Archive | February, 2009

The Influenza Chorus

27 Feb

Handel would be so appalled scornful proud. But come on, sing with me.

I’ll take the alto line.

Influenza! Influenza! Influenza!
Influenza! Influenza!

For hacking coughs and fev’rish aches reigneth.
Influenza! Influenza! Influenza! Influenza!

Tamiflu not potent with this straineth.
Influenza! Influenza! Influenza! Influenza!
Influenza! Influenza!

The snot-filled tissues now
Have become the decor of our home,
And of its floor, and of its couch;
And kids shall cough for ever and ever,
For ever and ever, forever and ever,

Cough of coughs, and hack of hacks,
Cough of coughs, and hack of hacks,
And hack of hacks,
And fevers reign,
And bodies ache forever and ever,
Cough of coughs, forever and ever,
And hack of hacks,
Influenza! Influenza

Regular posting to resume next week. Unless we die from the flu or I am struck by lightning for turning one of the most sacred musical works into an ode to snot.

Sarah Jessica, It’s So Exciting!!!

20 Feb

You are going to be in a “Chronicles of Narnia” sitcom spin-off, aren’t you! Squeeeeeeeal!

Sarah Jessica Parker

It’s a big leap from Carrie Bradshaw to  Mrs. Tumnus, the wife of the faun who first meets Lucy on her trip through the wardrobe, I know. But you are a great actress, you’re going to be fabulous! I can’t wait to see the hi-jinks!

Mr. Tumnus

Plus, you already have the shoes.


Boom Chicka… What? What?!?!?

18 Feb

Dear Parenting Experts,

So last night,  I came in from a late class to say goodnight to the children, already ensconced in  their pajamas and beds. Of course, the 11-year-old wanted to talk. Anything to escape actually going to sleep.

The cute  boy in class broke his wrist skateboarding.

She doesn’t remember how many pints are in a gallon.

Her dog’s ear feels weird. No really, feel it.

Eventually, to extricate myself, I said “OK, I love you and this is all very interesting, but I really have to go to the bathroom and you need to go to sleep.”

And as I walked out, she said, “Have fun *begin finger quoting* going to the bathroom. *end finger quoting*”

And then “Boom Chicka Wow Wow.”

I walked out, closed the door calmly, and went into shock in the hall.

Sweet Baby Moses in the bullrushes, what happened here? Seriously.

Because I think my daughter –  the one whose bedroom SHARES A WALL WITH MINE – just called me out on my excuse for leaving her room with finger quotes, and then punctuated it with the universal porn movie theme music.

Boom chicka wow wow, indeed.

First, she learned that from the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie. Thank you, Hollywood.

Second, what is the appropriate response to this?

  1. Get her in counseling.
  2. Get myself in counseling.
  3. Send her to boarding school.
  4. Start looking up soundproofing companies for the shared wall.
  5. Call the Room Store and order twin beds for the Master Bedroom and 75 sets of adult-sized footage pajamas because I am pretty much NEVER HAVING SEX AGAIN UNTIL SHE GOES TO COLLEGE.

Sorry, I got a little traumatized. I am breathing in a paper bag right now. I’m leaning towards option 5 right now. But I would really like some feedback here. So Dr. Phil, James Dobson, William Sears, whoever — if you’re reading this and have some advice, leave it in the comments.


The One in Footed Pajamas

Butt, That’s My Coffee

15 Feb

Dear Fellow Restaurant Patron,

Really few things in life as divinely wonderful as breakfast at Magnolia Pancake Haus, right?  Me, I’m partial to the decadence of the Bananas Foster Pancakes, although on the Saturday morning we met, I had branched out to the Lemon Poppyseed Waffle. 

If I was a clever food blogger like my dear friends, I would have snapped a picture and perhaps tried to recreate it at home, or at least waxed poetic about its merits.

Alas, I’m no food blogger. So this isn’t about my waffle. It’s about your butt.

Really, you were quite the endearing sight. You and your darling wife of many years were out with another dear older couple, the four of you walking slowly but smiling broadly.

Still chivalrous in your golden years, you even helped your wife to her seat. It was precious to see the tenderness.

Your sensitivity to good manners, however, was not accompanied by spatial awareness. So, as you crowded in to offer her your arm, your hindquarters came within a half-inch of my quickly retreating face. And then, your well-mannered rear end came to rest squarely on my coffee cup.

I don’t mean you just brushed it. You settled down there while your lovely bride got settled in her seat. Then, apparently unaware of your ass-ident, you settled down to order your breakfast.

And I? I was caught in a quandary.  I wanted more coffee.

I did not want to… well, kiss your butt.

However, our tables were right next to each other. How to get a new cup without embarrassing you? I still had half a waffle and applewood smoked bacon yet to consume, I needed more coffee.

I started to get panicky.  Did I risk you realizing how you’d butted in to my breakfast? Just drink up and hope your khakis were clean? “Accidentally” knock my cup onto the floor?

Then, my problem was solved when you began to tell stories to your table.

Have you ever been watching TV and have a commercial come on that is WAY WAY LOUDER than the show you were watching? It was like that. And I thought “Thank you Jesus, he won’t hear me ask the nice hostess for a new cup.”

I hope you had a beautiful morning. I hope you keep seating your wife for many years to come, and going to breakfast with old friends.

I raise my coffee cup to toast your happiness. The cup without butt on the side.

Dear Bathroom Hooligans

12 Feb

So, I stopped in your bathroom this morning, something I try to avoid like a root canal without anesthesia, but you know sometimes, it’s unavoidable.

I’m going to be spending the rest of the week getting inpatient PTSD treatment to deal with the horrors I saw, so you’re on your own with dinner. and breakfast. and lunch. Call grandma tomorrow night if I haven’t been released yet, or dad can make you his famous salsa mac and cheese with cut-up hot dogs.

In the meantime, a few explanations so we can keep this from happening again.

1. When you take a bath, the thing at the bottom of the tub with a little metal nob sticking up is the drain stopper. Pull it up and let the water out. I know things are tough in this country, the economy is in the toilet, but you really don’t need to re-use bathwater. Especially not you, son.

2. Speaking of the toilet, it’s where toilet paper goes after use. Not the trash can. Especially not if disgusting unspeakable things have been done with said toilet paper. Seriously. I am bleaching the trash can and my eyes.

3. The following surfaces do not need bandages stuck to them: a) floor tiles, b) the sides of the tub, c) the bathroom rug.  Also, unlike the toilet paper mentioned in point 2, bandage wrappers are an appropriate thing to throw in the trash can. They do not need to wait on the sink counter for a little trash fairy to spirit them away.

4. You can water your plant in the sink, but we are not growing a second plant there. So do not leave the sink covered in dirt.

5. Toothpaste and glass is not a legitimate art medium unless you have your own studio and are getting paid.

6. What is the orange goo? Seriously, I want to know. Wait, Never mind. I don’t.  But please don’t let it reappear again.

7. Point 5 also applies to hair gel and the sink counter.

8. Point specifically for the 5th-grade girl: pulling the tabs off the emergency maxi-pad supplies we have under the sink will neither speed up or delay the timing of you getting your freaking period. Leave them alone.

9.  Point specifically for the 3rd-grade boy: Hold and aim. It’s not rocket science.

10. You’ll notice you have new toothbrushes now. I don’t know what they were doing in the driveway. Maybe running away in horror.

See you when they let me out.



No, I’m not Dedrater. It was Ukiah

9 Feb

So, did you know there’s a whole Internet group for people who think they’re being clever and write Haiku, but then it turns out, they’ve been out of Haiku-writing class for a long time and they end up writing the lines like this:

Clever blog post eludes me.
So, I try Haiku.
But, I miscount syllables.

Real Haiku = 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables
Dork Haiku = 7 syllables, 5 syllables, 7 syllables

And yes, there is whole Internet group of retarded haiku-composers like me. They call it Ukiah. Get it? Haiku backwards. Now that you’re in on the joke, go read the post title again.

Really though, the too-many-syllables Haiku is rather fitting. I can be quite guarded, but when I decide to let it down? “Hello, Oversharers Anonymous?” I do usually share way more than two extra syllables.

As evidence, let’s consider the week before last, when I blogger I adore but DO NOT KNOW linked to a post of mine in her sidebar. I should have sent this email.

“Thank you so much for the nice link. I have followed your blog for a long time, and it really made my day.”

My Ukiah email? More like this:

“Oh my gosh! I saw I was getting some hits from your site and when I saw you linked to me, I totally burst into happy tears! No, not a stalker, but I really, REALLY, REALLYlove your blog and it’s my favorite thing ever and can I send you a puppy or something because you are the coolest thing and I feel like the nerd girl who just got talked to by the head cheerleader and OMG YOU ARE SO AWESOME!!!! Again, not a stalker or 15 years old, just really happy.”

STUNNINGLY, she did not email me back and we are not now BFFs, *and* she may have a restraining order on me. See? Ukiah.

So to summarize:
Yes, I used too many syllables in my Friday Moron Roundup Haiku. Aside: Ha! Note the irony in the title!!
Yes, it’s not surprising, since I can be a real dork.
Yes, I am signing up for an Internet social skills class.

Have a nice Monday.


Friday Moron Round-Up

5 Feb

Too many stupid people in the news, and in the midst of mid-terms, I cannot write them all the letters they deserve.

So, Friday Moron Round-Up.
This week in Haiku.
Perhaps tradition. Or not.

Sheyla Hershey

Teetering Sheyla Hershey
You stay upright, how?
Why must you be from Texas?


Tom Daschle 
Farewell to Tom “Puff” Daschle.
Ride Limo in Shame.
No Cabinet Post for you.


Octuplet Mom & Ann

Nice Catch, little Ann Curry.
Octuplet mom speaks.
Pay her, you are dead to me.


Phelps Swimming

Bong. Bong. Medaled Michael Phelps.
Goodbye, says Kellogg.
No Frosted Flakes for munchies.

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