I'm sure you know a few.
You know, the people you are acquainted with who have "da hook up".
In high school, this was practically everyone I knew.
I don't think I paid for a single Hershey's pie from Burger King my entire junior year. Why should I? My best friend Scary Sarah and her boyfriend worked there and one of them was guaranteed to be on shift when the cravings for artificially flavored badness hit.
I was a sandwich artist, so when you had that craving for a turkey sub but pennies in your pocket, I was your girl. Or if you wanted to stroke my pet pickle (an actual sliced pickle, people, please!) that I usually kept on my shoulder to entertain the customers.
Don't ask...I was a weird kid, a weirder teenager, and I just am better at hiding my weirdness as an adult.
That, and I'm a big pickle fan, heh heh.
Waitressing at the local Denny's diner ensured that it was our spot to go when we were carousing. I could usually sweet talk one of the cooks into dumping some season fries in the fryer for us or cooking some pancakes and at the very least, we'd get free coffee or pop (pop=soda for you non Minnesotans out there).
After high school, I lucked out in many ways...my sister was a server also and we literally used her as a human coupon several times, as she had to be present in order for us to get the discount. Then she got a killer job at a wonderful national department store and I benefited from her employee discount, as well as getting all kinds of great makeup and perfume.
One of my other buddies was a meat buyer for a large grocery retailer and a couple times he had 30-40 inch thick ribeye steaks sold to him for a mere $10.
We ate a lot of BBQ and red meat that summer. I think it was probably the only time in my life that I wasn't anemic and low on iron!
Is this why we get jobs and have friends? To get the hook up?
What's YOUR human coupon story?
Have a great weekend everyone--I start a very nice long week of vacation with the end of the day today, and I couldn't be more pumped. Maybe I'll even get some projects done before school starts up again (but don't hold your breath, I won't be responsible for any collapses).
Friday, August 26, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
What Happens When You Have a Crush On a Fictional Urban Fantasy Character?
I'm in serious crush with a character from one of my books.
Ack! How did this happen?
Is this normal? Is there some new psychological disease they're going to name after me, that describes when someone has a crush on an entirely fictional character and pines with unrequited (and un-requit-able) love?
A friend introduced me to the urban fantasy series by Jim Butcher awhile back and I've been hooked ever since.
The main protagonist, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, just happens to live in Chicago and is the only entry under "Wizard" in the phone book. (He does not do love potions).
He's seriously tall and lanky, old-fashioned when it comes to women and children, and a wiseass of the nth degree.
He has a cat named Mister who is the closest thing to a mountain lion in those parts. He has a humongous Foo dog named Mouse who is smarter than most people. He drives a battered and beat-up Volkwagen Beetle that at one point was blue, but due to various attacks by supernatural creatures has had some cosmetic and body work done and is now more colors than a My Little Pony.
One of his best friends is a talking skull named Bob with a penchant for porn and seedy romance novels.(He's actually a spirit of intellect who lives in the skull, but let's not mince the details).
Harry battles all the supernatural baddies who come to Chicago to cause mayhem. He often gets beat up, has his apartment attacked and is constantly running his mouth when he is out of options. This is in addition to somehow finding enough money to pay the rent on his apartment and office.
Frequently this wise-cracking magic wielder gets the raw end of the deal, but he always keeps his head and somehow manages to save the day.
How can you not love a hero like him?
He's gotten to:
If I weren't married already (and if he wasn't fictional) I'd be driving to Chicago to throw myself at him.
If you find yourself craving some light reading and enjoy urban fantasy (or hysterically funny wiseacre heroes who regularily engage in witty banter) I strongly suggest you pick up this series. It's the best urban fantasy I've read, ever, and is one of my top ten favorite series.
Which is saying a lot, if you've seen the state of my bookshelves at home.
*The book series should not be confused with the SyFy series of the same name. Yes, technically it's based off of the books, but the word from other loyal Dresden fans who've seen it, it's blasphemous and evil to relate itself to the books.
Ack! How did this happen?
Is this normal? Is there some new psychological disease they're going to name after me, that describes when someone has a crush on an entirely fictional character and pines with unrequited (and un-requit-able) love?
A friend introduced me to the urban fantasy series by Jim Butcher awhile back and I've been hooked ever since.
The main protagonist, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden, just happens to live in Chicago and is the only entry under "Wizard" in the phone book. (He does not do love potions).
He's seriously tall and lanky, old-fashioned when it comes to women and children, and a wiseass of the nth degree.
He has a cat named Mister who is the closest thing to a mountain lion in those parts. He has a humongous Foo dog named Mouse who is smarter than most people. He drives a battered and beat-up Volkwagen Beetle that at one point was blue, but due to various attacks by supernatural creatures has had some cosmetic and body work done and is now more colors than a My Little Pony.
One of his best friends is a talking skull named Bob with a penchant for porn and seedy romance novels.(He's actually a spirit of intellect who lives in the skull, but let's not mince the details).
Harry battles all the supernatural baddies who come to Chicago to cause mayhem. He often gets beat up, has his apartment attacked and is constantly running his mouth when he is out of options. This is in addition to somehow finding enough money to pay the rent on his apartment and office.
Frequently this wise-cracking magic wielder gets the raw end of the deal, but he always keeps his head and somehow manages to save the day.
How can you not love a hero like him?
He's gotten to:
- Hang out with and mouth off to archangels
- Be protected by an actual fairie godmother (not as fun as it sounds)
- Battle monkey-demons who fling actual flaming poo at him
- Tell the Alien from H.R. Giger/Alien movie fame to "Get away from her you BITCH!"
- Visit his own grave
- Ride a giant zombie T-rex re-animated by polka music
- Lead a legion of tiny fair folk wielding box-cutter weapons in return for paying them in pizza
If I weren't married already (and if he wasn't fictional) I'd be driving to Chicago to throw myself at him.
If you find yourself craving some light reading and enjoy urban fantasy (or hysterically funny wiseacre heroes who regularily engage in witty banter) I strongly suggest you pick up this series. It's the best urban fantasy I've read, ever, and is one of my top ten favorite series.
Which is saying a lot, if you've seen the state of my bookshelves at home.
*The book series should not be confused with the SyFy series of the same name. Yes, technically it's based off of the books, but the word from other loyal Dresden fans who've seen it, it's blasphemous and evil to relate itself to the books.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
It's IN the Meat...
A post from Pearl over at Pearl-Why You Little got me remembering my own time working in the food industry...
My worst nightmare as a server was people finding things in their food that should not be there.
Like the time my best friend Scary Sarah (yes, we shared the same name, but she got the moniker Scary while I was just plain Sarah, that tells you something, dunnit?) accidentally lost her bandaid while working the line at Burger King...and found it later on when a customer complained and came back in the store.
One evening I'm working my tables at the local Denny's diner. This was a silver monstrosity pieced together much like a huge Lego set, complete with black and white tiled floors that were more slippery than the bobsled tracks at the Olympics and featured glaring sparkly red and white upholstery.
I believe the thought was to make you feel as though you had walked through a time-warp upon entering, bringing you to the nostalgic times of the 50's when diners such as this were standard fair.
On this particular evening, I scooted over to my table bearing the loaded tray of food previously ordered, T-bone steak included. I hand the plates off and ask if everything looks okay, receive the affirmative nods, and zoom off to check on my other tables.
When serving, I tried to be diligent about coming back shortly after serving the food in case there were problems. This time they beat me to it, damn them.
I look over and I can see the slightly overweight middle-aged woman waving at me from across the smoking section. I briskly walk over and produce the Sookie-esque fake smile. "Is there something wrong?"
The woman holds up her husband's T-bone and declares loudly, "There's a HAIR in my husband's steak!"
I'm horrified but manage to keep from backing away. My thoughts immediately flash to the long-haired cook in back, the surefire culprit. I struggle not to think any of this, however, as my face is more transparent than a wet white t-shirt.
"I'm so sorry ma'am, we'll get you another right away," I say, trying not to panic even as I try to gauge her. Is she one of those people, the ones for whom nothing will fix it?
"No problem," she replies and my shoulders slump in relief.
They go right back up in incredulity, however, as she continues.
"It's not your fault, dear. I can see this hair is coming right out of the steak, I believe it was the food manufacturer's fault!"
I can't believe what I'm hearing. Surely she understands that a t-bone is not a hamburger? How can the hair be coming out of the steak? Unless that was one freaky cow, I believe Occam's razor is still in effect: All things being equal, the simplest explanation is often the correct one.
But I'm not about to argue with her, and I whisk the offending slice of meat off the table and a short time later provide a new one for the silent husband.
Nothing else goes amiss--they eat, pay, tip decently, and leave. We even had some fun small talk to share during the remaining part of their visit.
*whew* Disaster averted!
Come to think of it, I believe Sarah's BK customer also claimed they found the bandaid within the meat and therefore she escaped the blame...well, that, and the fact that a new bandaid found its way to her finger immediately.
Truly, however, in my experience this was the exception, not the norm. I have no problem eating out to this day...
My worst nightmare as a server was people finding things in their food that should not be there.
Like the time my best friend Scary Sarah (yes, we shared the same name, but she got the moniker Scary while I was just plain Sarah, that tells you something, dunnit?) accidentally lost her bandaid while working the line at Burger King...and found it later on when a customer complained and came back in the store.
One evening I'm working my tables at the local Denny's diner. This was a silver monstrosity pieced together much like a huge Lego set, complete with black and white tiled floors that were more slippery than the bobsled tracks at the Olympics and featured glaring sparkly red and white upholstery.
I believe the thought was to make you feel as though you had walked through a time-warp upon entering, bringing you to the nostalgic times of the 50's when diners such as this were standard fair.
On this particular evening, I scooted over to my table bearing the loaded tray of food previously ordered, T-bone steak included. I hand the plates off and ask if everything looks okay, receive the affirmative nods, and zoom off to check on my other tables.
When serving, I tried to be diligent about coming back shortly after serving the food in case there were problems. This time they beat me to it, damn them.
I look over and I can see the slightly overweight middle-aged woman waving at me from across the smoking section. I briskly walk over and produce the Sookie-esque fake smile. "Is there something wrong?"
The woman holds up her husband's T-bone and declares loudly, "There's a HAIR in my husband's steak!"
I'm horrified but manage to keep from backing away. My thoughts immediately flash to the long-haired cook in back, the surefire culprit. I struggle not to think any of this, however, as my face is more transparent than a wet white t-shirt.
"I'm so sorry ma'am, we'll get you another right away," I say, trying not to panic even as I try to gauge her. Is she one of those people, the ones for whom nothing will fix it?
"No problem," she replies and my shoulders slump in relief.
They go right back up in incredulity, however, as she continues.
"It's not your fault, dear. I can see this hair is coming right out of the steak, I believe it was the food manufacturer's fault!"
I can't believe what I'm hearing. Surely she understands that a t-bone is not a hamburger? How can the hair be coming out of the steak? Unless that was one freaky cow, I believe Occam's razor is still in effect: All things being equal, the simplest explanation is often the correct one.
But I'm not about to argue with her, and I whisk the offending slice of meat off the table and a short time later provide a new one for the silent husband.
Nothing else goes amiss--they eat, pay, tip decently, and leave. We even had some fun small talk to share during the remaining part of their visit.
*whew* Disaster averted!
Come to think of it, I believe Sarah's BK customer also claimed they found the bandaid within the meat and therefore she escaped the blame...well, that, and the fact that a new bandaid found its way to her finger immediately.
Truly, however, in my experience this was the exception, not the norm. I have no problem eating out to this day...
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Peter Pecker
This, boys and girls, is the story of Peter Pecker.
He came to me with that new plastic smell, the smell of things that can be inflated that are made out of plastic.
(Do guys that buy inflatable dolls breathe in that new plastic smell with fondness? I don't think I want to go there).
His face was creepy...like a bad screen print of a voodoo doll with a horrible rendition of the victim on the front.
He came with several plastic rings that could be tossed onto...well I'll just leave that part to your imaginations.
With a name like Peter Pecker and an introduction like that, I'm confident you'll reach the correct conclusion, although you may wish you hadn't.
*blush* Thanks for thinking I'm not that type of girl, but truth is Peter Pecker made me squeal in delight.
*gasp* NOW you're going somewhere you shouldn't!
He was a gag gift at my bachelorette party and was an instant hit. The Big B was for some reason still home when the shower/bachelorette party started, and as he snuck downstairs to use the bathroom, the gaggle of girls used the opportunity to place Peter Pecker across the doorway of the bathroom and we all waited in anticipation of his reaction.
My lovely nerd boy, he took it in stride and burst out the door a-la football players bursting through a large sheet of paper stretched across a frame and knocked Mr. Pecker to the floor.
Smartly, the Big B disappeared shortly after that and wasn't seen until the following day.
Peter, on the other hand, was used and abused and forced to watch all the silly wiener-themed games done at bachelorette parties--the broom and toilet paper race game, the hot-dog on a string and the bucket of tacks game, the pin the dong on the hottie game.
His face remained creepily stoic the entire time.
*********************************************************************************
Cut to last year, sometime during the spring. My coworker Jeino (nicknamed this for his weird obsession for the German folk artist Heino and the fact that he can look eerily similiar) invited me to see his band, Loyal to the Group of Seventeen, play a gig at the 7th Street Entry.
He is a person who insists on being outside the lines, all the time, in every aspect of his life. The crazier, stranger things can be, the happier he is.
He once started a collage of the Jolly Roger on his cubewall made entirely out of cardboard fake credit cards. Sadly, the 2008 economy crash ended the credit card offers for the most part, so the collage went unfinished.
But I digress!
I had told him about Peter Pecker and he said he'd want him for his band to play with.
Not play with like that, you sickos!
Well, okay, maybe so. But he really wanted Mr Pecker there so he could be onstage, basking in their glory alongside the rest of the band. He excitedly told me of what he would make Peter do, and trust me, it was NOT G-rated!
When I agreed to come to his gig, he asked if I would bring Peter with and at some point, throw him up onstage. Jeino has a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for practical jokes.
I agreed...and brought my girlfriend K along as my moral support.
I chickened out on lugging an inflated male blow up doll through the downtown streets of Minneapolis. I DID bring Mr Pecker with, safely rolled up and tucked away in my huge purse.
Loyal to the Group of Seventeen came onstage, and the first few songs were played while I nervously contemplated the plastic doll in my purse.
Where in the heck was I gonna blow this thing up? How would I bring it onto the floor? Everyone will stare!
Jeino must have sensed my misgivings, for at one point he leaned over his drumkit and said into the microphone, "Where's the blowup doll?"
I looked at K. K looked at me. We nodded, and departed for the entryway.
There we blew up the nefarious doll, as people walked past into the show. Peter's arms had gotten all twisted up and I had trouble with my half of the chambers, and in a fit of impatience K took it from me and proceeded to finish inflating Mr Pecker.
Of all my girlfriends, only K would have the balls to do something like this with me.
Sheepishly, I grabbed him and we made our way back to our place in front of the stage. I waited for a good time so I wouldn't disturb the players...and when the moment was ripe, I dashed up close, tossed the doll and ran away quickly.
The lead singer who plays keyboard while he sings suddenly turns around and sees the doll.
"Oh my god, there really IS a blowup doll! I thought you were just joking," and he turns to look at his drummer as he says this.
Apparently Jeino wanted to play a joke on his bandmates as well and hadn't told them about the possible appearance of Peter Pecker.
The lead signer proceeded to put Peter Pecker on his lap and played the next few songs around Peter's...ahem...pecker. The appendage may have been used to play a few notes on the keyboard as well. The night grows a bit hazy after that...but my cheeks hurt from smiling.
The bassist was weirded out by his face.
"It's so creepy!" she exclaimed at one point when the singer threatened her with the doll.
Eventually Peter ended up bent over the drumkit with his member facing the bass drum hole.
When next I ran into Jeino at work, I asked him how Mr Pecker had fared during the afterparty.
Jeino shook his head. "You know, we forgot him there? I can't believe we did, but in the rush to load the van, he got left behind."
Sadness! But I'm comforted by the thought that perhaps Peter Pecker found a new home.
He came to me with that new plastic smell, the smell of things that can be inflated that are made out of plastic.
(Do guys that buy inflatable dolls breathe in that new plastic smell with fondness? I don't think I want to go there).
His face was creepy...like a bad screen print of a voodoo doll with a horrible rendition of the victim on the front.
He came with several plastic rings that could be tossed onto...well I'll just leave that part to your imaginations.
With a name like Peter Pecker and an introduction like that, I'm confident you'll reach the correct conclusion, although you may wish you hadn't.
*blush* Thanks for thinking I'm not that type of girl, but truth is Peter Pecker made me squeal in delight.
*gasp* NOW you're going somewhere you shouldn't!
He was a gag gift at my bachelorette party and was an instant hit. The Big B was for some reason still home when the shower/bachelorette party started, and as he snuck downstairs to use the bathroom, the gaggle of girls used the opportunity to place Peter Pecker across the doorway of the bathroom and we all waited in anticipation of his reaction.
My lovely nerd boy, he took it in stride and burst out the door a-la football players bursting through a large sheet of paper stretched across a frame and knocked Mr. Pecker to the floor.
Smartly, the Big B disappeared shortly after that and wasn't seen until the following day.
Peter, on the other hand, was used and abused and forced to watch all the silly wiener-themed games done at bachelorette parties--the broom and toilet paper race game, the hot-dog on a string and the bucket of tacks game, the pin the dong on the hottie game.
His face remained creepily stoic the entire time.
*********************************************************************************
Cut to last year, sometime during the spring. My coworker Jeino (nicknamed this for his weird obsession for the German folk artist Heino and the fact that he can look eerily similiar) invited me to see his band, Loyal to the Group of Seventeen, play a gig at the 7th Street Entry.
He is a person who insists on being outside the lines, all the time, in every aspect of his life. The crazier, stranger things can be, the happier he is.
He once started a collage of the Jolly Roger on his cubewall made entirely out of cardboard fake credit cards. Sadly, the 2008 economy crash ended the credit card offers for the most part, so the collage went unfinished.
But I digress!
I had told him about Peter Pecker and he said he'd want him for his band to play with.
Not play with like that, you sickos!
Well, okay, maybe so. But he really wanted Mr Pecker there so he could be onstage, basking in their glory alongside the rest of the band. He excitedly told me of what he would make Peter do, and trust me, it was NOT G-rated!
When I agreed to come to his gig, he asked if I would bring Peter with and at some point, throw him up onstage. Jeino has a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for practical jokes.
I agreed...and brought my girlfriend K along as my moral support.
I chickened out on lugging an inflated male blow up doll through the downtown streets of Minneapolis. I DID bring Mr Pecker with, safely rolled up and tucked away in my huge purse.
Loyal to the Group of Seventeen came onstage, and the first few songs were played while I nervously contemplated the plastic doll in my purse.
Where in the heck was I gonna blow this thing up? How would I bring it onto the floor? Everyone will stare!
Jeino must have sensed my misgivings, for at one point he leaned over his drumkit and said into the microphone, "Where's the blowup doll?"
I looked at K. K looked at me. We nodded, and departed for the entryway.
There we blew up the nefarious doll, as people walked past into the show. Peter's arms had gotten all twisted up and I had trouble with my half of the chambers, and in a fit of impatience K took it from me and proceeded to finish inflating Mr Pecker.
Of all my girlfriends, only K would have the balls to do something like this with me.
Sheepishly, I grabbed him and we made our way back to our place in front of the stage. I waited for a good time so I wouldn't disturb the players...and when the moment was ripe, I dashed up close, tossed the doll and ran away quickly.
The lead singer who plays keyboard while he sings suddenly turns around and sees the doll.
"Oh my god, there really IS a blowup doll! I thought you were just joking," and he turns to look at his drummer as he says this.
Apparently Jeino wanted to play a joke on his bandmates as well and hadn't told them about the possible appearance of Peter Pecker.
The lead signer proceeded to put Peter Pecker on his lap and played the next few songs around Peter's...ahem...pecker. The appendage may have been used to play a few notes on the keyboard as well. The night grows a bit hazy after that...but my cheeks hurt from smiling.
The bassist was weirded out by his face.
"It's so creepy!" she exclaimed at one point when the singer threatened her with the doll.
Eventually Peter ended up bent over the drumkit with his member facing the bass drum hole.
When next I ran into Jeino at work, I asked him how Mr Pecker had fared during the afterparty.
Jeino shook his head. "You know, we forgot him there? I can't believe we did, but in the rush to load the van, he got left behind."
Sadness! But I'm comforted by the thought that perhaps Peter Pecker found a new home.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Mushroom Monday
They call me mellow yellow
Quite rightly
They call me mellow yellow
Quite rightly
They call me mellow yellow
Quite rightly
Potato chips really do grow in trees...or in the forest, at any rate.
Quite rightly
They call me mellow yellow
Quite rightly
They call me mellow yellow
Quite rightly
Potato chips really do grow in trees...or in the forest, at any rate.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
They're Everywhere!
The shouting fanatic was on the corner of Nicollet and 8th street again last Wednesday evening, spewing more doctrine and hatred into the world.
Waiting to cross the street, I was forced to listen to him shout against profanity and idle words. Not that I would disagree, per se, but his earlier vomit has made me disinclined to like him very much.
Later on at home, as I am preparing dinner for the D&D group that plays every other Wednesday at our house, I hear what sounds suspiciously like a live drumkit coming from somewhere in the neighborhood.
I just couldn't get the sound reconciled in my head--it didn't belong to the normal neighborhood noise. I went from the kitchen to the living room to make sure it wasn't the TV.
It wasn't. As I turned around, I saw a mini-parade coming down my street. The strains of "Halleluiah" could be heard.
Seriously?
Now they're freakin' coming round the neigborhood interrupting everyone's dinner with this?
At least they weren't spouting hatred of homosexuals and calling them diseased.
I think. I can't really be sure, as I closed the windows.
Regardless, the people following after dutifully came up to the front door to hand out pamphlets and spread the Word. I didn't hear what the Big B told them through the screen of our porch on the side of the house, but I can guess.
Maybe we should have invited them in so they could see our D&D paraphernalia.
Then they'd REALLY think we were going to Hell! After all, Dungeons and Dragons is demonic! There's a pantheon of false gods and it causes people to go around killing others with medieval weaponry. It subverts people into believing they can fight monsters and battle evil (or fight heroes and battle good).
Normally I wouldn't have been so nasty about it (like pointedly closing all our windows as they rolled down the street) but the maniac on the corner had put me in a mood, and to find them literally at my doorstep that same evening...well....
...I will blame it on hormones. I have been cranky of late for no apparent reason, and despite my blaming it on hormones, I really can't.
I don't have a problem with people talking about what they believe in. But when you come down my street and interrupt gaming time which is sacred! I take issue.
Just don't try to cram it down my throat and we'll be fine.
Waiting to cross the street, I was forced to listen to him shout against profanity and idle words. Not that I would disagree, per se, but his earlier vomit has made me disinclined to like him very much.
Later on at home, as I am preparing dinner for the D&D group that plays every other Wednesday at our house, I hear what sounds suspiciously like a live drumkit coming from somewhere in the neighborhood.
I just couldn't get the sound reconciled in my head--it didn't belong to the normal neighborhood noise. I went from the kitchen to the living room to make sure it wasn't the TV.
It wasn't. As I turned around, I saw a mini-parade coming down my street. The strains of "Halleluiah" could be heard.
Seriously?
Now they're freakin' coming round the neigborhood interrupting everyone's dinner with this?
At least they weren't spouting hatred of homosexuals and calling them diseased.
I think. I can't really be sure, as I closed the windows.
Regardless, the people following after dutifully came up to the front door to hand out pamphlets and spread the Word. I didn't hear what the Big B told them through the screen of our porch on the side of the house, but I can guess.
Maybe we should have invited them in so they could see our D&D paraphernalia.
Then they'd REALLY think we were going to Hell! After all, Dungeons and Dragons is demonic! There's a pantheon of false gods and it causes people to go around killing others with medieval weaponry. It subverts people into believing they can fight monsters and battle evil (or fight heroes and battle good).
Normally I wouldn't have been so nasty about it (like pointedly closing all our windows as they rolled down the street) but the maniac on the corner had put me in a mood, and to find them literally at my doorstep that same evening...well....
...I will blame it on hormones. I have been cranky of late for no apparent reason, and despite my blaming it on hormones, I really can't.
I don't have a problem with people talking about what they believe in. But when you come down my street and interrupt gaming time which is sacred! I take issue.
Just don't try to cram it down my throat and we'll be fine.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Fortune Cookie
A dose of adversity is often as needful as a dose of medicene.
Ah, the wisdom contained in those little folded cookies!
Without darkness there can be no light
There are no heads harder than empty ones
The fortune you seek is in another cookie
And my personal favorite:
Reality is for people who lack imagination.
Enjoy your freedom everyone! Have a great weekend.
Ah, the wisdom contained in those little folded cookies!
Without darkness there can be no light
There are no heads harder than empty ones
The fortune you seek is in another cookie
And my personal favorite:
Reality is for people who lack imagination.
Enjoy your freedom everyone! Have a great weekend.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Mushroom Monday
Mushrooms.
'Shrooms.
MUSHIES!
A rainbow mushroom--can it get any better?
I love that mushrooms come in so many colors and shapes--like these ladies-parasol look alikes below.
My sibling's favorite color is purple, so here's for you sista!
Friday, August 12, 2011
Sassy Kitteh Gives You Her Profile...
...coz she's saucy like that.
She is the ultimate love-whore and has a mouth on her that could make a truck driver blush.
She's either cussing you out, nagging you to do something, or encouraging you to continue petting her in just that manner.
Either way, you always know when she's around because she insists on keeping up a constant dialogue with you. When I'm home by myself, I never feel alone if Bama's around because she's so constantly vocal.
I once had a half-hour conversation with her. I swear! She will continue to meow at you as long as you show your face and make noises at her.
There are days when she sounds hoarse, as if her little tiny vocal chords are on the verge of giving out because of your insistence on not giving her what she wants, when she wants it, so that she's forced to berate you endlessly until you give in and give her a head rub or cuddle.
She is a force of personality in this house and not to be trifled with.
She knows how to kill you--there are plenty of flights of stairs that she can trip you down if you displease her.
All hail the Bama, softest kitteh in the world! She demands your love and will receive it, whether you want to give it or not.
Because she's Bama.
She is the ultimate love-whore and has a mouth on her that could make a truck driver blush.
She's either cussing you out, nagging you to do something, or encouraging you to continue petting her in just that manner.
Either way, you always know when she's around because she insists on keeping up a constant dialogue with you. When I'm home by myself, I never feel alone if Bama's around because she's so constantly vocal.
I once had a half-hour conversation with her. I swear! She will continue to meow at you as long as you show your face and make noises at her.
There are days when she sounds hoarse, as if her little tiny vocal chords are on the verge of giving out because of your insistence on not giving her what she wants, when she wants it, so that she's forced to berate you endlessly until you give in and give her a head rub or cuddle.
She is a force of personality in this house and not to be trifled with.
She knows how to kill you--there are plenty of flights of stairs that she can trip you down if you displease her.
All hail the Bama, softest kitteh in the world! She demands your love and will receive it, whether you want to give it or not.
Because she's Bama.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
The Barrens...Part I
For around 40 years, my family has been camping at the Barrens.
View Larger Map
Somewhere in the upper right-hand corner just above the "View" in "View my complete profile" lies the best place to camp, ever.
As I'm fond of saying, I've been camping here since before I was born. That's right, since I was a babe in the womb, and almost every year since then has held at least one trip to the Barrens for me.
It's in northwestern Wisconsin and I love its scraggly pines, sandy soil, rolling hills, crunchy moss, dense forest and rippling rivers.
Every year my mom would have my sister and I pack our white slatted baskets with the things we wanted to bring with. Whatever we could fit plus a couple extras were all we could take with us, but somehow I never ended up using all of it on any trip I went. The delights of the Barrens were far more entertaining than anything mundane enough to be brought from home could ever be.
Its called the Barrens because years ago, before I was born, a forest fire swept through and took many acres. When my parents were younger than the age I am now, they obtained permission from the logging company that owns the land to camp there, as long as three common sense rules were maintained: don't cut down live trees, don't start forest fires, and take everything you brought (trash and all) with you when you leave.
My dad took these rules very seriously, and I can remember years where he shimmied up trees like a primate in order to make sure the last bit of rope or stray leftover firecracker was down before we left.
The campsite is reached by driving down a sucession of narrower and smaller roads, going from the interstate 35 all the way to a track that is more for ATV's than cars or campers. The sand on the sides is thick and can drag you in if you're not careful and the roads follow the hills like a dusty rollercoaster and rocks make a musical pinging on your undercarriage as you careen down the dirt "roads". If you worry about scratches to your paint or how rough roads will hurt your car's suspension, this place is not for you.
When I was little, my dad had a toy.
It was a red-orange dune buggy with two bucket seats and padded roll bars, and I can barely remember it, but the few memories I can recall are filled with the scent of delighted terror and breathless excited glee.
One year my dad woke us up late at night and brought us to the beginning of the driveway turnoff where the trees were smaller (recovering still from the fire) to show us a meteor shower.
The stars up there are incredible. The Milky Way is so shiningly obvious. Where I grew up, you could see more stars than where I live now, but even there the night sky could not compete with nature's mural up here in the sparsely populated area along the Totagatic river. I never fail to see at least one shooting star while I'm up there.
After driving down the rutted track, with tree branches scraping along the sides of the car even as the wheels thump down into enormous holes and the grassy middle section brushes the undercarriage, you are rewarded by the sight of a sudden round clearing opening out onto the river itself. The trail curves to follow it downstream several yards leading to the rest of the campsite, gently shaded by tall scruffy pines. Some of the stumps have been sawn off at hip-height and lengths of board were attached to them to serve as all-weather tables.
The edge of the campsite is sudden, breaking off into a minature sandy cliff that ends in the glinting and burbling water below. Two arms of rocks stretch across the river, obstructing the flow, which almost but not quite meet in the middle, allowing a swift and strong current to funnel between. The river upstream of the rocks and in the channel is sandy soft.
Once we spent nine days camping out there, a portion with friends of the family but many were spent together with just me, my sister and our parents.
We picked blueberries when they were in season and ate fresh blueberry pancakes. We were eaten alive by bugs and endured rainy trips at times.
Some nights, up late with my friends, I can't wait to show this to my future children. I only hope that it will be preserved long enough for me to introduce them to it properly, over years of childhood exploration like I had.
My parents and their friends started the tradition of tying a rope across the river, the better to secure their floaty devices and soak up the sun's rays. We continued the tradition when I began going up in high school, and I remember being amazed at how much had changed in the few years of our absence between getting my driver's license and when we sold the old Winnebago camper.
I remember being pulled across a sandbar by my father on the orange foam boogey board we simply called the "Aussie" for the name embossed on the top. All the floats end at the campsite after putting in upriver, and depending on which entry point we chose and how deep the river was, that trip could either be as quick as 20 minutes or as long as six hours.
I am filled with fond memories every time I visit this place, whether in the flesh or in my mind. It's beautiful and peaceful and far from everything noisome. No traffic, no lights, no electricity, no bathroom, nothing but you and the woods and the river.
If I could buy the place to preserve forever, I would.
Now.
Immediately.
No question about it.
The place constantly changes, as evidenced by the ravages of a storm just recently passed. Selfishly, I wished for our idyllic site to be spared for the most part, and thankfully, it was. Not everywhere was so lucky.
Two weekends past I went up there with my sister and her boyfriend, just the three of us. We had a fun time enjoying the sights and sounds of the river, eating and drinking around the fire and later on tubing for the afternoon just after a sudden storm had passed. We saw a majestic bald eagle winging his way downriver while we were ensconced on our rubber inner tubes and enjoyed snacks of summer sausage, cheese and pasta salad while we lazily floated with the current.
The best part is that I am going again this coming weekend with another small group of friends. One more chance to store up another memory-piece of heaven.
View Larger Map
Somewhere in the upper right-hand corner just above the "View" in "View my complete profile" lies the best place to camp, ever.
As I'm fond of saying, I've been camping here since before I was born. That's right, since I was a babe in the womb, and almost every year since then has held at least one trip to the Barrens for me.
It's in northwestern Wisconsin and I love its scraggly pines, sandy soil, rolling hills, crunchy moss, dense forest and rippling rivers.
This is actually the Namekogen river, which my river is a tributary of.
We crossed over it on our way in to our campsite this year.
Every year my mom would have my sister and I pack our white slatted baskets with the things we wanted to bring with. Whatever we could fit plus a couple extras were all we could take with us, but somehow I never ended up using all of it on any trip I went. The delights of the Barrens were far more entertaining than anything mundane enough to be brought from home could ever be.
Its called the Barrens because years ago, before I was born, a forest fire swept through and took many acres. When my parents were younger than the age I am now, they obtained permission from the logging company that owns the land to camp there, as long as three common sense rules were maintained: don't cut down live trees, don't start forest fires, and take everything you brought (trash and all) with you when you leave.
My dad took these rules very seriously, and I can remember years where he shimmied up trees like a primate in order to make sure the last bit of rope or stray leftover firecracker was down before we left.
The campsite is reached by driving down a sucession of narrower and smaller roads, going from the interstate 35 all the way to a track that is more for ATV's than cars or campers. The sand on the sides is thick and can drag you in if you're not careful and the roads follow the hills like a dusty rollercoaster and rocks make a musical pinging on your undercarriage as you careen down the dirt "roads". If you worry about scratches to your paint or how rough roads will hurt your car's suspension, this place is not for you.
When I was little, my dad had a toy.
It was a red-orange dune buggy with two bucket seats and padded roll bars, and I can barely remember it, but the few memories I can recall are filled with the scent of delighted terror and breathless excited glee.
One year my dad woke us up late at night and brought us to the beginning of the driveway turnoff where the trees were smaller (recovering still from the fire) to show us a meteor shower.
The stars up there are incredible. The Milky Way is so shiningly obvious. Where I grew up, you could see more stars than where I live now, but even there the night sky could not compete with nature's mural up here in the sparsely populated area along the Totagatic river. I never fail to see at least one shooting star while I'm up there.
After driving down the rutted track, with tree branches scraping along the sides of the car even as the wheels thump down into enormous holes and the grassy middle section brushes the undercarriage, you are rewarded by the sight of a sudden round clearing opening out onto the river itself. The trail curves to follow it downstream several yards leading to the rest of the campsite, gently shaded by tall scruffy pines. Some of the stumps have been sawn off at hip-height and lengths of board were attached to them to serve as all-weather tables.
The edge of the campsite is sudden, breaking off into a minature sandy cliff that ends in the glinting and burbling water below. Two arms of rocks stretch across the river, obstructing the flow, which almost but not quite meet in the middle, allowing a swift and strong current to funnel between. The river upstream of the rocks and in the channel is sandy soft.
Recent damage from the storm. Directly underneath that tree used to be deep swimming
hole that was over my dad's head in some years, but several years ago another tree collapsed from
the bank and caused the hole to be silted up. My childhood simming beach goes unused now.
Once we spent nine days camping out there, a portion with friends of the family but many were spent together with just me, my sister and our parents.
We picked blueberries when they were in season and ate fresh blueberry pancakes. We were eaten alive by bugs and endured rainy trips at times.
Some nights, up late with my friends, I can't wait to show this to my future children. I only hope that it will be preserved long enough for me to introduce them to it properly, over years of childhood exploration like I had.
My parents and their friends started the tradition of tying a rope across the river, the better to secure their floaty devices and soak up the sun's rays. We continued the tradition when I began going up in high school, and I remember being amazed at how much had changed in the few years of our absence between getting my driver's license and when we sold the old Winnebago camper.
The view downstream from our campsite
I remember being pulled across a sandbar by my father on the orange foam boogey board we simply called the "Aussie" for the name embossed on the top. All the floats end at the campsite after putting in upriver, and depending on which entry point we chose and how deep the river was, that trip could either be as quick as 20 minutes or as long as six hours.
I am filled with fond memories every time I visit this place, whether in the flesh or in my mind. It's beautiful and peaceful and far from everything noisome. No traffic, no lights, no electricity, no bathroom, nothing but you and the woods and the river.
If I could buy the place to preserve forever, I would.
Now.
Immediately.
No question about it.
The place constantly changes, as evidenced by the ravages of a storm just recently passed. Selfishly, I wished for our idyllic site to be spared for the most part, and thankfully, it was. Not everywhere was so lucky.
There were acres and acres of trees blown sideways like this on the way out last trip.
Two weekends past I went up there with my sister and her boyfriend, just the three of us. We had a fun time enjoying the sights and sounds of the river, eating and drinking around the fire and later on tubing for the afternoon just after a sudden storm had passed. We saw a majestic bald eagle winging his way downriver while we were ensconced on our rubber inner tubes and enjoyed snacks of summer sausage, cheese and pasta salad while we lazily floated with the current.
The view downstream from where we parked the camper while I was growing up.
The swimming beach is overgrown with disuse now.
The day we had to leave, we dried off my enormously-huge but oh-so-easy to set up new tent and my sister and her attendant handy-man around the campsite waved goodbye.
I LOVE this frakkin tent. It was so big, even my sister's 6'4" boyfriend could stand upright in the middle section. It sheltered us well from a sudden fierce thunderstorm.
I stayed there alone after they left, as I have done before in the past, and read my book and enjoyed the summer day in the woods along the river.
I know this cannot last forever, and every year we drive up I dread seeing a gate barring the last turnoff, signaling that this era is at an end.
Truly, if Heaven on earth exists, it exists in the places like these, where your soul is restored just by being there.
The best part is that I am going again this coming weekend with another small group of friends. One more chance to store up another memory-piece of heaven.
That is NOT Something You Need Be Forgiven For...!
People should treat religion like sex--have it, enjoy it, even experiment with it, but do all that shit in private with consenting adults.
Last week I was walking across downtown to catch a bus when the fanatic spoutings of someone with hatred in their heart but trying to hide it under the guise of Christianity reached my ears.
"You will be forgiven for all!" the man shouts from the top of his bucket. "Adultery, pornography, beastiality, homosexuality..."
The last part gets me angry.
I wanted to spit as I walked past.
I wanted to tell him homosexuality is nothing that needs to be forgiven by God.
After all, didn't God create everything and everyone? By that logic, if there are people who find the same sex or opposite sex attractive or any variation in between, isn't that part of His plan?
I didn't, however. I knew where that conversation would go.
He would tell me that people aren't born the way they are, but that they CHOOSE to be homosexual or bisexual or feel that they're born in the wrong body.
Right--like anyone would seriously choose to be different from the "accepted norm", choose to be persecuted, humiliated, taunted, bullied, and terrorized for who they find attractive or how they dress or the fact that they are miserable because they have a different gender identity than the body they were born in.
Please don't take this the wrong way--I'm not saying there's anything wrong with choosing to be homosexual! I'm just against those people who feel it's a choice, something that can be changed, as if it's a disease and there is a cure. As if there's something wrong with it.
What can you do in the face of such blinding ignorance, such willful disregard for the very things they pretend to uphold?
I'm not against religion, per se. I think religion can do many great things for a lot of people...but there are two sides to that coin, and the other side is the exact opposite of kindness and charity towards others. That side is an ugly side, responsible for wars and death and hatred and persecution and the murder of innocents.
I am against doctrines that counsel that this life is nothing more than a place to prove ourselves for some everlasting glory afterwards.
We're here now, after all, and I think that this life should be as close to heaven as we can make it. Why spend our lives pining after something that is unknowable and can only be given to us once this life is over? We can only know for certain that we are alive, here today and now. Why squander this precious gift by thinking about what we'll get when it's over?
If we do that, then we blind ourselves to what's given to us right now.
And that's the crime that needs forgiveness, if you ask me.
Last week I was walking across downtown to catch a bus when the fanatic spoutings of someone with hatred in their heart but trying to hide it under the guise of Christianity reached my ears.
"You will be forgiven for all!" the man shouts from the top of his bucket. "Adultery, pornography, beastiality, homosexuality..."
The last part gets me angry.
I wanted to spit as I walked past.
I wanted to tell him homosexuality is nothing that needs to be forgiven by God.
After all, didn't God create everything and everyone? By that logic, if there are people who find the same sex or opposite sex attractive or any variation in between, isn't that part of His plan?
I didn't, however. I knew where that conversation would go.
He would tell me that people aren't born the way they are, but that they CHOOSE to be homosexual or bisexual or feel that they're born in the wrong body.
Right--like anyone would seriously choose to be different from the "accepted norm", choose to be persecuted, humiliated, taunted, bullied, and terrorized for who they find attractive or how they dress or the fact that they are miserable because they have a different gender identity than the body they were born in.
Please don't take this the wrong way--I'm not saying there's anything wrong with choosing to be homosexual! I'm just against those people who feel it's a choice, something that can be changed, as if it's a disease and there is a cure. As if there's something wrong with it.
What can you do in the face of such blinding ignorance, such willful disregard for the very things they pretend to uphold?
I'm not against religion, per se. I think religion can do many great things for a lot of people...but there are two sides to that coin, and the other side is the exact opposite of kindness and charity towards others. That side is an ugly side, responsible for wars and death and hatred and persecution and the murder of innocents.
I am against doctrines that counsel that this life is nothing more than a place to prove ourselves for some everlasting glory afterwards.
We're here now, after all, and I think that this life should be as close to heaven as we can make it. Why spend our lives pining after something that is unknowable and can only be given to us once this life is over? We can only know for certain that we are alive, here today and now. Why squander this precious gift by thinking about what we'll get when it's over?
If we do that, then we blind ourselves to what's given to us right now.
And that's the crime that needs forgiveness, if you ask me.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Mushroom Update....
So my roomie was hard at work last night researching his mushroom haul.
He used the photos, descriptions, location in Minnesota, and a final spore check to determine if they were edible.
The green spore pattern confirmed what I had suspected...they weren't edible.
Good news is they weren't poisonous-deadly, but would still make you hella sick if you tried them.
So much for 15 pounds of edible fungi to keep him full!
He used the photos, descriptions, location in Minnesota, and a final spore check to determine if they were edible.
The green spore pattern of Chlorophyllum molybdites
The green spore pattern confirmed what I had suspected...they weren't edible.
Good news is they weren't poisonous-deadly, but would still make you hella sick if you tried them.
So much for 15 pounds of edible fungi to keep him full!
Monday, August 8, 2011
Mushroom Mondays
Don't ask me why, because there is no earthly explanation for it.
But I love mushrooms.
I don't remember exactly when I became obsessed with mushrooms, but it was sometime in middle school. Perhaps it was the abundance of mushroom-themed random stuff to be found at my favorite childhood thriftstore, the DAV (Disabled American Veterans, sadly no longer around). I collected countless ceramic mushrooms, 60's ad 70's mushroom cutting boards and weird wall pieces, a large original oil painting, hot plates, you name it. My grandma gave me a quilt with the solid piece backing the quilt as a mushroom pattern. My roommate while I was dating the Big B got me a huge ceramic mushroom cookie jar, mushroom salt & pepper shakers and a neat yarn-pull pattern for hanging on the wall. I bought the mushroom pattern juice glasses at Ikea and traded with my sister to get more of the ones with 'shrooms on them.
My favorite shirt ever found at the Ragstock thrift store was of a big iron-on printed mushroom all faded and cracked with the yellow of the shirt showing through and letters beneath that used to read "Hobby".
My current kitchen is a study in fungi. They cover the window sill, the stove and the walls. I cackled with glee the other night as I unpacked a box that had traveled with me, unpacked, for several years worth of moves and discovered a set of plastic coffee cups with a 70's mushroom pattern on the outside.
So when my unexpectedly home-again roomie came upstairs and asked to borrow rubber gloves so he could swipe some of the neighbors' mushrooms, I was intrigued.
He explained how he had driven past these huge white mushrooms the other day and now he wanted to go back under the cover of darkness and steal them.
Why is the obvious question, but with my roomie the answer will often either astound, stupify, make you shake your head, or prepare to call 911.
He's gotten it into his head that these must be edible mushrooms.
"They're huge! They must be as big as cereal bowls!" he exclaims. "There's no way those aren't edible."
I have to laugh but I offer to accompany him on his 'shroom thievery and I grab up the rubber gloves and my camera and we head out just after dusk.
The first yard is on the way to my morning bus stop and we're giggling as we walk and the neighbor's dog barks at us from behind the chainlink, thinking how we must look to anyone who sees us: me in my work outfit of nice dress pants, shirt and cardigan, he in shorts and a camo tee, hair still parti-colored straight down the middle in yellow blonde and reddish dark brown, he carrying an empty Target bag, I carrying yellow rubber gloves and a camera case.
We reach the yard and I flop down onto my stomach to snap a few shots. The flash appears astonishingly bright with its light show behind my eyelids, proof that my retinas have been overcome. I can't help but think how the flashes must be attracting the attention of the homeowners and my roomie must think so too because he urges me to start grabbing them.
For all that he's hoping they're edible, he's not taking any chances if they are poisonous and urges me to handle them with care as I break them off one by one and gently place them in the crinkling bag.
Nefarious deed done, we hastily retreat down the street, laughing at our own antics.
I tell him that the house across the front yard had some biggies too, and before we head back we traipse over there in case the 'shrooms are still there.
They are, and he urges me to "take all of them!".
He holds the bag's handles ever so carefully so he doesn't crush their delicate heads or soft fan-like underbellies.
Back in his kitchen he spreads out a length of paper towels and takes them out, one by one. The largest are the size of salad plates and he can't stop thinking about whether they're safe to eat or not.
My opinion? Not so much.
"That's like 15 pounds of mushrooms," he says to me, eyes full of fervent excitement. "What a waste it would be if they weren't!" I don't think he can wrap his head around the idea that something that can grow this large in just a few days could be inimical to man.
I snap some photos, he snaps a just-poking-fun one for me, and rushes off to research his 'shroom stash and find out if he really did steal something valuable from the neighbors or if he just rid them of some nasty fungus growing in their lawns.
"Can you imagine the news headlines?" he chuckles.
"'Neighborhood Mushrooms Stolen In the Night'" and he giggles again.
"Don't forget to email me the pictures right away!" he calls as I make my way back upstairs.
*Okay so it's barely still Monday where I'm at, but I've thought about an appropriate theme for awhile and this was just fortituous coincidence.
But I love mushrooms.
I don't remember exactly when I became obsessed with mushrooms, but it was sometime in middle school. Perhaps it was the abundance of mushroom-themed random stuff to be found at my favorite childhood thriftstore, the DAV (Disabled American Veterans, sadly no longer around). I collected countless ceramic mushrooms, 60's ad 70's mushroom cutting boards and weird wall pieces, a large original oil painting, hot plates, you name it. My grandma gave me a quilt with the solid piece backing the quilt as a mushroom pattern. My roommate while I was dating the Big B got me a huge ceramic mushroom cookie jar, mushroom salt & pepper shakers and a neat yarn-pull pattern for hanging on the wall. I bought the mushroom pattern juice glasses at Ikea and traded with my sister to get more of the ones with 'shrooms on them.
My favorite shirt ever found at the Ragstock thrift store was of a big iron-on printed mushroom all faded and cracked with the yellow of the shirt showing through and letters beneath that used to read "Hobby".
My current kitchen is a study in fungi. They cover the window sill, the stove and the walls. I cackled with glee the other night as I unpacked a box that had traveled with me, unpacked, for several years worth of moves and discovered a set of plastic coffee cups with a 70's mushroom pattern on the outside.
So when my unexpectedly home-again roomie came upstairs and asked to borrow rubber gloves so he could swipe some of the neighbors' mushrooms, I was intrigued.
He explained how he had driven past these huge white mushrooms the other day and now he wanted to go back under the cover of darkness and steal them.
Why is the obvious question, but with my roomie the answer will often either astound, stupify, make you shake your head, or prepare to call 911.
He's gotten it into his head that these must be edible mushrooms.
"They're huge! They must be as big as cereal bowls!" he exclaims. "There's no way those aren't edible."
I have to laugh but I offer to accompany him on his 'shroom thievery and I grab up the rubber gloves and my camera and we head out just after dusk.
The first yard is on the way to my morning bus stop and we're giggling as we walk and the neighbor's dog barks at us from behind the chainlink, thinking how we must look to anyone who sees us: me in my work outfit of nice dress pants, shirt and cardigan, he in shorts and a camo tee, hair still parti-colored straight down the middle in yellow blonde and reddish dark brown, he carrying an empty Target bag, I carrying yellow rubber gloves and a camera case.
We reach the yard and I flop down onto my stomach to snap a few shots. The flash appears astonishingly bright with its light show behind my eyelids, proof that my retinas have been overcome. I can't help but think how the flashes must be attracting the attention of the homeowners and my roomie must think so too because he urges me to start grabbing them.
For all that he's hoping they're edible, he's not taking any chances if they are poisonous and urges me to handle them with care as I break them off one by one and gently place them in the crinkling bag.
Nefarious deed done, we hastily retreat down the street, laughing at our own antics.
I tell him that the house across the front yard had some biggies too, and before we head back we traipse over there in case the 'shrooms are still there.
They are, and he urges me to "take all of them!".
He holds the bag's handles ever so carefully so he doesn't crush their delicate heads or soft fan-like underbellies.
Back in his kitchen he spreads out a length of paper towels and takes them out, one by one. The largest are the size of salad plates and he can't stop thinking about whether they're safe to eat or not.
My opinion? Not so much.
"That's like 15 pounds of mushrooms," he says to me, eyes full of fervent excitement. "What a waste it would be if they weren't!" I don't think he can wrap his head around the idea that something that can grow this large in just a few days could be inimical to man.
I snap some photos, he snaps a just-poking-fun one for me, and rushes off to research his 'shroom stash and find out if he really did steal something valuable from the neighbors or if he just rid them of some nasty fungus growing in their lawns.
"Can you imagine the news headlines?" he chuckles.
"'Neighborhood Mushrooms Stolen In the Night'" and he giggles again.
"Don't forget to email me the pictures right away!" he calls as I make my way back upstairs.
*Okay so it's barely still Monday where I'm at, but I've thought about an appropriate theme for awhile and this was just fortituous coincidence.
My Little Demona
Another sample from Mari Kasurinen that's right up my alley!
If I could afford to buy original art like this right now, I'd commission a piece from her in a heartbeat. I'd have to think long and hard about what character I'd want done. It'd be like choosing a tattoo--you must think carefully before permanently altering something as precious as your body or an original My Little Pony.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Equality is Important
HRC's On the Road to Equality Bus Tour is starting up, hitting major conservative areas of the United States with their message of hope, equality, and education for LGBT communities.
I've been a member of the Human Rights Campaign for only a short while, but have been a supporter of their message for much longer.
I believe their message is important and needs to shared as widely as possible so I encourage all of you to visit their site and download the awesome decals they've provided. Rest assured that I'll be printing these myself and attaching them to my car as soon as I get it back!
I've been a member of the Human Rights Campaign for only a short while, but have been a supporter of their message for much longer.
I believe their message is important and needs to shared as widely as possible so I encourage all of you to visit their site and download the awesome decals they've provided. Rest assured that I'll be printing these myself and attaching them to my car as soon as I get it back!
Fun Little Mashup
Thanks to Cal at Calvin's Canadian Cave of Cool for bringing this to my attention!
Although I believe they took inpsiration from the newest verion of My Little Ponies rather than the classic Pony look, I'll forgive them for the sheer fun of the picture. I won't get into a rant of my hatred for the "funhouse-mirror-looking Ponies" they provide for today's youth, rest assured I could rant, oh yes.
Although I believe they took inpsiration from the newest verion of My Little Ponies rather than the classic Pony look, I'll forgive them for the sheer fun of the picture. I won't get into a rant of my hatred for the "funhouse-mirror-looking Ponies" they provide for today's youth, rest assured I could rant, oh yes.
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