Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

This is riveting stuff, I assure you:

I was carrying my laptop under one arm, my cell phone under the other, and my big cup of water with the lid and the super-cool straw (all Tupperware®, of course) in my left hand (Janet would call that “my BaBa” – evidently you’re never too old).

I did not fall down the stairs. I did not fall up the stairs.

I reached the end of the downstairs hall (in a hurry?) where there are two doors – one to the right and one to the left. Then I did a fantastically spectacular gymnastic maneuver towards the floor -perhaps the ceiling? (well, the wall, really). Let us say I tripped over something. It’s possible – the Kitten Childrens’ scratching post is to the left. Their food mat is there, too. Air? VERY HEAVY AIR???

I hit my right knee on one edge of the right-hand door frame on my way down, flung everything up in the air -WHEEEEE – (including, remember, a large cup of water, which, despite having a lid, has a VERY LARGE HOLE FOR THE SUPER-COOL STRAW). Then I hit the right side of my head on the other side of the right-handed doorway. This bent the right ear-piece of my glasses (and hurt my ginormous head, I must say).

I spent one split second thinking, “WHAT THE…????” Didn’t even have time for proper sailor language. Then I RAN to get towels from the right-handed bedroom closet to dry off my two most beloved (well, I’d put my iPod in that ranking, too, but that was safely ensconced elsewhere) pieces of electronic equipment.

My phone still seems to work; that’s good. I shut down my laptop as fast as possible, dried it off and took the battery out (luckily it wasn’t wet inside there…). Now it is sitting on a very soft pillow in a dim, quiet room with the door closed while it is recuperating. I’m hoping for the best. It didn’t smoke or sparkle and still had normal screen images as I shut it down; I’m taking that as a good sign. Everyone please think healing thoughts for my beloved PowerBook.

In – what – two or three years Grettir managed to only put the tiniest dent on one side (which I couldn’t find for two weeks after I had the thing and then I had to wonder if I’d done it myself). I’ve made a lovely scratchy mark on the right side top already (yes, I’m right-handed – talk about your dominant sides) and another not far from that one.

I suppose what I’m saying is I’M TALENTED LIKE THAT.

Oh – and I did some sort of damage turning off the main water source to the house, but you mustn’t tell my Dad. First of all, I turned the water off (I’m so happy to have the valve IN MY ROOM) being snotty (for a good cause?). Secondly, my Dad takes that joke about engineers being “glorified plumbers” seriously. SERIOUSLY. He should not plumb, for the most part, I assure you. Secretly I will blame him for that faucet being in bad shape because he has turned it soooo hard that part of the knob has actually broken off.

Being a brilliant scientist he does not think the water in the house is off if you can turn on a faucet and ANY water comes out. My Mom and Shirleen and I have all tried to explain the logic of BLEED OFF – the idea that there is still water in the pipes that HAS TO COME OUT even AFTER you’ve turned the main valve off. He has never believed us. A MAN told him that one day and I swear he shouted, “EUREKA – what a brilliant thought? It never, EVER, EVER would have occurred to me!!! Why didn’t someone tell me that before?” As though he’d never heard such an amazing concept before. Argh.

I did learn something very important because of Labor Day. Well, I suppose it’s completely coincidental that I got “schooled” because of Labor Day (which I’m feeling too pissy to spell the cool “Labour” way), but then I can pretend it was part of a celebration.

As I need to take my glasses to be bent back into shape (I learned the lesson about trying to do that yourself a LONG time ago – during an era when every single time I set my glasses on the bad I assured myself I’d remember they were there and then I sat on them about forty-seven percent of the time – maybe even forty-nine percent. It’s the early-onset senility…) I took them off and had a nap. After taking some ibuprofen. I’m tellin’ you, that’s what you do.

And when I awoke, the magical shoemaker elves, as they didn’t have their normal duties today – it being Labor Day and all, had FIXED MY GLASSES. And as it was a holiday, they stuck around (instead of following their normal proclivities to mysteriously disappear leaving being many gorgeous pairs of Italian shoes in MY SIZE) to play some board games (they cheat, but they are so cute it’s just funny). I made some great hummus and we all had a snack and it was just the BEST TIME EVER.

And then I woke up with Kitten Child clear under the covers near my RIGHT FOOT – sooo very cute, but not an expensive Italian, custom-made shoe. Oh, leave me alone; I can dream (I wish I dreamt such nice things).

I went to put my contacts in. This is still a slightly tenuous process, as I’ve mentioned. Let me preface my next adventure by explaining that a day or so after I first got the contacts, they were bugging me a little (because of STICKING MY FINGER IN MY EYE ONE TOO MANY TIMES) and I called the optometrist to ask how I could tell if I’d put a contact in wrong-side out. The reply was a slightly impatient, “Well, can you SEE?” to which I answered in the affirmative (good thing, too, as I was driving at the time – conscientiously using my Bluetooth® headset). “Then they are in right.” I felt like I’d called and basically been told, “Duh, duh, duh – DUH DUH DUH, Dummy! Have a nice day.”

My eyes were a little sleepy/irritated, so I wasn’t entirely surprised when the right contact bothered me after I put it in. I put the left one in, and it was a little better. I took the right one out, my eye was still a little buggy, so I just put the contact back in. After five or ten minutes of blinking and wandering around closing one eye and then the other evaluating whether or not I could see (I could) I thought I’d better check the damn thing again.

Okay – BRILLIANT PEOPLE FROM THE OPTOMETRIST’S OFFICE – it was inside-out and I could still see (when I wasn’t blinking tears away or just blinking for FUN).
Happy Labor Day. Phhht.

I have been known, occasionally, to use the following symbol (or “emoticon”) when writing an email (only, naturally, when wit begs one to employ such a bon mot – only tastefully, sparingly, and cleverly):
🙂

And it causes exceeding delight in the recipient, because of its clever utilization. Ergo, the World is a better place.

You are most welcome.

In contrast, I have received emails and blog comments with the following figure:
🙂

I will admit: This has led to appreciable consternation on my part. “Why?” you may ask (even though you know I’ll tell you whether you ask or not – you’re welcome!).

Much in the vein of the lil’ old lady in that Wendy’s® commercial of old who demands, “Where’s the BEEF?” I want to know, “Where’s the NOSE?”

I should add at this point that the correspondents responsible for these schnoz-deficient symbols have all been MALE. Kindly disregard the example in the entry below about Shirleen, as she sent that emoticon in a text message, where brevity is the soul of wit and economy and all that.

I’m not going to leap to any sweeping conclusions such as:

• MEN HATE NOSES! WHY DO MEN HATE NOSES! MEN MUST HATE MY NOSE! I’VE ALWAYS THOUGHT IT LOOKED LIKE A LITTLE POTATO…
• MEN ARE SOOOO LAZY! THE DASH IS DIRECTLY ADJACENT TO THE RIGHT PARENTHESES, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

What? Sweeping conclusions should be shouted vociferously.

I shall approach this inquiry using science. A lifetime or so ago I was very adept with scientific subjects and the fact that I watch a lot of the various flavours of CSI and Law and Order should make up for any gaps in my memory.

In my study I have a documented cohort of five men who have employed the “smiley” emoticon in their correspondence. I also have scads and scads of anecdotal evidence. In this inquiry that means that I strongly believe that anything I vaguely remember supports my hypothesis that men are more inclined to use the nose-free version of the smiley emoticon. Therefore it is fact. Kate fact. Twice as nutritious as actual facts, but with half the sugar.

Of my documented cohort, a staggering THREE of the five subjects wielded the smiley emoticon sans proboscis. That’s 60 percent and I have chosen to ignore the idea of a margin of error (so messy – let’s just leave that to trained statisticians).

I must also add that one of the men who does use a smiley emoticon with a snoot is Italian. Indeed, English isn’t his first language (though he speaks FIVE or so languages putting most of us to shame and does a very nice job with English). And stereotype would also support the idea that Italian men are more demonstrative and such. I can vouch for the fact that he uses a great deal of extra punctuation (a period AND an exclamation point – or a question mark, a period and TWO exclamation points and a smiley emoticon with a nose).

Therefore, I’m tempted to throw him out of my documented cohort and stick with North Americans, but that seems so MEAN. Instead I’ll just say it’s more like I have a documented an eighty percent positive usage of the smiley emoticon amongst males that is honker-deficient, supported further by my large and very scientific glob of anecdotal evidence.

This engenders a tangential hypothesis. These smiley emoticons without their beaks look rather amphibious. Are men more likely to emulate emoti-FROGS? This could be. However, I can only think of stereotypical sexist evidence, such as the little boy catching the frog and hiding it in the little girl’s desk because it would scare her so! No, no. That’s not Kate Fact.

I shall have to conduct further research (scientific research, naturally) to answer why men use the smiley emoticon sans schnozzola.

I almost wrote, “…why men are inclined to…” but why go and cast doubt on my own conclusion reached with very careful scrutiny of all the empirical data? I shall NOT!

One thing I must point out. And this is just for you, B.Bo. If the smiley emoticon has no NOSE, how will its lil’ goggles stay up? And I quote:

I decided that my emoticons at least need to have sort of protection from fingers while around you. So here it is with protective eye wear:

8)

Still no nose.

See? How would the protective eye-gear stay in place? Super glue?

I may have to just chalk this up to the great inexplicable mysteries of life.

Well, not much blood, really, but she would like to stick you repeatedly with needles. Perhaps I should explain.

Shirleen is taking at phlebotomy course (as I’ve outlined previously she already knows how to do pretty much everything else in the World). My faux nephew, Tyler, is taking the course, too (bless his needle-phobic lil’ heart). She needs volunteers to be poked (need I add WITH NEEDLES) tonight (Tuesday, August 28, 2007) and on Thursday at 6:00 p.m.

Shirleen practiced on me the other night, and, as someone who’s had their blood taken for various tests at least once a month or so all this year and someone who used to participate in a specialty plasma donation program (those needles have the girth of earthworms), I can tell you she did an excellent job. I can’t vouch for anyone else, mind you, and I don’t know whether or not she has to share her volunteers. That adds an air of titillating risk to it, yes?

So let me know if you’d like to spend your Tuesday and or Thursday evening this week letting neophyte phlebotomists stick you with small-gauge needles for the sake of learning – nay – for the very future of medicine and healthcare.

William Shakespeare NOT. And as I don’t have a baby, per se (my dearest Kitten Children, please cover your wee little ears – you know I love you much more than one with a full deck would define as seemly), the question was never germane.

Here’s the situation: For three entire days now I was under the mistaken impression that William “Yo – THE BARD” Shakespeare was my twelfth great-grandfather (ah – Twelfth Night, twelfth grandfather). I was CHUFFED, as those Northern Brits like to say; I was thrilled right down to my little pink toes. I LOVE Shakespeare – I’ve taught Shakespeare, I’ve performed Shakespeare, I’ve read Shakespeare since I was in grade school, and YES – I thought I knew a thing or two about Shakespeare.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
NOT my
Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather

Damn computer genealogical tools. They appended “John Hall” as son to “John Hall” – who just happened to be the physician spouse of no other than Susanna Shakespeare. I knew Shakespeare’s oldest surviving child was Susanna. I knew his son Hamnet had died. The time period was correct, the name made sense, I just didn’t notice that the “son” John Hall (my actual kin) was born in Connecticut. Oops.

Now I know that Shakespeare’s children failed miserably at providing him with bouncing baby grandchildren – even unbouncy ones for that matter. Hamnet had a twin named Judith. She and her spouse had three children, none of whom married. Susanna and John had a daughter named Elizabeth (born, I believe, AFTER Shakespeare died). She was married twice and never had a child. So that’s that for William Shakespeare’s lineage. Dead and gone.

I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. If there had been a documented bloodline you know that people would have been shouting about it from the rooftops and trying to get a piece of the merchandising action.

I would have certainly prattled on excitedly all about it (hold your tongues). I could still name drop, I suppose, but I don’t feel like it now. I’m filled with a serious case of “bardic ennui.” Royalty-Scmoyalty. Like I’ve always joked, I have a passel of ancestors of “high” birth who no doubt oppressed and or killed or dispossessed the throng of the ancestors of “low” position. It’s a laugh riot.

I located my important founding Mennonites in Pennsylvania and a direct relation from the Mayflower (my tenth great-grandfather – evidently he and his brother were Governors of Plymouth Colony at different times). I guess I could ponder the ramifications of that influx of these settlers on the Native population. Huzzah!

Oh well. Back to figuring out who perished of the Black Death and who survived it. Pretty festive.

I got the following text message from Shirleen on Friday (you’ll have to envision the little icon bolt of lightening – it won’t transfer by email):

I’m officially turned on:)

Now AGAIN, don’t get all concupiscent on me, this is MEDICAL, SCIENTIFIC and BIONIC. Hmm. That doesn’t sound too much better. But, referring back to my previous entries, particularly the one from August 11, 2007, you will remember Shirleen’s long overdue pain relief spine stimulating device has been implanted. Well, the surgical healing has progressed far enough, and, with the “bionics expert” looking on (evidently the rep for this device not only consults extensively with potential clients of this gizmo, he attends every surgery), they activated Shirleen’s anti-pain machine (with Bluetooth® technology).

I happy to report that she already is receiving some relief. When she’s completely healed from the surgery it should be even better (I should hope to shout).

Mind you, I think that not only is she entitled to some intense pain relief, I believe she deserves a bevy of tiny faeries to carry her to some cloud-enveloped island where she gets to lounge in an enormous bubble bath while handsome cabana boys fan her with gargantuan ostrich plumes and the scent of jasmine fills the air while the sounds of the gentle waves lull her into a well-deserved sleep. Oh – and there are other gorgeous cabana boys to feed her chocolate – especially delectable magical chocolate containing no calories whatsoever. And vitamins – one can subsist entirely on this chocolate, naturally, go to store and buy your vitamins to get healthy and strong.

Sadly, this is not to be the case. Instead, she was called into work to today so they could lay her off, because she is salaried and with the financial difficulties currently going on in the company they cannot afford her (I personally believe they cannot afford to lose her, but foresight is not the strength of most companies, in my experience). So now that she has achieved a state of increased mobility and will need less and less pain medication and so on, she will have to find a new job.

I’m not sure how she’ll feel about this, but I thought I’d just throw this out there: Anyone need a most excellent multi-talented employee? She can do anything, and if she doesn’t know how to do it already it will take her about five minutes to learn the task. Seriously.

She can expertly groom your dog (though there is a size limit to the canines with that now because of her back), help your bitch whelp its puppies (that’s not ribald – it’s the appropriate medical terminology) and then help you whip up a spreadsheet for financial planning, navigate a database, make multi-coloured explanatory charts and then do your taxes with her lightening-quick typing skills. Oh – and she can do all of this bilingually; she’s fluent in Spanish, too. Wait – she’s trilingual – she speaks some FINE teenager and can text message as fast and well as any sixteen-year-old. And don’t forget, she’s remote-controlled.

If anyone knows of any position that’s available at the moment, give a holler. She really can do just about anything. There are a few physical limitations – she shouldn’t dance, jog, do the “twist,” break dance, or, come to think of it, lift anything “heavier than a milk jug,” and krumpin’ is right out. I don’t know which or if any of these limitations change after more healing from the surgery, but I personally think the cane she uses adds a classy touch to any outfit or situation.

P.S. She has a certain sister who is relatively – okay – mostly unemployed. This sister is also multi-talented and very creative. Sorry, no Spanish, no cane, no puppy whelping (though she can throw a smattering – some smaller smatterings than others – of German, French, Italian, Latin at you, as well as a phrase or two in Russian, Spanish, Japanese, etc. and two phrases and some great song lyrics in Scots Gaelic).

Additionally, she is an ordained clergy person, can take the anal temperature of a feline, has excellent veins upon which many phlebotomists have trained, and possesses an unusual combination of knowledge concerning music (performing and teaching), theatre (performing and teaching), Shakespeare, genetic research, deposition transcription, some rudimentary knowledge of graphic design, retail management, event planning, medical ethics, U.S. Post Service approved address formatting and end-of-life care. She has been known in some work settings as the formatting and table and database QUEEN. What’s more, she has several seemingly useless skills that the innovative employer might find a way to utilize: She’s quite limber, she has double-jointed fingers and toes as well as an inordinately large cranium, an odd ankle deficiency, and she always carries a periodic table of the elements (an outdated version, but it will do for the basics). Oh – and she’s recently delving into cancer advocacy.

Mind you, Shirleen would definitely be a more ideal choice of employee at this point, and not just because she’s a single parent of actual human progeny rather than Kitten Children, but because it will still be a month or so before her sister has a minor medical procedure which should help a tad with at least one aspect of mood-leveling (positive mood-leveling is the hope).

I had plans – and I’m not talking in the earth-shattering sense – I meant blog plans. First, I have sadly neglected to cover the 2007 Cheese Rolling at Cooper’s Hill in Gloucestershire.

And then there’s my new-born fascination with the idea that I might have Amish Ancestors (because in my Euro-mutt mix there are ancestors with the right type of names who emigrated from Europe at just the right time and came to precisely the right county in Pennsylvania…). Perhaps the fact that I’d just finished reading Plain Truth had something to do with it. OR it was performing in the Amish musical in high school oh-so-many years ago (Plain and Fancy).

THEN I became very interested in seeing if I could figure out which of my ancestors died of the “Black Death” – well, and obviously somebody survived, too, so I thought I’d try and figure out who those hardy folks were. Maybe the fact that I’m reading a book about the medieval plague has something to do with that.

Yes, I purchased this book on purpose. I like variety. For instance, I packed Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and the well-known Elie Wiesel (Founding Chairman of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum) Trilogy – Night, Dawn and Day – for the Park City Short Course.

But I have realized that there was a much more pressing issue. There should and must be a handbook for any and all interactions with me – Crazy Kate, Kate the Safety Dog, Crazy Heathen Aunt Kate, plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst – any and all variations of Kate (don’t forget Jessica Biel). It might prove very helpful to the few people I encounter when I manage to leave the house. Because I feel great pity for them. Oh – I feel very sorry for them indeed.

This comprehension was hastened by painful realizations I’ve been having over time culminating into an epiphany of grand proportions on Friday. That night I subjected an old friend who I had not seen in well over a decade to what could only be described as a protracted stream-of-consciousness epic nightmare complete with sweeping hand gestures (dangerously close to poking out his eyes) and many “Uh – thanks for sharing” moments.

I’ll use great restraint and make these instructions short and sweet. Okay, I’ll TRY to use great restraint and make these instructions short and sweet:

1. When the stream-of-consciousness has starts to look like a scenically transcontinental – NOT express – train that is derailing (which it WON’T – I must assure you that despite all appearances it will keep going even though by all rights it should dive right off the track and explode into a conflagration of unequaled proportions – it is the LITTLE TRAIN OF THOUGHT (thought?) that COULD), please feel free to use a gently halting phrase. I suggest, “Shut up, Kate.” It needn’t be shouted, just stated in a resolute and firm tone. “Shut up, Kate.” It’s not mean, I promise you; it’s a matter of self-preservation.
2. There’s also, “Get out of the car, Kate.” Same thing – not yelled, not desperate – just a firm, resolute, “Get out of the car, Kate.” Throw in a “please” for fun if you’re so inclined, but strictly speaking, in these emergency situations it is not compulsory.
3. No excuses are necessary. I understand what I’m like right now (though I prefer to delude myself into thinking that this was not ALWAYS so) and I’d rather everyone just told it like it was. You needn’t say, “My bladder might explode if I don’t get to a bathroom very soon,” unless, of course, it’s the truth. I’ll even take, “My head might explode if I don’t get some rest VERY SOON.”
4. A fun change of pace could be a finger to my lips à la Dianne Wiest in Bullets Over Broadway with a, “No, no, don’t speak. Don’t speak. Please don’t speak. Please don’t speak…”

That’s all. I’m open to suggestions if I’ve neglected anything.

It occurs to me that this entry should be dedicated to Grettir, who, more than anyone else (I’m not disregarding my family, I just seem to be more deranged when I leave the house), has patiently suffered through, well, about twenty years of my day-to-day type lunacy and has, even more admirably, had the forbearance to still associate with me during what I might label my non compos mentis epoch. Thank you, Grettir.

The last first. Frenchy McFrench has spoken. I made the du a de, made plans to, as the FRENCH do, eschew capitalization in my blog title, and then I find that my syntax is altogether wrong.

But, from mes experts français well – rather mon cher expert français I have the final word(s). So, as you can see, I have AT LAST (I hope) correctly molded my title to make the French happy (I say as though “The French” are a key demographic who give a damn about my writing). We’ll just see what Google makes of this.

Now on to SCIENCE! I explained that Shirleen had been implanted with a spinal stimulating device so that we can direct her every move by remote control so that she can control her pain with a remote control. Unfortunately, this is one of those procedures that results in horrific pain in order to eventually control chronic, wretched, debilitating pain. They cannot actually switch on the device until her surgical recovery is complete. In the meantime, she is, “Lumpy, stripy and bruised.” (And SHE, being a sophisticate, pronounced BOTH syllables of “bruised” when she gave me the report over the phone. Well done.)

At least while she was in the hospital she was entertained and tutored in life by her “EIGHTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD” roommate (who either sang that information or related it in an extremely adamant manner – I’m not sure which). She did sing songs, regaled Shirleen with sage advice and stories, and made her laugh (which was painful, unfortunately).

The most amazing tidbit was, I think, this life-changing advice about relationships:

If you really love a man you give him an enema.

I, for one, am stupefied. Shirleen and I both concluded that the fact we never knew about this dictum, and therefore had never followed it as a guideline, explained a great deal about our lives in general. If only we had known. HOW COULD WE HAVE KNOWN?

We’ll just have to move forward now, armed with this crucial knowledge. I’m just wondering how one infuses the willingness to administer this essential (I guess?) medical procedure – as a sign of affection – into a computer dating bio. And people wonder why I don’t leave the house that much. Don’t you see? I have very grave matters to ponder.

Oooooh – back to the science. Once the nice doctors do turn Shirleen on (DON’T GO THERE, YOU KNOW VERY WELL WHAT I MEAN) she gets to control her device with a wireless Bluetooth® remote. Oh yes, she has Bluetooth® connectivity. That certainly gives new meaning to the slogan, “Experience hands-free in so many ways.”

I’m already trying to decide what I might do with my Bluetooth® headset (find out what one’s crazy spine sound like?). And I have a Bluetooth® mouse. I LOVE the idea that I could somehow incite funky chicken dances or the the like with that implement. My dad’s PDA has Bluetooth® connectivity. Perhaps we could upload data directly into her spinal column. The possibilities are ENDLESS!

Your suggestions would be appreciated.

Today Shirleen was surgically implanted with her robot components. She isn’t aiming for this, at least as far as I know:

Optimus Prime*

Instead, she wants some much-needed relief from the constant back and neck pain, as well as the substantial discomfort from the nerve damage resulting from having an emergency diskectomy and then having her lumbar vertebrae fused (she has a cage in there – sounds a tad kinky). As it is, I envision her spine comprised wholly of a hodgepodge of crumbly cheese. That would be an interesting diagnosis: “I’m so sorry, Miss Appropriation, but you have crumbly cheese hodgepodge spine; it’s quite tasty yet unfortunately rather debilitating.”

No one deserves liberation from the constant torment more than Shirleen; she has the highest pain threshold of any human being I’ve ever met. Therefore, when she admits to a high level of “discomfort,” shall we say, you know it must hurt like HELL.

I believe this is the implant she received:

Spinal Cord Stimulating Device

Some of these apparatuses have JOYSTICKS; that’s too cool. Part of the device is affixed into a small nook of painstakingly scraped-out bone somewhere above Shirleen’s lumbar fusion (and I didn’t think she had any more bone in her spine – I guess I was mistaken). The other portion is placed in her “flank” (their phrase, not mine). There are leads that extend from the device that help stimulate the key pain-causing nerves. They determine this placement with a trial run device (which she already had implanted and removed).

Once the surgical wounds heal, the joystick or controller is used to tune in specific frequencies that cancel the pain impulses. Oh, YES – this is superlative SCIENCE.

Hearty congratulations on finally jumping through all the hoops to receive your robot implant, Shirleen (I should inform everyone that there has been no actual jumping, per se – this would have not only been ill-advised in terms of increasing potential physical damage, but prohibitively and excruciatingly torturous). No one could be more deserving.

And, just in case, please keep us apprised of any possible super-powers. There’s got to be a SLIGHT chance, right?

*I only know this “Optimus Prime” crap because of the TRUTH – the inside scoop about the Transformers. This film has been ostensibly marketed in conjunction with the sales of children’s toys. Rubbish.

The target demographic for this movie is MEN IN THEIR THIRTIES! They know everything about the “epic battle” between “the heroic Autobots and the evil Decepticons.” And while they are bathing in the nostalgic glow of childhood reminiscences, their spouses, partners and/or girlfriends sit baffled – trying to figure out which robots are the “bad guys” or the “good guys.” I’ve had first-hand reports of this phenomenon from trusted sources.

‘kay, just one more. For those so overcome by ennui and tedium in their lives – those who they need just ONE more thing to do, I’m going to link those pictures back to their original entries.

This is where my lack of technical prowess will be demonstrated at its fullest. You see, I don’t know how to add the url links to the entries AND make the thumbnails “expandable.” (If I’m showing my parents pictures of Paisley or one of my other niephews I’m often met with the request to, “Blow that one up.” The concept of the thumbnail is somewhat lost on them.)

Come to think of it, I rather like the look of the minuscule picture border. I ALMOST added an image or two just for the hell of it (Dear
Deborah, I have rated this site “PG” – NOT PG-13, as that would mean there would be lots more violence, the opportunity for partial or brief nudity, and the dropping of an “f-bomb” or two. Sorry, I’m just not G-rated except in deference to others). I thought better of sneaking in unauthorized [new] graphics since so few people deign to speak to me as it is. They are nice pictures, though. Ah, well – you’ll just have to take my word for it.

So there you have it. Now I’M filled with ennui.

I almost forgot the IMAGES. Maybe if I include the most downloaded images (from what I remember) I’ll foil the “heavy category page” bias more thoroughly.

It’s true. I don’t know what in the hell I’m doing.

I think I’ll stick to a collage-ish design so that each thumbnail (yes, if you click on them you can see the whole photo) is as WEE as can be. Ah – they are so itsy-bitsy!

NOTE: they are miles away from being in chronological order – or should that be years away?

Not art, perhaps, but my lil’ ego needs a boost. Ohhh! They are so TINY that they are practically sweetly, perfectly bite-sized.