Just for fun

Because there's a $#&*($^#@ mouse in this room and I'm not getting work done anyway:
http://sites.gizoogle.com/?url=http://www.deletedeletedelete.blogspot.com

No Foolin

It is me and this f'ing rodent showdown right now. A mouse FELL OUT OF THE CEILING and landed by my feet. I AM NOT KIDDING.
It scurried across the room and has been relocating about every 15 minutes. THERE IS A LIVE ANIMAL IN THIS ROOM THAT IS NOT A PET OR INVITED. OH MY GOD. I AM SO DISGUSTED.

Fruit on the bottom; hope on top

Nothing but love for our dearly departed St. Paul son, Mitch Hedberg.
Matt and I saw him at the Acme Comedy Club last year...maybe the year before that. We were delirious with enjoyment.
Please, (please with frozen bananas on top) listen to his stuff. You can get audio clips here and here and scroll down. And check out his website with road games and picswithmitch here.

James Lind and the HMS Salisbury

Just for fun, I ate my clementine without peeling it. It's sort of smooshed now on my desk.
Since it was juicing all over my hands (and it takes so long to walk upstairs to the sink!) I had to stop the leak. Lo and Behold: orange juice...er...clem juice. Potato, potahto.
I will catalog it under Experimental Food Consumption...For example, if I ever get stranded on a deserted island with no fingers to delicately separate the fruit into sections, that's how I'll survive.
At least I won't die of scurvy. That's a history lesson, beyotch.

biological clock

My mom has this bizarre habit (she has many, but for today I'm only writing about the one).
She cuts pictures of babies out of newspapers and ads and puts them on our refrigerator. She puts strangers' children on our family's bragging space and then, THEN, she names them. She calls them truly bizarre things: "Bubbles," "Puff," and "George Clooney." The best part is that she talks to them.
The fact that it was only recently came to my attention as being strange probably just means that I really am her child just as I suspected. Don't get too close.

Perspective

This is a good bit of advice I overheard today:
"It's not an emergency until someone's head is on fire."

That's My Dad.

On our way to church this morning (what up, Jesus!), my father began his weekly rant. The unwitting subjects of this installment: squirrels.
He believes we have a squirrel infestation. Not in our house, but in the neighborhood. He proposed to tag each of the rodents. "Not to turn the color of their entire tail, but just to spray paint a little color so we can track them." And let's put out cameras. All over the house. And the yard. And I'll quit work so I can stay home during the day. Carly can take the evening shift because she has class; Mom can do early morning and Pops will get the graveyard shift (because the whole thing is his idea). After we get enough footage of the "experiment," I'm thinking we've got another Real World on our hands.

Car Troubles

Yesterday afternoon, three blocks from home, I became a law-breaker. Correction: I got caught breaking the law...allegedly. I say stop, you say rolling stop moving violation. Too bad people were flying past as the 5-0 was writing up my ticket. Where was your backup, Officer Sneakypants!?!!
Crap. Under the counsel of my good friends and fellow perps, I learned that there are many excuses for such behavior. One who has gotten away with 5 moving violations described how she once talked a cop out of the accusation. Their conversation went something like this:
-You didn't stop at that stop sign, Miss.
-Yes, I did.
-Um, no, you didn't.
-I did. And then I pulled up further into the intersection.
-Uh...no [insert Jedi mind trick]...ok. You did stop at the stop sign.

Pity Laugh

This weekend I had the pleasure of meeting my sister's longish-distance Boy-Who-is-a-Friend.
We started off well enough. He paid attention to my father's car show and complimented my mom's salad from a bag. I think he actually said, "wow," which is more than any of us ever has.
If the night had stopped there, he may have had a chance. Alas.
Matt and I took Carly and BWIAF to Figlio, our regular destination for fancy drinks and staying up late. He revealed his age: 18. His penchant for alcohol: that's real nice, in front of her older sister.... But he signed his own marching orders when he told us about shitbagging with his buddies. Apparently, there is a name for the egregious act of putting dog poo in bags and lighting them on fire. Who knew? She and I exchanged a look and I had to bite my lip to keep from asking Matt to remove the kid from the table. The moral to this story: good impressions rarely involve the word "shitbag."

On the piss

Maybe you wondered why I didn't post earlier. I'm not worn out from last night's crazy Céilí or mass consumption of ANYTHING green.
I'm trying to find something from last night to write about.
Matt had camera club and my book club had been put off for another week (assuming all members had better things to do). I recall thinking that I should call some people in case anyone out there was having fun. But I waited too long and phone rings were drowned by bodhráns and tin whistles.
There was a glimmer of hope when we almost went to the liquor store to buy some Guinness. But they were closed. Naturally.
Matt threatened to make me watch Law and Order (hate, hate with daggers), but we settled on the very Irish surfing movie Blue Crush.
Poor showing for me for the first ever St. Patrick's Day without celebration. Shame, shame, know your name.