Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

My Mother was in Kansas a few weeks ago, and she was helping Ashley with some “piece work” while they watched Sunset Tan (which is a peculiar and amusing circumstance all by itself, I must say). My Father called them (on the first cell phone of his VERY OWN – which is another amusing tale, but for another time) and asked what they were doing. This was Ashley’s response:

We’re making bull-sperm collectors.

And in case you’re wondering: YES, they were. Oh, the ways to make a buck in rural Kansas… One day, if you are very, VERY good I’ll tell you all about “bull fries.”

And there’s no connection to David Letterman’s production company here. This is a GLOBAL title.

Trust the Guru, naturally. And why? Because you tell him that you cannot get comments – an earth-shattering crisis, of course, especially when you consider Grettir’s leisurely and undemanding existence.

It’s all about ME, remember. When you are making your priority lists please bear that in mind. That fact that Grettir is a single parent of two “tween” girls, the steward and conservator of their school’s whole problematic computer network, a full-time computer spy-busting megastar (you’ve not heard of him? Well, he’s very popular in Bangalore), a part-time University student, a sometimes UN-retired actor, an active part of his church community, the savior of endless computers and systems belonging to friends and relatives, studied archivist of the Tiny Pineapple Nurse Book Collection®, the King and Emperor of the Tiny Pineapple System and All Misadventures Entailed Therein™, and the finest damn ironer I know (sorry Mom, you’re good, but he could iron in the Olympics – when they add ironing as a medal-earning event, that is – of course his Mother taught the World Everything Worth Knowing About Laundry™…), PALES in comparison to the fact that I couldn’t get comments for like THREE DAYS. And sometimes I get FIVE COMMENTS for a SINGLE ENTRY!

Yes, I’m a pretty sorry excuse for a…something.

I welcome your comments and suggestions herein and therefore and ALL about it.

I thought all the love was gone…

No comments whatsoever concerning my new midnight blueness and pirates (argh!) and my titillating and ongoing fruit fly battle. Isn’t that sad?

So I decided to leave myself a comment, under the pretense of “testing” the function of the apparatus. Really, I was just being like a busker who puts the money in their own guitar case so that other people will throw money in there, too. Pitiful.

But what did I discover? The comment function ISN’T working. HUZZAH!

Oh. I mean I’m very sorry. I’ll see if I can figure it out or, better yet, if I can beg the assistance of The Mighty Guru (of PANTS), who did, after all, put my “infinite” sidebar back (his choice of words, though I suppose I cannot completely disagree).

Thank you, and Good Night.

Oy, yes ’tis! I was notified by email (thanks to me Matey, Amy), Craig Ferguson just mentioned it, it’s on many a website – “My guess is that a large percentage of Pastafarians will observe this holiday” – and there’s even an OFFICIAL website that, due to “the extremely high load,” they had to take down.

The Official Talk Like a Pirate Site, in turn, refers us to “The Official Talk Like a Pirate” website (?), though they maintain that “their Pirate Translator is a bit crap.” Let’s take a look. Wait – let’s take a look, AVAST ME HEARTIES!

How nice! You can subscribe to The Poopdeck and see what the “Pirate Guys” are up to all year. Ahoy! A page of pirate speaking basics. And, also, fer all ye Landratten, there’s “Talk like a German Pirate.” Bei meinem Haken, it’s GUT!!! If you DON’T, Zu den Haien schicken!, bilge rats! Ahoy und immer eine steife Brise, beim Klabautermann !!!

Span, Schman.

I’m stickin’ with my good ol’ paragraphs.

I’ve already managed to make the “side-bar” the “bottom bar” and since there is already supposed to be a “footer” this mucks up EVERYTHING. Ugh.

They’re GONE.  The stripes, that is.  This is guaranteed to make Terry happy.  Countless others may also find themselves less woozy and lightheaded if as they attempt to read my blog.

Anyhoo (some things never change), I would like to thank Master Guru, Grettir, for conducting a live reboot and backing up and then backing OUT and then doing magic and all and associated hocus-pocus that has gone with the Tiny Pineapple® server upgrade as well as an update to Movable Type 4.01™. I cannot imagine how much work this entailed. I do not WANT to envisage it, in point of fact, because it makes me tired just thinking of all the exhausting shamanism no doubt involved.

AND, yes, it was time for a design change. Grettir very generously set me up with a lovely default template – “Hills Green” – I believe it was called. However, being the vampire I am, I promptly changed it to “Hills Dusk” and then just went for broke with “Hills Midnight.” It’s fitting.

Don’t feel too lulled into peace and complacency, though. If I figure out how to actually you use Movable Type 4.01™ you never know – I MAY end up with another motif worthy of calliope playing. I will restore my five-mile-long sidebar with all the links (if I can – knowing the Guru, I’m SURE I can).

So, HUZZAH!!! And many, many thanks.

And then I went to war with the fruit flies. There have been minor skirmishes in the past few weeks (since Dad put the PEARS IN THE DISH DRAINER FOR TOO LONG). The Kitten Children are desperate to catch the little beasts, but those damn fruit flies tend to soar too high and too fast and my Children are often frustrated.

I’d just had it today. The main infestation of the little critters has ended up around the mirror in the guest bathroom. This doesn’t make sense. Many of them seem to prefer the BATHROOM to the kitchen even though that room is always clean and contains ABSOLUTELY NO FRUIT WHATSOEVER.

I readied myself for combat. Luckily, I was already dressed for battle; I was wearing a sports bra, tank top and sporty-type pants (in which one can “move easily”). I’m a tiny bit smelly rank, which feels mightily warrior-like.

Then a soldier must arm herself. I chose the Oreck XL® portable vacuum that has a shoulder strap – OH YEAH – you can wear it like an automatic weapon.

Armed and ready, with my weapon slung boldly over my right shoulder, and with JUST MY RIGHT HAND I took that vacuum hose and started my campaign. It was AWESOME.

Soon, with just the one hand (the other holding up my pants – but that’s a story for another time) I was after the flies with the flexible hose. Then, I actually found myself shouting (yes, shouting), “Fly all you want, you little bastards, I’ll get you,” and “Ah HA!!!!” and “HA!!!!!!” and “BAH!!!!!” – it’s an explosive battle cry, I’m telling you – and OKAY, just once or twice, “Boop.” The best is when I managed to suck up the little wretches in mid-flight. Too cool.

This mayhem really frightened the Kitten Children, but they are afraid of the vacuum. And perhaps Warrior Kate. ‘Cause that’s who I was: Warrior Kate (Warrior Princess Kate?). I am related to Boadicea (though after the whole Shakespeare debacle I intend to do more thorough verification on that one), but one way or the other, I am KATE, CELTIC WARRIOR QUEEN, CONQUEROR OF ALL DROSOPHILA MELANOGASTER.

Unfortunately, since the damn beasties have a life cycle of about ten minutes, in the time it’s taken me to write this entry there will be a whole new generation of them in the bathroom when I go back.

That’s why I left the vacuum out…with a little toilet paper stuffed in the nozzle so none of my prisoners could escape (who knows?). BACK TO THE TRENCHES.

Here’s a little incentive to stay married for what Smash aptly described as “a crazy amount of time”: Next year my parents (43rd Anniversary) should gift each other travel.

But that’s not the incentive of which I speak. This is the gift that REALLY impressed me: For year forty-four the recommended present is GROCERIES. Yes, GROCERIES.

Everything between the forty-fifth and the hundredth wedding anniversary is a jewel of some variety. Not groceries (super-cool GROCERIES), but I suppose it’s seemly enough.

And if you make it to your 100th wedding anniversary (??????) you get a ten-carat diamond. This renders me (almost) speechless (typeless?).

Let’s put aside all the other seemingly impossible aspects of making it to one’s ONE HUNDREDTH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY and think only about the logistical aspects of receiving or giving a TEN-KARAT DIAMOND when one is OVER one hundred years of age (other than affording said gem when one has outlived one’s fixed income several times over). A TEN-KARAT DIAMOND is larger than most individuals well over one hundred years of age. Wearing it would be out of the question (brittle bones + ginormous jewel = lil’ old person turned into a pile of dusty shards).

I apologize for these possibly repellent images, but I think I’ve uncovered a real problem here. This gift suggestion is cruel; this is elder abuse.

I am considering starting a petition with which we solicit a change by which the “proper” present for one’s 100th Wedding Anniversary is a balloon. Just ONE, not mylar. A balloon “bouquet” might carry a frail, unbelievably aged person right up into the atmosphere on an unintended journey into space.

Your support would be appreciated.

Happy Forty-Second Wedding Anniversary, Ma and Pa! Hmmm – that’s very Ma and Pa Kettle. At least I didn’t bust out all Lil’ Abner on all y’all.

Married September 10, 1965

Oh – and just so you know, the stipulated gift for a Forty-Second Wedding Anniversary is “Improved Real Estate.” In keeping with tradition, I “improved” this real estate by cleaning two of the three toilets.

You’re welcome.