WTF? I Received the Eternal Sunshine Award of the Spotted Mind.


I thought it fitting to post this on Friday, the day of Ivy’s great meme, WTF Friday, which you can find at her site Unscripted Life. In Ivy’s words: Every Friday, I bring you a true story that will leave you asking (as we say in the Unscripted family) “WTF mate?!?”

Ivy has poured her heart and soul into her site and recently redesigned it, at times slipping into darkness before finding her way back into sunlight. I was so honored to have Ivy guest post here in January and write an article about her experiences in reworking her site. Here’s a link to the article, Unscripted Web Design and the 404 Sanity Drainer. It’s funny and informative. A great read!!!!

Please swing by Unscripted Life, where Ivy blogs in her warped, yet heartwarming, unscripted way about  life, or the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

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Tweet and Repeat were sitting on a fence . . .

Tweet got off and then who was left?

Repeat.

Tweet and repeat were sitting on a fence. Tweet got off and then who was left?

Repeat.

Okay. Enough of this twit talk. You get it. But now that you’ve got it.. Get with the tweety bird brain trust and follow the sound of tapped out beer stained keys and join the twitter of excitement from the throngs of Tweet Thursday memers. 

But how do I twitter with excitement? You might ask, or think, or tweet. And what is this Tweet Thursday thingy all about?

I’m glad you asked. As a matter of fact, the Tweet Thursday meme dropped on my head at Me-Me’s wacky bloggy place called The Screaming Me Me!! which is like a carnival. She’s got a caption contest going on . . .

Now back to twits and tweets and the Twitter Thursday tutelage.

All you have to do is comment on this post, follow me on Twitter, and I will tweet your latest blog post. Sound easy? It is! And it’s every Thursday. If you’d like to join us, copy the blue bird of happiness onto your blog, repeat the instructions, and then rinse. Since I’ve probably mangled the instructions, I would strongly suggest that you swing by Me Me’s place, The Screaming Me Me!!, and read the instructions.

Note: I’ll likely be tweeting into Friday since I’ve got to get up at dawn with the birds and garbage trucks.

Now, flap your wings together several times and repeat after me, “There’s no place like meme.”

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A Walk Down Cemetery Lane: A Post Mortem.

headstones

 


If a headstone falls
in a cemetery, does it make a sound?

First Posted July, 2009

 

 

Only a medium with a reliable spirit source could answer such a question. Unfortunately, most ghosts are flighty, show up unannounced, and leave cold spots on the living room rug. If I were a ghost, I wouldn’t even hang out in a cemetery; I would haunt a five-star hotel in Cozumel.

Lately, death has been on my mind because I’ve been temping at a headstone company. It’s been dead. – Couldn’t resist – Quiet as a tomb.

No ghosts so far. This isn’t a rest stop for spirits. It’s more like a weigh station for words, tweets in stone, as it were. Just the bereaved visit here to create a lasting memorial for a loved one and to ensure the cemetery marker is prominent enough to find amid a gaggle of graves.

Traveling down the wrong path in life is an inconvenience. In death, a lost soul would have an impossible task negotiating his way down a graveyard path to locate his headstone, unable to distinguish one from the next among all the clichéd inscriptions like “Here lies a dead guy” or “Beloved husband of who gives a shit.” I think gravestone captions should be more insightful, like “Our Loss. Hell’s gain,” or “She would never shut up until now.”

I never realized how many expressions incorporated the word “stone” and that their meanings could be interpreted in many different ways.

Expressions such as . . .

Just a stone’s throw away – Horrible method of measurement for a stone the size of Mount Rushmore.

Nothing is written in stone – A pad and pen are more convenient to carry around in a purse.

Leave no stone unturned  – OCD person’s greatest nightmare.

You can’t draw blood from a stone – First Medical Journal abstract.

Man, am I stoned – Villager having rocks thrown at him for being high.

A rolling stone gathers no moss – Just add Crazy Glue and the moss will stick.

Most stones found in yards are dull and colorless, which is also true of headstones. They are so gray and dreary-looking and add nothing to a cemetery’s ambiance, already lacking vibrant décor. Perhaps something whimsical, like a lawn jockey or gnome would make a cemetery more appealing. Colorful yard statues would eliminate the problem and stress of locating a family plot, while providing a more festive-setting for graveside eulogies. Improving a cemetery’s surroundings may even encourage a ghost to hang out there, instead of popping in and out on a loved one at home.

However, neither scenario would appeal to me. My afterlife itinerary would not include a family haunt-getaway or a scenic cemetery stroll. I’d rather spend eternity vicariously sipping Mai Tais on the beaches of Cozumel.

A little backstory: the headstone company was located in an old house with a living room (really), where I sat behind a large mahogany desk answering the five phone calls I had all week. If I turned around to admire the scenery outside the window, I would see a small yard filled with headstones. I had to climb squeaky stairs in order to get to the bathroom on the second floor. Really, really creepy. One of the phone calls I fielded was from a woman concerned that her gravestone wouldn’t be done in time for her family to see when they visited her in the fall. She wasn’t dying. She was just prepared for the worst.

 

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Parallel parked on the couch and other beautiful bloggy things.

[Beautiful_Blogger.jpg]
In keeping with the caffeinated version of the Academy Awards that aired this past Sunday night, I’d like to move this along at rapid heart beat speed and thank Confessions of a Reforming Geek for this esteemed award. Confessions of a Reforming Geek is a hilarious geeky lady with an evil twin that lurks somewhere deep inside her compose window and wrecks havoc upon her blog and readers’ minds. Funny stuff!!!!As the lights have already started blinking and the hook is cradled snugly around my neck, I need to quickly segue into my list of things that I think are beautiful.

  • Plane ticket to Tahiti

    • I don’t have one, but if I did, I would bow to its beauty as I hurtled thirty-three thousand feet above the earth toward island bliss.
  • Fully-stocked refrigerator

    • I’m talking about a year’s worth of ready-made dinners, drinks (be creative), condiments, staples, i.e., ketchup, etc. and not the silver goal post shaped thingies that fit into a stapler and jam at critical times, like when stapling.
  • Closet filled with new clothes arranged seasonally

    • I’ll take clothing from any designer outlet store: TJ Maxx, Marshalls, etc. I’ll find someone who physically matches my body type and have her try on the clothes for me, while I sit at Starbuck’s sipping a Mochachino Coffee.
  • AA shoes in any color and style

    • I’ll take anything! Shoes never fit me. I was born with bird’s feet.
  • A pizza delivery

    • Shiny white boxes (there are four of them perfectly aligned in stacking order) glimmer beneath the incandescent outdoor lighting, as the pizza delivery boy approaches my front door while sweating onto said pizza boxes (and you thought that was pizza grease).
  • An empty sink with matching empty dishwasher

    • I don’t want to see any dirty dishes ever again. I only want to see clean dishes neatly piled inside the cabinet, glasses and coffee cups separated (they cannot cohabitate), forks, spoons, and knives placed in their proper slots. Absolutely no intermarriage of silverware.
  • The inside of my eyelids

    • Eyes tightly shut, thinking of zzzzzzzz’s, dreaming in 3D Technicolor.
  • A hot cooked meal that I was not involved in preparing

    • I can’t afford to take a sick day.
  • A bowl of chocolate chip mint Häagen-Dazs ice cream. Hell! A bowl of any flavor Häagen-Dazs ice cream

    • Give it to me, baby!
  • White sand squished beneath my toes

    • See Plane Ticket to Tahiti.
  • An hour lunch.

    • Forty-five minutes is not enough for writing, eating, and driving to where I’ll be writing and eating.
    • I need my blogging fix or otherwise I get cranky. Eating is also mandatory. Driving is not, but gets me to my lunch destination faster than my bird feet.
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Scarfing Down Scooby Snacks as American Idol Idles.

Bitsy - A blue basset houndImage via Wikipedia

GUESS WHO’S COMING FOR KIBBLES AND BITS?

While I listened to alleged singers on American Idol screech their way into millions of homes, my mutt Jenny started to bark and then promptly left the room. “I know,” I shook my head. “Just awful.” However, I soon learned that American Idol wasn’t the reason for her distress. Her barks were a Scooby alert for “Ruh-roh! Raggy!”

The barking continued outside in three part harmony, at which point I put an end to the Idol contestant’s misery with a click of the remote, opened the front door, and watched a mini basset hound named Lucky bound his way into my hallway with my two dogs, like the three amigos.

With broken chain swinging from his collar in syncopated beat to the sway of his tail, Lucky waddled into the kitchen, parked himself in front of a dog dish, and began demolishing the leftovers from Jake’s dinner, while my two mutts body slammed each other against the wall in delight. They love company, and I found out later this wasn’t Lucky’s first presumed dinner invitation.

It seems that Lucky likes taking early evening constitutionals without telling his owners and walk himself around the neighborhood, while saying “heel” and scooping his poop, then somehow ends up on our side of the mountain playing with my pups, who wear shock therapy dog collars to prevent them from wandering off like Lucky.

After Lucky finished snacking on kibbles and bits, he decided to take a tour of the house, headed upstairs, and stopped on the second floor landing to howl. Apparently, that’s what basset hounds do and do well, as my dogs continued to body slam each other then raced down stairs into the kitchen, slip sliding against the sleek tiles into several chairs, and having an altogether terrific doggone time.

Lucky, on the other hand, continued his house tour as my son tried to nab him in order to get the phone number off his collar. When my son finally cornered him, he called out the numbers to me as I keypunched them into the handheld. Several rings later, I was chatting with Lucky’s adopted human dad, who was thrilled to know that he we had his furry son, although not too thrilled with Lucky’s propensity for making himself at home in other people’s homes.

Ten minutes later, we said our goodbyes to Lucky and sat back down to watch American Idol and more howling. Maybe the karaoke-like screechy singing caused Lucky to break his chain in the first place. After all, dog’s have sensitive ears and a nose for that shit.

What do you think of this season of American Idol?
Do you care? 
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