Both Me and Fred Flintstone get played. AGAIN!

Tomorrow morning, instead of jumping out of bed, devouring a Biggie Smalls sized bowl of Trix and an overflowing cup of Swiss Miss - the most heavenly yet politically neutral drink ever created - and settling in to an uproarious morning with my friends Conky, Pterri, and Miss Yvonne, I will likely instead carefully spoon a trifling Yoplait fat-free yogurt and tune in to see what my homeboy Lester Holt will be cooking up on Today's off the chain Saturday edition because, despite what's been happening all day in my head, it's not actually 1989 anymore.

For some reason at approximately twelve thirty pm today, my brain brought back something that probably would have been better off staying lost in the subregions of my cerebellum forever. For the life of me, I cannot fathom why my central nervous system decided to play this funny joke on me today, but shortly after finishing my lunchtime Twig-N-Berries smoothie, the little voice in my head starting squealing, "He loves Fruity Pebbles in a MA-JAH way!" over and over and over again. "Wha?" I first thought. Who loves Fruity Pebbles in a MA-JAH way?

And then it dawned on me. OOOOH! Barney Rubble aka The Master Rapper (dope name, eh?) loved Fruity Pebbles in a MA-JAH way. In 1989. This is the commercial that wouldn't let go of my conscious when I was snapping on my fancypants Guess overalls in the morning. This is the commercial that plagued my head when I was trying in vain to study my Wordly Wise list. PLEASE tell me that you remember this, too. Be warned: if you click on the imbedded video below (how's that for mad technological skillz, by the way?), Fred is going to take over your brainwaves for at least twelve hours in a MA-JAH way. But, do it. It's thirty seconds of loony nostalgia, worth it for Barney's wack bling alone.

Good luck, friends. You're gonna need it. Guess that's a rap...

Awesome awesomeness.

Hello, my friends. I would like to introduce you to a couple of my peeps. My eses. My homies. My gs (not to be confused with my BSGs). These two partnas in particular make up an adorable pair of probably the biggest lovebirds I know. He's her boo, as you can see. I have gone all witness protection program on their pictures to protect the innocent. But, just so you can feel like you know them without having enough information to, like, track them down in order to, I don't know, take your camcorder over to their house to record their glorious expressions of lovin or something, you can call them Lulie and Bob. Mainly because I think the name Lulie is funny, and he kinda looks like a Bob, doesn't he? Anyway, this picture was taken on a really awesome vacation that my husband and I took once with Lulie and Bob and a couple other amigos of ours. We went to this island, and from the second we disembarked de plane de plane, it was like a total fantasy.

The day I took this picture of our sweet lovahs Lulie and Bob was pretty near perfect. We did this whole lay on the beach rub clay all over ourselves thing. (Ew, pervs. It wasn't like pervy clay rubbing, but like beach clay that's-what-you-do-on-the-island rubbing. Don't be a perv.) Anyway, we were on this awesome vacation, and we went to get this awesome meal, and, everything was just kinda awesome. If you look closely at the table you can see the empty glasses on the table from the awesome drinks that our waiter Tattoo brought us to quench our awesomely parched thirsts.

And I thought that nothing could ever get any better than that day at that moment on that vacation. Lulie leaned over to Bob to plant a big wet one on him because, you know, Bob's Lulie's boo, and this is a romantic island, and islands and frozen beverages all add up to awholelottaawesome. And then, it happened. Something that made this kickass day with the sun and the beach and the island and Herve Villechaize and the frozen drinks even more perfect than it had already been:

There was an ass behind Lulie's shoulder.



And it looked like this:

It's like, as soon as you look behind your friend Lulie's shoulder and you see an ass like that at a time like that, you know that all is right with the world. My friends, if you'll indulge me for a moment and allow me to throw some philosophy down on that shiz for a second. May you always take time and enjoy the moment you're in, because you never know when you will be graced with an ass behind your shoulder. Who knows? Maybe there's an ass behind your shoulder right now. We should all be so lucky.

There's a footnote to be added to this awesomely awesome scene. About ten minutes after this picture was taken, we left the restaurant, and allofasudden, the sun and the frozen beverages and the salt from all the nonpervy clayrubbin from the morning made me faint on the asphalt and then, upon revival, start yamming up my frozies all over the awesome island flowers in front of the restaurant. It was like Island Satan was trying to laugh in the face of Awesome. But you know what, my friends? Not even a little heat exhaustion and public regurgitation could take away my perfect moment. No one will ever take the ass over Lulie's shoulder from me. No one.

Sexy Programmer Thursday: Inaugural Edition

I know, I know: I just inundated you with hotttness only yesterday! Well, my friends, we are about to raise your temperatures to a wholenuthalevel. In honor of my superfox husband and the BSGs* with whom he works, I'm gonna treat you ladies in the hizzy (and, let's be real - you fellas, too) to a brand new feature on this blog is eggsalady:

Sexy Programmer Thursday!

This land is rife with computer programming foxes, and I am going to bring them to you weekly - one delectable techie at a time. So dim those lights, toss the cork off a bottle of Ballatore, and make yourself comfortable. Here come the studs.

We're commencing the maiden hunk voyage with a true programming hero. I believe you've heard of a little thing called Microsoft Word, haven't you? Well, this guy created it. Without further adieu, I give you Richard "Quiet Lion" Brodie. ROAR!

Here are some FUN FACTS about our Quiet Lion:

1) He's single, ladies, and presumably ready to mingle.

2) He's a jokester. Want some evidence? This computer whiz has a home page entitled "Welcome to Richard Brodie's Home Page" that is definitively, absolutely the most bushleague website (after this blog is eggsalady) that I have seen in all my days.

3) He's now a professional poker player, and a real ROYAL FLUSH, if you ask me!

4) He's exersexy! Richard loves to get his workout on ridin his recumbent bike.

5) He's soooooooo deep! He says he lives in "Level 3", which he explains as "not just living consciously, but consciously choosing the memes I allow to program me." Richard, is there room on Level 3 for two? What's a meme you ask? Only "the basic building blocks of our minds and culture," according to Smarty McSmartington. Wow. Quiet Lion: Call me!

So, here's to you Richard Brodie, our first ever Sexy Programmer of Sexy Programmer Thursday! You'll be a hard act to follow!

*BSGs = Battlestar Gallactica Gs, as in gangstas. These dudes are stone cold, believe me!

An Open Letter to Valerie Bertinelli

Dear Valerie,

First and foremost, I need to start off by acknowledging that this might seem a little harsh. Well, that's because I am coming to you as a friend, and sometimes friends need to hear the throw you against the wall dip your fingers in tar truth. And, Val, it is time for you to hear that truth.

Let me begin, though, by highlighting some really good things. You kind of affected my childhood, Valerie Bertinelli. You were so spunky and squeeze your cheeks adorable as lovable pubescent urchin Barbara Cooper on One Day at a Time. My sister and I loved watching your many adventures on WGN in the afternoons (though not nearly as much as we loved Charles in Charge or Gidget or My Sister Sam - no offense), and if we ever played One Day at a Time, neither of us EVER wanted to be stuck being sucky Mackenzie Phillip's character Julie.

And, Val, it was totally cool when you married Eddie Van Halen, because you were the good girl and he was the rocker and America just giggled at the silly pairing of you mismatched lovebirds, but, ain't love strange sometimes? And, when you came back into our lives every now and again to star in a made for tv movie, Val, it was so comfortable: it just felt right. By the way, I must especially commend you on Night Sins. It kept me riveted for both nights - all 240 minutes of it- and the sexual chemistry you shared with Harry Hamlin was palpable. Bravo!

But, Valerie, here comes the part of the letter where it might sting a little. I need you to do me a little favor. Get the hell off of my tv. When you divorced the old nutbag, there was a moment of, "Aww. Really?" and then I went back to my crossword. When I heard that you had been reloading your plate at the Golden Corral buffet just a couple times too many, I thought, "Tsk tsk," and then I dealt myself another hand of Spider Solitaire.

But then, all of a sudden, you were back, and you were back often. I guess I should blame Jenny Craig - or, more specifically Kirstie Alley for getting fat again (silly kook!). Kudos for losing 40 pounds. But, Valerie, get the hell off of my tv. I don't need to see you on Oprah and Access Hollywood and Larry King and The View and The Dog Whisperer and Trading Spaces and the Playboy channel and This Old House. You snorted coke, too? Well Mackenzie Phillips already shared that story, and she shared it better twenty years ago. Oh, you and Crazy Van Halen both cheated during your marriage? Hats off! Now get the hell off of my tv. Once you are safely back into oblivion for say, eight years or so, I wouldn't mind you returning to hock some nonstick muffin tins on QVC or something. But, for now, Val, I have had enough. I think America has had enough.

Good luck with the book sales and keeping your offspring Wolfie (sweet name, btw) off the blow.

Your friend,

What's a donzer

Wiggity Wack Wednesday: Dreamboat Edition

It's time to take a jaunt down the old lanes o' me memory. Watching lil Cornflake toddle about seems to make me wax philosophical about the good old days when aaaaahhh, life, she was a simpler time. Join me, won't you, for an historical tour of love.

Google, you are a tricky mistress, indeed. Because you are giving me such a hard time finding pictures of all my former real-life in-person crushes (By the way, Jonathan Risner of my 1st grade class at Oak View Elementary: you seem to be doing really well for yourself these days. Good for you.), and I know how absolutely essential it is to put a face with a name, I decided that this Super Spectacular Holy Hotness Excursion will be strictly celeb.

First Stop - The First Crush That Lights the Corners of My Mind - The Marlboro Man, mustache version only. Who didn't suspect this one? I actually remember being three - four tops - and sitting in a McDonalds staring at a mustachioed man I thought was my rugged hero, plucked from the pages of my mom's Life magazine heavensent to the Golden Arches to ride me off into the sunset. Come to where the flavor is, indeed. [sidenote: Upon first meeting my friend Becky's dad, I couldn't help but be reminded of my very first crush. Don't worry, Becky; by the time I reached 15 I had long since moved on to the sexy mystique of the Drakkar Noir guy instead.]

Second Stop - Hottie Numero Dos - This specific Michael Jackson picture that appeared inside the Thriller album knocked me on my five year old toosh. Maybe it was the adorable tiger cub that first drew me in, but I could not stop staring at this picture. How I yearned for Michael to "hold [me] tight and share a killer, diller, chiller." Yowza!

Third Stop - Rounding out the Beefcake Trifecta - Philip Michael Thomas aka Ricardo "Rico" Tubbs of Miami Vice. I'm about five going on six now, and my world is rocked yet again when I see Tubbs on my tv screen. Oh, you were a Crockett fan? That's original. All I know is with Tubbs working the beat, this vice cop arrested drug lords and hearts. Not until I saw Sonny Spoon a couple of years later did my affection for the crime-chasing-eye-candy sway.

Fourth Stop - Superhunk Number Four - Michael J. Fox. Right, right. I know. So cliche'. But he is the reason I watched Midnight Madness and High School, USA two hundred sixty seven times each. And, I have no qualms in admitting that I heralded the Republican party for so long because of you, Alex P. Keaton. And then you went and blew my mind when you turned into our Teen Wolf. My God, if you shunned Pamela Wells and picked bore-zo "Boof" in the end, obviously you would have gone for seven year old me! I even held on when you had to go and stretch your wings and make Light of Day - by far one of the blowiest movies ever. Oh, Michael, who else could have pulled off a successful foil for "actress" Joan Jett in that suckfest of a movie besides you? No one! That's who!

Today's Final Stop - Fox Number Five - Johnny Depp, circa 21 Jump Street. I can literally feel the eyerolls and hear the groans from here. But wait, wait, wait! I know you! I know that Officer Tom Hanson gave you those special tingles, too. This guy coulda narced me out anytime, and you know that you feel that way, too! Come on! I wouldn't have been true to myself had I not included 21 Jump Street Version of Johnny Depp. You see, I had fifty some carefully selected, carefully torn pictures of Johnny from the choicest Tiger Beat and 16 magazines in circulation in 1988 taped all over my pretty pink Precious Moments wallpaper. You will not make me feel shame. Our love runs deep, Tom Hanson. Our love runs deep.

I will end this chronicle of lust here, but there are some other deserving folks to whom I would like to throw a what what, as well. You, too, buttered my bread, Dream a Little Dream era Cory Feldman. Greg Louganis, you dove off that 3 meter springboard in 1984 and into my dreams. Oh, Matt Dillon as Dally in The Outsiders: the cops may have shot you down by movie's end, but in me, you lived on. And, lastly, Bo Duke - Yee Haa!

Maybe you'd like to get a little something off your chest, too. Who was it that tooted your horn? Who drove your train? I am dying to know. As long as Zac Efron isn't the first stud to make Cornflake's heart go athump, the world will be beautiful and we will have peace. Cue the doves....

this day is nuts, yo!

Literally! It's February 26 (despite what the heading above this post says!), and you know what that means: It's National Pistachio Day!


There is so much about nuts that I just don't know! So, naturally, on this holiest of days dedicated to the holiest of nuts (or, so I like to think of our friend Stash), where else would I turn but pistachios.org?

When I opened the pistachio site to end all pistachio sites, I was SHOCKED to discover that the pistachio is one of the humblest of nuts. Nowhere to be seen was a "Congratulations Pissy" or a "Happy Pistachio Day, Apetalous Unisexual Wonder." Not for this understated nut. As a matter of fact, pistachios.org had the chutzpah to provide me with minimal factual information; instead, the site instructed me to contact one of five other experts on the subject if I had any questions about my little green nuts. Oh, really? You sly dog, you. Maybe I will contact CPEC (The California Pistachio Export Council. Duh.) with my questions. Actually, I think I'll join CPEC. That's what you'd like, isn't it, Pistachio?

What the supreme pistachio site did give me was what is apparently the pistachio's motto, coined by one Thomas Jefferson. I'll share it with you: “The greatest service which can be rendered any country is to add a useful plant to its culture.” Do you suppose Founding Father Jefferson was thinking of this quote while he was busy planting his (both 2legit2quit and not2legit2quit) seed all up and down Virginia? One thing's sure to me now: he was certainly well aware of his prized nuts.

Lest you leave this post having learned nothing substantial about our new friend, I feel I should give you a few pistachio quickies (Thank you, PISTACHIO Fruit Facts!). These nuts are: broad and bushy; these nuts are reddish, wrinkled, and grapelike. These nuts should be pruned to avoid overgrowth. And of course, these nuts are delightfully tasty.

One final thought: I would like to initiate a movement to take back the reputation of the pistachio from some depraved individuals who, pathetically and zealously, set out to sully it. As you may or may not know, in some circles, certain individuals toss around the word "pistachio" to mean "A woman of loose moral character. Further, a woman that one takes home for the night." Maybe it's easy for you, Ludacris to toss around words like "I was with some nasty ho's eatin' pistachios" as though you were simply on a walk to retrieve your morning paper, but, I'll remind you, Sir: Words Have Power! What did the pistachio do to you? Perhaps a loyal this blog is eggsalady reader might answer the challenge and pen the very petition that returns the dignity to the pistachio name. Readers: Are you up for this task?

Now, go celebrate the big day. Grab a handful of nuts and enjoy. You know I'd put a pair in my mouth if only I could chew. Tammy (nee' Timmy the nutless wonder) is going to get a couple of pistachios in the old kibble bowl in commemoration. Happy Pistachio Day, one and all.

drop that participle...it's the fuzz!

So, I am going to let you in on a particularly interesting (to me, anyway) facet of the relationship I share with some members of my extended family. You may remember that while my current profession involves a lotta snot wiping and Balmex applying, I am just a rookie at this new gig. In my former life, I was a red-pen-toting-Canterbury-Tales-analyzing-wannabe-hip high school English teacher. This former vocation - thankless and unglamorous and low-paying as it was - had this unique ability to cause me to strike some supersonic level of paranoia in others - in particular, it seems, a few choice in-laws. I'm not referring to any Letourneau-induced paranoia - get your mind out of the gutter, you skeez - no; I am referring to that other paralysis instigating job-related Bad Guy: Grammar.

Here's the thing. I'm not going to correct your grammar. To your face. But, apparently my supposed BA Sentence-Diagramming-expertise makes me look like such an ass to some that they deem it necessary to say stuff like, "Oh. That wasn't the right way for me to end that sentence, was it?" Or, at the end of an e-mail from some, I sometimes see: "Please disregard any bad grammar that I may have written." Okay. Haha. I get it. I'm so assy that clearly I am laughing at you in my head about your inferior syntax and punctuation. Losers!

You know what's even more riveting to me than watching people get the coldsweats because of my morphological prowess? It's watching people -coughcoughcoughmotherinlawcoughcoughcough - think that they have just SHAZAM caught me in some gross misuse of our friend grammar. It causes quite a quandary on my behalf: do I go ahead and pretentiously avoid ending the sentence in its preposition - as assity ass ass as it will sound - because it's correct, or do I just speak like everyone else sans fear and not sweat it that someone is about to call me out and catch me - HA - on being craptastic at my former line of work? I know it gives some people a cheap thrill to bust me dangling my participles like I'm Debbie Does Dipthongs. And, I admit it: I make just as many grammar mistakes as others (well - maybe not all others; but most others). I forget commas and misplace modifiers quite a bit. But, okay, maybe I'm a former English teacher who you just heard lay down some slang, but it's not like I go around going, "Hey! Mr. Human Resource Manager: I do believe your previous sentence - in particular your use of the word jugs - could possibly be construed as harrassment in a professional forum, aren't I correct?"

You smell what the Rock is cooking, don't you? Let's all stick together for the sake of love and the comma. Let's cut the grammarians of the world a little slack, kay? If we won't do it, who will?

Lisa Take the Wheel

Seriously, could my posts be any more me-me-me lately? Enough with the angst and the blah. We get it already! Let's lighten up a little and try to focus on somebody else for a change, mmkay? In fact, let's turn our attention to one of the most valuable players of the 1990's. Without further adieu, I give you:

5 or 6 reasons Lisa Turtle was the most underrated character on Saved By the Bell.
1) First of all, Lisa was an original holdout from the Miss Bliss gang. For reasons unclear to me, the creators of the show decided to salvage the foundations of the program and tweak it into something distinctly different yet oddly the same. Dumped was the scrawny ethnic squeaky voiced curly headed extraneous male character Mikey; in his place came Douchy dreamboat AC Slater. Dumped was the geeky glasses wearing annoying know it all fluffy bangs female character Nicky; it took two skanks to replace her - we know 'em and love 'em as Jessie My Panties are Always in a Wad Spano and Kelly My Panties are Probably on the Floor of Zack's Cabriolet Kapowski. Zack and Screech were such solid, complex ingenues that their characters were obviously set in stone, destined to walk the halls of Bayside High (along with everyone's favorite creepmeister, Mr. Belding). But the glue that held the gang together in middle school and would continue to hold the gang together until their 1993 graduation (and return for a couple subsequent College Years lame-oh epis and a "kickass" Vegas wedding) was our female holdout - that spunky, effervescent, sharp-dressed girl - Lisa Turtle.

2) As I am sure most viewers are already aware, the symbolic interpretation of Lisa's character is profound. I bet I don't need to tell you that the name "Lisa" is of Hebrew origin, meaning "Oath of God." From your lips to God's ears, Lisa Turtle! You are a divine being, indeed! And, of course, who didn't catch the allegorical implications behind Lisa Lisa's surname "Turtle"? Clearly, slow and steady wins this race. Just as John Steinbeck used tortoises to represent persistence and vitality in The Grapes of Wrath, too, producer Peter Engel allowed us all to witness steadfast perseverance in our Lovely Lisa (who else could stave off Screech with such grace and elegance, I ask you! Who else?).

3) Like a young Carol Burnett, Lily Tomlin, or Little Miley Cyrus, Lisa Turtle's profound comic timing (as portrayed by the incomporable Lark Voorhies), was bar none. Lisa matched wits with all the greats - Mr. Carosi, Stacy Carosi; she even went head to head with Violet Bickerstaff. Who can forget the day pesky Screech was getting Lisa's goat again, and Lisa fired back, "Aaah: Lisa no in casa"? Brilliant.

4) Remember the sickest pop act ever to grace a music video with spandex unitards and one pound wristweights? That's right - I'm talking singing sensations Hot Sundae - the group that was really going places until Jessie's ridiculous super-special-ultra-shocking-dramatic addiction to uppers? Well, amigos, just who exactly do you think was the all important fudge in Hot Sundae? Lisa was that essential ingredient. She was the one with rhythm; Lisa had a voice that could lull the angels to slumber. If Jessie hadn't gone and ruined things for Hot Sundae with her selfish allegiance to No Doz, read my lips - it would have been Dreamgirls starring Lisa Turtle, not Beyonce.

5) Along the same lines as putting the fudge in the Sundae, Lisa was a dramatic and powerful emblem of race relations for the late 80's, early 90's. Think about it: where is Bayside High, I ask you? That's right: Los Angeles, CA - a hotbead of racial tension at the end of the twentieth century. When Zack Morris heedlessly sported the eight-sizes-too-big-color-block-Cross Colors jacket, did Ms. Turtle bounce all up in his grill and drop the cabbage patch on that ass like it was hot? We both know the answer to this one: no, sir; she did not. She guided our team of cheerleader, preppie, nerd, jock, brain, and token black female all the way to believeable harmony and brotherhood. And, she didn't even have to wear a Buddy Band to do it.

6) Finally, Lisa Turtle was - no - is everywoman; it's all in her. An impeccable dancer (Who among us hasn't turned that motha' "The Sprain" out on the dance floor, emulating our fair heroine?); a dope fashionista (I challenge you to name one woman in history who could rock the puffy-sleeved semi-formal like Ms. T.); a galloping gossip (watch out, Nancy Drew!); and a true friend (I would have called out skanky Kelly years ago, but not you, Lisa. Not you.).; Lisa Turtle was all of these things, and so much more.

For all these reasons, our Lisa Turtle will forever be the most underrated SBTB member. I leave you with these immortal words: "If I think not, am I not? I think not." - Lisa Turtle

views from the emotionally stunted confessional booth

The other day, I saw a pair of shoes online that I had to - HAD TO - have. I am not a shopper. In fact, I am kind of a kicking and whining seven year old boy being dragged around by his mom through endless rows of infinite tedium and anguish during the entire shopping ordeal - clothing specifically. I don't particularly enjoy online shopping, either. It's like I still get the cold sweats and feelings of fish-outta-waterdom even browsing from the comforts of my nice, fluffy sofa. That is neither here nor there. I tell you, though, about my commercial aversion in order to explain why I was so defeated when I went to buy these shoes that I HAD TO have that, alas, were unavailable in my size. Being denied these shoes sent me down a several day hunt searching for a pair available to fit my size 8 and a half hoofs. I'll spare you the infinite tedium and anguish and reveal to you that this afternoon, at approximately 1:30 pm, I found the shoes I was looking for. And, so, I jubilantly pulled out my shiny Visa card and proudly typed those numbers, feeling victorious at my win for the home team.

But then, of course, like clockwork, the rumination kicked in. Why was it so dang important for me to find these shoes? Allow me to show you, friends, the shoes that were life and death for me to acquire:

And there they are. They are limited edition artist designed Little Red Riding Hood Converse Chuck Taylors. I believe I have mentioned to you that I am not actually a seven year old boy. Go on - you can chuckle. Yes, those shoes do happen to be emblazoned with a fairy tale cartoon. And, now these shoes are causing a bounty of thoughts to flood my brain:

1) Aren't moms supposed to, you know, wear clothes that moms wear? Watch out, friends, here comes Freudy: I really wonder - am I subconsciously attempting to suppress the mommy in me by wearing shoes equal to or below Cornflake's maturity level?

I haven't been completely honest with you. I have been down this road before - it was about a month ago when I decided that Cornflake's 1st birthday party should probably surround a Candyland theme (yeah - her 1st birthday, still nearly three months away). At that time, I couldn't rest until I found a Candyland shirt for she and I to wear because, you know, these things are sooooo important. Anyway, here's my new shirt:

Oh, and, let me point out that while I am the proud owner of a Candyland shirt, Cornflake will likely be wearing a dress to her first birthday party, you know, because that's a little more mature for a fiesta. She won't be a baby anymore, afterall.

2) Are the clothes that I wear the only area in which I am a little emotionally, er, undergrown? Again - the ruminating commenced, and I realize so many things: a) I don't buy big girl makeup. No; if it comes from the drugstore, that's good enough for me. Is that wrong for a mommy? Now I think maybe yes; b) I have never actually consumed a big girl cup of coffee. Unh uh. I'm not Mormon (but a shout out to all the Mormons in the house! What what!) It's just something I never gave a shot. For that matter, tea, lattes, cappucinos, frappucinos, crappucinos have not crossed my path, either; c) I couldn't hem pants/bake a quiche/crochet an afghan/keep a plant alive to save my life; d) I'll spare you - I could go on and on and on with this list. Am I normal? What is wrong with me? At what point in my development did maturity fail me?

Oh, New Chuck T's. You are ever so cute, but look at what you have done to me. Well, you know what? Maybe I am a seven year old boy stuck in the body of a mommy. But, gosh darn it, I am going to be the best seven year old brother Cornflake has ever had.

All that's missing is the Oxy pads and a Slush Puppie

Well, it's happened. I didn't even consider this when I started, but, all of a sudden, waves of adolescent feelings of inadequacy and shame are washing over me again like it's high tide. I'm going to let you in on a little memory I like to call "My-God-Why-Didn't-That-Girl's-Mother-Pry-Her-Tweezers-From-Her-Sad-Grubby-Hands?". I like to think that every human has at least a couple psychic chromosomes in their DNA sticking their little extrasensory hands in the air shouting, "Use me! Use me!" Well, see if you can channel your little chromies and figure out who Sad Grubby Tweezer Girl was. Go on... try.

By God, you've got it! That pathetic tweezer toter was me. And, my friend, perhaps you were already attuned to this, but, tragically, this isn't the memory of a sad, overplucked nine year old moppet. No, no. I was a sixteen year old girl with an eyebrow and a half. Sixteen. Blossoming boobs, sporadically burgeoning acne, sarcasm a little too fresh for such a self-conscious youngster. Go ahead and throw all that in a bowl, mix in a couple cups of self-doubt, and don't forget that eyebrow and a half. My psyche is too proud to let me go all the way there with you - the sting is still a little too raw. But, in order to completely paint this metaphorical picture for you with the broadest strokes my pride will allow, I'll just have you picture the following: I'm a sixteen year old smart-aleck, sporting tapered jeans and whatever Benetton shirt was clean that day - that eyebrow and a half a-blazing; there I sit in my health class watching the yeast infection video - and all of a sudden...out. That girl with the eyebrow and a half has fainted as Jill and Molly discuss the mysterious things that can happen "down there." It was all too much for me, as my biological fortresses just said no to hearing any more about cottage cheese discharge. Awkward adolescent? Indeed. Probably no more than your average sixteen your old sprite, but, ask any girl now who is at least twelve years removed from the adorable self-loathing phase, and she will probably have a similar story as my own.

What is the point, you ask? Well, just as Ernest Hemingway likes to remind us - a lot - life is, of course, a circle. As much as it hurts to toss my flaws on blast for everyone to notice, in the spirit of full disclosure, I feel that I should admit it: My blog has an eyebrow and a half. Don't pretend you haven't noticed. It's more than a little bush league. Its colors are a little lame, and its posts are a little long. Even as I sit here typing, my unknowing yet well-intentioned husband has shown me three much cooler, much more seasoned blogs. I have blog envy. Do I need a new template? Do I need to commission a blog template? Does this bra make my boobs look too big? I am there again. Jill and Molly, shut your yaps.

You know teeth, we made a really good team once.

I am a little obsessed with food. And, when I say "food," what I mean is food that real Americans eat. Nothing that would ever appear on Top Chef or Iron Chef or My Chef is Bungholier than Your Chef. I'm talking KFC gut-bomb bowls of lovin'; I want my Sonic fried cheese sticks with extra fried. I could write novels for you based on the dramatic intricacies and nuances of each and every fast food chicken sandwich on the market (Dairy Queen, this message is for you: stick with what you know. Stick with the Blizzard and leave the chicken sandwiches for the big boys.). Waffle fries, curly fries, steak fries, homestyle fries - I now pronounce you the loves of my life.

Well, on a chilly, fateful day three months ago, a dentist stole from me the culinary loves of my life, and took with him any potential suitors that require any chewing that might cross my path. I have had to adjust without some of the best friends I have ever had. Popcorn chicken, you and I had some good times together. Quarter Pounder with Cheese, it wasn't you - it was me!

In attempt to find harmony with a soft-foods diet, I have been learning to embrace some foods at which my former palate, er, stuck out its tongue. So, my friends, I hope that you are always able to chew and feel what you swallow; however, in the lonely case you should become estranged from McNuggets and chicken and mushroom calzones, I would like to be a helping hand in your time of need. The following is my top ten list of foods in which no chewing is required. It's the Your-Dentist-Screwed-You-Now-Suck-It-Up-And-Eat-Some-Of-These-Things list.

1) Velveeta Shells and Cheese - This one is sooooo obvious. Already one of my favorite meals before the injury, (sadly, my shells no longer join their best friend the hot dog for the party in my tummy), these little conchs of heaven are surprisingly easy to eat sans-chew. Do yourself a favor, too, skip the lousy 2% milk lower fat version. You've been injured, for God's sake. Live a little!

2) Hamburger Helper Cheeseburger Macaroni Microwavable Singles -I got turned on to these because they came in singlets. Since the husband and I now have totally contradistinct eating habits, I no longer (ahahahahahaha!) cook for two anymore. Anyhoo, you'll need to get used to swallowing the teeniny bits'o'burger, but, darnit, you need a little protein, and this lil meal is MUCH better than its lasagna or fettucine alfredo counterparts. Give it a try. If it's good enough for the big creepy white glove, it's good enough for you and me.

3) Edy's Slow Churned Rich and Creamy Cookies 'n Dreamz - You are going to find a whole newfound respect for ice cream. You'll go through emotional ups and downs with it: I love you, I am so over you, I need you back in my life, Jeff - I mean, ice cream. This flavor is good, too, and not just because it is endorsed by Ryan Seacrest himself. It is soft and chocolatey and ever so tasty. And, go to this website: http://idol.edys.slowchurned.com/idol/americanidol.html and vote for your favorite American Idol ice cream, and YOU could be having an ice cream party at YOUR house with MELINDA DOOLITTLE or CHRIS RICHARDSON! Was Chris the beatboxer? I can't remember. If not, you can have him and I'll take Melinda. Either way, the ice cream's the tops.

4) The Husband Brings Home Dinner Twofer: Boston Market Macaroni and Cheese and Mashed Potatoes - It is very, very hard for me to eat Boston Market and not eat a Chicken Carver sandwich. HOWEVER, the mac and cheese is pretty good, and the mashed potatoes are winners in my book. And, hey, my husband brought it, and gosh darn it, there's a lot of love involved in putting in a douchy order such as this and delivering it to me with a smile.

5) Good Old Scrambled Eggs - I can tell you, a cook I am not. I have tried so many different ways to cook my eggs to make them fluffy and light and pretty. I have used milk and I have used water. I have tried sour cream, and I have tried mayonnaise (which my still-able-to-chew husband told me was "nasty" to put into eggs. Well Bugger off, Chewer! I kinda like it!) I always use cheese (cheddar), and, you know what,they may not be in the same league as a Wendy's #1 with cheese and a coke, but you know what? You can't chew that anymore!

6) The Easy Mac Cup - It's another macaroni and cheese entry. When I was a chewer, I never would have tried these. Just add water? A sphincter says what? But, these microwavable cups are decent! Do yourself a favor - don't - I repeat DON'T buy the Extreme Cheese version. NO SIR! ABORT! ABORT! The original version will do you just right.

7) Luigi's REAL Italian Ice, Lemon flavor - Just like the title proclaims, this stuff is the REAL DEAL! It's icy, it's lemony; I like to throw my cup into the microwave for about 22 seconds. Just right. There are other flavor varieties (I saw Pina Colada - maybe if I were caught in the rain I'd give 'em a whirl), but I am a purist and all I ever want when in the Kroger frozen food section is Lemon. It's delish. Mario could never have pulled this off.

8) Jell-O Devils Food Pudding Packs - Apparently sanctioned by Satan himself, these devilish little snacks are mouth-pleasers. They pretentiously sold out and became part of the "We're 100 calorie packs and we're proud" trend, but we should try to overlook that. Jell-O, you're better than that! You can stand on your yummy merits alone. Try 'em, won't you?

9) Edy's Girl Scout Tagalong Ice Cream - It's another Edy's endorsement for you! Let me begin by letting you know that I could not find this product on the Edy's website, which makes me wonder if Kroger sold me ice cream from last year's Girl Scout cookie season. WHO CARES? I'd eat this if it were ten years old! Tagalongs are truly the best product the Girl Scouts have introduced to the American consumer, and Edy made my dreams come true by introducing the Tagalong to ice cream! I must admit, it is kinda hard to swallow the chunks whole, but it's a choking hazard I'm willing to take (just kidding - mush it up, mmkay?). Oh, and if you are one of those cook-type-people, I found this website in which this blogger makes - yes MAKES Tagalong ice cream herself: http://sugarplumsweets.blogspot.com/2008/01/tagalong-ice-cream.html. I add the link because I think my friend Katy, upon reading this, has already gotten into her car to buy the ingredients to make this treat. I'm fine with spending $5.49 for the carton, myself, but whatevs.

10) Gerber 2nd Foods Banana Orange Medley - Yeah; you heard me right. I am allowed to try what Cornflake eats, and she was lovin' this one so much, I decided to take it out on a date, too. You know what? We went all the way. It's smooth, it's orangey, it's banana-y, what more could you ask for when your damn teeth have failed you?

Oh - a really important sidenote for you - I just saw this online: Gerber makes this, too: It's Lamb and Lamb Gravy. Now, don't get all cocky. Just because you can rock the Banana Orange Medley does not, I repeat NOT mean you should dive into any lamb in a jar. Seriously. Please don't do it.

And, my friends, I wish you well. May you always feel what you swallow, but may you have the stones to try some other thing out there if you can't. But, you have my permission to bitchslap your husband if he eats his #1 from Chick-fil-A in front of you. Good Day.

A Haiku

We are leaving for the hospital in a couple of minutes, and I wanted to get one last short thought to you for the day.

Blitzer? I Hardly Knew Her

Political wiz.

Exit polls make those eyes dance.

Hungry like the Wolf.

in exaltation of a national treasure

I remember it like it was yesterday. And like it was a year and two and half months ago, which it was. May I paint a picture for you? I'll do my best. My husband and I had been invited to New York City for a December wedding. We'd never been to New York, and, I can't speak for my husband or anything (okay - I can, and I do, but right now, I'm not going to), but I was peeing my pants with glee over the prospect of visiting one of the most legendary places in all the land, especially during the most beautiful time of year. That's right. We were heading to the promiseland. We were going to the Montel Williams show.

I was able to procure two golden tickets to a taping for my husband and myself. The surreal anticipation before the taping was, of course, sublime. Countless hours were spent perfecting the proper nodding and head-shaking techniques I had seen performed so flawlessly by so many awe-inspiring audience members before me. I'll save you most of the prep time and try to get to the dance. My friends, simple words cannot express the tingly feelings that transpire when one is in the presence of greatness - when one is in the presence of Montel. "Who was the guest? ; Were you on tv? ; Did you caress that velvety-smooth, hallowed mix-between-chestnut-and-cocoa head with your unworthy, inferior fingers?" Slow down, readers. I will answer these questions for you, but, as I learned through the painstaking waiting-game that was the countdown until the Montel taping, patience really is a virtue. The dance will come.

When you are conceptualizing this day in your head, you must first be aware that I was three and a half months pregnant on taping day (St. Montel's Day). In crazy with-child-speak, one must countdown in weeks, and in pregnancy talk, that is about seventeen weeks. If you have had a child growing in your uterus (or if you have lived with someone who has had a child growing in her uterus), you will realize that seventeen weeks is obviously less that twenty weeks, and so you may already have thought, "Why, she was unaware of the sex of Little Cornflake at that point!" Very intuitive, reader! I can only imagine, then, that your next thought is exactly the same as mine was before the taping: WHAT IF SHE IS THERE FOR SYLVIA BROWNE DAY? I know! I know! I could ask her the sex of my child! I could ask her if little Fetey (short for Fetus, natch) would be all I had ever dreamed and more. Well, I hate raising hopes and then slicing them up into miniscule little shards of disappointment, but, alas, reader, we did not get to see Sylvia Browne.

Who did we see? Was it the heartwrenching story of a desperate family in need of hope and assistance, Montel style ("Dreams Really Do Come True with Montel")? Negative. Perhaps it was a Make My Deserving Mom Over for Her High School Crush? Uh-unh. Brave Young Kids Doing Heroic Things? Nosir.

We were in the room for a very topical, up-to -the-minute roundtable discussion between Montel Williams and another legendary contemporary of our time. You know who I am talking about. Yes, sir. That's right. You know who I'm talking about. The Reverend Al Sharpton.

I don't need to tell you that we solved the problems of our greedy, hate-filled world in those forty-some odd minutes we shared. We were together, and we could all make things right. Look at that face. I know you know it, too.

In fear of trivializing my experience and leaving out any of the power and beauty of that day, I will not go into further specifics. Because I know your mouth must be watering, I'll let you know that we did witness a powerfully rousing video of Montel snowboarding set to the fervent soundtrack of Chamillionaire's "Ridin' Dirty." Indeed, Montel. Indeed. And we do picture him rollin.

Not that it's important, but my boobs, my upper arms and the green turtleneck over them as well as my husband's nose made it onto tv. But that day meant so much more. Montel will no longer tape any live shows after this season. Truly it is the end of an era. I hope that he is doing okay. I take from that show my memories, my tingles, and a photocopied-autographed picture of Montel inscribed, "Thank you for coming, Montel." No. Thank you, Montel Williams. Thank you.

Did you know Kansas is the sunflower state?

Well, this is going to seem a little weird. In commemoration of the upcoming sugery I am having on Wednesday, I was going to find some song lyrics that would , you know, commemorate the occasion. The problem is, the surgery is on my tongue (don't ask; it involves some wisdom teeth yanking gone awry. Perhaps seek an oral surgeon instead of a dentist for this procedure. Just a tip. Anyways....). It's on my lingual nerve, specifically, but, yeah, on my tongue. So, upon searching "tongue lyrics" on my homeboy Google, I found a lotta mess that doesn't really say "commemoration" to me.

Here's Seether's contribution: Well the tongue inside my mouth is not for sale; Any spirit left in me is fading fast;Could you throw another stone to ease my pain?;Could you throw another stone to seal my fate? For some reason, this makes me think of Hugh Grant holding giant earphones over his ears while sobbing listening to this. I dunno. Damien Rice and REM both provided songs named "Tongue", neither of which feature the word "tongue." The following is brought to us courtesy of one of my grandmother's favorites, Danny Kaye: "And it seems so easy till the word gets sprung; If you insist you want to try a lisp;Then step up mister and twist your tongue;Twista felt Twister was trying to whistle;But Twister had twisted his tongue." I can't help but feel mainly if not entirely dirty after reading those words. Yet, that didn't make me feel quite so unclean as I felt reading EVERY OTHER song about tongues out there. [sidenote: Remember sweet Sisqo and his dear little ballad about the thong? Well, there is some woman named Trina out there who went and further soiled The Dragon's lyrics, creating words that I am far too young to read. Don't believe me? See for yourself, but, I warned you! I'll provide no link for your degradation, but, you, too, know how to use my homeboy Google.]

Anyway, instead of any of these debacles that try to pass for music, I decided instead, to commemorate my upcoming surgery by examining the most famous lyrics of one of the most distinguished [cough. excuse me.] bands of all time: Kansas.

Without further adieu, I give you Dust In the Wind:

1st Verse:I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone ...All my dreams __pass before my eyes, a curiosity ...Dust in the Wind. All they are is dust in the wind.

2nd Verse: Same old song, ... just a drop of water in an endless sea.All we do ... crumbles to the ground .. though we refuse to see.Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.

Interlude: Oh. ho, ho

3rd Verse: Now don't hang on, -- nothing lasts forever except the earth and sky.It slips away, ... and all your money won't another minute buy.Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind.Dust in the wind. Everything is dust in the wind.The wind.(Ad lib vocal)

Holy crap of all crapfests! I was going to even analyze these lyrics, but I think it would be more poignant if you would do it yourself. And I LOVE this song! Wow. I, oddly, seriously feel so okay about this surgery after being crapped on by this crap. Nothing could have commemorated the lingual tongue operation better. Eat that, Trina.

slow down there, overdog!

I am walking into this post treading ever so lightly, for I am about to superficially chew over the human psyche. I have been thinking a little lately about the cuddly appeal of the underdog. Like so many others before me, I too have always been drawn to the one less likely to succeed. Case in point, way back before the Atlanta Braves (AMERICA'S team!) became great, and then really great, and then not so great, one could possibly view the fellas as, largely, a ragtag bunch. Sure, there were some greats on the 1987 team - Dale Murphy, Glenn Hubbard, even Ken Griffey, to name a few. But, who was my eight-almost-nine -year-old self obsessed with? His name is Ozzie Virgil. To be fair, Ozzie Virgil was a pretty darn good player. I think. I explored the Great Virgilino on Wikipedia a couple of minutes ago, and I relearned that he was an All Star in '85 and '87. He achieved a respectable .243 career batting average - emphasis, of course, on the word "average." Notice, if you will, that in the accompanying photo, Ozzie Virgil is wearing a Phillies uniform. I was unable to find a picture of Mr. Virgil in his Braves gear. Ahem.

I am digressing. What I really want to understand, though, is why so many of us are drawn to the underdog. The Scottie Pippen. The Puffs brand tissues in a world dominated by Kleenex. Is it really empathy we are feeling for Puffs and Scottie and the Jamaican bobsled team, or might it just possibly be that rather than experiencing this touching love we feel for the underdog, we are really just having a psychosomatic aversion to the overdog?

Think about it. In my former life as a high school teacher, I witnessed each day that once a formerly-endearing ironic trend hit the mainstream (I'm talking to YOU checkered Vans and rockin' leg warmers!), those now-cool trends would send a chill down the spines of the true, "original" hipsters. You've seen it a hundred times! Oh, you just got around to seeing Juno? Yes, it's clever, and certainly witty, but, gosh - it is sooo last year. I sure am glad your suburban AMC is still showing it, though; that's really cute. Getting my point? Is it fair? Probably not. But, think about it: how cool was it to jump on the Patriots bandwagon this past month (Bill Belichick's short-sleeved sweatshirt notwithstanding)? Not that cool. (Really quick sidenote: as 7 pound wee dachshunds can get cold in winter, I sometimes make Timmy wear a cute little grey sweatshirt. On those days, my husband refers to the poor doggie as "Timmy Belichick." Hee hee hee.) And, throughout the hype, didn't you just want to scream, "Wait a second! Those Patriots may be winning lots of these football competetions in a row and all, but they haven't yet won every contest! There is another team playing them, too!"

Maybe these underdog sports analogies have lasted a few sentences too long. The main reason I have even been even thinking about this subject is, well, I have been paying a little bit of attention to, well, politics lately. Without divulging any personal faves that I may or may not have selected, I will reveal that I have selected a fave. My husband went so far to say I was becoming a little "loud and proud" about said candidate. So you know, I selected that fave a while ago. And, you know, this candidate of mine hasn't tried on a short-sleeved sweatshirt or anything yet, but, let's just say, at some point in the past year or so (not to give anything away), my candidate has experienced a wave of momentum. And, I find now that, wait, this momentum is kind of causing me to lose maybe a teeny tiny bit of interest. My candidate is in danger of becoming - gasp - the overdog. I imagine those former checkered Vans wearers turning away from the former underdog in droves, put off by Candidate's newfound overdogdom. We'll see. I'm just saying, wow. Slow down. Hmmm. I wonder if Ozzie Virgil has ever considered running for office....

french kissing in the usa

After some indecision regarding how to kick off this blog, I decided to start with a pretty gross little matter plaguing my family these days. It's not like headlice or the gout or anything (no offense to any present sufferers). It is however, menacingly troublesome. I warned you.

So our baby Cornflake - the etiology of this nickname, by the way, is not as interesting as you might imagine - anyway, Cornflake has this little issue with drooling. And, when I say "little", I really mean perhaps our governor could alleviate this whole drought problem plaguing our state if he ever discovered the amount of liquid our nine month old little squirt produces in a day. This drool situation, though, is not the gross little matter. The gross little matter involves little Cornflake's seven pound wee lil dachsund friend, Timmy. You see, Timmy has always had a small infatuation with Cornflake's drool, and wee lil Timmy likes to use that wee lil tongue of his on whatever crosses his wee lil path. Cornflake crosses wee lil Timmy's path regularly. Along with making sure Cornflake doesn't crack her head on the side of our fireplace, or bang her head into the glass doors, or insert her head into crevices in our den I never knew existed, I also have the daunting task, too, of ensuring that her open, salivating mouth comes nowhere near wee lil Timmy's own salivating tongue. It's a gross little matter, you see, but, this matter gets ever so much grosser. Again, you have been warned.

If you are a dog-owner, you may, too, be aware of a dirty little secret that dog owners painstakingly attempt to keep. I, however, am about to reveal this confidential information, as it plays heavily into the gross little matter at hand. You see, there comes a time in a wee lil dog's life (and, from what I understand, sometimes in the lives of bigger canines, too) that that wee lil dog discovers his Xanadu. That Xanadu comes in the form of cat turds. My neighbors have unleashed their cats onto this world, and their cats find our backyard to be the holiest of litter boxes. And Timmy finds our backyard to be the holiest of smorgasbords. From what I understand, cats eat delicious feline morsels, yet their tender lil kitty tummies just can't break down all of those morsels on their way out the door. So, wee lil Timmy and his dog-friends alike get to enjoy those indigested delicious feline morsels all over again. It's great. So, what a dilemma. Now, we must be extra-vigilant in watching Timmy and his drool fetish. But, my friend, the story is not done. It is much worse. And you have been warned.

Cornflake has begun eating new foods up the wazoo. She loves green beans; she loves peas. She loves bread; she loves pasta. She loves bananas; she loves potatoes. Cornflake loves corn. Can you see where this story is going? Corn. All this new food is hard on lil Cornflake's lil tummy. Oftentimes, I have to strap on the gasmask and fire up the garden hose to change those precious size three Huggies. It is a difficult, multi-step process. I usually tie three Target bags around these diapers alone upon their removal, as they are far too potent to be allowed into the Diaper Champ. Can you see where this story is going?

Guess what wee lil Timmy discovered?

Right. Paradise, right there in front of him, tossed onto the bathroom floor while Cornflake was being bathed to wash off her Gee Those Foods Taste Delicious stench. That Target bag plastic is not as mighty as it appears.

You might consider buying stock in Greenies. I think I've bought out the entire supply in a thirty mile radius. I have considered adding Listerine to Timmy's water bowl, but I don't have time to deal with a doggy drinking problem on top of this. Needless to say, we are always on Timmy French kissing patrol. At least until his application for his monastery camp is approved.

Doing the blog dance...feeling the flow...

I don't think that's exactly how that saying goes. But, I'm setting forth on blogsville, half-full speed ahead. The baby's in bed (henceforth , she shall likely be fondly referred to as "Cornflake"), the husband's out on the town, the weiner-dog is asleep. I am home alone and just cannot watch this episode of Making the Band 18 again. I have read the Star Magazine with the Olsenites cover to cover, and I have pretended to do the same with the Newsweek on the nightstand. So, here I go. Bloggin'. I am not sure how this will all turn out. I am permanently on Al Gore's hate list as every diary I had as a kid had three completed pages max, the other lonely pages naked and free of heart-dotted i's. My track-record of recorded introspect is not so great; thus, perhaps this here blog should be less introspect, more outrospect, if you will (will you?). I am a teacher on a break from teaching to rear a child. I am a writer on a break from writing to actually find time to do some writing. I am a wife and a dog chaser and a closet People's Court watcher. Mmmkay. Here comes the blog.



reflexive questions:

1) Did that introductory-ish paragraph count as the first real blogged blog, or does the next post with a specific topic (assuming that blog will: a) see light; and b) have a specific topic) count as the first real blogged blog?

2) Does a blog with no real focus count in the face of so many rockin blogs about momhood or politicshood or zany-spoon-collectorhood?

3) Should a blog with no real focus remain largely neutral on topics such as momming or politicking or zany-spoon-collecting? Is a focus-free-blog allowed to express opinions, when it is not even bold enough to express a focus?