The Arrow of Time

This short story entry is courtesy of TinyTuna, who wrote it in the car on the way back from visiting family. There are many things in this world upon which I cannot improve, and this story, with it's wonderful misspelling and absolutely fabulous ending, would be one of them.

The Arrow of Time!
There once was a girl, and a bow and arrow she had.
She let go of the arrow and it flung as it always had.
It was stuck in a tree as it would be.
She couldn't reach it, one, two three!
Suddenly she was with a young man on the roof.
She looked at the arrow, then looked at the tree,
then stared at him, then stared at she.
She gasped as she went to high school the next day,
and went home not to play.
She studied the arrow long and hard.
It was a time travel machine. The silliest one she'd ever seen!

Her arrow was a time machine!
She ran to tell her boyfriend all that she found out. She ran to his house.
She explained with detail and pride, the info that she held inside.
He gave a scream and then a smile, and gazed at me all the while.
He asked, "Please me love, can you see?
Will you do one thing? Will you marry me?"
She looked at his ring in his hand,
and replied, "Yes! I would be glad!"
On December 30th, on that day, a weeding [sic] was held for they.
They both said, "I do" and kissed his wife.
Her heart beat with all the strife!

She suddenly awoke.
A nightmare!

Hens and Roosters

"Mom, am I a hen or a rooster?"

This is the question I got about a year ago as TinyTuna attempted to use a public restroom. It was a legitimate question for a then-nine year old. After all, we live in suburbia, not on Old McDonald's farm. And although she has been forcibly dipped into the scary waters of elementary school sex education health class, her information comes from Slim Goodbody, not the Subservient Chicken.

Perhaps it would have helped if there were a graphic (preferably human) to go along with the cute fowl-inspired bathrooms. Or maybe the hens and roosters could be wearing a tell-tale item of clothing, or some garish red lipstick. But then again, Do chickens have lips?

If you ask me, the VERY LAST place anybody should be creative is on a bathroom door. When one is stampeding to the bathroom, there is simply no time to ponder graphics and word games. I have actually seen a women's restroom labeled as Wopeople. I'm sure someone somewhere thinks it is cute, because heaven forbid someone place the word men on a women's bathroom.

Har Har Har. Spare Me.

This year on vacation we were faced with another bathroom dilemma. This time there was no text at all. Each door had a large wooden crab. One had an eyepatch and a captains hat, and the other had long eyelashes and rosy cheeks. There were no other directions or clues. You simply had to make your best guess and go.

TinyTuna was so amused by these bathroom doors, she gave me a guided tour later in the evening.

Of course, you would correctly guess that the eyepatched captain-hatted crab was for boys. But I take exception to that stereotype, whether it applies to crustaceans, or people with full bladders. There were such things as girl pirates, and certainly they might have worn eyepatches or a captains hat. As for eyelashes and rosy cheeks, I don't think women have a corner on that market. Besides, I've never seen a crab (male or female) emerge from the sea looking like an oceanic streetwalker.

So please, please, please, spare me the buoys and gulls, the bucks and does, the hens and roosters and the Crabbys and Nabbys.

Men and women will do just fine.

Lists

I can feel it coming already.

It's the end of the year wrap up when everybody posts lists detailing the best, the worst, the silliest, the somberest, the happiest, the saddest, and the etcetera-est ad infinitum of the past twelve months.

And then they turn around and post lists detailing their hopes and dreams and plans and resolutions for the twelve months to come.

And then, they send it to you.
And they tap their virtual fingertips.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.

Those lists sit like stink bombs in my inbox. Not that I'm not interested in other people's perceptions of the past and aspirations for the future. On the contrary. I find it rather interesting.

But don't look at me and expect any such contribution. I'm no good at lists. Never have been. Never will be.

If you want a Reader's Digest version of the past twelve months of my life, my best suggestion is to sit down, make yourself comfortable, and visit the archives listed to the right. Then you can decide what you think was the best and the worst and the most annoying.

But I can't do it. Partly because -- guess what? -- I don't remember everything that happened during the past year. Partly because I cannot imagine anybody would really care what I thought was the highlight of my year. It may have been monumental for me, and mean absolutely zippo to you. Partly because I have a near-impossible time placing an -est after any one event to the exclusion of all the rest. Heck, I agonize over friendship meme's that require me to choose a favorite color, TV show and book.

However, in the spirit of being a team player I offer the following pitiful excuse for a year-end wrap:

My biggest accomplishment of 2004 was being here at the end of the year.
My resolution for 2005 is to do the same.

Strangers Among Us

Whenever one makes a trip to visit family, it seems inevitable that during the course of your stay you will learn things about people you never knew before. Sometimes these tidbits are wonderful little nuggets of information that give you a more complete picture of who that person really was, or is. I don't know why these things remain a mystery for so long, but it seems like such a gift when another piece of somebody's personal puzzle is discovered and put into place.

Equally amazing is discovering that after months or years and across hundreds of miles, conversations resume as if nothing more had happened than you stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. It confirms the fact that despite time and tide, you are indeed, family.

But there are darker corners, too, where finding answers is difficult. Sometimes impossible. Maybe the secrets will never be known. Maybe some thoughts, things, and people are destined to remain a mystery.

Knowing or not knowing. Would it be a blessing or a Pandora's Box? Surely there are things that are better not to know. Yet, there is always that nagging feeling that there must be things that are important and special and wonderful -- and discovering those treasures would give clearer insight, understanding and compassion.

Sadly, it seems there cannot be the joy of illumination without the burden of knowledge. As we constantly struggle to answer the basic questions of who we are and how we fit into family, community and world, the best we can do is look closely, listen quietly, and be open to those strangers among us. They just may have the answers we seek.

All Y'all

The assimilation of all things south of the Mason-Dixon line has begun y'all. Pop is no more. Now it's soda. I've hidden away all my queen cash from Canada, because, as I was once told in a highly contemptuous way, "We don't take that kind of money here." (Y'all)

Despite the fact that there is no snow here in the land of all things southern, there are still plenty of complaints about the cold. These belly-aches are being totally ignored by us northerners, because their current temperature has TWO digits, which is one more than we've seen in quite awhile. (Y'all)

We occupied ourselves in the car playing Disney Trivial pursuit. I thought I'd be smoking at this one, but with questions like, What was the mean kid's sister's cousin's dog's name in Toy Story I quickly discovered just how much of an idiot I really was. (Y'all)

TinyTuna also spent time asking riddles with answers no one on earth could guess, like What is black and white and is found at the North Pole? Yeah. Forget the penguins. Far too obvious. The answer is A lost zebra. Uh-huh. It was a long afternoon. (Y'all)

After several stops for pop which morphed into soda before our wondering eyes, we made our way to Maryland, partaking in the traditional 15 minute slowdown to 5 mph so everybody could rubberneck at the car on the side of the road. I don't know. Maybe the dent in the fender looked like the Virgin Mary. (Y'all)

Not much else to tell. The rest of the week will be filled with family mirth and joy. Also known as blogging fodder.

Stay tuned, Y'all.

Wrapping Paper Wrap-Up

The day was long, my time is short and my attention span is currently at Hey, An Apple! Nevertheless, I bring, for your enjoyment, some truisms from Christmas 2004.

Whereas you may think that giving your nephew a blueberry pie for Christmas (with Cool Whip in the stocking) is the most awesome idea ever, your sister's gift of a real-live (at least he still was when he left tonight) Herman the Hermit Crab will beat it every time.

Whereas you may think that you are much more organized this year than last year, you will still forget to give presents, forget to wrap presents, and lose presents within the confines of a 12 x 12 room. I'm sad to report The Prisoner of Azkaban is ... well ... still a prisoner in my bedroom. Somewhere.

Whereas you may think that providing your French Angora Rabbit Fabio the Fabulous with several toys that he can toss to alleviate boredom (because there is no greater crime than having a bored rabbit), they are pretty much like kids. They don't want to play with toys. They want to eat and destroy them. I should have just given him a toilet paper roll.

Whereas many people will have dined on sumptuous meals with enormous spreads, a Christmas dinner of ham, smashed potatoes and fresh vegetables is not only no-fuss, no-muss, it's also probably one of the yummiest things ever.

Whereas there are still far more many things to do than there are minutes in a day, whoever invented Gift Bags, Tissue Paper and self-sticking To/From labels should be made a saint. Immediately. Ditto for crisco and smooth peanut butter in pre-measured sticks. Bless you. Bless you all.

Whereas Frosty, Rudolph, Yukon Cornelius and the Peanuts Gang are the meat and potatoes of the holiday viewing schedule, there was something slightly fun and off-kilter about watching Gone With the Wind while I wrapped presents this morning. Fiddle-Dee-Dee!

Whereas holiday gifts are often profound statements about ourselves and our relationships with others, nobody will ever convince me that Slim Jims and a box of Chicken-in-a-Biscuit don't make the most wonderfully heartfelt present ever. So there. Nyah.

Whereas tomorrow means packing the car at the crack of whenever we wake up and heading out to see our east coast relatives, today was full of fun and laughter, family and good food. Here's to hoping for warmer weather, dry roads, light traffic, and a decided lack of law enforcement officers.

To each and every one of you, Merry ChristmaHannuKwanzica. I'll see you tomorrow on the flip side.

Come to the Manger

I have just survived another "family" afternoon Christmas Eve church service. At least, I think there was a service. Luckily, I'm already familiar with the story, so when all I could hear were fierce whispers of STOP IT NOW OR SO HELP ME.. I knew it wasn't the Angel Gabriel's other message.

Part of the family afternoon Christmas Eve church service involves bringing a gift to lay in the manger. Past years have found me running frantically through a grocery store yelling BABY JESUS NEEDS DIAPERS NOW! This, of course, happens because I tend to forget to put Baby Jesus on my shopping list -- which pretty much makes me the headliner for the naughty column. Once I tried in vain to find something appropriate at home, but sadly, TinyTuna was long past the diaper stage, and if I grabbed one of her memories, she would have had an unholy fit in front of Mary and Joseph and the rest of the crew. One year though, I struck gold (biblically speaking). I found in my basement a perfectly new -- still wrapped in cellophane -- inflatable beach ball.

Oh yes, I thought about it. I really did.

But I figured that maybe Baby Jesus didn't want a beach ball, which meant I had to go to the still-open grocery store of desperation yelling DIAPERS. Which I did indeed buy, and I gave them to the Baby Jesus. And he liked them.

This year, I'm proud to announce that I REMEMBERED to buy Baby Jesus a present. I got diapers at the grocery store of slightly less desperation because it was before noon on Christmas Eve. After the diaper victory I had to get beer, cologne and pepper spray because, well...I can't tell you why because it's super secret Santa stuff and no secrets can be revealed. Yet.

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I got so busy and scattered and frantic that I grabbed the wrong bag. You're thinking I forgot the diapers and had to give Baby Jesus a Bud Light and some Pepper Spray. Admit it. That's what you're thinking, right?

Nah, Baby Jesus got the diapers right on cue. But considering how stinky that stable must have been, maybe a little Brut Aftershave would have been nice.

Done Done Done

And so, I've finally finished swimming in the sea of humanity. I am truly shopped-out. Now, comes the small matter of the hovel, which has only gotten hovellishier over the past several days and weeks. There are cookies to be baked, dishes to be washed, a bunny cage that needs some serious attention, and laundry which currently is having a members-only tete-a-tete in the basement.

TinyTuna is curled up on the couch with all her pink blanket and friends. GramTuna is puttering at her house, and despite all there is to do, and the snow outside, and those picky details we so fondly call life, I must say that at this moment, the hovel is the bestest place in the whole world.

Are You Being Served?

An Open Letter to the Idiot who was in front of
me this morning at the Drive Through Window

Hey You! That's right, you.

This morning you were awarded an F in etiquette by the 57 people behind you at the drive through window. I'm here to help you better yourself by pointing out -- in front everybody here who wasn't raised by wolves and already knows better -- your many mistakes and how to fix them.

Rule Number 1 -- OPEN THE WINDOW
Yes, yes, it was cold. But you know what? You live in Michigan and it's winter, so tough beans, bucko. You're at a drive through WINDOW. This implies you must somehow USE your window. It's not rocket science, but maybe you still don't understand that your window must be ROLLED DOWN so you can communicate with the Oracle. So please, open the blasted thing so everybody knows you are at attention and ready to proceed. If your windows are frozen shut you may perform the alternate maneuver: open the car door and yell.

Rule Number 2 -- SHAVE AT HOME
I have no words, here. At first I thought you were an obsessive-compulsive who stroked his beard 30 bazillion times a day while you murmured, "Precious. My precious..." But then I realized no. NO. You were shaving! Perhaps this explains the closed car window. Maybe you actually felt a little embarrassed. But evidently not embarrassed enough to STOP. Honestly, I don't care what your story is -- just stop it. And yes, I can hear you already pulling out the 8-year old's last defense: but everybody else does it. Maybe so, but too bad. I don't care if you do it, just don't do it at the drive through window when you're in front of me. It's gross and vile. And gross.

Rule Number 3 -- EMPLOY VISUAL CLUES
Now, I understand there are times when we have all been at the head of the line, waiting waiting waiting for the Oracle to welcome us to fast food hell. When you are at the head of the class and the Oracle will not speak, you need to employ several visual clues to let the rest of us know that the delay is not your fault. Examples include:

1. OPEN THE DAMN WINDOW

2. Lay your head out of the car as if you're about to faint. The shipwrecked sailor pose with head hanging out and arms akimbo works well, too. If the rest of the line sees that you are suffering, we'll most likely leave you alone.

3. Occasionally look at the cars behind you as if to say, "You can see that I'm here, right? And see? I'm frustrated too. I'm ready and willing to order just as soon as the Oracle awakens from its slumber."

Rule Number 4 -- TAKE CHARGE
Look, the disembodied oracle is not exactly a burning bush. If you have waited an appropriate amount of time, just start talking to it. LOUDLY. Say anything to get its attention. If nothing happens, take matters into your own hands. Drive to the next window and start yelling at somebody. The people behind you will thank you. And they might, just might, forgive the shaving incident.

Shyeah, right.

I Got A Rock

It would be a great tragedy (to someone, maybe) if I let ye olde Winter Solstice slip by without sharing a Stonehenge story. No, really. I have a Stonehenge Story. And it doesn't necessarily consist of ripping off Eddie Izzard.

I had the opportunity to visit Stonehenge -- located down the road from Stick-Henge and Straw-Henge (DOH! Sorry Eddie) -- when I was about sixteen years old. I was a member of the fugly red-sweatered and navy-blue-pantsed church group that spent a couple weeks touring and one week singing at The Royal School of Church Music.

Cue the smells and bells.

During a portion of our sightseeing adventures, we had our own tourmobile, complete with our perpetually hung-over driver, Martin, and our tour guide, The Evil Crone Pat (TECPat). TECPat could best be described as a cross between The Wicked Witch of The West and a demonic Mary Poppin whose long-handled pointy umbrella you did NOT want to find yourself at the other end of.

For the most part, my gang of four commandeered a couple of seats in the back of the Her Majesty's ScoobyVan that had a table between them, and we played hearts and euchre nonstop. Martin consumed his daily breakfast of extra strength aspirin, and the TECPat droned on and on and on about the destination of the day while we shamelessly ignored her.

On a lovely summer day when everything was crumpets and tea, we found ourselves zipping down country lanes and English Gardens on the way to Stonehenge. Despite the age demographic placing us squarely in the column entitled TEENAGERS WHO HATE EVERYTHING, we were all fairly excited to go. It was outside. It was a nice day. And best of all, IT WASN'T A CATHEDRAL.

TECPat got on the horn and began her spiel about Stonehenge. But it was not the usual glowing attributes to Merrie Olde England. Oh No. It was a certifiable, 100% RANT on what a disappointment Stonehenge was going to be. We wouldn't like it at all. It was just a bunch of rocks blah, blah, blah.

Poor Pat. Poor misguided Pat. Maybe she thought she was sucking up to the unappeasable American Youth. Maybe she hated rock formations. Maybe she had relatives who found themselves sucked into the Druidic culture and wore nothing but brown (sorry again, Eddie). Whatever it was, she was on a roll of unholy bitchitude.

We loved it. We ate it up. And then...we made her suffer. Because we could. The closer we got to Stonehenge, the more obnoxious we became. We stared out the window and with every rock on the side of the road, we shouted with faux excitement "There it IS! There it IS!" When we finally pulled into full view of Stonehenge, we let out a collective disappointed "awwwww" as if we were Charlie Brown on Halloween.

I cannot tell you what brought us more satisfaction -- TECPat turning 29 shades of pissed-off purple, or our virtuous HolyHolyHoly chaperones cracking up because on that day, even the Saints had a smartass funny bone.

Sixty Minutes

Last night I had approximately sixty minutes to do some Christmas Commando Consumering at the local shopping emporiumart. This is my story (BOM-BOM)

Stop One: World Market
It started with my Republican shopping cart that always wanted to go to the right, meaning I tended to go in pointless circles. First my shopping cart led me to Vietnamese Silk Hats. That's Christmas! Except no. Must keep going. Off to the food and wine section. For better or worse, I tend to employ the same lame shopping technique for barbecue sauces and wines. The goofier the name or cooler the label, the more apt I am to buy it. Because if it tastes nasty, you still have a cool bottle, right? And nothing says Christmas like a dinnertime conversation consisting of "Pass the Acid Rain," or, "Honey, I just can't get enough of that Hog's Ass."
Final Tally: Wine, BBQ Sass and various rubs.



Stop Two: CompUSA
Thinking I might find a fun PC-game for TinyTuna, I dashed into CompUSA. Wow. Doom 3 or Hitman Contracts or Vietcong Purple Haze. Nothing like death and destruction and general mayhem to pass along that seasonal message of Peace on Earth.
Final Tally: Zip. Parting comment: "I hate this store. I'm having a seizure."



Stop Three: Hallmark Store
Here is where it really begins to suck to be me. Within two minutes of shopping the Hallmark card aisle, it became painfully clear that I should have been shopping for Christmas cards on November 1st. Gems that were left?

Ghost of Sentiment Misguided: May Christmas grow like a sprig in your heart.
Real Message: You remind me of parsley.

Ghost of Holiday Insults: If Santa needs a body double, you fit the bill -- not to mention the suit -- Ba-DUMP-bump!
Real Message: Put down the cookies, Tubby.

Ghost of Religious Indoctrination: In this sacred time of our Savior's birth we are reminded how bless we are by The Lord when He.....
Real Message: Go to church, you Godless heathen.

Other Hallmark Goldcrown Ponderings:
1. Why are they selling purses?
2. Ed-Ray Ats-Hay. Everywhere. Bleah.
3. Outrageously Expensive Specialty ornaments. Oh yeah. Nothing in this world says Christmas like a $20 Barbie's Shoe Tree ornament.
Final Tally: Zip. Parting comment: "Wow. They can't GIVE away those Polar Express Santas. I'm having a seizure."



Stop Three: Linens-n-Things
It just occurred to me that if you are a retailer and you add -n-Things to the title of your store, you can sell damn near anything you want. Like stinky candles -n-Things (score). And kitchen cookware -n-Things (score). But why (and I'm just wondering here) do they feel compelled to display 64 garlic presses on individual hooks displayed at heights from 10 feet above the ground to 25 feet above the ground? Are they worried we'll think they don't have enough -n-Things? Because if the army of garlic presses weren't enough, there were the 128 individually displayed metal spatulas sitting next to them.
Final Tally: Six Stinky Candles and a small ceramic votive holder.

To Be or Not to Be

There are those in this world who learn by instruction and those who learn by doing. I'm a hands on instruction manual be damned I'll learn by my own mistakes thank you very much kind of person. You could lecture me for hours, but unless I'm actively participating, I'm not learning anything.

I'm a doer.

Although I don't think being a doer is gender-specific, I do think that women and mothers tend to carry the doer gene to an extreme. We want to fix everything and everybody. We want to make it better, and if we can't, we'd prefer to transfer the burden of the problem onto ourselves, allowing us to be in control of the doing once again.

Because you see, when doers cannot do, we go a little crazy. When those inevitable situations arise where we cannot fix, touch, manipulate, or do anything for that matter to make things better, we feel helpless.

And then, what's a doer to do?

It can be hard to accept, but sometimes it's possible to do by simply being. It rarely occurs to doers to seek answers that go beyond glue or bits of tape or hammers and nails or bandaids or casseroles for neighbors, but there are other options. Whether you call it prayer or meditation or simply thinking good thoughts, the heart, mind, and soul can be a very powerful and effective instrument for healing, love and understanding.

Still it can seem as if it's not enough. It's frustrating to feel like nothing is happening. Who wants to be wasting time waiting for the next chorus of Kumbayah to roll around when we could be taking charge and doing something? The crux of the matter is, it's difficult to have trust in anyone or anything other than ourselves.

Trust is difficult. Trust is inherently non-egocentric and doers don't do that very well at all. Trust is the activity of last resort not even considered until all other avenues have been tried and tried again.

But why? Why do believe so strongly that if we don't do it, it won't be done right? Why do WE have to fix everything? Why do we trust only ourselves and put so little faith in ... faith?

The first verb learned in many foreign language classes is to be. Today is about being. Today is about letting go and putting trust in greater things. Today is about thoughts filled with happiness and peace, light and warmth, strength and courage, love and healing.

Je suis.
Ich bin.
I am.

I can do it.

Sing For Your Supper

'Tis the season of hot chocolate and ruddy cheeks and Scotch pines and mistletoe. It's also the season of music, music, music. Love 'em or hate 'em, seasonal songs are lurking behind every corner, either to inspire you or to drive you to do deeds for which the word "justifiable" was invented.

But before you secure a starring role on next season's Law and Order, consider the musician. Not the local carolers who drunkenly launch Operation Shlock and Eww on unsuspecting neighbors. Not the disembodied voices that Feliz Navidad you from the Muzak speakers of your local grocery store.

I mean the real musicians. Those singers and instrumentalists whose musical livelihood depends on the next gig. For most of us, it's a life of feast or famine, and for better and for worst, the holidays are usually feast. The month of December tends to be a giant blur, punctuated by office parties, holiday concerts, multiple church services, and a Messiah or two.

Regular people snack on tasty holiday treats and chat with friends and coworkers. Musicians are either in the car on the way to a gig, in the car on the way to the next gig, or enjoying yet another rendezvous with the drive-through window number two employee at the fast food emporium with the shortest line. In December we're not picky. We're in a hurry.

Regular people travel from party to party in sweaters bedazzled with sequined Santas and snowmen. Musicians wear that oh-so-festive holiday black. By December 26th our concert black is able to walk downstairs and jump into the washing machine all by itself. We'd easily pass for professional mourners, were it not for the telltale black folders nestled snug in their wee little bed of twenty empty Taco Bell bags tossed in the back seat of the car.

But I'm not complaining. I'm really not. I just want you all to know that by this time of year, if I don't jump at the chance to strike the harp and join the chorus, there's nothing wrong. I love making a joyful noise, but I've Decked Them Halls and Harked Them Herald Angels so many times that I'm a little punch drunk -- without benefit of punch. I'm joining up with those Merry Gentlemen, God rest me, and ready to let nothing me dismay.

Holy Hollyberries, do you see what I mean? It doesn't even make sense.

At the tender age of 10, TinyTuna has officially joined the ranks of the Musician Holiday Zombie Chorus. Saturday she lasted through five (5!!) hours of rehearsals and then a two hour concert. When everything was said and done, she she stumbled to the car at 10:30pm, and had one simple request.

She was starved and wanted to go to Wendy's.
Request granted.
Welcome to my world, kiddo.

Thinking Outside the Box

It started with Target's web promotion offering a WakeUp Call Service for insane day after Thanksgiving shoppers who wanted to be sure that they were first in line at 4:30am to buy a $9.99 toaster. I was horrified. GramTuna looked at me and said, "Whose name can we put down?"

Then I told her the story of the Icelandic Killer Christmas Cat. I figured our family and friends were in deep holiday doo-doo because our unspun wool, unkitted yarn and uncrossed cross stich projects outnumber the stars in the heavens. She looked at me and said, "That's perfect! All you have to do is make a list of people you don't like, and then don't make them any Christmas presents."

GramTuna -- Did you ever know that you're my hero?

How Deep is Your Love?

Oh boy. Here we go again.

Last night I was treated to yet another head-swivelling, eye-rolling story on the NBC Nightly News. It was about the purchasing power of tweens. In case you are unfamiliar with the term, tweens are kids approximately 8-12 years old; a demographic which places TinyTuna squarely in the center.

Deciphering the perfect strategy of marketing to tweens is akin to finding the Holy Grail. There are books and books and books claiming to know the way into their hearts, minds, souls and wallets. Feh.

Here are some of the pearls of wisdom offered in the news story.

At Atlanta's North Point Mall, 11-year-old Bobby shows Dad items at the Apple store. He impresses his parents with his knowledge of what's hot, what's not, even what's a good buy. "

He's so savvy," says Dad.

Please. He's so savvy??? An 11-year old is NOT savvy. An 11-year old is a typical slightly greedy kid who wants far more than he needs, and is a master at spouting off what's hot and what's not to parents too lazy to know better. It's not savvy -- it's parroting back whatever the TV, Magazine, Computer or friend down the street told them. If you want me to believe your 11-year old is savvy, then you had better have a copy of their Consumer Reports subscription to back it up.

Club Libby Lu caters to tween girls like Shelby, celebrating her 10th birthday with friends. Afterwards, Shelby shows Mom what a tween girl wants — a tiara and rings she says are "bling, bling."

What a tween girl wants and what a tween girl needs? If TinyTuna told me she wanted (or needed) a tiara, I would tell her the day her face is on Canadian money is the day I buy her a tiara. The bling bling, she is a no no.

But this was the part of the story that absolutely killed me

Tweens account for an enormous amount of spending:

• $10 billion from their own pockets
• $74 billion more influencing family purchases
• $176 billion spent on them by their parents

That's a total of $260 billion.

Gee, thanks thanks for doing the math for me; I hate it when I have to carry. But, please. I didn't just fall off the Tuna Truck yesterday. $10 billion from their own pockets? I want to SEE those pockets. Even Hello Kitty doesn't have a credit limit that high.

Let's be honest about those $10 billion pockets. There are no tweens with $10 billion pockets, there are only parents who throw their money around with the same reckless abandon as Mardi Gras beads. And then what are we left with? Tweens Gone Wild.

Call me old fashioned and mean, but I think there is something inherently wrong with a child (Oooh yes, I said A CHILD) that has an Xbox, a Playstation and a laptop, but doesn't have A JOB. After the mandatory car purchase at the age of 16, I have to wonder what's next? Or for that matter, what's left? There aren't enough Oompah-Loompahs to go around.

TinyTuna has asked for a Game Boy for three years straight. Alas, her record will remain in tact for Christmas 2004, because once again, she's not getting one. The past several years I dismissed it out of hand, but this year I actually thought about it. And then I did some research. I knew the device and the games were pricey. But I was still willing to consider it if I could find games that I could justify as being somewhat educational.

You can stop laughing now. There aren't any.

Honestly, I was relieved. Most of me didn't really want to buy one anyway. Why? Because she IS a tween. Her world has expanded far beyond the boundaries of our close-knit family, and she is influenced by everything and everybody. My tween barometer is her bedroom door, and I want to keep it, and the lines of communication, as open as possible. I don't need to give her any ammunition -- electronic or otherwise -- that entices her to plug in and tune out.

This year, like every year, I look for gifts that challenge her mind and tickle her imagination. Books to read. Tickets for plays and movies that we can see together. An electronic gizmo might make her ecstatic on Christmas Day, but I'm going for the long haul. My love isn't determined by marketing research or the depth of my pockets. I don't care about being a savvy shopper. I care about being a smart parent.

Sorry Nintendo. Game over.

Sweet Baby Jesus

FIRST: A Reading from The Gospel According to Tuna:
Now, you can't go camping with Tiny Tuna without a large number of marshmallows to roast. Much like the three bears, we all prefer them to a different degree of done-ness. I personally, like the incinerated marshmallow. Gram Tuna likes hers in between...not ashen, but a healthy dark brown. Tiny Tuna has a phobia of burned things, so her marshmallows are barely warmed. So, we sit around the campfire roasting marshmallows. I have the best view of the mallows and the fire, so it's my job to alert others as to their impending flamatory doom. When a marshmallow catches on fire, I yell "FIRE IN THE HOLE!" and they are rescued. Tiny Tuna, always wanting to be helpful, decides to join in. However, at the next marshmallow flambe, she yelled "FIRE THE HO!" After several minutes of hysterics (and Tiny Tuna asking "what's so funny??"), we wiped the tears from our eyes and started roasting another batch.

And now I bring you.......

A S'mores nativity set.

Sweet Baby Jesus on a Graham Cracker. I guess we can just forget the gold, frankincense and myrrh. I don't suppose TinyTuna shouting Fire The Ho here would be particularly appropriate, but THIS has to be the funniest damn thing I've ever seen.

I want one.

Here's A Howdy-Do

Since my day today is filled with panicked students singing for their academic supper and I'm away from my computer, I thought I should take the time and introduce myself to anybody who may have found this site via the Holidailies 2004 project, or have stumbled across my virtual door searching for information related to:

How to setup the manger scene (Um, Jesus goes in the middle)
lateral thinking+mince pie (MINCE PIE FACE!)
nymphs and shepherds song (Bleah. I hate that song)
nightmare mince pie (MINCE PIE FACE!)
Jolly Green Giant Theme Song Lyric (Ho, Ho, Ho, Green Giant!)
kenny+south park+mince pie (MINCE PIE FACE!)
Kirstie Allie fat photos (sigh)

So, first the basics.

WHO?
Well, I am me. I am what I am, but I am not Popeye, and I'm not going to divulge a whole bunch of boring, personal details. I am GreenTuna. I work in University Academia teaching Voice, and I also work in University Academia in a Fine Arts Library. Oh, and I'm also a professional Soprano who continues to have gigs here, there, and everywhere.

WHAT?
GreenTuna.

WHERE?
I come from the Michigan, also known as The Mitten state. This November we voted blue and joined the United States of Canada. Speaking of Canada, I take great joy in teasing my neighbors to the south, particularly in regards to their funny money, goofy holidays (who else would celebrate boxes?), sports (Curling. HA!) and exchange rate which makes the whole place just a little...off.

WHY?
Well, that's a different story. I come from the land of Michigan State University. MSU's colors are green and white. Hence the GREEN part of GreenTuna. The Tuna is a bit more of a stretch. MSU's mascot is the Spartan. Which, in my household, sometimes gets skewed to the Spartoons. Which in turn gets chopped up to the Toons. Or the Tunas. And VOILA! GreenTuna. Yes, it's kind of weird, but I prefer to think of it as unique.

WHEN?
I started this whole Blogging escapade in September of 2003. It grew as an offshoot of daily postings I made which recapped our summer love reality show, Big Brother. The daily posts were known as The Tuna News and the rest, as they say, is history.

WHAT ELSE?
My cast of characters casts a pretty wide net. They include:

TinyTuna, my daughter, a precocious 10-year old. She loves acting, singing, dancing, tormenting me by ALWAYS wanting to be a princess at Halloween, pickles, mispeaking (see: "The Party of the Red Sea!"), memories (My SOCK!), The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (6:14 of Gordon Lightfoot on neverending replay in the car) and making up her own rules to Rock-Paper-Scissors so she always wins (see: Volcano). She also claims that she is too old to be "Tiny" Tuna anymore, and wants to be "Princess" Tuna. Shyeah. Right.

GramTuna (TinyTuna's grandmother) -- BSTuna (That's "Big Sister") -- Fabio the Fabulous, our French Angora Rabbit who is often a wee bit too randy for his own good, and tries to "put the fluid in my arm" (tm TinyTuna) -- Bessie (My computer) -- My Boyfriend (Google) -- A WholeBunchaOtherTunas (Brothers, Sisters, Nieces, Nephews, friends and acquaintances) that I know and love and attach Tuna-names to as I see fit.

WHAT'S WITH THE MINCE PIES?
I hate them. Really hate them. Really, really hate them. I hate them so much, that the mere mention of mince pies will send my face into blech-contortions, otherwise known as making a MINCE PIE FACE (MPF). And since it's the season and FYI, FRUITCAKE FACE looks exactly the same. As does CANDYCORN FACE. Yuck. Yuck. and Yuck.

ANYTHING ELSE?
Nothing that I can think of, except that I'm really, really glad you're here. Please leave a howdy, an email address or a comment. Holidailies has increased the number of blogs I now follow by an alarming rate, and I know I am both privileged and blessed to have such a wonderful circle of funny, smart, thought-provoking friends. Two years ago I would have never imagined that I would be writing words instead of only singing the words of others. Now I do both, and it quite frankly kicks some serious butt.

Oh, and stop it with the Kirstie Allie searches.
I don't know.
I don't want to know.

A Cautionary Tale

In the beginning, God created consumers and malls. And the malls were without form and empty. And God said (in a CAPS-LOCK, BOLD KIND OF WAY):
LET THERE BE MARTS.

And The Lord created K-Marts, and Wall-Marts and filled the malls with marts of every shape and size.

And The Lord said it was good.

And the Lord divided the marts between Global Empires and Small, Independently-Owned ventures that had not a chance of surviving.

And The Lord said it was good.

And The Lord explained that maybe it wasn't good, but it was healthy corporate competition which keeps prices low and consumer choices high, and that WAS good, so sayeth The Lord.

And the Global Empire-Marts bore big obnoxious sprouts and flourished, like unto the nasty Cicada explosion of 2004 when they fleweth in your hair and cruncheth on the sidewalks. And great stock bonuses were awarded to the Upper Management who already enough riches to make Solomon weep. And from their yacht, they thanked The Lord and raised their champagne glasses high.

And they said it was mighty fine.

And the Small, Independently-Owned Marts flourished not. Their seeds fell upon hard economic soil and were choked by enormous concrete weeds and trampled by plastic shopping carts with sqeaky wheels. The global empires cared not -- as they were quite busy -- and the small, independently owned ventures said it sucked greatly.

And they lamented both day and night.

And the Global Empire-Marts ignored the whining of the Small Independently-Owned Marts, and said, "Be quiet, or we'll eat you up!" And they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

And the Lord reminded them this was not supposed to be Where The Wild Things Are and the Global Empire-Marts apologized greatly, saying it was their favorite bedtime story.

And the Global Empire-Marts began consuming The Small, Independently-Owned Marts as if they were made of milk and honey.

And they said it was yummy.

And K-Mart pretended to be reading Chapter 11 in bed whilst having the flu, but then devoured Sears, saying that Martha was like unto a corporate rock-paper-scissors VOLCANO when compared to their pansy Kenmore idol. And Sony devoured MGM, and there was great sadness for The Lion that was greatly beloved. And Cingular devoured AT&T, hoping to scare the BeJeebus out of Verizon -- can we eat you now? -- in the process.

And Walmart sat back, opened another case of Pork Rinds and did nothing because they owned damn near everything anyway. And Coca-Cola cracked open a cold one and devoured the leftovers, saying, "Things go better with a Coke."

And it really wasn't so good anymore.

What's In a Name

The naming of people and pets is a solemn proposition. They last a lifetime, and go a long ways towards defining one's place in the universe.

Rules for Naming People
The rules for naming people are fairly straightforward, and most names are entirely acceptable. However, there are a few rules you should follow. One should not name people after:
a. Fruit (Apple Paltrow)
b. Heavenly bodies (Moon Unit Zappa)
c. Yourself more than once (George Foreman I, George Foreman II, George Foreman III, George Foreman IV, George Foreman V).
d. Old fashioned names that get you beat up on the playground (Phinnaeus)
e. Names that when put together form something really, really regrettable. There was a kid in my neighborhood whose first name was Jonathan. Middle Name, Livingston. Last Name? Seagull. His parents must have HATED him.
f. Regular names that use quirky or oddball spellings (see: Phinnaeus) or silent letters just for the sake of being different. Unless you're SanDeE* in L.A. Story, it's just not cute.

Rules for Naming Pets
Rules for naming pets are entirely different. First you have professional, or competitive pets. Dogs that compete need two names -- one long, pretentious one for show and one for practicality.


Who would you rather call to dinner?
Darydale's All Rise Pouchcove or Josh?

But mostly, pet names are fun names. As BSTuna has been getting into the Angora Rabbit market, we've had lots of fun naming the bunnies. The furry clan, in order of acquisition, include:

1. Bumper
White English Angora. He came already named, but we had fun naming possible progency: ---Car, ---Pool, ---Boats, RubberBabyBuggy---
2. Remington Steele and Mufasa
These were also pre-named, but here is a great example of where names just go WRONG. Remington is a tan and brown, and Mufasa is all gray. At the very least the names should have been switched. Not to fear, they have been renamed several times. Remington totally lost his name, and being a French angora, is now most often referred to as Pierre. Mufasa has managed to keep his name, but he also goes by Steely Dan when I'm around.
3. Muna
Muna begins the cycle of names bestowed by Tunas. Muna is another French angora. Her coloring is gray, which is called "blue" in the rabbit world. Don't ask me. I can't explain it. We decided it needed a name that somehow associated with the word blue. We thought of Blue Moon which got shortened to Muna, in honor of little nephew Tuna and his infatuation with the moon character (Luna) on "Bear in the Big Blue House". He always called her "Moona" so it stuck.
4. Fabio
Fabio the Fabulous is TinyTuna's bunny. We got to name him too, and looking at his lineage, it all made sense. His father was Samson and his mother was Lady Godiva. Who else had great hair? Had to be Fabio.
5. Emmy and Peanut
Emmy is a chocolate (meaning brown) doe. Of course, hearing she was a "chocolate" doe, everybody yelled "Hershey" but that was struck down as too obvious. The other bunny was tan, free, and the runtiest of runts. As soon as we figured that he was a little peanut, then we hit on the M&M theme. Now that Peanut is living in Bunny Acres, he's grown so much, he's not a peanut anymore. He's more like a cashew. But he'll always be Peanut.
6. Six Yet Unnamed Baby Bunnies
Now that there are six new bunnies, the names has been to be flung around. My biggest rule for animals is NO SNOWBALLS. I don't know why. It seems very Simpsons with Snowball I, Snowball II, etc. The nieces and nephews, however, go for the usuals. Snowball. Blacky. Browny. If it were up to them, all names would end in -eee. Eeeeeyuck.
Edited to add: Technically one of the unnamed baby bunnies has a name. Originally born all white, (NO SNOWBALL), he has now become a rather dirty, dingey white-grey combo. I have dubbed him: Swiffer.

7. Two new White Bunnies
BSTuna is getting two new white angoras today. We went around and around on names this morning. After laying down the ground rules (NO "SNOWBALL") I started trolling the Thesaurus and Babelfish for ideas about white. We agreed on Blanche for the female. For the male I really, really, really, really want Blanket, because hey, the bunny is soft (like a blanket), and if it's good enough for Michael Jackson -- and well, he's practically white anyway -- it's good enough for me. Thus far, BSTuna is not falling for it. She wants Bianco for the male. Maybe we should just go with Hasenpfeffer.

Teach Your Children Well

Some people just get it.

GramTuna had the gift. She could parent from afar. When we were young, we could be wrestling upstairs at the other end of the house. One What's Going On Up There? could stop up dead in our tracks. Add a Buster to that sentence, and we knew we were in deep trouble.

She could parent while talking on the phone. She had the finger-snap of death. One Thor-like thunder from her fingertips, and we knew we had better knock it off NOW, because sooner, rather than later, she would no longer be tethered to the phone.

I inherited the gift and crafted the look of death into a thing of beauty. It works at distances upwards of fifty feet away, and can stop talking, goofing around, and other errant church behaviors. I'm proud to say I also recently performed a perfect pointed cough of even though you're not looking at me, you had better stop it NOW. It worked so well, I almost cried.

But some people just don't get it.

I sat through a Teddy-Bear tea concert yesterday where I don't know who was worse -- the adults or the kids. Despite the request for no flash photography -- because it BLINDS people -- the kids were a-cheesing and the adults were a-snapping throughout the entire concert. How many pictures does one person need of Anabelle strangling her Teddy Bear? The answer was either 20 minutes, or until the camera runs out of film.

Satan's Table #28 quickly lost control during the concert. When the adults weren't taking pictures, they were ignoring the children, which didn't sit too well with the well-dressed monsters. So the kids started getting loud and fidgety. One genius adult decided the answer was to amuse their tot by playing "Got Your Bear!"

People -- "Keepaway" is not a quiet, calming activity.

So, while the choir is singing, the kid tries to rescue Teddy. He jumps. He grabs. "Got Your Bear!" says the adult. He giggles. "Got your bear!" says the adult again. He jumps and grabs an arm. They play tug of war. "Got your bear!" says the adult. He whines and then half-yells "Give me back my bear!" Which, mercifully, the adult finally did. Why? Because it was PICTURE TIME AGAIN.

Not to be outdone, another little girl in need of an anger-management class decided Teddy needed a little tough love. Grabbing it by a leg, she began by pounding it on her chair...and then on the table...and then on the toddler next to her...and then on the adult.

The call and response of this chain of events was several utterances of "Be nice to your bear" which was answered with a smile, a giggle, and a defiant "NO!" Maybe if the parenting was done in a tone of voice that implied something more serious than "Look, an apple" they might have had more success. The entire exchange had as much effect on the children as the request for no flash photography had on the adults: Zippo.

So where do you start? With the adults who can't manage to keep all their flashing, buzzing, beeping, ringing, vibrating toys at home? Or with the kids who have never been taught how to sit still and be quiet?

I think I can handle this in classic Tuna fashion:
Put the camera away or the bear gets it.
*cough*

Pass The Sprinkles

I'm insane.

In my living room are three ten-and-under-year-olds armed with 57 tubes of frosting, 8 jars of sprinkles and cookie sheets full of naked gingerbread men. And here I sit, writing my blog and hitting refresh on the Survivor Spoiler sites in hopes of getting the REAL STORY in the next 40 minutes.

The chefs are behaving themselves absolutely gloriously, and have been busily decorating cookies for the past hour. No fighting, no biting. It's awesome.

My house that was clean yesterday is now a yummy cookie mess. The kitchen is lightly dusted with flour and smells like sugar and spice. The living room is awash in sweet creativity. The kids have chosen to watch Scrooge during their decorating mayhem, and TinyTuna has already adopted a faux-British accent for the occasion. Others may cringe at the holiday disarray, but as I see it, everything washes, wipes or vacuums, so it's all good.

God bless us, everyone.

Beelzebub Express

I know I should feel bad about THIS. And I did gasp, a little. But then I laughed and laughed and laughed, ensuring me an extra toasty place right next to Beelzebub. But really. This has to be one of the biggest Homeriffic "DOH!" things I've heard in a long time.

Evidently the Lance Armstrong super hip ultra cool yellow "LiveStrong" wristbands look identical to the yellow patient bands signifying "Do Not Resuscitate."

oops.

Something Out of Nothing

As part of my solemn vow to the Holidailies 2004 project, I find myself posting on a weekend for the first time in a long, long time. What is there to say? It's Christmas time? I think that's been adequately covered. I'm behind in my shopping? So what. My dishes need washing? Yawn.

I can't decide today if I should go for humor, profound thinking, or Hallmark holiday sentiments. I'd ask TinyTuna for her input, but I've banished her to the land of book reports. Yes, on a Saturday. I'm the mean, mean mother. In my defense, however, I let her play outside for awhile, and somehow she managed to build a snowman out of the .000025 inches that fell this morning.

So, if she can make something out of a whole lot of nothing, I suppose I had better buck it up and do the same. When in doubt, go for that perennial favorite: Holiday Haiku. Enjoy.

Holidailies Gig
Thirty some-odd days of posts
Scraping barrel now.

Five entries posted,
One "best of" post awarded,
This one just plain sucks.

My Christmas Cleaning?
Stuff the junk in my bedroom.
Close the door and sob.

Christmas Miracle.
Hark, The Herald Angels Sing:
My Socks Match Today.

Quick, before I post
Cut and paste to check word count.
Two Hundred Plus. Phew.

Come to the Manger

For many people, the setup and display of the nativity scene is a special if not solemn occasion. First there is the delicate unwrapping of each figurine, and then the precise placement within the manger scene. It's Norman Rockwell come to life, complete with carolers at the door, a roaring fire and a steaming cup of spiced holiday cheer.

I'd like to tell you that at my house it was just like that. But bald-faced lies fall directly into the "naughty" category, so, in the spirit of the season, I'll come clean: I never got around to putting away the nativity from last year.

The baby Jesus, the shepherds, sheep, kings and donkeys enjoyed an extended stay at Racho del Tuna, also known as the living room side table. They saw the Christmas Tree go up, fall down (twice!), and leave in an explosion of dried needles. They rang in the New Year. They celebrated Kwanzaa. And Martin Luther King Jr. Day. And Valentine's Day. And St. Patrick's Day...

That spring, in a fit of long-overdue embarrassment, I finally relocated the gang of twelve. No delicate repacking for me. I skipped the middleman and threw them into a holiday relocation program, on top of my armoire. Everybody seemed to enjoy their new digs except the sheep and the oxen, who, in silent protest, spent the summer months hurling themselves into my trashcan.

This November, in a fit of room-cleaning frenzy, I put broke every holiday rule I had (I only have rules about when to put OUT, not when to put AWAY) and decided to put out the nativity scene early. I grabbed the guys and handed them over to TinyTuna and told her she could set them up however she liked.

It was as if I handed her the keys to the kingdom. She arranged them this way and that for over a half-hour. Guys in a straight line. Guys in a circle. Wishbone, Nickel and I-formation. Kings off to the side as if they were in a royal time out. Each arrangement (as she explained to me as if I were a slow, slow child) had its own justification. She was the Manger Manager -- the Offensive Coach for Team Jesus -- putting them through their moves.

And I don't know about you, but every year, our nativity scene gets guest stars. Hello, black Halloween cats that I haven't put away yet! Welcome, Ghost Peeps of Holidays past! I've even been witness to the adoration of the Unicorns, Beanie Babies, Barbies and Penguins. And this year? Oh baby Jesus. Look who's come to visit this time.

Say hello to the three wise giraffes.

Reading is Fundamental

TinyTuna has fallen victim to yet another family trait. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but it seems to be a somewhat taboo topic. It's never been discussed on Oprah. It's never been diagnosed on Dr. Phil. There are no clinics to cure this addiction.

Hello, my name is GreenTuna. I am bathroom reader.

I always suspected TinyTuna has this genetic mutation. Before she could read she would go in the bathroom, grab something, and look at the pictures. It was the beginning of the end.

But now, oh boy. It's getting to be a fight for the reading room. It doesn't matter if it's Dilbert, Unfortunate Events or last month's Bon Appetit. She's in there, armed with anything she can find, and she's not coming out.

Of course, I am hardly one to talk. Who among us hasn't spent more than a passing moment weighing the potential benefits and risks of "one more chapter" and permanent butt paralysis? And why not read? What else is there to do in the bathroom besides count the tiles on the floor? It's educational multitasking, I tell you.

I've always been a sucker for books, and if there is one thing I have a very, very hard time doing, it's denying my child the opportunity to read. When she comes home with school book club orders nearly ever other week, how can I say no? It's books. It's brain food. Denying your child books is like sentencing them to a life of BooBahs, bad Hanna-Barbara cartoons and a steady diet of Twinkies. I swear to God, it's in the parent handbook -- you just don't do it.

But the problem here isn't a literary one. It's mathematical: Two readers, twenty gajillion books and one bathroom. Something's gotta give. And it's not going to be me. From now on, if she plans on taking root in the reading room, she's going to have to schedule an appointment and take a timer. I gotta go.

Look Into My Crystal Ball

If you could read my mind love,
What a tale my thoughts could tell
Gordon ( It-only-takes-6:14-to-wreck-The-Edmund-Fitzgerald) Lightfoot

One of the many advances in computer technology is the uncanny ability for HAL to read your mind and know exactly what you want and/or need and/or desire, whether you know it yet or not.

Amazon has it down to a science. Buy one book on any given topic, and Amazon will gleefully email you constantly about "more books you might enjoy." I must admit, they've been right on more than one occasion. Damn you, Jeff Bezos! But hey, thanks for the coffee mug you sent me last Christmas for being a valued guest. Or big sucker.

My boyfriend, Google doesn't have quite the same success rate. Google is much less discriminatory, plastering banner ads for whatever it darn well pleases, based on random words in the blog. For example, on my main page right now (this may change by the time you read this) my banner ads are still for the dreaded Red Hats. But if you start clicking on individual entry titles on the right, they magically change. The Commercial Break entry gives me banner ads for Frequent Indigestion (Nexium), Bloating & Endometriosis (Endo Know -- Outsmart the pain!) , Stomach pain/bloating (Novartis Pharmaceuticals), and Reflux (Complete source for Heartburn relief). Despite my best efforts, I have had no success in bending the Banner-Ad Gods to my will, but I do enjoy trying. EVIL DUCKS.

Spammers, of course, have no clue what I want. They encourage me to purchase items to improve body parts I DO NOT HAVE. They encourage me to purchase items to enlarge body parts THAT DON'T NEED ANY MORE HELP, THANK YOU VERY MUCH. They want me to lock into a mortgage for a house I don't have, reduce my debt with Christian love and understanding, and call Kristi for a good time because her husband is out of town the rest of the week and she is HOT. Alas and alack. There is no joy in Mudville: Mighty Spammers have struck out.

But as the calendar and the twenty-five pounds of in-store circulars will tell you, 'tis the season, and nobody wants to be a mind reader. With a scant 17 days until The Big Red One comes to town, everybody wants to know what I want. They want lists. Colors. Sizes. Alternate Choices. Itemized and emailed about three weeks ago. And I don't know what happens, but every year right around this time, I suddenly become brain dead and all I can do is sigh and say, "I don't know."

So I'm going to try, really really hard, to think of something. And hey, I'll ask my friends. They know, right?

Google thinks I haven't had enough Edmund Fitzgerald and wants me to DOWNLOAD GORDON LIGHTFOOT. I wonder how long would that take on an high-speed connection? Second choice: red hat.

Amazon thinks I'm certifiably schizo, recommending everything from South Park to Spinning Designer Yarns, to Minnie and Moo Go To Paris. Sadly, I must admit I already own all of these.

Spammers think I need things to improve my things that I don't have and it only costs $1.74 a dose!!! I think the Spammers need a sPeL ch3kerr.

This is no help at all. I have to think. What do I want? What do I really, really, REALLY, REALLY CAPS-LOCK, LEANED OVER want?

Maybe just enough time to have enjoy a teensy bit of that holiday feeling, instead of being so rushed that my only warm and fuzzy Christmas activity is giving the angel a Douglas Fir enema in between loads of laundry.

Maybe that download idea isn't so bad afterall.
Do you think Gordon Lightfoot does dishes?

Commercial Break

A few ponderables from the world of television advertisement.

Please Go, All Ye Faithful
I didn't see this entire commercial, but it appeared to be for a tape or DVD that tells the glorious Christmas story in all it's miraculous technicolor, featuring singing by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The soothing voice-over suggested I "ask my Mormon neighbor" for a copy.

My Mormon neighbor? Oh please. These are my neighbors:

1. The Clampets. Their sole purpose for living during the month of December is to audition their house for the Disney Electric Light Parade -- Hillbilly style.
2. The nice next-door neighbors. We don't see too much of them in the winter, but we're always extra nice because they own the snowblower.
3. Mrs. Grouchy next-door neighbor. I actually saw her weed her garden once and throw the weeds over the fence into the adjoining yard, AKA my yard. I'm quite certain she doesn't own a video tape espousing the Joy of anything.

Bet the Body, Munchkin Style
In the midst of my crime infested Monday evening Law-and-Order-Lenny-Briscoe-Forever marathon, TBS keeps cutting in to tell me to watch that beloved family classic (their words, not mine), The Wizard of Oz. What is up with this? TBS has been spraying Wizard of Oz ads over the airwaves with more gusto than Ron Popeil sprays hair out of a can. Is there someone, somewhere over the rainbow who hasn't seen The Wizard of Oz? And, if such a person existed, do they really feel that flying monkeys share the same demographics as Sam Waterston? Please. Just return me to L&O so I can bet the body. I guess in the alley, under a house. With stripedy socks and sparkly red shoes.

Speaking of Bodies
I've long since accepted the fact that commercials relating to medications or bodily functions are, more likely than not, a bit wonky, to say the least. I've seen daisies made of panty liners. I've seen tampons serve as a boat repair. I've seen heartburn sufferers contemplate drinking nails. I've seen animated monsters crawl up toenails, and set up a lovely house in Phlegmland, located somewhere in my chest.

But what is it lately with the stomach? No longer just a receptacle for Sunday night dinner, the stomach has morphed into both advertiser and advertisee. First came the stomach bloating commercials featuring a bunch of women who so helpfully lifted up their shirt to show us both their malady and the product information written on their stomach. Not to be outdone, there was also the kicky Pepto-Bismol Macarena. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall during THOSE auditions. How exactly might this be listed on a resume? Diarrhea Dancer? What a proud moment it must have been to be the one who wins the coveted role of firmly plastering both hands across their backsides in an effort to stem the tide, so to speak.

Lastly, but I'm certain not leastly, the latest commercial really brought home the horrors of diarrhea. I learned, courtesy of movie that was playing on the abs of a beautiful young bikini-clad woman lounging gracefully on a beach chair whilst sunning herself at some exotic tropical location that when she has diarrhea, it's like GODZILLA DESTROYING CIVILIZATION AS WE KNOW IT! Fortunately something (I can't even remember which product, not that I cared) cured both diarrhea and giant green monsters, and Godzilla headed back out to sea. Another crisis diverted.

Still in all, I suppose I should be grateful. Despite the increased use of the stomach-cam to illustrate gastrointestinal maladies, at least Viagra ads haven't used the same tactics.

Yet.

ET Phone Home

What an awesome idea.


Among the fields of gold.