Foolery

My Top Five Anti-Aging Secrets

5.  Bad photography.

4.  Unscrewing all CFLs and fluorescent light bulbs (working to make candlelight contractually required at my workplace).

3.  Make sure everyone around you is nearsighted, drunk or both.

2.  Hang out with octogenarians exclusively.

1.  Stay fat -- it pops the wrinkles out from the inside.

In Which She Plays With Wordle and Wastes Time

Someone just introduced me to Wordle.net. Oh my holy heck, is this fun (if you're a nerd like me who lives typography, and I can only assume you are). I typed my blog URL* into the box and the program samples from recent posts to create a word cloud. Then you get to play with it. I made this one:

. . . and this one:

You can raise or lower the word count, customize the colors to match your blog (like I did in the top one), and select from several different fonts.

Hard to believe there was a work-related reason for this goofy little sidetrack, but there was. Go try it!


*Entering the URL works only if an RSS or ATOM feed is attached to the site. We're seriously taxing my tech knowledge at this point, folks, so please don't ask any questions.

Fooleryland Fiction: Boot

(Original photo stolen from this site)

"Do NOT learn the wrong lesson from this, Son," the man flatly warned, adjusting his work boot on Justin's neck to drive home his point. "It'd be real easy for you to dismiss me as just another asshole, and you'd be part right." Justin didn't move, didn't dare breathe, but he was silently listing the words he would paint on this Neanderthal's truck later, or maybe he should kill the man's dog, or --

"But if you crawl out of here thinking I mistreated you, you'll come back later and mouth off to another, less reasonable asshole," he continued. Blood-tears-snot coalesced on Justin's thick upper lip. He blinked and it hurt. "I did you a favor; I saved you from the next asshole. I may not have a six-figure education, but I understood what you said. Next time you say that in a working man's bar, you won't be saying much more."

The boot lifted from Justin's throat but the eyes pinned the young man to the floor. From the patch pocket under a cursive JERRY a cell phone rang. The man forced two thick fingers into the thin pocket and gingerly plucked out the ringing phone. "Yeah," he mumbled, turning away.

Justin exhaled. Yeah, he'd kill the fucking dog, all right.

No-Punctuation Wednesday on a Monday: Valentine's Day Buying Tips

So you may be wondering
Hey Foolery you wonder
Hey Foolery why are you writing a Valentines Day buying tip post when the day in question is nearly over on the east coast and all of us smarties have long since bought or boycotted V Day treats
you wonder
and I say to you
Because this is not about buying treats for OTHER PEOPLE although to make this work you have to use that cover story
it IS about
are you ready for this
buying treats FOR YOU

AHAAAAA you say
So tell us more O Foolery My Foolery
and here goes

Go Valentines Day shopping ON Valentines Day
I suggest CVS Pharmacy or Walgreens or similar where everything is largely picked over and the specials are two for one or something and you pick out some schlock that will make the kids happy like a chocolate dog in a doghouse
really I am not kidding
I guess because nothing says Valentines Day like being in the dog house


photo stolen from these guys

and then you get the requisite bottle of champagne or sixer of Bud or whatever your sweetie is into and then you go BACK TO THE CANDY AISLE
this is important
you must be seen looking frantic with at least one nonValentines item in your basket
for me it was pecans although SURPRISE that is part of my gift to my husband because I am incredibly romantic like that
and then you find the two for one truffles or whatever it is youre into and you sigh heavily as you put a couple of those babies into your basket
making sure you let the other last minute Nellies in the aisle aware that you forgot Grandma again or your boss likes these or whatever lame excuse you can muster
and you proceed to the checkout line with a harried expression
Oh Woe Is Me Look At Me So Late With My Basket Full Of Stuff
and you really sell it
and you get away with a bag of heart shaped Snickers or some crap you really do not need but
WANT WANT WANT

If you wait a day then everyone knows its all for you anyway so go right now
RIGHT NOW DAMMIT
and Happy Exploitative Candy Wielding Passive Aggressive Holier Than Thou Smug Bitchy Holiday Day to you
love
Foolery

Tim Lincecum Is Johnny Weir in the Off-Season

I just figured it out.

San Francisco Giants pitcher Tim Lincecum and Olympic figure skater Johnny Weir are the same person.


(Photo of Tim Lincecum stolen from these guys; photo of Johnny Weir stolen from these guys)

I mean, think about it. They were both born in the summer of 1984. They're both cute as a bug's ear.


(Photo of Tim Lincecum stolen from these guys; photo of Johnny Weir stolen from these guys)  

They look alike, sure, but they are also both superb athletes, and have a lot of the same moves.

(Photo of Tim Lincecum stolen from these guys; photo of Johnny Weir stolen from this guy)

(Photo of Tim Lincecum stolen from this site; photo of Johnny Weir stolen from these guys)

Also, their work uniforms are about the same.

(Photo of Tim Linceum stolen from these guys; photo of Johnny Weir stolen from this site)

And, have you ever seen them together? Didn't think so.

Go Giants!

I Hope the Uniform Is Cute

 

(Original photo stolen from this guy)

I have invented a new imaginary sport: Client Wrestling. I haven't worked out the details, except that I must always win and they must always apologize.

A Teeny Little Contest: Because Cancer Sucks

I never hold contests because I don't have anything worth giving away. Or keeping, for that matter. So I went in search of something small, something interesting -- and I found this magnet!

 

(Image stolen from the Cancer Sucks charity site at Cafe Press)

The logo was designed by Marcy at The Glamorous Life Association, and she has created a page at Cafe Press, the Cancer Sucks Store where people can buy all kinds of stuff with this logo on it. As posted on the site:

This is a 100% not for profit idea.
Every penny goes to buying MORE
'Cancer Sucks' products
to be given to children fighting cancer.
I hope you can support this cause
and tell a friend!

 
 

This particular item is a magnet -- BECAUSE I WAS BUYING TEN OF THEM AND I'M JUST THAT CHEAP, DAMMIT! -- but you can buy t-shirts, aprons, all kinds of cool things.

 
So here's the contest:

WIN A MAGNET

All you have to do is be one of the first five people who e-mail me their mailing addresses.

BUT WAIT!
THERE'S MORE!

Then tell me, in the comments, the name or story of one person near and dear to you who has battled cancer. Even better, write a blog post on your own site or Facebook page about this person -- just leave the link in your comment.

I KNOW,
BUT HANG ON
IT GETS BETTER,
I PROMISE

The five winners each get TWO magnets -- one to keep and one to bestow on another unsuspecting blog reader  one to use for his/her own blog giveaway. All I ask of people giving away one of these magnets on their blogs is that they include

1.  The Cancer Sucks Store link for some good promotional karma and
2.  a link to the creator of the whole thing, Marcy at The Glamorous Life Association, for good bloggy karma

That's it! Now send me your mailing addresses* pronto:

foolery (at) clearwire (dot) net

If I feel really creative between now and -- well, soon . . . I might put conversation hearts or old candy corn in the envelope, too. Something, maybe.

*If you think anything sneaky or dastardly is going to happen to your mailing address, I can assure you, it won't. Being sneaky and dastardly takes WAY too much energy. Your address is safe with me.

"No Exploding Carrots, And Only a Hint of That Cigarette Smell!"

 


(Original photo stolen from this site and this site)

That would be my motto if I marketed my own special bean stew to the general public. Long story involving an overaggressive stove burner and a husband with finely-tuned taste buds. Long, boring, sad story.

Just Eat the Wrapper

My Facebook friend Tina just posted this this morning, and it got me thinking . . .

Tina Karr Glover ~ By a show of hands (figuratively speaking)...who thinks a fast-food/drive-through soup place would be AWESOME?

Lots of people agreed with her. We need BETTER fast food, not MORE fast food. So here are some health food restaurant suggestions, world, on the house. For free. Thank you. You're welcome.

 

(Original photo stolen from this nice lady)


 


(International House of Kale)

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

 

 

 

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

 

and

 


It could work. I still wanna try your fast soup, Tina.

Beet the Meatles

  



(Photo stolen from Rolling Stone)

Watched the last half hour of some Beatles special on the History Channel last night. My friend Cheryl sent me a very moving Paul McCartney YouTube clip this afternoon. Tonight after kids and husband were safely into their tryptophan naps I watched most of the Paul McCartney New York concert on ABC.

I think the Beatles are sending me a message, and after SECONDS of thought, here it is:

Paul McCartney looks more and more like my grandmother every year. Should he ever start wearing a wiglet I'll have to call him Mormor and ask for story time.

Unless he's already wearing a wiglet? In which case, I've Just Seen a Face I can't forget . . .

The Foolery Health Plan, Devised Late At Night With Two Brains Tied Behind My Back

"How about a basic public option that includes free annual check-ups, breast exams, colonoscopies, etc., for all. Everyone gets one free ambulance ride a year, sirens and lights on if you've eaten all your vegetables. Ibuprofen and back massages are free. Oprah pays for everything else. You're welcome."

That's what I posted on Facebook the other night. I've been giving this a lot of thought and here are some more ideas:

• Pain meds will be paid for by your congressional representatives, since they are the source of most pains.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

• Cardiac care will be free to non-smokers who are thin, drug-free, eat no red meat, and have no prior history of heart disease. The cost for everyone else's heart care will be split among the parties who most benefit from unhealthy lifestyles: fast food restaurants and Maury Povich.

(Photo stolen from this guy)

• People on waiting lists for medical care will move into group homes and will be subjected to 24-hour video taping for TV shows like "The Biggest Loser," "The Real World: Organ Transplants" and "Survivor: Omaha." Advertising revenues raised will fund the contestants' care (if they make it).

(Photo stolen from her)

• Boob jobs and tummy tucks will go from being elective surgery to mandatory for most women. I don't know where the money will come from to pay for that but I know that you won't hear a whole lot of argument from men. Or women.

This is as far as I've gotten. I think it's workable. I hope I can count on your vote.

We Fix Pix -- They Do, She Does, And She Did!

The photos from which these scans were made are over 100 years old.



Martin and Elise were my great grandparents on my mother's side -- Mormor's parents. If over the past year you've been following the stories I have published from my grandmother's (Mormor's) writings, Mormor will already be someone you're familiar with.

What happened to these photos? Who can say. In a century and more there are so many possibilities. But I had them fixed, and I want to show you:




Don't they look great? My friend Valerie at We Fix Pix did the work. In case the FTC is reading, I want y'all to know that I paid full price for the service and was more than happy to do so, so there is no payola here to see, move along now . . .

If, in your town, you don't have a friend Valerie, let me recommend mine:

We Fix Pix
1342 Longfellow Avenue
Chico, CA 95926
530 - 892 - 8454

She does photo restoration, duplication -- heck, she'll even remove your creepy ex-boyfriend from a cherished family photo! How fabulous is that?!

Just spreading the love.

Smedley and Sparky's Anti-Pregnancy Plan

(Poster stolen from The Humane Society)

Sparky, my kindergartener, brought a proposal to me this morning.  She's alarmed at the difficulty we've had getting the first young outside cat, Buckeye, spayed.  Buckeye has developed an infection at the point of incision and is on antibiotics for ten days, and she's wearing a cone on her neck to keep her from licking her wound.  It's been stressful for all of us (especially Buckeye), and the girls and Daddy are railing against the idea that two more outside cats must be spayed.

But they haven't accepted the true choice: spayed or euthanized.  We CAN'T have more kittens; it's ridiculous and grossly expensive to take care of a yard full of cats as it is, especially when you consider that people will forever drive by and dump more cats on us.  But this is the third cat on a 10-day round of antibiotics since Christmas, and the prospect of two more cats in queue makes all of us a little queasy.  And that's just the females!

So here's how Sparky presented her plan.

"Mommy, Smedley and I have come up with a plan to keep Green Eyes from having kittens.  Here's how it works:

1.  Keep away from males.

2.  Eat lots of fruit.

3.  Eat lots of grass.

4.  Keep away from other cats.

That way, Green Eyes won't have kittens.  Okay Mommy?"

Now why didn't I think of that?  Maybe we should spread the word to a certain unmarried unemployed bankrupt* California woman who is prone to litters.

Please spay and neuter your spouses pets.  The Humane Society's Spay and Neuter Day 2009 is February 24th.

*I am retracting the word bankrupt because of a reader suggestion that it was out of line. She's absolutely right and I'm leaving it here so that the comments make sense, but I shot my mouth off and I'm sorry about that.

The Original CatDog

The gorgeous redhead is Bucky, our beloved golden retriever.  The chubby blonde with the bad perm and acid-washed jeans is no one I know.

Bucky was The Best Dog In The World.  This fact is undisputed.  He was not, however, the brightest bulb in the lamp (unlike my parents' dog Jim, who had his own car service).  I never saw Bucky do anything even slightly cranky, and I do not know if he could in fact growl.

When my brother Bocci was living at home he would take the dog out into the pasture for a run, throwing the tennis ball for him for exercise, and encouraging Bucky to poop.  Bucky needed no encouragement to run, fetch OR poop.  But multitasking was not Bucky's strong suit, so once on one of these "constitutionals" Bucky accidentally pooped on his tennis ball.  This is the very definition of a dilemma.  Bucky had a big big choice to make.  I'll spare you his decision.

Bucky liked to sleep on the concrete patio in the shade.  There were then, as now, several stray cats who dozed out there, too, running away when people showed up.  A particularly large male cat started sleeping closer and closer to Bucky, until before long they were intertwined and snoring and purring away in the afternoon heat.  None of us could get close to that cat in those days; we named him Tom but he was Bucky's pet cat.

But I didn't come here today to tell you that; I came here to tell you this:

Bucky was a killer.

I know, I know -- we didn't believe it at first either, but it was true.  Our neighbor told us that there was a big commotion under his house one day, and several neighborhood dogs had cornered a cat and they were savaging it.  Bucky was one of those dogs.

"What?  No, it can't be," said Mom.  "Bucky loves cats -- he even has his OWN cat!"

"It was Bucky, all right, and he was just as into it as the other dogs," said the neighbor.  I went to the sliding glass door and looked out onto the patio at Bucky, snoozing away with Tom lying across his chest.  Bucky The Cat-Killer was rather hard to imagine.

What this story illustrates is the pack mentality, which we have of course all heard of.  I was trying to explain it to my daughters today, talking about the coyotes we heard last night.  "Can they eat us?" asked Smedley.

"No, one coyote -- even a big one -- will leave you alone," I explained, hoping that was actually 100% true.  "But a pack of coyotes would kill you if they could."

And then I told them what my cousin in Tahoe witnessed a few years ago.  A neighbor dog -- a very large breed, like a labrador or rottweiler -- was barking his head off in the middle of their suburban Tahoe street.  A single coyote was backing slowly away from the dog as my cousin watched.  The coyote turned and trotted off, looking over its shoulder to make sure the dog followed, staying just ahead of the dog.  The dog didn't come home that night, and the neighbors later found it dead.  The coyote had lured the dog back to the pack, where it was out numbered and killed.

"Why did the coyotes kill the dog, Mama?"

"Either they felt threatened by the dog in their territory, or they were hungry.  Or maybe they were just doing it for fun, which is also possible."  Just like Bucky and the other dogs killing cats under the neighbor's house.  Sometimes "why not?" seems like as good a reason as any, I guess.

Whatever you call it -- pack mentality, herd mentality, safety in numbers, groupthink -- it is even more dangerous among people.  Ethnic cleansing, McCarthyism, Rosie O'Donnell allowed on television -- all of these owe much to pack mentality.

"So always be sure to think for yourselves, girls," I told them.  "Make sure that when you make a choice it fits what you really believe.  Don't let anyone talk you into doing something that seems horrible to you."  Like killing cats or watching "Rosie Live," I thought.

Or wearing acid-washed jeans.

Updated 12/28, an addendum to the Bucky story from Mom:  I, too, believed that Rusty* (my name for said canine) was a gentle soul and a cat lover, until one day on our daily walk near the pistachio orchard north of us.  Rusty was roaming ahead of me and suddenly spotted a cat near the orchard, took off chasing, and ran that cat right up one of the trees.  Not satisfied, he jumped until he reached the terrified cat, dragged it down, and wiped the ground with it in his teeth.  I was screaming in disbelief, to which he paid no attention, and how that cat got loose and climbed higher than the dog could reach is beyond me.  I could not believe what I had seen, especially since I had witnessed his cozy relationship with HIS cat.   Hard to understand.

*Laurie's note: who names a dog RUSTY?  : )

I Can Haz Netz Income?

I thought I was pretty internet-savvy.  I "surf," if anybody still calls it that, I multitask, I Windows (YECCCCCCCHHHHHHH), I Mac, I belong to eh-heh-heverything there is to sign up for (remember Pownce?  Early adopter, right here*), and I pee on my internet territory regularly.  But there is one internet thing I just don't get.

LOLcats.

What's this obsession with poor-spelling cats with the vocabulary of cavemen?  Personally, I think cats are smarter than that.  But, being essentially a capitalist pig at heart, it's high time I got on the bandwagon.

 

Introducing

 

LOLhippos

 

A celebration of those funny darned animals who are so ugly they're adorable, and who do the funniest things.  Picturing a hippo curled up sleeping in a shoe, or batting a Cheeto across your kitchen floor?  Yeah, me too.  The opportunity to cash in on the funny awaits.

 

At least, I thought so.  Here were my first efforts:

 

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

 

 

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

 

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

 

Are you LOLing?  Me neither.  And then I found THIS:

 

 

 

(Photo stolen from this guy)

 

Okay, so I picked the wrong animal.  Hippos are NOT that funny.  Although the spinning tail poop fan is pretty LOLable . . . but no, back to the drawing board.

 

Maybe LOLrhinos.  Watch this space.

 

*Thanks, Gubby, for forcing me to stay somewhat hip and relevant.

These Have Been Bothering Me for Twenty-Three Minutes Now

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Where do praying mantises come from?  They show up every fall, but where were they in June?

When someone says, "Keep an open mind," what does that mean to the speaker?  Because I hear, "No matter how poorly crafted this is, you've gotta accept it, and if you don't, you'll look like a bigot/ignoramus/plebeian/fascist/jerk."

Why are people so concerned with how much wood a woodchuck could hypothetically chuck?  Really, we ought instead to be watching the chick in the seashell booth down at the shore, 'cause I don't think she has a seller's permit.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Who made anybody other than ME an arbiter of taste?  Show me pictures of Clinton and Stacy, Martha or any of the others you can name who roll their eyes over what we unwashed masses are wearing, eating or decorating with, and I'll show you people who had big hair, blue eye shadow, puffy sleeves and mauve decor AT SOME POINT in their pasts.  Also?  I can almost guarantee you that any of them have used the Avant Garde type face at least once.  Break out the dope slaps and cancel your subscriptions, folks.

If your mother is Haitian and your father is Icelandic, which box do you check for "race" on the census?  No snark here, I just have no idea how people figure that one out.

Why do I want my hair to smell like vanilla?  Sure, I love vanilla, but I also love burritos, and I don't think I need to connect THOSE dots.

(Photo stolen from this site)

Why is it that often people who abstain from marriage -- calling it a quaint and antiquated ritual, an unnecessary documentation of one's feelings and predilections -- also sport tattoos?  No really, why?

Why is the act of kissing a baby some sort of affirmation of a politician's character?  I say, make him/her CHANGE the baby.  CHANGE is good.  CHANGE is what we came here for.  Line 'em up, people, and stand back, 'cause Junior's kinda ripe by now.

My Organizational Prowess: iTunes

This is how I organize my unknown songs on iTunes.

















Some well-meaning person sends me a mix without names, or any identifying characteristics.  To keep my iTunes clear of hundreds of songs called Track 01 and Track 02, I give the songs and singers names.










I'm certain they already have names . . . just not GOOD names.




Now they have GOOD names.  At least, DESCRIPTIVE names.




















Just doing my part for clarity and organization.

We Have Nothing to Fear But Franklin Roosevelt

(Image stolen from these guys)

Pioneer Woman -- Ree -- posted an excellent confession on her blog Thursday in the hope that her readers could help her deal with her fear of flying.  She encouraged her readers to give advice and offer experiences, and 15 million comments later, she's going to have a lot of reading to do.

Of course I had an opinion.  OF COURSE I shot my mouth off!  Would you expect anything less from me?  But it seemed like a decent post, too, so after fleshing it out a bit, here it is.

*     *     *     *     *

Sorry Ree -- I suffer no fear of flying, so I can't help you there (HOWEVER, I avoid flying because I have a terrible fear of being annoyed).

AND

since I am the Phobia Queen in the otherwise completely UNironic, UNneurotic family of my childhood, I have something to share:  I am scared DOOKY-less over spiders.  And I live in the country.

On a farm/dairy/ranch.  Where there are more spiders per square mile than airplanes, ghosts and mass murderers put together.

In The Spider Belt.

And I'm the only person I know who has had a black widow on her NECK, fer cryin' out loud in a bucket.

BUT

the fear of passing my irrationalities on to my already GROSSLY dramatic daughters was bigger than my arachniphobia.  So I decided NEVER to tell them of my fear.  On pain of death and/or really nasty noogies, no one I know is allowed to tell my daughters that Mommy is scared to death of spiders (and preying manti, and heights, and cars in parking lots, and . . .)

SO

I actually PICK UP daddy longlegs and calmly carry them outside and set them free.  I'm a living breathing Fear Factor episode, without the barfing.  My daughters are squeamish and shrieky, but I say, "Pipe down!  Imagine how scared THIS little guy is.  Isn't he cute?"  And I hide the heeby-jeebies and they really aren't too bad.

SO

I have a house full of fat, contented spiders, daughters who scream and THEN say, "Awwwww, isn't he cute?  DON'T KILL IT, DADDY!" and I'm gaining ground on their phobias as well as my own.

After I decided to approach it this way I read somewhere that modeling the behavior you want -- ACTING! thankyouverymuch -- is a healthy way to learn to feel more in control.  Whatever.  It's helping.


(Original photo stolen from this guy)

I hope this helps you, Ree, and I hope that you don't end up with a house full of spiders . . . or airplanes.

Turn Out the Lights, the Party's Over

This is what my big ideas look like (minus the hat).


(Photo stolen from bartendermagic_com on Flickr)

Now, along come these.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time imagining this:



I think from now on my big ideas may be energy efficient, but they'll be ugly as sin (not to mention expensive).

I may have to get a hat like that, though.

Memorable Business Names

One of our sales reps just stumbled in the door giggling like a little girl.  He could barely stop laughing long enough to tell me why.  Now, if you think there's a chance you'll find this offensive, stop reading now.

 

My rep had just seen a car carrier truck, and the name emblazoned on the side of the truck was CAMEL TOWING.  If that's not funny to you, never mind.

Photo stolen from these guys)

 

Another favorite business name that any normal person would never forget (but for which I always have to call Chas for a reminder) was that of a local colon therapist:  Process of Elimination.  Her slogan was "We Bring Out The Worst In You!"

 

Some other favorite names include Murder Burger, in Davis, California -- "So Good They're To Die For" -- Linoleum Dick's in Campbell, California (if they have a slogan I don't know it; I prefer to make up my own), and CUSTOMER ONLY USE TOILET, a Chinese restaurant in Vallejo, I think, many years ago.  At least, that appeared to be the name of the place.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

(Photo stolen from here)

Send me your favorite business names!