Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

In early July I found that all of the sudden – just like that – my site hits had dropped by about two-thirds of my former total. It hurt my feelings. A lot.

I will grant, the searches that lead unsuspecting web surfers to my site are sometimes (perhaps often) misguided attempts to locate something in particular – something that isn’t actually on my website. I would imagine that it may be somewhat bewildering when they land in my pink/purple/mauve/lilac/periwinkle/deep-purple striped (please pronounce both syllables) circus wonderland.

A few have actually found it a serendipitous diversion; they have even told me so. If others have found it agitating, they have not passed their dismay along to me.

I thought perhaps the sudden paucity of visits could simply be a “Mint” error. It goes without saying, I immediately contacted The Guru. Moments later (or so it seemed), he sent me the answer.

It turns out that Google is BIGOTED against HEAVY PAGES. Indeed, fat prejudice is the last vestige of acceptable discrimination. The category page that brought in the bulk of my traffic had become too “overweight.” Therefore, in the blink of an eye, as far as Google is concerned, the page did not exist AT ALL.

I could make that category go on a “diet,” but as it is my FAMILY category, that just seems incongruous. That being so, I will find my way around this whole “lil’ weight problem.”

To begin with, I thought perhaps throwing about my most popular (or previously favoured) search terms. Yes, I am a novice at increasing my Google-iciousness or Googleekeness or Google-appeal -whatever it’s called -but I shall make a noble effort.

I’ll start with a little story:

Once upon a time, Frosti Karrason, King of Kvenland, walked about with his bare feet, badonkadonk butt jiggling across the forest floor. In the verdant grass, with the dew rising like a Gazillion bubbles, his foot tattoos were hardly noticeable.

He was in an agreeable mood; his lady in red, resplendent with her long hair flowing and beautiful Cheongsam hugging the curves of her body, had just announced to him, in the guise of a charmingly cheesy poem, that he was to be a father.

He couldn’t wait for the gentle swell of her pregnant belly to grow. They could get an ultrasound soon; he’d find if he should dream of Hot Wheels or a short hair girl. He’d always liked short hair – short hair cuts on little girls. “Musha ring dum a doo du a da,” he exclaimed in delight. He realized that his beloved girl in red should have roused from her lazy slumber by now.

He went into the bed chamber. She was still drowsy. “I’m gonna eat a lot of peaches, “ she murmured. He laughed with uproarious delight. At this din, she truly awoke. She smiled and said, “Actually, I’d rather have some lovely Fromage d’Affinois.” Nothing could quell their shared bliss, not even the idea of a crying baby who would keep them awake through long nights.

Time passed, as it does. The lady in red was 34 weeks pregnant. Friends and neighbors started bringing gifts and advice and suggestions for names. Alone, in their carefree bed, they privately laughed at some of these offerings.

Poor Mrs. Svidri, a “collector” of animals, who went on at length about the goopy eyes of one of her cats, wondering if it was cat eye herpes. True, the vivid descriptions of “cat eye goop” made the Lady in Red a little nauseated, but she didn’t mind. Mrs. Svidri, who was also an expert in many languages (as she believed her animals spoke the human languages of their countries of origin) went on to explain that many phrases sounded “indecent” in English, but were perfectly innocent. A case in point, she explained, was German “ass,” which was a conjugation of the word “essen,” meaning “to eat.”

Mrs. Anderssen had suggested that Ramona Quimby was a WONDERFUL name for a girl. This recommendation was accompanied by a cheese poem, as well as the elderly lady’s reminiscences of Cheese Sacrifice Purchase Day. Mr. Jokull brought them a painting of a green dog (which they rather liked) and then shared a slew of verses by The Cheese Poet. Ten-year-old E. Pissmore Fishbind brought them a “snot a mug.” They expressed great appreciation to E. and then behind closed doors laughed until they cried. It was a joyful time.

Then, one bright morning, Frosti found The Lady in Red delirious and fevered in their bed. She was repeating over and over again a nonsensical tirade -it seemed to upset her greatly -about “car paint.” “Mr. Clean Magic Eraser -MAGIC ERASER -Oh -magic eraser burns.” She would sink momentarily back onto her pillows, drained and exhausted. But she’s begin the harangue again, “TIRE RUB -TIRE RUB!!!! We must remove tire marks…. We have to clean bumper paint -WE NEED MR. CLEAN -MUST HAVE MR. CLEAN!!!”

Frosti filled the room with Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, but the Lady in Red seemed to find no comfort from them. Though the physicians found no problem with the baby, they were very concerned that the mother’s overwrought condition would eventually be detrimental to the health of the pregnancy.

One day, when Frosti had almost given up hope, he awoke from the chair beside the bed of his beloved wife to find that the fever was gone, as were all the strange exclamations. Still, a little weak, The Lady in Red asked, “Why is the room filled with Mr. Clean Magic Erasers?” Frosti simultaneously laughed and wept – tears of relief flowing down his cheeks soaking the silk sheets.

The miraculous infant was born a week later, any vestige of the pregnant belly soon melted away. They named her Google Mint Cheongsam. They hung the painting of the green dog over the cradle. And then they adopted a kitten (making certain it was free of cat eye goop – free of cat eye herpes). They named it Ramona Quimby.

And all was well.

fin

Guru and other gurus, will this help? I certainly hope so, because it’s a CRAP story. And my Mint numbers and my Mint world map with the wee little “pins” bring me such gratification. Mindless gratification, I grant you, but I will take what I can get – especially until this whole Jessica Biel transmogrification is complete.

I almost forgot:
Blood is Thicker… Oh yes, BLOOD IS THICKER!

Who am I kidding? What, precisely, is there that I need to mull over?

Just take a LOOK at her me:

I may very well have subconsciously purloined at least part of the following analogy, but I don’t care. She appears I appear so luminous it’s as if she’s I’ve been swept by the faint iridescent magical dust of a thousand tiny faeries – each of them having left perfumed kisses containing a mélange of beguiling fragrance – every gentle caress redolent of the forest after rain and the subtle bouquet of fruit and blossoms.

In one fell swoop of whatever transmogrification or Freaky Friday magic is necessary, I would most GLADLY hand over to Ms. Biel the following:

• Twelve years
• The 1/2 inch height difference (I’d be shorter for THIS)
• However many additional pounds I carry – a special gift JUST for her
• My arthritis, asthma and all other festive health “issues” I will not itemize just now (they can be a SURPRISE)
• My whole wretched life wrapped up in a BEAUTIFUL bow (I can make a very nice bow)

I’ll take her film career (I now realize that her very first film was that delightful little independent flick, Ulee’s Gold – HER FIRST FILM). I’ll take those offers for leads on Broadway. I’ll take the money and what are no doubt very nice digs. And I’ll CERTAINLY take this description:

Jessica Biel, with her striking good looks and wide range of talent, has become one of Hollywood’s most sought-out actresses. Her television series acting debut on the WB’s #1-rated show, “7th Heaven” (1996), has helped her emerge as a breakout star.

As a child Jessica initially pursued a career as a vocalist, performing in musical theater. Beginning at age nine, she starred in such productions as “Annie,” “The Sound of Music,” and “Beauty and the Beast.” A natural beauty, Jessica soon turned to modeling and commercial work by competing in The International Modeling and Talent Association’s Annual Conference in 1994.

After completing a year and a half of college at Tufts University in Boston, Jessica plans on going back to school in California for the remainder of her college years. In her spare time, she is involved with charities such as Best Friends Animal Sanctuary and PETA. Her hobbies include ballet, soccer, running, yoga and hiking with her dog “East.” Jessica currently resides in Los Angeles.

I never watched Seventh Heaven and Annie makes me cringe a bit, but as a package, it’s still a sweet, sweet deal.

She I can even carry off THIS:

As some of you may remember, my last two costumes (not counting the pink towel with questionable coverage) were “Crazy Cat Lady” and “Antarctica” (yes, the CONTINENT).

Grettir, since you’re the one who made this shocking revelation, I think you should be the one to make this metamorphosis complete. Jessica I would be most appreciative. And, if I read the “rags,” I’m sure I will find that I have already “moved on.”

Yes, indeed, I am Jessica Biel.

Hold the phone, stop the presses – use any applicable metaphor that reflects suitable shock and awe at the prospect of this scenario: I AM JESSICA BIEL! I (along with the rest of the World’s sizable population) might deem this statement as laughable, absurd and utterly ludicrous. But, it was Grettir, the GURU who made the startling revelation. Consider the following excerpt:

For those of you who are new here, “Kate” is a really Jessica Biel, who can’t quite accept the fact that it’s over between us!

Move on, “Kate.”

All of this is confusing in many regards, I admit. First, I don’t know why Grettir prefaced this revelation with the phrase, “For those of you who are new here…” as everyone who has bothered to read TinyPineapple.com at all well knows, I have plagued almost every entry ever written on the site with my voluble and somewhat nonsensical comments, and this is the FIRST mention of “Kate” as “Jessica Biel.” It occurred to me that perhaps, JUST PERHAPS, this declaration of my “true” identity could be an ever-so-overly-deferential way of saying, “SHUT UP ALREADY, KATE.”

Jessica Biel ME

Then there’s the seeming incongruity of Grettir’s claim that he hasn’t been on a date in five thousand or so years and the assertion that “…it’s over between us.” This would imply that there WAS something between Grettir and I Jessica Biel. Considering that she is I am TWENTY-FIVE-YEARS OLD, in the interest of any VAGUE sense of propriety this would have to be a recent affaire de coeur. This discordance is especially upsetting in that I have Jessica Biel (?) has always considered Grettir to be a gentleman and a scholar who therefore should consider veracity preeminent.

Foremost, the – oh – minor detail that I have no memory whatsoever of my life as Jessica Biel myself is discomfiting, to say the least. And the fact that I have been witnessed on more than one occasion confusing Jessica Biel myself with Jennifer Beals of Flashdance fame is, to say the least, odd.

I, Jessica?, most certainly need to ponder this further.

I believe it was the great Michelangelo – or perhaps one of the other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (not to be confused with Teenage Mutant Kitten Children) – who said something about you should learn all your life or there is always something to learn in and/or from your life or life = LEARN, LEARN LEARN. Who knows, as it was originally penned in Italian (possibly Latin, if he was trying to be posh).

Okay. Truth? I’ve seen so many resin-cast-to-look-like-old-engraved-stone replicas sporting this motto in my Mother’s vast catalog collection that I would be unfair of me to say that I could not find the quote:
Ancora Imparo

Yeah – he was being grandiloquent. And if you’d like to know what it means, please refer to the title of this post. I was very clever and put it right out there so that people might think that I was writing about a substantive topic. I’m guessing everyone knew better.

Ah – so what is it that I’m still learning? Apparently EVERYTHING. Indeed, is it not the life aspiration of most people to try all new things when they are in their late thirties? Come on!!! There may be some of you who would forewarn me that this is leading me down a slippery slope and that I am in great danger of pitching headlong into danger and/or oblivion. I would answer, “That’s immaterial.” (Why am I quoting myself while writing in the first person? Why am I asking myself rhetorical questions?) As most people know, I am perfectly capable of toppling over, stumbling, falling on my substantial ASSets and/or taking a header WITHOUT any sort of impediment in sight. What’s more, I mean ON THE FLAT, DRY GROUND.

• I decide that my underwear doesn’t have to be white, black or beige/nude, and I end up with a very large hole in my pants strategically displaying my choice that very day to wear the knickers that say, “Wish on This!” across that back. You think I’m kidding?
• I decide to dye my hair for the very first time… just search through my blog an you find five thousand entries about what that started (like this one).
• Then we have my eyebrows. Never had I plucked them or waxed them. Having started, I have yet one more thing to “maintain.” (Here’s one of THOSE entries.)

I believe it was dear Pamela who suggested perhaps I go back and embrace my “hippy” proclivities (something to that effect). Unfortunately, it’s simply TOO LATE. Vanity is involved, now; jeopardy has been attached (who watches too many re-runs of Law and Order (all flavours)? Pas moi!). How else would I end up with major chemical burns because of INVISIBLE PEACH FUZZ?

By the way, just because it takes me more than 450 words to get to my point does not indicate that I do not have one. To get down to the heart of the matter – the crux, the pitch, the gist, the nitty-gritty (dirt band – sorry), the thrust, the substance – the purpose of this entry is to discuss my eyes.

My eyes are hazel, incidentally. That is neither here nor there, but I’ve always described them as “khaki with an amber ring around the iris.” No, it’s not poetic (especially if you pronounce “khaki” the British and/or Canadian way – that is to say, “CAR-KEY”). Also, they seem different colours depending on what hue I’ve donned. I have “mood” eyes.

ALRIGHT! The point is I had taken my “mood eyes” for a long-overdue eye appointment. Luckily my prescription has not changed THAT much in the interim (and it’s long – embarrassingly long) because the last time I changed prescriptions I had also waited too long and I got new glasses RIGHT before a big trip, and the glasses made me dizzy for two or three days. This truly enhanced my motion sickness plight.

I do have a slight astigmatism now. It makes me feel more urbane (grant me these tiny delusions, please – I ask for so little). Wow. I just realized I’d have to look at my prescription to realize in which eye it is…

SOOO, in the spirit of Ancora Imparo I also was fitted with my very first contact lenses. I was excited at the prospect of seeing my eyes looking all deceptively naked and such. And I dreamt oh-so-fancifully about a ridiculously handsome stranger being able to now “fall INTO” my eyes – unimpeded by anti-glare lenses for the myopic. To be sure, I am not rich, but my fantasy life can be.

Sometimes I feel self-conscious because I am a neophyte at certain things at the ripe old age of – well, any state of “maturity” that can be prefaced with “the ripe old age” should be self-explanatory. In other words, I figured that I’d have a little difficulty putting the lenses in and when you see thirteen-year-olds pop them in and out blind and lubricate them with saliva (at least I know THAT’S stupid) and all that, I thought I’d feel “impaired.”

Impaired ended up being an understatement. A VAST, GINORMOUS (just recently made it into the dictionary – so there!) understatement. The doctor was extremely kind and helpful, but I was unquestionably handicapped at successfully getting contact lenses ONTO MY EYEBALLS. He finally had to do it for me, taught me how to remove them, and then let me try again. Seventeen hours later (SLIGHT exaggeration), I was successful. Of course my eyes were practically swollen shut and so blood-shot that it looked like I’d been on a three-day (maybe week-long) bender.

Here’s my problem: I blink. Excessively. This is why many a photograph (for which I deign to pose) catches me with my eyes closed. Also, I’m fairly light-sensitive, therefore I blink to excess in the sun. My eyes are vulnerable, delicate…creatures.

Don’t mistake me, some people have difficulty touching their eyes; this is indubitably not my problem. You know that expression, “It’s better than a poke in the eye?” I often disagree. A poke in the eye is NUTHIN’. Given the choice, I’d oft choose a poke in the eye over the alternative. Yes, I can touch my eyes – I’ll poke myself in the eye right now if someone asked. There are those who claim I have ELBOWED others in the eye (for the record, I was ASLEEP – and that whole incident is the definition of the phrase “alleged assault” – no cooberating witnesses, no physical evidence).

No, I’m just Blinky McBlinkster. Sometimes I get the lense in right off the bat, sometimes I practically push my eyeball clear back into my skull, pull my finger back, and see that the contact is still ON MY HAND. That’s when the sailor language comes in.

This made it rather difficult on the occasion that three of the four children we were babysitting watched me put my lenses in one day – fascinated by the process despite the fact that BOTH their parents wear contacts – perhaps it’s because I let them touch them (the CONTACTS – not my eyes – though they’d have probably done less damage) – never fear, I re-sterilized the things. But I had to keep it CLEAN – my “potty” mouth, that is.

I AM learning. But if you see me with bloodshot eyes it’s no doubt my doing – DIRECTLY AND PHYSICIALLY.

There is also an “eye-opening” aspect to this whole affair. (ugh.) Most of it has to do with luggage. I like to joke th
at I always carry too much luggage (and that’s not just when I travel, that’s a day-to-day crack I like to make because I embarrass myself by carrying fifty-two or three bags everywhere I go (yeah, yeah – but it’s no fun if I don’t embellish a LITTLE)).

This little quip hit me very profoundly yesterday (I’d started to notice, but OH, THE DENIAL) as I sat down to have my stylist trim my hair. See, when you TAKE OFF YOUR GLASSES for this procedure you are granted a fortuitous amount of “airbrushed” effect on your reflection. With contacts, you must STARE IN THE LOOKING GLASS WITH CORRECTED SIGHT. That’s when you know, deep down in your heart, that the “luggage” joke can rightly be applied to the immense bags under your eyes.

Having been blissfully unaware of and not requiring (I THOUGHT) “under-eye concealer” all these years, it’s disturbing that I’m contemplating it now. Maintenance is a bitch.

A wise man once said:

ASSUMPTION makes an “ASS” out of you and “UMPTION.”

Insightful words, indeed.

I haven’t been “back East” since I chopped off my hair. I ASSUMED that the humidity would make it more curly and frizzy. I was prepared to tame the wild curl, I was ready to battle wanton frizziness. I was an idiot.

The first time I washed my hair and utilized my various products was on LIVESTRONG® Day – the day that we were to go visit the legislators and have a press conference and all that.

It was not long before, “OH, the horror, THE HORROR!” And that wasn’t just because I hadn’t realized until it was too late that someone had “lightened” my luggage by removing my antiperspirant/deodorant. MY HAIR HAD TAKEN ON A LIFE OF ITS OWN. Now, as many of you may know, this isn’t the first time that has happened. But this was EXTREME. It wasn’t super curly. It wasn’t even exactly frizzy. It simply had taken on, root to tip, an unimaginable VOLUME defying every law of gravity old and new. I was speechless (imagine that) and awestruck.

But doesn’t everyone DREAM of having a bunch of very important meetings and being part of a press conference when they look and smell their very worst? I thought not.

Throughout the wretchedly hot/humid day, I kept trying to calm my tresses (I spoke gently to them, touched them softly – I was the “hair whisperer”). I continuously tucked and re-tucked the whole lively shebang behind my ears. The gallons of sweat seemed to weigh it down – don’t think I’m going to pretend for one moment that I was merely “glowing” and not drenched in my own wretched FUNK and FETOR.

At our rest building – WHERE I WOULD REMOVE MY JACKET AND LET PEOPLE SEE MY ARMS IN A SLEEVELESS BLOUSE – THAT’S HOW HOT I WAS – I had a couple of moments here and there in which, from the front, my coif still looked really horrible, but it seemed I had domesticated it just a little – smushing and sweat soothe the savage beast?

Then the “official” pictures, taken by the professional photographers, were released. Here’s the one that let me know that truth – the entire, awful reality:

Delegates Mill About Prior to the Press Conference

Perhaps you don’t see it? Get a little closer. I’ve blurred the unessential parts:

Kermit & Kate Confer
(I somehow blurred off my own nose. I’m talented like that.)

Still can’t see it? I doubt this very much. But just in case, let me REALLY focus in on the ghastly part:

I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I made it even more grotesque. Now EVERYTHING is blurry, even the sections I did intentionally “soften,” and I somehow made it look like I’m bleeding from the ear and that I have a mole on my jaw the size of a quarter (American).

I thought I’d “tamed” it, while it had just HIDDEN from me. I look like I’ve affixed a wild animal to the back of my head. Dead? Alive?! You decide. But WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT THING?

I’d have loved to say which animal, but I honestly couldn’t think of a genus and species that repelled me so much that wasn’t in the arachnid family; this is quite obviously a mammal. I’m open to suggestions.

On a more positive note, my skin, for the most part, liked the humidity. My knees have never been so very soft. My hands were spotted and irritated on and off (I never did figure out why – perhaps an acute case of temporary leprosy), and I was bitten by several DOZEN anonymous creatures (of the insect variety*, no doubt), but for the most part it was pleasant not to have the flaky dry places – ‘specially under my nose, because MY ALLERGIES DID NOT COME WITH ME – rather a miraculous thing. In fact, I just laid in bed sometimes, luxuriating in the fact that I could BREATHE THROUGH MY NOSE completely unencumbered and giggled with delight.

As for the *insects, David, in his über-unflustered way, almost SIGHED one day because of the fifty-third time I’d cried out, “I don’t know what it is, BUT IT IS GOING TO EAT ME!” or something else along those lines. He calmly said, “Kate, it’s like being in National Geographic.”

He lived in Brazil for two years. I had never thought of Maryland as that…mysterious. Perhaps all the nature film crews should now quietly crawl through the gardens and bathrooms and attics and guestrooms of houses there whispering, “I have NEVER seen anything with so many legs that moves so FAST.”

Now I’m finding a certain logic to the idea of moving LIGHTENING-fast if you have three million legs. You think I exaggerate? Ha!

I had a very special traveling companion on my trip to D.C./Maryland/dipping into Virginia/Stalled in St. Louis/Fin. Dear Mr. Peek-A-Boo Radley consented to accompany me on my grand adventures. It’s nice to have a traveling companion, because then you can take pictures of THEM, rather then the alternative – pictures of YOU [me, that is].

For the Fourth of July holiday, Peek-A-Boo thought he’d give you some insight into Fort McHenry, the site where Francis Scott Key penned the words to A Star is Born. No – wait – something else with “star” in it – ah yes – The Star-Spangled Banner.

Ah. “The Flag is full of stars.”
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

And there isn’t a better story for the Fourth of July, as years ago, during the War of 1812, on September 13, 1814 (you can see how all the dates go so well together), attorney Frances Scott Key and his Colonel friend went to see if they could get their doctor associate off a British prison ship. The Brits said, “Okay, FINE, but first we’ll put you on of one of OUR boats with a really funny name* and then we’ll put you back on your own sloop and make you watch us lob really big bombs at your mates in the fort all night.” I’m not kidding.

But, in the wee hours of the morn on September 14, 1814, Francis Scott Key could see that the ENORMOUS “Garrison Flag” (30 feet by 42 feet – not subtle) was still flying and the Brits were making a hasty (but dignified – harrumph, harrumph) retreat.

A Replica of the Garrison Flag Flies over Fort McHenry
Photo Courtesy of The National Park Service.

Key was inspired to write the famous text that millions and millions of people ALMOST know and mumble at important patriotic events (like baseball games and basketball games and football games). And because he, even under duress had a sense of humour, The Star-Spangled Banner was ultimately set to the British tune “The Anacreontic Song” (commonly referred to as “To Anacreon in Heaven”) because he and his associates had been put by the Brits onto the *H.M.S. Surprise. I’m sure that was his reasoning.

Now many consider “The Anacreontic Song” to be a drinking tune. In fairness, it should be noted that, though it contains certain Bacchanalian themes, it was the “official song of the Anacreontic Society, an 18th-century club of amateur musicians in London.” And who are WE to question Wikipedia. Re-write it, yes, Question it, NOOOO. Well, I admit they DO mention this:

This absence of an official connection to drinking did not keep the song from being associated with alcohol, as it was commonly used as a sobriety test: If you could sing a stanza of the notoriously difficult melody and stay on key, you were sober enough for another round.

As you will see, we were certainly sober (COLD sober) enough to enjoy numerous rounds of the festive attractions at Fort McHenry. We started in the visitor’s center cum museum. Peek-A-Boo Radley thought it was “da bomb.”

Oh, I see! This one DIDN’T explode; therefore it’s INTACT.
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

We met Ranger Bill. According to his colleague (just out of the frame on the left in the image below) he is ORIGINAL from the War of 1812. Ha ha ha.

Ranger Bill Meets Peek-A-Boo Radley
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

Then we saw a scale model of that famous battle that took place on and around September 13-14, 1814. It had lights, movement – the Government must of paid handsomely for the thing.

Peek-A-Boo Did Not TOUCH It
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

But wait, that’s a diorama made by a grade-school student. I tell you, it was so much better than the (no doubt) bazillion-dollar monstrosity that took up the whole center of the visitor’s center that we didn’t even take a picture of the “real” model.

Then we ventured out to the Fort proper. Throughout history, as I understand it, Fort McHenry has been a sort of defensive stronghold, a super-star fort, a garrison for Civil War Troops, a prison for Confederate soldiers during/after the Civil War, the largest WWI hospital in the country (evidently they just tore those buildings down in the 1920’s when they didn’t need them any more), and then it was apparently stripped down and rebuilt to super-star Fort status again.

Fort McHenry has many little nooks and crannies. Some of them are in the Sally Yard and some of them…are not. No, I don’t know what the “Sally Yard” is. Though it mentioned on numerous signs, the literature wasn’t very specific about it (translation = I didn’t bother to find out in any of the pamphlets what the “Sally Yard” is/was). Here’s a powder prison:

WATCH OUT! Peek-A-Boo’s a PYROMANIAC!
Photo Courtesy of my Baby Brother.

OHHHHH – THERE’S more, MORE, MORE and you’ll want to see it…I DARE you to continue…

Read the rest of this entry »

I’d like to wish all my “snookums*” a VERY HAPPY CANADA DAY yesterday. I hope you participated in some of these festivities. Or others of your own designing.

*Yes, yes, it’s CANUK. I learned the hard way.

Almost one exactly one month after LIVESTRONG® Day 2007, I wrote a VERY LONG ENTRY about – okay about everything: About my experiences, about my thoughts, about what I hoped everyone would be willing to do to help fight CANCER, the number ONE killer in the U.S. of individuals under the age of eighty-five.

I thought I’d cut to the chase with this post. I want to ask for two things:

1. If you live in the U.S., please contact your Senators and your Congressional Representatives and ask them to support The Cancer Screening, Treatment and Survivorship Act of 2007. Bi-partisan, bicameral legislation – what more could you want? Follow this link and the Lance Armstrong Foundation will help you format messages for your legislators. If they are already sponsors or co-sponsors of the bill (you can find out by looking on the Library of Congress Thomas Locator and entering enter bill numbers S1415 for the Senate and H2353 for the House).
3. Please – EVERYONE – join the LIVESTRONG® Army. And please let me know about it. It’s simply about a commitment to help take care of those who are or who could be affected by cancer. Simply put, it can be a commitment to take care of yourself. Help make cancer a WORLDWIDE priority.

   Do it for your family, do it for any of the myriad individuals I’ve mentioned previously – those who are surviving, those who have survived, those who did not. I can always add to that list, unfortunately: Do it in memory of Taryn’s Father or do it memory of Henrike’s dear friend, Karen. It’s not difficult to find a compelling reason.

Senator Harkin Knows His Comedic Timing

Don’t make me kneel and beg, PRETTY PLEASE! It’s not attractive; my knees bend with a gruesome and thunderous crack from which you should all be spared. Thank you!

Every morning at David and Julianne’s house Green Smoothie® is the breakfast preference du jour. When they’d visited at holidays I had looked askance at Green Smoothie®. Then I tried it. It’s downright scrum-diddly-umptious. Not to mention it’s full of vegetable and fruit and flax seed goodness sans sugar -and it’s so GREEN.

To successfully make Green Smoothie® it’s best to own the super extraordinary blender (like David’s and Julianne’s – they have connections) that can, evidently, pulverize an iPod. It takes raw power.

This is where I must take a moment to express my dismay at the heartless mistreatment of ANY fine Apple product. I’m sorry, but it is cold-hearted and brutal. If I hear that this demonstration is to take place again I shall have to bodily hurl myself in front of the salesperson who is about to push the button (this begs the question: How does one UN-bodily fling or throw themselves anywhere?) screaming, “Nooooooooooooooooo!” I would then offer up to be sacrificed a Walkman (from the 1980’s, you know, which is evidently an historical era ALREADY – a while back I had a sixteen-year-old voice student who told me they were studying the 1980’s in HISTORY CLASS as the 1960’s and 1970’s were SO overdone) and I would even load the Walkman with Air Supply’s Greatest Hits. Don’t ask where I could get that…

Aside from the iPod controversy, this blender is AMAZING. It grinds the fruits and the vegetables and the flax seeds like NUTHIN’. I smoked out a blender once (literally) just trying to make hummus. After seeing Green Smoothie® made a number of times, I offered to do it. I was given instructions, which included the detail that since spinach shrinks down so much you can really pack it to the top of the container. I unfortunately translated this “packing” method to the fruit container as well. Have you heard the expression, “Shrinking peaches?” Right. That’s because IT DOESN’T EXIST. Here are the results of my poor fruit eye-balling skills:

Luckily David and Julianne were dressing upstairs so that I could clean up the evidence. Now, one may ask why there is a container full of PINK smoothie that is somehow part of the Green Smoothie®. You see, both containers are dumped into the pitcher with the magic-mixing plunger, and once everything is fully incorporated, the green overwhelms everything (go CLOROPHYLL!!!). Then you have enough Green Smoothie® for several days.

But when my Father was in Maryland last week he MOCKED THE GREEN SMOOTHIE®. Openly. He showed disdain for it and “choked it down.” He’s lucky I still gave him the Trader Joes fruit spreads I’d purchased for him…

As I’ve mentioned, I prefer that my clothing be fabricated (ha) of either natural fibers, or scientific blends (ones with a high SPF, and/or wicking properties, and/or built-in insect repellant, and/a place to rig your fishing rod – I have one of those so don’t think I’m just yanking your chain – and/or powers to defy the laws of time and gravity (especially in regards to Kepler’s gravitational laws because he was SOOO obsessed with the planets)). I just want the basics.

Whilst in Maryland/D.C./dipping into Virginia, David and Julianne were very amused by my “science” garb. Rightly so; I deserved some good-natured ribbing about my high-tech attire. So if I happened to mention that I was wearing a “science” shirt they would ask, “Does it do thus and such?” or “Can your shirt fix the car?” and so on. But here’s the thing: The question they asked most consistently was, “Does it make toast?” Yes, toast.

I like toast as much as the next person (though LIGHTLY done, thank you very much), but I do not understand how whether or not something makes toast became the gold standard by which one must evaluate of the performance of highly technological apparati (I don’t care – I know it’s not a word, but I don’t LIKE the term “apparatuses”).

If they (they being the very clever scientists who may or may not have questionable habits when it comes to personal hygiene, though that’s not particularly germane to the topic – I just want you to get a feel for “them”), build a wondrous new microscope that can magnify sub-sub-SUB-atomic particles (I guess that would be “The Babies of Quark Babies?” I’m a little out of the loop here) I am not convinced that the first thing the Nobel Prize Committee would ask would be, “Does it make TOAST?”

And were they (being the scientists) to answer, “Uhm, NO,” I do not believe the Nobel Prize Committee would turn on its heels and say, “Well then. The prize goes to Ron Popeil for his newest version of the Popeil Pocket Fisherman which is not only a MIRACLE of recreational ultra-high-tech fishing science – BUT WAIT – THERE’S MORE – it also makes toast (and is available with an optional bagel slot).”