A spoonful of knowledge.

Well, probably a little more inanity than knowledge, but, that's neither here nor there. Apparently 2008 is the year of the footnote, and rumor has it there might be a thing or twelve that I say that causes a little confusification for my BFF, the reader. I guess thanks to Patrillo / McCain 2008 and the Straight Talk Express, mystery is a thing of the past.

So, pals, at the behest of the masses (ahem), here are some Occasionally Asked Questions and their oh-so enlightening solutions.

The name of this fair blog: Is it "this blog is eggsalady" or "this blog is eggs a lady"? Well, reader, I'd say that's open to interpretation. Originally, this blog was intended to epitomize all that eggsalady stands for. I guess I was under the impression that everyone had seen the breathtaking cinematic masterpiece that was robbed of the 1988 Academy Award, Big Top Pee Wee (whatever, Rain Man). Not to give the plot of the powerful film away or anything, but Pee Wee's suitor is trying to impress our stud by making him a picnic lunch, including (but not limited to) an eggsalad sandwich. How's it taste, PW? "Mmm. Eggsalady." To me, eggsalady is, I guess, just pretty sweet. You know what else, though, I realize is pretty frickin sweet? Egging a lady. In my head, that seems like it would be hilarious. So, you know, your choice.


Your name seems a little dumb. What is What's a Donzer supposed to mean? Sigh. This one is, I guess, a little weird to hold on to twenty three years or so later, but Ramona Quimby was always kind of my hero growing up. If you don't know who Ramona is, then you have some serious literature reading to do. Anyhoozle, here comes the pepperjack: I always thought the following story was really endearing (awwwww). You see, in my favorite Ramona book, Ramona the Pest, five year old Ramona gets a little mixed up. I'll let the omniscient answerdeity Wikipedia explain this one to you, as it does a pretty good short and sweet job, and I am not feeling like using the mindpower to paraprase at the moment. Here she is: "[Ramona]decides to impress everyone with what knowledge she [has] and tells her older sister Beezus to get a "dawn-zer" to provide "a lee light" to help Beezus read. This confuses sister and, eventually mom and dad, until they all realize that Ramona has misunderstood the opening lyric to the Star-Spangled Banner: 'Oh say, can you see, by the dawn's early light.' Pretty great, huh?



Did you really name your poor kid Cornflake? Well, that does seem like something I would do, but, no; I didn't name her Cornflake. It's Suri Apple. She kind of issued forth from my womb looking a little like a flake o' corn, and when it's time to awaken, "Wakey wakey, Cornflakey" she doth hear. Hence, Cornflake.



Did you really name your poor dog Timmy? Yes.





Why aren't there pictures of you on this blog? How do I know you aren't a thirty nine year old world-weary convict named Lonnie who is suffering from a case of the doldrums? Hmmm. You're weird, reader. I dunno. It feels a little Jerky Jerksmith being all la la la look at me. Besides, the guys in cell block four would be even more feelsies than normal if I started posting my Glamour Shots all over the information superhighway.


Who and what are the "BSGs"? Good question. Here's a clicky to bring you back to their introduction. If you're lazy and don't feel in the mood to get your click on, in short, the BSGs are part of my core fanbase. They are first-rate computer gurus; they are Battlestar Galactica Gangstas, they are BSGs. They just so happen to be my muses for Sexy Programmer Thursdays, which can be found here and here , if all of a sudden you are ready to let clicking back in your good graces again.


Speaking of Sexy Programmer Thursdays, from where are the SPT candidates plucked? That's easy. Heaven.




How you're not chewing and all: break it down for me. This subject is still a little embryo-ish not to sting. So, I'll explain in haiku, entitled A Dentist Sliced my Lingual Nerve and Diced My Heart.


A Dentist Sliced my Lingual Nerve and Diced My Heart
Goodbye, wisdom teeth
Mygod you just shivved two nerves
Thanks a lot, asshole




What does "there's an ass over my shoulder" mean? It's basic perfection. It's Eden in your backyard. It's a jaunt on a tugboat and a disembarkment at the promiseland. Succinctly, it's Wolf Blitzer. Aaaaahhh.

Well, I'm sure there's more, but I am distracted by Kim Kardashian's heinie at the moment and I can't seem to concentrate on this task at hand. If there's anything else I can clear up, let me know. I'll open up my brainfile of Afterschool Specials and see if I can produce an answer for it. Because, to me, you're worth it. Kisses!

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.

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.