's provided, as is their want, shots of liquor to be sold, all proceeds pocketed by the fundraisers.
Well, as much as this is a lovely way to garner cash, Eamon felt it lacked zip. So, to perk things up, he contrived a special, mustache-themed shot glass experience. After cutting out many faux 'staches (colored in with magic marker by yours truly), he taped aforesaid mustaches to the front of many small plastic shot glasses. The idea being: if one correctly shotgunned the beverage in a handsfree fashion, one could be seen to wearing a mustache at the end of the shot. It's hard to envision, so I provided this useful photographic demonstration.
For $6, each patron received not only the shot (choice of lemon drop or raspberry kamikaze), but also a polaroid of the endeavor. And to add the sizzle to the steak, Eamon came up with an enticing name for this beverage/performance art: "The Mustache Ride."
The appealing name, combined with Eamon's winning salesmanship, meant shots were tossed by nearly all and sundry in the backroom of T's. With the exception, that is, of one group.
For those not familiar with T's, it caters to that joyful 10% of the population whose object of romantic desire does not square with notions of normative sexuality espoused by the far-right. As such, it was not surprising to encounter a cabal of lesbians perched on stools by the pool table. Try as he might, Eamon could not convert a single sale to these ladies. He could wheedle. He could plead. They were having no part of my hairy husband and his mustache rides.
Their loss, is all I can say.
As some may recall, Eamon participated last year, and swept the final prize for most money raised. It was a proud moment. (View his victory dance here.) Once again, he's growing for the kids, and once again, you can bask in the fuzzy glow of his hairy lip, as well as check his progress on the money raising.
As part of this grand endeavor, he participated this week in a fundraising event at T's Bar and Restaurant in Andersonville. In addition to donating 10% of all drink and food purchases from patrons mentioning the charity, T's provided, as is their want, shots of liquor to be sold, all proceeds pocketed by the fundraisers.
Well, as much as this is a lovely way to garner cash, Eamon felt it lacked zip. So, to perk things up, he contrived a special, mustache-themed shot glass experience. After cutting out many faux 'staches (colored in with magic marker by yours truly), he taped aforesaid mustaches to the front of many small plastic shot glasses. The idea being: if one correctly shotgunned the beverage in a handsfree fashion, one could be seen to wearing a mustache at the end of the shot. It's hard to envision, so I provided this useful photographic demonstration.
For $6, each patron received not only the shot (choice of lemon drop or raspberry kamikaze), but also a polaroid of the endeavor. And to add the sizzle to the steak, Eamon came up with an enticing name for this beverage/performance art: "The Mustache Ride."
The appealing name, combined with Eamon's winning salesmanship, meant shots were tossed by nearly all and sundry in the backroom of T's. With the exception, that is, of one group.
For those not familiar with T's, it caters to that joyful 10% of the population whose object of romantic desire does not square with notions of normative sexuality espoused by the far-right. As such, it was not surprising to encounter a cabal of lesbians perched on stools by the pool table. Try as he might, Eamon could not convert a single sale to these ladies. He could wheedle. He could plead. They were having no part of my hairy husband and his mustache rides.
Their loss, is all I can say.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #142: The part where I receive a most unexpected compliment
Last Friday night was date night at the Daly household. Eamon and I bought tickets to see a performance by comedian Kristen Schaal at the Lakeshore Theatre. We supped beforehand at a local Moroccan restaurant. That's where it all started to go gloriously awry.
Red wine, you see. With dinner. It was a chilly evening, and nothing warms the bones like red wine. So we drank several glasses. Actually, we split a bottle.
Then on to the theatre, which has a bar. I became reacquainted with my good friend Jack and his buddy, Diet Coke.
We were heading home, when I recalled that my dear friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was to be in attendance at the Green Mill. I've never been to aforementioned Chicago landmark, and since it was right on our way home, I suggested we meet him there. More Jack followed. And more. And more. Then, in the 11th hour, Eamon purchased a bottle of champagne. I only dimly recall this.
Other things I recall:
- The refrain "Kristen Schaal is a horse," which was chanted during the show.
- Getting free ice cream from the theater after the show, which we ate on the 36 bus en route to Green Mill.
- Excoriating the novel The Time Traveler's Wife, which features Green Mill. It is a dumb, pretentious, over-rated piece of trash. The novel, not the jazz club.
- Having my messenger bag dumped accidentally in a booth at the Green Mill, and later, Mr. Piatt discovering my chapstick and my lipstick wedged beneath his crotch.
- Eamon shushing me a number of times during the musical sets.
- Repeatedly pointing out that I was wearing Landsend moccasins, inappropriate nightlife wear, but which served as evidence that I had not intended to see and be seen that night.
- The beginning of a cab ride home, but not the end.
The result of all this imbibery is that Saturday was pretty much of a wash for both of us. I reported this to Mr. Piatt, who reported back:
'Two people this weekend (Erin Fast and, upon hearing about my weekend, Jonny Mess) said the exact same sentence to me, word-for-word:
"I love wasted Kay."'
Now that is something to be known for.
Red wine, you see. With dinner. It was a chilly evening, and nothing warms the bones like red wine. So we drank several glasses. Actually, we split a bottle.
Then on to the theatre, which has a bar. I became reacquainted with my good friend Jack and his buddy, Diet Coke.
We were heading home, when I recalled that my dear friend, Mr. Christopher Piatt, was to be in attendance at the Green Mill. I've never been to aforementioned Chicago landmark, and since it was right on our way home, I suggested we meet him there. More Jack followed. And more. And more. Then, in the 11th hour, Eamon purchased a bottle of champagne. I only dimly recall this.
Other things I recall:
- The refrain "Kristen Schaal is a horse," which was chanted during the show.
- Getting free ice cream from the theater after the show, which we ate on the 36 bus en route to Green Mill.
- Excoriating the novel The Time Traveler's Wife, which features Green Mill. It is a dumb, pretentious, over-rated piece of trash. The novel, not the jazz club.
- Having my messenger bag dumped accidentally in a booth at the Green Mill, and later, Mr. Piatt discovering my chapstick and my lipstick wedged beneath his crotch.
- Eamon shushing me a number of times during the musical sets.
- Repeatedly pointing out that I was wearing Landsend moccasins, inappropriate nightlife wear, but which served as evidence that I had not intended to see and be seen that night.
- The beginning of a cab ride home, but not the end.
The result of all this imbibery is that Saturday was pretty much of a wash for both of us. I reported this to Mr. Piatt, who reported back:
'Two people this weekend (Erin Fast and, upon hearing about my weekend, Jonny Mess) said the exact same sentence to me, word-for-word:
"I love wasted Kay."'
Now that is something to be known for.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #141: The part where Eamon and I discuss the lively arts
kaydaly88: in other news, art is the axe that chops into our frozen sea
kaydaly88: in case you were wondering
eamondaly1110: old news
kaydaly88: very old
kaydaly88: about 100 years old
eamondaly1110: it also turns out that music is the diaper for the rotting old man.
kaydaly88: really!
kaydaly88: i hadn't heard.
eamondaly1110: and dance is the leaf blower that clears away our frito-lay-messed lawn.
kaydaly88: true.
kaydaly88: so wise in its way
eamondaly1110: mime is just fucking weird, though.
kaydaly88: yeah
kaydaly88: it's for shit
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #140: The part where I remember just how scary things can be
Halloween is upon us, and I've enjoyed watching the various small people in our midst prepare for the mayhem. Most fascinating, I think, has been young James. At age 3, he's entering the threshold where he's beginning to understand "scary." Which means that things that would not have phased him last year are suddenly horrific.
There are irregularities in this trend. Skeletons, for example, hold no terrors for him. Perhaps it's because he does not yet grasp what a skeleton actually is, or what it implies, but he seems to find them rather cuddly. He has all but adopted a fully articulated, 10" tall skeleton I bought at Jewel ($3 - a bargain!), wrapping it in a cosy blanket and toting him around like a baby doll. His name is Boney.
He's less thrilled with costumes. Eamon's robot head, now enshrined on our fireplace mantle, drives him from the room, and he asked me to remove my witch hat when I modeled it for him.
So you can imagine his unbridled horror when our neighbor Jon Hey attended afternoon fun at the benches wearing a zombie mask. I'm told that his disguise delighted 6-year-olds Sam, Emmet and Jack, but reduced James to quivering paroxysms of fright. Sobs. Screaming. Uncontrollable terror.
So it's not clear why John decided to stage a repeat performance the next day, and to head directly towards James. Who starts to quiver.
So I scoop him up and tell him, "It's only Jon Hey."
To which he replies, "What if it's not????"
Remembering as I do that category of terrifying doubt, I said, "Wanna go in my house and play?"
Which he did. And I don't blame him.
There are irregularities in this trend. Skeletons, for example, hold no terrors for him. Perhaps it's because he does not yet grasp what a skeleton actually is, or what it implies, but he seems to find them rather cuddly. He has all but adopted a fully articulated, 10" tall skeleton I bought at Jewel ($3 - a bargain!), wrapping it in a cosy blanket and toting him around like a baby doll. His name is Boney.
He's less thrilled with costumes. Eamon's robot head, now enshrined on our fireplace mantle, drives him from the room, and he asked me to remove my witch hat when I modeled it for him.
So you can imagine his unbridled horror when our neighbor Jon Hey attended afternoon fun at the benches wearing a zombie mask. I'm told that his disguise delighted 6-year-olds Sam, Emmet and Jack, but reduced James to quivering paroxysms of fright. Sobs. Screaming. Uncontrollable terror.
So it's not clear why John decided to stage a repeat performance the next day, and to head directly towards James. Who starts to quiver.
So I scoop him up and tell him, "It's only Jon Hey."
To which he replies, "What if it's not????"
Remembering as I do that category of terrifying doubt, I said, "Wanna go in my house and play?"
Which he did. And I don't blame him.
Crazy Crap Item #139: The part where I learn a new definition for BYOB
I've heard yet again from my Montana-based cousin, Mountain Man Tom. This time, he recounts an amusing anecdote vis-a-vis Chinese food in his particular hinterland. Enjoy:
Kay,
Your father has touted restaurant dining in your neighborhood. I thought you might find some humor in Montana dining.
Once a week I meet my friends, Ace and Chris (of the broken rib) at the local brewery's tasting room. We quaff a couple then pick up dinner to go, normally Pizza. Yesterday Chris had a yen for Chinese. Chris is a funny eater and a person of strong opinions, such as preferring The Bamboo Garden to Chang's Family Restaurant, if you can imagine such a thing. The Bamboo Garden features bad service, mediocre (possibly cold) food, and often can not actually produce the meals offered on their menu. Anyone with sense goes to Chang's. Not Chris. She wanted beef and broccoli from The Garden, and called them from the brewery to order. They had no broccoli. This pushed her button. "What if I Pick up some fricken (she actually said "fricken", the first time an expletive was necessary) broccoli at Safeway and bring it to you, will you fix me my (non-fricken) meal.?" They said they would. So, she got greens and took them to The Garden. They gave her $2 off for bringing her own broccoli. She had to wait an hour and the food wasn't very good. Come visit and we can go to Chang's.
Mountain Man Tom
Kay,
Your father has touted restaurant dining in your neighborhood. I thought you might find some humor in Montana dining.
Once a week I meet my friends, Ace and Chris (of the broken rib) at the local brewery's tasting room. We quaff a couple then pick up dinner to go, normally Pizza. Yesterday Chris had a yen for Chinese. Chris is a funny eater and a person of strong opinions, such as preferring The Bamboo Garden to Chang's Family Restaurant, if you can imagine such a thing. The Bamboo Garden features bad service, mediocre (possibly cold) food, and often can not actually produce the meals offered on their menu. Anyone with sense goes to Chang's. Not Chris. She wanted beef and broccoli from The Garden, and called them from the brewery to order. They had no broccoli. This pushed her button. "What if I Pick up some fricken (she actually said "fricken", the first time an expletive was necessary) broccoli at Safeway and bring it to you, will you fix me my (non-fricken) meal.?" They said they would. So, she got greens and took them to The Garden. They gave her $2 off for bringing her own broccoli. She had to wait an hour and the food wasn't very good. Come visit and we can go to Chang's.
Mountain Man Tom
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #138: The part where I lay down the law
Recently I was sent to review a horrible, horrible show. As it happens, the show was really still in rehearsal, so after sitting through an hour and a half of blech, I'm not reviewing it after all. It did, however, allow me to compile some new rules for theater. Such as:
1. Any character that is defined by a hat is not a strongly drawn character.
2. Interacting with audience members in character during intermission is not clever or artsy. It's just intrusive.
3. Sign language is not to be used on an ad hoc basis. It is not to be used at all, unless:
a. one or more performers in the cast are hearing-impaired
b. one or more characters in the play are hearing-impaired
c. the audience is hearing-impaired.
4. After a rape/murder is presented on stage, you are not allowed to evoke a cheerful, hopeful tone for the rest of the show. Ever.
5. Rape/murders should not be depicted in musicals. Murders are OK (Sweeney Todd). Near-rape is OK (West Side Story). But not the two, happening at once.
1. Any character that is defined by a hat is not a strongly drawn character.
2. Interacting with audience members in character during intermission is not clever or artsy. It's just intrusive.
3. Sign language is not to be used on an ad hoc basis. It is not to be used at all, unless:
a. one or more performers in the cast are hearing-impaired
b. one or more characters in the play are hearing-impaired
c. the audience is hearing-impaired.
4. After a rape/murder is presented on stage, you are not allowed to evoke a cheerful, hopeful tone for the rest of the show. Ever.
5. Rape/murders should not be depicted in musicals. Murders are OK (Sweeney Todd). Near-rape is OK (West Side Story). But not the two, happening at once.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #137: The part where I open a little window on our marriage. Or, a door.
Yesterday, Eamon and I visited his folks up in lovely Spring Grove, IL. His mom's computer was in need of surgery, and since it looked like an all-day affair, I came along.
While waiting for some magical computer program to do some magical thing, he joined me out on the patio, where I was flipping through a coffe-table book about bungalows. Our conversation went thusly:
Kay: Oooh! A shower door. I miss shower doors. We had a shower with a door when I was growing up.
Eamon: I hate shower doors. They make me feel trapped.
Kay: I love shower doors. They make me feel safe.
And ... scene.
While waiting for some magical computer program to do some magical thing, he joined me out on the patio, where I was flipping through a coffe-table book about bungalows. Our conversation went thusly:
Kay: Oooh! A shower door. I miss shower doors. We had a shower with a door when I was growing up.
Eamon: I hate shower doors. They make me feel trapped.
Kay: I love shower doors. They make me feel safe.
And ... scene.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Jack and James crack wise
My neighbor Ann Casey reported two witticisms produced by her sons, Jack (age 6) and James (age 3).
Jack just celebrated a birthday, and yesterday, he enjoyed a family party in the evening, complete with cake and presents. This capped an afternoon of frolic involving himself, James, and our other neighbors, Casey and Daniel. Exciting hijinx included the unveiling of a brand new Pirates of the Caribbean sprinkler (Target, at the must-sell price of $2.48), the witnessing of Kay cleaning out her garage (fascinating and disgusting stuff), the perusal of a Halloween decorations/costumes catalog, and the impromtu planning of a haunted house in the Daly garage. High times indeed.
Apparently, the day was much prized by young Jack, who today was heard to say, "Get me the phone! I want to call yesterday and ask it to come back."
James countered this witticism with a bit of unplanned mayhem at church this morning. While he was permitted to join his mother at the communion rail, he was scandalized to learn he was not allowed to partake of the sacrament. This led to much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and the crying out of "I want the body of cracker!!"
That is a boy that gets right to the heart of the sacred mystery.
Jack just celebrated a birthday, and yesterday, he enjoyed a family party in the evening, complete with cake and presents. This capped an afternoon of frolic involving himself, James, and our other neighbors, Casey and Daniel. Exciting hijinx included the unveiling of a brand new Pirates of the Caribbean sprinkler (Target, at the must-sell price of $2.48), the witnessing of Kay cleaning out her garage (fascinating and disgusting stuff), the perusal of a Halloween decorations/costumes catalog, and the impromtu planning of a haunted house in the Daly garage. High times indeed.
Apparently, the day was much prized by young Jack, who today was heard to say, "Get me the phone! I want to call yesterday and ask it to come back."
James countered this witticism with a bit of unplanned mayhem at church this morning. While he was permitted to join his mother at the communion rail, he was scandalized to learn he was not allowed to partake of the sacrament. This led to much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and the crying out of "I want the body of cracker!!"
That is a boy that gets right to the heart of the sacred mystery.
Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Delores experiences an upgrade
I've written often of Delores, our neighbor who keeps vigil over 1500 Norwood from her majestic lawn-chair perch, and who so helpfully informed me of the poop incident.
Just this past weekend, as I was cleaning out the garage, I was interrupted by my neighbor Ann, who excitedly told me Delores had kicked it up a notch. She provided this photo as proof.
Oh, Delores. Long may you wave.
Just this past weekend, as I was cleaning out the garage, I was interrupted by my neighbor Ann, who excitedly told me Delores had kicked it up a notch. She provided this photo as proof.
Oh, Delores. Long may you wave.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #135: The part where Eamon and I are inadvertantly witty
So I'm working on brochure copy for a video lecture series on "The Classic Novel." As such, I am working up a sidebar of quotes from great novels. I decided to share one quote with Eamon, which spawned the following exchange:
(14:30:58) kaydaly88: “…first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”
(14:31:03) kaydaly88: now /that's/ art
(14:31:10) eamondaly1110: is that jay-z?
(14:31:16) kaydaly88: no, but close
(14:31:19) kaydaly88: joy-ce
(14:31:23) eamondaly1110: ha!
I wish we could say we were being deliberately clever, but we weren't.
Oh, and if you're wondering about that quote, learn more here.
(14:30:58) kaydaly88: “…first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”
(14:31:03) kaydaly88: now /that's/ art
(14:31:10) eamondaly1110: is that jay-z?
(14:31:16) kaydaly88: no, but close
(14:31:19) kaydaly88: joy-ce
(14:31:23) eamondaly1110: ha!
I wish we could say we were being deliberately clever, but we weren't.
Oh, and if you're wondering about that quote, learn more here.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #134: The part where Roxi is misidentified by a cab driver
Last night, Roxi joined me for a festive evening of watching the season premiere of America's Next Top Model, snacking on delicious snacks, and drinking Champagne in a can.
As the hour grew late and the hostess grew tipsy, Roxi decide a trip home in a taxi would be in order. She called later to recount her conversation with the driver, recreated here via email:
Cabbie: Where did you come from?
Me: I ran from over there. [pointing to your house]
Cabbie: You came from out of nowhere. Like a hooker.
Me: I'm not a hooker.
Cabbie: But it was like a hooker. Coming out of nowhere.
Me: I'm not a hooker. [laughing]
Cabbie: You are laughing a lot. Are you drunk?
Me: No, I'm not drunk. [laughing]
Cabbie: You had nothing to drink?
Me: Okay, I had two drinks. But I'm not really drunk.
Cabbie: Did you smoke hashish, too?
Me: No.
Cabbie: Are you sure?
Me: Pretty sure.
Oh, our Roxi. A giggling, hashish-smoking, drunken hooker, for sure.
As the hour grew late and the hostess grew tipsy, Roxi decide a trip home in a taxi would be in order. She called later to recount her conversation with the driver, recreated here via email:
Cabbie: Where did you come from?
Me: I ran from over there. [pointing to your house]
Cabbie: You came from out of nowhere. Like a hooker.
Me: I'm not a hooker.
Cabbie: But it was like a hooker. Coming out of nowhere.
Me: I'm not a hooker. [laughing]
Cabbie: You are laughing a lot. Are you drunk?
Me: No, I'm not drunk. [laughing]
Cabbie: You had nothing to drink?
Me: Okay, I had two drinks. But I'm not really drunk.
Cabbie: Did you smoke hashish, too?
Me: No.
Cabbie: Are you sure?
Me: Pretty sure.
Oh, our Roxi. A giggling, hashish-smoking, drunken hooker, for sure.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #133: The part where I encounter a telling indication of my location
As is well known to most, I'm currently in California, helping out my parents while my dad undergoes and recuperates from hip replacement surgery. (He's doing beautifully, in case you hadn't heard.)
So for the last three weeks, I've been residing in the glamorous environs of Sun Lakes community, located in beautiful, chapparel-ridden Banning, California. Sun Lakes, for those unfamiliar with this bastion of golf carts and bingo, is a retirement community, exclusively for those "55 and better," as the community motto puts it. In other words, you must be "this old" to enter.
The surrounding community, Banning, has experienced a sort of renaissance, thanks in large part to Sun Lakes and other copycat planned communities within the city walls. Once a bustling stagecoach stop between Arizona and points west, Banning has been reborn as the land of medical offices, pharmacies, golf-cart repair shops, and other services so necessary to the twilight years.
This key demographic has left its mark on the larger community, one telling example of which I found at a recent trip to the local supermarket. Like most stores, this particular market keeps certain key pharmaceutical items under lock and key to deter shoplifting. Where I come from, these items typically include condoms, pregnancy tests, and the like.
But at the Banning supermarket, what did I find under lock and key?
The full line of Olay regenerative cosmetic preparations.
Apparently, they are like unto liquid gold here.
So for the last three weeks, I've been residing in the glamorous environs of Sun Lakes community, located in beautiful, chapparel-ridden Banning, California. Sun Lakes, for those unfamiliar with this bastion of golf carts and bingo, is a retirement community, exclusively for those "55 and better," as the community motto puts it. In other words, you must be "this old" to enter.
The surrounding community, Banning, has experienced a sort of renaissance, thanks in large part to Sun Lakes and other copycat planned communities within the city walls. Once a bustling stagecoach stop between Arizona and points west, Banning has been reborn as the land of medical offices, pharmacies, golf-cart repair shops, and other services so necessary to the twilight years.
This key demographic has left its mark on the larger community, one telling example of which I found at a recent trip to the local supermarket. Like most stores, this particular market keeps certain key pharmaceutical items under lock and key to deter shoplifting. Where I come from, these items typically include condoms, pregnancy tests, and the like.
But at the Banning supermarket, what did I find under lock and key?
The full line of Olay regenerative cosmetic preparations.
Apparently, they are like unto liquid gold here.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #132: The part where I grammarize
In my role as grammarian extraordinaire (brought about, apparently, by that pesky PhD I earned some time ago), I am sometimes asked of my writing/language "pet peeves." Honestly, before such a question arose in a job interview, I'd not given systematic thought to such an issue.
Like most, I have a few things that annoy me for their pretension ("myself" used in place of "me" for no good reason) or misapprehension ("literally" used as an intensifier, "prototypical" thrown in as a way to say "really typical"). But it's only lately that I've decided to identify and canonize one grammatical mishap that will be my signature annoyance.
Are you ready?
"You guyses." As in, "We'll be coming over to you guyses house later."
When I hear this phrase, I always want to splay my fingers on my chest, a la Oliver Hardy, and reply, "Disguises?"
Like most, I have a few things that annoy me for their pretension ("myself" used in place of "me" for no good reason) or misapprehension ("literally" used as an intensifier, "prototypical" thrown in as a way to say "really typical"). But it's only lately that I've decided to identify and canonize one grammatical mishap that will be my signature annoyance.
Are you ready?
"You guyses." As in, "We'll be coming over to you guyses house later."
When I hear this phrase, I always want to splay my fingers on my chest, a la Oliver Hardy, and reply, "Disguises?"
Monday, August 27, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #131: The part where I am warned
Last Tuesday, I left for a long sojourn in Banning, California, home to my parents. My dad is receiving a long-awaited and much anticipated hip replacement, which promises to relieve some considerable pain he's experienced for far too long. I'm on deck to assist with groceries, light errands, transportation of the mother to and from visiting hours, and other duties as needed.
I apprised Jack of my impending departure, and he was scandalized.
"Really? Where?"
I vaguely explained California and hip replacements.
"I'll be gone two weeks."
Two weeks, of course, means nothing to a five-year-old. He's currently certain we're smack in the middle of June, and Halloween is sometime next week. When I tried to explain exactly how long two weeks was, he looked stricken and vaguely confused.
Upon the day of my departure, I arose early, and was out the door by 7:30 so as to make my 9am flight. As such, I was not able to give my final farewell to young Jack.
Later in the week, Eamon discovered a message left on our voice mail from young Jack. Later investigation revealed that he had wished to say farewell, and so his mother put him on the line. The message followed thusly:
"Bye, Kay. Um. You know, you should know that there's a real, alive werewolf in your basement. So BEWARE."
I am warned.
I apprised Jack of my impending departure, and he was scandalized.
"Really? Where?"
I vaguely explained California and hip replacements.
"I'll be gone two weeks."
Two weeks, of course, means nothing to a five-year-old. He's currently certain we're smack in the middle of June, and Halloween is sometime next week. When I tried to explain exactly how long two weeks was, he looked stricken and vaguely confused.
Upon the day of my departure, I arose early, and was out the door by 7:30 so as to make my 9am flight. As such, I was not able to give my final farewell to young Jack.
Later in the week, Eamon discovered a message left on our voice mail from young Jack. Later investigation revealed that he had wished to say farewell, and so his mother put him on the line. The message followed thusly:
"Bye, Kay. Um. You know, you should know that there's a real, alive werewolf in your basement. So BEWARE."
I am warned.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #131: The part where I realize I am doomed to go through the same thought processes over and over
Today, I'm working on a very fun project for one of my favorite clients, The Teaching Company. They produce video courses for adults on a fun range of academic enrichment courses -- topics such as "Masterpieces of the Louvre," "A Brief History of the World," "Italian City-States," and the like. In my capacity as freelance writer, I'm paid (PAID, mind you) to watch these courses and write long-form catalog copy explaining why these courses are so cool. Thankfully, they usually are, so it's not such a brain teaser.
My latest course is "The History of World Literature." As a result of the watching the course, I've been taking notes on new works I'd like to read and old ones I'd like to come back to and re-read. In the latter category is The Epic of Gilgamesh, an ancient Babylonian epic purported oldest piece of literature in the world. I read it back in freshmen year in college, but since it didn't depict any saucy maidens, haughty lords, or country cotillions, I wasn't terribly interested at the time. I'm curious to see if my tastes have changed.
So I pull my Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces off the shelf, thinking that, of course, it will have this first of all masterpieces. I check the table of contents, and not only is it not there, in the margin is scratched a little note, in my hand. It reads, "What? No Epic of Gilgamesh?"
Alzheimer's, here I come.
My latest course is "The History of World Literature." As a result of the watching the course, I've been taking notes on new works I'd like to read and old ones I'd like to come back to and re-read. In the latter category is The Epic of Gilgamesh, an ancient Babylonian epic purported oldest piece of literature in the world. I read it back in freshmen year in college, but since it didn't depict any saucy maidens, haughty lords, or country cotillions, I wasn't terribly interested at the time. I'm curious to see if my tastes have changed.
So I pull my Norton Anthology of World Masterpieces off the shelf, thinking that, of course, it will have this first of all masterpieces. I check the table of contents, and not only is it not there, in the margin is scratched a little note, in my hand. It reads, "What? No Epic of Gilgamesh?"
Alzheimer's, here I come.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #130: The part where there we glimpse the rarest of phenomena
August birthdays abound in our neck of the woods.
Exhibit 1: Megan
Exhibit 2: Sheila
Exhibit 3: Chris
Exhibit 4: Gareth
Exhibit 5: yours truly
We ladies decided to go out and celebrate. And since only the ladies were invited, Chris and Gareth didn't get to come.
Megan, Sheila, Rose, Ann, and I, however, were in full force. We took a rain-sodden stroll down to Viet Bistro, a local asian fusion hot-spot. We arrive, dump our soggy umbrellas in a bucket (including Ann's signature Spider-man parasol), and are shown to a seat.
What to our wondering eyes should appear but our seldom-seen new neighbor Rick, accompanied by his virtually unknown partner.
Megan, immediately recognizing Rick, cries out to him across to the room. "Hello! Neighbor!" He acknowledges our greeting, but make no further move. I check out his partner, all unbeknownst to Rick.
Later in the meal, I look up and notice our neighbors have fled, with nary a parting greeting.
What to make of them?
Exhibit 1: Megan
Exhibit 2: Sheila
Exhibit 3: Chris
Exhibit 4: Gareth
Exhibit 5: yours truly
We ladies decided to go out and celebrate. And since only the ladies were invited, Chris and Gareth didn't get to come.
Megan, Sheila, Rose, Ann, and I, however, were in full force. We took a rain-sodden stroll down to Viet Bistro, a local asian fusion hot-spot. We arrive, dump our soggy umbrellas in a bucket (including Ann's signature Spider-man parasol), and are shown to a seat.
What to our wondering eyes should appear but our seldom-seen new neighbor Rick, accompanied by his virtually unknown partner.
Megan, immediately recognizing Rick, cries out to him across to the room. "Hello! Neighbor!" He acknowledges our greeting, but make no further move. I check out his partner, all unbeknownst to Rick.
Later in the meal, I look up and notice our neighbors have fled, with nary a parting greeting.
What to make of them?
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #129: The part where Kristen takes exception to my discussion with Jack about the monocled cat
(In reference to this post)
(10:57:35) krispe22: please don't ever tell me
(10:57:36) krispe22: again
(10:57:37) krispe22: about this
(10:57:47) krispe22: i cannot hear about sacs
(10:57:52) krispe22: ever ever again
(10:57:59) kaydaly88: hey, i was trapped
(10:58:01) kaydaly88: trapped!!!
(10:58:04) krispe22: um
(10:58:06) krispe22: you have legs
(10:58:08) krispe22: you can run away
(10:57:35) krispe22: please don't ever tell me
(10:57:36) krispe22: again
(10:57:37) krispe22: about this
(10:57:47) krispe22: i cannot hear about sacs
(10:57:52) krispe22: ever ever again
(10:57:59) kaydaly88: hey, i was trapped
(10:58:01) kaydaly88: trapped!!!
(10:58:04) krispe22: um
(10:58:06) krispe22: you have legs
(10:58:08) krispe22: you can run away
Crazy Crap Item #128: The part where I find myself having a conversation I did not intend to have
My lovely neighborhood of Norwood Street boasts many attractions. Not least among them is a one-eyed black cat. I'm not sure where he actually lives; but I suspect he has a home on some other block of Norwood -- perhaps on the 1300 block, or maybe even the much hated 1400 block.
In any event, we know he has an owner. He seems to be well cared for. In addition to his one, jewel-like green eye, he boasts a collar and the kind of shiny, healthy coat of black fur and stocky physique you find only in a cat that eats early and often. He's also very friendly.
At our recent block party, we had occasion to discuss this cat. I'm not sure how it came up; I wasn't present for the start of the discussion. But by the time I came around, Eamon was suggesting that a cat with one eye would need a monocle. This led to speculation about the nature and personality of a one-eyed, monocled cat. It was suggested that his name was Thaddeus J. Churchill III, and that, perhaps, he thought himself a bit good for the likes of us, what with wearing a monocle and all.
Several days afterwards, our monoptic friend came to visit. As I've said, he's a friendly sort, and surprisingly unfazed by children. He minced into my yard and up onto my back steps, where he submitted himself to petting by James, Jack and myself. I recollected that Eamon had given the cat the name Thaddeus J. Churchill III, but that, in fact, said cat was a girl.
"How do you know?" Jack asked.
"I took a peek," I said, deliberately vague.
"A peek at what?" Jack inevitably asked.
"At the parts that tell you whether a cat is a boy or a girl," I answered, still vague.
"What parts?" Jack asked, undogged.
"Well," I hemmed,"Boys and girls have different part back here," gesturing vaguely to Thaddeus. "Boys have sacs. This cat has no sacs. So it's a girl."
Done, I thought.
"What sacs?" Jack asked, a tad horrified.
"Well, you know, sacs," I hawed. "Like you've got..." I trailed off, hoping he'd be distracted by something else.
"Where have I got sacs?"
Pause.
"You know. In your pants."
He twisted to look at the seat of his pants. "Where?"
"On the front."
"Oh, these?"
"Yeah, those."
In any event, we know he has an owner. He seems to be well cared for. In addition to his one, jewel-like green eye, he boasts a collar and the kind of shiny, healthy coat of black fur and stocky physique you find only in a cat that eats early and often. He's also very friendly.
At our recent block party, we had occasion to discuss this cat. I'm not sure how it came up; I wasn't present for the start of the discussion. But by the time I came around, Eamon was suggesting that a cat with one eye would need a monocle. This led to speculation about the nature and personality of a one-eyed, monocled cat. It was suggested that his name was Thaddeus J. Churchill III, and that, perhaps, he thought himself a bit good for the likes of us, what with wearing a monocle and all.
Several days afterwards, our monoptic friend came to visit. As I've said, he's a friendly sort, and surprisingly unfazed by children. He minced into my yard and up onto my back steps, where he submitted himself to petting by James, Jack and myself. I recollected that Eamon had given the cat the name Thaddeus J. Churchill III, but that, in fact, said cat was a girl.
"How do you know?" Jack asked.
"I took a peek," I said, deliberately vague.
"A peek at what?" Jack inevitably asked.
"At the parts that tell you whether a cat is a boy or a girl," I answered, still vague.
"What parts?" Jack asked, undogged.
"Well," I hemmed,"Boys and girls have different part back here," gesturing vaguely to Thaddeus. "Boys have sacs. This cat has no sacs. So it's a girl."
Done, I thought.
"What sacs?" Jack asked, a tad horrified.
"Well, you know, sacs," I hawed. "Like you've got..." I trailed off, hoping he'd be distracted by something else.
"Where have I got sacs?"
Pause.
"You know. In your pants."
He twisted to look at the seat of his pants. "Where?"
"On the front."
"Oh, these?"
"Yeah, those."
Crazy Crap Item #127: The part where I surprise myself be being able to spell a hard word
"Mediterranean." Got it right on the first try, even. Man, I rock.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #126: The part where my dad tells me a very amusing story
This, from Sailor Jack:
Mike was telling me a story the other day I want to share with you. His wild, high school, pal, Alan, is now a San Bernardino Deputy Sheriff. On patrol the other day, he spotted a stake bed truck, driving suspiciously, so he pulled it over. When he looked in the back he discovered a Mariachi band in full costume and with instruments.
He checked out the driver, who seemed to have had a drink, was on the safe edge of a DUI. He thought it over and said to the band, "I won't run in if you play me a song". At this, they climbed out and started playing. As he was enjoying the music, he got a call on his radio of a disturbing the peace complaint saying, "Somebody is playing Mexican music in the street !"
Sounds like Mike's bunch.
Love to both,
Dad
Mike was telling me a story the other day I want to share with you. His wild, high school, pal, Alan, is now a San Bernardino Deputy Sheriff. On patrol the other day, he spotted a stake bed truck, driving suspiciously, so he pulled it over. When he looked in the back he discovered a Mariachi band in full costume and with instruments.
He checked out the driver, who seemed to have had a drink, was on the safe edge of a DUI. He thought it over and said to the band, "I won't run in if you play me a song". At this, they climbed out and started playing. As he was enjoying the music, he got a call on his radio of a disturbing the peace complaint saying, "Somebody is playing Mexican music in the street !"
Sounds like Mike's bunch.
Love to both,
Dad
Crazy Crap Item #125: The part where 1500 Norwood bids 'Aloha'
It's that time again. Summer block party time. As is well known, we at 1500 Norwood thrive on the themed block party. Last summer, it was the Olympics. In the fall, it was the Old West. Previous themes include Christmas in July, Oktoberfest, and Mini-Golf. Festive.
This year, we had many hot contenders for the honor of block party theme. Bastille Day. Venetian Night. Star Wars. Around the World Tour. But the far-and-away winner was .... Hawaiian Luau.
In the spirit of island languor, this was a relatively low-key block party. The general tenor seemed to be, "Meh, it will be fun. Let's drink beer."
The day started at 9am, with a sumptuous breakfast of island and not-so-island treats. Ann Casey had the brilliant of idea of foisting upon us all "Hawaiian names," and provided a key so we could translate our names using the Hawaiian alphabet, plus name tags to promote said island names.
The morning was mostly taken up with low-key fun: the eating of pastries, the riding of small vehicles, the gyration of hula hoops, the drinking of coffee, the drinking of coffee, and the drinking of coffee.
I should also mention that in some instances, costumes were worn.
The most surprising source of ongoing fun, I believe, were some inflatable decoration I had purchased: a tiki statue and a large hollow pineapple to be used as an ice chest. Amusing, I thought. They will just sit there on my lawn, being attractive and Hawaiian. I was wrong. The tiki statue, I found, could variously be used as a hat, as a sort of faux train, and as a chaise lounge. It can also just be rolled upon.
The pineapple ice chest held equal wonders. It was used for one-person sack races, as a means to trap unassuming neighbors, and, of course, for rolling, rolling, and more rolling. Needless to say, it was popped long before it could be used as an ice chest.
We'd also arranged some deliberate island-themed fun, including:
* the stringing of sea shells to make lovely island necklaces
* a seashell hunt in the Cancilla sandbox, during which the marine booty could be traded for toys and candy at the Daly Outpost
* a volcano demonstration, headed by Eamon, involving small "pocket volcanos" and bottles of diet Pepsi spiked with Menthos
* island floral photo opps
At noon, we broke for lunch, a tasty repast of hotdogs, donated by Patio Beef and lovingly prepared by Megan and John Calto. Alfresco dining was enjoyed by all.
We also indulged in some non-island fun, including a visit from our beloved firemen and the unparalleled opportunity to swarm the firetruck. And of course, whether on the islands or the mainland, nothing can beat the joy of digging, digging and more digging, made all the more accessible by a recent visit from People's Gas (which entailed plowing up sections of all our parkways).
For the grown-ups, daytime fun (when it didn't include managing the aforementioned activities) consisted of dandling babies on knees, sitting on lawn furniture (sometimes joined by smaller folk), strolling, chillaxing, standing around, jawing, waxing sentimental, and, occasionally, scowling.
Things picked up again in the afternoon, with a performance by a local a cappella group (yes, my a cappella group), a fiddle serenade by Jim Casey, and of course, a lavish pot-luck dinner. As always, Eamon and I served our patented Louisiana whiskey slush, of which John O'Connor partook, perhaps to excess. I was proud to serve a much lauded Hawaiian meatball dish, which to me was the perfect typification of Hawaii by way of the 1950s Midwest. Jim Casey offered his supremely good pulled pork (which allowed for many jokes about how Jim had been pulling his pork all day. Ah, pork humor. Always fun.).
After dinner, competition heated up with a hula hoop contest and several coconut "broomball" bouts. Later, tiki torches were lit, a firepit was stoked, a guitar jam session played, and "Finding Nemo" was viewed on the big, middle-of-the-street movied screen, propped up against the one lone parked car on the street -- the leavings of some unlawfully parked and inconsiderate resident. Ruth decorated the malparked car with battery-operated tiki lights to striking effect.
The party cranked 'til midnight, at which point, we re-opened the street to more pedestrian pedestrian behavior.
A final note: Rick did not attend.
This year, we had many hot contenders for the honor of block party theme. Bastille Day. Venetian Night. Star Wars. Around the World Tour. But the far-and-away winner was .... Hawaiian Luau.
In the spirit of island languor, this was a relatively low-key block party. The general tenor seemed to be, "Meh, it will be fun. Let's drink beer."
The day started at 9am, with a sumptuous breakfast of island and not-so-island treats. Ann Casey had the brilliant of idea of foisting upon us all "Hawaiian names," and provided a key so we could translate our names using the Hawaiian alphabet, plus name tags to promote said island names.
The morning was mostly taken up with low-key fun: the eating of pastries, the riding of small vehicles, the gyration of hula hoops, the drinking of coffee, the drinking of coffee, and the drinking of coffee.
I should also mention that in some instances, costumes were worn.
The most surprising source of ongoing fun, I believe, were some inflatable decoration I had purchased: a tiki statue and a large hollow pineapple to be used as an ice chest. Amusing, I thought. They will just sit there on my lawn, being attractive and Hawaiian. I was wrong. The tiki statue, I found, could variously be used as a hat, as a sort of faux train, and as a chaise lounge. It can also just be rolled upon.
The pineapple ice chest held equal wonders. It was used for one-person sack races, as a means to trap unassuming neighbors, and, of course, for rolling, rolling, and more rolling. Needless to say, it was popped long before it could be used as an ice chest.
We'd also arranged some deliberate island-themed fun, including:
* the stringing of sea shells to make lovely island necklaces
* a seashell hunt in the Cancilla sandbox, during which the marine booty could be traded for toys and candy at the Daly Outpost
* a volcano demonstration, headed by Eamon, involving small "pocket volcanos" and bottles of diet Pepsi spiked with Menthos
* island floral photo opps
At noon, we broke for lunch, a tasty repast of hotdogs, donated by Patio Beef and lovingly prepared by Megan and John Calto. Alfresco dining was enjoyed by all.
We also indulged in some non-island fun, including a visit from our beloved firemen and the unparalleled opportunity to swarm the firetruck. And of course, whether on the islands or the mainland, nothing can beat the joy of digging, digging and more digging, made all the more accessible by a recent visit from People's Gas (which entailed plowing up sections of all our parkways).
For the grown-ups, daytime fun (when it didn't include managing the aforementioned activities) consisted of dandling babies on knees, sitting on lawn furniture (sometimes joined by smaller folk), strolling, chillaxing, standing around, jawing, waxing sentimental, and, occasionally, scowling.
Things picked up again in the afternoon, with a performance by a local a cappella group (yes, my a cappella group), a fiddle serenade by Jim Casey, and of course, a lavish pot-luck dinner. As always, Eamon and I served our patented Louisiana whiskey slush, of which John O'Connor partook, perhaps to excess. I was proud to serve a much lauded Hawaiian meatball dish, which to me was the perfect typification of Hawaii by way of the 1950s Midwest. Jim Casey offered his supremely good pulled pork (which allowed for many jokes about how Jim had been pulling his pork all day. Ah, pork humor. Always fun.).
After dinner, competition heated up with a hula hoop contest and several coconut "broomball" bouts. Later, tiki torches were lit, a firepit was stoked, a guitar jam session played, and "Finding Nemo" was viewed on the big, middle-of-the-street movied screen, propped up against the one lone parked car on the street -- the leavings of some unlawfully parked and inconsiderate resident. Ruth decorated the malparked car with battery-operated tiki lights to striking effect.
The party cranked 'til midnight, at which point, we re-opened the street to more pedestrian pedestrian behavior.
A final note: Rick did not attend.
Crazy Crap Item #124: The part where 1500 Norwood waits in vigil on the new neighbors
This past March, we at 1500 Norwood suffered an intolerable loss. The O'Connors moved away. To Milwaukee.
Yes, you read right. Milwaukee.
Why, you ask, would anyone leave the sylvan splendor and sophisticated city-style living of 1500 Norwood for the great unknown frontier of some border hinterland? Work, they tell us. Unavoidable. We mourn.
News of the impending move engendered surmises as to our new neighbors. Would they be fun-loving folk, eager to partake of our many hijinks? Would we get to screen prospective neighbors, ensuring only the best and brightest could join our ranks?
The answer to the latter was no. Apparently, the O'Connors were being "relocated," which means they sell their house to their employer, who takes it from there.
As to the former ... the jury is still, alas, out.
Not that we don't have new neighbors. At first, it seemed promising. A same-sex couple, we are told. A soon-to-be retired Army dentist. His partner, rumored to be a physical therapist. We keep our eyes peeled for activity.
A moving truck arrives. Items are delivered. Shutters remain shuttered.
I hear tell my neighbor Florence has delivered a gift of shortbread to welcome them. So they are, we are to understand, moved in. I bake a loaf of bread and purchase olive oil as a welcome. But the new neighbors make no appearance, so I am forced to eat the bread myself.
Livingroom lights are spied, and Eamon strikes up an actual live conversation with one of the new neighbors while mowing the lawn. Rick is his name -- the Army dentist. A pleasant fellow, Eamon tells me. They speak of lawn maintenance and the superiority of push mowers. Eamon describes the annual block party, and suggests coconut bras may be involved. Rick registers enthusiasm.
So I bake loaf #2, based on Eamon's report that neighbors are stateside. I deliver said loaf, and chat with Rick, as pleasant and enthusiastic as Eamon had reported. He can't wait for the block party, he tells me. I tell him of the afternoon gatherings of mothers at Ruth's benches, and invite him to join us any time. He seems pleased and eager.
And then I never see him again. Shutters remain shuttered. There are occasional lights on. Delores reports they are out of town often. Megan theorizes they are avoiding us. Rick's partner is still unnamed, unmet.
I deliver flyers for the block party planning meeting. Rick and unnamed partner do not attend.
But still, through it all, Eamon and I maintain our faith that Rick lurks within, just waiting to be coaxed out of doors. As we gather at Ruth's benches, we occasionally cast a rueful eye at the former O'Connor home, longing for contact. We plaintively cry out, "Rick, Rick!"
Our cries are unanswered.
Yes, you read right. Milwaukee.
Why, you ask, would anyone leave the sylvan splendor and sophisticated city-style living of 1500 Norwood for the great unknown frontier of some border hinterland? Work, they tell us. Unavoidable. We mourn.
News of the impending move engendered surmises as to our new neighbors. Would they be fun-loving folk, eager to partake of our many hijinks? Would we get to screen prospective neighbors, ensuring only the best and brightest could join our ranks?
The answer to the latter was no. Apparently, the O'Connors were being "relocated," which means they sell their house to their employer, who takes it from there.
As to the former ... the jury is still, alas, out.
Not that we don't have new neighbors. At first, it seemed promising. A same-sex couple, we are told. A soon-to-be retired Army dentist. His partner, rumored to be a physical therapist. We keep our eyes peeled for activity.
A moving truck arrives. Items are delivered. Shutters remain shuttered.
I hear tell my neighbor Florence has delivered a gift of shortbread to welcome them. So they are, we are to understand, moved in. I bake a loaf of bread and purchase olive oil as a welcome. But the new neighbors make no appearance, so I am forced to eat the bread myself.
Livingroom lights are spied, and Eamon strikes up an actual live conversation with one of the new neighbors while mowing the lawn. Rick is his name -- the Army dentist. A pleasant fellow, Eamon tells me. They speak of lawn maintenance and the superiority of push mowers. Eamon describes the annual block party, and suggests coconut bras may be involved. Rick registers enthusiasm.
So I bake loaf #2, based on Eamon's report that neighbors are stateside. I deliver said loaf, and chat with Rick, as pleasant and enthusiastic as Eamon had reported. He can't wait for the block party, he tells me. I tell him of the afternoon gatherings of mothers at Ruth's benches, and invite him to join us any time. He seems pleased and eager.
And then I never see him again. Shutters remain shuttered. There are occasional lights on. Delores reports they are out of town often. Megan theorizes they are avoiding us. Rick's partner is still unnamed, unmet.
I deliver flyers for the block party planning meeting. Rick and unnamed partner do not attend.
But still, through it all, Eamon and I maintain our faith that Rick lurks within, just waiting to be coaxed out of doors. As we gather at Ruth's benches, we occasionally cast a rueful eye at the former O'Connor home, longing for contact. We plaintively cry out, "Rick, Rick!"
Our cries are unanswered.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #123: The part where Jack and I ponder immeasurables.
Jack: What is 3,000 plus 3,000?
Kay: 6,000.
Jack: What is 6,000 plus 6,000?
Kay: 12,000.
Jack: What is 12,000 plus 12,000?
Kay: 24,000.
Jack: What is 24,000 plus 24,000?
Kay: 48,000.
Jack: What is 48,000 plus 48,000?
Kay: 96,000.
Jack: What is 96,000 plus 96,000?
Kay: Um. [Pause.] 192,000.
Jack: What is 192,000 plus 192,000?
Kay: Oh, man. Let me think. [Jottings in air with finger.] 384,000.
Jack: What is 384,000 plus 384,000?
Kay: It'll take me a minute to figure that out.
Jack: I know. It's got to be infinity. 384,000 plus 384,000 is so big, it has to be infinity.
Kay: That can't be right, because infinity is bigger than anything you can add together.
Jack: What? What do you mean?
Kay: Infinity is everything. It just keeps going. Because you can always add one.
Jack: Add one what?
Kay: I mean, you can always add the number one. Like, one plus one is two; two plus one is three, and so on. Since you can always add one, you can never get to the end. Infinity means you can never get to the end, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: Is infinity everything?
Kay: Yes. It's everything. It's bigger than everything, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: So God is infinity.
Kay: Yes, God is infinity. He's everything. Plus one. God is everything, plus one.
Jack: So is God you?
Kay: Yes, God is me. God is bigger than me.
Jack: So God is me?
Kay: Yes, God is you and me and everything.
Jack: [ponders]
Kay: God is everything you ever thought, plus one.
Jack: So what about the devil.
Kay: That's another story.
Kay: 6,000.
Jack: What is 6,000 plus 6,000?
Kay: 12,000.
Jack: What is 12,000 plus 12,000?
Kay: 24,000.
Jack: What is 24,000 plus 24,000?
Kay: 48,000.
Jack: What is 48,000 plus 48,000?
Kay: 96,000.
Jack: What is 96,000 plus 96,000?
Kay: Um. [Pause.] 192,000.
Jack: What is 192,000 plus 192,000?
Kay: Oh, man. Let me think. [Jottings in air with finger.] 384,000.
Jack: What is 384,000 plus 384,000?
Kay: It'll take me a minute to figure that out.
Jack: I know. It's got to be infinity. 384,000 plus 384,000 is so big, it has to be infinity.
Kay: That can't be right, because infinity is bigger than anything you can add together.
Jack: What? What do you mean?
Kay: Infinity is everything. It just keeps going. Because you can always add one.
Jack: Add one what?
Kay: I mean, you can always add the number one. Like, one plus one is two; two plus one is three, and so on. Since you can always add one, you can never get to the end. Infinity means you can never get to the end, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: Is infinity everything?
Kay: Yes. It's everything. It's bigger than everything, because it just keeps getting bigger.
Jack: So God is infinity.
Kay: Yes, God is infinity. He's everything. Plus one. God is everything, plus one.
Jack: So is God you?
Kay: Yes, God is me. God is bigger than me.
Jack: So God is me?
Kay: Yes, God is you and me and everything.
Jack: [ponders]
Kay: God is everything you ever thought, plus one.
Jack: So what about the devil.
Kay: That's another story.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #122: The part where Kristen goes to Dickens World, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt. Also, this lovely description.
A report, from Kristen Freilich, on her recent trip to England's premiere new tourist attraction, Dickens World:
So on July 3 in the year of our Lord 2007, Shaun and I made passage to Dickens World, the premier vacation destination in the county of Kent (other than the historic docks of Chatham, which for all I can tell are...docks....but, older).
We hopped the tube to Char Crossing (or Crossing Char, I can never remember) and switched to the National Rail for an hour long ride to Chatham Station. The London suburbs looked a lot like the average burbs outside any other major American city. Than we took a one pound bus to Dickens World.I wasn't sure which bus to take as none of them said DICKENS WORLD on them, the way buses at the Magic Kingdom do. A bit of advertising *might* help. Each time a bus pulled up to the Chatham stop I would run up to it and ask the driver if their bus stopped at Dicken's World.
(door opens)
(Kristen runs up to bus)
Kristen: Does this bus stop at Dicken's World?
Bus Driver: (heavy sigh) No.
After the third try, we found the right bus! Finally a sign on the way there. Shaun and I agreed that Dicken's World should use the Wall Drug advertising schema...(Just 20 more Kilometres to Dicken's World!!). This would have prevented me from asking the driver (at each stop) if this was the Dicken's World stop. After 1.5 hours of traveling through English Countryside by rail and road, I was NOT about to miss Dicken's World because of poor signage.
Finally, we arrived at the historic docks of Chatham, where there were docks, a discount mall, and (trumpet sound effect) Dickens World, which promises the time of their lives! What did I think it would be like? I was hoping for an Oliver! sing along, or Oliver! singing contest!Tickets were $25 for adults, which is certainly less than Disney! Please note fabulous marketing flyer, which features Dickens in a boat with some of his beloved characters:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/706731447/in/photostream/
We climbed a staircase from the very modern looking lobby and were then transported (through a door) to a very Dickensian world where everything was dark and wooden looking. We were greeted by a costumed wench who asked if we would like our photographs taken in Dickens garb. Dickens garb, for a man, means a chimney sweep costume and prop, which prompted Shaun to ask if Charles Dickens had written Mary Poppins.
I was FAR more excited about the photo than Shaun was.Then we were transported (through another door) into a very Dickensian world. Please note warning sign. This door opened into what looked like an extremely large Christmas Carol set, complete with alleys and shops:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731164094/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731163726/in/photostream/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731157264/in/photostream/
Two wenches (costumed characters) greeted us. I was hoping they would be all Dickensian and I could do my British dialect with them, and complain about that mean old Bill Sykes, but instead they just told us were the bathrooms and exits were. Then a costumed man ran up to Shaun and started drawing what looked like a beard on his face with a ball point pen. We asked what he was doing and he didn't answer- he just laughed and ran away.
Dicken's World has 2 floors. The first floor is the town and has a boat ride, a school room, and a haunted house. The second floor has a restaurant and a 4-D exhibit.
We first ventured on the boat ride which takes you around the entire theme park. There was no wait for the boat ride, but we passed signs that read "1 hour wait from this point, 30 minute wait for this point", etc. I bet they were DREAMING of the day were those signs come are appropriate.
The boat ride took us through the filthy Thames, where we witnessed an anamotronic boy urinating in an alley. There were no big splashes, no falls. During the final moments of the ride, spotlights came up on some really scary mannequins: Bill Sykes, Madame DeFarge, and finally Wet/Dry Vac. OH NO THE CURSED WET DRY VAC!
Next a visit to the Haunted House. It featured four stops, and at each stop a group of about 20 visitors peered from a hallway into a room where projections appeared via mirrors. There was no guide for the groups, so after the narration ended, we all kind of looked at each other awkwardly and shuffled to the next exhibit. We saw glimpses of characters from all novels in the projections. And they had about 100 fire extinguishers that were not masked at all. Is Dickens World really that flammable? How can it be that I have never noticed a fire extinguisher at Disney?
At the School House, we were finally spoken to by a real character. School Master, wearing a graduation robe and cap, yelled at us for being late and made us take our seats. I was horrified to find out that at each seat in the room there were TOUCH SCREENS where we could play SNAKES and LADDERS, a Dickens trivia game. TOUCH SCREENS? REALLY?? Then the school master yelled at us when we left, but I didn't care. The touch screens had broken my spirit.
Our last stop was the gift shop, where they had run out of adult sized t shirts. Apparently they didn't realize how popular Dickens t shirts would be, so I was forced to buy a Dickens World pencil. A Dickens World Pencil has Dickens World written on it and has a metal Dickens bust on the top where the eraser should be.
Upon leaving we were caught in a horrible thunderstorm, so we ran to the outlet mall for Burger King. Then Shaun bought some underwear at Marks and Spencer and I bought a 3lb bag of Misshapen chocolate at the Cadbury Outlet.
I had fun at Dickens World, but only because I think things that are kind of lame can also be fun. I'm not a fan of the Tony and Tina's interactive theater-type world, but Dickens World might be cooler if there were actual Dickens characters running around.
Cheers!
Kristen
So on July 3 in the year of our Lord 2007, Shaun and I made passage to Dickens World, the premier vacation destination in the county of Kent (other than the historic docks of Chatham, which for all I can tell are...docks....but, older).
We hopped the tube to Char Crossing (or Crossing Char, I can never remember) and switched to the National Rail for an hour long ride to Chatham Station. The London suburbs looked a lot like the average burbs outside any other major American city. Than we took a one pound bus to Dickens World.I wasn't sure which bus to take as none of them said DICKENS WORLD on them, the way buses at the Magic Kingdom do. A bit of advertising *might* help. Each time a bus pulled up to the Chatham stop I would run up to it and ask the driver if their bus stopped at Dicken's World.
(door opens)
(Kristen runs up to bus)
Kristen: Does this bus stop at Dicken's World?
Bus Driver: (heavy sigh) No.
After the third try, we found the right bus! Finally a sign on the way there. Shaun and I agreed that Dicken's World should use the Wall Drug advertising schema...(Just 20 more Kilometres to Dicken's World!!). This would have prevented me from asking the driver (at each stop) if this was the Dicken's World stop. After 1.5 hours of traveling through English Countryside by rail and road, I was NOT about to miss Dicken's World because of poor signage.
Finally, we arrived at the historic docks of Chatham, where there were docks, a discount mall, and (trumpet sound effect) Dickens World, which promises the time of their lives! What did I think it would be like? I was hoping for an Oliver! sing along, or Oliver! singing contest!Tickets were $25 for adults, which is certainly less than Disney! Please note fabulous marketing flyer, which features Dickens in a boat with some of his beloved characters:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/706731447/in/photostream/
We climbed a staircase from the very modern looking lobby and were then transported (through a door) to a very Dickensian world where everything was dark and wooden looking. We were greeted by a costumed wench who asked if we would like our photographs taken in Dickens garb. Dickens garb, for a man, means a chimney sweep costume and prop, which prompted Shaun to ask if Charles Dickens had written Mary Poppins.
I was FAR more excited about the photo than Shaun was.Then we were transported (through another door) into a very Dickensian world. Please note warning sign. This door opened into what looked like an extremely large Christmas Carol set, complete with alleys and shops:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731164094/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731163726/in/photostream/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/krispe22/731157264/in/photostream/
Two wenches (costumed characters) greeted us. I was hoping they would be all Dickensian and I could do my British dialect with them, and complain about that mean old Bill Sykes, but instead they just told us were the bathrooms and exits were. Then a costumed man ran up to Shaun and started drawing what looked like a beard on his face with a ball point pen. We asked what he was doing and he didn't answer- he just laughed and ran away.
Dicken's World has 2 floors. The first floor is the town and has a boat ride, a school room, and a haunted house. The second floor has a restaurant and a 4-D exhibit.
We first ventured on the boat ride which takes you around the entire theme park. There was no wait for the boat ride, but we passed signs that read "1 hour wait from this point, 30 minute wait for this point", etc. I bet they were DREAMING of the day were those signs come are appropriate.
The boat ride took us through the filthy Thames, where we witnessed an anamotronic boy urinating in an alley. There were no big splashes, no falls. During the final moments of the ride, spotlights came up on some really scary mannequins: Bill Sykes, Madame DeFarge, and finally Wet/Dry Vac. OH NO THE CURSED WET DRY VAC!
Next a visit to the Haunted House. It featured four stops, and at each stop a group of about 20 visitors peered from a hallway into a room where projections appeared via mirrors. There was no guide for the groups, so after the narration ended, we all kind of looked at each other awkwardly and shuffled to the next exhibit. We saw glimpses of characters from all novels in the projections. And they had about 100 fire extinguishers that were not masked at all. Is Dickens World really that flammable? How can it be that I have never noticed a fire extinguisher at Disney?
At the School House, we were finally spoken to by a real character. School Master, wearing a graduation robe and cap, yelled at us for being late and made us take our seats. I was horrified to find out that at each seat in the room there were TOUCH SCREENS where we could play SNAKES and LADDERS, a Dickens trivia game. TOUCH SCREENS? REALLY?? Then the school master yelled at us when we left, but I didn't care. The touch screens had broken my spirit.
Our last stop was the gift shop, where they had run out of adult sized t shirts. Apparently they didn't realize how popular Dickens t shirts would be, so I was forced to buy a Dickens World pencil. A Dickens World Pencil has Dickens World written on it and has a metal Dickens bust on the top where the eraser should be.
Upon leaving we were caught in a horrible thunderstorm, so we ran to the outlet mall for Burger King. Then Shaun bought some underwear at Marks and Spencer and I bought a 3lb bag of Misshapen chocolate at the Cadbury Outlet.
I had fun at Dickens World, but only because I think things that are kind of lame can also be fun. I'm not a fan of the Tony and Tina's interactive theater-type world, but Dickens World might be cooler if there were actual Dickens characters running around.
Cheers!
Kristen
Crazy Crap Item #121: The part where I am ashamed
I just discovered i have no idea how to spell "Ophthalmology." It has way more letters than I thought.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #120: The part where Sailor Jack shows his silver screen roots
It is well known that my father is a Casablanca fanatic. It is useless to count the number of times he has seen this fine film. Hundreds of times?, you ask. Nay, I say, most likely thousands.
As an illustration, it should be noted that there was an extended period during which every day my dad would come home at 2pm from his post-retirement gig working at my cousin's plumbing supply store, pop in his well-worn video tape of Casablanca, and watch till dinner. At dinner time, he'd hit stop, then start it up the next day, post-plumbing. When the tape ended, he'd hit rewind and start over.
And thus it went, every afternoon, for years. One summer, I worked with him at the plumbing store, and often joined him in his Bogey-fest. I reckon I'd seen the movie several times over by the end of the summer, but never in sequence.
That little illustration serves as a prelude to my most recent email from Dad:
"The other day I got the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to quote Casablanca. We were at the motel about to take a cab to the airport when I decided to use the men's room. It was poorly marked, with just a tiny outline of a man. Mom thought I had gone that way to the cab and tried to follow. There was a rattling of the door knob and knocking. To this I said '...Where I'm going you can't follow. What I'll be doing, you can't be any part of...'"
An excellent use of all his Casablanca expertise, I say.
As an illustration, it should be noted that there was an extended period during which every day my dad would come home at 2pm from his post-retirement gig working at my cousin's plumbing supply store, pop in his well-worn video tape of Casablanca, and watch till dinner. At dinner time, he'd hit stop, then start it up the next day, post-plumbing. When the tape ended, he'd hit rewind and start over.
And thus it went, every afternoon, for years. One summer, I worked with him at the plumbing store, and often joined him in his Bogey-fest. I reckon I'd seen the movie several times over by the end of the summer, but never in sequence.
That little illustration serves as a prelude to my most recent email from Dad:
"The other day I got the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to quote Casablanca. We were at the motel about to take a cab to the airport when I decided to use the men's room. It was poorly marked, with just a tiny outline of a man. Mom thought I had gone that way to the cab and tried to follow. There was a rattling of the door knob and knocking. To this I said '...Where I'm going you can't follow. What I'll be doing, you can't be any part of...'"
An excellent use of all his Casablanca expertise, I say.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #119: The part where I have arrived
A few weeks ago, in my capacity as freelance theater critic for Time Out Chicago, I was sent to a horrible, horrible show. You can hear more about it here.
Today, my dear editor wrote me this: "Did I mention your refugee review has warranted not one but TWO letters from disgruntled readers? We never get letters. It's thrilling for us..."
Dig it. I disgruntled readers. I have arrived.
Today, my dear editor wrote me this: "Did I mention your refugee review has warranted not one but TWO letters from disgruntled readers? We never get letters. It's thrilling for us..."
Dig it. I disgruntled readers. I have arrived.
Crazy Crap Item #119: The part where I have arrived
So a few weeks ago, I was sent--in my capacity of freelance theater critic for Time Out Chicago--to a heinous original musical parody. I did not enjoy myself here. You can find out why here.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #118: The part where I once again demonstrate the strength of my marriage
I've noted before the unusual strength of my marriage, in particular when my husband told me a joined an online dating service. Here it is, not two weeks later, and my husband informs me he's marching in Chicago's Gay Pride Parade.
Again, some wives may feel such a revelation would give them pause. But me, I'm unflappable.
Roller Derby, you see. The ladies are marching. The theme is outer space. He is to be ... a robot.
As many know, Eamon is not one to do things half-way. So, of course, there was the special trip to Home Depot for supplies. Hours of planning. Hours more of construction. Muttered curses. Personal realizations that one tends to bite off more than one can chew.
But when the Derby calls for a robot, a robot it shall have. Check out the fantastic video of the derby robot, in action. Or this photo.
Afterwards, I asked Eamon how it was, and he told me it was hours of being humped by countless men, all unwitting (as his robot body impeded any sensation).
As a side note, after Eamon had completed the helmet, I took some small friends into the house to see the work in progress. I modeled the head, and allowed young Gavin to strut his stuff.
Again, some wives may feel such a revelation would give them pause. But me, I'm unflappable.
Roller Derby, you see. The ladies are marching. The theme is outer space. He is to be ... a robot.
As many know, Eamon is not one to do things half-way. So, of course, there was the special trip to Home Depot for supplies. Hours of planning. Hours more of construction. Muttered curses. Personal realizations that one tends to bite off more than one can chew.
But when the Derby calls for a robot, a robot it shall have. Check out the fantastic video of the derby robot, in action. Or this photo.
Afterwards, I asked Eamon how it was, and he told me it was hours of being humped by countless men, all unwitting (as his robot body impeded any sensation).
As a side note, after Eamon had completed the helmet, I took some small friends into the house to see the work in progress. I modeled the head, and allowed young Gavin to strut his stuff.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #117: The part where I alerted to a surprising resemblance
My dear friend Mr. Shattner addressed me with this arresting query:
(21:57:24) shattynyc: you know the guy from the daily show?
(21:57:28) shattynyc: and the mac commercials?
I indicated that, yes, I did, that I admired his work, and that his name is John Hodgeman.
He agreed he is very funny, and added:
(21:57:50) shattynyc: but is he not the living incarnation of that one muppet?
I think if you compare the image of John Hodgeman with that of said muppet, you will see the startling resemblance.
(21:57:24) shattynyc: you know the guy from the daily show?
(21:57:28) shattynyc: and the mac commercials?
I indicated that, yes, I did, that I admired his work, and that his name is John Hodgeman.
He agreed he is very funny, and added:
(21:57:50) shattynyc: but is he not the living incarnation of that one muppet?
I think if you compare the image of John Hodgeman with that of said muppet, you will see the startling resemblance.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #116: The part where I discover that I am a hot little number
Recently, my dear husband approached me with this rather dubious announcement:
"I'm registering with some online dating services, but don't be worried."
I think it's a testament to the strength of our marriage that I paused to hear more.
Work-related, you see. Under-cover research. Very hush hush. To make it all square, he even sent me his profile on one of the sites.
I was pleased to see that he registered himself as "married," and indicated this was just for "hanging out." In fact, it never entered my mind that one could register as married. What a strange option.
Shortly thereafter, he complained that his photo was getting none-too-impressive ratings from either men or women on the site. A "1", he was rated by one jaded viewer. This must be rectified, I decided.
Trouble is, one must be registered to participate in the ratings. But, I thought, Eamon registered as "married," just looking to "hang out." I could as well. I could lurk, undetected, a boring old married housewife, wildly adding "10"s to her husband's photo rating. Fantastic.
So I filled out the profile. I checked "married." I wrote a vague but amusing self-description. I added a cute but not stunning photo. I sent the profile to Eamon. He rated my photo, and added me as a "favorite" of his. I sent him a "rose." He reciprocated. All very amusing.
Then a message arrived in my profile in-box. Not from Eamon.
Subject: u sound interesting
hi im keith how r u?......im married also..........im a carpenter....care to chat?
What an odd fluke.
Then another:
Subject: hi wee
i'm john. i saw your profile and i think we have several things in common...
and another:
Subject: Hello Wee
Hi My name is Frank. I'll keep this simple for now but if you can break away during the day then I'd love to meet for lunch and get to know you. Let me know and I'll send a photo and my reg email addy. Hope to hear from you soon. xoxo
And so forth.
The messages are generally short, vague and introductory. One fellow thinks I'm a nice lady (smiley face). Another noticed I was looking for someone discreet.
I also find I get email notices daily to tell me some new fellow has added me as a "favorite." And just now ... AS I WRITE THIS ... I get a pop-up notice that no fewer than 2 random fellows want to IM me!
Eamon bemoans that he has had no such attention lavished on him. He complains that I'm one of "them" -- the pretty people -- who don't get "1"s on their photo rating.
But I think I have a better theory to explain why I suddenly seem like a nice hunk of ribeye tossed in the dog pound. I'm a woman, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, I want anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes me a hot prospect to men.
While Eamon is a man, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, he wants anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes him more bitter than poison to women.
Mars and Venus, folks. Mars and Venus.
"I'm registering with some online dating services, but don't be worried."
I think it's a testament to the strength of our marriage that I paused to hear more.
Work-related, you see. Under-cover research. Very hush hush. To make it all square, he even sent me his profile on one of the sites.
I was pleased to see that he registered himself as "married," and indicated this was just for "hanging out." In fact, it never entered my mind that one could register as married. What a strange option.
Shortly thereafter, he complained that his photo was getting none-too-impressive ratings from either men or women on the site. A "1", he was rated by one jaded viewer. This must be rectified, I decided.
Trouble is, one must be registered to participate in the ratings. But, I thought, Eamon registered as "married," just looking to "hang out." I could as well. I could lurk, undetected, a boring old married housewife, wildly adding "10"s to her husband's photo rating. Fantastic.
So I filled out the profile. I checked "married." I wrote a vague but amusing self-description. I added a cute but not stunning photo. I sent the profile to Eamon. He rated my photo, and added me as a "favorite" of his. I sent him a "rose." He reciprocated. All very amusing.
Then a message arrived in my profile in-box. Not from Eamon.
Subject: u sound interesting
hi im keith how r u?......im married also..........im a carpenter....care to chat?
What an odd fluke.
Then another:
Subject: hi wee
i'm john. i saw your profile and i think we have several things in common...
and another:
Subject: Hello Wee
Hi My name is Frank. I'll keep this simple for now but if you can break away during the day then I'd love to meet for lunch and get to know you. Let me know and I'll send a photo and my reg email addy. Hope to hear from you soon. xoxo
And so forth.
The messages are generally short, vague and introductory. One fellow thinks I'm a nice lady (smiley face). Another noticed I was looking for someone discreet.
I also find I get email notices daily to tell me some new fellow has added me as a "favorite." And just now ... AS I WRITE THIS ... I get a pop-up notice that no fewer than 2 random fellows want to IM me!
Eamon bemoans that he has had no such attention lavished on him. He complains that I'm one of "them" -- the pretty people -- who don't get "1"s on their photo rating.
But I think I have a better theory to explain why I suddenly seem like a nice hunk of ribeye tossed in the dog pound. I'm a woman, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, I want anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes me a hot prospect to men.
While Eamon is a man, you see, who registered as married. Which means, apparently, he wants anonymous, discreet, no-strings sex. Which makes him more bitter than poison to women.
Mars and Venus, folks. Mars and Venus.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring
I've spoken before of Delores, our neighbor whose appearance in her perch on a lawn chair stands in as the first robin of spring in our neighborhood.
Now, here for posterity, I've recorded a glimpse of this fabled harbinger, as seen from my office window.
Now, here for posterity, I've recorded a glimpse of this fabled harbinger, as seen from my office window.
Crazy Crap Item #114: The part where I update the poop story
Since posting the story of how a man pooped in my yard, I have had many follow-up queries. "Did the 311 guy ever arrive?" "Is the poop still in my yard?" "Did the mad pooper return?" So I figured I should post a follow-up.
Upon returning home from the grocery store, I heaped a healthy helping of litter upon the stinking and fly-covered pile of poop. If the 311 guy comes, I thought, the litter would mark the spot for him, plus all the renegade splatters he might miss. And if he never comes, at least I will have this nice litter to solidify the pile.
Off I went then to enjoy my lunch and put in a load of laundry.
An hour or two passed, and there were still no signs of any sort of government back-up for my poop disaster. It was time, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I realized that this was not the sort of job one wants to get halfway through and discover one has gone about all wrong. I had visions of mad scrambles to maneuver shovels-full of poop into a garbage bag that has folded over upon itself, and mis-aimed scoops that do more damage than good. So I planned it out.
Thinking it through, I realized I really wanted to minimized the amount of contact of the scooping implement with the poop. And since I didn't wish to retain the ground and grass directly beneath the poop, it did not make sense to use a snow shovel or some such flimsy implement. Only a sturdy real-man's shovel would do.
Thankfully, we have many such implements on hand. The previous occupant, Mr. O'Malley, worked for many years for the Streets and Sanitation Department, and left behind a whole passel of ancient contruction tools, all tellingly stamped "City of Chicago." Among these was an old, rusty, sturdy shovel. This would do the trick.
Next, I fetched my floor scrubbing bucket, a large rectangular affair. I lined with a garbage bag.
As I brought these items out front, I caught site of Ruth, who (as you'll recall) learned of my plight from my grocery store announcement. I informed her it was poop scooping time, as I had waited 2 hours and there was still no sign of the mythical 311 crew. She indicated she was impressed with my industry, and offered to help. This, I told her, was a one-person job, and I saw no reason to enlist another in such a nasty task to no good purpose.
Could she watch, then? I assented, and she pulled a lawn chair up to get a good view.
There's not much more to report. My carefully plotted plan worked to perfection. I wedged the shovel in about 2 inches below the surface, and scooped up grass, poop, litter and all in just a few quick swipes. The bucket provided stability; the garbage bag, hygiene. I tied it up quick as a wink, and haulted it to the garbage.
The poop is gone, but not forgotten. As a token, we still have the bald spot in the grass where the poop once was.
Upon returning home from the grocery store, I heaped a healthy helping of litter upon the stinking and fly-covered pile of poop. If the 311 guy comes, I thought, the litter would mark the spot for him, plus all the renegade splatters he might miss. And if he never comes, at least I will have this nice litter to solidify the pile.
Off I went then to enjoy my lunch and put in a load of laundry.
An hour or two passed, and there were still no signs of any sort of government back-up for my poop disaster. It was time, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I realized that this was not the sort of job one wants to get halfway through and discover one has gone about all wrong. I had visions of mad scrambles to maneuver shovels-full of poop into a garbage bag that has folded over upon itself, and mis-aimed scoops that do more damage than good. So I planned it out.
Thinking it through, I realized I really wanted to minimized the amount of contact of the scooping implement with the poop. And since I didn't wish to retain the ground and grass directly beneath the poop, it did not make sense to use a snow shovel or some such flimsy implement. Only a sturdy real-man's shovel would do.
Thankfully, we have many such implements on hand. The previous occupant, Mr. O'Malley, worked for many years for the Streets and Sanitation Department, and left behind a whole passel of ancient contruction tools, all tellingly stamped "City of Chicago." Among these was an old, rusty, sturdy shovel. This would do the trick.
Next, I fetched my floor scrubbing bucket, a large rectangular affair. I lined with a garbage bag.
As I brought these items out front, I caught site of Ruth, who (as you'll recall) learned of my plight from my grocery store announcement. I informed her it was poop scooping time, as I had waited 2 hours and there was still no sign of the mythical 311 crew. She indicated she was impressed with my industry, and offered to help. This, I told her, was a one-person job, and I saw no reason to enlist another in such a nasty task to no good purpose.
Could she watch, then? I assented, and she pulled a lawn chair up to get a good view.
There's not much more to report. My carefully plotted plan worked to perfection. I wedged the shovel in about 2 inches below the surface, and scooped up grass, poop, litter and all in just a few quick swipes. The bucket provided stability; the garbage bag, hygiene. I tied it up quick as a wink, and haulted it to the garbage.
The poop is gone, but not forgotten. As a token, we still have the bald spot in the grass where the poop once was.
Crazy Crap Item #113: The part where I explore exciting new job hunt opportunities
Last week, my dear friend Roxi joined me for an epic journey to the wilds of Arlington Heights to take in some theater. My other dear friend, Kristen, was starring in a door-slamming, bodice-ripping farce, and we were to attend a performance. Kristen kindly offered a ride.
En route, I mentioned that Roxi may be job-shopping soon. Kristen, who works as a sort of website goddess for the City of Chicago Colleges, perked up. Roxi, you see, is a programming and design wiz, with special expertise in education, and Kristen's department has a job to fill. So clearly, a nice match.
As we discussed the position, Kristen alluded to the fact that the C of C Colleges strive for diversity, so Roxi's latina-ness would be a job interview asset. And when Roxi mentioned she spoke Spanish fluently, Kristen nearly wept with joy, and offered Roxi her own job.
Thus we began to think of ways Roxi could emphasize her heritage during the job interview. Wearing a mantilla, we thought, would. And perhaps she should tote castinets, and use them to punctuate her various accomplishments.
But the greatest idea, I think, was my suggestion that she find a way to employ a pinata in her interview. Quoth Roxi: ""Inside, you will find my resume and various flavored Blow Pops ... AY AY AY AY!"
The job is in the bag.
En route, I mentioned that Roxi may be job-shopping soon. Kristen, who works as a sort of website goddess for the City of Chicago Colleges, perked up. Roxi, you see, is a programming and design wiz, with special expertise in education, and Kristen's department has a job to fill. So clearly, a nice match.
As we discussed the position, Kristen alluded to the fact that the C of C Colleges strive for diversity, so Roxi's latina-ness would be a job interview asset. And when Roxi mentioned she spoke Spanish fluently, Kristen nearly wept with joy, and offered Roxi her own job.
Thus we began to think of ways Roxi could emphasize her heritage during the job interview. Wearing a mantilla, we thought, would. And perhaps she should tote castinets, and use them to punctuate her various accomplishments.
But the greatest idea, I think, was my suggestion that she find a way to employ a pinata in her interview. Quoth Roxi: ""Inside, you will find my resume and various flavored Blow Pops ... AY AY AY AY!"
The job is in the bag.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #112: The part where I realize the condition of geekdom is contagious
So I'm writing a review of the seldom produced musical "It's a Bird ... It's a Plane... It's Superman," and as I start pecking out lede ideas on the keyboard, I jot down something about Marvel Comics. Then I think, no, not Marvel Comics. That's Spider-man. Superman was in Action Comics.
Then I realize that I have been married to a graphic-novel geek for too long.
Then I realize that I have been married to a graphic-novel geek for too long.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living
As I noted at the start of this blog, crazy crap happens to me nearly every day. Today, that claim was literalized.
Arriving home from an appointment, I was greeted by Delores, who had spotted me from her habitual spot on the folding chair in front of her house. I knew something was afoot, as she usually simply waves from her throne, whereas today, she was already crossing the street as I finished parking.
"Somebody pooped in your yard!" she announced.
A dog owner, I assumed. And the dog being the pooper.
"A man in ball cap," she waved at her head, "and a long coat."
It was then that it dawned on met that she hadn't mentioned a dog.
"Wait," I said, "Did the man poop?"
Yes, she told me. He strolled up, swept his coat aside and let loose, "without missing a beat."
I think I'm safe in saying this had never happened to me before. I just laughed. She laughed. We laughed together.
Then we inspected the poop, which was distressingly not firm or easily scoopable, and quite covered in flies.
"I thought maybe some cat litter..." she suggested.
"Or sand..." I added.
I thanked her for calling my attention to this distressing and potentially hazardous situation, and indicated that I indeed would be investing in some cat litter and perhaps a nice snow shovel. She indicated that she felt it was important to warn me, as she could imagine Eamon ... coming out to work ... then she trailed off, implying in some vague way that men are more likely to trod heedlessly into poop than women. I nodded vaguely.
Meanwhile, Ann Casey, having been also informed by Delores of the poop, had sent me an email also suggesting cat litter and letting me know she and hers would be confined to the backyard until further notice.
Looking outside, I caught her just as she returned from the garden store with Jack, age 5, and James, age 2. James sputtered on about seeing wildflowers and something very large as Ann and I discussed the poop. Jack said it was not he who had pooped in the yard. Ann recounted that Delores had suggested calling the police. James insisted the police had pooped in my yard. I departed for the store to buy cat litter, after agreeing with Ann that we must purge the soil beneath the poop spot once it had been scooped.
At the store, I ran into Ruth, another neighbor, with her 6-year-old son Sam. I entertained the cashiers, Sam and other passersby by loudly proclaiming, "Someone pooped on my lawn, and it wasn't dog." Ruth commiserated.
As I pulled up in front of my house, I noticed Delores deep in conversation with another elderly neighbor and gesticulating wildly at my house. How long will the Daly house now be known as the poop house, I wondered.
She made a beeline for me as I stepped out of the car, telling me she had called 311 (Chicago's non-emergency helpline), and told the operator, with stunning candor that someone had "shit" on the lawn across the street, and that they needed to send someone to clean it up, as there were many children in the neighborhood. She did not, apparently, mention the menfolk and their penchant for heedlessly plowing through poop.
So now, here I am, having heaped litter on the offending piles, waiting to see if the mythic 311 helpers come to clean this poop, or whether I should bite the bullet and get to scooping.
Arriving home from an appointment, I was greeted by Delores, who had spotted me from her habitual spot on the folding chair in front of her house. I knew something was afoot, as she usually simply waves from her throne, whereas today, she was already crossing the street as I finished parking.
"Somebody pooped in your yard!" she announced.
A dog owner, I assumed. And the dog being the pooper.
"A man in ball cap," she waved at her head, "and a long coat."
It was then that it dawned on met that she hadn't mentioned a dog.
"Wait," I said, "Did the man poop?"
Yes, she told me. He strolled up, swept his coat aside and let loose, "without missing a beat."
I think I'm safe in saying this had never happened to me before. I just laughed. She laughed. We laughed together.
Then we inspected the poop, which was distressingly not firm or easily scoopable, and quite covered in flies.
"I thought maybe some cat litter..." she suggested.
"Or sand..." I added.
I thanked her for calling my attention to this distressing and potentially hazardous situation, and indicated that I indeed would be investing in some cat litter and perhaps a nice snow shovel. She indicated that she felt it was important to warn me, as she could imagine Eamon ... coming out to work ... then she trailed off, implying in some vague way that men are more likely to trod heedlessly into poop than women. I nodded vaguely.
Meanwhile, Ann Casey, having been also informed by Delores of the poop, had sent me an email also suggesting cat litter and letting me know she and hers would be confined to the backyard until further notice.
Looking outside, I caught her just as she returned from the garden store with Jack, age 5, and James, age 2. James sputtered on about seeing wildflowers and something very large as Ann and I discussed the poop. Jack said it was not he who had pooped in the yard. Ann recounted that Delores had suggested calling the police. James insisted the police had pooped in my yard. I departed for the store to buy cat litter, after agreeing with Ann that we must purge the soil beneath the poop spot once it had been scooped.
At the store, I ran into Ruth, another neighbor, with her 6-year-old son Sam. I entertained the cashiers, Sam and other passersby by loudly proclaiming, "Someone pooped on my lawn, and it wasn't dog." Ruth commiserated.
As I pulled up in front of my house, I noticed Delores deep in conversation with another elderly neighbor and gesticulating wildly at my house. How long will the Daly house now be known as the poop house, I wondered.
She made a beeline for me as I stepped out of the car, telling me she had called 311 (Chicago's non-emergency helpline), and told the operator, with stunning candor that someone had "shit" on the lawn across the street, and that they needed to send someone to clean it up, as there were many children in the neighborhood. She did not, apparently, mention the menfolk and their penchant for heedlessly plowing through poop.
So now, here I am, having heaped litter on the offending piles, waiting to see if the mythic 311 helpers come to clean this poop, or whether I should bite the bullet and get to scooping.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #110: The part where I become an athletic supporter
As is well known to one and all, Eamon is a strong supporter of women's roller derby. In his role as head of Rules and Regulations (under the derby name Scorey Feldman) for the Windy City Rollers, he adds, subtracts, confers, fetches, carries, hectors, emails, and accepts phone calls at all hours of the day and night.
And me, my role is that of Derby Widow. I have few compatriots in this role, as the vast majority of people involved in women's roller derby are, well, women, and they tend to not have wives, for some reason. Added to that, I'm not much in way of a sports booster, so my support has been mainly of the moral variety.
But one recent weekend, that changed. During said weekend, I came became a full-fledged athletic supporter.
Eamon, you see, we invited to assist with an invitational derby tournament sponsored by the Philly Roller Girls. In a moment of giddy euphoria, for some reason, I agreed to attend along with him. And then, for some unfathomable reason, I suggested that I volunteer to assist as well.
Friends, this is a strange move for me. I'm not sports friendly, and generally do not enjoy mixing it up with the hu-mans. I prefer quite, homebound weekends, that include only occasional interactions with those very well known to me.
Eamon, however, took me up on my offer, and I soon we were wending our way to the City of Brotherly Love for a weekend of eight-wheeled action.
Here's a sum-up of some of the fun:
-- A sojourn in downtown Philly, where we viewed the Liberty Bell, toured the National Mint, and took many photos of Eamon on various staircases as Rocky
-- Visited a vegetarian-friendly pizzaria that boasted THE BEST VEGAN CAKE EVER CONSUMED. To clarify, I'm not a vegan. I don't like vegan baked goods. Yet this particular item -- a cupcake -- was the best I'd ever tasted. So we (Eamon and his derby compatriots) had the good pizza folk box up 1/2 of a chocolate cake and 1/2 of a vanilla cake, which we took back to the hotel for later snacking. It was the best idea ever.
-- Took a swim in hotel pool, and competed to demonstrate our various underwater ballet skills.
-- Retired to hotel room to watch "Snakes on a Plane" and eat aforesaid cakes. A perfect evening.
That was day 1. The next two days, we spent from sun-up till after hours serving as slaves at the derby fest. Eamon handled scoring. I was typically given the duty of tracking penalties-per-player on a big white board, then running over to team captains to show them how they were faring.
In the last round, this required racing /across/ the track as the skaters whizzed around, all for the greater glory of derby. Heaven help us. Eamon was impressed with my hustle.
Incidentally, I earned a lovely new derby nickname during the tourney. As is well known, Eamon is "Scorey Feldman." I was going by "Mrs. Feldman," just because I couldn't think of anything better, when someone said, "Why don't you be K-Feld?" Why indeed.
So just call me K-Feld from now on.
And me, my role is that of Derby Widow. I have few compatriots in this role, as the vast majority of people involved in women's roller derby are, well, women, and they tend to not have wives, for some reason. Added to that, I'm not much in way of a sports booster, so my support has been mainly of the moral variety.
But one recent weekend, that changed. During said weekend, I came became a full-fledged athletic supporter.
Eamon, you see, we invited to assist with an invitational derby tournament sponsored by the Philly Roller Girls. In a moment of giddy euphoria, for some reason, I agreed to attend along with him. And then, for some unfathomable reason, I suggested that I volunteer to assist as well.
Friends, this is a strange move for me. I'm not sports friendly, and generally do not enjoy mixing it up with the hu-mans. I prefer quite, homebound weekends, that include only occasional interactions with those very well known to me.
Eamon, however, took me up on my offer, and I soon we were wending our way to the City of Brotherly Love for a weekend of eight-wheeled action.
Here's a sum-up of some of the fun:
-- A sojourn in downtown Philly, where we viewed the Liberty Bell, toured the National Mint, and took many photos of Eamon on various staircases as Rocky
-- Visited a vegetarian-friendly pizzaria that boasted THE BEST VEGAN CAKE EVER CONSUMED. To clarify, I'm not a vegan. I don't like vegan baked goods. Yet this particular item -- a cupcake -- was the best I'd ever tasted. So we (Eamon and his derby compatriots) had the good pizza folk box up 1/2 of a chocolate cake and 1/2 of a vanilla cake, which we took back to the hotel for later snacking. It was the best idea ever.
-- Took a swim in hotel pool, and competed to demonstrate our various underwater ballet skills.
-- Retired to hotel room to watch "Snakes on a Plane" and eat aforesaid cakes. A perfect evening.
That was day 1. The next two days, we spent from sun-up till after hours serving as slaves at the derby fest. Eamon handled scoring. I was typically given the duty of tracking penalties-per-player on a big white board, then running over to team captains to show them how they were faring.
In the last round, this required racing /across/ the track as the skaters whizzed around, all for the greater glory of derby. Heaven help us. Eamon was impressed with my hustle.
Incidentally, I earned a lovely new derby nickname during the tourney. As is well known, Eamon is "Scorey Feldman." I was going by "Mrs. Feldman," just because I couldn't think of anything better, when someone said, "Why don't you be K-Feld?" Why indeed.
So just call me K-Feld from now on.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Crazy Crap Item #109: The part where Jack participates in the circle of life
Recently, I am told, Jack partook for the first time of chicken on the bone. This came by way of chicken wings which he lunched upon at the local Dominicks.
According to his mother Ann, the bone-in nature of this tidbit was confusing to young Jack.
"Is it alive?" he asked.
No, Ann assured him, the chicken that made up his meal was most assuredly dead. It just had bones in it just like when it was alive.
Jack gnawed a bit longer, then asked his mother, "When the farmer comes to kill the chicken, do you know where the graveyard is?"
Ann responded that she did not know.
Jack responded by dropping his jaw and pointing into his mouth.
And the circle of life keeps turning.
According to his mother Ann, the bone-in nature of this tidbit was confusing to young Jack.
"Is it alive?" he asked.
No, Ann assured him, the chicken that made up his meal was most assuredly dead. It just had bones in it just like when it was alive.
Jack gnawed a bit longer, then asked his mother, "When the farmer comes to kill the chicken, do you know where the graveyard is?"
Ann responded that she did not know.
Jack responded by dropping his jaw and pointing into his mouth.
And the circle of life keeps turning.
Crazy Crap Item #108: The part where I am chided by cousin Tom
Yes, I've been negligent. I've not blogged for a long time. And of those many of you who have complained, no one has been more bitter than my cousin Tom (commemorated previously here).
But unlike most the layabouts who complain about my lack of bloggery, Tom actually supplied something to fill in the gap left by my sloth. To wit, a tale of Montana madness:
I have one for you.
Last Saturday I had a bonfire party, burning up a small portion of the plethora of dead wood decorating my property. As my neighbor Chris ( as in Christine) lugged a 4 foot log toward the fire to add to its warmth, she slipped on an icy bit and went down hard, landing with a thump. Her comment, "SHIT! I landed on a knot and I think I broke a rib". She waved her arms around and you could here sort of a clicking noise. We had another beer and discussed if she should go to the emergency room or not, her point being that with a broken rib all they can do is to take it easy for a while. Eventually that clicking noise (which she insisted on exhibiting between glugs) convinced her husband to take her to the hospital. So, off they went to the local Marcus Daly Hospital (known locally as Carcass Daily) (no offence). When they got there the doors to the emergency entrance were locked. They beat on the glass for a while until a couple people showed up, apparently torn away from some really good TV show, but they didn't know how to open the doors. After much pantomime through the glass, my friends indicated they were sorry for the disturbance and that they would make the hour drive to hospital in Missoula. The doors were open in Missoula, X-rays and such, yes, the #10 rib is broken, can't really do much but tell you to take it easy, let pain be your guide, take some pain killers, here is a prescription. Too bad Chris's husband left his wallet at home and and she had no cash. After a combined pocket scrape and car search, with the surprise discovery of forgotten money, they came up with $41. The subscription (at the only all-night drugstore in Missoula) was $40 and change. The allergic reaction began about the time they got home, which is to say much vomiting - a lovely thing with a broken rib. Chris is a hardy Montana woman and she gutted it out until Monday after work, when she and her husband dropped by the local medical clinic to see if they could get her a pain killer that didn't make her barf. While there, she happened to mention that she was having some trouble breathing and she was sort of "puffy" from her waist to her neck. The doctor pulled her husband aside and said he had two choices - either call an ambulance, or take her directly ("and don't stop anywhere along the way") back to the hospital. Yes, indeed, all that vomiting in reaction to the pain killers had caused her broken rib to puncture her lung. As this is written, almost a week later, she has a suction tube in her sucking out liquid. Ah, the wonders of modern medicine. We should have had another beer and passed on the hospital. After all, all they can do is tell you to take it easy.
That is crazy crap Montana style.
Mountain Man Tom
But unlike most the layabouts who complain about my lack of bloggery, Tom actually supplied something to fill in the gap left by my sloth. To wit, a tale of Montana madness:
I have one for you.
Last Saturday I had a bonfire party, burning up a small portion of the plethora of dead wood decorating my property. As my neighbor Chris ( as in Christine) lugged a 4 foot log toward the fire to add to its warmth, she slipped on an icy bit and went down hard, landing with a thump. Her comment, "SHIT! I landed on a knot and I think I broke a rib". She waved her arms around and you could here sort of a clicking noise. We had another beer and discussed if she should go to the emergency room or not, her point being that with a broken rib all they can do is to take it easy for a while. Eventually that clicking noise (which she insisted on exhibiting between glugs) convinced her husband to take her to the hospital. So, off they went to the local Marcus Daly Hospital (known locally as Carcass Daily) (no offence). When they got there the doors to the emergency entrance were locked. They beat on the glass for a while until a couple people showed up, apparently torn away from some really good TV show, but they didn't know how to open the doors. After much pantomime through the glass, my friends indicated they were sorry for the disturbance and that they would make the hour drive to hospital in Missoula. The doors were open in Missoula, X-rays and such, yes, the #10 rib is broken, can't really do much but tell you to take it easy, let pain be your guide, take some pain killers, here is a prescription. Too bad Chris's husband left his wallet at home and and she had no cash. After a combined pocket scrape and car search, with the surprise discovery of forgotten money, they came up with $41. The subscription (at the only all-night drugstore in Missoula) was $40 and change. The allergic reaction began about the time they got home, which is to say much vomiting - a lovely thing with a broken rib. Chris is a hardy Montana woman and she gutted it out until Monday after work, when she and her husband dropped by the local medical clinic to see if they could get her a pain killer that didn't make her barf. While there, she happened to mention that she was having some trouble breathing and she was sort of "puffy" from her waist to her neck. The doctor pulled her husband aside and said he had two choices - either call an ambulance, or take her directly ("and don't stop anywhere along the way") back to the hospital. Yes, indeed, all that vomiting in reaction to the pain killers had caused her broken rib to puncture her lung. As this is written, almost a week later, she has a suction tube in her sucking out liquid. Ah, the wonders of modern medicine. We should have had another beer and passed on the hospital. After all, all they can do is tell you to take it easy.
That is crazy crap Montana style.
Mountain Man Tom
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