Maxwell the Tattooed Boy and Other Astounding Joys

Of Christmas Music, iPod and Earworms

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 12:53:00 +0000

Get this. This past weekend, the radio station I am slavishly devoted to went all Christmas music, all the time. I KNOW, right!? A word to the programming crew at KQIS: early November is TOO EARLY for wall to wall jolly. I know it seemed like a good idea at the time, but Christmas music at this point of the season does NOT lift my mood, it makes me nervous about the impending shopping, planning, cooking, eating, and Santa-waiting in store for me. I do hopefully click the button every morning, just to see if this really was a figment of my audio imagination, but alas. Bing is crooning, or someone's mama is kissing Santa Claus. There is something to be said about peaking too soon. I need my regular rock, at least until Turkey Day, and I refuse to dial around. So! I have become happily reacquainted with my iPod. I just set it on shuffle and let 'er rip. I got a lovely mix yesterday of Carly Simon, Barenaked Ladies, Hall and Oates, Head East, Simon and Garfunkel, Chicago, Amy Winehouse and more. Oh, and I do have a few Christmas Selections on there. I shuffled past 'em. The lady singing loudly in the silver Saturn is me. Yay. I may go back to KQIS after Turkey day, when I can joyfully immerse myself into Bing and the lot. Maybe.

Thankfully, nothing really stuck in my head, and actually the whole iPod experience served to dislodge an earworm (you know, those songs that get into your head and ride it for all it's worth) that had been in my head for a few days, thanks to the Medium Boy. He has been singing Pink's latest, Funhouse. This is a sticky little tune about evil clowns and on and on. I don't even want to write any more about it for fear of depositing it like so much chewed gum into my head again. It started me thinking about other earworms that had happened over time. Very lately I had the Taylor Swift earworm disease, in which any song she did got lodged in my brain. The worst was the thing about Romeo. A very very long time ago, that Kinks song "Come Dancing", I think it was, would adhere to my cranium for weeks at a time. That la dada dada, dadedade da hook especially. There have been other songs at other times -- what are the earworms you've known and heard, and heard and HEARD?

Okay, so if you're in fourth grade, life might be hard.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 01:27:00 +0000

It was very nearly the end of the Medium Boy last week. On his birthday, no less. I'd had it with the stubbornness, the bearish attitude, the surly pleas to be left alone. All in a space of twenty minutes, circa 7 AM. UGH. I thought I'd just make it a nice round ten years of his and my life. Give him back, no exchange, no refund. Fourth grade is killing us. Another option I considered was the performance of a craniotomy by electric knife and shoving the times tables in there, for this is the only way seemingly left that they're going to get IN there. Where is Dr. Derek Shepherd when you need him?

On the other foot, Halloween is coming up and despite the fact that I seem to have no use of the front of my face besides the production of green slime, (another post altogether...) I'm looking forward to the Ninja who will inhabit the body of the ten-year-old for the night. We've painted toenails black to celebrate just such an occasion. "It's so GOTH!" squealed tough Ninja Boy. Who promptly got in trouble next day at school trying to surreptitiously show said dark tootsies to his friends. Ah, the intersection of fourth grade angst and fourth-grade-boy senselessness.

We did have a glorious time at the ice hockey rink party; he only fell approximately six times, and there are no major bruises on his body that I've been allowed to peruse. We ate cookie cake with blue and orange icing (WHY do they insist on making icing in colors not found in nature?) for a week, and the boy racked up. He's got enough cash for that new bike he has been jonesing for, which I am lobbying hard in favor of instead of the Nintendo DS, which is our other option. He graciously bought us McD's breakfast Saturday morning, and I was allowed to borrow a buck for Cub Scout money this week. He is awesome sweet, that black-toed ninja Medium Boy. Okay. So I guess he gets to live. For now. I could still hunt down that receipt, you know.

Dear Entrecard, I QUIT

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 02:06:00 +0000

Yes, dear Internets, no more Entrecard for me. Take me off the list. Why, you ask? Well, for one, I would like free reign over the content of my blog. Me. The author, the absent hostess, The One Who Thought of It. I haven't been holding up my end of the bargain, really. I haven't done any dropping since I don't know when. BUT. I will NOT be blackmailed, or bought. I will NOT pay $5 a month "subscription fee" to keep ads I didn't solicit out of my space. It may get dusty from disuse sometimes, and the cobwebs might clutter a bit, but this little blog is still mine, and one of the few things in life I like to think I still have some semblance of control over. For now. This moment. Okay, this one. So see ya, Entrecard. Don't let the screen door hit ya in the ads.

Facebook Ate My Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 23:12:00 +0000

I haven't been around here much lately. I've ignored comments, I've let perfectly good blogging ideas go by the wayside (How's this one for ya -- originally suggested by Karyl who had a moment on Rosh Hashanah -- exciting new headwear for balding Jewish men on their way to temple -- it's a toupee - it's a yarmulke -- it toup-ulke! Impress the nice girls, oy, they'll love it... okay, well, maybe not.) I've been a terrible hostess. While IRL, I have actually had a terrible cold that has caused great hunks of green matter to spew from upper orifices and make me pass out and miss any vestige of social life I will ever have and alienate those kind souls who thought they wanted to have that social life WITH me, that is hardly the excuse for my absence here. After all, everyone knows while in the throes of Nyquil, blogging is fun -- kinda like drunk blogging, and re: spew, this is what Lysol comes in spray bottles for, after all. No, the iffy health is NOT the reason for the scarcity of posts here lately. It is totally the fault of the Devil Facebook.

Yes, I have fallen into the time abyss that is Facebook. Facey Spacey is my life now. I Farkle, I have a farm - uh, TWO farms, two different universes, a fish bowl, a roller coaster cluster, a group of sorority sisters, and I apparently am wanted by the mob. Not to mention the large sucking sound of a minute of time spent trying to rack up points clicking on little groups of clinking clacking jewels. My friends friend me, and make unreasonable demands on my gifting ability. They want farm animals, smiles, pillow fights, hearts, long island iced teas, you name it, I got a friend who wants it from me. So you see, Facebook has eaten my blog. I no longer have the energy to come up with snappy repartee for the general internets, because my special Facey Spacey people need a pint of O-negative, and want to know what Melrose Place character I'm most like. I was the Heather whatser-name one. Although I took the quiz three times with all different answers, and got the Heather person all three times. Was she the only one in Melrose Place? These Facebook quizzes are amaaaazing. Not always in a good way.

I promise to stop this obsession, I promise to drop Entrecards again, and make little comments to my bloggy friends really reallllly soon. I just have to break 100K in Bejeweled Blitz, then all will be right with the world. Until then, can I send you a smiley heart and call it a post?

Bar Tricks and Marketable Skills

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 21:50:00 +0000

Okay, this is sort of a meme that fell from the sky while driving in search of lunch. It is a list of my personal, shall we say, quirks, acclaimed bar tricks and unusual but sometimes very handy ergo marketable skills.

1. Can do that cherry stem in a knot thing. Always popular with the boys.

2. Can take bra off while still wearing shirt. (see above) and OMG now that I am elderly, such a relief. I've done this particular trick driving home, even. Just don't tell the po-po.

3. Can take jeans off without unzipping. This is a product of Xtreem Non-Carb Regime currently undertaking and I guess should be noted as temporary until I get some that fit again. Or eat a few fries, undoubtedly.

4. Can read upside down. Very very handy when in clients' and bosses' offices.

5. Can reliably count by sevens from any point in the scale. I don't know how that happened, except that I had to hand-write radio schedules for a good while in my youthful career. Now I'm Rain Man.

6. Can dredge up some seriously frivolous information about archaic culture (think 70's TV) when faced with competition. Never been beaten in Trivial Pursuit.

Um, okay, that's it for now. A little meme-lette for those who don't see the point of coming up with eleventy-hundred little things to reveal to the Internets...

All Together Now

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 12:13:00 +0000

No endorsement intended, except my usual attraction to odd and wonderfulness. And okay, beer. But not necessarily THAT beer.

Ahh, the Sacred Nine Minutes of Extra Sleep

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 16:49:00 +0000

The question of the day, a lovely Monday, is this: Why do alarm clocks routinely give the snooze-button slapper nine extra minutes of sleep? Why not five or ten? Or some other arbitrary number, 8 and a half? Pi? I have wondered this wonder while lying sleepless in between alarm soundings, losing my sacred nine minutes thinking about them. I've even googled the query. And the answer is: there is no good answer. Um, let me rephrase that. there are a BUNCH of good answers, but no one has stepped up and declared their answer to be the right, the definitive, the correct in all places even Jeopardy answer.

Some of the answers I've read: the nine minutes was determined by some University study to be the threshold of humans falling into a deep sleep. Ten and you'd be wayyyyy back in dreamland, so nine minutes of one-eye-open faux rest for you, no chance of revisiting Brad Pitt in your REM love nest. Speaking of love, another theory had to do with the average length of marital relations (3 to 13 minutes as quoted - is that with or without the running to the bathroom to tinkle and brush the green out of two sets of teeth??) and the idea that the snooze alarm would give you time for a quick good morning getter-going before rising. Yeah right. Good luck with that one. We don't even TALK to each other until we've had our coffee. Yet another thought on the matter had to do with the clock not having to remember (or was it change) but one digit if the alarm rang every nine minutes. I started thinking about this one, techno-semiliterate that I am, but it just made my head hurt.

I do however, have my own theory about the nine minutes. You see, the techies in charge of alarm clocks may actually be a group of old math teachers, retired but bitter, since there was always that smart kid in the middle row who never liked to show her work. I know, I was one of them. My head was a calculator, and sometimes I couldn't even tell them HOW I got the answer, I just knew it was right. So they have developed this nine-minute clock to make sure people like me DON'T go back to sleep once the alarm clock has rung. Instead, I am stuck doing the math in my head -- let's see -- nine times two is eighteen minutes, 6:18 plus eighteen... nine times three, add that...

And I Wanted School To Start - WHY??

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 14:33:00 +0000

I post this very funny and timely video just to remind myself that I am not the Lone Ranger when it comes to this whole say everything fourteen times in the morning Mom stuff. My morning this morning, for your perusal:

I was up and bathed by 6:35. Played a few rounds of Bedazzled Blitz on Facebook just to steady my nerves, then at 6:45 approached the Medium Boy's room, otherwise known as the Cave of Pre-Pubescent Maledom. I opened the door, and said, sweetly, "Max! Please get up -- time to be up and at 'em, sweetheart!" 6:55, again with the door, again with the "Please get up, honey!" I preheated the oven for his biscuits. 7:05: still no sign of life from the cave. This time, the drill sargeant Mom was in full effect. "GET UP!" I bellowed. "I'm UP! bellowed back the Medium Boy somewhere in the recesses of the cave. "THEN GET OUT HERE AND GET DRESSED!" Groans and shuffling of feet.

I poured coffee. Took a few sips. Found inert body laying on my couch. "Get dressed, honey," I said. "I don't have any socks," said he. I went back into the cave and found some clean and unholey socks. I flipped them his way. "Now, get the rest of your clothes -- and not the pants you wore Friday AND yesterday."

I put the biscuits in the oven. "But, Moooom, those are the only ones that fit me. (Clever girl I am, last week, after he modeled the shorts from last year's uniform collection, swearing up and down that yes, he could wear them, no, they weren't too tight, I went to the local outlet and purchased a pair in the next size up, just in case, for a few pizzas down the road. GUESS which is the only pair that fits him now, a mere seven days later?) "Get the old shorts and wear them today. And get a green shirt, there are no navy ones in the pile. "They squeeze me, and I HATE green!" "Dude, you're going to get squoze today, and green is it. Where are your socks?" Nine minutes later - the biscuits are ready. "Why haven't you gotten dressed yet? WHERE ARE YOUR SOCKS!?" I put the biscuits and coffee on the table. Medium Boy wearing green shirt, squeezy shorts and terrible scowl appears at his place. We scarf in silence.

It is now 7:33, the bus arrives at 7:48. The biscuits disappear, followed by most of the coffee. He then packs his booksack. "Go brush your teeth and comb your hair." "I don't care about my hair." "I do, and you have green teeth. You don't want to live like an ape!" "We evolved from the apes - I learned that in science." "Yes, I know, and I'm glad to hear you're getting something out of school. But the whole idea is that we HAVE evolved, and we don't breathe green on our classmates. WHERE ARE YOUR SOCKS?" A few minutes of bathroom time later, 7:44, he emerges with socks on. He does the shoe wiggling onto the foot dance for way longer than it actually takes, with the cat joining in. Finally, both shoes are applied to correct feet, booksack to shoulder, the Medium Boy out of the door. 7:47:50, ten seconds to spare. Whew. One more day of this, and he WILL be grounded until he's thirty. And I wished and wished for the start of school -- just exactly why, again??

The School Haircut

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 22:33:00 +0000

Exhibit A: The Medium Boy striking a belligerent post before The Haircut.

Exhibit B: Enduring the indignity of it all. That lady sitting behind him was taking it all in and having a good time with the faces and noises coming from the miserable caped one.

Exhibit C: attempting a weak smile on the toy aisle. I think we'll all live.

The Morning Zombie In Its Natural Habitat

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 15:53:00 +0000

We are so not morning people in my house. The Medium Boy does exactly what I was doing at his age... he hides under the covers until the Very Last Second before emerging like a fresh-from-hiberation zombie bear to greet the day. The only light he can successfully tolerate is that coming off the Cartoon Network. Normal speech is impossible until at least after The First Cup of Coffee; we communicate by grunts and hand signals before the caffeine kicks in. Looking at that first photo, I have to laugh, because on the other side of the lens sat the grown-up mirror image of that schlumpling. Fortunately I was the only one with a camera.

Picture two was taken for posterity. This summer will forever be known as the first season the Medium Boy was given sole control of hair. I did not once drag him to the barber shop for a trim, I let him have it Age of Aquarius sweaty long flaxen waxen and spaghetti. I mean, does that NOT resemble a lovely Eva Gabor wig? The thing about it, he has really really pretty hair, BUT. He refuses to let a comb through it, preferring the clump and lump 'do. I actually combed it before I took that picture. Now, I am about to hit him over the head with a blunt object and transport him to the hair salon. they'll just have to cut around the bump. School starts in a WEEK! Pause for motherly handsprings.

Here's the whole video -- even more awesome.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 02:35:00 +0000

Rain

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 02:55:00 +0000

This is so very cool, especially considering how starved we've been for rain this summer. Insanely AWESOME. Thanks, Deb for the email!!

Strange Road Kill Day on Highway 14

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 16:20:00 +0000

I commute twenty miles to work each weekday; it's a straight shot down a lovely roadway we like to call Highway 14. Since it is an easy drive, I find myself paying attention to little details. Details like the profusion of small to medium former animals resting in the road. Today there was a large number of these unfortunates, a few of which I really had to watch in order to avoid further running over. I counted a possum, a raccoon, an armadillo (there's ALWAYS an armadillo - are these guys slower than they think they are or just suicidal??) and I think a former dog. BUT. And here's where it gets really weird. Upon entering the town of my destination, I started noticing odder stuff stuck in the middle of the road. First a lone shoe, then several yards down the road, its mate. Then another shoe, and another. All in all, about five pairs, some matched, some lonely and alone. Has Imelda Marcos cleaned out her closet? Is today throw your shoes out the window of your car day? Barefoot Freedom for All? Hmmmm. Shoes in the road. Makes you wonder.

From The Department of Redundancy Department

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 04:16:00 +0000

See that red car? I followed that red car for several miles up the road today. See that ever so carefully photographed (through my windshield) white blob on the upper right bumper area of the red car? It is a lovingly made bumper blob - larger than a sticker, more like a sheet of paper, adhesive backed, landscape oriented, laser printed. I so wanted to get a photo to show you, dear Internets, for you know of my obsession with grammar, spelling and word usage. Okay. I took the picture because this bumper blob says:

Save An Animal
EUTHANIZE
A Child Pedophile

I promise.

Haunted By The Folder, Or Birth Mother Blues

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 19:44:00 +0000

A while ago, while rummaging in my file drawer, I came across The Folder. This is an old dog-eared manila job stuffed full of papers, notes scribbled in and outside. It's the folder I started when I started to look for my birth mother and the son I gave up. You remember the story of my teenage heartbreak and pregnancy, you'll find it here.

Anyway, The Folder. Several years ago, I decided it was time to make the search, to see what information I could find about my birth family, and reconnect if that was in the stars. I put my name into all the Triad search websites, wrote the requisite letter to the agency in New Orleans, started poking and prodding around. I received non-essential information provided by my birth mother at the time of her confinement in St. Vincent's (I used to think that terminology for pregnant women was so sexist, but this time, it truly fit...) I found out her ethnic heritage, some sketchy family information, and that was about it.

And then I found Fran. Fran was a private investigator, who for a fee, attained my adoption papers and Christopher's, and read them to me over the phone. I got names, birth dates, cities of origin, more family details. I was set. Or not. I hemmed, hawed and generally procrastinated about it. You see, on one side of the equation, I was sure. I had a plan, a timetable, some good energy. I knew the circumstances and I knew more or less where my son came from, and where he'd be coming from now. On the other side, the antecedent was a blank. I never felt energy, didn't know what had happened to this woman who gave me life and then gave me up.

As a child, I fantasized about my origins -- I used to imagine a long limo pulling up in front of our modest New Orleans suburban house, and Elizabeth Taylor emerging to claim me as her own lost child. Or Julie Andrews. I alternated the two, mainly because with my dark blonde pixie cut and blue eyes, people would say I resembled Ms. Andrews. Liz Taylor was much more glamourous and dramatic. The Liz fantasies I usually used when I was pissed off over something my mother wanted me to do or not do (i.e. cleaning my room or hitting my brother) and I felt my style cramped by this OUTRAGEOUS maternal request. I'd show her, I'd be whisked off to Hollywood with my REAL mother (Liz or Julie) and NEVER have to clean my room or SEE that horrid evil little brother EVER again. Obviously, that worked out well. My mother never knew just how close she came to losing me FOREVER and continued the raising, nurturing and loving blissfully unaware.

I still have that faded Hollywood fantasy to draw from now, although I love my mom and wouldn't have had it any other way, limo notwithstanding. Perhaps I dwell on the negative aspect of the search now more than I did as a child. I mean, what if she's not up to my fantasies? What if she doesn't want to know me? What if she's terribly ill? What if she's crazy? What if she's dead? I think that if I'd had any indication that she searched for me (and I have left huge drifts of breadcrumbs wherever I could to facilitate that search) I would feel differently.

Now that I work at the library, I have more genealogy resources at my disposal. As a matter of fact, the genealogy room is at my back at the reference desk. Just behind me is a vast treasure trove of public record info, computers with search engines and databases and the like. I've made a few haphazard stabs at looking around, and the only results kinda scared me. I found a woman, approximately my birth mother's age, mentioned in an article because she had a mentally ill son in trouble in the prison system in California. I poked a bit more, but her background information didn't quite jive with the information I had already. Talk about mixed feelings there, disappointed that the search must go on, but relieved that I don't have a crazy half-brother in jail being abused.

I still hold on to The Folder. It has grown fatter slowly over the years, my mother contributing things she's come across - a wedding announcement from a bride she thought looked like me, some phone numbers of people with my birth mother's last name from her home town, notes I've written as I've looked around. Perhaps one day, my phone will ring, or I'll answer the door, and I'll be able to chunk it. For now, I'm just a little haunted by it all.

bing -- Stream of Semi-Consciousness

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 09:52:00 +0000

Is it just me? Am I the only one who is startled, embarrassed and insulted by these new bing.com ads? Being a child of media and a writer and producer of same, I understand the concept. I get that search engines sometimes lead us down a disassociated yet strangely linked path, a rabbit's hole of information -- but that happens only in front of the computer. Not in the middle of the rest of our lives. Oh, Microsoft, tell me it ain't so. Yes, I see the attempt at humor. No, I don't REALLY ever think we'll get to be such search engine junkies that these non-conversations would actually happen. But I just think it is so insulting to the intelligence of your intended audience to even suggest this as reality, as a problem that can be solved by bing.com that you lost me. I won't try it, not until you come up with something else to spark my brain. Am I an audience research panel of one?

Four Foods on Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 17:02:00 +0000

Love love the Friday for many reasons, not the least of which is Four Foods on Friday, brought to us again by Valerie at Fun Crafts and Recipes. Here are this week’s four questions.

#1. Clair’s question. What’s the biggest kitchen blunder you’ve made?
This one came early in my cooking life. I was about twelve, and my mother and I attempted to make that very cool braided Easter bread that you put the dyed Easter Eggs onto. Well. It was one of the few yeast bread recipes we'd ever tried. We either did something too much or not enough. It was nasty, heavy and resembled a doorstop when baked. Cured me of trying to bake with yeast for years after that. I didn't really get it until I got my bread machine.

#2. What’s your favorite snow day beverage?
Snow day? Qu'est-ce que c'est? Actually, we in South Louisiana did have a snow day this past winter. We drank about a half gallon of hot chocolate, the recipe off the cocoa tin.

#3. What’s your favorite way to eat celery?
Tuna Salad, with onion, dill pickle, a little curry and garlic and a couple shots of tabasco, light mayonnaise and lemon juice.

#4. What’s the most most unappealing looking food you can think of?
Probably I'd vote for geoduck, that giant clam thing they find off the upper West Coast. Blech.

Rain. We Need. Big Time. Please Send. Amen.

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 03:16:00 +0000

As I crossed my front lawn, heading to retrieve two days' worth of mail (I don't know what it IS about these male people I live with. Neither of them craves real, tactical contact with the outside world. They're content to sit in the AC and Xbox their brains out, while politicians wander off into Argentina and stuff. Ahem. I digress....)anyway, as I crossed, I noticed this strange crunching noise. It was coming from the soon-to-be-former St. Augustine grass so thickly covering the lawn. It is downright crackly. Man. Do we need some rain.

It has been over 100 heat index for the last four days. The Cub Scouts, hearty souls they are, have even been sending the boys home from day camp hours early. Of course, if you saw the venue for this BB gun shooting, archery bowing, whinging dog food through a slingshot all day adventure, you'd send them home early as well. It is a rodeo arena. Max has fondly dubbed it, The Poo Place. As in, OH NO, we are NOT having Cub Scout Camp in The Poo Place AGAIN! Yes, my precious son, you are. And you're going. And you'll come home again in the afternoon and need to be immediately hosed down before you get near my sofa. So none of the Poo from the Place gets into MY HOUSE. It is even worse with the lack of rain, as the dust just bowls up and permeates sweaty cub scouts. I'm wondering if boiling him would get it all OUT.

Now, this rainless condition has affected my procrastinated tomatoes which I missed putting in the garden on time. I did haphazardly stick three plants into pots on the patio, and I have been saying novenas while watering each evening after work. I've dumped a huge amount of Osmocote into each pot, and stuck a ginormous tomato cage on each pot. These poor plants look like they've gone to the vet and come back in a scratch collar. But. I've been talking ever so sweetly to them, in between novenas, and I still have hope for a mid-summer crop. There are flowers on two of the three plants and they've seemingly gotten past the heat wilt stage that snaps the flower off before the fruit begins to form. With a little luck and not too many cutworms, I may even have a homegrown tomato or two before it really fries in August. But man, we could really use some rain.

Four Foods on Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 16:15:00 +0000

Here's my fave Friday meme, courtesy of Valerie of Fun Crafts and Recipes. This week’s four questions:

#1. bestmomma’s question. If you could copy the cooking expertise and ability of one person, who would it be?
My ultimate would be Julia Child. She was fearless and fun, the first woman to break into the 'serious' chef world. Bon apetit!

#2. What’s the first red food that comes to your mind?
Strawberries!

#3. How do you eat your strawberries?
Right out of the carton, or just cored and sliced with a little sugar or Splenda sprinkled on them. Max can eat his weight in strawberries like that.

#4. Share a recipe that uses cherries.
Hmmmm can't think of one. My favorite way to eat cherries: Get fresh cherries, chill in fridge, wash and pop into mouth one by one. Pretend you're Michelle Pfeiffer in "The Witches of Eastwick."

Cat On Kitchen Chair Attempting to Look Innocent

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 16:07:00 +0000

What? Steal your pork chop when you drop the napkin? MOI? PERISH the thought. Just do me a favor - don't put the nasty BBQ sauce on it. I don't li- uh- it's not good for you, all that sodium.

On Being Petunia: A Young Cat Looks at the World

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 14:38:00 +0000

I watch the cat on a daily basis. She's hilarious, as she makes her way from goofy awkward girlie kitten to giant sleek black princess of the feline and human world. As a matter of fact, were our relationship not pet and human, it might be said that I stalk the cat. But it's only fair, for sometimes. she stalks me. I see the telltale tall black almost bunny ears peeking around thresholds, just making sure I'm not doing something that the cat should supervise. Mostly those car supervision activities center around the kitchen and laundry room, ahem, that is, the cat's suite. She's got to keep a sharp eye out, otherwise, I might forget to feed the cat. Or not put the right percentage of pouch-to-dry food, or forget to make those amusing gagging noises while dealing with that pouch cat food. She thinks it most amusing that I gag the most at the most delicious kinds. Those disappear first, with the cat hurrying back to breathe the deliciousness into the human's face, causing even more amusing gagging. Oh the joy of cat love.

I see her learning things on a daily basis. Things like:
1. Spiders are much more fun to play with with all their wiggly things attached. Without them, all you can do is eat them.
2. Going outside at noon on a sunny June day as a furry black animal is much better in theory than practice.
3. Little brown bunnies are much faster than they look.
4. Stinkbugs should. be. left. alone.
5. If you bring your jingly ball to the feet of the human, she will throw it and throw it again and again. Then, when you've tired of the whole business, she'll still want to throw it. Very annoying. Humans may be related to :::shudder::: dogs.
6. Enhance the flavor of your water by the introduction of one or two morsels of dry cat food. It also improves the taste of the cat food. The annoying human may take the water and flush it out, but if you are patient and persist, you can train her to just let the cat food be. Patience and persistence are the keys. That and jumping out from the behind the door in full claw and fang mode when the human comes to change the water yet again. The tableau that follows is quite amusing, if you're into that human dramedy thing. Hurry and hide under the coffee table and snicker silently for a while following the performance. Besides, there will be cat food and water to clean up and wounds to bandage. You want no part in that.

Yes, she's getting more catly by the moment. She is also perfecting the waiting for the humans to fall asleep then pouncing onto their unsuspecting toes to stop the snoring noise, and the climbing up onto the table while avoiding the squirt bottle dance. Oh, and the watching the birds through the window while making covetous scary cat hunting noises. And she thinks I'M hilarious!

Four Foods on Friday

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 02:25:00 +0000

Time again for that little ditty we call (okay, Valerie calls...) Four Foods on Friday. We address one of my favorite obsessions, FOOD! You know you love it -- and you should join us crazed foodies, just hop on over to Fun, Crafts and Recipes and play. Here are this week's questions.

#1. Mashed potatoes. Do you usually buy the boxes, the frozen or make from scratch.
Once upon a time, I'd stick my potato snob nose daintily into the air and claim ONLY made from scratch, but I do admit the boxes have found their way into my pantry. So much less work for an exhausted librarian, and with this bunch, they really don't care. When I want them, I will make them from scratch.

#2. Cottage cheese. What kind do you like? (large curd, small curd, 2%, 4%, no salt, etc)
Cottage cheese. Nope. You can have mine. It's that crazy texture thing.

#3. Is there a food that you are brand loyal to?
Heinz ketchup. Nothing else tastes the same, although I'd love to know where Whataburger gets theirs!

#4. When cooking do you usually use fresh onions or the ones from the spice aisle that are chopped or powdered?
I do only use fresh onions when I cook. Reminds me, gotta put them on the list for tomorrow's big groceries.

Back on the Soggy Kleenex Trail

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 15:00:00 +0000

Through the recent increased involvement with the general public I've had, I have managed to get a summer cold. Ah, loveliness. The region just past my hard palate has been designated a disaster area. Large green goo balls are building a retirement home there and I find my life being completely fogged up as a result. I can feel the breath I force out of my nostrils unpleasantly warm on my upper lip. I am using kleenex and hand sanitizer at an alarming rate. My eyes feel alternately goopy and sticky, like I have some pointy icky thing lodged there. I find myself a tad under the weather, so to speak. I need a bag over my head, preferably mentholatum-infused.

This morning, I barely found my way into the shower, through the hovering mists of Nyquil-induced sleep. (Side note: does anyone else find they snore like a snot-covered runaway train on Nyquil, or am I the only goober affected as such? My husband gets a huge jolly over this particular phenomenon. Just wait until he finds a video of his NORMAL rattling snore on YouTube for all to enjoy. Did I mention that Nyquil also makes me mean and vengeful?)

On yeah, back to the shower. I get there, I locate the hot water etc., I step in, enjoying the brief respite of warm flowing waters on my sore parts. I grab the bath scrunchie, and proceed to cover it in shampoo. Yes, shampoo. I watched myself do this from somewhere outside my body apparently, for it wasn't until I'd made a thorough swirl completely dousing the thing that I realized just what I'd done. I mean, what is a poor stopped-up girl to do? Waste $1.50 worth of salon-recommended mild but effective moisturizing stuff just because coherent thoughts can't make their way through the goo in the front of my face? I think not. So my body will be shiny, full of bounce and texture and will definitely hold its color until next shampoo. None of those annoying flyaways floating off my elbows and knees, even. Ah.

So I shall slog through my day and hope for the best. I'm armed with saline nose gel and cold meds, my kleenex cozily tucked in nooks and crannies about the universe. Later this evening if you should hear loud noises like a passing freight train, don't worry, it's not an F5 tornado, that will just be me and my Nyquil.

Hello from the Li-Berry

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 29 May 2009 21:56:00 +0000

This, dear readers, is the view from my desk. They have me at the Reference Desk, you see, and that in itself is hilarious, because if someone asks me a question, I have to go elsewhere to find the answer. Look, someone has the blog on their computer! What a coincidence.

And THIS, dear readers, is the cool Summer Reading poster they let me draw. Myths and Legends is the Young Adult theme, and that is my interpretation of the cover of Brsingr. Ah, we love the Briar Patch, we do! I do not miss TV.

Four Foods on Friday #77

noreply@blogger.com (Elle) — Fri, 29 May 2009 20:15:00 +0000

Woo, two weeks in a row, must be back on the wagon firmly. After all, I do love Four Foods on Friday so, and this week's questions are even more interesting than usual. You really ought to play this -- go to Fun, Crafts and Recipes, and get yourself meme-ing! Here are this week’s four questions.

#1. Anele’s question. Do you have a natural ability to cook or do you feel you just “get by?”
I think I'm a natural cook, I think about food and new flavor combinations and recipes a bit more than just getting by I imagine, plus I live in Louisiana, where it takes a pretty good cook to 'just get by' anyway!

#2. Why do you buy the size eggs that you buy?
I buy large eggs, because it seems that's what I've always done, and most recipes I see call for large if they call for specific egg size. Oh, and did I just dream it, or has Alton Brown recommended large eggs as well? (I'd paint myself green and jump into the reservoir if Alton Brown suggested it...)

#3. Do you have any cooking “rules”?
Um, never eat anything directly off the kitchen floor. Never reheat French bread in the microwave. I think that's about it. My kitchen's sort of a Wild West kinda place to be...

#4. Fresh corn. Yellow, white or bicolored?
Fresh corn. Yes, yes, oh yes. All of the above. This reminds me, I have two ears begging for light steaming followed by butter and salt right now in my fridge. I may take them up on the proposition for dinner tonight. Strangely, I am the only human in the house who likes and will eat corn on the cob. Fine with me, bring it on!