Nov. 4: Silly boys

Back in my day, we called them “titty twisters.” Now kids call them “purple nurples,” which is a far more preferable term, IMHO. I’m thankful that this moronic and painful pastime goes on only between the boys in my house. Here they are, checking out tonight’s post-war injuries:

My reaction when they start in on each other always reminds me of the Seinfeld episode in which George and Jerry are explaining to Elaine the fine art of wedgie-giving:

Elaine: “Boys are sick.”

Jerry: “What do girls do?”

Elaine: “We just tease someone until they develop an eating disorder.”

Yep, I’m doing another blog challenge. This one is photo-riffic!

Oct. 26: The candy pyramid

With Halloween approaching, you’re probably needing some advice before you go shopping for the candy you’ll hand out to trick-or-treaters. It says so much about the family you are, doesn’t it? No? Maybe?

Here’s a helpful chart of candy hierarchy from boingboing.net:

The footnotes:

1. Note that many candies still await placement: York Peppermint Patties, Luna Bars, Reese's Pieces, residue from old paint cans, and Skittles, among others.

2. These may be rolled to a friend.

3. Whoppers blow.

4. Still no unanimous decision on the placement of Candy Corn, which as of 2006 remained unclassified, but as of 2007 had been tentatively placed in the Upper Chewy/Upper Devonian. 2008: no sighting.

5. Unless it's something caramel, pronounced "caramel."

6. Remains an outlier, since it is in no way "chewy." Further studies have not resolved this inconsistency.

7. Yet some would be just as well to be left off. Bit-o-Honey, for example, might be called a lower tier member, but why bother? It says to your trick-or-treaters, "Here, I don't care, just take this." The lesson of Bit-o-Honey is: you lose. Goo Goo clusters, too. You're making a social statement--"I hate you and everything you represent"--when you give these out.

As you can imagine, not everyone agrees with this hierarchy. The comments to this post are pretty good. These are my comments (because I know you were waiting, dying to know what I think):

• The only reason I would ever eat a Twix is if I was doing the whole George-slowly-going-insane routine from The Dealership episode of Seinfeld. Not a fan of Twix, or really any candy bar with the cookie crunch.
• Reggie Jackson bar? WTF?
• Whoppers do blow.
• Jolly Ranchers in the third tier? Unless they’re green apple or FIRE, they’re trash.
• Almond Joys should be higher than third tier. And they’re totally healthy because there’s fruit in them. AND there’s a nut. Health food.
• A lot of the candy in the bottom tier is stuff I like—non-messy, non-melting treats to eat while I’m at my desk. Smarties are perfect for that. I won’t argue for any of those to go up in the hierarchy, though—I know they’re “meh” compared to the good stuff.
• Debi and I decided long ago that “those odd marshmallow circus peanut things” are what they serve for every dessert on the Wal-Mart cruise line.
• Now ‘n Laters on the lowest tier? That’s funny. I used to love them, but nowadays I really only like a couple flavors. They’re also really bad for expensive dental work. They probably belong that low on the list.

When I took Katie trick-or-treating on our street for her second Halloween, a guy at one house was chuckling at how she so obviously did NOT understand the concept. I said it was better than the big kids, who T-o-T with pillowcases and don’t even bother to dress up. The guy said, “Oh, that’s why I have these!” and he showed me a bowl behind the door that was full of really crappy bubble gum—not Bazooka or a brand anyone’s ever heard of; it was truly nasty stuff. I thought that was a great idea, and I’ve had a small bowl of that stuff next to the good candy every year since.

Mar. 10: Our rude culture

Jerry Seinfeld is everywhere these days, peddling his new show, The Marriage Ref. We all saw the commercials over and over and over during the Olympics. It looked like it’d be pretty funny. I haven’t watched The Marriage Ref yet to find out if it lives up to all the hype, though, because don’t I already watch too much TV? Do I need another show to view faithfully? NO! (However, if you’ve seen it, feel free to share your opinion in a comment and if you think I should watch it, say the word and I totally will.) Full episodes are available on NBC and Hulu.

Seinfeld was a guest on Letterman last week, and I’m finally getting around to posting the video of his stand-up performance. I love the bit he does on “the Blackberry people.”

Feb. 5: Certified lymphoma butt-kicker

Guess what? I’m taking almost NO pain medication anymore! How awesome am I? I mean, um, how awesome is that? Yes, THAT, because I’m not looking for praise upon myself, OH NO, having broken a near-addiction to Vicodin and Oxycontin and all sorts of other potently delightful and wondrous pain-relieving narcotics…

Well, fine, I admit it. I’m kinda proud that I’ve been able to wean myself away from the vile habit that could have been. Although my back pain has not disappeared completely, the physical therapy I’ll be starting soon should get rid of the last of it, or so my oncologist says. It makes sense that after nearly a year of not being able to function normally, maybe some of my muscles aren’t working as they should be. If the physical therapist puts me on one of those stretching racks, though, I’m gonna be really upset. And if he turns on a laser that slowly moves up my body, threatening to slice me in half unless I can intercept the beam, I might start suspecting that I’m not seeing a physical therapist at all, but a Bond villain bent on world domination.

Can’t wait!

Really, the point of this post is not to brag on myself (alright, maybe a little), but to share more of these fun and fabulous cancer-fighting images I’ve been collecting. You might remember the ones I posted in December. Here are the latest, some of which I gladly share with Brenda F.M. and Kari R.O.:

 

 

 

For all o’ y’all.

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This one could not be more perfect.

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Now, I know we said we weren’t doing the ribbon thing, Lori, but I think those below are nice.
And this particular one makes me think of Kari Felkley Dieter, so it’s extra good.

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This one is my favorite of the bunch. I like the idea of winning.

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In case you haven’t caught on, lime green is the ribbon color for lymphoma. And if you’re wondering why on earth a perfectly lovely person like Lori might not want to wear the ribbon, here’s a clue:

Truthfully, this scene from Seinfeld is kinda why I’m not super-keen on the ribbon either—it was from a time when the whole ribbon thing was getting WAY over-done. But there are pa-lenty of other ways to show your support in the fight against lymphoma. Me? I’ve chosen physically fighting it. It’s working so far.  

Jul. 15: Pain and suffering

A couple weeks ago I posed a question about what to do with three goldfish that we no longer wanted. I haven’t reported on the outcome of that decision, and I probably should, lest you think the worst of me. First,  let me say that I appreciate the advice you offered. Lovely Lori H and her family adopted one of our goldfish, and he seems happy in his new home, though perhaps a bit blinded by the light streaming through their tank’s clear walls.

As for the other two fish, they’re still in our even greener aquarium. We’re still feeding them every day. We still have not made a decision about their future. Neither of us feel good about flushing them live, but we don’t like the idea of buying a new tank, either, which is the only way we can keep them for the long term. Anyone want two very cute and lively goldfish? One is all orange and the other is white. Lovely Lori H took the sexy black mohawked fishie.

I bring up this “dilemma” topic again, not because I felt the need to follow up; I am not nearly that conscientious. Rather, we were faced with a similar ethical emergency this evening and unsure of how it should best be handled. Here it is:

The cat brought home a little bird tonight. It was her second one; the first one was a few weeks ago and we distracted her and took it away immediately. Tonight’s bird, though, was still alive. Not just alive, but suffering—it was bloody and struggling to breathe—and Millie wasn’t done playing with it yet. She was upset when I carried her into the other room while Vic scooped the bird into a bag, and for the past hour has been walking around crying because she can’t find her peeping toy. She doesn’t seem to suspect us, though—she’s not crying AT us, but NEAR us.

In such a situation, what is the most humane thing to do with the bird? If it’s still alive but can’t be made well again, do we put it out of its misery? And if that’s what we chose to do, how exactly would that best be done? A shoe? A BB gun? The cat?

Y’know that very, very funny Merv Griffin episode of Seinfeld, when George’s girlfriend is so horrified because he runs over a squirrel? I always thought it was silly that they took the squirrel to the vet in the first place, but now, I’m not so sure it’s such a far-fetched option.

MIRANDA: Doctor, is the squirrel going to live?

DOCTOR: There’s been massive trauma. We could, of course, try to save him but it would be costly, difficult, and we’d have to send away for some special really tiny instruments.

GEORGE: Well, uh, are there any other options?

DOCTOR: We could put him to sleep.

GEORGE: What might that cost?

DOCTOR: Well, it’s by the pound. So ... about 80 cents.

GEORGE: Well? <Miranda hits George> I was just – I’m curious, that’s all. We, uh, we’d like you to do everything possible.

DOCTOR: He, um, he’s not going to be the same, you know?

GEORGE: Yeah. Yeah. I know.

Bringing the squirrel home and carrying it around in a Baby Bjorn, now THAT was a little far-fetched.

My sister’s reading this right now, undoubtedly waiting for me to bring up her personal experience with putting animals out of their misery. Normally I would not disappoint, Kath, but I think everyone’s heard the story because somehow—no thanks to me, I’m quite sure—this comes up at every party. In other words, when Kathy’s on the guest list, the critter-killer stories come up and the pants go down. She’s lucky I love her, that seester o’ mine.

Suggestions on the animal stuff are welcome in a comment.

Apr. 3: You stole my Jesus fish!

It’s quite possible that only Vic and The Lovely Lori will appreciate this as much as I do, but I shall share it with all of you anyway.

Here are 99 different Seinfeld references in one picture. See how many you can identify before checking out the key. If you’re a true Seinfeld fan, you ought to be able to get most of them. Good luck.

Sep. 12: Who took my cheese out of the freezer?

I love seeing Jerry Seinfeld back on TV, even though it’s just the latest Microsoft marketing campaign. Here’s a new ad that’s longer and even better than the Shoe Circus.

Bonus points for the Arrested Development-like background music.

Aug. 14: R.I.P., Yankee dude

Yankee Hall of Famer Phil Rizzuto died today. So, Kath, I guess Dad has another Yankee buddy in Heaven. I'm sure they're all gathered, making fun of the Red Sox and Red Sox fans and anything else having to do with Red Sox. And Dad's probably trying to work in some jabs about the Mariners too.

I read this amusing bit about Rizzuto in one of today's articles:
Yankee fans also loved his unusual commentary. In an age of broadcasters who spout statistics and repeat the obvious, Rizzuto delighted in talking about things like his fear of lightning, the style of an umpire's shoes or even the prospect of outfielder Dave Winfield as a candidate for president. He liked to acknowledge birthdays and anniversaries, read notes from fans, praised the baked delicacies at his favorite restaurant and send messages to old cronies. And if he missed a play, he would scribble "ww" in his scorecard box score. That, he said, meant "wasn't watching."

I'm embarrassed to admit that my knowledge of Phil Rizzuto is limited to that I learned from watching the Seinfeld episode ("The Pothole") when George loses his keys. It's one of those when all the storylines tie together and is hilarious.

George puts his keys on the table. On the ring is a miniature head, clearly a caricature of someone.

JERRY: What is that?

GEORGE: Ahh, Steinbrenner gave 'em to us, in honor of Phil Rizzuto being inducted into the Hall of Fame.

He squeezes the miniature head.

HEAD: Holy cow!

JERRY: They don't actually have to squeeze his head to get him to say 'holy cow,' do they?

GEORGE: Just the last few innings of a double-header.

Dad, please don't annoy Mr. Rizzuto, mmkay? You may know a lot about baseball, but he actually played the game.

—Jen