tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25945241719590307742024-03-05T11:15:22.666-05:00Twaddle Like A DuckPaula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-42836903759372140312012-08-06T14:12:00.001-04:002012-08-06T14:12:46.207-04:00Like, The Worst Fortune Cookie-Fortune EVER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqraQMiz8RNi8oD09yBh5jtNEg8ZgJuSoXG0Emllf6ZJ9rCJzZU1gWemp5c_mZoxVCL8m50on3qmQRCXT-gHPisSNWRdUFroK21AN0RuHXlslYjSrozW_SU7CvaYD7pYRJBk6WWodr1M0/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqraQMiz8RNi8oD09yBh5jtNEg8ZgJuSoXG0Emllf6ZJ9rCJzZU1gWemp5c_mZoxVCL8m50on3qmQRCXT-gHPisSNWRdUFroK21AN0RuHXlslYjSrozW_SU7CvaYD7pYRJBk6WWodr1M0/s320/008.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Guess what came in the last order of Chinese takeout? An extra helping of <strike>lo mein General Tsao's chicken MSG</strike> anxiety!<br />
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I sincerely hope the writer of this fortune cookie-fortune is suffering from depression. Failing that, my problem just got bigger.<br />Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-65641033929785960112012-06-14T13:08:00.004-04:002012-06-14T13:08:52.464-04:00Why Are You Reading This?Seriously, you should be reading THIS: <a href="http://www.thebigjewel.com/we-need-to-talk-about-braden">http://www.thebigjewel.com/we-need-to-talk-about-braden</a>. Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-87230473372871318752012-05-15T17:31:00.001-04:002012-05-15T17:33:46.019-04:00My Dermatologist and I Discuss Options<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hi, doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, I
was wondering if you could take a look at that freckle-thingie by my eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one that’s shaped like Florida – at least
if you stare at it long enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No?
Maybe that’s just me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s okay,
right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing to worry about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whew, what a relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I’ll make sure to wear sunscreen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a hat.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Umm . . . I’m 42.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why
do you ask?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually, no, I’ve never
thought about Botox.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, I know I
have a few lines, but – really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Moderate to severe”, huh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure,
I can understand how that might bother some women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, I see – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">most</i> women are bothered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Deeply.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Gee, come to think of it, I’m bothered, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But . . . I’m going to have to pass on the
Botox.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See, as I’ve aged, my kids have
taken to sticking things in my wrinkles and timing how long they stay put.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dimes, Pokemon cards, stray bits of cat food
or what-have-you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They call it “Let’s
Stick Shit In Mom’s Face.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One time, I
held a squirt gun between my eyebrows for over a minute just by frowning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The little guys went nuts!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d hate to ruin what amounts to good clean
family fun.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">You’re right, doctor, I do have a “masculine brow”! I’m glad
you noticed that, it’s something I’m very proud of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve worked long and hard to cultivate my
eyebrows into a heavy, menacing hair-ledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I call it “The Ferrigno”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
really comes in handy when I need to glower at wait staff or small children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I guess I’ll pass on the laser hair removal,
too.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">You’re saying those lines around my mouth are actually “nasolabial
folds”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, I get it: “marionette
lines”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hmm . . . the filler <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">does</i> sound tempting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a while now, I’ve been thinking it might
be fun to have some spongy, gelatinous junk injected into my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kind of like having a pet worm, except
trapped under my skin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It could
“migrate”, though?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually count that
as a plus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids and I could have a
whole new game! Sort of like “Where’s Waldo?”, only with Restylane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d call it: “Where the Fuck Is Mom’s
Filler?”!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did it slide down her
chin?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or is it that cheesy lump under
her left nostril?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet here’s the thing, doctor: I adore puppets, the great and
sassy “Madame” in particular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can
think of no better tribute to her than to look exactly like a ventriloquist’s
dummy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That means no filler for me. And Ix-nay
on the lip collagen, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, you’re
correct, I have the thin lips of a chimp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, I also have a reputation as a “thin-lipped bitch”, which I will
protect at all costs.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wait – you’re actually suggesting I get an eye-lift?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that’s madness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Madness! I’ll have you know my husband has a
Bassett Hound fetish, and it’s fairly hardcore. I may look like Droopy Dog, but
it sure as hell gets the job done in the bedroom, if you know what I’m saying.
Along with howling and drooling, that is.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">So now that my freckle checks out, I really should be
going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No Botoxed, swollen filler-face
for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll stick with my wizened,
hairy puppet-face instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But thanks
for the talk, doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s nice to know
I have options.<o:p></o:p></span></span>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-80861853500346525682012-03-15T12:07:00.000-04:002012-03-15T12:07:16.355-04:00Announcing The Grave Artist by Paula Lynn JohnsonWell, folks, I have just uploaded my paranormal murder mystery, <em>The Grave Artist</em>, to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Grave-Artist-ebook/dp/B007JZT5A0/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1331827454&sr=8-3" target="_blank">Amazon</a> and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-grave-artist-paula-lynn-johnson/1109518729?ean=2940014338271&itm=1&usri=the+grave+artist">BN.com</a>. A mere two to three years ago, this would have made me a desperate, self-published author. Now, it makes me an "Indie" author, sticking it to the Publishing Man.<br />
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Apparently, I'm part of a vast econo-technological uprising, which makes me kind of hip. Who knew?<br />
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Anyhoo, I encourage anyone who loves a good ghost story to take a gander. You will get more than your 99-cents worth, I promise. Coming soon to the Apple iBookstore!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpJbpp4RHt7AJw5s5tcUCoHdHYqQumLw7RvI2QLkcXaZD1vu7kpQb1X6-ay6w_uf0e0YRDMu4pRQSkwplNSORCmPu_T05nn7s6foR2OXjWWi-vWRhKP3SC-p28hdQIHJ3acJ65GRf7_Q/s1600/GAcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCpJbpp4RHt7AJw5s5tcUCoHdHYqQumLw7RvI2QLkcXaZD1vu7kpQb1X6-ay6w_uf0e0YRDMu4pRQSkwplNSORCmPu_T05nn7s6foR2OXjWWi-vWRhKP3SC-p28hdQIHJ3acJ65GRf7_Q/s320/GAcover.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-88713982395093499372012-03-06T20:50:00.003-05:002012-03-07T08:06:12.505-05:00No. 4 on the New York Times Nonfiction Bestseller List<em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For immediate release</span></em> <br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hedging and Betton Publishing is passionate about the art and craft of writing. We believe in books that challenge, inspire, and tell stories-- especially with words, printed on paper. We champion authors who explore and celebrate what it means to be human (or a cat). To that end, we brought you the mega-bestsellers:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj90S2M9YE2F20iDesKekQIxckpVZNfXoNSuLlZMOg9h0TurkHYd270VmTqxo86R9TpGsdKOq1pLwVJ0nmvw47xdFDN7iYhqyG1_a0mU6BEOV0PqtPv2l9SIpusB_pLBO0dtDMHF7iOBAc/s1600/FOOFOO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj90S2M9YE2F20iDesKekQIxckpVZNfXoNSuLlZMOg9h0TurkHYd270VmTqxo86R9TpGsdKOq1pLwVJ0nmvw47xdFDN7iYhqyG1_a0mU6BEOV0PqtPv2l9SIpusB_pLBO0dtDMHF7iOBAc/s320/FOOFOO.jpg" width="255" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Transcendant. Proof that mangled animals just might save humanity." -- Robert Woofer, author of<em> My Dog, My Sensei</em>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">*AND*</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj5Ht6aYm6Jwn1RcyClbiuwW6nOq3JtJSmjC4c2hnQJ-5_8wZNneHoYZRTWBE8v5DXX8cr5zi3L45vKEGx43OIxVSq5HLKWmmQj89lUEg84f7HzzVcdbxZ-Fxg15Z9ezdPXEnfky6NY20/s1600/ferretheart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj5Ht6aYm6Jwn1RcyClbiuwW6nOq3JtJSmjC4c2hnQJ-5_8wZNneHoYZRTWBE8v5DXX8cr5zi3L45vKEGx43OIxVSq5HLKWmmQj89lUEg84f7HzzVcdbxZ-Fxg15Z9ezdPXEnfky6NY20/s320/ferretheart.jpg" width="245" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"A revelation. Proof that ferrets just might cure what ails you." -- Lonni Farkus, author of <em>The Hamster Solution</em><br /> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Ferrets got rid of my heartache, my loneliness, and my eczema. Read this book, and you'll never look at crepuscular, sexually dimorphic members of the weasel family the same way again."<em> <strong>--</strong> </em>Sean Long, M.D., Ph.D., author of <em>The</em> <em>Chinchilla That Found Me.</em><br /> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, Hedging and Betton proudly announces its latest publication, a searing tale of heartbreak, renewal and skin-shedding:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSCsgiAYMwhpGZjaVkdVDGPcBs-CLI194pf18YiIw3BUrh6crT3gomsDvyRy5cOZy5hcOKCC1Yw_ojcX-74eQBRg5u87Gkj6YvZEdpovHlrBJ6wONjuGjNHrrLMxBH3MEXjwWPL1oC3ck/s1600/squeezeme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSCsgiAYMwhpGZjaVkdVDGPcBs-CLI194pf18YiIw3BUrh6crT3gomsDvyRy5cOZy5hcOKCC1Yw_ojcX-74eQBRg5u87Gkj6YvZEdpovHlrBJ6wONjuGjNHrrLMxBH3MEXjwWPL1oC3ck/s320/squeezeme.jpg" width="218" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>From the jacket flap:</em> Ruthless predators, cold-blooded killers, just plain nasty -- that's what Bobbi Lynn Fowler thinks of the giant snakes populating her small town in the Florida Everglades. Broke, alcoholic, and suffering from acute hemmorhoids, Bobbi even takes to hunting snakes for food. But then Bobbi's best friend mysteriously dies and bequeaths her Lenny, a 15-foot long Burmese Python with a big smile and an even bigger appetite for life.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">From the moment Lenny arrives in Bobbi's life, her fortunes take a miraculous turn for the better. Whether it's the ex-boyfriend who refuses to leave Bobbi's trailer or the bill collectors who hound her at the door, the people holding Bobbi back and keeping her down seem to magically disappear. As Bobbi's self-esteem grows, so does Lenny's size, as if he literally feeds upon her confidence. And gradually, Bobbi begins to think of Lenny as less of a snake than her own scaly, forked-tongue savior.<br /> </span><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Advance Praise for Squeeze Me, Lenny:</span></em><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"A breathtaking debut. A luminous addition to the canon of human-snake literature." -- Joan Lemmon, Professor of Zoology, University of Tiajuana<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Gripping, in the truest sense. Proof that Pythons and humans share the same basic need for love and acceptance. Oh -- and muskrats. Lots and lots of muskrats." -- Lou Ferrigno, actor and author of <em>What Your Hermit Crab Doesn't Tell You</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Jesus, help me [this was good]! I can't move [my eyes, away from the page]! Someone get this snake [his own children's book series]!" -- Dick Pritcher, Lenny's veterinarian and handler</span></div>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-26971976331275204232012-02-22T12:03:00.001-05:002012-02-22T12:06:54.116-05:00I Aim to BefuddleI'm at <a href="http://www.errantparent.com/top-nine/top-nine-misconceptions-i-gave-my-children-about-reproductio.html">Errant Parent</a> today, discussing my botched attempts at teaching my kids the Facts of Life. To illustrate what a consummate failure I am in that department, you need only look at the diagram of the female reproductive system I made for my then-4-year-old son:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEN3L5neWUsesL9BXTf-qjla9tlmmYDUe7wFKYGrK9JOOv0fdtjd8ub-_0BeuVP5JxGjMz1xBS215BZMEA5WIVgTU4mszfVmvE_60kNhzU6NmKJSmcQxarmg97hQ0pwIHaGknNlnKEkgQ/s1600/Junk+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEN3L5neWUsesL9BXTf-qjla9tlmmYDUe7wFKYGrK9JOOv0fdtjd8ub-_0BeuVP5JxGjMz1xBS215BZMEA5WIVgTU4mszfVmvE_60kNhzU6NmKJSmcQxarmg97hQ0pwIHaGknNlnKEkgQ/s320/Junk+001.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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Confused? Disturbed? Not nearly as much as my son was. That diagram planted ideas in the dark nether regions of his psyche. Ideas like, "sexual intercourse is twisted and weird, like being trapped in a dream sequence in a David Lynch movie." And: "when they're born, babies simply follow the directional arrows out their mothers' cooter." I'm predicting years of therapy for the kid over this one. Of course, I <em>do</em> sort of like the way I drew the lady's face to resemble Edvard Munch's <em>The Scream, </em>as that pretty much describes my childbirth experience. </div>
Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-26140307421006147872012-02-07T12:19:00.000-05:002012-02-22T12:06:23.057-05:00A Desperate Bid To Increase My Blog TrafficIt is with great dismay that I report that over 90% of my blog traffic is generated by readers googling "Pikachu thunderbolt attack". For reals. An additional 9%-plus of my traffic is due to google searches for "granny panties". The remaining .001 percent is my mother, who is elderly and can't actually see what she's reading, which is really all for the best.<br />
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I could become dismayed at these stats. Instead, I am emboldened. No, I am not going to post naked pictures of myself. That would likely result in someone's cardiac arrest and a protracted wrongful death lawsuit. But while I'm unwilling to whore myself out for blog traffic, I'm more than willing to whore out my dog.<br />
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And so I give you . . .<br />
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CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY! CUTE PUPPY!!!!<br />
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CUTE PUPPY + CUTE KITTY = INSANE AMOUNT OF CUTENESS!!! CATS AND DOGS! LIVING TOGETHER!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xSKPwI-Mv_hBsN8LETAV9WDG0wtZTrzHsrwM4LhqvmKgmRVYDuyi15nIsmyFnku4WuIuP8iK28AnxO3XMY-zss6mWigs9PLPQ7ZXExuVGCaETyCB-R-8nA0EZsZp5roBS4x1nRPIG9w/s1600/Newest+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xSKPwI-Mv_hBsN8LETAV9WDG0wtZTrzHsrwM4LhqvmKgmRVYDuyi15nIsmyFnku4WuIuP8iK28AnxO3XMY-zss6mWigs9PLPQ7ZXExuVGCaETyCB-R-8nA0EZsZp5roBS4x1nRPIG9w/s320/Newest+003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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GAH! THE CUTENESS!! IT'S KILLING ME!!!<br />
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Ahem . . . now please excuse me while I go check my Sitemeter stats.</div>
Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-72109451841835119922012-01-27T13:13:00.000-05:002012-02-22T12:04:55.822-05:00Your Mom Jeans Would Like A Word With You<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hold it right there, young lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just where do you think you’re going? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Out”, she says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Out! Not dressed like that you aren’t.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What are those things you’re wearing, anyway – tights? Oh, they’re
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">jeggings</i>. Never heard of ‘em. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t care if they’re “in”, they’re
unflattering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They thicken you, sweetie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your thighs look like something out of the
4-H fair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, don’t get upset with
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t criticizing your legs – I
swear! I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i> your legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re nice and sturdy. It’s just that those
jeggings – well, honey, they don’t do anything for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re tacky.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m</i> the tacky
one, now? Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well excuse me for
hitting at your waist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Excuse me for
giving you some wiggle room in the hips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fine, fine – wear the low-rise if you want! Let your belly spill out
like soft-serve! Go ahead and stuff those sausages of yours into skinny jeans! You’re
a big girl now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you want to look like
a train wreck, that’s your decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just don’t split a seam when you sit down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t believe you’re shoving me to the back of your
closet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t treat your other
clothes this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You don’t tell your
Land’s End Skirted Tankini she’s too “frumpy”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nope, every summer, you try on the one-piece you wore before your pregnancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then once you’re done crying, you head off
to the pool wearing that same damn Tankini – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just like every other Mom in the neighborhood.
Don’t you girls know how to think for yourselves?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the way, that built-in “support bra” isn’t
supporting anything, little girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t
hold back a landslide with a bit of elastic and two foam cups – and I don’t
care if it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> “Miracle Foam”.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sure, sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now
you’re trying on your skort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know
how I feel about that skort, honey – she’s trouble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Skirt or shorts? Seems to me she should pick
a side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, I know it’s acceptable
today to be “questioning”, but – did you just roll your eyes at me? DON’T YOU
GIVE ME THAT LOOK.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t think you realize just how much I’ve supported
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Literally! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You carried twins, sweetheart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twins</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just
what do you think your gut was like after that C-Section? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll tell you what it was like: a rubbery skin-paunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A melting flesh-sicle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I held it in!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Day after day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Week after week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the Spanx helped, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not saying I did it alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But let’s see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> try propping up ten pounds of spare tire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t easy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now you just toss me aside, like I’m nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Go ahead, sweetheart – I’ll be fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll just sit here, alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Abandoned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With that crazy poncho you never wear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I won’t nag you any more, I promise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don’t want to be a bother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
just remember, missy:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if you get
pregnant again, don’t you dare come running to me.</span></div>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-6947914968156198062011-11-26T10:35:00.001-05:002011-11-26T10:49:15.411-05:00On Thanksgiving, A Pilgrim Wench Goes Gangsta<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I’m Mayflower, muthaf$$$a.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Don’t tread on me, or I’ll start a revolution on your ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll take a musket to your head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll cut you with my whalebone darning needle
(but then I shall quickly repent and beg the Lord’s mercy).</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYYAMSqimVIw3oLTO7p3_AnnxLE1iO0nLAc2i7HheCZTOBB_QQSLymyWL1Z1hZGivDfdV-z1S7zCR4exQGME85P3cuoj6605bhbEi2GZRPRghzjVSuU5gsrOaD83W8v41dGOp9-il0gp4/s1600/pilgrimwomen1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYYAMSqimVIw3oLTO7p3_AnnxLE1iO0nLAc2i7HheCZTOBB_QQSLymyWL1Z1hZGivDfdV-z1S7zCR4exQGME85P3cuoj6605bhbEi2GZRPRghzjVSuU5gsrOaD83W8v41dGOp9-il0gp4/s320/pilgrimwomen1.jpg" width="228" /></span></a></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Me and my bitches, we’re gonna ride the buggy through the ‘hood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s got yellow wheels, bra, it’s pimped out!
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re gonna get crazy, y’all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gonna hit the peace pipe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gonna take the sewing circle <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">outside</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’ll be stitchin’ and bitchin’ -- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">without</i>
our bonnets on (weather permitting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if
God wills it so). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2hFG9aDnPLhRgoyc1ZR4rhmTuidLnHR9CdWPvWsbP0KJB1VGPcJHvDzJ60b_Knxw8JV4z8sNZrvnN-wlk1rcFXHJK_Equh9UWemOqvNvqKCozynP3X-_jyShPPPwyNa7E6_QTeGRQJY/s1600/plimothwoman2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY2hFG9aDnPLhRgoyc1ZR4rhmTuidLnHR9CdWPvWsbP0KJB1VGPcJHvDzJ60b_Knxw8JV4z8sNZrvnN-wlk1rcFXHJK_Equh9UWemOqvNvqKCozynP3X-_jyShPPPwyNa7E6_QTeGRQJY/s320/plimothwoman2.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">What up, Miles?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
want some Prissy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, you do –
it’s pre-ordained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could give it to you
all right, Miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rough up your
ruff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Put the plum in your porridge. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d like that, wouldn’t you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well tough turkey: I already got me a man,
and he’s a high roller (for Tristram is both a cooper and a wheelwright, as
well as exceptionally tall).</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Cag1rH-k37KTsObuEZ2mzMRQwJ6z6uThREgQPHOv4TbtdYpdVNU1MRUZDHkjMXQAIXzQg3O0ET-6wyyEPcXovF1ZlIakf0SdHTwpGoknJ9TKY06Eq3rQKP3gm7UFs5E4Y6yXeNPtKtY/s1600/sexy-pilgrim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Cag1rH-k37KTsObuEZ2mzMRQwJ6z6uThREgQPHOv4TbtdYpdVNU1MRUZDHkjMXQAIXzQg3O0ET-6wyyEPcXovF1ZlIakf0SdHTwpGoknJ9TKY06Eq3rQKP3gm7UFs5E4Y6yXeNPtKtY/s320/sexy-pilgrim.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So back off, Miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Go home to your ho.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, not your
wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hoe</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the harvest season
is upon us and it is a sin to be slothful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Peace out, Miles (and peace be with you on this day of thanksgiving).</span></div>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-60409438165065796182011-10-04T11:22:00.001-04:002011-10-04T11:22:37.397-04:00Vision Boards, of Varying SuccessDear Aussie Skank:<br />
<br />
I tried, I really did.<br />
<br />
I thought about what I want. I listed what I want. I even made a vision board of what I want. For reals! Check it out:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7mPasYSPuQ_cJM0UHK9JS-UySu96fSpHl6bNlDSYfTsHc8a14NqR9tBTg0ClrSFi62SNrGVK7MdibzABtOWxsQEnaUYMvwzE8WAmGQ-sLPlu9Sjdwhk3Ngnmp3gNleXyDvXWHco03wI/s1600/visionboard.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7mPasYSPuQ_cJM0UHK9JS-UySu96fSpHl6bNlDSYfTsHc8a14NqR9tBTg0ClrSFi62SNrGVK7MdibzABtOWxsQEnaUYMvwzE8WAmGQ-sLPlu9Sjdwhk3Ngnmp3gNleXyDvXWHco03wI/s320/visionboard.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
So here I am, months later, and my book has been turned down by every thirty-ish editor with a English/Women's Studies B.A. from a Seven Sisters College. In other words, <em>all</em> editors have rejected me. <em>Moreover</em>:<br />
<ul>
<li>I want to increase my cup size to a generous 34D. Instead, my husband left me for Shawna "Melons" Kapowski, lead dancer at the Titty Shack off the Schuykill Expressway.</li>
<li>I want a house by the water. Instead, my basement flooded, leaving me with a house <em>full of</em> water.</li>
<li>I want Christian Bale, shirtless, pectorals primed and oiled circa <em>Reign of Fire</em>. I want him to mysteriously arrive at my house and chop a cord of wood for me while I sip a cocktail. Instead, <em>this</em> shows up on my doorstep and starts bitching about my clothes:</li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIzLFmakZFiTygkBx3n_lC6Z15hsuKNwTc2MNKBWJrqa11YAyNhCu1ojefoUfQXbIaHKSzRLNlq3RWHbsEgUy15FhnwZWrlL0QCZS5fqB9K31_YhC5ZuTVOWi8e4T5imYjiwg6VtP7Gg4/s1600/siriano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIzLFmakZFiTygkBx3n_lC6Z15hsuKNwTc2MNKBWJrqa11YAyNhCu1ojefoUfQXbIaHKSzRLNlq3RWHbsEgUy15FhnwZWrlL0QCZS5fqB9K31_YhC5ZuTVOWi8e4T5imYjiwg6VtP7Gg4/s1600/siriano.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
I think we can agree this is the wrong Christian. Although I did appreciate the tips on finding a "slimming" pair of pants.</div>
<br />
In light of the above, I have decided to think about nothing but your continued success and well-being. Given my track record, it won't be long until you crash and burn in some horrific and (hopefully!) fattening manner.<br />
<br />
Suck it, Sheila<br />
<br />
Your disgruntled customer, <br />
The Twaddler<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Dear Secret-Lady:<br />
<br />
Is very simple: Me want cookie.<br />
<br />
No fame. No money. No power. No lady-monster to scratch my itch. Just cookie.<br />
<br />
See vision board?<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt41jaSD0cRvBuA-yCy39tDo6tMKOsfVDVwom0ZeariJtxjAhFzIH1mNBUUC7dZUlJr1N-GDLPeOXojefpv2LHoS5P_90Zn-j8SWD_HPbwZvN59QF9V8tKQceTKnAwMEkmZeAckskkvo/s1600/chocolate-chip-cookie_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt41jaSD0cRvBuA-yCy39tDo6tMKOsfVDVwom0ZeariJtxjAhFzIH1mNBUUC7dZUlJr1N-GDLPeOXojefpv2LHoS5P_90Zn-j8SWD_HPbwZvN59QF9V8tKQceTKnAwMEkmZeAckskkvo/s320/chocolate-chip-cookie_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Me think cookie. Me talk cookie. Me dream cookie. Me <em>is </em>cookie!<br />
<br />
Then what happen?<br />
<br />
PBS tell me to cut back on cookie! Say it a "sometime food"! Now make me eat banana!<br />
<br />
I get mad. I complain. Mrs. Obama phone me, tell me she has "secret file" on me. White House threaten audit. Mr. Noodle pull gun on me, make me hand over cookie. He and Elmo dance on cookie while I cry.<br />
<br />
Secret not work. Please send refund, payable in cookie.<br />
<br />
Sincerely yours,<br />
Monster-Who-Want-Cookie<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Dear Oprah:<br />
<br />
Hey! Thanks for airing that segment on vision boards. I thought you'd like to share mine with your readers:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAK3IQ6W1c8NtYglKkc6528uRLAv6NUOIDmQCH5ouuEvZEiMg4BaA_QHWtSSJHVTfE3yjv4dyDY8IOxAqrxQhs4fFQsNykHabfIj0bLI4mfuG5537WC9qS9wWbdFZpWPU93zcVk5eleQ/s1600/catcollages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAK3IQ6W1c8NtYglKkc6528uRLAv6NUOIDmQCH5ouuEvZEiMg4BaA_QHWtSSJHVTfE3yjv4dyDY8IOxAqrxQhs4fFQsNykHabfIj0bLI4mfuG5537WC9qS9wWbdFZpWPU93zcVk5eleQ/s320/catcollages.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Pretty easy to see what <em>my</em> goals are, right? Meow!<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'm happy to report I've actually had some success with this vision board. Since I created it, three stray tabbies have come my way, adding to the eight beautiful kitties now sharing my apartment with me. The more the merrier, I always say!<br />
<br />
My only quibble is that, while I'll never turn down a puss-in-need, my dream is not to <em>own</em> cats. My dream is to <em>be</em> a cat. On that front, I still have a ways to go:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rEA5nAMS31hvUFV_6bPf7eX7DBOxDSUfd3Hat7FtScwc3x-PDrd6de_m_42LWwBbr6gh7sV2hO8pXhPC6CRrnSGWKKd4DWXx32I_3R4o6xjee4CX5DbbZsxzpr91ztxYQIW2E5HV7Zk/s1600/0f00e_500keyboardcat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6rEA5nAMS31hvUFV_6bPf7eX7DBOxDSUfd3Hat7FtScwc3x-PDrd6de_m_42LWwBbr6gh7sV2hO8pXhPC6CRrnSGWKKd4DWXx32I_3R4o6xjee4CX5DbbZsxzpr91ztxYQIW2E5HV7Zk/s320/0f00e_500keyboardcat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
</div>
It's all right, though. With this vision board, I'm confident those plastic surgery funds will fall into my hands (or should I say "paws"?) any day now! <br />
<br />
Can't wait for those whisker implants!<br />
Guy Who Really, <em>Really</em> Loves Cats<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
To the Great and All-Mighty Oprah:<br />
<br />
This vision board shit <em>works</em>. Seriously. This is mine:<br />
<br />
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<br />
And take a look at me now! That's right, Light: I'm talking to <em>you</em>. You didn't think little old Neutrino had the <em>nards</em>, did you, bitch? Hell, you didn't even think I <em>existed</em>! You were all, "I'm so effing hot, 'cuz I'm a wave <em>and</em> a particle", blah blah blah.<br />
<br />
Well, you can just eat my atomic dust, pal. That goes for you too, Gravity. You're next. I'm gonna eff you up. And then I'm gonna eff up Corbin Bleu.<br />
<br />
Oprah rocks!<br />
The Neutrino a/k/a<br />
DJ "Calamitous" Nu<br />
Radioactive BadassPaula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-25271132359905260012011-09-21T12:59:00.000-04:002011-09-30T15:10:19.181-04:00How To Survive A Hurricane; or, A Checklist of Preparations For The Amphibious UprisingRemember Hurricane Irene? You know -- that storm that hit a couple of natural disasters ago? Well, here in our neck of New Jersey, we weathered it <i>just fine</i>, thank you very much. Those news-people act like a little rain and wind is some kind of <i>Weather Event<b></b></i> -- but seriously! No big deal. I mean, yeah, we're out a couple grand due to the basement flooding. But we're up one Valium prescription and God knows how many mold spores! I think even Charlie Sheen would agree that we are <i>WINNING</i>!<br />
<br />
Of course, not everyone escaped Irene unscathed. But then again, not everyone was <b>ready</b> for Irene the way we were. And not to brag (much), but we were hell-of <strong>ready</strong>.<br />
<br />
I know, you're dying for our gameplan. I'm besieged with requests for advice. They may not be actual, verbalized requests. But still: I sense your curiosity through the telepathic cable-ways of the Great Interweb, much in the same way a shaman senses an aura, or that creepy midget chick from <i>Poltergeist</i> sensed the presence of some really foul-tempered Indians.<br />
<br />
As such, I give you a detailed checklist for hurricane preparedness. No thanks necessary, although cash donations are always welcome.<br />
<br />
<b>4 Days Prior to Storm:</b> Call elderly mother, who will fly from California to your home in New Jersey the next evening. Watch <i>Project Runway</i> repeat while you half-listen to her natterings, catching words like "flashlight batteries", "storm windows" and "Al Roker".
Ask her who the hell this "Irene" person is.<br />
<br />
<strong>2 Days Prior to Storm:</strong> Swing by grocery store for some more of those mini Dove bars. Marvel at lines of people hoarding water, packaged donuts, and all manner of lunch meats, a la that movie about nuclear holocaust you were forced to watch in grade school. Mentally predict mass uptick in post-apocalyptic cholesterol. Get Dove bars and go on your merry way.<br />
<br />
<strong>1 Day Prior to Storm:</strong> Chat with neighbor about what unusual weather you're having! Experience twinge of nerves when she says she drove eight hours to a Home Depot in the Pennsylvania hinterlands to purchase the Last Generator on the Eastern Seaboard. At the words "duct tape", proceed to full-on panic/flop sweat. Rush back home to locate flashlights, candles and cell-phone charger. Succeed in locating a penlight, the stumps of ten birthday candles, and last remaining Paxil tablet.<br />
<br />
<strong>Day of Storm:</strong> Pace before windows. Make prescient, Cassandra-like comments, such as <em>Those clouds don't look good</em>, or <em>Storm's a-comin'</em>. Cluck as wind sways tree branches, raining down hundreds of twigs (<em>Who's gonna clean <strong>that</strong> up? Not me!</em>). Survive remaining daylight hours courtesy of Paxil tablet, chased down with half-bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.<br />
<br />
<strong>Evening of Storm:</strong> Grow anxious about pounding rain and shrieking wind. Attempt to quell anxiety by watching some god-awful rom-com wherein Kate Hudson acts all slutty. Agree with eldery mother that, while Ginnifer Godwin is adorable, "Kate Hudson is a bitch". <br />
<br />
<strong>11:30pm:</strong> Gasp as power goes out, as this means 1) sump pump will fail, and 2) you may never see that whore Kate Hudson get her come-uppance. When power returns, rush to basement to find sump pump in working order and dry floor. Marvel at your luck. Laugh at Gaia. Give God the L-is-for-Loser sign. Go to sleep, courtesy of remaining half-bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.<br />
<br />
<strong>12:30am:</strong> Awake to husband muttering about a little flooding. Run downstairs to find basement submerged in three inches of murky puddle-water. Scream like Medea. Determine that water is managing to circulate back in through windows and walls. Accompany husband outside, in rain, in skivvies. Together, jerry-rig spare vacuum hoses to extend sump pump drain further from house. Briefly, revel in MacGyver-esque glory.<br />
<br />
<strong>12:45am:</strong> Wake up elderly mother and enlist her in lifting remaining basement valuables onto ping-pong table. Slosh barefoot through ankle-deep filth as elderly mother hoists her pajama bottoms up like a worker on a Vietnamese rice paddy. When she worriedly points to numerous electrical cords dangling from ceiling, bark: "Shut up and keep moving, woman."<br />
<br />
<strong>1:00am:</strong> Answer phone call from Russian father-in-law in Brooklyn. Listen in sympathy as he describes, in thick Russian accent, the flood damage to his New Jersey rental property. Listen in disbelief when he announces he is driving down to survey carnage. Try to dissuade him with compelling, tightly-reasoned arguments, such as <em>Hey! Shit happens! What're you gonna do?</em><br />
<br />
<strong>1:15am:</strong> Roll eyes when husband informs you he is driving to aforementioned property to meet father-in-law. Mention unlikelihood of getting there, as roads will be flooded. Mention futility of getting there, as property cannot be saved. Roll eyes yet again when husband responds <em>Hey! It's Pops! What're you gonna do?</em> Snottily, toss him car keys and go back to bed.<br />
<br />
<strong>3:30am:</strong> Dream of phone ringing and ringing and ringing . . . <br />
<br />
<strong>3:35am:</strong> Wake up and answer goddam phone. Lie in stunned silence as husband states his car is stalled in water and you need to come rescue him. Stare at receiver when his cell phone cuts out. Wait three seconds, then let loose with string of searing profanities that rouses not only elderly mother, but twin children to boot. Don pair of dirty sweats and flip-flops, then hit the road.<br />
<br />
<strong>3:50am:</strong> Drive at snail's pace over fallen tree limbs and debris. Pass downed telephone poles and mangled lawn furniture. Change routes twice due to roads closed by flooding or fallen trees. Shiver as wind kicks up. Remind yourself of marriage vows, of promises to support and aid spouse through thick and thin. Remember, tearfully, all instances he was there for you, providing succor.<br />
<br />
<strong>3:51:09am:</strong> Glance down at fuel gauge and see that husband has left you with empty tank.<br />
<br />
<strong>3:51:10am:</strong> Curse that stupid shit-ass motherfucker and the day you married him. <br />
<br />
<strong>3:52:am:</strong> Cry. Glance at fuel gauge again and determine that the red line is JUST BELOW the E, not even ON it. Cry harder.<br />
<br />
<strong>3:55am:</strong> Talk to Jesus. Tell him it's been awhile, but He's always on your mind. Tell him if He gets you through this, you will serve him. Faithfully and for eternity.<br />
<br />
<strong>3:56am:</strong> Drop your jaw in amazement as scores of frogs begin hopping into the road. Little itty-bitty ones! Big fat juicy ones! Dozens and dozens of them, leaping before your headlights! Asserting their rightful place as Masters of Creation! Convince yourself this is either 1) a flashback to that movie <em>Magnolia</em> or 2) the End of Days.<br />
<br />
<strong>3:57am:</strong> Talk to Jesus again. Tell him if He gets you through this, the <em>whole family</em> will serve him. Even the ones who are Jewish.<br />
<br />
<strong>4:00am:</strong> Arrive to find husband's car in a ditch alongside father-in-law's, which has a flat. Exhort husband and father-in-law to get in the damn car. Tell them: "Congratulations, assholes! You're both Jews for Jesus now!" Watch father-in-law shake head and mumble, <em>What the Hell? </em>Which, with his accent, comes out <em>Vat da Hill</em>?<br />
<br />
<strong>4:05am:</strong> Drive home as father-in-law becomes increasingly worried his grandchildren have been promised over to Christ. Listen as his <em>Vat da Hill?</em>s grow louder and more frequent.<br />
<br />
<strong>4:10am:</strong> Arrive home. Stumble into bed, but not before reminding father-in-law he WILL be working the Methodist soup kitchen come Thanksgiving,<em> because</em> <em>Jesus says so</em>. More <em>Vat da Hill?</em>s.<br />
<br />
<strong>9:00am:</strong> Stand in driveway bleary-eyed as tow-truck pulls husband's and father-in-law's cars in. Jokingly ask the tow-truck guy if he was "busy" the night before. Keep quiet when he responds, "Yeah . . . and all because of stupid people making poor decisions." Just nod and sigh as if you are in no way, shape or form one of those people.Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-15505030268701424882011-09-07T12:39:00.000-04:002011-09-30T15:11:11.562-04:00Sleeper: The Mayberry Version<em>Ms. Taylor? Wake up, Ms. Taylor.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Who said that? Andy? Opie? Oh, good heavens -- where <em>am</em> I?</strong><br />
<br />
<em>In a hospital, Ms. Taylor. In the year 2011. You've been cryogenically frozen for the last half-century, but there's a defect in your preservation tank. We thought it best to thaw you out.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Like one of those TV dinners, you mean? Sakes alive! Well, thank you, gentlemen. And please, call me Aunt Bee.</strong><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoExFuC-GbXhZErdKRvV-4ENgu5Xa77oATO-Qfo1qPdYFDQIuphIxWtd1gSjtFyYybFP4-f_tNOerO5qBLEozz721rgduMLb5kD6NLBg_sRjMQ0Ziuk2WqrMYtnttkNdo7mGwp8lazVrQ/s1600/AuntBeeSweet.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649655758603260642" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoExFuC-GbXhZErdKRvV-4ENgu5Xa77oATO-Qfo1qPdYFDQIuphIxWtd1gSjtFyYybFP4-f_tNOerO5qBLEozz721rgduMLb5kD6NLBg_sRjMQ0Ziuk2WqrMYtnttkNdo7mGwp8lazVrQ/s400/AuntBeeSweet.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 224px; width: 225px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em>Certainly. And no thanks necessary, Aunt Bee. We're just glad you made it, and in perfect health. Or at least healthy enough for a woman your age. Who lived a half-century ago, that is.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Say, fellas, what's that supposed to mean?</strong><br />
<br />
<em>How do we put this, Aunt Bee? You make a respectable 50-ish woman, circa 1960. But in 2011 . . . ahem . . . taking together your skin tone, your muscle tone, your weight, your hair . . . </em><br />
<br />
<strong>Oh, now, quit your hemming and hawing!</strong><br />
<br />
<em>. . . you translate into roughly ninety-eight years old.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Ninety-eight! Why, you're as crazy as a Bessie bug!</strong><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK5vk3GxIe3B92oUb8-Do6Q187nCOzR-XUnzlNCcMY2pGffqXBYz1Qjzg49T7HzDVf-ZSWmBlldzj4dLF3RkXfoLnqxG7dgQjPrCp2cFfag6HrOMM43E9atnmaJZHPtMkVSO8ekvUaQ3o/s1600/AuntBeeScared.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649656019531733586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK5vk3GxIe3B92oUb8-Do6Q187nCOzR-XUnzlNCcMY2pGffqXBYz1Qjzg49T7HzDVf-ZSWmBlldzj4dLF3RkXfoLnqxG7dgQjPrCp2cFfag6HrOMM43E9atnmaJZHPtMkVSO8ekvUaQ3o/s400/AuntBeeScared.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 374px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em>Believe it, Aunt Bee. But don't fret. Thanks to 21st-Century Know-How, you have the tools to look like a 45-year-old who's desperately trying to look 30!</em><br />
<br />
<strong>You don't say!</strong><br />
<br />
<em>We <em>do</em> say. Let's start with those saggy, oversized breasts of yours. Nothing a set of surgically-implanted silicone baggies can't fix.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Hold it right there, mister. No one's going to stick a Glad bag in my bosoms!</strong> <br />
<br />
<em>Can't be helped, Aunt Bee. Your floaters don't float. They droop like 30 pounds of wet pizza dough.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>But can't I just borrow a set of falsies from my friend Clara? She only wears them when she needs an extra "oomph", like at the church bake sale. Helps to sell pound cake, Clara says. Or how 'bout I stuff my brassiere with a pair of Opie's socks?</strong><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiuBhP4BA6o33uh0-RKBEsdzMqWiGyayJfmWjXfqb7uh0O3CJSWR1V482IvM37dGDq-MWz6nrUveSZbdJjCvAsY9e5ykHPCEe63mQNLsxhZTC2oQGL4dBV17I_S9CEVTWt2A_jPDPme1M/s1600/auntbeeworried2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649656408113795362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiuBhP4BA6o33uh0-RKBEsdzMqWiGyayJfmWjXfqb7uh0O3CJSWR1V482IvM37dGDq-MWz6nrUveSZbdJjCvAsY9e5ykHPCEe63mQNLsxhZTC2oQGL4dBV17I_S9CEVTWt2A_jPDPme1M/s400/auntbeeworried2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 193px; width: 261px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em>Insufficient leverage. See, it's not enough that your nipples are above your navel. They need to be upright, Bee. The boobage needs to be tight, shiny and wrinkle-free. Ideally, you should look like you have a child's buttocks stapled to your chest.</em> <br />
<br />
<strong>But -</strong><br />
<br />
<em>Moving on: let's talk about those extra pounds. You're fat, Aunt Bee. As in grossly, horrifically overweight.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Well, I suppose I <em>do</em> over-do it on the fried chicken. And I've always had a weakness for butterscotch pecan pie. But flibbertigibbet! Can't a gal treat herself once in awhile?</strong><br />
<br />
<em>No, a gal cannot. Your deep-fried, carmelized days are over, Bee. From now on, it's shredded Romaine hearts, doused in vinegar. You want to go nuts? Add an egg white. You need to get moving, too. We haven't seen calves like yours since Water for Elephants. Start jogging. Kick-boxing. Aerobic-aquatic-pole-dancing. And weight training, for those bat-wings you call arms! How much heavy lifting do you do?</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Heavy lifting? I leave that for Andy!</strong><br />
<br />
<em>Not any more, you don't. You need to build up those biceps to a nice, gender-ambiguous size. Muscular, but not threatening -- like Jared Leto in Fight Club. And don't worry about any stubborn flab you can't lose. We'll just suck that right up with lipo.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>You're -- you're going to take a <em>Hoover</em> to me? Butter my biscuit!</strong> <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZxIdK8O9dvCAQlxDe8sMFdbuAM1Di7wOsqJJ07aR0Mjf2nwvzHglLXrRDYXI6N1F9K0591nsgQmlAecCnOACl0Rpvb35Wqk_YIxK76O_VwDxRMTjLO2gcOZdOpf1tU7hy5r0deYFXIg/s1600/auntbeeworried.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649656762540675090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyZxIdK8O9dvCAQlxDe8sMFdbuAM1Di7wOsqJJ07aR0Mjf2nwvzHglLXrRDYXI6N1F9K0591nsgQmlAecCnOACl0Rpvb35Wqk_YIxK76O_VwDxRMTjLO2gcOZdOpf1tU7hy5r0deYFXIg/s400/auntbeeworried.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 211px; width: 238px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em>Lipo's only the beginning, Bee. Wait till we start sand-blasting your face. Right now, you look like a Bassett Hound bitch on her last litter. But a little Botox, a little filler, and good-bye, droopy eyes! You'll look like a lobotomized crack-whore when you smile, but not a line in sight! As for that jawline of yours -- yeesh. That's a problem. We've seen walruses with tighter jowls. Maybe a partial facelift?</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Oh, tie me to a pig and roll me in the mud! I've just about had it with you boys! It's all lift-this and firm-that with you! Well, I've managed quite nicely for the last fifty-odd years with just a Maidenform girdle and a jar of Vaseline for my face. Besides: I'm an old woman! <em>Why</em> in the good Lord's name do I <em>have</em> to look young?</strong><br />
<br />
<em>I've got one word for you, Bee: Viagra.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>What's that, you say? <em>Niagra</em>?</strong><br />
<br />
<em>A pill, Bee. A beautiful, magical pill sent by God to mankind. See, there was a time when a man reached a certain age, and his machinery . . . slowed. There was no bone in the pork, if you will. But thanks to Viagra, a guy can dippity-do-da till he drops dead! His lungs may be hooked to a respirator, his heart wired to a pacemaker, his sorry old ass shoved in a wheelchair -- but so what?! Mr. Zippy still zips! And isn't that really what it's all about?</em><br />
<br />
<strong>A pill that puts the pepper in the pickle?! And all so that <em>men</em> can keep churning butter? Opie, cover your ears!</strong><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMekBg3NKlwYiJKbBXHOWvReTNa4dHckGIgoZ-WTy-yhBYqnaipW8InAU7JZaxL8EUJezsQ6y0w73Aj6Li0jHiipEG5l3CmY0xQ6bNAYrTXCU7hTRHrmocH74yCxbUn_TVqHBvDcnsDQ/s1600/auntbeefinal.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5649656942033282386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMekBg3NKlwYiJKbBXHOWvReTNa4dHckGIgoZ-WTy-yhBYqnaipW8InAU7JZaxL8EUJezsQ6y0w73Aj6Li0jHiipEG5l3CmY0xQ6bNAYrTXCU7hTRHrmocH74yCxbUn_TVqHBvDcnsDQ/s400/auntbeefinal.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 194px; width: 259px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em>So you see, Bee, it's important women your age stay as attractive as possible. Because God knows, a 72 year old bald guy with ear warts and hemmorhoids is going to be hard-pressed to score a younger woman, unless she's blind. Or deranged. Or Lindsay Lohan. So come on, Bee -- let's make you HAWT! Let's get you looking sex-ay, sex-ay, SEX-AY! . . . which brings us to your bikini area . . .</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Andy? Barney? Anyone?!! Help me, please!!!</strong><br />
<br />
<em>It's a disaster, Bee. Let's just say Chewbacca was better groomed. But with just one Brazilian wax --</em><br />
<br />
<strong>You want to pour <em>beeswax</em> on the <em>begonias</em>???</strong><br />
<br />
<em>Where's she running? Dammit, straight for the cryogenic chamber! Stop, Aunt Bee! Come back!!! . . . Too late. She pressed the Reset button. And we hadn't even talked vaginoplasty yet. Ah, well. Better luck next time. Let's go thaw out Ethel Mertz.</em>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-13474237574845838262011-02-09T17:03:00.027-05:002011-09-30T15:11:53.804-04:00Tiger Mother: Coco's Response<strong>Editorial Note:</strong> In recent weeks, there has been much uproar over Amy Chua's memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. In it, Ms. Chua chronicles her controversial parenting methods, including how she withheld food, water, and bladder-emptying privileges from her daughter until she mastered an obscure piano piece by an even more obscure French composer. Some pundits champion Ms. Chua's tough-love approach as an antidote to the flaccid, weak-willed parenting favored by non-lawyers who did not attend Harvard. Others claim her tyrannical style puts her daughter's psychological well-being at risk.<br />
<br />
No one, however, has questioned how Ms. Chua's "Tiger Mothering" has impacted another member of the Chua household.<br />
<br />
No, not her husband, Jed. That poor bastard will shut up and keep his head down if he knows what's good for him. I refer instead to Coco, the Rubenfeld-Chua's Samoyed dog. Chua devotes a chapter of her tome to her struggles with housebreaking Coco, obedience training Coco, and teaching Coco to bark in Mandarin.<br />
<br />
And how does Coco feel about her "Tiger Mom"? No one has bothered to ask. UNTIL NOW.<br />
<br />
I conducted an in-depth interview with Coco over a can of Alpo. The following represents her response to how she is depicted by Ms. Chua in the book. And yes, those are actual excerpts.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Coco is our dog, my first pet ever.</em></strong> <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-HB_pXG0tN5D7npmMfhYf73RmUFUw-BsZj8v_RgBlxZJc4azuREeG6uU5YdxvIxkiGxleJ5qJWo3SrPNUMstpwMj5-kFXCul25zSOgxYrDwlNkaC5qNgtGvP777-hpQecQ4p7pSX2y4/s1600/Cocotreat.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571818956115385906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-HB_pXG0tN5D7npmMfhYf73RmUFUw-BsZj8v_RgBlxZJc4azuREeG6uU5YdxvIxkiGxleJ5qJWo3SrPNUMstpwMj5-kFXCul25zSOgxYrDwlNkaC5qNgtGvP777-hpQecQ4p7pSX2y4/s400/Cocotreat.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 201px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>We had an earlier ordeal that was thankfully short-lived. When the girls were very young, Jed got them a pair of pet rabbits named Whiggy and Tory. I disliked them from the moment I saw them and had nothing to do with them. They were unintelligent and not at all what they claimed to be. . . Eventually, the rabbits mysteriously escaped.</em></strong><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8FKmXM3WL3NOJHBXpiw-1mKUSwzt00NJjFAZTo4kQnxe4gqXuCz1Y4VcmtwiboWl2tNvk9zS5ayo3DNJWCDoDb4jEIabgpl3GFKpP-grw54I5NsBSonShsM4d0SeW_Pd9hgduSxeQYw/s1600/Cocobunnystew.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571821403797387570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI8FKmXM3WL3NOJHBXpiw-1mKUSwzt00NJjFAZTo4kQnxe4gqXuCz1Y4VcmtwiboWl2tNvk9zS5ayo3DNJWCDoDb4jEIabgpl3GFKpP-grw54I5NsBSonShsM4d0SeW_Pd9hgduSxeQYw/s400/Cocobunnystew.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 160px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>Coco is a Samoyed . . . born on January 26, 2006. The runt of the litter, she has always been unusually timid</strong>.</em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiamLiDdYrO3nmRGM5wicqQ7GQ4aul6jtgoOx3FJa1yEMgJDz14QjbmuzocIcEScZEhj34F58Nfq2bOt1RNniPQ3HOZUxxGTzOBeyt7jEfo_xVFKRuEl0AE5mx9pdVyZW4MgnsN_L6v828/s1600/Cococrazy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571822230676476946" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiamLiDdYrO3nmRGM5wicqQ7GQ4aul6jtgoOx3FJa1yEMgJDz14QjbmuzocIcEScZEhj34F58Nfq2bOt1RNniPQ3HOZUxxGTzOBeyt7jEfo_xVFKRuEl0AE5mx9pdVyZW4MgnsN_L6v828/s400/Cococrazy.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 374px; width: 275px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>. . . My first instinct was to apply Chinese parenting to Coco. I had heard of dogs who can count and do the Heimlich maneuver . . . [Samoyeds] were also the lead dogs for the explorer Fridtjof Nansen's famous 1895 attempt to reach the North Pole.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-JsHSmYq0g1dwvfD8X7xxqHMkVM07oxar_XD4fdHBrY2d1O1-bHshkX5RIYRbMKa2WAHV8jJV745P4yOLZIu5jXqSO9bhKwHQ2CCOWsUIvnKpuab_HrF4XKh221dWmPblxBtTi3zcj0/s1600/Cocosled.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571823073898756786" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha-JsHSmYq0g1dwvfD8X7xxqHMkVM07oxar_XD4fdHBrY2d1O1-bHshkX5RIYRbMKa2WAHV8jJV745P4yOLZIu5jXqSO9bhKwHQ2CCOWsUIvnKpuab_HrF4XKh221dWmPblxBtTi3zcj0/s400/Cocosled.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>. . . I was convinced that Coco had hidden talent. I began to do extensive research. I bought many books . . . befriended other dog owners . . . I found a place that offered a Doggy Kindergarten class, a prerequisite for more advanced courses.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqz748-9PEkgEI5zFzTBEBmA7T_wTbhXP3C__Hb9dIIlzws9DJJCXAb371yynh3Qh6UmCGUSqR544VVpePNNMZJy-bdJYSny13OEewtdcSo2Wk5vM6DViHTfU5aG_Zqf7chbwPl5R9Ko8/s1600/Cocokindergarten.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571824340444667026" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqz748-9PEkgEI5zFzTBEBmA7T_wTbhXP3C__Hb9dIIlzws9DJJCXAb371yynh3Qh6UmCGUSqR544VVpePNNMZJy-bdJYSny13OEewtdcSo2Wk5vM6DViHTfU5aG_Zqf7chbwPl5R9Ko8/s400/Cocokindergarten.png" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 130px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>. . . [Eventually], the only skill she'd mastered was not going to the bathroom anymore on our rugs. Jed pointed out that Coco could also sit and fetch and that she excelled at Frisbee. Unfortunately, that was all Coco could do.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnE6tlkokhhX6lM3cDxVqTUsKrQzRfV3nhNN73prGu_i-anVg6zN07KKV4XZEAhgp4-9czda55zjo-Selu3uI9f5N1kJrgU3yzydicXE06PxFKzU50epCUGlrSSlCJ0ZLnHge0RfD2q2Y/s1600/cocopoops.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571824976535916114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnE6tlkokhhX6lM3cDxVqTUsKrQzRfV3nhNN73prGu_i-anVg6zN07KKV4XZEAhgp4-9czda55zjo-Selu3uI9f5N1kJrgU3yzydicXE06PxFKzU50epCUGlrSSlCJ0ZLnHge0RfD2q2Y/s400/cocopoops.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 214px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>I did an Internet search for "dog intelligence rankings" . . . I scrolled down the list, frantically looking for "Samoyed" to appear. It didn't . . . Samoyeds were ranked #33 out of 79 -- not the dumbest dog but definitely average. I felt nauseated.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmD348x5cuAtKRpMtU6OTsx2iE2x9YujViD0NM2ZTXUz6VgJVm45bVWp0bpnQQM1qzvEqsb-r0zBT7ln8TIkTIAewaPhHT3JDke_2jYaZ7tx0myZCoTR2svyAOrAHuEZLk34h6XQk3wJg/s1600/cocostoopid.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571826263298841906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmD348x5cuAtKRpMtU6OTsx2iE2x9YujViD0NM2ZTXUz6VgJVm45bVWp0bpnQQM1qzvEqsb-r0zBT7ln8TIkTIAewaPhHT3JDke_2jYaZ7tx0myZCoTR2svyAOrAHuEZLk34h6XQk3wJg/s400/cocostoopid.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 372px; width: 259px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>I accused [my husband] of being selfish and thinking only of himself. "What dreams do you have for Sophia, or for Lulu? Do you ever even think about that? What are your dreams for Coco?"</strong></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlxqGhoJjMUSXcFUga28yMrhBq38INrdbcJ8NfiiEhnbI-bqZrZGJB3qc_yp2yc6wLaZzyG661jNsSux3AUxk1spW5vvrtXoQlQKkbVCw-orNIUQc0OcFVzjCTXt7IAAPu8Ld8w6veiI/s1600/Cocobone.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571827521831489906" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMlxqGhoJjMUSXcFUga28yMrhBq38INrdbcJ8NfiiEhnbI-bqZrZGJB3qc_yp2yc6wLaZzyG661jNsSux3AUxk1spW5vvrtXoQlQKkbVCw-orNIUQc0OcFVzjCTXt7IAAPu8Ld8w6veiI/s400/Cocobone.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>Samoyeds are notoriously difficult to train . . . [but] if the only issue was a stubborn, disobedient streak, that was nothing I couldn't handle.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVTcwQJvn3ngsFfWnsS84ZmudeMH2UfqA4X3ecJK40llcenQdwJrNgG9t6Z3FtdhUP5dbNOq_hNopUbFKOAsYWAeCPgWL1rCEA7F8jr03I1oTt6uUv1UQmDNve7Z3gawgkIx6ynEOSG_w/s1600/Cocoyap.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571828281754315698" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVTcwQJvn3ngsFfWnsS84ZmudeMH2UfqA4X3ecJK40llcenQdwJrNgG9t6Z3FtdhUP5dbNOq_hNopUbFKOAsYWAeCPgWL1rCEA7F8jr03I1oTt6uUv1UQmDNve7Z3gawgkIx6ynEOSG_w/s400/Cocoyap.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 137px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong> . . . and then, Coco? Coco! I said, COCO!!! What IS it? I explicitly instructed you NEVER to interrupt me when I'm recording my <em>mem-wahs</em>! You shame me! You're GARBAGE! You're -- wait. What's that in your mouth? Bring it here.</strong></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejGS4gurqaHMu17XP0iZS0BYObm2FI4ZaxVQIdqX8lyQRGslvJADdd0D_eEhtDS7o6OMMDAxLlDVgOfB3jovCD1WrNSCFSBBCy6b7BInHa3ZCRFOhD9tu_BbjQ_W4p3VH6okYp47omzw/s1600/imagesCAXF2CXW.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571829843233692962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiejGS4gurqaHMu17XP0iZS0BYObm2FI4ZaxVQIdqX8lyQRGslvJADdd0D_eEhtDS7o6OMMDAxLlDVgOfB3jovCD1WrNSCFSBBCy6b7BInHa3ZCRFOhD9tu_BbjQ_W4p3VH6okYp47omzw/s400/imagesCAXF2CXW.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 187px; width: 269px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em><strong>Bring it! What's this? A present for me? Oh, Coco, you really shouldn't have. Actually, you should have, because you owe everything to me. But still. Let me open this. It's a -- it's a -- I don't believe this --</strong></em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi15QkN1tznCOtYJpYsNxaImpJE7pDjk_n6bDW_3QtZA_G7639sDsOv2U6XW2_iqv4SuRnwi5FwjplgUWeHBe3toQ3aqyEbYVF2DT-7Djx3RPwFx5oerMKSJA8u4RdFsNB65OHmi7FN2I/s1600/imagesCALRDAGG.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571830459925506770" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi15QkN1tznCOtYJpYsNxaImpJE7pDjk_n6bDW_3QtZA_G7639sDsOv2U6XW2_iqv4SuRnwi5FwjplgUWeHBe3toQ3aqyEbYVF2DT-7Djx3RPwFx5oerMKSJA8u4RdFsNB65OHmi7FN2I/s400/imagesCALRDAGG.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 201px; width: 251px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<strong>IS THIS HOW YOU TREAT YOUR MOTHER?!!!</strong><br />
<br />
<strong>{hyperventilating} Keep breathing, Amy. You are a Tiger! Tigers. Don't. Faint.{THUD!}</strong><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcRe5npld-9pIXBL8jg-LEFG62ScXQUNv-OT78g_VFD9YbJ7CqvhyphenhyphenooxAi8e7GNvxZKn8RC4ijp1XzRhiNutKov1NRsVkxPk_Sz78GpRVZibzpmzoFyXW7AV4IebLxPx3waFyH7Lk1Wg/s1600/untitled.bmp"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571831644634168434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcRe5npld-9pIXBL8jg-LEFG62ScXQUNv-OT78g_VFD9YbJ7CqvhyphenhyphenooxAi8e7GNvxZKn8RC4ijp1XzRhiNutKov1NRsVkxPk_Sz78GpRVZibzpmzoFyXW7AV4IebLxPx3waFyH7Lk1Wg/s400/untitled.bmp" style="cursor: pointer; height: 262px; width: 192px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZ-LsBYvAJLv60V3KPAWP7Vv9SJzYki-IhDYArJ9k6L9KsmAAhnOBTRMFEHS7BAjQp9E9Uo12Wv2OkkzFOhFoLCSnzG__fCWqVhbmcbT4Sqi25Emv1lpFj36oFTkiTiqehrVXuznnB3o/s1600/Coconap.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571832440833756514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZ-LsBYvAJLv60V3KPAWP7Vv9SJzYki-IhDYArJ9k6L9KsmAAhnOBTRMFEHS7BAjQp9E9Uo12Wv2OkkzFOhFoLCSnzG__fCWqVhbmcbT4Sqi25Emv1lpFj36oFTkiTiqehrVXuznnB3o/s400/Coconap.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 333px; width: 259px;" /></a>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-12111146280747551332010-03-03T16:18:00.009-05:002011-09-30T15:12:48.419-04:00The Young Adult Novel Pitch<strong>Pitch #1: </strong> Sixteen-year-old Kira Belle couldn't be more bored when she moves to a remote Irish fishing village to live with her estranged mother. But then she meets Seamus, a brooding young man with a dark secret . . .<br />
<br />
. . . he's a <strong>leprechaun</strong>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzoqEDjVwuNbPwjLgv0VbYzqwaaaktYStY5ttsYi_nNG3fH2BghOsg8dZpYB0jrnk76VOpyD7LG3b8JdOr71MGhlSQGsnQ1M2CyWVBOI__loP72u9Ag8x4EgAsUpqjI4oEnIVh3aCcdw/s1600-h/leprechaun.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444533785599918290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzoqEDjVwuNbPwjLgv0VbYzqwaaaktYStY5ttsYi_nNG3fH2BghOsg8dZpYB0jrnk76VOpyD7LG3b8JdOr71MGhlSQGsnQ1M2CyWVBOI__loP72u9Ag8x4EgAsUpqjI4oEnIVh3aCcdw/s400/leprechaun.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 318px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Wait. Not <em>that</em> kind of leprechaun.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXeu8oHhsLJBBatdLDvZ69R-gJrtxqhhK4FI63hALpLkYmK8CeU-zfXFLMbNqeXEgEbTnDhmLjJsvADym55hYIrlqWR6LZ0mT4kUxjdZhizfWlStxDkzxJ2zKQUY63ELSU828B7igIzQ/s1600-h/sexyleprechaun.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444533930581713938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXeu8oHhsLJBBatdLDvZ69R-gJrtxqhhK4FI63hALpLkYmK8CeU-zfXFLMbNqeXEgEbTnDhmLjJsvADym55hYIrlqWR6LZ0mT4kUxjdZhizfWlStxDkzxJ2zKQUY63ELSU828B7igIzQ/s400/sexyleprechaun.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 185px;" /></a><br />
<br />
There we go. Much better.<br />
<br />
When Kira first resists his attentions, Seamus plies her with her one weakness: shoes, each pair lovingly cobbled with his own hands. She falls for Seamus -- hard. But can Seamus resist the urge to trick her? Will he jealously guard his pot o' gold? Or will he finally offer his treasure up to Kira . . . in more ways than one?<br />
<br />
<strong>Verdict:</strong> Intriguing premise. However, Irish demographic too narrow. Additionally, leprechauns same as pixies, which have been done.<br />
<br />
<strong>Pitch #2: </strong>Sixteen-year-old Anna Lovely couldn't be more bored when she moves to Cornhusk, Nebraska to live with her estranged father. But then she meets Demetrios, a brooding young exchange student with a dark secret . . .<br />
<br />
. . . he's a <strong>satyr</strong>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEGJU5TI7nSuwUCtdz5biMxgeN0whb6qafnvUt1mjBFVaTlKB5YFyMqj5uuWTwGFn9qzn5KaHzYndWv1osFhlyvgCRauOzG19UtAMCu0qUfFoMdAWykA6QhJBsUjeos24KKNfg75rgbM/s1600-h/satyrdevito.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444534297841754594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEGJU5TI7nSuwUCtdz5biMxgeN0whb6qafnvUt1mjBFVaTlKB5YFyMqj5uuWTwGFn9qzn5KaHzYndWv1osFhlyvgCRauOzG19UtAMCu0qUfFoMdAWykA6QhJBsUjeos24KKNfg75rgbM/s400/satyrdevito.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 392px; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Oh, for God's sake, not <em>that</em> kind of satyr.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYpPh-Ep9PSeXASvf__ibBDQgXcueGjBEk5ulMDHVAP3V0kJw9yKRAGaeJZfnTqobCb9R_PcZaQcAC1OtxAZLQEj4lLmh9HqpGQd4HVQFXxoPrOcrSVdodpyejdcUNT1SAV4tgxKP9v9g/s1600-h/satyr.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444534527734736914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYpPh-Ep9PSeXASvf__ibBDQgXcueGjBEk5ulMDHVAP3V0kJw9yKRAGaeJZfnTqobCb9R_PcZaQcAC1OtxAZLQEj4lLmh9HqpGQd4HVQFXxoPrOcrSVdodpyejdcUNT1SAV4tgxKP9v9g/s400/satyr.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<em>Yes</em>. Thank you.<br />
<br />
When Anna first resists his attentions, Demetrios plies her with her one weakness: gyros, each one lovingly rolled with his own hands. She falls for Demetrios -- hard. But can Anna love Demetrios without succumbing to his lusty satyr nature? Or will he seduce Anna into a drunken, violent, bacchanalian frenzy?<br />
<br />
<strong>Verdict:</strong> I like the bestiality overtones. Edgy! But could be problematic with Middle America, not to mention PETA, ASPCA, etc.<br />
<br />
<strong>Pitch #3:</strong> Sixteen-year-old Serena Babe couldn't be more bored when she moves to a truck stop out in the middle of nowhere to live with her estranged grandmother. But then she meets Beelzebub, a brooding young truck driver with a dark secret . . . <br />
<br />
. . . he's <strong>Satan</strong>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6tmeOslC1uO0ftroXcNtb52ux9Jn4VqGnYR99kzcbTxEvrcJXAowW_DVIvQX2M68ok9UVygEOniUqIs4a5PPsGaDZHVJhzVixYm6IycOIzcTLKtwexPfEqjq18sCbU8XGVajuUH_T00/s1600-h/SatanPit.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444534798182469186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn6tmeOslC1uO0ftroXcNtb52ux9Jn4VqGnYR99kzcbTxEvrcJXAowW_DVIvQX2M68ok9UVygEOniUqIs4a5PPsGaDZHVJhzVixYm6IycOIzcTLKtwexPfEqjq18sCbU8XGVajuUH_T00/s400/SatanPit.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 278px; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
&^%$@!, people. Do we never learn???? Think Satan as in gorgeous fallen angel, okay?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheVgcml2hr67NAGYhZNCJmytACB3fVW706xjM-BxRmm6TMJoX7FSBd5E4Uk0ihJwDqo9Syff-dNnvrDEENxgGFMnI5wLIWCL1DX6VDiv8h84u_ajT73pcOXi-MghngIiALDoWUm2ILBE/s1600-h/SexyMaleAngel.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444535082873293074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheVgcml2hr67NAGYhZNCJmytACB3fVW706xjM-BxRmm6TMJoX7FSBd5E4Uk0ihJwDqo9Syff-dNnvrDEENxgGFMnI5wLIWCL1DX6VDiv8h84u_ajT73pcOXi-MghngIiALDoWUm2ILBE/s400/SexyMaleAngel.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 400px; width: 377px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Yes! <em>Finally.</em> Sheesh.<br />
<br />
When Serena first resists his attentions, Beelzebub plies her with her one weakness: an insatiable lust for money, fame and power. She falls for Beelzebub -- hard. But will Beelzebub drag Anna to Hell and slow-roast her over a spit for all eternity? Or will their scorching love survive temptation?<br />
<br />
<strong>Verdict:</strong> Love it! This one's a go! Look for <em>Damned If I Do</em> to hit bookshelves in late 2010!Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-68152562104575643562010-02-24T17:10:00.013-05:002010-02-24T18:06:58.306-05:00Killer BunsSatan's minion is living in my basement until the weather warms. Yes, you heard me. Satan's Minion, also known as Katy the Bunny.<br /><br />She's my daughter's rabbit. Actually, <em>he's</em> my daughter's rabbit. We thought he was a she. He was sold to us as a she. But when I dropped him off at the vet's to get fixed, prepared for an overnight stay, the nursing staff called me within the hour, saying Katy was ready and waiting.<br /><br />"That was fast!" I said.<br /><br />"Castrations usually are," said the nurse.<br /><br />My daughter is none the wiser, and continues to address him as Katy. Fine by me: trannies are hip now, are they not? But maybe not so fine by Katy - er, Kevin. Maybe that's why the rabbit is the most evil small mammal I've ever encountered.<br /><br />Seriously. To paraphrase Tim the Enchanter, <em>he's no ordinary rabbit. He's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you've ever set eyes on</em>.<br /><br />In a nutshell: he charges. He grunts. He bites. You barely set foot in the basement and he bullets out of nowhere and nips your ankle.<br /><br />I have made sincere efforts to rehabilitate him. Truly. Just the other day, I spent a good ten minutes stroking his head, which he loves.<br /><br /><em>You're not so bad, little rabbit</em>, I thought to myself. <em>You're soft, at least. And there's no denying you're cute</em>.<br /><br />"Who's a good bunny?" I asked Katy. "Who's the best bunny in the whole wide world?"<br /><br />I stopped stroking him. He lunged at my face and nipped me on the nose.<br /><br />Ever since then, when I visit a French restaurant, I order rabbit. I'm a nice person, but once you break skin, all bets are off.<br /><br />I compiled the following footage in Katy's honor. Take a gander. <em>If you dare</em>.<br /><br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-d3374ce0c2bee296 height=266 width=320 contentId="d3374ce0c2bee296"></OBJECT>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-64965362700990017242010-01-19T21:52:00.009-05:002010-01-19T22:55:53.378-05:00Offensive Hand GesturesMy 8-year-old son recently brought home his latest selection from the school library:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxR2gZG7azc6oDkcGUBND3hHDlk4exVbpKkooO7UGLOad3ku5gFZn8uMuXFHD_OGDQKCVA2LFun9Q6SrXWg28Wvgy5S7mUyFbkgeSGhC75gf1NQoL4YOeogu0zTqbWqTCDyu5O1GB9Tis/s1600-h/signdictionary.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxR2gZG7azc6oDkcGUBND3hHDlk4exVbpKkooO7UGLOad3ku5gFZn8uMuXFHD_OGDQKCVA2LFun9Q6SrXWg28Wvgy5S7mUyFbkgeSGhC75gf1NQoL4YOeogu0zTqbWqTCDyu5O1GB9Tis/s400/signdictionary.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428662430692269138" /></a><br /><br />I could dedicate an entire post to the unconventional, inscrutable being that is my son. But not today.<br /><br />Today, I'll share a few gems I discovered when I paged through this sign language treatise. Signing is tricky business. To express yourself clearly and quickly, using a minimum of manual effort, you sometimes rely a bit on stereotypes. It's like cultural shorthand, you see.<br /><br />For instance, the sign for IRISH is also the sign for POTATO since, as we all know, that humble vegetable is the foundation of all Irish cuisine.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEKD9vbqnz3wR_ixF1626qgXwC5lSsKw_XCZpJBRd-C1BSgeNy9l0wHk2u2Kme9q_GnNV3V1u90t6P88cxnbobn9CcY293m8t-Ya-RwxSo4-WlQhqWSHSUIETQF1bJ4Pz0fsbiQfQX5s/s1600-h/signlanguageirish.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEKD9vbqnz3wR_ixF1626qgXwC5lSsKw_XCZpJBRd-C1BSgeNy9l0wHk2u2Kme9q_GnNV3V1u90t6P88cxnbobn9CcY293m8t-Ya-RwxSo4-WlQhqWSHSUIETQF1bJ4Pz0fsbiQfQX5s/s400/signlanguageirish.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428662434786225074" /></a><br /><br />Likewise, the sign for ARGENTINA is the same as the sign for GUITAR, because . . . <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkVRaCmKroOivXynQpTR8rjXyt7yZ0qcExmF3c8dQdgDxAZBlo9sIDP5Jxga4A2zufdCExS22VTkfwC1PKPoPVoovIRGZp6VNrV9-i-m-2etJ82oxzeZtvAdRjV8x3M3B5gr1crOgF7U/s1600-h/signlanguageargentina.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkVRaCmKroOivXynQpTR8rjXyt7yZ0qcExmF3c8dQdgDxAZBlo9sIDP5Jxga4A2zufdCExS22VTkfwC1PKPoPVoovIRGZp6VNrV9-i-m-2etJ82oxzeZtvAdRjV8x3M3B5gr1crOgF7U/s400/signlanguageargentina.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428662909461629266" /></a><br /><br />. . . because? <br /><br />Huh. Just because.<br /><br />Moving on, the sign for JEWISH or HEBREW requires the speaker to run his fingers over his chin as if stroking an imaginary beard. Which I guess makes sense, as many Jewish men are bearded and quite . . . uhh . . . <em>contemplative</em>, studying the Torah and all. I guess.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ78r9cvRwFuQT9XYP7JVhwqer20-5YEKP1_NrKBMX8yRvH7KLxq5Z7-ym6sQTCey6HwZ35z6sWj7IueIaL1Qg30oN_Go7rtCDiAWrzdwsLchLcHYDlRL20rB3hbBjUzSRjAT9a0RvIzw/s1600-h/signlanguagejewish.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ78r9cvRwFuQT9XYP7JVhwqer20-5YEKP1_NrKBMX8yRvH7KLxq5Z7-ym6sQTCey6HwZ35z6sWj7IueIaL1Qg30oN_Go7rtCDiAWrzdwsLchLcHYDlRL20rB3hbBjUzSRjAT9a0RvIzw/s400/signlanguagejewish.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428662920610953682" /></a><br /><br />See how this works? Cultural shorthand! Which is why the sign for JAPANESE or ASIAN requires the speaker to pull his eyelids lengthwise and -<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYShPDcQZ8U0r-WMgVZaNls-h5awEd507jK-gh5ycvb8eQhOoQrYVuuh0hzGI2e7LP1dgOD11aJhNJgojcmvjqj0K1asQ_D6w9yU02JTm_EtYiBkTf-WLN-FYwLxUWZv3u1x9w7WDYTY/s1600-h/signlanguageasian.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTYShPDcQZ8U0r-WMgVZaNls-h5awEd507jK-gh5ycvb8eQhOoQrYVuuh0hzGI2e7LP1dgOD11aJhNJgojcmvjqj0K1asQ_D6w9yU02JTm_EtYiBkTf-WLN-FYwLxUWZv3u1x9w7WDYTY/s400/signlanguageasian.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428662923221217746" /></a><br /><br />Wait. That can't be right. Really - THAT. CAN'T. BE. RIGHT. Let's take another example.<br /><br />To sign the word HOMOSEXUAL, you simply pinch your fingers together into "ballet hands" and mince your shoulders back and forth as you emulate an effeminate walk . . .<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKnVBMuqUVcJ1U9GrSuwL_NF-qLz_w0qBcOyH6pgOJC5A8wdWEHaNT5Zx1XjiYpnC56WlUd1CQw9RkT5qC93wSOK0z0YYukiEy7bMkabSjKU8ljwArlJwebKaHIw-sa2dok9r0HmBuSkU/s1600-h/signlanguagehomosexual.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKnVBMuqUVcJ1U9GrSuwL_NF-qLz_w0qBcOyH6pgOJC5A8wdWEHaNT5Zx1XjiYpnC56WlUd1CQw9RkT5qC93wSOK0z0YYukiEy7bMkabSjKU8ljwArlJwebKaHIw-sa2dok9r0HmBuSkU/s400/signlanguagehomosexual.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428663383266229042" /></a><br /><br />Oh, COME ON, deaf people. That's just not nice. Can't you substitute another word for 'homosexual'? Like "Broadway", for example? Or "Barry Manilow?"<br /><br />Wait. Hold the phone. It appears that there IS a sign-language substitute for "homosexual". Based on this definition, the sign for "homosexual" is nearly identical and virtually indistinguishable from the sign for . . . <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DZip02_MsOwO0-xLhD8Gi9fgE8XoT2pdaYBZgIf7b9wS0_43OAt1OluxECtLnbk1LH52KIEF7EAzM4ZSmcrEYUyle-goKSLYpcMUyLyYmooaRUIneMVGsmE8raPjQeGNArd-0LKCoMs/s1600-h/signlanguagehollywood.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DZip02_MsOwO0-xLhD8Gi9fgE8XoT2pdaYBZgIf7b9wS0_43OAt1OluxECtLnbk1LH52KIEF7EAzM4ZSmcrEYUyle-goKSLYpcMUyLyYmooaRUIneMVGsmE8raPjQeGNArd-0LKCoMs/s400/signlanguagehollywood.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428663391629177970" /></a><br /><br />HOLLYWOOD???<br /><br /><em>Oy vey</em>, as my gay, potato-eating, guitar-strumming, squinty-eyed, Jewish friend Herschel might say.<br /><br />I give up, deaf people. I give up.Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-18750635736523788212009-12-07T09:57:00.003-05:002009-12-07T10:00:19.964-05:00The Suspicious Advertisement<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXXHe2haj7OAtljXa9AzTiz2PEibM6qNXRNBvy5eC6zVo6sS3TtVwQr_szyoeyRdpca_fe4ExzuN-peFDmcjjYnwcq6zdfSGzzoEH8RdMTGNmY6pqQ3BeNfkErZxV9aur9yH4W-Fu4SU/s1600-h/IMG_0432_edited-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieXXHe2haj7OAtljXa9AzTiz2PEibM6qNXRNBvy5eC6zVo6sS3TtVwQr_szyoeyRdpca_fe4ExzuN-peFDmcjjYnwcq6zdfSGzzoEH8RdMTGNmY6pqQ3BeNfkErZxV9aur9yH4W-Fu4SU/s400/IMG_0432_edited-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412508749297225186" /></a><br /><br />Saw this on the bulletin board at the market this morning. Alas, I prefer my housework to be done by immature Lithuanians. Although the quotation marks make me question whether this person is indeed "mature", or "Polish". Or, for that matter, a "woman".Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-45537461746390812952009-11-19T18:20:00.014-05:002009-11-19T20:14:58.866-05:00If My Neuroses Were Pokemon<strong>Ash: </strong>Hi! I'm Ash Ketchum! Welcome to the Sinnoh Region!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQfzksQIA17Id7QXdCZv0cAsGLN1Br54Qn-_jgh8hjURVCyk-9ZGKCz6VfOcqIY1euOvTqt0kZnhcMprzDndyO_Ysu90wwBrL5dqyMeSHvV_uiFjXK9ftm-yyaEl_mFwXlTCE44nksgY/s1600/ash_pokeball2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 391px; height: 380px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQfzksQIA17Id7QXdCZv0cAsGLN1Br54Qn-_jgh8hjURVCyk-9ZGKCz6VfOcqIY1euOvTqt0kZnhcMprzDndyO_Ysu90wwBrL5dqyMeSHvV_uiFjXK9ftm-yyaEl_mFwXlTCE44nksgY/s400/ash_pokeball2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405959375781612466" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Me: </strong>Oh . . . right. Hey, Ash. Nice to meet you here in Pokemon World. Or whatever. I'm thrilled to be here.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.doppelme.com/?rid=DM264929JBH"><img src="http://www.doppelme.com/DM264929JBH/avatar.gif" border=0></a><br /><br />(<em>under my breath</em>) Thank God there's still alcohol in this animated, parallel universe.<br /><br /><strong>Ash: </strong> What did you say?!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Nothing. Could you lower your voice, please? This isn't pep squad.<br /><br /><strong>Ash: </strong>Right!! Are you a fellow Pokemon Trainer? What is your Pokemon?<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> I have an Anxietor.<br /><br /><strong>Ash:</strong> Anxietor! But I have never seen or heard of such a Pokemon!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> She's agoraphobic. She pretty much stays inside the Pokeball.<br /><br /><strong>Ash:</strong> Let my Pikachu do battle with your Anxietor!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Yeah . . . not a good idea.<br /><br /><strong>Ash:</strong> But I insist!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> (sigh) All right. Anxietor, it's time to do battle. Come out, please. No, you don't look fat. I swear. Yes, I promise no one will laugh at you. That's right. Step outside.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlQ6o8uMEQ-WZCcVoepgoitQWfMxP9WbWp_l_VP_-NfduiLn7K7J7RRUGyDHcTDS8KOdhjyV9ckw_JooNfJgoP4OCFOTrZr_Q21ZvDQrsWtGt_fLGl5WsZaJKJxujh8oT7Rns-ROm0gI/s1600/IMG_0383_edited-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBlQ6o8uMEQ-WZCcVoepgoitQWfMxP9WbWp_l_VP_-NfduiLn7K7J7RRUGyDHcTDS8KOdhjyV9ckw_JooNfJgoP4OCFOTrZr_Q21ZvDQrsWtGt_fLGl5WsZaJKJxujh8oT7Rns-ROm0gI/s400/IMG_0383_edited-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405983320731136626" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Ash:</strong> What a peculiar pocket monster you possess! Let me emphasize my mirth with loud and frantic laughter! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDR87U7MktFOSOffJQ3GnXEsw1pkNcOCzC3o-dh756vPK7RjKEfGfhrnQKnPWUmIuJsNIw_m0Ui98AqM3pU0nWNe_dfaYJ1PVi7-YifwPzCBUjyMPmkiKgMTj3aEuv9xazitKxXxYq9mQ/s1600/ashhappy.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDR87U7MktFOSOffJQ3GnXEsw1pkNcOCzC3o-dh756vPK7RjKEfGfhrnQKnPWUmIuJsNIw_m0Ui98AqM3pU0nWNe_dfaYJ1PVi7-YifwPzCBUjyMPmkiKgMTj3aEuv9xazitKxXxYq9mQ/s400/ashhappy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405984356021304194" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> (to Anxietor). Ignore him. He sounds like a girl.<br /><br /><strong>Ash:</strong> Let us begin! Pikachu! Use Thunderbolt!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAs94sBpevLwdRidJlc_JbyA5pveHY3DYlRx2LClqamUyMgD_vxyg6YTSm9NaC-6Y_nG7U7uDs_FkP08EHRSuePKqBd7L3n1hqIXf6mhT35mnFdmXSYrqQ7BIUjHQeSUsYI5GrT0xy6IA/s1600/Pikachu_thunderbolt.png"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAs94sBpevLwdRidJlc_JbyA5pveHY3DYlRx2LClqamUyMgD_vxyg6YTSm9NaC-6Y_nG7U7uDs_FkP08EHRSuePKqBd7L3n1hqIXf6mhT35mnFdmXSYrqQ7BIUjHQeSUsYI5GrT0xy6IA/s400/Pikachu_thunderbolt.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405985327036380194" /></a><br /><strong><br /><br />Me:</strong> Anxietor! Use Panic Attack!<br /><br /><strong>Ash:</strong> How strange! Your Pokemon appears to have turned blue!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Yeah, she does that when she hyperventilates. (slapping Anxietor) Breathe, dammit! Get ahold of yourself, bitch!<br /><br /><strong>Ash:</strong> She's recovered! Pikachu, use Volt Tackle!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Anxietor, use Meltdown!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Vumf6wPDxhyphenhyphentrRMlW9R7fqkv5QBs7uIvW9H2EsgaMJuH2Oo8ej8x0PywxEPmlSZi4mqclGKWA1LCpitHciFMvqUI88Ek7Ub2MnFEaiK0tYQ04CewNhp35cVPxYPUnoYgKSsRIJj3-Qw/s1600/IMG_0385_edited-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Vumf6wPDxhyphenhyphentrRMlW9R7fqkv5QBs7uIvW9H2EsgaMJuH2Oo8ej8x0PywxEPmlSZi4mqclGKWA1LCpitHciFMvqUI88Ek7Ub2MnFEaiK0tYQ04CewNhp35cVPxYPUnoYgKSsRIJj3-Qw/s400/IMG_0385_edited-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405986488857208178" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Ash:</strong> Your Pokemon is defeated! I'm afraid this Meltdown Attack was completely ineffective!<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> It always is, Ash. It always is. Come, Anxietor. Time for your Valium.Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-74743978192734741142009-11-13T11:16:00.010-05:002009-11-13T11:39:38.693-05:00ShamelessMeet my shame spiral. His name is Floyd.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9wuqxTSA8nkd_P7nN7T9x0NgkfXiHLgJMmZqhuTxkwLBLt1N74wmW-In9BXrUELPEaLJheRzTcreTnrL7zZ0Zxkg_xc41UN8imexsh58QVYajslV7v2PRJgYYwd1XeG55F0OXKOhTzk/s1600-h/IMG_0368-copy.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz9wuqxTSA8nkd_P7nN7T9x0NgkfXiHLgJMmZqhuTxkwLBLt1N74wmW-In9BXrUELPEaLJheRzTcreTnrL7zZ0Zxkg_xc41UN8imexsh58QVYajslV7v2PRJgYYwd1XeG55F0OXKOhTzk/s400/IMG_0368-copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403624031309716162" /></a><br /><br />Floyd’s job is to guilt me out over my various and sundry failings. This causes me to engage in all manner of unhealthy and self-destructive behavior, such as eating Nutella straight from the jar with my fingers. Or blowing off dinner to watch consecutive showings of <em>The Real Housewives of Atlanta </em>(a little take-out never hurt nobody). All of which, in turn, brings on another visit from Floyd.<br /><br />See how this shame spiral thing works? Good. Let’s watch Floyd in action.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYK2e8q5yiSVpSi87fgyYtX6swKI2tQnq5XYRQFw3hWFZ844TY9DnRkppLBCWCY8aagjqL3tMHRYEAIfR6NLtESD6JyePdC_uqTLrTwfscIv0mNN9UYV-q1k-4nwwm-ohj7gp-jOG1Ww/s1600-h/IMG_0370.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYK2e8q5yiSVpSi87fgyYtX6swKI2tQnq5XYRQFw3hWFZ844TY9DnRkppLBCWCY8aagjqL3tMHRYEAIfR6NLtESD6JyePdC_uqTLrTwfscIv0mNN9UYV-q1k-4nwwm-ohj7gp-jOG1Ww/s400/IMG_0370.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403624224276472610" /></a><br /><br />Here’s Floyd passing judgment on me as I eat the last Skittles from my daughter’s Halloween candy. Skittles happen to be my daughter’s favorite – and why not? It’s the Original Fruit Bite-Sized Candy!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_UEPG_AZtElzFmGwajh1aInvpX7ZtBEpdcNPqQ_0PtOE9867_hDdG2-4QLmStoeW1fJP6DVGMWozZWfEYwUXhTzMjkEGKPxKAmQzjz_gunXtxKv7mqhvQbqa5IxQAMs3K-ycMaDjlik/s1600-h/IMG_0368-copy_edited-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_UEPG_AZtElzFmGwajh1aInvpX7ZtBEpdcNPqQ_0PtOE9867_hDdG2-4QLmStoeW1fJP6DVGMWozZWfEYwUXhTzMjkEGKPxKAmQzjz_gunXtxKv7mqhvQbqa5IxQAMs3K-ycMaDjlik/s400/IMG_0368-copy_edited-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403624780610522642" /></a><br /><br />Please don’t give me that look, Floyd. It’s not as if she’ll ever know. Besides, no eight year old girl should eat her weight in sugar. I’m just looking out for her health, right? RIGHT????<br /><br />Whatever. Where’s that Nutella?<br /><br />Here’s me borrowing from my son’s change jar so that I can tip the pizza guy.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXMCaTHn1IXx-_wQV1Wbu6EQvUW-dQ0tbc3PfSbjMNirIu8pQT-FAg2rGjLxp-r5RhsvhbcWAaF95kuSgDX7PkgUmlWXjYeRvsESkF3adCX1Uqtn_zU4EcDA-bvBadtammTVsXnZPqlg/s1600-h/IMG_0372_edited-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 315px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlXMCaTHn1IXx-_wQV1Wbu6EQvUW-dQ0tbc3PfSbjMNirIu8pQT-FAg2rGjLxp-r5RhsvhbcWAaF95kuSgDX7PkgUmlWXjYeRvsESkF3adCX1Uqtn_zU4EcDA-bvBadtammTVsXnZPqlg/s400/IMG_0372_edited-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403624997328942754" /></a><br /><br />Floyd does not approve.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82NcI1h8AkB1eXIwgKkuzGGs0rwk2B4SIC01O-J0MHN9JBPhaHg6mu1oALklVdxdFHA8hSyGcA_0XXxue_mC7Xgheyvg4NsZ881ox-aGh1Bn5dcanMkY9myGJw4od8tnCzGv1FPPsO6U/s1600-h/IMG_0368-copy_edited-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82NcI1h8AkB1eXIwgKkuzGGs0rwk2B4SIC01O-J0MHN9JBPhaHg6mu1oALklVdxdFHA8hSyGcA_0XXxue_mC7Xgheyvg4NsZ881ox-aGh1Bn5dcanMkY9myGJw4od8tnCzGv1FPPsO6U/s400/IMG_0368-copy_edited-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403625204397857778" /></a><br /><br />Oh, COME ON Floyd. I said <em><strong>borrowing</strong></em>! I’ll pay it back . . . PROMISE! What’s the kid done to earn twenty-three bucks, anyway? Aside from losing a few lousy teeth?<br /><br />Know what, Floyd? You’re starting to get on my nerves. A woman can’t live in this kind of a pressure-cooker. Besides, <em>Showgirls</em> is on, and I want to watch it guilt-free. With my Nutella. And a bottle of good white.<br /><br />Floyd, meet my kids.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7G2noXx20aXQ64o7YYKTbBToNfxTBYNgQY2iOQqxj7-fiaa0HxNso-EZcPMB6ApVUp8k68d7fSjdlF32Hii67fdfkWoW3DKe87UO1jEeCFZx4gP5ytVETF2hP1p16bMuns0ZQs6XK5k/s1600-h/IMG_0375.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7G2noXx20aXQ64o7YYKTbBToNfxTBYNgQY2iOQqxj7-fiaa0HxNso-EZcPMB6ApVUp8k68d7fSjdlF32Hii67fdfkWoW3DKe87UO1jEeCFZx4gP5ytVETF2hP1p16bMuns0ZQs6XK5k/s400/IMG_0375.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403625460601821618" /></a><br /><br />That’s right. Spend some quality time together. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4RsQjW0ET1p_Znhzvq1MoiygiBKQs7EtuYlZlTZmBPUm7f3D2S12rOl2OnlMbCr7OoWBx0n0JEIC_UN5aa4QnEgxdInMFtqkby2JsA0sae6HbaqYeZlA8NzOEyCR0r5Rs84Ed9QZ9HUE/s1600-h/IMG_0374.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4RsQjW0ET1p_Znhzvq1MoiygiBKQs7EtuYlZlTZmBPUm7f3D2S12rOl2OnlMbCr7OoWBx0n0JEIC_UN5aa4QnEgxdInMFtqkby2JsA0sae6HbaqYeZlA8NzOEyCR0r5Rs84Ed9QZ9HUE/s400/IMG_0374.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403625887604780562" /></a><br /><br />Now pardon me, but I’ve got to go catch that psychotic, ginger-haired choreographer Hitler-scream at Elizabeth Berkeley. Thrust it, THRUST IT!!!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5RNbvZ0ns4c_KJjeswqw3V-_vpyo7xAyx-ZTFae8dfi-LSA8km9I1Byh9WNqZLfD313SX2cv7hS36yRberDU4E-kWJ60u8-vJ2M-FD_Yd4jZh9Z514NjZNjD_hWWCjWgdKCQ341i7vM/s1600-h/thrustitshowgirls.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5RNbvZ0ns4c_KJjeswqw3V-_vpyo7xAyx-ZTFae8dfi-LSA8km9I1Byh9WNqZLfD313SX2cv7hS36yRberDU4E-kWJ60u8-vJ2M-FD_Yd4jZh9Z514NjZNjD_hWWCjWgdKCQ341i7vM/s400/thrustitshowgirls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403628239794012642" /></a>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-4991531355515692912009-10-30T09:59:00.005-04:002009-10-30T11:19:42.782-04:00Apocalypse (Kill Me) NowOne day this past summer, I was stricken with an acute case of MID -- known to the psychiatric community as Mommy Inferiority Disorder. Unlike most mental illnesses, MID is communicable; I myself contracted it after visiting a friend whose child flawlessly performed a piano sonatina for my benefit. Said child is also tri-lingual, gorgeous, and unfailingly polite.<br /><br />I returned home from this visit to find my own spawn sitting slack-jawed in front of the TV, playing Nintendo.<br /><br />"Hi guys!" I said. They didn't bother to look up, although my son did flick his wrist like he was brushing away a fly.<br /><br />"Hello!" I repeated. "Not now," said my daughter. "Sonic just reached level 5 and we don't want to blow it."<br /><br />This marked the precise onset of MID. I yanked the Nintendo power cord from it's player. After the kids finally stopped crying, they confronted me.<br /><br />"Whatdja do that for?" asked my son.<br /><br />"Because playing too many video games turns your brain into mashed potatoes."<br /><br />"Really?" asked my daughter."<EM>Seriously</EM>?" <br /><br />"Oh, yeah. <EM>Totally</EM>." I sniffed her head. "Smells like gravy." <br /><br />After the second round of crying subsided, I announced that we were going to do something fun. Something productive. Something <EM>creative</EM>. "Let's make a movie!" I said. <br /><br />It got off to a good start. We created a plot, although I had to nix my son's suggestion for an alien ambush. We created the characters out of play-doh. We grabbed some props. <br /><br />And then it got ugly. First off, my idea to make a stop-animation movie proved to be over-ambitious and totally deranged. I thought it would be "fun" and "educational" for the kids to move their clay figures increments of an inch and shoot pictures of them. Over and over again. Hundreds of times. <br /><br />Yes, I am batshit. <br /><br />Secondly, never entrust your children with doing set work. NEVER. Props were moved before I yelled "SHOOT!" A pivotal scene where the car backs over a character and flattens him had to be shot -- and the character re-molded -- twice, as my son couldn't figure out how to press the "ON" button for the video. <br /><br />Another scene required my daughter to drop a basketball onto a character. She dropped it from a standing position and missed by a good two feet. I told her to crouch, and she missed again. I told her to squat and hold the ball directly above the character, AND SO HELP ME GOD THE GIRL STILL MISSED, EVEN THOUGH THE TARGET WAS A SCANT TWELVE INCHES AWAY. <br /><br />I admit, I said some inexcusable things to my children. Along the lines of: "A monkey could press that button. And I'm not talking about one of those smart Rhesus monkeys. I'm talking about a regular chimp, straight out of the jungle." <br /><br />They were outraged, of course, and rightfully so. My son told me "you have a problem with your attitude" -- words I usually direct at him. Man, that karma's a bitch. <br /><br />I apologized to both of them and assured them that one day I would burn in hell for my words. This seem to satisfy them. They scooted away -- literally, on their Razor scooters. Meanwhile, I got down to the business of editing the footage. <br /><br />It was like slogging through wet cement in hip-boots. I called for my son and tried to convince him that dragging and clicking with software is a damn good time. He pointed, he clicked, and then he left to go play Pokemon. <br /><br />By the time I was done, I was unhinged. My husband returned home to find me in my underwear doing martial arts moves in front of the mirror. Luckily I didn't punch it, like Martin Sheen did in <EM>Apocalypse Now</EM>. I just punched my husband instead. <br /><br />And so here's the end result. It turned out decent, except for the fact that I seem to have the voice of an 80-year-old hillbilly woman. <br /><br />Now my kids call themselves <EM>auteurs</EM>. They also run like hell whenever I suggest turning off the TV to do something "fun".<br /><br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-136dc13748592880 height=266 width=320 contentId="136dc13748592880"></OBJECT>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-20461061784415168652009-09-07T13:21:00.006-04:002009-09-07T14:06:01.610-04:00Where's a Hungry Shark When You Need One?Okay, I'm going to say it. And damn the consequences.<br /><br />I hated, hated HATED <em>Ponyo</em>. Hated it!<br /><br />Yes, yes, <em>I know</em>. It's visually arresting, creatively ground-breaking, magical, exquisite, insert-your-own-breathless-adjective <em>here</em>.<br /><br />It's also unequivocally and purely <em>wrong</em>.<br /><br />It's bad enough that Japan unleashed the scourge that is Pokemon. No, they had to create yet <em>another</em> cutesy-yet-deeply-disturbing blight on the cultural landscape.<br /><br />I'm sure you know the set-up by now. Ponyo is a fish that yearns to be human. When she's first caught by the young protagonist, Sosuke, she looks like this:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHKv0-qAJy4TtTZzvmmNxXj5ovAaLZ2x891eRXn4sG_61-UFqH_mzmd5z4QkoCqHs-uAT7ZsxLCHbwpTHrQsi70rZ3aKg_L3vo0R9fVBiPK3Ezf_JTibzWl4Lsb-ijlmXEOxDmRTrajw/s1600-h/WandW-214.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHKv0-qAJy4TtTZzvmmNxXj5ovAaLZ2x891eRXn4sG_61-UFqH_mzmd5z4QkoCqHs-uAT7ZsxLCHbwpTHrQsi70rZ3aKg_L3vo0R9fVBiPK3Ezf_JTibzWl4Lsb-ijlmXEOxDmRTrajw/s400/WandW-214.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378780431866072866" /></a><br /><br />Now, I don't know about you folks. But if the little minnow I caught had bug-eyes and a vaguely human face, I'd be a little unnerved. I might even scream and throw the devil-spawn back into the depths from which she came. But no one in <em>Ponyo</em>, whether child or adult, seems remotely troubled by a fish that looks like a genetic hybrid experiment gone tragically awry.<br /><br />But wait, there's more! Ponyo's transformation from fish to human is instigated when she consumes <em>ham</em>. Yeah, you just read that right. No fairy intervenes, no magic spell. <em>It's the ham</em>. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6iAxVekNh0phBHKFX_Qs07yvMJWI3y40gu3twY3UNIHk_sAnurTGHDmo5AysDsouXbuzJ_TjZXfKkgwxoyxARs7FmcLjGxZV1lT0wjNWoFBjjYUjEtynCD9y0hjtPBBWongswo-Ql4Y/s1600-h/ponyo05.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6iAxVekNh0phBHKFX_Qs07yvMJWI3y40gu3twY3UNIHk_sAnurTGHDmo5AysDsouXbuzJ_TjZXfKkgwxoyxARs7FmcLjGxZV1lT0wjNWoFBjjYUjEtynCD9y0hjtPBBWongswo-Ql4Y/s400/ponyo05.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378783128522047826" /></a><br /><br />She just scarfs down a slice of pork, and BOOM! The next thing you know, she's sprouted bi-toed chicken limbs! She looks like newly-animated flesh that's just crawled out of a petri dish!<br /><br />Dear readers, there will be no more ham sandwiches in this household.<br /><br />I could go on about how Sasuke's mother takes him on a hell-ride through narrow, winding cliff roads, in the middle of a hurricane. Or about Ponyo's ostensibly transgendered father, a cross between the frontman for Poison and a Barbie doll. Or about Cate Blanchett, doing her uber-enchanted-sexy-fairy accent.<br /><br />But I won't. I'll just leave you with the subtitled Ponyo theme song, which bores into your head like Satan's own drillbit.<br /><br />It ain't right, people.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/r0lk-GEhYdY&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/r0lk-GEhYdY&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-9269683650662744922009-08-04T20:08:00.002-04:002009-08-04T20:29:36.800-04:00Pristiq CritiqueI loathe this commercial. Play the clip to see why.<br /><br /><OBJECT class=BLOG_video_class id=BLOG_video-de7020323a1ff7ca height=266 width=320 contentId="de7020323a1ff7ca"></OBJECT>Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2594524171959030774.post-84492708817954526022009-07-29T19:18:00.010-04:002009-08-03T23:17:32.991-04:00Middle Age: The Garage Band VersionA weekend or so back, Hubs and I ferried the ol' offspring to Hellertown, PA to visit the fabled Lost River Cavern -- the area's #1 attraction.<br /><br />The #2 attraction in Hellertown? My money's on these guys:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjYg5rOqRqA5AN9BcFJIDr2NYi4aii2tNPyN4ij50zFBzDfyE5dvkniXfv_7W3U4LsT20NTgIj_RepS2KW_AMIlWoVtA0TNDVjCSOW4Vnp02_4zBaUBEfKk65Okyebg0UFcdnoJYRWuIg/s1600-h/IMG_0007.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjYg5rOqRqA5AN9BcFJIDr2NYi4aii2tNPyN4ij50zFBzDfyE5dvkniXfv_7W3U4LsT20NTgIj_RepS2KW_AMIlWoVtA0TNDVjCSOW4Vnp02_4zBaUBEfKk65Okyebg0UFcdnoJYRWuIg/s400/IMG_0007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364080074644572258" /></a><br /><br />We tailed the Midlife Crisis Band (MCB) on their way to some sort of church/charity/carnival/thingee that looked like a hoot and a holler. Still, as we drove, I couldn't help but think the band name was a little on the vague side. What kind of mid-life crisis are we talking about here? Viagara and a sportscar? Or your basic vaginoplasty?<br /><br />If it was my band, I'd use the same name as one of the eighties/nineties bands I grew up with -- with a mid-life twist.<br /><br />Remember Nine Inch Nails? I don't either, really, but here they are:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEnzaOEEPvQzDUJdeXzxeAx45JD8f0iO4V-mkz49L7YaCNFjFskEIRLTxsDb07ClT4-bsM84s5IfBkVOIq4sfzvLoVuSdC-0AdbPIcceY8V7xnMwDXZSh50ORvBZrtbpsbRyrF9l3mak/s1600-h/Nine_Inch_Nails-band-2000.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoEnzaOEEPvQzDUJdeXzxeAx45JD8f0iO4V-mkz49L7YaCNFjFskEIRLTxsDb07ClT4-bsM84s5IfBkVOIq4sfzvLoVuSdC-0AdbPIcceY8V7xnMwDXZSh50ORvBZrtbpsbRyrF9l3mak/s400/Nine_Inch_Nails-band-2000.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365936040270524562" /></a><br /><br />The mid-life version: <em>Nine Inch Hemmorhoids</em>.<br /><br />Ahem. So how was <em>your</em> pregnancy experience?<br /><br />In high school, because I was freakishly <em>sensitive</em>, I had a thing for Simple Minds.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjD1mXllOIUXJq4Q8lsd1paMCZa_4VSUBjX19aETDyw1DDiViggNMRnROmm3GJliqVH9aFAVsOWqqLP5TXdIW-7YK6dm1SyDGSq6eXjXRGZ_UB1NJYJswxAbFdFzN43cUi2MAfi5REUA/s1600-h/SimpleMinds.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjD1mXllOIUXJq4Q8lsd1paMCZa_4VSUBjX19aETDyw1DDiViggNMRnROmm3GJliqVH9aFAVsOWqqLP5TXdIW-7YK6dm1SyDGSq6eXjXRGZ_UB1NJYJswxAbFdFzN43cUi2MAfi5REUA/s400/SimpleMinds.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365936921938475490" /></a><br /><br />Mid-life version: <em>Dimpled Hinds</em>.<br /><br />Which of course refers to my childrens' darling derrieres and IN NO WAY describes my own curdled buttflesh.<br /><br />The high school jocks liked to crank some Rush:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FwTLsxmI9oNpPy8uk2vmdIiq-0I7phagOq3t55s2EablSZbukqeYf9852CPUph5Ag4eN41iTJGY3HE1PoaDt1KCmgfHrF6viuVv1wtL0NOjngu10QtZ6TFt9_N3n-8g9EjBePuq9ltc/s1600-h/RUSH.bmp"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0FwTLsxmI9oNpPy8uk2vmdIiq-0I7phagOq3t55s2EablSZbukqeYf9852CPUph5Ag4eN41iTJGY3HE1PoaDt1KCmgfHrF6viuVv1wtL0NOjngu10QtZ6TFt9_N3n-8g9EjBePuq9ltc/s400/RUSH.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365938684962576210" /></a><br /><br />Mid-life version: <em>Flush</em>.<br /><br />That's right. FLUSH. As in: Did you remember to <strong>flush</strong>? Or, alternatively: God &%#@! Who didn't <strong>flush</strong>? Also: I know you <em>said </em>you did, but I didn't <em>hear</em> the toilet <strong>flush</strong>.<br /><br />It's a compelling topic of conversation in this family. If walls could only talk. Or flush the damn toilet.<br /><br />Finally, this one's a little late-nineties, but we all know <strong>Aqua</strong>, the group that gave us that hideously annoying "Barbie Girl" song.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8L4MXbQpUbk62HR4lZtckgjTQi_d__RNyHO8grDkzkOpJrIS3tiCc5NBSWfsGvIgcb2Kv10ixFFYcBIjeUxEgynhceo7tZFbCjFoIB8lI8bu98Z8sB5_BOyv2rhz4NmVblu4wkSAIjI0/s1600-h/Aqua_band_umvd003.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 334px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8L4MXbQpUbk62HR4lZtckgjTQi_d__RNyHO8grDkzkOpJrIS3tiCc5NBSWfsGvIgcb2Kv10ixFFYcBIjeUxEgynhceo7tZFbCjFoIB8lI8bu98Z8sB5_BOyv2rhz4NmVblu4wkSAIjI0/s400/Aqua_band_umvd003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365940781711497170" /></a><br /><br />Mid-life version: <em>Lycra</em>. <br /><br />Because every pair of jeans I own has it. As well as a "relaxed fit" in the hips and thighs.<br /><br />*SOB*Paula Lynn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06815316838340973957noreply@blogger.com2