Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders, and welcome to another round of Picture Sunday. Before we go into anything, though, let me tell you something - be sure to read the Olympic Update after the blog. It's important and involves you, dear reader.

OK. The weekend.

First of all, the bad. And the pictureless. My mom, aka Granny, is back in the hospital. Same thing, cellulitis, infection of the skin and tissues. You know how I say it happens every three weeks? I'm not joking. She entered the hospital 22 days after her last release.

I went to see her today and she's actually a little bit chipper. Not lethargic like she usually is right after being admitted, so maybe it's not as bad a case, or we got her there in time for a speedier treatment.

Anyway - it all starts again. I'll keep you posted.

Now, last week I told you a story about Mr M, a bad camping trip, and how I got a new houseguest in Chilly Willy. A quasi-new reader, the Quantum Mechanic, said he liked this kind of stuff, and, well, I like to keep my readers happy.

And boy, do I have a story to tell you about Sherman and Peabody.

See, I can tell you now. I couldn't while it was happening. It was ultra hush-hush.

Tuesday, Mr Peabody and his pet boy packed their suitcases and headed for Washington, DC, at the invitation of one President of the United States Barack Obama. See, during the campaign Peabody did some top-secret statistical and strategic work for President Obama, told him about his boy and what a big fan he was, of the President and his whole family, and after he was elected, Obama was kind enough to invite them to the White House for a visit. It took a while because schedules had to be freed up, but it happened this week.

The rest of the cartoon characters had to stay behind, I'm afraid, they didn't pass security clearances, but Sherman has just been over the moon since he got back. He said the President was a swell and cool man, smart, funny, and nice. He said Mrs President was very sweet, and took him on a tour of the White House. And he also got to play on the Presidential Swingset with Sasha and Malia. And - he got to play with the First Doggie.

They arrived early Wednesday morning, and the President had an appearance at a local school. He kindly asked Sherman to come along, knowing what a good friend-maker the boy is, and Sherman jumped at the chance. They talked about school and government, and the kids got to ask what it's like to be President. Then they had milk and cookies.


















After the school trip, the rest of the day was free. Sherman and Peabody had lunch with the President and he told them some of his funniest campaign stories. Then they went bowling in the White House lane. Sherman was going to ask for a game of tag, but Peabody put the kibosh on that. Way too messy. After bowling, Mr President needed to sign a few copies of his books for fans, so he poured Sherman a giant root beer and they chilled for a while.


















Finally, S and P headed back to the hotel, President Obama had to make a speech, and again invited the boys. He really was grateful to Mr Peabody for all his campaign work, and so was kind enough to give P a featured spot on the podium during his speech.


















(Yes, he's up there. He's just a small dog. Small in size, large in influence.)

Now, Picture Sunday's going up right before midnight tonight because we had to wait for the photos to be delivered by special courier. While I was waiting, I decided to get out my computer drawing pad and play around. I made a picture of a psychedelic Mr M!




















I'm still new to using the tablet, but I'm having fun.

And now to the recipe du jour. Yes, I also had time to get out the scanner while waiting for the special courier.

Like salmon? I don't. Like canned salmon? I don't. When I was a kid, that was the only kind of salmon we had at our house, in the form of salmon cakes and gravy. Canned salmon has those crunchy round bone-like things in it. Creeps me the hell out. So I guess it comes as no surprise that tonight's recipe sends a bit of a chill up my spine. From the "budget dishes" (makes sense, I'm sure that's why we had salmon cakes once a week) file in cardland, please say a sea-faring hello to Canned Salmon in Shells.




















All right. What is this recipe? It's a friggin' lie, that's what it is. In shells? When I read the recipe's name, I thought, "Hmmm, pasta shells stuffed with canned salmon. That should be good and icky." Little did I realize that "shells" meant "fake clam shells." Hoo-hah. Anyway, in looking at the ingredients, I realized that this dish is little more than salmon cakes in said fake shells. So we're back to icky. To be served with peas with little red flecks in them, the world's blandest tossed salad, and a shitload of cucumbers. And enough lemon wedges to, hopefully, take away the taste of the canned salmon.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* OK, dear readers, here's where I'm asking for your requests. Mr Quantum Mechanic liked stories about the cartoon characters. What about you? Wanna hear about my day at work? Want a recipe? A list of some sort? I was thinking about incorporating a one night per week "request" blog into Betland. If there's enough interest, of course. If there's something you'd like, be sure to let me know, via comments or email.

Thanks, Peaceful Coexister.

A very heartfelt message to the Toyota Highlander with the West Virginia tag, the University of Virginia window sticker, and the oh-so-trendy "coexist" bumper sticker. You know the one - the C is a crescent star, the O is a peace symbol, the E is some sort of male/female made up thing, the X is a Star of David, the I is dotted with a wiccan symbol, the S is a tao, and the T is a cross.

To this person:

THANKS A FUCKING LOT FOR ALMOST TAKING THE FRONT OF MY CAR OFF SO YOU COULD SKIP ONE PLACE IN FRONT OF ME AT THE DRIVE THROUGH AT THE BANK. YOU FUCKING RUDE ASSHAT.

Coexist, my ass.

I hope on the way home you were rear-ended by a Hummer with a "Mean People Suck" bumper sticker.

And on that note, I'm beginning my weekend. With alcohol.

Today's a holiday, so I'm begging off acrochallenge.

Just wanted to pop in and say "hi."

"Hi."

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders, and congratulations, those of you lucky enough to have one more day to relax. Welcome to another round of Picture Sunday.

You know, it all started with a vacation gone awry.

Last Sunday, Mr M decided he wanted to get away on his own. He packed his tent and camping gear and set out for the wilds of Ohio, with the purpose of sitting in the woods, walking in the woods, taking pictures in the woods, sleeping in the woods, and breathing and smoking his pipe in the woods. The plans were amended slightly at first, when Sherman expressed an interest in going and Mr M couldn't say no.

The plans were amended not-so-slightly, though, when it became so cold in the wilds of Ohio Mr M had to head back south after only two days.

But that's just the background of this story.

When Mr M and Sherman got back, they boinged me on messenger. Mr M announced Sherman had something to tell me, something he was worried about, for he was sure I'd hit the roof. I braced myself and told Mr M to put the boy on the horn.

Sherman came online and told me that other than the cold, he'd had a great time. He'd also made a friend. Oh? I asked. Yes, and this friend was so nice, and Sherman got to telling him about the Poderosa, and fish stick night, and tag, and the other cartoon characters, and one thing led to another, and he'd invited this new friend to come live with us.

Now.

I've written many times about our happy commune here at the Pod, but that it's getting awfully crowded, what with Gossamer eating my magazines and Mr Peanut recovering from embarrassing alcoholism and all, and I have to say I was reticent. Oh, yes! I was reticent. But then Sherman sent along a picture of himself and his new buddy.


















Seems while he and Mr M were hiking in the woods they came upon a lost and discombobulated Chilly Willy. He wasn't sure where he was heading, but he had no idea how to get there, and, well, I keep my air conditioning on all the time, and he is such a cute little guy, I let Sherman off the hook and told him to bring his new friend on home.

And so now there's yet one more refugee cartoon character who's made his home with me at the Poderosa. Chilly Willy's only five, but very quiet and well-behaved so far, he loves fish and pancakes, and his little feet make an adorable sound on the kitchen floor. Everyone seems to get along with him, Good Luck Baby Lily calls him Big Bird for some reason, and Gossamer hasn't tried to eat him yet. Mr Peabody made an educational evaluation and pronounced him ready for first grade this fall. And he played in the bathtub this afternoon.























Sherman's in his lederhosen because he played a Sauerkraut Band gig with me yesterday in North Carolina. Chilly went along, but it was quite hot, so when we got home he took a nap, in a suitable place.





















Oh, the fun we have.

Tonight's recipe du jour is a first. Yes, a first - it's a repeat. I normally wouldn't do such a thing, but I got to thinking. I wanted to have a holiday-themed recipe, then decided I could not improve upon last year's Memorial Day du jour. So I thought, why not? Maybe I can start a tradition. Bring back old favorites on holidays. And so I give to you, get a hankie ready, the sentimental Memoreos.




















Yes, who could forget the brave soldiers making the world safe for us all with the help of chocolate cookies with white stuff in the middle (thank you, Bob and Ray). It's a gripping scene and a good way to say "thank you" to those who serve. May you all come home soon and have cookies.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Chilly Willy told Mr M that the biggest chain of department store at the North Pole is Walrusmart.

Acrowinners!

Hello, had company, then came here to find acrochallengers! You go, lovers of letters.

So, the topic was a fill in the blank: I had to wait until _____________.

Honorable Mention goes to Kellie (with an ie), with her "Canaries Dissed Vietnamese English Teachers."

Runner-Up goes to LilyG, with her "conservatives don't vote, even try."

And this week's winner is the DeepFatFriar, with his "cows displayed violet electric teats."

So there you go - thanks to all who played, you've all done very well.

And to everyone else, your mission is to go out into the world and use any of the above phrases. Often.

Short Story Leading to Acrochallenge!

Hello there. I didn't make it to acromania last night, I enjoyed a very nice nap in the Comfy Chair.

So we'll try for tonight, with judging taking place tomorrow. But first, a little story.

Now, as has been stated in this blog before, one of life's great joys is getting a surprise in the mail. I got one such surprise yesterday, though it really shouldn't have been.

Remember back when I got the new computer? Of course you don't, you're not me, and I don't expect you to. It was around the end of September, I believe. Hopefully you will remember the pissing, moaning, and gnashing of teeth I blogged about concerning the fact that the new Windows, hell, I don't even remember what it's called at this point, oh, Vista, hated my Flip camera.

Well, Windows Movie Maker hated it, hated it with a passion, and every time I made a movie something horrible happened. That something was usually that my uploaded movie would have sound and no picture.

OK, it took me a month or two to realize I had to do something about this, and dear old Ed, leader of the Sauerkraut Band, told me the only way to go was Adobe Elements Premiere. Easy as pie, affordable, I'd be back to moviemaking in no time.

So I bought it.

It was neither affordable nor easy as pie, at least at first try. I paid around $100 for it, but it had the nifty extra of a coupon I could send in for a rebate, thus reducing the price to $80. I sent the rebate coupon as soon as I purchased the program, around Christmas, maybe a few days after.

I grew to hate Elements, found a nice video conversion program to convert my Flip camera files to something Windows Movie Maker liked better, and I was happy and Elements was on the shelf.

Then came the dreaded Band Video, where Movie Maker abandoned me completely, and I was stuck with Elements, which I still hadn't learned to use, but I learned it in one night and soldiered on.

I've made a couple more movies with Elements, and it's growing on me except for one thing. The titles. If you will notice, any movie I make with it has a black background. It's all they offer. And I can't believe a movie editing program you'd pay $100 for would have a distinctive lack of colored title backgrounds, but there you go. It is what it is, I suppose.

And so that's where I was. Or am. A whole saga in Comfy Chair moviemaking come and gone, and today in the mail I got a small envelope from Adobe. I almost threw it away, thinking it was some sort of junk mail, but opened it on a whim, and lo and behold, inside the envelope was a check for $20.

My wait six-to-eight weeks rebate had arrived, and in only six months!

I laughed a little, and should have been more steamed that it took so long I actually forgot about it, but hey, twenty bucks is twenty bucks, and I stored it away to be cashed.

And that made me think of an acrotopic.

You know the old saying "till the cows come home?" I do. Apparently my sister does not, because she says "till the cows crow," believes it makes more sense because cows don't crow. And yes, I've stopped trying to convince her, she seems happier saying it her way.

Tonight's acro is a fill in the blank. "I had to wait until ____________." There you go. You get to make your own new phrase equivalent to the cows coming home or crowing, whichever comes last.

All the other rules are the same. Everyone gets three entries to come up with the best acronym they can, one that matches not only the topic above, but also the letters below. The letters are randomly drawn from the acrobasket. The acrobasket waits for nothing. Then tomorrow, that's Wednesday for you keeping score, at 10:00pm est, I shall be reading the entries and naming the winners.

So the acro? Fill in the blank: "I had to wait until ___________." The letters?

C D V E T

Now, stop waiting around and acro.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Well, American Idol's almost done, Amazing Race is done, My Name is Earl is now done (sadly, forever, fuck you NBC). I'm out from under TV shows for the summer. Well, except for Keith Olbermann and Rachel Maddow. And Top Gear. And that horrible BBC Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat show. OK, I'm not out from under TV shows for the summer.

It's Cock-a-Doodle Twoooooo!

Hello. Let's revisit an old topic I like to touch on from time to time. Guilty TV Pleasures.

This past Friday it was late, the Hucklebug podcast was recorded and in the can, Stennie and I had chatted and played games online a bit, and I was again alone and the house was quiet. So I turned on the TeeVee and caught an episode of something I hadn't seen in a long time.

Dateline: To Catch a Predator.

Now, there are a lot of TV shows I watch from time to time that I'm ashamed of. But none more than D:TCaP. It's the worst form of trash-TV ever, even worse than the Jerry Springer Show, and really, I am so sorry that I've ever seen an episode of it at all, much less every episode they've ever made.

It's just that it used to show in the wee-morning hours while some of us lingered behind in the old poundsqueeze chat on Thursdays, and Stennie and I seemed to link into it at the same time, much to the chagrin of anyone else around, and, well, there's something about it, it's kind of like watching a man get eaten by a bear, and you can't turn away. And we never did.

For the uninitiated, here's how Dateline: To Catch a Predator goes. Some men are entrapped into being child molesters and then arrested.

Well, that's the short version. The long version is that some men are enticed into internet conversations with what they assume are underage girls (and boys), but they're not, they're adults, and these plants invite the men to a house, and when the men go there, the host of D:TCaP comes out and gives them the third degree and tells them they're scum, but they're scum that's free to go, and then the cameras come out and are shoved in their faces and they do go, where they are promptly arrested in the yard of the plant house.

Now, there's nothing I hate more than child molesters. Except Nazis, of course, and animal beaters, and rapists, and conservative wingnuts, but there's not much I hate more than child molesters. But I can't help it, there's just something about D:TCaP that stinks to high heaven in the legal technicalities department, and I don't care if it is against the law to chat up a teenager online, it's entrapment pure and simple, and I also can't believe that they can put these people's faces and voices and everything else on television without the people's permission, but I guess they can. Because they do, and I never read where they got sued. Successfully, anyway.

And as serious as the subject may be, child predators and all that, if you yourself have ever seen an episode of the show (and it's OK, you don't have to admit it) you know why Stennie and I sat through all those chats catching the action.

Because it's comedy gold.

First of all, you've got your host, one Chris Hansen. Here's a word I seldom use, in fact it might be the first-ever time I've used it in this blog, but Chris Hansen is a douchebag of the highest order. Sometimes a person just fits an epithet, and I believe if you look up the word "douchebag" in the dictionary, you might find Mr Hansen's picture. Chris Hansen is a self-righteous prig who delights in catching these guys red-handed, or red-penised. When the would-be molesters have made themselves comfortable (they never see the plant, who makes an excuse of putting up laundry, getting something out of the oven, or going upstairs to put on a band-aid), Mr Hansen swaggers into the room with some papers under his arm, doesn't introduce himself, and starts asking why they're there. If the would-be molesters lie, and let's face it, they always do, they're would-be molesters, for God's sake, he pulls out the papers, which are transcripts of the online chats, and the grilling begins. Then he announces who he is and waits for the "oh shit" reaction. Which always comes. So to speak.

We also get clips inserted into the above, clips of Chris "behind the scenes," in a studio in front of monitors showing the house action, where he gives his own impressions of what's going on. About how any given would-be molester is "on the edge" and could snap at any time, and all I can say is that where he's concerned all one can hope is that he's caught at a seedy motel one day in bed with two hookers and a goat. On CBS Network's 48 Hours: The Underbelly of TV Anchors.

Then, of course, you have your would-be molesters. They normally fall into several categories: sleazy truck driver guys, sleazy brash twenty-something losers, sleazy accented non-whites, sleazy mild-mannered religious people, and, well... and... sleazy flat-out retarded people.

The sleazy truck driver guys are always around 60, and show up to the plant house driving their 18-wheelers. Ever wonder why merchandise never shows up on time? Well, there's your answer. I have to say, with some slight begrudging admiration, that the sleazy truck-driver guys are generally right up front about everything. They just don't give a shit. "Yeah, she said she was 13, and I thought maybe I'd take her for a ride in my rig and see where it went from there. Brought some Jack Daniels, brought some condoms, brought some fried chicken. Good times!" They walk outside after their scolding from Hansen and assume the position for the cops.

The sleazy brash twenty-something losers tend to lose their brashness right quick when they see Mr Hansen. They generally assume he's the plant's father when he enters the room, and start backpedaling immediately. The girl said she was 18 in the chatroom, oh you have the transcript? Sorry, must have been someone else. It was only a fantasy, I wasn't going to act on it. Oh, I'm here? Well, I was just going to talk to her. Oh, I have a six-pack and a gross of condoms in the car? Um, can I go, please, sir? You're Chris Hansen from Dateline? Oh, there goes my career in the stocks business.

The sleazy accented non-whites, and this is going to be politically incorrect, but it's true, so fire away, are generally Latinos and Middle Easterners, sometimes turban-wearing Middle Easterners, and they are always extremely sorry for their deeds. They apologize profusely, beg for forgiveness from Mr Hansen, and often cry. The Latinos worry about their families and the Middle Easterners always admit that someone told them this is illegal in the States, which they really shouldn't do, because they're the only ones who have an automatic out in the whole shebang. "I didn't know! I didn't know 13 was too young!"

The sleazy mild-mannered religious people are all the same. "I was going to mentor this girl, tell her the dangers of talking to men on the internet, and possibly be a friend she could depend on to help her do the right thing." Yeah, I believe you. Many's the time I've gone into the #younghotnakedkids chatroom for the express purpose of setting a youngster on the right path. It happens all the time. How dare Mr Hansen of accusing you of showing pictures of your penis to a pre-teen! Oh, you have the pictures? Well, I was showing her what to be afraid of, you know, so I could be a friend to her. And just talk. Really. Praise God.

And finally, the only time the comedy gold of Dateline: To Catch a Predator tarnishes is when they get hold of the sleazy flat-out retarded people. OK, so they're not clinically mentally retarded, but they are slow, simple, or backwards, and often have lisps, thick glasses, acne, big ears, and are very socially inept. NBC should be ashamed of showing these guys on national TV. When they see one coming, Chris Hansen should take him aside, tell him he's done a very bad thing, and now it's time to go with the man in the blue uniform and we're going to tell your mother to come and bail you out of the lock-up and she'll be very angry at you, then you'll go to a big room in front of a man in a black robe and you'll spend the next several months picking up trash in an orange jumpsuit. And turn the cameras off.

However.

However, at least for Stennie and I, the "star" of D:TCaP is not Chris Hansen, or even the would-be molesters. It's the plant house itself.

They always pick a semi-secluded house as the plant house, and in the course of one episode eight or ten men will enter, flounder, and skulk out of the house, so we get to know it in that hour. I don't know who picks the plant house, and if it's redecorated for the occasion or not. But it's always something.

The main focus of one house was the bar. A big, dark, hulking 18-inch wide bar all the would-be molesters sat at to be grilled by Hansen. Another had flowered wallpaper that would give a totally healthy person a case of vertigo. Some have furniture straight out of 1974. Most have paintings on the walls that had to have been bought at gas stations. Gaudy mirrors abound.

But the best is the rooster clock. Oh, God, the wonderful wall clock that has appeared in at least three episodes of Predator, a large oval with the hands revolving on top of a gigantic rooster. And Friday night when the first would-be molester arrived looking for fun and frolic, he sat at a table and out came Chris Hansen and lo and behold, saints be praised, he took up his spot right in front of the rooster clock.

I got so excited I almost emailed Stennie. "Get back online! To Catch a Predator is on, and it's a rooster clock!"

But I didn't. The rooster clock was exciting, but it was still the same self-righteous Hansen, the same would-be molesters, and the same heaping of bullshit excuses we'd seen a hundred times.

By the way, as D:TCaP wraps up an episode, it shows the would-be molesters one more time, and superimposed over each is what happened to him after his arrest. All Dragnet-like. It's usually 3 months to 24 months. And another constant in the show - black men always get the harshest sentences. Always.

Stennie and I have decided that one day we'll see one with the epilogues: "Joe Smith was convicted and sentenced to 6 months." "Bob Anderson was convicted and sentenced to 3 months." "Ahmad Washington was executed without trial."

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have ac - wait, we don't have acrowinners. No one played acro this week. I will try to console myself by telling myself it was because you either couldn't think of enough wonderful things to say about me, or that you didn't know it was there. Acros have been sparse lately.

(oh crap, I almost forgot the) Acrochallenge!

Hello, lovers of letters. I'm sitting here with no acrotopic, and it's time for another round of acromania.

So let's wing it. Acroptopic? Me!

Love me? Hate me? Think I'm full of shit? Let it all out.

All the other rules are the same. Everyone gets three entries to come up with the best acronym they can, one that matches not only the topic above, but also the letters below. The letters are randomly drawn from the acrobasket. The acrobasket is ambivalent. He likes living here, but gets tired of my forever putting foreign objects in with his letters. Then tomorrow at 10pm est I shall be reading the entries and naming the winners.

So, the topic? Me! The letters:

C G N E N S

So, look at the framed photo of me I'm sure is on your wall, possibly with darts in it, and acro!

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Not much to update. Oh, Granny's out of the hospital, got out Friday. I forgot it had been that long since I blogged.

A Certain Age

I had a hair appointment this past Thursday. It was nice, because, well, because of a lot of things. Mainly because I'd been juggling so much it had been over 2 months since I'd had a haircut. My hair was abysmal. If I straightened it, it was so long that it just laid flat to my head, not unlike Alfalfa of the Little Rascals. If I didn't straighten it, it looked like a giant cotton candy stuck to the paper cone that was my head.

It was also nice because I finally got some color in my hair. I don't color my hair much, only when the gray starts going wild, and when it does it goes wild in one space. Right above my left eyebrow. So yes, I look like the Bride of Frankenstein when it goes wild.

And it was wild.

I've now got a kicky cut and some kicky color, sans gray.

However, let's go on to other things for a second.

I haven't been carded while buying alcohol in approximately 15 years. It's rather disheartening, although if I was working behind a counter I certainly wouldn't ask me for ID. The liquor store people know me, know me all too well, some would say, and so they just ask for my money and put the vodka or Jager or Goldschlager in a bag and say happy drinking. In grocery stores, it's different.

You know, nowadays when you buy alcohol in the grocery store the little light-up price window on the register lights up and says "ask for identification," but the counter people never do. For me, anyway. They just quickly punch in a date and that's that. I always figured the checker-outer punched in their own birthdate, or if it's our local grocery, where everyone who works there is in high school, they punched in 1/1/whatever the legal year is.

Last Monday, I had to go by the grocery after a long day at work. And while I was picking out my items, I thought, "My, my, I sure would like to have some Star Hill Amber Ale." And so when I passed by it, well, I didn't pass it by. I put a six pack in the buggy.

Since I didn't have any produce and had a rather small take, I decided to hit the self check-out and get out of the store quickly. I normally don't do this because the self check-out hates me. No matter what I scan and put in the bag, the disembodied female voice of the self check-out says, "Please place your item in the bag," and won't continue. And I, a grown woman able to drive and vote and buy beer and everything, stand there and argue with the disembodied voice.

"It's in the bag, you biddy!" I'll yell back, either amusing or frightening the people in line behind me.

Finally the clerk in charge of the self check-out will push a button and I'll continue till the voice scolds me again.

If you're buying beer or wine at the self check-out, the drill is about the same as at the regular. You get a screen on your computer saying "show ID to the clerk," but you never have to. I don't, anyway. By the time you've found your clerk, he or she has punched in that golden date that lets you continue until the disembodied voice tells you to put your already bagged beer or wine in the bag.

So Monday, I was ringing up items and yelling at the voice, and when I scanned my beer and got the ID screen, a young girl acting as clerk punched in the date that let me continue. And I got my items scanned, bagged, and got the hell out of there.

It was only that Wednesday I realized I hadn't recorded the purchase in my checkbook, for I'd used my debit card and was so tired from arguing with the disembodied voice I didn't take the time at the checkout to write down the amount I'd spent. So I got out my checkbook, found the receipt, and looked for the total I'd spent, which was $30.30, but that doesn't matter in this story.

What matters is that as I was looking at the receipt, I saw the "proof of age" date the young clerk had punched in so I could buy beer.

















10/10/1920?? Boy, I know I still had the Bride of Frankenstein gray streak at that point, but if I was looking 88 years old that day, well, I've got problems a hair-coloring won't fix.

I don't know, maybe they just make dates up. Or maybe I did look 88 years old.

I told my dad that the next time he wants to argue with me, to watch out. I may be 10 years older than he is, but I can still kick his ass.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Visited Granny tonight at the hospital. She must be feeling a little better because she's getting feisty.

Picture Sunday

Hello, end of weekenders! Yes, it's back, and it's badder than ever - Picture Sunday.

I'd decided I really needed a serious Friday chill because my past two weeks had been so busy. Now, why that also made me decide that Friday Chill Pizza wasn't on the menu and a homemade quesedilla burger was, I've no idea. But that's what I decided.

So I spent about an hour making a very nice burger, trimming it, dressing it, cutting it in half, putting it on a flour tortilla along with some pico de gallo, I baked up a few onion rings, and sat down for a nice dinner. I ended up eating one onion ring and one half of a half of the burger, then couldn't eat anymore. And ended up throwing the rest away.

And that, my fine feathereds, is precisely why I hate to cook.

A fun Hucklebug recording on Friday, then I slept a little and got up on Saturday to get the house, which had then become not so much a house as a hovel over the past weeks, into some sort of order, because Mr M was coming down for dinner, movies, and clarinetting.

Got the house straightened up, and Mr M arrived. We had (well, I did, anyway) fun playing for a while, then headed to Applebees and had a fun dinner, then came home for a little more clarinetting before settling in for movies. As I was at my desk printing some music files, the phone rang.

It was my dad.

Mom was sick. I told him he knew the drill, 911, and he said he'd give it a half-hour to make sure it was the same old complaint, but I could tell it was. He called back, had called 911, and I had to usher a very sleepy Mr M out the door and onto the road while I headed to the emergency room with Mom and Dad.

We were there from about 8pm to past 1:30. They kept her. I was tired, I was frustrated, I was worked up because, you know, the emergency room isn't the emergency room. It's the slow room.

Anyway, I dropped Dad off at home and headed back to the Poderosa. I was keyed up, and finally fell off to sleep around dawn.

Then up today, running Dad to the hospital, home to get dressed, a quick trip to find a birthday present for my sister, and to the hospital to see Mom, where I stayed a few hours.

And so the merry-go-round starts to turn again.

Anyway, I still have a couple of pictures, for if I didn't, we'd have a Pictureless Sunday.

We all hate unnecessary quotation marks, don't we? I know I do, and I'm not sure I've met anyone who doesn't. Well, our first picture comes from a spot of prominence right in my little town. I don't know who ordered this, or who made it, or who approved it once it was done.

There's a famous football player named Ahmad Bradshaw. He plays for the New York Giants, and played in their Super Bowl victory. Well, Mr Bradshaw just happens to be from B'field. He played at the local high school, my alma mater, and still has family here and comes back on a regular basis. I don't know him, but those who do say he's still a regular guy.

Anyway, a few months ago the town decided to advertise the fact that we do indeed have a famous son. Why they chose to do it in such a shoddy way is beyond me.
























Yes! "Ahmad Bradshaw!" It's not a character he plays on TV, guys, it's his name.

My next picture comes from our local Lowe's. See, after dinner last night, Mr M and I went to Lowe's to walk off the food and so I could do some storm door shopping. I desperately need a new storm door for the front of the Poderosa, since I had to break into my house one day when the lock on the storm door wouldn't work. I won't be able to open my front door in the summer until I get a new one.

After I browsed and kind of decided which one I'll buy, we pulled out into the parking lot, and I asked Mr M to take a turn around the side of the parking lot where all the outbuildings were displayed. I'm really sick of the little outbuilding in my back yard, and though I can't afford a new one, I still wanted to look. I mean, a girl can dream, can't she?

But Mr M decided that I needed not a new shed, but this little item also displayed in the lot.

























He said it would be great for playing Abu Ghraib. I agreed, and said it would also be great for when he came to visit, and I could put him out there and make up a meat loaf and mashed potatoes and take it out there for him to have dinner. I love a good game of prison.

And now, ladies and gents, the recipe du jour.

Who doesn't like candy? Well, nobody doesn't like candy, that's what I say. Unless the candy comes from the recipe card collection, of course, in which case you might want to save your quarters for a Snickers bar. So from the "Quick Dishes" file in cardland, please say hello to the Fiesta Candies.




















OK, this is a rather innocent looking picture, right? You've got some dark brown stuff, you've got some light brown stuff, it looks a little bit like bumpy fudge. Well, the bumps are where the vileness of the recipe comes in. For both of these candies contain - corn chips.

Now, I've eaten cookies made with corn flakes, and they're fine, but corn chips? That's just wrong. Especially when the corn chips are covered with chocolate and marshmallows. And raisins! Raisins! I hate raisins in cookies, especially in cookies that contain corn chips. The little bastards.

Happy week.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* In case you weren't around on Friday, I'm still encouraging everyone to head to the Comfy Chair Cinema and check out my latest movie. I'm getting rather shameless about it, but I worked a long time on it and want everyone to have a chance to see it. Thanks.

New Movie

Oh, blog, how I've neglected you.

But I've been working on a movie that's taken up my after-work to bedtime for about 2 weeks.

However, it's now done!

And if you go to the Comfy Chair Cinema, you can see it!