thorvalson.net : babble ether

Possible Titles for Greg's and My Forthcoming Memoirs

We were discussing memoirs the other day and the big controversy surrounding James Frey's A Million Little Pieces and have both decided that in the event either or both of us should write a memoir, the respective books should have the simplest titles we can come up with, along with simple dustjackets, to piss off the marketing team:

Bullshit
Asshole
Book
Nutsack

or, barring single-word titles,

I Was Hospitalized Three Times and All I Got Was This Lousy Memoir

Suggestions?

Summertime (almost) and the livin's easy... for some. ;)

Yesterday after work, Maddie and I went over to the Gessners' house for dinner. Trace had asked me to pick up some adult beverages, and on the way to her house from the grocery store I was stopped at a light when I overheard two Latino men in the minivan next to me:

"What about that one over there?"
"Where?"
"In the station wagon."
(minivan pulls further alongside my vehicle)
"Naw, man, she old."

I will give credit to the obviously smarter of the two, who responded with, "She ain't old, man! She young!" Thank you.

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, Tracey was driving around the corner to her house when a young man called out to her, "Hey, sexy!", after which she promptly parked, got out of the car, and unloaded two small children. The young man continued walking past her, surprised and embarassed at having cat-called someone's mother. Tracey, needless to say, wasn't so embarassed and went on her merry motherly way, this time puttin' a little butt in it.

Okay, O-KAY-uh!

Alright. So the comments were up and running, or so I thought. They're *set* to be published automatically, but for some reason are not. I will remember this in the future and publish your comments as quickly as possible. There. Problem solved.

Garden is coming along nicely; planted some day lilies, pincushion flowers, and something called "firewitch" somethingorother (yes, I bought it because of the name), and because of the now fairly well established raspberry (and strawberry!) plants, the back half of the garden is beginning to resemble more of a garden and less Giant Sucking Pit of Dirt. I would like my Buddhist friend Dan to know that I did contemplate killing a little spider I came across in my diggings, only because it was of the variety that has infiltrated our kitchen and because while I don't mind the current tenants, I'm not exactly looking for more... but then I remembered Dan's rap (scroll down; somewhere in one of them there's a Buddhist-inspired "don't kill stuff" message), and so, like the kitchen spiders, I simply let it go on its merry way. Also, I'm trying to think of all the pesky mosquitoes that will be killed - not by my hands! - if I let the spiders have their way. Be free, spiders. Multiply. Just please, not in my kitchen. Greg gets all squirmy.

Subtitle: Meditation on My Mind...

Greg got his invite for his annual retreat last week, and with Dan bein' around the blog and bein' Buddhist - his sister, also an old and dear friend of mine, is on a three-year retreat right now - I've been thinking about how I keep putting off my own retreat. A few years ago, I became aware of a silent retreat offered twice a year by the Unitarian Church by my old apartment. Oprah did a show (gag if you will) around that same time on her own silent retreat (quiet show, huh? heh.. heheh... nevermind) that kind of got my noggin rolling. If Oprah can do it, why can't I? Although I realize there are an infinite number of things Oprah can do that I can't - and for good reason, like, uh, I'm not a bizillionaire - this one struck me.
News flash! I talk a lot. Living with Greg has, among countless other things, taught me to be a better listener. Although I occasionally protest and whine when he tells others of my chattiness (and yes, it's with love, I know), truth be told - I am a communicator. That is what I do. I communicate in every way I can figure out how to, whether it's verbally, in written word, or through music. Little transmitter, that's me. And I can see where living in close proximity to such a transmitter can, on occasion, cause headache, joint and muscle pain, and a general feeling of irritability. And even though sometimes I'm tempted (and occasionally succumb to the the temptation) to tell my beloved partner, "HEY - there may come a day when you'd give anything just to hear me babble on," the man has a point.
Look at me, talking on and on about how I want to stop talking.

Point being, I really want to go on that retreat this year. The fall retreat is in September, and being up north in the woods around that time of year is always appealing to me. LET THE RECORD SHOW that I will shut my pie hole for three days this year. Mark your calendars. If there's anything you've been waiting to tell me but couldn't get a word in edgewise (and I sincerely do apologize), that's the time to do it. I'll have Greg give me his cell phone, and for three days, you can all call me and rant to your hearts' content(s?), and I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO RESPOND! Family! Friends! It's the moment you've been waiting for! Don't let it pass you by!

In other news, Maddie officially has a loose tooth. She's been telling me for a month that one is loose, and while it was not actually so a month ago, the wiggles have been tested and affirmed and there is a definite wiggliness going on in her mouth. At first, her reports were denied by myself because I thought they were sympathy wiggles: Juliana has lost her two front bottom teeth. But now? Wiggles. Just one. I give it a few weeks.

"Stephanie says I should eat lots of apples and it'll fall out."

We'll see. Luckily for us, she doesn't have a little sister to help the process along. Seeing as Tracey didn't publish this story (!!!?), I'll have to do the honors (briefly):

Juliana lost one of her bottom front teeth, and the one next to it shortly after became loose. Instead of waiting for the second one to work its way out, Juliana came up with a plan. She has in her posession a pair of binoculars on which there is attached a string. One side of this string has become unattached, but dangles still from the binoculars. At the end of this string is a bead.
Juliana - unbeknownst to her mother - took this bead into her mouth, attached to the string, attached to the binoculars, and gave the binoculars to her sister. And says, to Ava, "PULL."
End result? Juliana comes barrelling down the stairs to her parents in the living room, blood streaming down her chin and proudly presenting her second "lost" tooth, with Ava following closely behind, binoculars in hand, triumphantly proclaiming, "I DID IT, MOMMY! I PUH-ED IT OUT!"

End scene.

To whom it may concern

Comments are up and in working order!
Up with comments!
Down with ....

Down with....

I dunno, fill in the blank yourselves at will.

Yet Another Blog Entry Beginning Grammatically Incorrectly With "So"

So (nope, no comma, no pause, one breath sorry) tonight is my first night alone in the new house. Well, unless you count Maddie, which I don't, unless she has secretly been studying martial arts, dagger throwing, whathaveyou, and thus stands even the smallest chance of beating the ass of any would-be intruders of the Great Stephke Collective Abode. Seeing as the girl is half whacked on painkillers and antibiotics ("it willprobably give her" *ahemexplosive* "diarreah"), my money's on the serious superpsycho killers.

Greg left for our friends' wedding in Kansas City today, leaving me behind to reflect... Didn't we move in together so we wouldn't have to spend any more nights alone? Did you not read the fine print of the Manual that clearly read, Do not leave Stephanie unattended for even one night lest you invoke the Eeyoric melancholy of the Pout Princess? I'm okay, really. Since when did I become one of those frighteningly dependent women who absolutely cannot survive without a man around? Harumph.

He did call this afternoon, lost somewhere among the cornfields on a "little weiner highway" (scout's honor: his words), sputtering a story between giant guffaws of laughter, something "junk pile" and "helmet" and "bachelor party tomorrow night." The phone cut off halfway through the story, but given a where a = Greg, Wanish, Ackerman, Byron, Hobart, etc.; plus b where b = Kansas City; plus Junk Pile HELLmet and the fact that Greg and Wanish were at one time in a band together called SNOW SHOVEL and, well, you judge for yourselves:

YOU BROKE MY HEART --
I'LL BREAK YOUR ARM!
EVIL SLUDGE!
EVIL SLUDGE!

And then there's

CHEESE FUDGE:
THE SNACK WITH A GRUDGE

and, oh yeah, um, justalittlebitmaybe, you know, a smidgen of ALCOHOL....

***side note: while I'm thinking of it boys, what's up with all the "-udge" rhymes?***

I'm sure I will hear plenty of stories upon my arrival on Friday, and really they can wait until we come home because I'm interested in generating some stories of my own. This woman is ready for some rock 'n roll. Some dancin'. Some booty-grabbin'. (Yes, dear. Only yours. And maybe Kate's.)

All this, just to say...

Goin' to Kansas City. Vacation much needed. Will probably drink too much, but will definitely have good time.

The Simple Life: A Photographic Essay by Madilyn Larsh

Like a true Wisconsinite:

Contemplating nature...

Gaining a balanced perspective...

... all the while remaining grounded, accepting of the fundamental mechanics of life, such as... proper nourishment.

It's not often I'm given such glaringly obvious examples of just what an exemplary, spotless, shining beacon of role model-y goodness I am to my child, but -- how does the saying go? First, God whispers. Then, she crushes a can of beer on your forehead.

Yeah. That's -- no. Wha? I dunno, I must've been drunk.

A Note on Etiquette to the 16 Year Old Checkout Girl at Jewel Osco

There are two instances in which it is admissable for one female to call another, "hon":

1) If the woman speaking is, in fact, an adult, grown woman, and the person she is addressing is a girl, i.e., there is a significant age difference between the two. In this situation, it must always be the older of the two addressing the younger -- never in reverse, or,
2) if we are fucking.

The affectionate appellations, "hon", "honey", and "sweetie" are usually reserved for children under age 12, significant others, or people who are at least one or two generations younger than yourself. Addressing someone who could, biologically, have mothered you as "hon" -- FOUR TIMES in one transaction -- while avoiding eye contact and smiling sweetly at the produce could not only be misconstrued as ignorant, but condescending.

Just tryin' to help, hon. You have a nice day, too.