Monday, November 29, 2010
And now, I'm doing what other "WriMo's" are probably doing--putting aside the manuscript for a while and enjoying the time off!
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
So, in honor of NaNoWriMo, I’ve decided to keep you all updated on my progress. At the end of each week, I will post a note on how things are going. As of now, I’ve got two words to my name! Good start, right? I’m very excited. Wish me luck!
Saturday, October 30, 2010
In order to prepare for the aforementioned grandiosity, I decided to pay a visit to a highly renowned (and quite expensive) beauty salon and spa. Since I trusted their professional expertise, I told them, "Do what you need to do with the doo." First, they started with a quick scissoring, then a color job, and then moved on to a soft, wavy perm. At that point I realized that there weren't any mirrors around. But, I figured hey, they were the professionals; they knew what they were doing, so what could possibly go wrong? Here's a word..... PLENTY!
This catastrophic turn of events has sent me into a downward spiral of lugubrious depression that the only thing I feel like doing now is locking myself inside the house, curling up in my favorite recliner, in the comfort of my most cherished housedress, with a hot cup of chamomile tea, reading the longest #*$%+& book I could find. Happy Halloween everybody................ boo.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
It took me quite some time to not only find Mary, but to get her to agree to an interview. Hence my absence. I sent letters, made phone calls, sent numerous e-mails, and finally, I guess it was my endless text messaging that got her to agree.
We met at a local Starbucks in her own hometown of Liverwurshten, and after a few cups of Cinnamon Dolce Crème Frappuccino Blended beverages I was able to squeeze out a short, but sweet, interview. And it went something like this…
Lizz: So Mary... It is okay if I call you Mary, right?
Mary: No, that's the dolt with the lamb. You can call me Mary Mary.
Lizz: Okay, sorry about that. Is Mary Mary your full name? Or is it more like your first and middle names? Or better yet, maybe you have two first names. Wait, I’m confused.
Mary Mary: It’s just Mary Mary.
Lizz: Okay… Moving on. So, there are numerous rumors floating around that you tend to be quite contrary. Is there any truth to that?
Mary Mary: No.
Lizz: I know there are many people out there wondering, as I am, what the hell silver bells and cockle shells have to do with gardening. Any thoughts on that?
Mary Mary: Bah!
Lizz: Well, that pretty much cleared that up. Another thing that might be on the minds of many are exactly, how many pretty maids DO you have and why pray tell are they all in a row?
Mary Mary: I don’t understand a word you’re saying.
Lizz: Um. Okay, so I’ve saved my last and final question for the end. And it’s a doozy… Mary Mary, quite contrary, how DOES your garden grow?
Mary Mary: With seeds, you idiot!
Lizz: Okay, well, that sums up my interview. You’ve been extremely helpful and enlightening. Thank you so much for the lovely chat and I hope you have a most lovely day.
Mary Mary: Push off.
And there you have it folks!
Friday, September 3, 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
In 1794, in the faraway land of Sole County, England, Esmeralda was born to Hammond P. Willoughby and his lovely, fair-haired, fair-skinned wife, Estella. Esmeralda developed into the all-familiar Old Woman, who in fact, did live in a shoe, but her tale was neither short nor prosaic.
Her father, Hammond, was a leathery type of fellow—hardcore, brusque—who on regular occasion, worked hours upon hours in his smelly old shoe repair store. He perpetually came home late but always had the time to tell a story or two to little Esmeralda before bed. Frequently, she fell asleep with her father’s fables and the scent of oily shoe polish permeating the room. Perhaps it was that very scent that induced her sudden nightly plunge into sleep.
At the ripe age of thirteen, she was married for the first time, but surely not the last, to Henry J. Cackleberry III, and bore three little chillin's within five years. Henry was a leather tradesman and often traveled overseas where he would sell at top dollar to other tradesmen. “What has my life come to?” griped Esmeralda. “First, I am doomed to be perpetually surrounded by leathery-smelling men and now, my husband is never around!”
At nineteen, she met a handsome young man named Charles Bernard Higginbottom IV and left her husband Henry for what Charles promised her as “a better life.” To Esmeralda’s delight, Charles was a carpenter, and had nothing to do with leather, or shoes. He welcomed his new wife and her three children with open arms and treated the little runts like they were his own. Before long, they popped out a few youngin’s of their own, five to be exact, two sets of twins and a tiny little fellow with abnormally large feet that eventually required the use of special shoes.
But as time went on, Charles began to return home from work later and later along with a sort of Limburger or Parmesan cheese smell about him.
“Charles, my wonderful husband who is hardly around anymore, why do you smell of this awful cheese odor?”
“Esmeralda, my precious wife who doesn’t entertain me anymore, I have taken a side job in a cheese shop.”
Esmeralda soon discovered that her husband lied about the cheese shop and instead, had a fetish for feet and was volunteering massages at the local shoe store in town.
In her mid twenties, Esmeralda once again left her husband for another man. His name was Nathaniel X. Winterfarkel II. Together, they had four more little bumpkins along with the seven that were Nathaniel's from a previous marriage. It was very taxing caring for nineteen children in their two bedroom rickety old shack. "Don't worry Esmeralda, I know someone who knows someone whose second cousin four times removed is a shoe maker but does construction work on the side. I'll have him build a house big enough for us all!" Nathaniel boasted. The very next day he died. And she was left with all nineteen children.
In her panic-stricken state, Esmeralda sent a telegram to her father that read, "Papa, Papa, husband just died -(STOP)- Left with nineteen children -(STOP)- I just don't know what to do! -(STOP)- Esmeralda."
Her father replied back, "Not to worry -(STOP)- Will build you a house big enough with leftover scraps of shoe leather -(STOP)- Papa."
And that's how Esmeralda ended up living in a shoe with so many children with whom she didn't know what to do. And because she had no husband to provide for them, she was left to care for all nineteen children on her own. She cooked, cleaned, and maintained the house. They just barely got by. On most nights, dinner consisted of only broth without any bread. Esmeralda grew old before her time and even though she routinely whipped the children and put them to bed, they remained a happy and close family.
One day, little Laila asked her mother, "Mama, why do we all have different last names?"
"Well, because you all have different fathers, that's why."
"Mama, what's your last name?" asked little Xavier.
"Hmm... I just can't seem to remember."
And to this day, Esmeralda's last name is to be eternally determined because, like her children, she had more husbands than she knew what to do with.
Monday, June 7, 2010
So, then I started thinking, what if I were to stand in front of the fan and hit the ON switch? Would I end up in Kansas? Would it blow me into oblivion? Would it dry out my eye sockets so I could never blink again? Would it straighten my hair had I had curls? Would I even survive?
After musing on the endless possibilities of the uses of a fan of such gargantuan proportions, I finally read the accompanying plaque and that’s when disappointment hit me like a ton of lead. As it turns out, it’s not the World’s Largest Fan after all. What you see before your eyes turns out to be the mysterious 4-blade turbine-driven central propeller of the Titanic—a boat of some sort from the year 19-something or other. However, there is the question of whether this is really the central propeller or not, even though it was found lying next to the Titanic at the bottom of the ocean floor. And here’s why…
“Supposedly,” this “Titanic boat” had three propellers, all “supposedly” having 3 blades each. Yet, in an anonymously taken picture, from way back when, or perhaps earlier, it showed a man standing next to the central propeller, which had 4 blades. However, all documents “supposedly” show no evidence of there ever having a 4-blade propeller on the ship, boat, or whatever it is; hence, the aforementioned mystery. Hmph, some mystery.
Please keep in mind that when this picture was taken, I had accidentally, left my Krause debauching lens on my camera, causing a slight distortion in size. The propeller was in fact, actually much larger than it appears. Hard to tell, I know.
I can’t tell you how disappointed I was to find this junky, old, propeller from some old boat that probably no one has ever even heard of rather than finding a treasure like the World’s Largest Fan. It has caused me such grief, agony, and dismay that ultimately, required me to seek therapy. I know you know what I mean. I’m sure you were just as disappointed to find this out. It’s a terrible misfortune, I tell ya.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Hello? Oh, hi Ma. How’s it going? Good, good. Huh? Oh, dinner was good. I got Alaskan King Crab legs. Jeremy got swordfish. What? No, I didn’t get lobster this time. I had a terrible hankering for some nice, big, fat, juicy king crab legs and couldn’t think of ordering anything else. Except for a pina colada.
So, listen to this. As we sat there waiting for our food, my mouth started to water. Badly. ‘Cause right next to us, this guy just got served his plate of huge king crab legs. And, I’m not talking gigantic here, I’m talking the Arnold Schwarzenegger-beefed-up-on-steroids version! I’m not sure whose legs were bigger, mine or the crab’s! Then, he took that heavy-duty-metal-nutcracker-thing and began to crack open a leg sending shell fragments and crab water all over the place. Good thing he had a bib on. Heck, good thing I had a bib on!
At this point I’m thinking, if our dinner doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to eat the table and everything on it. Poor Jeremy, he must have seen my eyes bugging out of my head like a lobster and handed me a buttered dinner roll. I guess he thought it might help to appease me. Right! The only thing I could possibly think of eating were Alaskan crab legs dipped in hot, golden, cholesterol-infused butter. Mmmm.
I looked back over to the guy next to me with the crab legs to tease my taste buds into a nefarious frenzy and for a split second I thought he had orange appendages coming from his waist. I blinked and thank goodness they were gone. Boy Ma, hypoglycemia has a peculiar way of saying hello.
So, finally our dinner arrived. Jeremy’s swordfish looked pretty good but not tempting enough for my screaming taste buds. I practically bowed down when the King of Holy Crabness arrived in front of me. I greedily took hold of one leg and carefully cracked it, hoping to pull out the meat all in one piece. I grabbed my tiny-little-seafood-spear, ready for the kill. Slowly, I rocked the shell back and forth, back and forth. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and removed the shell like a magician removing the handkerchief, flaunting a hat filled with bunnies. But wouldn’t you know, when I removed the shell and peered inside, there was nothing in there but a string of meat and a bunch of crab water. I hate when that happens. My day was shot to hell.
What? No! I’m not overreacting. I tell ya, Ma, it ruined my whole night. I was anticipating a juicy, succulent piece of king crab meat and found nothing inside but oongats! First, they elate you by bringing the best-looking legs around to the man sitting next to you and then WHAM they plunge you into disappointment and despair. I tell ya, Ma, saliva has a funny way with dealing with disappointment.
What? No, I didn’t freak... I remained calm... I moved on… I reached for a second leg, and BINGO, the same thing. By then, I was ready to blow. Jeremy tried to calm me down with his usual hot buttered roll trick but there was no use. I mean, what the heck, Ma? Was this like some kinda mutant crab sick joke, or what?
I took a deep breath, hailed the waiter over, silently pointed at the lack of crabmeat, and did that eyebrow thing you hate. You better believe he had one double sized platter and some extra rolls for Jeremy ready in 10 minutes. There were so many legs on that plate I could have made furniture out of them! Ma, those legs were the size of baseball bats I tell ya. And scrumptious too!
But I think I ate too much.
What? Yeah, Jeremy is still talking to me.
So, are we still on tomorrow night for dinner?
Friday, April 16, 2010
Ribbons of brilliance
The arrival of the king.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Thou embark'st on a course for the tower,
Dinh's ka-tet pays haste to the beam;
Thou doth pursue the man in black,
The key to it all, the number nineteen.
Through doors thou pass to where and when;
O guardians, thy beam payeth heed.
A rose shall be much more than a rose
And 'neath it all, lies the number nineteen.
Gaze thine eyes on Maerlyn's magical balls–
Bends o' the Rainbow, have thou seen?
Through Mid-World to End-World, thou travel'st
Sai Roland Deschain's ka-tet of nineteen.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Usually, but limited to always, most stories have a theme. Now, that’s not to say a story must have a theme, it just usually does, that’s all. Alice’s story seems completely nonsensical to me, which is not exactly a bad thing. I guess. Perhaps the theme is something that might be left up to the individual. Curiouser yet, maybe what we’re looking at here is the logic of nonsense.
And, speaking of nonsense, it brings to mind, nursery rhymes. Now, I have to say, from childhood through today, I seriously have never understood nursery rhymes. I mean, COME ON! You must admit, there is definitely no logic in that kind of nonsense. They're just plain stupid! Take for example, Jack and Jill:
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down
And broke his crown
And Jill came tumbling after.
WHAT?! What the bloomin' hell of all Hades is that all about? I mean, why were Jack and Jill getting that pail of water in the first place? Who the heck ARE Jack and Jill anyway? And, why did Jill come tumbling after -- just to imitate Jack, the klutz? What the heck did he trip on, a blade of grass for cryin' out loud? What kind of crown did he break? And, all of a sudden he’s a King now?
Is it me? Or does this make absolutely no sense to anyone?
I have my own cut and dry versions of nursery rhymes that make more sense to me. Doesn’t this make more sense to you?
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down
And broke his neck.
See what I mean? It makes total sense.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
It all started with the birth of the Frito Corn Chip. Then, came the Frito Corn Chip mascot -- The Frito Bandito himself. Afterwards, spawned the creation of The Frito Bandito prize. And THAT'S where my collection lies.
I give you The Frito Bandito (& Gang) of pencil toppers, otherwise known as, erasers.
Picture 1 - The original Frito Corn Chip mascot: The Frito Bandito, pencil topper, from 1967. My extensive collection consists of The Frito Bandito in five lustrous colors: red, yellow, blue, green, and pink.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Nanny’s Butterfly Cake
2 sticks of butter
1-½ cups flour
1-½ cups sugar
3 large eggs
2 tsp. vanilla
Preheat oven to 325º. In a large bowl, blend butter and flour with pastry wisk until beads form. In a small bowl mix eggs, sugar, and vanilla with electric mixer until lemony yellow. Combine the sugar mixture with the butter/flour mixture until well blended. Bake in greased and floured tube pan for approximately 1 hour.
Now, let me explain something about this so-called Butterfly Cake. It’s far from being anything like a butterfly. It’s not light and fluffy. It’s never going to take off and fly (without help). And, it’s basically not colorful. So why would anybody name it Butterfly Cake? I have no freakin’ idea.
Once it’s baked, it weighs like, ten or twenty pounds. I kid you not! Okay, I may have exaggerated a little but you get the idea. And, after about three days, provided that you didn’t eat the whole darn thing, which I wouldn’t recommend under any circumstance, it’s so hard and heavy you could register it as a lethal weapon.
If for some unknown reason, you didn’t bother to eat it after you bothered to make it, you could put a handle on top of it and use it for the sport of Curling. Or, you could train for the Olympics and enter the Discus competition, being exceptionally careful not to kill someone when you launch that sucker. Basically, you could use it for many things such as a doorstop, a paperweight, an anchor, or possibly even a step stool for those unpretentious items just out of reach.
But, should you decide to eat this ever so delicious cake, you might just find it absolutely scrumptious, and it wouldn’t be around long enough to use for any of the above. I hope you enjoy it in any capacity.
PS – DO NOT, and I mean DO NOT go swimming after eating this cake!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
When I arrived, I was thunderstruck to find the one and only Grimace greeting people at the door. Now, let me ask you this, would you dare ask such a great and powerful purple being, such as the Grimace himself, to stop and take a few precious minutes out of his busy schedule to take a picture with you? Hell yeah!
With the exhilaration of being in close proximity of such an illustrious individual, I may have gotten a little too carried away with my relentless hugging of His Colossal Purple Godliness. He took it as an invasion of his personal space. I mean, come on! I was standing next to the Grimace for crying out loud!
The next thing I knew, the Grimace, in all his purple immensity, slowly started to back away, making his way toward the office for “Managers Only,” claiming he was overdue for a break. As he attempted to squeeze past the overstocked counter, his rotundness sent all the napkins, ketchup packets, and plastic-ware flying throughout. It was quite the spectacle. Then, he had the audacity to give me that “look” like it was my fault. Celebrities!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Seventy-nine point two percent of all living zebras are black with white stripes. The reason, black being the dominant color. This presents itself in the superlative coloring of the zebra’s eyelashes. At close examination, if you find the eyelashes to be black, the zebra is in fact, a black zebra with white stripes. If you are fortunate enough to find a zebra with white eyelashes, well, then, you are basically a lucky son of a gun.
A zebra with white eyelashes simply means that you have set your sights on one of most esteemed varieties in all the Equus sovereignty -- a white zebra with black stripes. Now, although the white variety is indeed harder to find, and getting close enough to determine the color of the lashes is a feat unto itself, they are not as rare as say, finding a four leaf clover. Finding one of those would grant you the title of, One Heck of a Lucky Son of a Gun.
I’d like to also bring to your attention that there is a slight difference in temperament between black and white zebras. The fuliginous stripus varandi, the black with white stripe variety, has a more audacious and willful temperament while the auricomous stripus varandi, the white with black stripe variety, has a more placid and refined temperament. It was said by the famous philosopher, Euripides J. Constantinides, who died in 1431, that if one should ever find themselves in the presence of a scarce white zebra with black stripes, your life would succumb to enchantment and delight. Now, I ask you, wouldn’t that be extraordinary?
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
It took numerous tries (like hundreds) just to keep me balanced and upright on that rickety cardboard shipping box. Then, when I spent more time picking fibers from the rug than looking at the camera, he became extremely frustrated. That did not make me smile. Actually, nothing made me smile. I mean, why was I sitting on this ridiculous box in the first place? And why was I wearing the most hideously itchy dress imaginable? What did I ever do to warrant such torture?
I must say though, the photographer (let's call him Jim for now) reacted quite speedily when the first tear was on the verge of falling and the lower lip started quivering. Jim ran straight over and presented me with a blue and red bouncy ball. My eyes lit right up and those tears dried up like the Sahara Desert.
Now, let me ask you, when someone hands you a bouncy ball, isn't only natural to bounce it? I would think....YES! Well, apparently Jim thought otherwise. He got a little perturbed when I started bouncing it higher and higher. He developed that voice that adults adopt when they don't know how to relate to a child. "Now, why don't we just hold the ball in our lap like a good little girl. Wouldn't that be special?" Jim asked. Basically, I just frowned and pouted. "Come on little girl, let's be happy. Let's show Jim our smile. Koochy, Koochy, Koo!"
This is the part where things started to turn. As Jim approached with gnarly fingers ready to tickle me, I hauled off and kicked him in the knee. Jim lost his balance and started to flail his arms round and round. I then threw the ball, which ultimately beaned him in the head, and as Jim started to fall backwards, he tripped over the wire running from the camera to the studio lights. He reached out for something, anything, to keep him upright, which just happened to be the shutter release cord to the camera. And that was the exact moment this picture was taken.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Seems awesome, no?
Speaking of awesome, here's a picture of me with a real live pie! Yes, it really is...real...and live! It's not a pie in the sky though, just one hanging out on the highway. Then again, I'm not sure how I would have gotten my picture with it if it were really in the sky, barring jumping out a plane.