AS PROMISED ...

Here is an image of bobthecorgi:

PLEASE STAND BY ...

I am experiencing technical difficulties.

The scanner that has been used as a convenient place to pile things on top of is now taking it's revenge by being uncooperative.

I am waiting for Mr. Fix-It to make it work again, but so far, only Mr. Take-It-Apart is here.

A NEW VOCABULARY

Here is a partial list of things I don't say in real life, but have come to depend on for internet communication:

1. Ack! - indicates sudden onset of mild dismay.

2. Anyhoo - childish and affected, but so amusing. Used to shift the focus of the conversation back onto yourself in a passive / aggressive kind of way.

3. LOL - I don't like this, but it is so convenient to denote anything from mirth to merriment. See how unrefined it is? The alternative is to type out " Ha Ha Ha" or " I am seeking your approval so I smile and nod at your modest attempt at humor."

4. I do kind of like the pictue that is painted by ROFLMAO. That is something I would like to see in real life.

OH, HAPPY DAY!

I just posted my first image over at The Joy of Soup.

Three things you should know about me:
1 - I am attracted by vintage items. Not antiques, just old stuff. Dishes, furniture, textiles, books, items that have a limited function in modern life: ashtrays, fish forks, darning eggs.
2 - I am obsessed with dishes. My main preoccupation is Stangl Dinnerware.
3 - I have an overboard type of personality.

Put it all together, and the end result is a collection of vintage American pottery/dinnerware. When I say "collection", I mean a house full. And a basement full. And some in the back of my car. And hung on the walls as part of the decor. And scattered about in artful arrangements.

No one else in my family likes it but me - Quel surprise! - but they have surrendered under the sheer volume of the stuff around here. Special occaisions, holiday feasts, cake and coffee parties - all opportunities to use the Stangl dinnerware. The diffferent patterns and colors were planned in compatible groups, according to the trendy decorating colors of the year they were produced. Althought the dinnerware was made from the 30s to the 60s, most of mine is from the 50s. When the table is set, it is a riot of color and interesting designs.

Produced in Trenton, NJ, made from the local clay dug right from the surrounding area, it was meant for everyday use. It's not fancy or elegant, but it has a primitive sort of appeal to it. Mr. Sami complains about the heft of the dishes when they are empty, and when they are loaded with cranberry sauce and turkey, we are treated to his opinion that cave dwellers had more refined dinnerware than we do. The kids, while trying to go along with the whole ' i hate this stuff' shell they are trying to cultivate, go around the table and consider where they will sit. Sooner or later, one of them will say "This is the plate I had last time" and I know they are into it, at least for the moment.

I'll try not to carry on too much about my dishes at this site, but if you have any curiosity in you at all, you will rush over to The Joy of Soup to see the delightful Golden Blossom pattern.

And now that I know how to get an image onto these pages, later on today, you will be treated to a picture of bobthecorgi.

THE TIME IS RIGHT

It's the Three Minute Blog, courtesy of Bad Samaritan.


"What is a Three-Minute Blog? Well, it is a post that takes exactly three minutes to write. No more. No less.

You start writing about anything that might pop into your head, and when the three-minute time limit is up you have to stop. Even if you haven t finished your sentence, or if you get caught in the middle of a really funny joke without a punch line, you are done. Then you post it up, warts (spelling, grammatical, and factual errors) and all, for the world to see."

I do seem to spend a lot of time here writing, editing and correcting. I think I'll give this a whirl. Here goes:
... ... ...

Last night, Mr. Sami and I went to the Outback Steakhouse for dinner. When the bill came, he went off in search of the restrooms but returned in quicler that ususal time. He leaned close and whispered to me "they have one door marked "BLOKES" and one door marked "SHEILAS", but I don't think they have a Ladies Room. I was deep into calculating a tip that would be real good but not overly generous, so that remark just barely registered.

On the drive home, I brought it up and asked him to repeat that. and he started rambling on about how this was the first place he had ever been to that had a rest-room for gays. I turned

... ... ...

Ok, there it is. I didn't feel quite the free-flow that I thought I would - I was mentally pre-editing to shorten things up to fit into three minutes. Maybe it takes a little practice.

Try one and see for yourself.

EANY MEANY ... CHILI BEANY ... THE SPIRITS ARE ABOUT TO SPEAK

It is my great pleasure to present to you the world's first plog.

Soup log.

Have you seen the new addition to the links list in the sidebar called The Joy of Soup? Here you can find the thrilling real-life adventures of a soup maker. I will be posting the recipes to soups I have made, served, eaten or considered.

As an additional feature, I will also produce a parade of dinnerware for your viewing pleasure. Mr. Sami cannot understand why I have so many different types of dishes - and he has only seen the tip of the iceberg. Unbeknownst to him, I have many, many more dishes squirreled away here and there throughout the house. And some at my mother's house, too. Dishes from the from wedding and shower presents, dishes from the flea market, dishes from eBAy, dishes from theothercheek, dishes given away with the price of a movie ticket, dishes from birthday and Christmas gifts, dishes from The Resident Junkologist, a tag-sale organizer, dishes from department stores.

Mr. Sami gets agitated if he sees more dishes coming into the house, but if they are here for a while he can't tell the difference between the new ones and the old ones. Timing is everything.

All recipes at the plog are genuine soup experiences, and they will appear as they are made in the bobthecorgi test kitchens. No ringers will be introduced or copied from cookbooks without actually having been produced and sampled. No fake padding of the list with soup I have not had personal experience with. That is my guarantee.

Sit down and have a nice bowl of soup.


Bonus Points: Extra credit will awarded to those of you who can identify the source of today's title.

THERE SHE IS, OUR IDEAL

The Miss America Pageant is not what it used to be.

Gone are the days when the broadcast of the pageant was something we looked forward to and made social plans around. In my childhood, those days of three TV channels only, we were serious about watching it, and hoped that we could hang on until midnight to see the crowning. We admired the beauty of the contestants and their special gowns, and even though we never expected too much in the talent department, and we felt so sorry for the beautiful women who would blink their lovely eyes as they tried to buy time to think of a decent answer to questions like: "What is your plan for worldwide peace?" It was entertaining and inspirational and suspenseful

My children were raised in a more cynical time. When The Guestblogger was about 9 or 10, we would organize a snackfest and sleepover for that night: 8 little girls, popcorn, Chex Party Mix, and a punchbowl filled with Juicy Juice. Our first Miss America parties were mostly critiques of the clothing - even at a young age, these fashion mavens had already had several years of up-close glamor experience, thanks to Barbie and her endless wardrobe, and they had fully-formed ideas about fashion dos and don'ts. In general, though, the girls would be complimentary about the contestants and claim their favorites and predict who would win.

As time each year brought another pageant, on their own the girls began to see through more critical eyes what the pageant was about. And they mocked it.

The opening parade of contestants in their one moment of introduction before the close-up camera would produce squeals of disbelief -"Look at that nose!" or "One word, Barbie - braces!" And they started to hoot and boo the talent portion and give their own comedic answers to the questions that were put to the contestants.

Now their overnight bags contained shiny leftovers from the days when they used to play dress-up games. They created capes out of their sleeping bags and wore paper crowns from the party store, and held their own promenade - "Hi, mah name is BettyJoBobbyLouJean and Ah luv Amurica!" When the swimsuit competiton came on, they would strut around the TV room in exaggerated parody, and popcorn would fly during the question and answer part. It was like a combination Rocky Horror Show and Superbowl Party.

Those days are gone now, and Miss America is not what she used to be. The turning point, I think, is when the pageant officials banned professional hairdressers backstage, and the contestants were forced to do their own hair and make-up. No more big hair, no Liza Minelli lashes - even the sequins and shoulderpads disappeared.

Now they seem to have off-the-rack prom dresses and their hair is flat. I liked it better when they looked like they were extras on the set of Dynasty. And who thought it would be a good idea to have a punch-drunk boxer as host? The only good thing about Tony Danza was his giant drawn-on eyebrows that went way past where God intended them to be.

I saw uniformed guards next to the runway during the victory walk while Tony tried to croak out the theme song for the smooth-haired girl who won, and another security guard seemd to be quickstepping her away while the losers stood around smiling and hugging each other.

It's just not what it used to be.

SOUNDS LIKE A PLAN TO ME

Good study habits pay good dividends.

That's what I heard, anyway. Here is the study plan that I implemented last week to prepare for my first exam in statistics:

Saturday - drive to Pennsylvania right after a four hour class. Take books along to read things over while they are fresh in my mind.
Saturday night - hey, four hours is enough in one day. I don't think I have to put out any more effort than that in a single day.
Sunday - a day of rest. How could I possibly even consider the hard work it is going to take to get involved with this stuff again. And I think the Blue Laws are still in effect in Pennsylvania, anyway.
Monday - the beginning of the week. What's the rush? Four more evenings to do what I have to do.
Tuesday - well, if I have a well-thought out plan, that's half the battle, isn't it? I'll do the homework assignments on Wednesday, the lab project on Thursday, and a quick review of material on Friday to prepare for Saturdays' exam. There! - all nicely laid out. Now that I'm organized, I don't feel the need to start today.
Wednesday - now look, if I work twice as long on Thursday, it really should not be too far off from the plan that i laid out. OK - talked myself into it.
Thursday - vague feeling of uneasiness. Take bookbag out of car where it has been since class last Saturday and take it upstairs to the extra bedroom where we keep the computer. The computer? Hey, maybe I should check my mail. And my stats. And check in on a few blogs. And see if anyone is still awake in the U.K. for a little instant messaging.
Friday - sickening dread. On the verge of nausea. Depression. Must take nap.
... 8 pm - get all set up on kitchen table. I can still pull it out if I get serious. Take out pencil and open book just as husband walks into room. Screech at husband for breaking concentration and demand Dove Bars as restitution. Husband sizes things up and beats it out of there. Take book and flounce upstairs (to computer room ) in a huff. Check stats and comments.
... 8:30 pm - sleep the sleep of the damned. Book crashes to floor and yellow highlighter makes a big stain on white terry robe.
...time unknown - open eyes as husband stands over sleeping form saying "Aren't you supposed to be studying?" Take a swipe at husband.
... 10:00 pm - turn on Judge Judy. No Judge Judy, but there is Neil Young singing "Imagine". Sigh for all we have lost, figure that would be the high point for the telethon anyway, and begin surfing the web.
... 11:30 - 12:00 midnight - make yellow marks in text book. Go to surreally dot com and enter Surreally Chat. KD and Krazy Karma are there ... Hey guys! Hi! It's me - bobthecorgi! Hi! Hi!
... 1:15 am - last one at the chat party. Briefly consider changing chat rooms and making friends with nawtyd0g and Apollo. They seem nice.
... 1:30 am - set alarm for 3:30 am. one cycle of good REM sleep, and then I'll blitz it.
... 3:30 am - Art Bell is on talk radio expounding on the connection between germ warfare, aliens and psychics. Can't face that -drift off til 4:30.
... 4:30am - OK, this is it. Take shower, make coffee, throw in a load of laundry and get serious.
... 8:30 am - exam starts.
... 9:00 am - exam finishes. 3 1/2 more hours of class to go.

Send all emails to bobthecorgi@hotmail.com and remind me not to do that again.

I WAS KIDNAPPED BY VIRGIN LESBIANS

A strange thing happened to me last night.

I was trying to use a search engine. I entered the word, hit GO and suddenly, my monitor screen was taken over by a full-sized ad for Miss Cleo. I closed it out and it was immediately replaced by a screen about Hot Teen Cupcakes. Then came Looking For Government Grants? followed by See Virgin Lesbians!

One after another, they kept covering up my original page ... Psychic Visions ... Pink Parts ... Win At Lotto ... Amateur Honeys ... Need A Loan? ... Naughty Young Girls ... I couldn't get back to my original page.

So I signed off the internet and started all over. I tried the search again, and there was Miss Cleo and the Virgin Lesbians. Three times this happened.

What was I searching for? White Bean Soup.

Is that some kind of code? Or what?

SOUP, GLORIOUS SOUP!

What a crummy day it is here. The sky is dark grey and there is a cold dampness all around. It has been raining all day, just enough to make you think you can get to your car without an umbrella, but you can't.

It is a good day for soup. In fact, I had soup for lunch. A pint of pasta e fagiloi with crusty bread and a simple green salad. I am in the mood for more soup.

Here are some appropriate soup receipies for a day like this:

Lentil Soup. Make it with beef broth and be sure to roast the carrots, celery and onions first to bring out the sweetness. Add them to the soup during the last fifteen minutes. When the soup is in the bowl, float about two tablespoons of red wine vinegar on top.

Pea Soup. Heavy with bits of ham and fragrant with thyme. Only homemade herbed croutons should be served with this. Cut them into 1" cubes and serve them straight out of the oven.

Sauerkraut Soup. A cream-based soup with chunks of smoked sausage and seasoned with dill and caroway seeds. Served with dark, dark bread.

White Bean Soup with Rosemary. I saw this once on TV. I thought it would add a little class to the list. I doubt if I will ever make it. Soup for sissies.

Campbell's Tomato Soup with dill and oyster crackers. Simple perfection.

But no! It was only a dream. As i was driving home thinking of the perfect soup, Mr. Sami was at the stove already making his favorite old stand-by - spaghetti with meat sauce. I smell it before I see it, and when I see it, it is dripping off on the range hood and back down onto the stove. Mr. Sami, so proud of his effort, has cranked up the burner to maximum, and when he lifts the lid to show me, there is a great volcano of red sauce.

What to do?

We turn our backs on it, ignoring it while we eat. We'll clean it up later.

UNTITLED ENTRY

The power of love ...
the power of prayer ...
the power of cheese ...
the power of positive thinking ...

have nothing compared to the power of this. Read the entry for September 17th.

No further comment.

OUR COLLECTIVE NATIONAL CONCIOUSNESS

While we are all practicing the national anthem so that we can sing it without straining, and trying to remember anything beyond the first verse of America the Beautiful ( I bet even Dan Rather had to look it up before he sang it on the David Letterman show), there are some tunes that are burned into our memories forever, waiting to leap out at just the start of the first line.

I'm talking about TV theme songs. Everyone of us can go right through the Flintstones or the Brady Bunch themes without hesitation, but even the ones that are slightly less obvious can be summoned up if you just put a little effort into it.

Don't believe me?

Let's try a bit of the theme song from F Troop:

The end of the civil war was near
When quite accidentally
A hero who __________(a)
Abruptly seized defeat
and returned it to __________(b).

Where cavalry fights are colorful sights
And nobody __________(c).
Where paleface and redskin both __________(d).

answers: (a) - sneezed
(b) - victory
(c) - takes a lickin'
(d) - turn chicken

See? Now you sing something from a tv show you like.


This is not a meme. Repeat: This is not a meme.

SNATCHED OUT OF THE JAWS OF ACTUALLY LEARNING SOMETHING

Oh, happy day!

My pester campaign directed at the Dean of Nursing has finally paid off. I got word yesterday that I will not be required to take another year of Chemistry, complete with lab.

That means that for this semester, I must only pass Statistics, complete three self-study courses, write three term papers, and take three challenge exams. By December 22. I can do that. Plenty of time for that!

Check back with me on or about December 10th as I commence crying and feeling sorry for myself that I wasted all of my time on the internet instead of doing the required course work.

MR. SAMI, THE HUNTER-GATHERER

He objects if we share this with people, but it is true: Mr. Sami picks through garbage.

We have refuse collection twice a week, and on those nights, he goes on the prowl for "good stuff". Not to resell the metal for cash, not to stock a booth at a flea market like some enterprising people do, but only so that he can possess "good stuff", which is an entirely subjective interpretation.

This is mostly a bad thing. For a while he limited himself to lawnmowers, gas grills and electric fans. He would collect these things for the parts and assemble Frankenstien-like creations. Right now, I am in a room with a fan that has blue blades, a beige stand, and a grey switchbox that was put back on upside down. Press "OFF" and it blasts onto high speed.

This year, he has widened his scope. I see there is a stair master, red boat cushions, and a glider rocker complete with colonial blue pads. Sometimes, it works to my advantage. I wanted a round metal mesh table for a grove at the end of our yard. Buy it from the store? Mais non! Within three garbage days, there was the exact table in my backyard, ready for sanding and painting. I must admit, it looks pretty good.

The boy needs furniture for the frat house? No prob. A sofa, a dresser, a vacuum cleaner, a mirror ... our wishes are his commands. Sometimes a series of stuff appears - a good serving cart for the patio shows up, only to be replaced next week by a better one. Then an even better one is found. Mr. Sami is under orders to get rid of the one he has replaced, but I seriously doubt if he is doing that.

When he was in the gas grill phase, I looked out at the collection of sad, rusted barbeques he had and couldn't take it anymore. I commanded that they be gone, and banned any new additions. How many valves does one person need? I lived in a fool's paradise that whole summer, deluded into thinking I had influenced Mr. Sami to resist his accumulator's urge.

When autumn came and the leaves started dropping from the trees and bushes at the wild edge of the backyard, there they were: a long rusty line of gas grills, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the elephant's graveyard of barbeques, hidden by the shrubbery but ready to offer up their tanks and knobs for their master.

Now the leaves are starting to turn. He has been spending an unusual amount of time at the end of the yard, putting his stuff on the move before I can see what he's got back there. He is rooting around in his collection of 5 gallon buckets and cast-off beach chairs.

I wonder what else he has back there?

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP NOW?

OK, it's starting to wear on me.

The images on TV and in the papers, the stories of those last cell phone messages that I am trying to avoid, the growing talk of germ warfare...

Now I am seeing David Letterman ramble on in a shaky voice, and Dan Rather is sitting in the Late Show guest chair crying. God knows what will happen when Regis Philbin comes out.

...

OK, things are back to normal. Regis is out, and he's still a dope.

A SMALL MERCY

I am grateful beyond words that, so far at least, Barbra Streisand and Alec Baldwin have managed to keep their yaps shut.

BAD OPENING LINES

Scenes from a life going down-hill. And these are just since Friday:

"Do you mind if I suggest some changes on your resume?" ... from a professional colleague to whom I had just submitted the resume.

"Daddy's smoking again." ... from my daughter.

" I used to be the mother taking care of you, now you are the mother taking care of me." ... from my teary-eyed mother.

"Help yourself. Take anything you want. Oh, by the way, did I tell you that you're helping me sponge paint the living room and dining room?" ... from my best friend.

" I need you to take all of your stuff out of your car." ... from Mr. Sami, as he begins to cram in a large dresser that he found in a garbage pile, now destined for the frat house.

I cannot contemplate the implications of any of these statements. I'm already in overload.

An alternate hell: I didn't think about the terrorist attack on America for the entire 4 1/2 hours that I was sitting in statistics class.

SOMETHING I JUST REMEMBERED

In 1980, the Shah of Iran was forced out of power and sought asylum. Other countries were reluctant to offer shelter to him for fear of reprisal from his enemies. Only a short time had passed until he was diagnosed with cancer, and the U.S. admitted him to go to a New York City hospital for treatment.

Mr. Sami and I were married in April of that year and in lieu of a big wedding, we planned a big honeymoon trip. Six weeks in Egypt - touring the famous locations, soaking in the museums, floating on a bridal barge down the Nile, studying the technological wonder that is the Aswan dam ( That part wasn't my idea - Mr. Sami is an engineer. I thought up the bridal barge thing. ).

So we flew out of New York, missed a connecting flight in Greece, lost our luggage and landed in Cairo after a total travel time of 28 hours. When we got off the plane, the tarmac and the corridor were lined with soldiers in battle fatigues. They were holding their rifles across their chests and the bayonettes were fixed onto the ends.

My stomach sunk when I saw this and started to speculate about what major news event we had missed while we were traveling.I was sure it had something to do with the shah and his enemies. It came out as a sputtered, "Soldiers! Rifles! Bayonettes!" Mr.Sami was looking at me with something odd on his face as I elaborated.

Finally, he said to me, "You American. Do you think that everyone has the freedom that you have? " That country was a military dictatorship, and soldiers were always there. They were everywhere, at the ready.

It was the end of my personal provincialism. That moment gave me a small amount of insight that I thought I would always remember.

But I forgot it until this week.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

From the archives of The New Yorker magazine:

"This piece, written in 1972, looks at the construction of the World Trade Center's twin towers, at a time when they were a symbol of possibility."

WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL

What was your goal?

Were you looking to destroy the symbols of America? You only destroyed the buildings. You didn't destroy the spirit of a nation that those symbols represented. Are you seeing our flag waving from homes, from cars, from public buildings, from the rubble? Our flag is also a symbol, and those who are displaying it now are not diplaying colored cloth. They are displaying a clear message for you.

Were you trying to shake the complacency of a country that thought itself too far removed to be invaded or attacked? You did that, but that complacency is a thing of the past, and now there is firm resolve to replace it.

Were you trying to sow panic? There is no panic, except for the sickening, growing panic of families who have not yet heard from the missing. Instead there is a growing need to address your actions.

Were you trying to hurt us? You did hurt us. You wounded us. You injured us. You brought us together. You brought out the best in us.You showed us what we know is precious to us.

Were you trying to divide us? No, were are indivisible. Those rescuers who rushed to the scene, those volunteers who are lining up, ready to replace the tired ones, those who stand and watch - do you think they are making distinctions between race, gender, political affiliation, even nationality? No, they are united in our common mission.

People are reacting according to their individual nature, but the motivation for all is the same. Our most dearly held tenents have been threatened and attacked, but not diminished:

Liberty. Some have made the grave error of directing their overwrought and misplaced emotion against some foreigners here. These are the people who value most the liberty and freedom of America. They came here for just that reason. They understand what is is to live without it, in fear and uncertainty. They harbor a passion that is as strong as anyone else's to preserve that.

Justice. Justice for all.

For all of us and for all of you.

CHANGED

We are changed. For better or worse, we are changed.

THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF OUR LIVES

1:00 am - Mr. Sami and I lay in our bed and listen to the rumble of planes flying low over our house. The airports are still closed so that must mean that these are military planes. What are they doing?

The stream of injured patients to city and outlying hospitals seems to be a much slower trickle instead of the massive influx everyone was prepared for yesterday. The hospitals and personnel are busy, but relative to the number of people who were in harm's way yesterday, it would appear that there are countless victims, but they are not in the hospitals.

...


...it became readily apparent at that moment in time that there were more dead than alive and our services would not be needed.

...

At 9:30 p.m., the state Department of Health and Senior Services announced that hospitals in the state will not receive any more busloads of patients from New York.

NOTHING LEFT
update

The Governor of New Jersey has just declared a state of emergency. This is a legal maneuver that allows state offiicals to move quickly to give New York any help that it needs. If there are already so many victims are making such an impact on NJ, how many must there be?

NOTHING LEFT
update

The guestblogger sat next to a girl in school as they watched televised news accounts that reported the crash of the plane near pittsburg. The girl's father was on the plane. The ambulance drivers who transport out patients here have been called to wait at the local small airports to receive NYC victims and transport them to our medical centers.

NOTHING LEFT
update

My son just called to say that his university in Newark, NJ has closed and he and his fraternity brothers are on the way over to UMDNJ (The University of Medicine and Dentistry in New Jersey) to donate blood. I am looking out of my window at the clear blue sky and I can see black clouds of smoke spreading towards me from 40 miles away.


NOTHING LEFT

That is the caption of a Washington Post photo that shows the Statue of Liberty standing in the harbor directly in front of clouds of smoke billowing from the place where the World Trade Center used to be. Riverview Medical Center in Red Bank, NJ and Monmouth Medical Center in Long Branch, NJ. are both near the shore and within minutes of where I sit now. Both institutions have declared Code Black which is the signal for Extreme External Disaster. Surviviors of the bombings have started to arrive by ferry boat from across the harbor. My doctors have closed their offices and gone to the medical centers to be part of the emergency treatment teams.

.

I BASK IN THE GLOW OF REFLECTED GLORY

One of my greatest assets is my ability to be next to the A person in a group and receive the fallout of their popularity.

In elementary school, I was the favored friend of the most popular girl in the class. In high school, all of my excitement came from my association with a best friend who could only be described as a live wire. In nursing school, I was admitted into the most desireable clique. At my first job as a nurse, I was befriended by the World's Most Perfect Person. During the story time/cub scout/brownies stay at home years, I was always where the action was, thanks to my friendship with the main mover and shaker in the playgroup. At the job I have now, I quickly became part of the creme de la creme and was swept up into the inner circle known as The White House.

It seems to be my destiny, and I accept it. I'll never be the one who is at the top. But I am glad to be the one next to the one who is. I am a perpetual bridesmaid. I am the second banana personified. I am Rhoda Morgenstern.

The trend continues. How has the universe conspired to continue this, even across contintents, without having ever met in person? It is amazing to me, but yet it is true. My friend Miguel has begun his assent to world wide wunderkind when his blog, Feral Living,was selected as one of the Blogs of Note on Blogger.

Go there now.

EITHER / OR

Here are my symptoms:

I woke up with a pounding headache.

... By 8:20 , I was feeling veak and dizzy.

... By 9:00, my right eye was twitching.

... By 9:25, I was feverish and had an uncontrollable thirst.

... By 10:10, I was crumpled into a heap.

... By 10:45, blood was seeping out of my eyes and ears.

... By 11:00, I couldn't see or hear or speak out loud.

... By 11:15, all of my circulating body fluids had turned to gel.

... By 11:30, I knew I was dead.


Question: What could it be?

(a) I have the ebola virus.
(b) I'm sitting in a Statistics class.

Answer: (b) Statistics class.

I'm sure it will all be worth it, though. Just think: if I continue to torture myself like this for another 2 or 3 years, I will earn $.50 an hour more.

$.50

The usually supportive and sympathetic Mr. Sami says, "I'll think of you next time I order a cup of coffee from Burger King."

OYku

1.
Oy! I should have done
it over summer instead
of wasting time here.

2.
What was I thinking?
Oy! I'm too old and lazy
And I work full time.

3.
Five courses at once
A burden that will crush me.
Oy! Am i sorry!

OPEN THE POD BAY DOORS, HAL

Smells like autumn around here.

This, not springtime, has always been the season of fresh starts for me. Goodbye summer with your hair-flattening humidity and your social pressure to always be somewhere doing something interesting. Hello indoors where maybe I am doing something interesting and maybe I am goofing off.

I can forget about the patchy lawn and raggedy garden - next year will be better. This is the time that I plan to paint the wooden cabinets in the kitchen Martha Stewart's Pongee green. I get the urge to wipe away the grit and dust that has invaded us through open windows and busy doorways. Now I have plenty of time to get organized for the holidays. I'm sure I won't be rushing around at the last minute trying to pull it together. Now is the ideal time to start a diet so that when I shed the cocoon of heavy clothing in April, all my sins will be melted away. Or pounds, anyway.

It is also the time to start a new school semester, not just high school for my daughter or college for my son, but also for me. I continue along the dragged-out, meandering path towards a higher degree in my nursing career. But this year, I have made a miscalculation. I guess I was goofing off outdoors, too and I waited too long to register for a necessary statistics class. I think it started yesterday.

I better polish up my best "Oh, I wasn't aware of that" speech and hustle on over there to stand before the closed doors, waiting with bated breath to be readmitted.

Open the door, Hal.

Hal?

I DON'T WANT TO BURN ANY BRIDGES, BUT I WOULDN'T MIND LEAVING SOME SMOLDERING EMBERS BEHIND FOR ONCE

I believe that making a grand exit is just as important as making a grand entrance.

Grand entrances I have made:
... I looked stunning wrapped in a synthetic possum fur coat as I walked into a Roy Rodgers restaurant in inner city Philadelphia. Plastic spoons stopped clattering.

... I made a big splash as I swept into the charity ward of a NYC hospital wearing a turquoise peignoir set. Dropped jaws all around.

... One golden moment as I entered a bar wearing a black turtle-necked sweater and stopped under a spotlight. I had Marilyn-colored hair at the time, and the spectacle of my golden beauty turned heads. An experience that was never to be repeated.

Grand exits I have made:
None.
Zero.
Nada.
Zilch.
Zed.

Never have I ever managed to make a grand exit. Well, that is not my destiny, I guess. I usually just smile and offer some general blandishments, and fade out. I would like to change that style to the Witty-But-Obscure Exit. So the next time I have to take my leave, I have a plan. And a back-up plan:

Plan #1 - I will sing "Shuffle Off To Buffalo" while doing the soft-shoe, but in the interest of a clean exit, I will forgo the anticipatory sprinkling of sand on the floor.

Plan #2 - In my best Howard Cosell voice, I will recreate the voice-over from the beginning of the movie "Goodbye, Columbus" : goodbye, (xxxxx) - goodbye, (xxxxx) - goodbye, Columbus.

That should be obscure enough, don't you think? And witty, too. Just for me. However, the plans are flawed. I don't know how to sing "Shuffle Off To Buffalo" and I can't remember the dialog from "Goodbye, Columbus".

And so I am asking for help. If you are the sort of individual who has the dialog to long-forgotten movie scripts still cluttering up your memory banks, or if you have a penchant for old Vaudeville tunes, I beg you to share them with me.

Otherwise, I will just fade away again.

THE NEW ME

Spending time in my childhood home has had an unexpected result.

I am shocked to return to my own home and see what a mess it is around here. My mother is neat as a pin, neater really. There was once a burglery there and this is how she knew a stranger was in the house:

She was finished ironing, and went to put away the folded-into-8ths-and-pressed handkercheives of my father. When she went into the drawer, the pile of handkercheives was tilted to one side. This gave her pause, but she went on to hang the shirts in my father's closet. On the floor in the corner of the closet was a briefcase that always stood upright, and this was leaning against the wall. That is how she knew she that an intruder had been there. ( Sure enough, cash and postage stamps were missing from the house.)

Now, if a crime was committed in my house, we would never know until we moved some mail piles and uncovered a body. So, between the shock of the contrast and the departure of the frat boy ( a major source of clutter ), I am inspired to get a grip on the domestic front. I took possession of a Dirt Devil Deluxe with attachments. This hand held mini-vacuum will, I believe, help me to have one of those sparkling and delightful, dog hair-free places like the Brady Bunch or My Three Sons ( ha - "My Six Sneakers In The Middle of the Floor" would be more realistic).

That is the plan, anyway. I hope that this thing won't end up in The Museum of Specialized Unused Tools. Contents so far:

The Webster - an extention device to knock down cob webs from high places. It hangs in the garage and is so far away from the action that I have discovered a balled-up and carefully aimed dishtowel works just as well.

The Refrigerator Coil Cleaner - an odd shaped brush that is used while you lie on your stomach on the kitchen floor. It reaches in between the coolant coils behind the grate at the bottom of the refrigerator. The only time I used this, I was a bit too vigorous and pushed some insulation into the fan and was soon greeted by the smell of burning motor.

The Shower Track Brush - an irresistable item from the Fuller Brush Company. Used once as a sliding shower door track brush and once as a fly swatter.

There's more, but I am bumming myself out, so I'll just stop here. Tonight, after work, I plan to deploy the crevice tool. When I am done, I will take a deep breath and look around with satifaction, as seen on TV.

FRAT HOUSE CHUCKLES...first in a series.

So I stopped by to see how the fraternity house room was coming along.

The air is thick with the earnestness of young men on their own. They are The Lost Boys taking care of themselves, The Little Rascals with whiskers. They attain the personal goal they have set for themselves as they each go about their own tasks. They scrub and peel potatos for a freshman dinner. They wax the handrail on the stairs and step back to admire the results of their labor.

Wait a minute - waxing the hand rail on the stairs? That can't be good. Best not to dwell on it.

The sleeping loft is a generous size. There's plenty of room for his mattress as well as the La-Z-Boy with its legs sawed off, and a two-tiered colonial end table, a real prize rescued on garbage day. The entire loft is covered with green industrial carpeting, in contrast to the dark brown (?) carpet that is plastered to floor of the main area, and I mean plastered. When I ask where the green carpet came from, I get the straight story, and then I am sorry that I know:

"Oh, one of the brothers has a mother who works in a hospital where they replaced all the carpeting. They were going to just throw this away. We got 14 rolls of it."

Uhh, don't you think it might be a bit unsanitary?

"Don't worry. We already took care of that. We took it out back and hosed it."

I try to keep a straight face as I look into 19 year old eyes that are sincere, proud and clueless.