FAQs

These are the most common questions I receive.  Here are the anxiously-awaited answers. 

I'm sorry.



1)  Can you help me with my English homework?
Sure.  That money I spent on college ought to be put to some sort of use.

2)  What's with the possums?
I don't know.  It's the best kind of mystery.

3)  What should I read next?
A book.

4)  What are you wearing?
Long underwear in a dingy gray, two pairs of socks, old sweat pants, a hoody two sizes too big, and a parka.  Or if that floats your boat, whatever you think is gross.

5)  Are you a feminazi?
If a dude called out another dude for being a douche, does that make him a dudenazi?

6)  Why do so many crazy things happen to you?  Do you make them up?
Sadly, no.  It's serendipity.  And a lack of social and/or motor skills.

7)  Can I someday be as awesome as your dog?
No. 

8)  Nine, Ten, or Eleven?
Ten.  Obviously.  The hair.  And below that, the... sneakers.

9)  You say you are from Wisconsin.  Do you like cheese?
Only if it squeaks.

10)  Who is your hero?
My nana.  I once went to her in an existential crisis.  She took one look at me and said, "Suck it up.  You're a Whoozit*."
*Name changed to protect me from the marsupial-lovers.

11)  How do you get through each day?
On my monitor, I have a shrine to the Virgin Mary, Superman, and Britney Spears. 

Ricky, you have some mansplainin' to do...

It was my senior year of college.  I had taken a fall down a flight of stairs, and had some pretty severe bruising on the inside of my left arm, and a ladder of less-severe bruises down my back.  Hurt like a mother, but nothing terribly serious.  However, within a few days I'd developed some hard lumps in the bruise on my arm--calcium deposits.

I took myself off to the campus health center, and the doctor happened to be in.  (He was usually available for a couple of hours, two or three days a week; the rest of the time the nurse was available.  And generally more helpful.)  I sat on the table, rolled up my sleeve, and explained that I was concerned by what I felt--

"Don't worry.  It's not cancer."

--which I was pretty certain was a series of marble-sized calcium deposits, and what was the best course of action to take to ensure I didn't pass them through my urethra.

"Oh.  Oh.  Well, warm, damp compresses should help with that."

Gee, thanks.  I'm so glad you were able to ease my fears about cancer of the bruise.  What color ribbons does that have again?  I'm sure I saw it on a rubber bracelet somewhere.

If you don't know what mansplaining is or aren't aware how commonplace it is for women to be on the receiving end of it (from whatever gender), I recommend checking out this link.

Priorities, People

You know who I admire?  The Duchess of Cambridge.  I think she's elegant and poised, and she sort of reminds me of Audrey Hepburn. 

You know what's exciting?  That she and Prince William are having a baby.

You know what's breaking news?  That one of the East Cleveland murder victims has been identified.

Kicking ass. (Where I'm neither the kicker nor the kicked.)

Hello?  Internet?  Did you miss me?

I now live somewhere new!  And it's not a cardboard box!  Isn't that exciting? 

Just kidding, moving is never exciting.  Unless you're moving because you won the lottery and are moving into a house with a pool.  For your puffins.  That'd be sweet.

But there are more dogs here, and that's pretty all right, too.  Oh, and some dude lives here, I guess.

Well, I could fill you in on what's been happening in my life lately, but it'd strain your suspension of disbelief, so just imagine that I've spent the last two weeks fighting crime with my trusty gorilla sidekick.

Good lord.  I've just become WordGirl.

Look, here's a .gif gift!

Via

This woman kicks some serious, literal ass.  I want to be her.

So, since I really have nothing to share but word vomit, here are some gems from the Internet:

This guy "Changes the Creepy Guy Narrative." 

Rape Culture 101  This is a fantastic piece.  The following is a quote that really struck home for me, since I do follow these "rules."  All of them.  And some more, like what CTA train cars to ride in after dark, and when to go to my storage unit, when to call someone to "walk" me home.

Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you're alone, if you're with a stranger, if you're in a group, if you're in a group of strangers, if it's dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you're carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you're wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who's around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who's at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn't follow all the rules it's your fault.


Here's another great post by the same blogger called, "On Sitting With Fear."  Actually, just go ahead and read everything in that blog's archives, okay?

This guy's name is Kim. He didn't get any interviews until he added a "Mr." before his name on his resume.  Are you shocked?

Millenials are ruining the world. Just like every generation before us.

I Almost Got Peed On By a Lesbian and Other Coincidences

Hello, dear reader!  I know you have missed me terribly since I last posted--almost a whole week!  I'm so ashamed!  But fear not, for I have been on the lookout for crazy, and the crazy has been plentiful.



First, I should tell you that I'm looking for investors for my new business.  I'm going to install a soda fountain in the trunk of my car and drive around looking for uncaffeinated people.  The way I see it, I should be able to get a government subsidy for this, since it is obviously a much-needed public service.  Uncaffeinated people are tired people.  Tired people are cranky people.  Cranky people don't buy stupid shit at the spur of the moment.  My plan with quite literally stimulate the economy.

I expect the money to come rolling in any moment now.



Second, you look like you need a pun.  Here you go:

Never tell a pun to a kleptomaniac.  He'll take it literally.

(This is not an original joke.  The Internet came up with it.  Or something.)



Third, I almost got peed on by a lesbian.  I went to the Pride Parade here in Chicago on Sunday, and it was awesome.  It was like a regular parade, but with more glitter and naked buttcheeks.  The crowd was very festive and friendly, but there are jerks everywhere, and one woman--who had as much personal space as a crowd that size allowed--threatened to pee on me.  I'm not quite certain why.  But she certainly thrust her butt into me in a bid for more space often enough, and every time I worried she was going to follow through with her threat.  She bragged loudly to her friends that she was assertive.  I think she added too many syllables to that word.



Fourth, I just got a call from a customer.

Customer:  Do you have any xxxxxx in stock?

Me:  Let me check....  No, we don't.

Customer:  Of course you do.

Me:  ...........


(True:  I've been informed I wear my crazy on my sleeve.  I figure this is healthier than hiding it, right?  Right???)

Bugs and Bubbles

That sounds like the title to a childrens "edutainment" program, doesn't it?

It's not.  It's my workplace.  Though it is pretty juvenile.

Yesterday, because our office is oh-so-pretty and pristine, a dead bug flew out of the air vent and onto my head.  Laughter ensued--but not mine.

Today we're popping bubble wrap.  Not just any bubble wrap, though, the big, industrial-sized-bubbles bubble wrap.  Our boss said we have to.

I'm not sure whether we just crack up easily, or if we're just cracked.


(True:  I never cared for that magazing, but Spy vs. Spy was pretty awesome...)

Announcement

I am very sorry to announce I will no longer be accepting comments from anonymous posters.  I love comments immensely, but I will not tolerate creepy anonymous comments of the variety I have been receiving of late. Go look for porn or join a website dedicated to creeps.  You're no longer welcome here.

If you're an anonymous commenter of the uncreepy variety, I'm so sorry for the inconvenience.  I hope you'll still read and maybe build a profile so you can continue your much-appreciated commenting.

Hops in the Right Direction: Sometimes, You Gotta Play Mama Bear

I've gotten a few snide comments about my dog.  Usually it happens when I'm on a long walk or am out for the day with Prada, and I've got her in the belly bag.  Because you know, purse-dog stereotypes blah blah blah.  I've snarked back a time or two--in my polite way, of course.  It's amazing how far a, "yeah, it's great that there are more options for handicapped dogs these days, isn't it?" will go.  (Cue the stuttering and agreeing.  Because while plenty of people are willing to make fun of purse-dogs, not too many are willing to be an asshole about handicapped ones.  Kind of like people who are really nice--except to waiters.)  More often, I just grin at them to let them know I've heard and move on.

I don't think I should tell someone anything about their dog that I wouldn't say about their child.  Or, more universally, if you don't want to feel like an asshole, don't be an asshole.  Asshole.

Because sometimes, you've just got to play mama bear.

Naturally, assholes aren't limited to snarking on dogs with altered mobility.  Purse dogs, small dogs, dogs they've decided are a mean breed or just ugly, whatever.

Which leads me to an incident my dad described to me.  My folks were recently at a national invitational for rally obedience.  (Yeah, they got invited to nationals their first year doing it.  Dad and Linka took 3rd place in Rally 2, and tied for 6th in Rally 3, the hardest level.  Against the best dogs in the country.  Not too shabby, right?)  At the same event was a conformation show--the standard kind you see on Thanksgiving, for pure-breds only. 

Now, Linka is a pure-bred miniature schnauzer, but she has a small white line on her chest that disqualifies her from participating in conformation.  So Dad has no real reason to groom her within the parameters of conformation--Linka's got a cut on a variation of the standard, which is more suited to her active lifestyle/running around in the woods all the time.  Okay, okay, I'm done with the exposition.  Here's the actual story:

My mom was holding Linka during a break between rallies.  She wandered over to the conformation show to admire the dogs.  A woman with another schnauzer came up to my mom and asked, "What are you doing here?  You're obviously not here for conformation."

"No," Mama Bear said.  "We're not here for the frou-frou dog show--we're in the competition for smart dogs."

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Last weekend I went with some friends to the Field Museum and spent a couple of hours perusing the Taxidermied Everything exhibit.  Most of the animals I recognized.  Some of them caused what on God's good earth is that?! moments.  But those moments were all with really foreign, uncommon animals that you don't see every old day on National Geographic or, you know, at the dog park.

So this story about people accidentally buying 'roided out ferrets instead of toy poodles kind of surprised me.  Do people frequently see a long slinky-animal and think, "What a cute dog!"  And this has happened with a lamb being mistaken for a standard poodle as well?!

Oh boy.  I worry about the state of humanity sometimes.

Let's face it:  it's pretty funny.  But at the same time, it's worryingly indicative of the casualness with which people acquire pets.  Not only are these people clearly not researching their desired pet, they can't even recognize the difference between the canine and weasel families, or canine teeth and the teeth of an herbivore.  (Let's not even mention any appearances of freaking hooves, shall we?)

Even at a step slightly less stupid, when people can actually tell a dog is a dog, there is the following list of dog breeds frequently mistaken for bull dogs:

• Alpha Blue Blood Bulldog
• Rottweiler
• Catahoula Bulldog
• Boerboel
• Chesapeake Bay Retriever
• Rhodesian ridgeback
• Presa Canario
• Patterdale Terrier
• Olde English Bulldogge
• Hungarian Vizsla
• Fila Brasiliero
• Cane Corso
• Ca De Bou
• A "Bully" dog
• Bull Mastiff
• Boxer
• Black Mouth Cur
• The Argentine Dog or Dogos Argentino
• American Bulldog
• Alapaha blueblood Bulldog
• The Alaunt
• The Bull Terrier
• American Staffordshire Terrier
• Staffordshire Bull Terrier

Is it stupid of me to think that if a person can't immediately recognize a good number of these breeds on sight, then maybe they should do a tiny bit of research before publishing an article or blog post, slapping on a label at a shelter, or--oh, I don't know--passing legislation?

How many of these breeds do you recognize?  Get the answers here.  I can tell you, I didn't do very well.


(True:  This is my second rant this week--sorry.  I'll try to be funny on Friday.)

Quick, someone give me something funny to blog about!

Quick! I Need an Icepick!

I had a really clever idea for what to blog about today, but then the guys in my department started talking about the etymology of the Brazilian wax and I had to perform an emergency auto-lobotomy.


(True:  The word "I" comes from the Latin idem, which means "the same."  Because I'm unique.  Just like everyone else.)

Mad Motor Skillz, Yo. I've Got Them.

While bowling this weekend with friends, we got to talking about how in the US, we count on our fingers starting with our index finger, while in Europe, they start with their thumb.  It was just a curious, one-off observation until C tried to demonstrate the number four, European-style.

I am twenty-mumblemumble years old, and I should probably not find someone not being able to move their ring and pinkie fingers independently as funny as I do.

I my defence, he looked like a velociraptor, and velociraptors are always funny.  They are even funnier when they try to redeem themselves by doing a Vulcan salute (i.e., a Spock hand).  (I had no redeeming to do.  Not only can I fold my pinkie down solo, I can also snap my fingers on one hand in the shape of a triangle while simultaneously snapping the shape of an L with my other hand.  With a high-demand talent like that, it's a shock I'm not filthy rich.)

Also, I discovered that some people are totally incapable of not checking out a fellow bowler's butt.

I am not one of those people.

After bowling (and barbecue!  Sweet, sweet barbecue...), we hit downtown for drinks and karaoke.  It's been a while since I've been to a bar in a college town.  So it was something of a revelation to get hit on by a guy calling himself "Rhino" who opened with, "How old are you?  Are you way too old for me?" 


(True:  Try moving your right foot in a clockwise circle.  Now draw a six in the air.  Your foot just changed direction and also you look very silly.)

I Love You This Much. Take It or Leave It.

I'm not big on Valentine's Day.  I suppose there is nothing inherently wrong with a day when couples are required to be nice to each other, but it really doesn't do anything for me.  Mostly, it just seems like a lot of work.

In grade school, I had to spend, like, minutes filling in the "To" and "From" bits on my valentines, and that was when no one expected anything more than a posterboard 2" by 3" card with some Disney character on it.  Now, judging by Pinterest alone since I don't have kids, it looks like the Martha Stewart industry has started a competition to see how over-the-top kids' valentines can be.  If it doesn't have candies, live animals, or lasers, it just doesn't make the cut and you suck as a parent.  So, you know, no pressure.

As an adult, there's the live-long conundrum of:  spend a lot of money on cliche crap, or feel like a loser because you have no awesome photos to make your Facebook friends jealous.

BUT, I do feel some pressure to do some "holiday" something, and I want to be proactive about it.

So instead of asking my friends to "be mine," I'm just going write "MINE" on their foreheads.  With a Sharpie.

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Though if I were to give out valentines, I'd probably choose one of these.

(True:  I never wear colors associated with a holiday, because I'm contrary that way.)

The First Person to Make a Sandwich Joke Is Going to Get a Knuckle Sandwich Instead.

I'm not the best in the kitchen, and sometimes it seems the world intends to keep it that way.  Even if you disregard the multiple kitchen fires I swear I didn't mean to set, there's the fact that when I had someone over for dinner this weekend, the wiring to my kitchen light went out.  Because nothing is as fun as cooking* in the dark.

And then, later, I slapped some sauce and shredded cheese on a store-bought crust and called it a home-made pizza and felt all proud of myself until I started catching up on Geekologie and saw this:

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It's an octopizza, and it's just not fair.


(True:  But I do make a mean chicken pot pie.)

Fast Times at a School That Would Probably Not Prefer to Be Associated With This Blog

A good friend of mine from high school is having a baby in the not-too-distant future (ha, what else could it be?  Twenty years?), and it's got me remembering stuff.  So, join me on a walk down memory lane--if you dare.

I went to private high school.  Most of the students boarded, but there were a few of us "day students" who lived close enough to not have to live on campus.  We had our own lounge, and off that lounge was a small glass room nicknamed "the cubicle," which was just down the hall from the locker rooms assigned to the day students.  The cubicle had enough room for about four people comfortably, but we usually crammed about eight in there.  That's the boring part.

The interesting stuff is what we witnessed, safe on our side of the glass.  We saw break ups, make-ups, and make-outs.  We saw drama on a level that just isn't possible anywhere but a high school where most of the students live together (with teachers!) with no access to cars.

On one memorable occasion, however, the drama breached our safety glass.

A teacher stormed down the hall, coming from the boys' locker room, and slammed open the cubicle door.

"Who has been misusing their genitalia?!"

I honestly don't recall a single other time when all of us were simultaneously silent.  Cue astonishment and absolute confusion.

Eventually we figured it out:  someone in the boy's room missed the urinal.  Which was disgusting, but not nearly as bad as we had originally assumed.  Even better, none of us were guilty of the transgression--not this one, anyway.

But I do remember thinking, This is high school.  Those of us who aren't wish we were.


(True:  It was a special sort of high school I went to.  After I graduated and was legal to drink, I got conned into playing poker with my old high school teachers.  They got me drunk and won away all my money.  But I got an A for effort.)

Tips for Talking to the Person Who Is Not a Doormat

Because I've worked part-time in a bar, I've had my share of opportunities to talk to new and interesting people.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, it's awesome.  As Bill Nye the Science Guy said, "Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don't."  But every once in a while, there's that outlier that doesn't make the experience awesome...

(There is a disclaimer at the end of this post.  Some of the below experiences are borrowed from other people.  If that much bullshit were directed at me, I'd explode.)


** Personal space.  This is particularly important in a bar environment, because you probably have beer breath.

** There is a limit to how many times you can call/text/email her after one conversation.  Disproportionate attempts at communication will make her wonder if you are a stalker.

** Don't get upset if she doesn't call/text back immediately.  She probably has a life.  That's a good thing.

** Don't tell her who she can/can't talk to.  Talking is a particularly useful form of communication, and often means nothing more than a pleasant (or sometimes unpleasant) conversation.  Holster the jealousy or be prepared to be punched in the throat.

** Grabbing her ass will not be taken as an invitation to come home with you.  It will be taken as an invitation to punch you in the throat.  Same goes for the old slide-your-hand-around-her-back-and-under-her-arm-for-a-bit-of-side-boob squeeze.  You are not being subtle.  You are being a dick.

** Buying her a drink doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever.  A long conversation doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever.  Trading phone numbers doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever, if you were still wondering. 

** If she says she has plans, you can probably assume that she has plans.  Accusing her of lying to blow you off will earn you a punch in the throat.

** And if she says she's not interested in going on that date you suggested, you can probably take that to mean she's not interested in going on that date you suggested.  Just a suggestion.  There is not always romantic subtext.  Sometimes, a conversation is just a conversation.  Try to force more, and you'll deserve more than just a punch in the throat.

** If she says, "No," or "Enough," or "Stop:"  No, you aren't going to change her mind.  She's had enough.  Stop.


Or, in other words, (Wil Wheaton's, to be exact), don't be a dick.


(True:  These are all experiences I've had, or friends have had, or friends of friends have had.  I've used the pronoun "she" because I'm a she.  And most of the friends/friends of friends whose experiences I've borrowed for this post are also shes (but not all).  Substitute pronouns as needed.  And you might notice that I'm giving these tips to a "you"--not a "he" or "she."  That's because dickitude is not exclusive to any one gender.  Neither are these tips specific to romantically-inclined conversations or situations.  Friends don't treat each other that way, either.  Get it?  Don't be a dick--whoever you are--to whomever you're speaking to.  End disclaimer.)

I Don't Care If You Call It Soda or Pop--This Is Still War.

They say that insanity is repeating an action and expecting different results.  I don't know who "they" are--probably the people carrying the fashionably long-sleeved white coat.  I think they're following me.

But, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman in possession of a full-time job must be in want of a caffeinated beverage.  Which is to say, don't even bother talking to me before I've started my first can on Mt. Dew--any appearances of consciousness are false.

Scene:  this morning, first thing, at work.  The soda machine informed me that the Mt. Dew was sold out.  This was bad, but not a catastrophe, because I can settle for a Coke in a pinch.  BUT, the machine spat out my dollar, same way it did for the Mt. Dew.

This was a problem.  If there is no Mt. Dew, and there is no Coke, my only caffeinated option is Dr. Pepper, and twenty-one flavors is just too many for me. 

It would have been better than nothing--but there was nothing.  So, what was I supposed to drink?  Orange juice?  Get out of here.  This was a catastrophe!  Had my life really come to this?  In desperation, I tried each of the caffeinated options a bunch more times, and kicked the machine for good measure.  (There may have been some chest beating and hair-pulling as well.)

Finally, the light came on--a literal light.  The indicator light for "exact change only," to be exact. 

Proof positive that acting crazy is not always the same as being crazy.

Update:  I wrote this on Monday.  As of 12:08 pm today, we really are out of Mt. Dew, Coke, and Dr. Pepper.  I'm trying unsuccessfully to drown my tears in a caffeine-free root beer.


(True:  SHUT UP, PEANUT GALLERY!)

What's Black and White and Red All Over?

My face, the day after an evening test-run for my Halloween makeup.  As my costume is pretty makeup-intensive, I wanted a run-through to figure out exactly how early I need to get up on Wednesday.  (Answer:  Very.)  And because I can never do costumes by halves, I went out and purchased higher-end makeup that actually dries (in case my nose itches, or something). 

Gotta say, the makeup does stay in place.  I washed my face four times to get it all off.

But, it's me, so I forgot to clean it off my glasses.  Which I put on the next morning in a pre-Mt. Dew stupor.  Aaaand I didn't realize I had facepaint smeared all over the bridge of my nose until about 10:30 that morning, at work.  Which means my coworkers are either equally unobservant or total assholes.  Jury's out.


(True:  A third option is that my coworkers did notice, and just decided it wasn't the weirdest I've looked...)

Um, You've Gone Too Far

I have discovered something that is equally amazing and apalling:



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It's a tail.  That wags when you're happy.

Because I definitely need to give people an excuse to stare at my butt.

(True:  When I went to a bridal show with My then-bride-to-be Sister the Lawyer, one of the men with a "Groom" sticker--who was holding hands with a woman wearing a "Bride" sticker, mind you--"accidentally" copped a feel of my butt.  Dude, here's a hint:  If you want to make it seem like an accident, DON'T FOLLOW THE CURVE.)

A Handy Guide to Halloween Costumes and Life

(Humming...)  It's the most wonderful time of the year...

No, I don't mean Christmas, although presents are pretty damn wonderful.  I'm talking about Halloween, the one day of the year that responsible adults are still allowed to play dress-up.  By this point of the year, I usually have a detailed plan for what I'm going to dress up as and how to make that happen.  (I never buy pre-fab costumes.)  This fall, however, I'm running behind.  As I consider my options, there are several questions I keep in mind to keep myself on track.

And you should, too.

Question 1:  Could this costume be called "Naughty (Blank)" or "Sexy (Blank)?"
Because when it comes to costumes, both of these words are interchangeable with "whore."  One part of the costume can be of the come-hither variety without overdoing it.  (I flatter myself that I managed to pull off a Puss in Boots costume with red thigh-high boots.  But then, I paired them with a full cape and a modest top.  And, of course, pants.  Which leads me to Question 2...)

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There is a happy medium...

Question 2:  Are there pants?

A banded top does not count.  Nor does any skirt short enough that you might get herpes from sitting on a bar stool.  Leggings might be okay with a tunic-length top, as long as they are opaque.  If they aren't, they are tights.  And tights are not pants.  Basically, keep your butt out of sight, please.

Question 3:  Will there be visible belly button?

This is not the 90s.  Start over.

Question 4:  Is this costume seasonally appropriate?

Seriously.  If you're running around in a tube top/mini skirt/high heeled sandals and it's snowing, you're not doing it right.

Question 5:  Is it lazy?

 Look, if you want to grab a pair of cat ears to wear with your everyday clothes, more power to you.  But don't blame me if people think you're more boring than watching other people watch paint dry.

Question 6:  Is it recognizable?

Don't get me wrong, I totally do obscure characters from literature all the time.  (That didn't come out quite right, but whatever.)  Even semi-sort-of-not-obscure characters, like the March Hare from Alice in Wonderland is probably going to get some questions.  But if you're going to dress up as a Jessie Drummond from Super What?, don't go crying into your beer when nobody gets it.  This is especially important with gender-bending costumes.

Question 7:  Can you sit/move in the costume?

If your costume is a pimento olive made out of chicken wire, consider this:  you may not fit into a car.  And you definitely won't fit through a bus door.  Your ass is walking.

A summary:

• Be creative.
• Wear clothes.
• Use your noggin, just a little.

All points that will serve you well in life--I promise.

(True:  Less than six weeks to the big day, and I'm still undecided?!  Seriously starting to panic...  Also, I have to say I do actually really like the crazy cat lady costume above.)

Five Things About Me You're Gonna Wish You Didn't Know, Or, A Bipedian English Dictionary Is in the Works

I wasn't going to post today, but Noa over at Oh Noa thinks I leave mildly amusing comments on occasion so I might actually get some traffic* and ohgodthepressure.

*(Besides that from my 22 loyal followers.  I love you 22 people so much that if you were to ask, I'd clean the baked on goop from that window of your ovens.*) 

*(That is a conditional sentence.*  I will not be cleaning anyone's oven.  I'd rather just stick my head it it.)

*(It's the same reason you really need to stop saying, "If I was you.")


So, I had to think of a topic off-hand, and this is what you're getting.  If you don't like it, too damn bad.

1.  When I was very small, My Sister the Lawyer once locked my imaginary friend in the house when the family was going on a trip.  I made my parents turn around to get her.

2.  My imaginary friend's name was Ulie.  Which is actually the name of one of William Tell's cohorts back in the fifteenth century.  This probably goes beyond simple precocity.

3.  The word "precocity" is in my lexicon.

4.  I can't help but point out when people use words incorrectly or in the wrong context.  This prompts them to call me a Grammar Nazi.  Thus I am forced to elucidate them on the difference between grammar and syntax.

5.  It would probably be more accurate, to call me not a Grammar Nazi, but enlightened or perhaps perspicacious.  Of course, "brilliant" would work in a pinch.

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(True:  Bonus!  I identify deeply with Amelia Peabody.)