Heard around the house

Me: Just think, if you were related to Esmeralda, you'd have to have Esmeralda at every family dinner.

Artgal: But if you were related to Aunt Clara, you'd have to have Henry the Eighth at every family dinner.

Balderdash!

And now, a game break.

If you know the answer, please just raise your hand and say "I know it" but don't give away the answer.

For the rest of you, guess or make it up. But no Googling.

What is an ebelskiver?

Note to Hypertot

Convention holds that the "magic word" is please, not abracadabra. Really.

Maybe I'm a hypocrite.

It's a holiday weekend, and you know what that means: Coasties. Now don't get me wrong, some Coasties are nice. Take Aunt Betsy, for example. She's genuinely pleasant, fun, polite, and good company. Of course, I don't think she's a native of Seattle, so maybe it doesn't count. At any rate, every holiday weekend our town is overrun by people from Seattle who don't work from the same example as Betsy. They throw their burning cigarettes onto the local dry lawns. They break into local cars, they flip off local workers, they cut off local drivers, and they smirk at how clever they are. Haw, haw, haw... the local yokels hain't never seen a middle finger before. How very cleeeever!

The thing is, I know where they're coming from. They think that because they make more money than us, they must be far wittier, smarter, and all-around superior to the hicks who run their holiday playground. Never mind the question it begs: if they make twice the money and it costs three times as much to live there, who's really smarter?

It doesn't seem to occur to them that this isn't just their playground; it's our home. How would they feel if we treated their home that way?

But then yesterday, I realized maybe I'm being hypocritical about the whole thing, expecting them to act like Brownsiders while they're here. After all, I don't act like a Coastie when I visit there. I'm polite and I drive well, even when I visit Seattle. So maybe I'm just as bad as they are, acting like a Brownsider when I visit the West Side.

Tell ya what. If I start cussing and driving like a maniac when I'm over there, will you folks start behaving like civilized human beings when you're here?

Parody Contest: Annie's Song

For a little bit of fun, I offer to you a parody contest. I'm sure most of you remember Annie's Song, by John Denver. Who can come up with the best spoof? You have till next Friday, in the comments field. The winner gets ... well, a hearty pat on the back, a link, and all of our unending admiration. What did you expect, cash?

Argh!

Movie piracy, as many newly purchased DVDs will remind us, is a crime. I have no problem with that message; but what really bugs me is when I've spent the money and bought the movie, and then I'm forced to sit through the nagging reminder each and every time I view it. You can't forward past it; and it seems to chew you out, as though you were a criminal. Don't they get that if you were a movie pirate, you would have edited out the anti-piracy nag? They are, in essence, chewing me out for doing it precisely because I didn't do it. With that in mind, I really loved this clip.

Put down your coffee if you value your nose.

Thanks to Therese at Aussie Coffee Shop for this one.
(And by the way, if you haven't checked out her blog yet, do. She's utterly charming.)

Caller ID Made Fun

I think maybe next time I get a call from my mortgage company, instead of answering with "hello" I may answer with "this call may be recorded or monitored for quality assurance."

Do you think the Church needs a spleen?

Shannon, musing over her best bet for non-monetary tithing. In the end, she decided to babysit the tykes while I go to CCD this evening.

Mary, Martha, and Erma

I'm convinced that Mary and Martha in the Bible must have had another sister; or if they didn't, they should have. Erma.

Martha is the efficient one. Suzy Homemaker, if you will. She cleans, she cooks, and she probably chastises Mary for forgetting to bring her dishes to the sink. Then there's Mary, the gauzy-eyed one. If she forgets to bring her dishes to the sink or feed the goldfish, it isn't because she doesn't care, but because she's so absorbed in her love for Jesus that she forgets everything else. Her bathroom is very messy. Despite their differences, they are close. They love each other, and they complement each other. Even though Martha complains that Mary doesn't help out enough in the kitchen, let's face it: she doesn't really care for Mary's cooking anyway.

But they neglect to tell us about the third sister, who doesn't sterilize or gaze. Maybe it's because she's too busy cracking jokes, and the other sisters figure it's just as well if she's out of the house when important company comes. She isn't trendy, and she doesn't wear her hominess with sunshine and grace. She's a smart mouth, the kind that makes the family just a wee bit nervous.

Mary and Martha are probably just a little embarrassed by Erma. She makes fun of the Pharisees down the street for their silly little attitudes, and she tries to convince the Sadducees on the next block that there must be an afterlife, not through careful debate but by sarcasm. She shows up enthusiastically at the neighborhood parties, but instead of admiring all the women in this year's fashions she laughs at them. She complains that her kids are sloppy about setting the Sabboth table, and anyone who has a conversation with her wonders if it will be the subject of an anecdote later. But mostly, people are just a bit annoyed by her witty criticisms.

This third sister isn't homey and domestic, not in the way that Martha is. And with her penchant for talking and loud laughter, she could never be the quiet contemplative that Mary is. What neither Mary nor Marth realizes is that it isn't really judgment that causes her to hone her tongue, but insecurity. She doesn't help in the kitchen, not because she's lazy but because she can't seem to organize herself enough to get things done; and she doesn't sit and learn from important company because, although she'd really like to, she is already way behind in washing the pottery. She doesn't laugh because she thinks she is better than Mary or Martha; she laughs because she dares not cry.

Mary and Martha know their places, in the kitchen or in the front room. Erma is having a very long midlife crisis and doesn't know where she belongs. So she's thinking about starting a blog. Eventually, it had to come down to this.

Spam Zen

aka The You're-Scaring-Me meme.

My charming and patient husband has tagged me with a new meme, in which the goal is to choose filler material from a spam and wax philosophic. Or sophomoric. I'm not sure one can really tell the difference.

Do it, daddy-o, do it. Ive got the gilt.

At first glance, one might be tempted to envision a sock hop. This, I fear, is what they want us to think. The reality may be far more pernicious. Like all spy communications, this is of necessity in code. Far more than a call to dance, Daddy-o is being summoned to set in motion the chain of events that could threaten the stability of the free world, by toppling the most powerful economies of the west.

Daddy-o is clearly not some Clearasil wearing hepcat, but actually the leader of a plot to garner control of the world's gold. Gilt? We are not talking here about sparkle, but actual gold bouillon. And Daddy-o, the one being notified that the plan is in place and ready to begin, is the head of an illegal international organization. Possibly the Mafia (with Daddy-o being, naturally, the Godfather), but more likely an Illuminati based cartel which heretofore has funded itself primarily with the sales of Nike shoes. Just do it, indeed.

The fact that the sender says "I've got the gilt" should worry us. This anonymous representative is saying that the plan is foolproof. The gold is as good as in hand. This is because, as the second use of the phrase "do it" tells us, both the first and the second phase are ready to be carried out. The plan is far advanced, and the free world is in danger.

You can learn a lot if you know how to read the cryptic emails that masquerade as spam in your inbox.

Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is this: find a phrase in your spam that seems to be nonsense, and tell us what it really means.

David Nathan

I guess you gotta be careful whom you believe on April Fools Day, and whom you let have your blog password!

Dear, sweet hubbie... loveable yet unmanageable prankster... was delighted that our David Nathan was born on April Fools Day. So excited, in fact, that he began calling family members while I slept after childbirth. He told them that our 8 lb 12 oz boy was over 14 lbs, and that we'd given him the middle name Jessica. Most people were too polite to ask why on earth we'd choose a name like Jessica for a boy. My youngest sister asked outright, and after hearing his bogus explanation said "You are so full of it. It's April Fools Day." She had to reassure my family that no, I hadn't given birth to a whale with a girl's name.

And then he goes home for a shower, and posts to my blog.

But I wouldn't trade 'im for the world. I couldn't handle life with a husband who lacked a sense of humor, and let's face it: he makes good babies.

Thanks for the good wishes and prayers. We're all doing well, and working at forgetting the 33 hours of labor. And Davy's worth it.

He's Here!

Born after 33 hours of labor, at 12:45 this afternoon. After wrangling for weeks over names, we finally settled on David Jessica. He was 20 inches and weighed 14 lb. 8 oz. Should have been named "Ouch!" Thanks for the prayers!