Escape your life for a little while — come play in mine.

Archive for April, 2009

Yes, I am officially in freak-out mode

Posted by Lissa on April 8, 2009

Breathe, dammit. Just breathe.

Here’s the funny thing — the sentence, “I’m getting married to Mike in ten days” doesn’t freak me out.  I’m fine with that.

But if you stop after the first three words . . . “I’m getting married” . . . OH.  MY.  FREAKING.  GOD.

In between shopping for pew bows (pew pew pew!) and arranging seating charts and engraving flutes and purchasing parental gifts and hiring videographers and confirming bus companies, I’ve been dealing with the stress by whimpering, sucking my thumb and occasionally eating paste.  (Nom nom nom.)

Okay, not really.  But I *have* been leaning like hell on my older sister, as well as anxiously needing reassurance from Mike.  (“You love me, right?  You don’t have cold feet, do you?  You appreciate that I go grocery shopping and cook dinner, right?  My hair looks pretty, right?”) 

Mostly he pets my hair and tells me everything is fine.  Although I think I’ve caught him looking at me a few times with a “wow, THIS is the woman I’m marrying?  The one regressing to finger paint and cartoons?” look. 

Yes, sweetie, this is the woman you’re marrying.  And, in fact, I think I’ll pull out the Little House books tonight.  And make Play-doh, cause the pretty colors make it tastier than paste.  Om nom nom.

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President Obama bows to the Saudi King – complete with palate cleanser

Posted by Lissa on April 3, 2009



Why, no, I’m not terribly fond of Saudi Arabia.  I’m sure it’s a perfectly lovely country with wonderful people, but I’m not really diggin’ on a place where women aren’t allowed to drive, Jews can’t live, Christians can’t bring Bibles, “honor killings” are tacitly allowed, men can’t wear shorts, and folks can’t drink alcohol.  (I throw those last two in for fun, but seriously, what a bummer.)

No, I don’t think Obama should have decked him, or spat at his feet, or anything ridiculous — but why bow like that?  He didn’t do that for the Queen of England, and it’s proscribed by general etiquette (link, like picture, from American Thinker).

Don’t worry, I’m not brooding about this or anything.  In fact, the only reason I posted on it at all was to offer the following palate-cleanser.  Enjoy!

P.S.  Mike writes, “Seriously, I guess it doesn’t bother me because I don’t know the customs for such things in Arab lands. I’m assuming it’s a show of respect there and doesn’t mean he’s denigrating himself to do so. If he did the same on meeting Japanese dignitaries, for instance, I wouldn’t think anything of it because I think that would be common in Japan (even if it’s not, I THINK it is). I didn’t like it when the left interpreted everything Bush said or did in the worst way possible, so I think it’d be just as bad to do so to Obama now.”  Very good point!  I was just thinking I needed to update-and-bump my post celebrating the indictment of Ted Stevens, now that the scumbag got away.  There’s a lot to criticize about President Obama, but there’s an awful lot of Republican scum out there too . . .

(h/t to Michelle for the tip on Obama and the Saudi king, and to LawDog for that video)

UPDATE: Going by the most rudimentary Google search, it appears that Bush didn’t bow to the Saudi king, but he did kiss him.  Mwah!

UPDATE UPDATE: Mike again – “The real question is whether Obama and his protocol advisers would respect the precedent of vomiting on the Japanese prime minister.”
Lissa: “Only if the prime minister vomits back!!”

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Because the Intrawebz are FOREVER

Posted by Lissa on April 2, 2009

And because I’m too damn lazy right now to write out a real In-the-event-of-my-death document.  And because I stumbled across Matt’s recitation and figured, why not?

(And because Jay G. made me laugh in the comments.  Taxidermy indeed, sir!)

So, when I go . . .

– If I’m a vegetable, keep me alive for six months or a year if you can afford it.  (I’ve seen miraculous recoveries and doctor mistakes and such, so I ask for a little just-in-case time.)  After that, kindly pull the plug.

– Any of my organs that can be used — take ’em.  Skin, eyes, kidneys — if they’re usable, I want ’em used.  You won’t be able to transfer my sparkling personality or rapier wit or incandescent beauty, but I — hey, stop laughing!  Stop it, I say!

– Burn anything leftover.  I’d like my ashes sprinkled in the bay I cross over every morning — I’ve watched the tidal patterns five days a week for almost a year now and I love them.  I like to picture some incarnation of myself merrily swimming below stalled T cars, thumbing my metaphysical nose and warning the passengers nyah nyah, you’re gonna be late to work!

– I want a wake!  I want people to sit around sipping tasty beverages and telling Lissa-stories.  I want them to reminisce over the zillion ways I screwed up, futzed up, messed up, cheered up, lit up, and made up.  Celebrate my life!

Did that cover it?  I think that covered it.  I love you all, and don’t forget to taunt the cat, he likes it.  Um, really.

UPDATE: Swiped from The Good the Bad and the Ugly!


(I don’t really.  FYI.)

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Who wants a time-waster?

Posted by Lissa on April 2, 2009

Inspired by the fun of Shoothouse Barbie, I meandered over and took the Tarot-card crystal-ball fortune-cookie personality test. Apparently I’m a Guardian-Provider (ESFJ). So, I’ll grow you food — but if you try and f*ck with me and mine, your *ss is grass, y’all.Or something.

The last (only) time I took a Myers-Briggs test I was eighteen, and desperate to grow out of my shell. Having been very shy and withdrawn for most of my adolescence, I was determined to be a bright shining star at college. (Snort) As such, I took the test with an eye to the sort of roommate I wanted to attract, rather than actual answers that were true for me.

That’ll teach me to lie on personality tests!

Freshman Roomie (Froomie!) was a nightmare of galactic proportions. Okay, okay, I exaggerate; she never stole my money, cheated off my assignments or broke my stuff. It wasn’t THAT bad. She was merely an immature narcissistic young woman, and being pretty immature myself I lacked the skills to deal with her. Froomie’s preferred method of letting me know that I had upset her was to tell all of our mutual friends what a miserable insensitive b*tch I was — despite my repeated requests that she simply let ME know if I’d done something wrong, so I could fix it. Apparently that was too difficult a standard for an 18-year-old.

On the upside, living with Mary (not her real name) the next year was a piece of cake. We had our difficulties now and again, sure, but when she was upset — she’d actually TELL me so! Hallelujah! I helped her with her Spanish and she helped me with my fashion and it was such a JOY to feel comfortable in our nice room.

And so, the moral of the story is . . . um . . . well, I’m not actually sure there IS a moral to this story. In fact, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t qualify as a story so much as unhinged rambling.  Just go take the test, if you feel like wasting some time. So there.

P.S.  I bet I confused the hell out of the personality test.  What does it do with someone who isn’t terribly analytical or logical herself but freely acknowledges that those are the best approaches to take?

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Lessons learned the hard way

Posted by Lissa on April 1, 2009

Naturally, as soon as I had hit “Publish” on the post yesterday I felt guilty.

What if some of my readers have serious math problems? Will they think I’m calling them dumb? Maybe I should have titled it “Mad Math Skillz” instead. But it WAS kinda dumb. Well, really dumb.  But is that offensive? Is “dumb” too harsh a word?

Believe it or not, in person I try to be very courteous and careful about not offending anyone. (I try; I’m not saying I always succeed, mind you.) It’s a refreshing change to be more direct, with less prevarication, on this blog. However, the Interwebz live FOREVER; it worries me sometimes that an off-the-cuff remark could be taken as offensive, or mean-spirited, or cruel.

And then I think — the hell with it. I write this blog for fun. If someone is offended by a “So dumb it HURTS” post title, well, I can’t imagine they would possibly be interested in reading anything else I write. I hope they would shrug it off, decide my blog is OBVIOUSLY not worth reading, and go find another blog that is vastly superior to mine. (There are lots.)

So, I’m not going to fret about it. But on the off chance that I do have a reader or two who thought that was mean-spirited, yet still plans to visit from time-to-time — well, consider this my humble pie.

Lessons Learned the Hard Way: Making Spaghetti

I have mentioned a few times that there are people in this world who are amazingly logical, practical, and commonsensical (my sister is the Master). I have mentioned at least that often that I am not one of those people. This occasionally gets me into trouble.

Such as the fine Saturday afternoon, some nine years ago, when I decided to make spaghetti.

Now, I *had* made spaghetti quite often, thank-you-very-much. I didn’t cook for the family or anything growing up — my mom is a FANTASTIC cook — but I did know my way around a kitchen. I knew to boil the water, add a bit of oil before adding the noodles, and stir every once in a while as it boiled.

What I did not know was that the Pyrex warning — well, they really MEANT it.

You know the Pyrex warning, don’t you? The one that comes with every Pyrex container sold anywhere, ever?

“DO NOT Use On or Under a Flame or Other Direct Heat Source, including on a stovetop, under a broiler, on a grill or in a toaster oven.”

Ummmmmmm yeah.

Well, it’s not like I had lots of pots and pans lying about in my tiny dorm room. And I did NOT want to use the communal cookware in the dorm kitchen — some of those pots had clearly been used by Eve when she first set up house with Adam.  And just as clearly had not been cleaned since.

All I can say is, God (or Buddha or Shiva or The Great Pumpkin) really DOES look out for fools, drunks and small children.  (You could just substitute “college students” for “fools,” “drunks” or both, BTW.)  

I say this because I was across the room, reading at the table, when I learned why Pyrex includes that warning on their glassware.


If you case you were wondering . . . cleaning up a two-quart Pyrex bowl (busted into tiny coin-size shards), mixed with a pound of spaghetti and two quarts of boiling water, with a four-foot spray-radius — why, yes, it IS a rather unpleasant experience, thank you for asking.

(This post is dedicated to my old friend who had a spaghetti incident recently. You know who you are.)

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