Thanks, March Madness, for bringing my ineptitude to light.

Right now, the sports world is going all Mickey Rourke kinds of CRAZY with the INSANITY that is MARCH MADNESS! In honor of the festival of full court press LUNACY, I am going to unload a little of my own El Donzer Loco on your lap like it's hot.

I have handpicked for you Ten Nutjob Things in My Life That I Assumed to Be True, But Then Turned Out to Be Quite False.

1. Surname Stupidity - I believe you know I'm married, yes? Well, long before I was a member of the Donzer party, I had a maiden name that became quite a popular joke on some hilarious stylin' t-shirts back in day. You probably had a zany neighbor down the street who got just a little bit too blitzed at the neighborhood potluck, fed Bootsie, the schizophrenic German Shephard, Schlitz from a water bowl, felt up your mom, and rocked this t-shirt. Have you pictured the shirt yet? That's right: It was the classically hilarious Big Johnson tee. This, however, is not even the source of the stupidity. You see, I was a little white girl Johnson, but apparently I didn't notice. For, I thought - nay - I believed that each and every Johnson was my cousin, and I told everyone. Including my entire first grade class. That Magic Johnson was my cousin. Right. Ridiculous. I argued this point to the death, and I religiously wrote Magic each and every Tuesday night to check in and inquire as to when he was going to return my letters and come for a visit. Imagine how pissed I was when, on a very special episode, Maury Povich ripped open that fated envelope, looked into my innocent eyes, and said, "Earvin...is ...NOT your cousin." My idiot vanilla life has never been the same.

2. Sex Education Screwiness - Pardon the pun. I believe we've already established

I wasn't the quickest on the uptake. Well, lemme just tell you my mom might have handed me the What's Happening to My Body Book For Girls just a little too late. You see, I was a pretty damn big fan of Barbie playing. And, I couldn't help but notice that Barbie and Ken's clothing had the ability to be removed. Sexual experimentation ensued. Wanna know how Ken knocked up Barbie 4,847 times, begetting the lovely Skipper over and over again? Well, he'd simply rub his flesh-colored tightywhitied phallus all over Barbie's mysteriously un-nippled boobies. I swear, until I was fifteen I was sure that's how I was created. Preposterous.

3. Deep Vein Dementia - Alright. I am going to be quick with this one. I can

honestly tell you that for the first sixteen years of my life, I pretty much subsisted on Chicken McNuggets alone. I don't know if it was a disarmingly defensive case of denial, but I was convinced that the - gulp - veins included in the tertiary butylhydroquinone / polydimethylsiloxane / chicken (?) mixture were actually better-for-you bits 'o protein. Hahahaha. Naïveté. Dumbass.

4. "Leave Us Alone, You Loon" Looniness! - Oh, 1993: You were a simpler time. The Real World, she was but a dewy, doe-eyed youngling, just beginning her second season of life in Los Angeles, CA. We've established the occasional mental lethargy of my past; however, even I, a fourteen going on fifteen year old lass, could recognize that stupid Beth Stolarczyk was an abominable casting choice. She was whiny and needy and the lamest of the lame. But, at least I recognized the fact that soon her season would come to pass, and she would be out of my life for good. Oh, God: what funny jokes You play! Yet another case in my life in which I was oh so wrong. For it seems just when I have stopped hearing her haunting cackle in my head, that Skanky Stolarczyk pops back into my life to make another nails down the chalkboard cameo. Even ridiculous Boot-Scootin-Boogie-John thought Beth was the worst. I-seriously-wired-my-jaw-closed-like-an-ass-Tami recognized Beth was crap. I did the math. Beth was 24 in 1993, so that makes her like 68 years old now! Why won't you just leave me alone, Crazy? We get it: Fake boobs are the tops! Now Get Off My MTV!

5. Mephistopheles' Melodious Moronitude - I feel that the more I share with you about my past, the more you picture yourself sitting behind me wiping your boogers on my back during social studies class. Why don't I lean over for you: here's more dumb to fuel the fire. Remember INXS? Remember that song Devil Inside? Well, let me just say, I waited for years for God to punish me for bearing witness to Beelzebub's message. I knew if I didn't switch the station from Y-102 within 6.66 seconds of hearing Michael Hutchence breathe heavily into my ear about my sinful capabilities, then lightning was sure to strike me down. I was such an idiot! I made it eleven seconds once, and after two weeks, I fully recovered from the electroshock. Take that, Satan!

6. Monkey on My Back Mania - This one really stings. I have sworn over and over - a thousand times over - that I would quit you, The View. My God, what you ladies do to me! I was ready to abandon you for good, but then someone upstairs heard my pleas and Debbie Matenopoulos was taken out and dropkicked to cable. I was back. But, just when I was ready to jump ship again - for Lisa Ling had finally filled my nausea threshold to capacity - she was gone, and I was lifevested aboard yet again. The pattern continued. A slew of grating guest hosts, Rosie, Elizabeth (thank your lucky stars you become impregnated frequently, or else you'd be the impetus to write my permanent eviction notice, Betsy), the list goes on and on. But something keeps me coming back. Betsy, Babs, Sherri, Whoopi, Joy friggin Behar, for crying out loud! I thought I could leave you! Why must I always need more?

7. Spelling Star Screwiness - This is getting pathetic. Okay. When I was in elementary school, I was kind of convinced I was the hot shiz based on my damn fine (and I do mean damn fine) spelling prowess. Yeah. I got a little high-horse-big-britches-shut-the-f-up-kid all up in here, and I needed to be knocked down a notch. You see, I believed - I KNEW - that my in-yo- face spelling skillz would one day land me in a high-powered, multibillion dollar salaried career in which I'd be spelling my junk off each and every day. Did I mention that this blog is eggsalady is that omnipotently high-paying job? Prophecy: Fulfilled!

* Here's a little kick to the nuts happy ending: I won't get into the nitty gritty details, but there just so happens to be a very juicy story involving me being the 3rd grade spelling rep for the entire school, wearing my Valentine's Dress, in a fast-paced, empassioned spell-off, and - oh yeah - me violently spewing a stomachfull of Conversation Hearts all over the spelling wanker to my immediate left. Embarrasingly pathetic personal comeuppance? You betcha.

8. Colored Sugar Crappitude - I am just sorta piggybacking off my last story, but, for whatever reason I believed that there was never, ever a limit to the amount of Fun Dip deliciosity one could physically ingest. I am here to tell you that six packets full of pink and purple love and six Lik-M-Aid sticks later, my mom's carpet begs to differ.

9. Neuterific Nuttiness - Again - no pun intended. The gist of this lesson learned? Well, I was kind of under the impression that when the nuts go away, the pencil can't play. Boy, was I ever wrong. I have a seven pound weiner dog who'll gladly whip out his magenta magic to prove it to you. No nuts? No problem. Thanks, Timmy.

10. Lupine Lunacy - Finally, what has been perhaps proven to be the most painful lesson of all. I think I'll just write this in code to save myself a little embarrassment.

Dear Wolf,

I guess this is it for me and you. I thought that you and I were destined to be together; I thought that it would be forever. But, it seems as though you have changed your locks and gotten a new number. I guess I can see now that the world is not ready for our love. Lesson learned. For real this time.

Love,

W.A. Donz.

p.s. - I'm kidding, W! Call me!!! Please!!!

Wow. Cleansed. Thanks for holding my hand through the madness.

Perhaps you need a little rinse. How about visiting here for a soapy cleansing: humor-blogs.com

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!

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.