This great demotivator and many more can be found at despair.com.
September 30, 2008
September 27, 2008
The Presidential Debate
My husband has a degree in political science with an emphasis on international relations. He has been a wonderful help to me in understanding the politics of elections. Last night, we sat down to watch the debate. About ten or fifteen minutes into it, Abe turned off the TV and we made love instead. Politics makes great bedfellows.
Who won the debate? Oh hon, I did.
Who won the debate? Oh hon, I did.
Squir— uh, Rodent!
(My thoughts are running a bit on the light side these days. When I get back to Deep Thoughts, you’ll be the first to know.)
The other morning, when I was watching the Rodent of Unusual Size on the neighbor’s lawn, a rodent of normal size came scampering up. We have four kinds of squirrels in our back yard, probably because we have a slew of black walnut trees. Big fox squirrels, gray squirrels, tiny red squirrels and chipmunks enjoy the banquet our trees provide. This year's weather gave us a bumper crop; there are over a thousand of those heavy green tennis-ball things in our yard. (The walnuts are inside.)
This fox squirrel came bouncing onto the lawn with a walnut, looking for a place to bury it.
He found a spot near the groundhog’s burrow. I wonder if he’ll ever find it again.
It has been determined that squirrels have no idea where they’ve buried their nuts. (If you go for this cheap joke setup, I get ten percent.) Apparently they find their buried treasure purely by accident, smelling them out if they get close enough. That’s why we have a tree growing a foot from our mailbox. Oops! Missed that one.
The squirrels are a major source of entertainment and exercise for our dog Sophie. Every time we let her out into the fenced back yard, she runs the perimeter, barking at each spot where she has ever seen a squirrel. First that corner, then the two trees, then the back spot, on around the yard. Sometimes she does the Pepe LePew bounce on all fours, looking for potential victims. Having run her course, then she can get down to business doing her business.
Sophie actually caught one once, briefly. The fox squirrels like to tease her, coming down the trunk to taunt her with chatter and tail-tossing. One got too close to the ground and Sophie lunged. It squealed in her grasp and she let go in surprise. That was enough to encourage her for a lifetime. She investigates every tree, and we have forty trees in the back yard.
We can’t even say the word “squirrel” in her presence; she runs to the back door and barks like crazy. We have to say “rodent” instead. It’s ridiculous, speaking in code around the dog. But she brings a joy to the household that has been wonderful to have, especially this year.
Here’s Sophie, exhausted from her efforts to keep the yard squir rodent-free. (I've been told she looks exactly like the Simpson's dog, Santa's Little Helper.)
The other morning, when I was watching the Rodent of Unusual Size on the neighbor’s lawn, a rodent of normal size came scampering up. We have four kinds of squirrels in our back yard, probably because we have a slew of black walnut trees. Big fox squirrels, gray squirrels, tiny red squirrels and chipmunks enjoy the banquet our trees provide. This year's weather gave us a bumper crop; there are over a thousand of those heavy green tennis-ball things in our yard. (The walnuts are inside.)
This fox squirrel came bouncing onto the lawn with a walnut, looking for a place to bury it.
He found a spot near the groundhog’s burrow. I wonder if he’ll ever find it again.
It has been determined that squirrels have no idea where they’ve buried their nuts. (If you go for this cheap joke setup, I get ten percent.) Apparently they find their buried treasure purely by accident, smelling them out if they get close enough. That’s why we have a tree growing a foot from our mailbox. Oops! Missed that one.
The squirrels are a major source of entertainment and exercise for our dog Sophie. Every time we let her out into the fenced back yard, she runs the perimeter, barking at each spot where she has ever seen a squirrel. First that corner, then the two trees, then the back spot, on around the yard. Sometimes she does the Pepe LePew bounce on all fours, looking for potential victims. Having run her course, then she can get down to business doing her business.
Sophie actually caught one once, briefly. The fox squirrels like to tease her, coming down the trunk to taunt her with chatter and tail-tossing. One got too close to the ground and Sophie lunged. It squealed in her grasp and she let go in surprise. That was enough to encourage her for a lifetime. She investigates every tree, and we have forty trees in the back yard.
We can’t even say the word “squirrel” in her presence; she runs to the back door and barks like crazy. We have to say “rodent” instead. It’s ridiculous, speaking in code around the dog. But she brings a joy to the household that has been wonderful to have, especially this year.
Here’s Sophie, exhausted from her efforts to keep the yard squir rodent-free. (I've been told she looks exactly like the Simpson's dog, Santa's Little Helper.)
September 24, 2008
Dashboard of Doom
The world has one less spider in it tonight. You're welcome.
I was driving in the dark to pick up my son when a small spider started climbing up the windshield in front of me. INSIDE THE CAR. While continuing to drive, I kicked off my left shoe, picked it up and started swatting at the thing on the glass. It dropped to the dash, so I pounded it into oblivion. I clicked on the ceiling light when I came to a red light. Yeah, that sucker was arachnopaste. Victory is mine.
Instantly I thought of Java and her recent entomological adventure. The timing is...interesting. Is this a sinister plot? Have they targeted our group of bloggers? Be very careful.
No accompanying graphics. You're welcome.
I was driving in the dark to pick up my son when a small spider started climbing up the windshield in front of me. INSIDE THE CAR. While continuing to drive, I kicked off my left shoe, picked it up and started swatting at the thing on the glass. It dropped to the dash, so I pounded it into oblivion. I clicked on the ceiling light when I came to a red light. Yeah, that sucker was arachnopaste. Victory is mine.
Instantly I thought of Java and her recent entomological adventure. The timing is...interesting. Is this a sinister plot? Have they targeted our group of bloggers? Be very careful.
No accompanying graphics. You're welcome.
September 23, 2008
Worst. Lyrics. Ever.
Responding to a part of Tornwordo’s latest post, readers are commenting on misunderstood lyrics. This got me to thinking about lyrics that I wish I could say were misunderstood. Or that could be rewritten well enough to make sense. There are a number of songs I could list, but I thought I’d leave that up to you. Here’s my vote for worst lyrics ever written, to a melody comprised of two notes.
"Horse With No Name" by America
On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot and the ground was dry
But the air was full of sound
Chorus:
I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
La, la ...
After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead
(Maddeningly inane chorus)
After nine days I let the horse run free
'Cause the desert had turned to sea
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The ocean is a desert with its life underground
And a perfect disguise above
Under the cities lies a heart made of ground
But the humans will give no love
(There's that chorus again)
What’ve you got?
"Horse With No Name" by America
On the first part of the journey
I was looking at all the life
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz
And the sky with no clouds
The heat was hot and the ground was dry
But the air was full of sound
Chorus:
I've been through the desert on a horse with no name
It felt good to be out of the rain
In the desert you can remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain
La, la ...
After two days in the desert sun
My skin began to turn red
After three days in the desert fun
I was looking at a river bed
And the story it told of a river that flowed
Made me sad to think it was dead
(Maddeningly inane chorus)
After nine days I let the horse run free
'Cause the desert had turned to sea
There were plants and birds and rocks and things
There was sand and hills and rings
The ocean is a desert with its life underground
And a perfect disguise above
Under the cities lies a heart made of ground
But the humans will give no love
(There's that chorus again)
What’ve you got?
September 22, 2008
"Westley, What About the R.O.U.S.es?"
"Rodents Of Unusual Size? I don't think they exist."
Westley would be wrong. This guy comes out from the hedge next door every evening at dusk.
Update: He was out again this morning. Here's a better shot.
Westley would be wrong. This guy comes out from the hedge next door every evening at dusk.
Update: He was out again this morning. Here's a better shot.
September 20, 2008
Recommended Reading
Meet Timbo, a blogger who lives in Washington state. He’s a writer and former trucker whose blog captured me almost two years ago. His writing about life is eloquent, but when he writes about people, he sings. He offers beautiful pictures that speak of his love for the western mountains and the open sky of the high plains. Take a look at his blog, Meanwhile Back at the Ranch, where this view from his house is one of dozens of gorgeous photos.
You can read his book Graced By Amazing online. The first thing I ever read of Tim’s writing was Chapter 4 of this book, “Cody,” a vivid portrait of a man of the West who lives on his own terms. Enjoy.
Postscript: With Cody's permission, Tim wrote a followup story that revealed "the rest of the story."
September 19, 2008
Avast, Matey!
It be Talk Like a Pirate Day!
If you don’t be seein' it that way, then you be havin' an aye problem, ye bilge rat.
If you don’t be seein' it that way, then you be havin' an aye problem, ye bilge rat.
September 15, 2008
Stole-n Identity
Last week I had lunch with a man who is a former pastor and currently a mental health counselor. I know him from my work at the AIDS support center. Jonathan is intelligent, kind, and gentle; and he was willing to talk with me about my current journey in leading my church to be open and affirming.
He happens to be gay. I say it this way because in the big picture of who he is, being gay is so far down the list that it loses significance. Or at least it should. He left the ministry when he realized that he could never be true to himself if he stayed. Chalk up one more loss to the misguided interpretations of Christians.
“Gay pastor.” When have you ever heard any pastor described as straight? As such, does a pastor’s sexual identity have any impact on the call s/he has to serve God? Is it any business of mine or yours?
During the Welcoming Church conference I attended in August, we were shown a display of pastors' stoles. A stole is a slender scarf of decorative fabric which is draped around the neck and worn over a robe. It lends identity to the event and to the pastor. While most are commercially made, many stoles are custom made with special significance to its wearer. All of them are beautiful for the meaning they carry.
The stoles we saw are a part of a larger, permanently mobile display called “Shower of Stoles.” Each of them comes from a priest or pastor who has either been defrocked or is in the closet due to sexual orientation. We were invited to select a stole and wear it for the duration of our conference in honor of the clergyperson who could not.
I chose one that looked identical to those worn by pastors in my church. Attached to the underneath was a pocket which contained a story about the stole I wore. I repeat a portion of it here:
“After 32 years of faithful ministry to this church, I am not about to start answering questions that should never be asked in the first place.
…I will never openly lie about who I am, but neither will I fully reveal the truth about me and risk losing the ministry to which I have devoted my life.”
What a terrible choice to have to make. What an injustice that a man or woman called to serve must do so in secrecy or not at all. Jonathan chose truth.
He was gracious in helping me take more steps in my journey. One of the stumbling blocks I will face further down in this process is having small groups form to discuss how to be welcoming. We will need input from the LGBT community for several reasons, not least of which is to put a “face” on the community. Since I am unaware of a single out person in our congregation, where am I going to find these individuals?
Jonathan gave me the names of three churches in our city, three different denominations, which enjoy primarily gay congregations. I will be approaching their senior pastors to “borrow” some congregants for our small groups. I find it fitting that this might be an ecumenical process possibly involving four different denominations. God welcomes all.
He happens to be gay. I say it this way because in the big picture of who he is, being gay is so far down the list that it loses significance. Or at least it should. He left the ministry when he realized that he could never be true to himself if he stayed. Chalk up one more loss to the misguided interpretations of Christians.
“Gay pastor.” When have you ever heard any pastor described as straight? As such, does a pastor’s sexual identity have any impact on the call s/he has to serve God? Is it any business of mine or yours?
During the Welcoming Church conference I attended in August, we were shown a display of pastors' stoles. A stole is a slender scarf of decorative fabric which is draped around the neck and worn over a robe. It lends identity to the event and to the pastor. While most are commercially made, many stoles are custom made with special significance to its wearer. All of them are beautiful for the meaning they carry.
The stoles we saw are a part of a larger, permanently mobile display called “Shower of Stoles.” Each of them comes from a priest or pastor who has either been defrocked or is in the closet due to sexual orientation. We were invited to select a stole and wear it for the duration of our conference in honor of the clergyperson who could not.
I chose one that looked identical to those worn by pastors in my church. Attached to the underneath was a pocket which contained a story about the stole I wore. I repeat a portion of it here:
“After 32 years of faithful ministry to this church, I am not about to start answering questions that should never be asked in the first place.
…I will never openly lie about who I am, but neither will I fully reveal the truth about me and risk losing the ministry to which I have devoted my life.”
What a terrible choice to have to make. What an injustice that a man or woman called to serve must do so in secrecy or not at all. Jonathan chose truth.
He was gracious in helping me take more steps in my journey. One of the stumbling blocks I will face further down in this process is having small groups form to discuss how to be welcoming. We will need input from the LGBT community for several reasons, not least of which is to put a “face” on the community. Since I am unaware of a single out person in our congregation, where am I going to find these individuals?
Jonathan gave me the names of three churches in our city, three different denominations, which enjoy primarily gay congregations. I will be approaching their senior pastors to “borrow” some congregants for our small groups. I find it fitting that this might be an ecumenical process possibly involving four different denominations. God welcomes all.
September 13, 2008
This Just In
An aerospace engineer apparently got tired of people stealing his lunch out of the fridge, so he invented an anti-theft ziploc bag that has a mold pattern printed on it. Genius.
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