We observe our heroine browsing through her old MySpace blog, checking it over for important tidbits she might not want to be lost when MySpace goes the way of glass eating, Wacky Wallwalkers, and the hi-top fade. Miraculously, she spots a blog entry of such high quality that she simply can't make that double-layer click-through then CATCHPA entry to finally see the entry deleted from 2007's favorite website.

Peering over our heroine's shoulder, we read...
______________________________________________________

June 19, 2006

KR

One balmy summer night, I found myself on a train headed nowhere in particular. On that train, I met a man who made his living playing cards. It happened that we were both so exhausted we could not rest. Instead, we both stared out the window into the dark night. Eventually, we both tired of the monotony...of the silence...and the man started to talk.

He told me that he had built his career, even his existence, on studying other people's expressions. He could tell what cards they had by how they fixed their gaze. He said he hoped me didn't mind him saying as much, but he knew that I held no aces in my hand. In exchange for a drink of my Crown, he offered some guidance.

I passed the man my Crown, and he drank the last bit of it. He asked me for a cigarette (which struck me as odd since I don't smoke) and then he asked me for a lighter (which was even more odd considering I didn't give him a cigarette). Complete silence fell over the night and the man's face became expressionless. Then he told me, "If you're going to play cards, it's essential that you learn to do it right."

He said, "You've got to learn when to keep your cards and learn when to get rid of them." He said I'd have to know when to saunter away from the table, and when to race away. Then he told me to not ever add up my chips when I was seated at the table, because there would be plenty of time for that when the game was over. He said, "every card player learns the skill of staying alive in the game: recognizing which cards to throw out and which to hang on to." He went on to tell me that any hand could end up winning, and that any hand could end up losing. Mysteriously, he added that the most a card player could strive for was to depart this life while sleeping.

When he was done talking, he looked again to the window. He put out his cigarette (which I still have no idea where he got), and quietly nodded off. True to those cryptic words, sometime during that dark night, the card player met his goal. From his last words, I gained advice worth remembering. His words echoed in my head three more times.

We observe our heroine browsing through her old MySpace blog, checking it over for important tidbits she might not want to be lost when MySpace goes the way of Trapper Keepers, the kangaroo ball, and guys with one earring. Miraculously, she spots a blog entry of such high quality that she simply can't make that double-layer click-through then CATCHPA entry to finally see the entry deleted from 2007's favorite website.

______________________________________________________

November 20, 2006

Super Feminize Me!

I was cleaning out a "catch all" file in my desk today and came across an article I had photocopied from Bust..magazine a year or two ago... It's a light-hearted look at what's fed to women by..society, the media, and other women, in fact, regarding what it is to be a woman... It cracked me up then and I was laughing out loud today reading it again... Enjoy.

SUPER FEMINIZE ME!

The road to excess for the female sex

by Wendy McClure

_______________________________

Thanks to this year's gross-out documentary Super Size Me, we all know what happens when you eat nothing but McDonald's food for 30 days. ..Or rather, when a guy eats nothing but McDonald's for 30 days... We knew what would happen, and given the venerable male traditions of Jackass, Tom Green, and lad-mag beer-bong experiments, we knew it was gonna be disgusting. Still, a guy honking down Double Quarter Pounders at every meal is an exposé on American culture, whereas a woman honking down Double Quarter Pounders at every meal is either a.) in a TV movie about binge eating, or b.) Cameron Diaz. Belch! She's sexy! In other words, a woman couldn't have pulled a stunt like the one Morgan Spurlock did in Super Size Me and have it mean the same thing.

Then again, women have long known the effects of fast-food consumption. We've known, ever since we started reading YM at the age of 12 or so, that fast food totally makes your skin break out, and your prom dress too small, and that the nasty, icky, grody feeling you get inside after you break down and eat some fries at the food court thereby breaking your diet and ruining all your highly ambitious sophomore year makeover plans most definitely means McDonald's is bad bad bad! So that movie was not exactly news to us.

But what about the rest of the stuff that our culture feeds women? Are there other things out there that are bad for us when not taken in moderation-besides fast food, and also besides tanning, Diet Coke, cardio, ginkgo biloba, exfoliation, earth tones, accessorizing, flirting, spray-on butter flavor, highlights, carbs, cyber chats, lipliner, energy bars, conditioner, gossiping, fragrance layering, and vibrator use? There have got to be more things that women's magazines can warn us about, right? And if we're stupid enough that we need to be chastised for abusing salad dressing, then what the hell else might we be susceptible to? That's why I recruited a team of volunteers to investigate - ordinary women, like the ones on The Swan, only less, you know, dumpy. Each one would set out to over-consume an especially feminine pop culture offering and examine its physiological and psychological effects.

I knew there were dangers: after all, most of the girliest pop products out there are intended for occasional use only-as "indulgences," "escapes," "guilty pleasures," "treats," and "splurges," meant to give us girls a break from a world made of steel, made of stone. What would happen when these things were taken in decidedly non-"oh, just a little something" amounts?

My first volunteer, Cassandra L., read nothing but "chick lit" for 30 days, at the rate of approximately four and a half titles (256 pages average) a week. By day 11, she developed a bizarre tendency to fall down in high heels, especially in the presence of male employers and potential suitors, though by day 14 she began to carry a Marc Jacobs handbag, which she used to control her balance. By day 20, Cassandra needed special electromagnetic spectrum therapy to relieve the eyestrain caused by overexposure to the color pink on book jackets. By day 28, she slurred in a unique dialect that consisted of endearments like "crazy sweetie kitten" and weird British-isms like "naff." On her final day, she appeared disoriented as she stumbled up to the counter at a coffeeshop and tried to order something called a "cosmojito."

In order for Jennifer R. to peruse Playgirl every day for 30 days, five years' worth of back issues were needed to provide maximum muscular manpower. The effects set in as early as day six, when she went to her gym, glimpsed actual chest hair under a male patron's tank top, and began shrieking in terror. The routine physical examination at day 15 revealed she had developed an unusually strong right index finger as a result of hooking it through the belt-loops of male strangers whom she'd pull with considerable force into coat closets. She did this with great enthusiasm, though she reported having no idea what to do with them next, other than rip off their shirts and lick their pectoral muscles. By day 21, it was discovered that Jennifer's diet now consisted of only penis-shaped pasta, whipped cream, and chocolate sauce; it was at this point that she elected to end her portion of the experiment out of health and sanitary concerns.

Our third subject, Margaret P., was a fascinating case: she watched five TV movies a day for 30 days, a steady diet fed by channels such as Lifetime, Oxygen, and the Women's Entertainment network. She required intervention as early as day ten, after she began to frantically search for her baby in a supermarket. When well-meaning friends attempted to remind her that she never had a baby, she screamed, "That's just what you WANT me to believe, ISN'T IT?!"

Extra volunteers were called upon to provide in-home supervision for Margaret. This was difficult only for the three days she believed she was under house arrest for smuggling smack for her man; things went much more smoothly after day 17, when apparently she decided the women keeping an eye on her were fellow call-girls. On day 26, she turned to them and asked, "Which one of you bitches is my mother?" She then reportedly asked one of them if she could "sleep with danger."

Danger indeed, we decided. Do not try these experiments at home, girls. No, really, we're warning you - we're a magazine, after all, and we know what's good for you.

We observe our heroine browsing through her old MySpace blog, checking it over for important tidbits she might not want to be lost when MySpace goes the way of Hammer pants, Dorothy Hamil haircuts, and The Macarena. Miraculously, she spots a blog entry of such high quality that she simply can't make that double-layer click-through then CATCHPA entry to finally see the entry deleted from 2007's favorite website.

Peering over our heroine's shoulder, we read...
______________________________________________________

August 14, 2007

On the road again

Today I drove from Charleston to Union, West Virginia and then on to Roanoke, Virginia in an attempt to find a man that my firm wants to give tens of thousands of dollars. Actually, we're not giving it to him, more like holding it for him. He was a class member in a big class action involving mortgages and the case settled. He's my last missing class member and it is absolutely required that we find him. But he's a hard man to find.

Nonetheless, I don't mind a road trip too much. A four-hour drive is totally do-able. Sometimes I amuse myself with my observations and stream of consciousness. Here is some of what I thought about and saw in my four hours of driving today:

I am unable to hear the song Three Times a Lady without singing the chorus, out loud, as: "Unce...tice...fee tiiimmes a maadaayy." What can I say? As a child, The Little Rascals and Saturday Night Live were two of my favorite shows!


On the way through Lewisburg, I saw signs that said, "fair parking," and "no fair parking." I can't imagine that the "no fair parking" gets much business. Honesty in advertising is great but maybe they should just get out of the business.

Do you notice that, with every really good song that comes on the radio, or from your CD, or iPod or whatever, you turn up the radio? When the volume finally reaches its limits, it's a real downer. Then you're just stuck and your hearing is, of course, depleted and permanently damaged, so now you can barely hear your favorite song!!!!

When I get to a spot with bad radio reception, I either hook up the iPod or search for a CD. Today, I found a CD. It was a CD of love songs that someone had made me when he was overseas with the military. (Aawwww.) That reminds me of another time in the van...I found an unlabeled CD. I put it in and the first song was something really cool like Al Green or something. After that, Kung Foo Fighting. (Also cool, but odd.) After that, another really cool song. After that, the MoviePhone bit from Seinfeld (audio only...duh):

It was like a hilarious mystery!! The pattern went on like that for the whole CD...one great song, then something funny. I still don't know where it came from. Eric probably made it and then just forgot.

And perhaps the three sexiest songs in the entire universe are Crazy for You (Madonna), I'm on Fire (Bruce Springsteen), and Every Breath You Take (The Police). I mean, they're ssseexxxxy. Oh, yeah.... Excuse me for a second.



Ok. I'm back.

I have never driven down I-64 across Sandstone Mountain when it did not smell strongly of burning brakes. That stretch of road must be absolute hell on the truck drivers.

To the lady in the red Corolla: that white pick up truck with a yellow, flashing light in the middle of the grassy median is not, as you fear, a police officer in the wrong kind of vehicle and with the wrong color flashing lights. It is, in fact, a Division of Highways vehicle. There is absolutely no need to slam on your brakes. This causes me to slam on my brakes and annoys me greatly as you'd been playing the "I'm not going to use my cruise control" game with me for about 20 miles. Moreover, there is really, really, really no need to slow your speed down to 55 on the Interstate..cop or no cop. The speed limit is 70.

Somewhere just over the West Virginia border (in Virginia), I saw a tree with maybe 100 coffee cups nailed to it. They were all over the half of the tree that faces the road and went all the way to maybe 15 feet up the trunk. How cool! I wonder if it was Outsider Art or if someone hung their coffee cup on a spare nail one day (so they could carry a package from the mailbox, or a stray goat or something) and just thought it looked damned cool.

I saw this sign when entering the Interstate in Virginia:



I wonder what it means. I bet they don't like The Fonz.

If I ever accidentally leave my cell phone on after talking to someone and while I'm driving on a road trip, they'll be treated to a non-stop Karaoke-like, bad-singing fest like they've never heard before. In fact, if this ever happens when you and I are talking, you'd best just go ahead and try to disconnect the call. My singing voice could seriously break your phone otherwise.

And whatever happened to Eminem? I haven't heard anything new from him since before he remarried Kim and then sort of lost it.

When I got to the Monroe County Courthouse, I walked in and asked the first person I saw in the clerk's office if they knew the guy I was trying to find. They did (they always do in small towns) but they hadn't seen him for years. They gave me his daughter's phone number, though. This reminds me of walking into the Lawrence County, Ohio courthouse looking to find the birthmother of a client. (I had already found her name...now I just needed to find her.) The first woman knew her and sort of knew where she lived. The second guy drew me a freaking map to her house!!! (Here's a nice tidbit: when I drove out to her house and talked to her, she was, of course, wary of me. She asked what her supposed son's name was and I told her, "Brian." Her face softened. She knew that was right. Her voice was very sad when she said, quite simply, "I never wanted to give him up...but my parents made me." She went on to explain that she had been so distraught and inconsolable that the social worker had broken the rules and told her her son's adoptive name.)

When you drive through very, very rural areas...like where cars don't come along but maybe once a minute on the road...and when you do pass someone coming the other direction, the proper and accepted etiquette is to raise your four fingers (on the hand nearest the window) in a sort of modified wave. Everyone does it and I love it!! Okay, this may only apply to West Virginia. I've noticed it now in Monroe County and Pocahontas County.

That is all.

Obama lives at my desk and, for a guy, he's actually got a decent number of outfits to wear...and some nice accessories.

So today, as you can see, Obama wore his grayish-blue jeans and a neatly-pressed Oxford shirt. Note that Obama has taken a well-calculated fashion risk by pairing his hipster shoes with a cowboy hat. Of course, Obama has brought me flowers...and wants to take me for a beer.

Now that's a change of clothing we can believe in.

This afternoon the family was taking a walk around the neighborhood and the four-year-old announced, "I'm voting for John McCain!" She was actually doing that kid kind of marching thing and said, "Ahm voting for John Mah...CAIN!"

Anyway, this announcement doesn't surprise me. My husband will do about anything he can to bug me. (He's got serious middle child syndrome and is, how you sayyy...an attention whore.) So, yeah...he taught her to say that.

So I told her that John McCain wants to take away all of her toys and that, more than anything, John McCain hates ice cream. Eric countered that Barack Obama wants to take all of her toys and redistribute them so that all children have the same number of toys.

Edie put her hands on her cute little cheeks, smooshed her face around a bit, then pushed her hair over her face.

It's going to be quite an election season here in the house.

WOOO HOOO!!!

My InBox this morning had a nice surprise in it! Someone...a Scrabble player...a Scrabble blog reader...a very nice person...was the very first to click on the donate button. My Scrabble Tour now has at least one benefactor!

So this is a whole new thing. I mean, should I get t-shirts made? Should I write this (and any subsequent) sponsor's name on the bottom of each of my score sheets? Should I give a "shout out" if there are any photo ops or radio interviews?

No...no...no (she says, slowly and thoughtfully shaking her head back and forth). We don't embarrass the benefactors. We accept their kindness with quiet grace and don't force unwanted publicity upon them.

So, thank you, brother or sister whose name shall not be spoken here. Your small act and your few (but precious) bucks have earned you a place in (my) Scrabble history.

If you don't want me to put your name on a t-shirt either, you can also donate. Gracias!!

A few nights ago I watched a show on MTV about "gamers." It focused mostly on young people who were about 18 to 25 years old who played online, interactive video games all day and night. Heh...there's no way I'm going to make fun. I study word lists with most of my free time.

The show also featured a young guy who made some money here and there in Golden Tee tournaments. Eric loves Golden Tee. Unfortunately, a few years ago, he suffered a major Golden Tee injury. Yes...that's right...a GTI.

You see that white ball in the middle of the control panel? It's what propels the ball forward (and causes a hook or a slice if you don't hit it quite right). If you've never watched someone play Golden Tee, there are basically two methods for moving that "trackball". Some put their fingers on both sides of it and flip their hands forward really fast, as if they were trying spin something in the air. Others prefer a more aggressive approach. These guys...they draw their arm back, hand about parallel to the panel, and punch their arm forward, skimming across the top of the trackball.

And therein, my friends, lay The Sergeant's downfall.

It was early...only about 10:00 at night when a 6-month-pregnant me sat at home in bed. I had only seen my husband out the door about an hour earlier so he could meet up with his buddy for some beers.

It seems that Eric was drinking what was literally his first (and only) beer of the night when he and his friend, D.B., started their Golden Tee game. I know you can already see how this story goes, but let me tell you anyway. Just like he'd done 59 million times before (trust me, I've sat through many, many, many, manymanymany of the games), Eric drew back his arm and let the spring go. As his arm thrust forward, it missed the trackball target, and instead struck the front edge (albeit rounded edge) of the game. Because he had put so much energy into it, he still managed to bust open his hand on the machine.

The cut was right below his middle finger, about an inch long, and all the way through the flesh. D.B., a physician, somehow came to the medically-sound conclusion that a hand all busted up and such wouldn't require any sort of official, emergency medical attention...except with those medicinal implements one could find in the bar setting. They applied some ice to it...maybe some Jäger, I don't know. (To his credit...sort of...D.B. did go out to his car to see if he had a suture kit. Heh...heh...heh. Yeah, I'm not kidding. He did not have one with him.)

Now...I didn't know any of this had happened. When Eric walked back in the house, he didn't speak but only stretched his hand out toward me, palm up. I could see the large cut on his hand and I could see the ligament peeking out from within it. Somehow, these sorts of things are never surprising to me and never shocking. Eric repeated D.B.'s statements that he didn't need to go to the ER. I think my reaction was something like rolling my eyes at him as I flipped my legs over the side of the bed, grabbed my jeans, and put on my shoes.

An hour later, I was admiring the ginormity to which one's ankles could swell even at only six months pregnant as I sat in the uncomfortable emergency room chair. (Does anyone else think those chairs just make you slide down, down, down so you keep having to scoot up, up, up?) At least it was fun joining in with the doctors as they (rightfully) teased Eric for having broken himself on a video game.

And, you know what? Eric's not the only one. It seems that guys break themselves on Golden Tee not only by busting their hands on the console, but by tearing rotator cuffs, accidentally putting their hands through the glass, and, sometimes, by not-so-accidentally kicking the machine.

In the end, Eric's stitches popped out. After that, there's no putting them back in without a whole bunch of yuckiness you do not want to know about. SO...they left it open to heal. Can you believe that?!?! Turns out even a drunk doctor can give some sound medical advice.

I recognized a pattern in myself today when Eric mentioned there was a camera (like a real camera, apparently not just a running-the-stoplight camera) at a local, major intersection. "What?!?! We said we didn't want cameras!" (The public had been asked for comment about surveillance cameras in Charleston a few years ago and the response was a big "NO!") Gazing out the window, I muttered, "I'd like to shoot it with a paintball."

Eric replied that I want to shoot everything with a paintball. I had to laugh and admit the truth in it. For instance, I have a slightly younger sister (not the one I talk about a lot) with...how to put this...a really craptastic man in her life. My youngest sister and I have plotted how to fairly deal with him. Hmmm. Paintball...center forehead...pink. Mystery cameras that appear despite the citizens' opinion? Paintball...center lens. Drug dealers messing up Everyone's East End? Paintball...center forehead...purple (an ironic tribute to Jimi and Purple Haze). And this last one is Martha's suggestion for bad drivers: a color-coding paintball system. It would let other people on the road know what to expect from you. For people who cut you off...orange. For people who run red lights...red (duh). Of course, some people's cars would display multiple colors based on this yet-to-be-completed coding system.

Funny thing is...I've never, ever owned, nor shot, nor even held a paintball gun. It just seems like it's perfect as my would-be weapon of choice. I mean, what's a mostly-anti-violence person to do? It's not like I'd ever beat anyone up, but some just need a serious butt whoopin. For humans on the target list, a paintball would be non-lethal, embarrassing, and leave quite a welt.

DISCLAIMER: If you go and paintball something up and try to pin it on me, I will so totally paintball you. Close-range, right in the back of the knee. Think how much that would hurt. But really...I will never, ever really paintball anyone or anything...as far as you know.

McSweeney's cracks me up. So clever it is. And although I purposely intend to not go too much into politics on this blog, this piece is allowed because it's damn funny. So, without further ado, discourse, or description...

If A Unicorn Were On The National Security Council, by Ken Saji:


The unicorn starts out by laying out its plan to counter the North Korean nuclear threat. It says, "Create a giant rainbow over the entire country that lasts 100 years and then flood the DMZ with thousands of puppies—er, kittens. Because nothing's cuter than a kitten scratching and meowing to get in somewhere. Then, after we break through, the Marines go in and take over any nuclear facilities, turning them into 'Happy Centers,' filled with flowers, cupcakes, popcorn (low sodium), toys, smiles, trust, and kinship."

The vice president is swayed, but asks for tactical specifics. The unicorn presents a briefing memo written in watercolored rebuses. It's 630 pages long. The unicorn states that it's no small feat writing out "operational malfeasance" in pictures, and the president says, "Well, ain't that the truth."

The unicorn moves on and explains that increasing the Special Forces covert operations in the tribal areas along the Pakistani border would be productive. Currently in that region, says the unicorn, "there are way many factions, anti-U.S. sentiment, cobwebs, and frowns."

The director of national intelligence questions the unicorn's assessment, specifically the number of operatives needed. He says the undersecretary of defense stands by the current numbers.

The unicorn immediately questions any troop assessment coming from the Department of Defense. "How about," it says, "that leprechaun? Whenever we talked about Iraq, the leprechaun magically appeared and said our ground forces were sufficient."

"Leprechaun?" asks the secretary of defense.

"The one who celebrated Rosh Hashanah," says the unicorn.

"Wolfowitz," mouths the national-security adviser.

The unicorn nods its noble head.

The secretary of state is concerned about conducting clandestine missions without congressional approval.

The unicorn holds up in its mouth a document of legal indemnification, crafted by the White House counsel. It's written in crayon and contains language like "all busted up and such," but the unicorn maintains that it's ironclad.

Talk turns to Somalia and the growing threat of Al Qaeda in the capital city. "Have you thought," asks the unicorn, "of sending a legion of robots?" "Just one legion?" asks the secretary of the treasury. The unicorn lets the chief of staff take that one—it's not exactly sure how many make up a legion, as it's probably metric.

The unicorn remains silent for most of the conversation on Iran. In a break in the conversation, it interjects, "In developing contingencies against Iran, council members had suggested I contact a specific person at the International Atomic Energy Agency. My advisers soon told me that there is no person at the IAEA named Nukey McBombalot. This after multiple attempts to reach his secret office in Kapowville, as well as hundreds of dollars out of my own pocket spent on calligraphy on his invitation and place card for my tea party. Does anyone have any other contact information on him?" The unicorn thinks he hears the director of national intelligence stifle a laugh.

The vice president talks about supplying arms to Kurdish rebels. "How about," says the unicorn, "we swap out guns and use love guns." The unicorn starts to draw a rifle with an oversized barrel under the words "Love Gun!" and stops. "Let's shelve this for now," says the unicorn. Everyone quickly agrees.

The president emits a loud groan and points. There's a large pile of manure on the Situation Room couch. The council members look at the unicorn. "That's not me—and unicorns don't lie," says the unicorn. The president looks at the vice president. The vice president averts his eyes. They move on.

Talk turns to Iraq, and the unicorn wishes he had his teddy bear. The teddy bear who served on the Council on Foreign Relations. The one the unicorn took to Syria, and the unicorn saw the look on the Syrians' faces, like "Oh, man, don't let this teddy bear look me straight in the eye." And the meeting was going great until the teddy bear said that Damascus reminded him of his ass. So now Hezbollah is stronger than ever and the teddy bear is teaching social studies somewhere in New Paltz.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff sternly opposes the unicorn's idea to airlift sunshine across the tribal areas of Afghanistan. He says something under his breath. "I heard that," says the unicorn. "Calling me just a horse with a horn is like calling Justin Timberlake just a singer or the secretary of state just a mannequin for Dress Barn suits."

To clear the air, the unicorn calls for a bathroom break. After a few minutes, it comes back and says how cool it is that the Sit Room bathroom has textured toilet paper. "Why is that?" asks the unicorn. "Because we're the government," says the secretary of defense. "Boy," says the unicorn, "I wish I used toilet paper." And everyone stares at the unicorn, and suddenly it wishes it hadn't said that. And then the unicorn wishes it were something else, like a monkey. One of those monkeys who use toilet paper. One of those wise, wise monkeys.

I've always appreciated the simplicity of physical comedy...and as a child I loved to watch The Carol Burnett Show. In honor of the passing of Harvey Korman today, here's something that really, really makes me laugh:

Well, my fascination with my (and some other people's) reaction to Ambien might be a little self-centered...or maybe even narcissistic. I guess I'm not so worried about seeming narcissistic, because I'm sure people are just as fascinated with me as me...is. Ahem.

But, I have to mention this: I spent Monday through yesterday looking all around the house for my brux guard. (In my body's continued quest to make sleeping as unsatisfying as possible, I grind my teeth when I'm not experiencing insomnia.) In case you don't know, a brux guard is something you wear in your mouth that cushions the attempted grinding of the teeth. I couldn't find this thing anywhere! And this is not like you can just go out and replace these things! They're really expensive (for anyone who's brother-in-law is not a dentist) and still take several days to get back, and fruit basket to your brother-in-law's office if he is a dentist.

I knew it could be laying around the bedroom or bathroom because, despite what the commercials say, Ambien is hard to shake off when you wake up. (Should that be "laying" or "lying"? Is it "chickens lay and horses lie"? Why are horses so dishonest? What about "getting it right from the horse's mouth"?) But what's the choice? Be tired, disoriented, and unhealthy because of long-term sleep deprivation?

Anyway, the amnesia that you have at night can linger into the morning and, in my experience, it makes me emotional. Here's an example of THAT...back in January I was doing my last-minute weather checks for the Orlando area since we were getting ready to take the kids to Disney World for vacation. I checked Weather.com every morning when I first got up, waiting for the 10-day forecast to totally encompass the days of our visit. So one morning I'm upset beyond belief when I read that our trip was going to be filled with 30-something-degree days and a possible snowstorm. I immediately sent out a somewhat hysterical e-mail to all my friends, my dad (who lives in Sarasota), and my two brothers.

About an hour later I got to work and suddenly reality sank in...it's crazy to think it would be 30-something degrees and snowing in Orlando...let alone for several days in a row. I checked weather.com again and realized that I had not clicked on my saved Orlando search and had, therefore, been looking at the weather for Charleston, WV. Not surprisingly, and maybe intuitively, my dad's one-line response to my written hysterics was "No snow in the Big O."

So I couldn't find my brux guard for three days. I had to sleep without it and awoke with all the symptoms of grinding my teeth the night before. This morning, I was digging in the bottom of my purse looking for more mints (to which I'm addicted) and I found...my brux guard. I just wonder at what point Monday morning I decided to take it to work with me.

Many thanks to Martha for making me EL-OH-EL with this compliment to yesterday's blog:

And along those same lines, here are some other graphs I love that help us see how musical lyrics are directly related to life:

Sometimes...when I'm having toast...I like to be incredulous.