Yesterday I asked myself the question, “Is this really my life right now?”
And so begins every story: What you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
It was a dark and stormy night…
No. Wrong story. I got into prefab story mode for a second with all that schpiel at the beginning.
Okay, the real story is as follows. My friend who moved away (they all do, it seems) had a baby girl. Her name is Anna*. I have been thinking about her a lot as she had a c-section and has a pile of boys running around her at home. Recovering from a major abdominal surgery is a good reason to put your whole life on pause, except for when you can’t since you have a pile of boys running around you. So I was thinking of her quite often, praying for a full and quick recovery.
I sent her a text that said something along those lines – “Congrats on your baby girl! I am thinking of you and praying you recover well soon! Hugs!”
I got a text back – “This isn’t Anna*, but if you let me know who this is, I can get her the message.”
Uh…oops. So I look at my contacts and yes, it is under her name, and yes, she has moved, but I knew she had the same number. I figured out that I had saved her cell under the house icon and I must have texted her husband (who I must have assigned the cell phone icon).
So I replied, “Oh, hopefully this is Jacob* and not some random person. Sorry about that! Congrats to you, too! This is Daisy.”
Response – “This isn’t Jacob*, but randomly I have a daughter who is named Anna* who also happens to be pregnant.”
Whaa? Oh no. Weirdsauce fail.
I reply, “Ha ha! Oops. Sorry. Congrats anyway!”
Person responds with a text that says, “[Sent by voice: thanks text anytime anyway] to listen, go to http://blahblahblah.com*”
At first, I think to myself – I am so not going to listen to that because it’s probably a weirdo. Why would any stranger send their voice back unless they were extra weird? Or is it because they’re driving? Um, I dunno.
Curiosity got the better of me and an hour or two later, I check the link.
It’s totally a weird old man.
Hello, my life. Hello, blocked numbers list.
I love my life.
Until next time – peace, love and here’s to NOT talking to strangers,
Ms. Daisy
* totally not the real name
Friday, October 19, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Ratman Returns
Hello, my dearies. Today I shall tell you another story in the long and winding saga of Ratlandia. Our story begins here: My story of rats and a perpetual fire.
Let's move on now to chapter twelveteenhundred.
As our story opens, the Jefferson's ratpartment building has been torn down and burned up. We begin with an ignored (or really an unheard) knock upon the door by Mr. Ratman himself at the house of Ms. Daisy Princess. Since he was not heard, he meanders along the perimeter of the castle in the ever-pressing effort toward rooting out and exterminating the evil rat population. Ratman is looking over fences, squinting and doing is best to use his eagle-eye peering skills to spy out any trace of rat harbor.
Ms. Princess exits her castle to greet Mr. Ratman. Ratman asks permission to spy out the outer gardens (a.k.a. the backyard in other vernacular) and she grants permission to do so. Ratman tells her that she must excavate her properties outbuilding (= prefabbed shed). She assures him that the rat population is not being harbored in her grounds and isn't there something we might be able to work out? She loves her dear properties outbuilding (shed) because it keeps the stinky gasoline powered equipment out of her carriage house (a.k.a. garage). Ratman flinches in a moment of pity and admits that perhaps her properties outbuilding (shed) may just quite actually fall under a certain clause wherein, due to it's size (smallishness), it may escape total and utter destruction. It may, if Princess could twinkle nice enough-ly, even have a chance that it would neither be required to move out of it's current location nor be annihilated. But in order for this to occur, it must be moved for an inspection to verify that there aren't any ratty ratsicles building ratpartments beneath the twinkling, sparkly, lovely properties outbuilding.
Glory! Princess smiles thankfully and promises to keep an eye out for ratness and says that she will indeed move her properties outbuilding (shed) for him to come back and inspect with all of his eagle-eye might.
Prince Charming, however, is the one to do the moving. Princess would not be the one to tip a properties outbuilding (prefab shed) upon her sparkly self (even though she is obviously so tough she could handle it, yet she prefers not to, strictly out of principle). Thus, Prince Charming moves the properties outbuilding (shed) and tips it on its side (after it was emptied, of course. We're not that daff.).
Princess was a little disturbed when the properties outbuilding was tipped as she found a white, flattened, disintegrating (approaching skeleton-ism), gigantic rat beneath her outbuilding. It was quite the size of a cat. Or an opposum. Or Michael Jordan's shoe. Whatever. Gigantic. Not normal. Like it had eaten a quarter of a cow when it was on sale. In one sitting.
Because these things are disgusting and disturbing, Princess decided the very best thing to do with Rat Cat was to obviously get Prince Charming to dispose of it and pretend it never happened. Tut, tut! And with a dusting off of the hands, *poof*, Rat Cat was gone.
I'm pretty sure that thing could have been a source of food for an entire rat army.
So let's not tell Mr. Ratman and pretend we didn't notice it. Announcement: this didn't happen! No rats here! Excellent. Well, no live ones and neither are there any rat tunnels. (I bet that thing got in there and was so huge it couldn't find a way out. Ten years ago. Maybe I should have sold the rat skeleton on ebay. Oh well.)
Where were we?
Ah yes, nothing to be concerned about. So sparkly Princess and Mr. Ratman must meet again. Mr. Ratman comes out, inspects the lovely area where the castle's outbuilding sat (and is now at this point quite sideways on the ground), puffs triumphantly, waves his magic wand and violá - issues the magic ticket! "Approved".
Team Sparkle and the Outbuildings: 1, Ratsicles: 0
Unfortunately, the moving of the building has created an uneven ground wherein now there are gaps in areas abutting the shed, er, properties outbuilding. They're just right for a rat family to move right in and make themselves at home. Thanks, Ratman.
I'm glad we had this enlightening experience.
Please join us next time for another exciting adventure (cue theme song) in the life of...(bum ba da bum!) Ms. Daisy Princess!
Let's move on now to chapter twelveteenhundred.
As our story opens, the Jefferson's ratpartment building has been torn down and burned up. We begin with an ignored (or really an unheard) knock upon the door by Mr. Ratman himself at the house of Ms. Daisy Princess. Since he was not heard, he meanders along the perimeter of the castle in the ever-pressing effort toward rooting out and exterminating the evil rat population. Ratman is looking over fences, squinting and doing is best to use his eagle-eye peering skills to spy out any trace of rat harbor.
Ms. Princess exits her castle to greet Mr. Ratman. Ratman asks permission to spy out the outer gardens (a.k.a. the backyard in other vernacular) and she grants permission to do so. Ratman tells her that she must excavate her properties outbuilding (= prefabbed shed). She assures him that the rat population is not being harbored in her grounds and isn't there something we might be able to work out? She loves her dear properties outbuilding (shed) because it keeps the stinky gasoline powered equipment out of her carriage house (a.k.a. garage). Ratman flinches in a moment of pity and admits that perhaps her properties outbuilding (shed) may just quite actually fall under a certain clause wherein, due to it's size (smallishness), it may escape total and utter destruction. It may, if Princess could twinkle nice enough-ly, even have a chance that it would neither be required to move out of it's current location nor be annihilated. But in order for this to occur, it must be moved for an inspection to verify that there aren't any ratty ratsicles building ratpartments beneath the twinkling, sparkly, lovely properties outbuilding.
Glory! Princess smiles thankfully and promises to keep an eye out for ratness and says that she will indeed move her properties outbuilding (shed) for him to come back and inspect with all of his eagle-eye might.
Prince Charming, however, is the one to do the moving. Princess would not be the one to tip a properties outbuilding (prefab shed) upon her sparkly self (even though she is obviously so tough she could handle it, yet she prefers not to, strictly out of principle). Thus, Prince Charming moves the properties outbuilding (shed) and tips it on its side (after it was emptied, of course. We're not that daff.).
Princess was a little disturbed when the properties outbuilding was tipped as she found a white, flattened, disintegrating (approaching skeleton-ism), gigantic rat beneath her outbuilding. It was quite the size of a cat. Or an opposum. Or Michael Jordan's shoe. Whatever. Gigantic. Not normal. Like it had eaten a quarter of a cow when it was on sale. In one sitting.
Because these things are disgusting and disturbing, Princess decided the very best thing to do with Rat Cat was to obviously get Prince Charming to dispose of it and pretend it never happened. Tut, tut! And with a dusting off of the hands, *poof*, Rat Cat was gone.
I'm pretty sure that thing could have been a source of food for an entire rat army.
So let's not tell Mr. Ratman and pretend we didn't notice it. Announcement: this didn't happen! No rats here! Excellent. Well, no live ones and neither are there any rat tunnels. (I bet that thing got in there and was so huge it couldn't find a way out. Ten years ago. Maybe I should have sold the rat skeleton on ebay. Oh well.)
Where were we?
Ah yes, nothing to be concerned about. So sparkly Princess and Mr. Ratman must meet again. Mr. Ratman comes out, inspects the lovely area where the castle's outbuilding sat (and is now at this point quite sideways on the ground), puffs triumphantly, waves his magic wand and violá - issues the magic ticket! "Approved".
Team Sparkle and the Outbuildings: 1, Ratsicles: 0
Unfortunately, the moving of the building has created an uneven ground wherein now there are gaps in areas abutting the shed, er, properties outbuilding. They're just right for a rat family to move right in and make themselves at home. Thanks, Ratman.
I'm glad we had this enlightening experience.
Please join us next time for another exciting adventure (cue theme song) in the life of...(bum ba da bum!) Ms. Daisy Princess!
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
"Natural" = nothing
Do you ever just say, "What the crap!"
No? Well you should start.
"Pray tell, why?" Thou sayeth to me.
"Becauseth", say I. "The word 'natural' now means absolutely, positively, completely and wholly nothing."
"Natural" is a word that the conglomeration of industries slap on to their bottles, boxes, bags, and other packaging materials in a marketing strategy effort to deceive the masses into thinking that what they're buying is totally awesome. And healthy. And great.
I am here to tell you that, no, my dearies, do not fall in with that fold. Do not go astray. It would be baaaaaaaaaaad (that's a sheep noise).
Realbeauty.com reports that many BABY shampoos and washes contain the extremely toxic ingredients of formaldehyde and 1,4-dioxane. See the list right-o here-o: http://www.realbeauty.com/hair/baby-bath-products-dont-have-toxic-ingredients-listed_ .
Part of it is that the FDA (and other oh-so-very-special-agencies-with-acronyms) does not regulate the word "natural", so you can put it on anything. You could legally put "natural" on pretty much everything. So, great and awesome and lovely companies do just that. That's mainly because most people are complete morons. (If you are reading my blog, you are clearly NOT a moron.)
This spans food, health products, hair and body glops, the whole nine. The thing is filled with preservatives, chemicals and poison and they're all like, "New Poisonberry Crunch BHT! Totally natural!" Riiiiiiight. Awesome. I'm so buying it.
Do you know why they get away with this? (Cry out with me, "WHY, WHY, WHYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!???")
Because, me lovies, most people don't read the ingredients label. Seriously. I know. You're like, what? How could people not read the ingredients label!?
Wait, what?
Did you just say that YOU don't read the ingredients label? Well, girlfriend/homeboy, you betta start!
Seriously, they are cramming crap in there at flamboyant rates. If it has an abbreviation/acronym, there's a reason. They are trying to keep it a secret. I guarantee you can look that puppy up and it will have its own MSDS sheet and give you hazmat info.
One time I looked up some ingredients in the cosmetics I had. I looked it up on MSDS and it said to keep away from mucus membranes. MUCUS MEMBRANES! It was something like lipstick or mascara. Good thing those don't get near any openings in your face. That would be dangerous. Yeah. Um what?! Good plan.
What the crap! Exactly.
See, told you.
If you have any shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, deodorant, lotion, cosmetics, hair styling product, etc., let me encourage you to test it into the EWG (Environmental Working Group) website. You will thank me later. After you die of horror initially, that is. It really should be a crime for them to market total poison so you can slather it all over your largest organ, but, alas, it is not. Maybe that's because those companies are besties with the governmental agencies that are supposed to regulate them. (It's like an ironic sick joke! Ha ha ha. <-- That's a very un-hearty laugh there.)
Here, check it out: http://www.ewg.org/
You will be so unpleasantly surprised. I'm sorry, I know. You're like, YEAH THANKS, AWESOME, could you please come and rain on my sunshiney day some more please!? Yeay, I come here, wanting to be entertained and you're just telling me I'm being poisoned. Great. HA HA HA. I LOVE YOU. THIS IS SO FUNNY I CAN'T STAND IT.
I know. But think about it this way - if I didn't tell you, I wouldn't really be a very nice friend, would I? I'd just let you go about your sunshiney day with sodium laurel/laureth sulfates on your head and in your mouth from your shampoo and toothpaste and you'd just die a slow, evil, cancerous death and then where would your sunshine be?
What the crap!
See? It's really a very useful phrase. You'll get used to it.
(Apparently especially if you keep reading this blog.)
So, I dare you. Do it. Go grab a shampoo bottle and plug it in to the EWG. Then have a party and grab some cleaning products. Then grab your lipstick (no, not you, homeboys.) and your mascara and your foundation and your...whatever else you use...and check it out. I told my mama-in-law to try hers and she thought she would be set because she uses expensive stuff. But, NO! They even poison you if you like to spend a lot of money. And you know for sure if you're using Wet N'Wild, you're pretty much going to die in ten minutes. Not to be dramatic. Or anything.
What the crap!
Hee hee!
Okay, okay, okay. Let me know. How did your stuff measure up?
Until next time - peace, love and a whole lotta what the crap,
Ms. Daisy
No? Well you should start.
"Pray tell, why?" Thou sayeth to me.
"Becauseth", say I. "The word 'natural' now means absolutely, positively, completely and wholly nothing."
"Natural" is a word that the conglomeration of industries slap on to their bottles, boxes, bags, and other packaging materials in a marketing strategy effort to deceive the masses into thinking that what they're buying is totally awesome. And healthy. And great.
I am here to tell you that, no, my dearies, do not fall in with that fold. Do not go astray. It would be baaaaaaaaaaad (that's a sheep noise).
Realbeauty.com reports that many BABY shampoos and washes contain the extremely toxic ingredients of formaldehyde and 1,4-dioxane. See the list right-o here-o: http://www.realbeauty.com/hair/baby-bath-products-dont-have-toxic-ingredients-listed_ .
Part of it is that the FDA (and other oh-so-very-special-agencies-with-acronyms) does not regulate the word "natural", so you can put it on anything. You could legally put "natural" on pretty much everything. So, great and awesome and lovely companies do just that. That's mainly because most people are complete morons. (If you are reading my blog, you are clearly NOT a moron.)
This spans food, health products, hair and body glops, the whole nine. The thing is filled with preservatives, chemicals and poison and they're all like, "New Poisonberry Crunch BHT! Totally natural!" Riiiiiiight. Awesome. I'm so buying it.
Do you know why they get away with this? (Cry out with me, "WHY, WHY, WHYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!???")
Because, me lovies, most people don't read the ingredients label. Seriously. I know. You're like, what? How could people not read the ingredients label!?
Wait, what?
Did you just say that YOU don't read the ingredients label? Well, girlfriend/homeboy, you betta start!
Seriously, they are cramming crap in there at flamboyant rates. If it has an abbreviation/acronym, there's a reason. They are trying to keep it a secret. I guarantee you can look that puppy up and it will have its own MSDS sheet and give you hazmat info.
One time I looked up some ingredients in the cosmetics I had. I looked it up on MSDS and it said to keep away from mucus membranes. MUCUS MEMBRANES! It was something like lipstick or mascara. Good thing those don't get near any openings in your face. That would be dangerous. Yeah. Um what?! Good plan.
What the crap! Exactly.
See, told you.
If you have any shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, deodorant, lotion, cosmetics, hair styling product, etc., let me encourage you to test it into the EWG (Environmental Working Group) website. You will thank me later. After you die of horror initially, that is. It really should be a crime for them to market total poison so you can slather it all over your largest organ, but, alas, it is not. Maybe that's because those companies are besties with the governmental agencies that are supposed to regulate them. (It's like an ironic sick joke! Ha ha ha. <-- That's a very un-hearty laugh there.)
Here, check it out: http://www.ewg.org/
You will be so unpleasantly surprised. I'm sorry, I know. You're like, YEAH THANKS, AWESOME, could you please come and rain on my sunshiney day some more please!? Yeay, I come here, wanting to be entertained and you're just telling me I'm being poisoned. Great. HA HA HA. I LOVE YOU. THIS IS SO FUNNY I CAN'T STAND IT.
I know. But think about it this way - if I didn't tell you, I wouldn't really be a very nice friend, would I? I'd just let you go about your sunshiney day with sodium laurel/laureth sulfates on your head and in your mouth from your shampoo and toothpaste and you'd just die a slow, evil, cancerous death and then where would your sunshine be?
What the crap!
See? It's really a very useful phrase. You'll get used to it.
(Apparently especially if you keep reading this blog.)
So, I dare you. Do it. Go grab a shampoo bottle and plug it in to the EWG. Then have a party and grab some cleaning products. Then grab your lipstick (no, not you, homeboys.) and your mascara and your foundation and your...whatever else you use...and check it out. I told my mama-in-law to try hers and she thought she would be set because she uses expensive stuff. But, NO! They even poison you if you like to spend a lot of money. And you know for sure if you're using Wet N'Wild, you're pretty much going to die in ten minutes. Not to be dramatic. Or anything.
What the crap!
Hee hee!
Okay, okay, okay. Let me know. How did your stuff measure up?
Until next time - peace, love and a whole lotta what the crap,
Ms. Daisy
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Friends and the river of life
The good Lord has given me many blessings, the best of them eternal and some pink glittery extras just for fun. (I have totally always wanted to start off a sentence with "The good Lord has given me many blessings". And now I did! Thanks for being here for it. It sounds like I need to be in a rocking chair with an afghan - that's lowercase, as in blanket, not uppercase, as in a human.)
I have the loveliest of besties, too. These people are more like sisters (and HECK, one of them IS my sister) than just friends. Special people who were made to share things that are quite unthinkable to even barely vocalize in front of your own mirror, they work it out, laugh with you, and accept you for the 100% crazy person that you are. They are an example of this life of Christ in the flesh - loving you, serving you, carrying your burdens with you, and praying for you. They are those with whom you could spend entire years of your life just straight talking with and never run out of things to say. They make you tea, encourage your eclectic ideas (and self), go shopping with you, get loud and excited with you, and even feed you. You know who you are and I love you and I could write novels about the ways in which you are totally awesomesauce to me.
I also have divas! My divas are an eclectic collection of extremely different and fascinating people who love each other and love to have fun. Divas can get real, get crazy, wear wigs, cry (for joy and for weeping in restaurants over a glass of wine), get fitted for undergarments, get glittered, get sassy, make you pee your pants with laughter, and can't get past 8:30 p.m. without breaking out into hysterical uproarious conversaional topics. If you've had a bad week, it gets cured STAT with these ladies on it. They are those who figure on a good weekend getaway and one of the criteria is that it be far away from other people so we don't wake them up and get kicked out. Whether you're getting kicked out of a hotel room, shopping in Chicago, going for sushi and martinis, having Christmas/lake parties or spending hours in a parking lot in the back of a minivan because you closed out Starbucks, divas are a refreshing fountain of joy in the humdrum of the everyday patterns of life. (And for the record, just in case ya'll think I'm overboard, I couldn't drink a martini if my life depended on it, in case you were wondering what kind of a wild child I really was.)
One of those blessings that spans both the pink glittery now time and the eternal are my friends. I have awesometastic friends. The crap part is that they always move away! (What! Is it my deodorant?? Was it something I said? I'm barely opinionated, so it couldn't be that...)
I keep a 3x5 card of a list of my homegirls who I have been close to over the years who have moved far away from me. It's a good reminder that this world is not static. We're passing through and going on our journey.
Some of my lovelies grew up with me and we went to school together. I have one dear friend who I have shared an entire life with. We had childhood together, we went through school together, were on swim teams together, ate midnight peanuts together, made up pretend commercials together, we even went to university together (and even got to be roommates one year). She's a few time zones away now, but time and space can't squish a friendship that has been woven throughout a lifetime. If you knew either one of us, you might be really surprised that we are friends because on the issues that define many people, we aren't even close. But that doesn't matter in a friendship and it has taught me that a lot of people are missing out on wonderful people because they could never imagine being friends with someone so far outside of their usual accepted circle.
So, moral of the story is - stop being an idiot. That guy with the bumper sticker you hate that makes your blood boil might actually be a really cool person. But you never took the time to figure that out because you're too busy running him off of the road. So try it. You might like it. It's called being loving.
I have the loveliest of besties, too. These people are more like sisters (and HECK, one of them IS my sister) than just friends. Special people who were made to share things that are quite unthinkable to even barely vocalize in front of your own mirror, they work it out, laugh with you, and accept you for the 100% crazy person that you are. They are an example of this life of Christ in the flesh - loving you, serving you, carrying your burdens with you, and praying for you. They are those with whom you could spend entire years of your life just straight talking with and never run out of things to say. They make you tea, encourage your eclectic ideas (and self), go shopping with you, get loud and excited with you, and even feed you. You know who you are and I love you and I could write novels about the ways in which you are totally awesomesauce to me.
I also have divas! My divas are an eclectic collection of extremely different and fascinating people who love each other and love to have fun. Divas can get real, get crazy, wear wigs, cry (for joy and for weeping in restaurants over a glass of wine), get fitted for undergarments, get glittered, get sassy, make you pee your pants with laughter, and can't get past 8:30 p.m. without breaking out into hysterical uproarious conversaional topics. If you've had a bad week, it gets cured STAT with these ladies on it. They are those who figure on a good weekend getaway and one of the criteria is that it be far away from other people so we don't wake them up and get kicked out. Whether you're getting kicked out of a hotel room, shopping in Chicago, going for sushi and martinis, having Christmas/lake parties or spending hours in a parking lot in the back of a minivan because you closed out Starbucks, divas are a refreshing fountain of joy in the humdrum of the everyday patterns of life. (And for the record, just in case ya'll think I'm overboard, I couldn't drink a martini if my life depended on it, in case you were wondering what kind of a wild child I really was.)
I have had sunshiney people that walked with me through post-grad stuff, those that have trudged with me in the depths of the days of babies offering their support, their stories and their camraderie of understanding (like what it means to them right now when you explain about how in that stage of life, while you were at the mall, your offspring thought it would be a good time to take the world's biggest dump, which climbed out of the diaper, up the back, and was nary bathing the back of their little head with poo).
There are people you found out you loved and had so much in common with too late - they moved as you were getting to know each other. (Now who are you going to talk about triathlons and saunas with?)
There are special, lovely and generous people who come from half a world away, step into your life, brighten it up, make it lovelier (even bring you tea, teach you about foot paths, boots, and whirlies) and are whisked away, as fast as they came in. As they do, a little piece of your life and heart flies away with them. You're back to where you were before they arrived, but both happier and sadder for the whole thing.
There are even cute people who send you mittens. Homemade ones. GLITTERY PINK ONES!! Of course THEY are going to move away. :( (Now who are you going to ask your dental questions to?!)
Some go away and come back. And you're very glad they did. I have one friend who pops in and out of places. (She's busy with Zumba, you know.)
They never leave your life. Even if they're really gone, they gave you something of themselves and you are different because of it.
Some leave because their time is up here on this earth. It really makes me recognize that the good Lord did mean for this place to be eternal (until we screwed it up, way to go Adam - no, not the HFCS Adam, the first Adam) because saying goodbye really just stinks. In the last few years, I've had two cousins pass on from this world at very young ages. You never know when you'll be getting on that bus for your last trip. I hope you've made your time and your priorities match up.
Whoever you are and wherever you fit, I'm glad you've impacted my life. And that's enough mushy crap because you guys know I really don't have a heart anyway, it's made of rocks and ice and devoid of feelings, straight up like a drill sargent Geico commercial.
;)
Peace, love, mushy stuff and here's to good friends!
Ms. Daisy
Whoever you are and wherever you fit, I'm glad you've impacted my life. And that's enough mushy crap because you guys know I really don't have a heart anyway, it's made of rocks and ice and devoid of feelings, straight up like a drill sargent Geico commercial.
;)
Peace, love, mushy stuff and here's to good friends!
Ms. Daisy
Thursday, October 11, 2012
The Fostering of Self-Absorption
What's up, my peeps!?
Today let's chat about the shrinking world view of many, specifically those born and raised in the U.S. of A. Now I'm not saying that people in other countries aren't self-centered, I'm sure they are. But there's this proliferation and pride that comes with it in the United States that I believe may not be comparable anywhere else.
First - let's talk about language and domination. Anywhere in the history of the world where there was successful takeover and invasion, the language changed to the group of power in order to foster a growth of the new culture. The deep desire for power and for acceptance drove the rest of the masses toward adopting that dominating language and culture, making those who stick with their original language fall toward becoming obsolete. (This is not in every historical instance, but there is a pattern that can't be ignored.) This unites a larger group, making the original takeover power able to consolidate their power and continue to spread.
What percent of natural-born Americans (when I say "Americans", I mean "United Statesians". America is a huge place that encompasses North, Central and South America, but I am using the term loosely to make it easier.) speak more than one language? More than two languages? As far as a second language in general (meaning anyone born here or elsewhere: a.k.a. more likely to learn English as a second language), we're up to around 18-20%. In Europe, the statistics look more like 52-56%. Now I totally get it - in Europe, you've got a smaller land area per country and each country (for the most part) speaks a different language, so just to get around and get along, you've got to figure something out. And if you're in India, you've got to be trilingual at minimum to make it work, it seems.
What happens in America? People figure, "Aww, if peeps wanna talk to me, they gotta speak English." And you can forget about having an accent. People are going to strain their eyes, crinkle their brows, and get their undies all up in a bunch about it if they can't catch you clearly. Then they're gonna be all, "Aww MAAAAN! Why can't people just freakin' speak English!?" Ahem. Way to go.
Great jeaorb. (-Coach Z)
Second - the traditional approach to history and social studies in the education system within the United States proliferates a small-minded, self-centered view. When kidlets start off in preschool as little 3 and 4 and 5 year olds, their well-meaning teachers instruct them about their communities and social studies topics are things like "community helpers" (a.k.a. let's talk about what a fireman and a librarian are).
I know that most people think that little kids are dumbo heads, but if you think twice about it, you know that they actually are little sponges. Teach them good stuff! Teach them about the beginning of this story of our world and how we're just the latest chapter in a very long novel. In the education system of the United States, once students get past their own small community, they learn about their area, then by the time they hit 3rd or 4th grade, they learn about their state. After that, it's a free for all in repeating the history of the United States from about 1775 and a half to present.
Thus, according to our education system, the world pretty much did not exist before 1770. And not only that, but there aren't any other countries out there except for those that deal with us in a major way. This is so utterly absurd and hideous that for the most part, most students barf when they think of history and don't want to go further and think about the rest of the world. They lack in geography skills (think of Jay Leno asking Americans to point things out on a world map and they can't do it) because all they need to know about anything related to a map is the directions to a mall and they've got an app for that on their iphone.
What is the remedy? I submit that a cure might just be classical education.
Students learn Latin starting at 3rd grade (for the most part), and from 1st grade they begin learning about the start of our world in a chronological order, weaving histories together into a beautiful and logical tapestry. They are given tools they need to break up and make sense of classical books and literature through learning grammar (including diagramming of sentences, yay!). Grammar is the base of learning other languages by facilitating the development of necessary foundational building blocks and the understanding of those foreign languages. Classical texts are chosen for review and thought, exposing students to beautiful and thoughtful works instead of fluffy puffy brain crack (stuff along the lines of Goosebumps, Sweet Valley Twins, and other high fructose corn syrup for the mind).
And p.s., I'm all for reading for fun, but let's not have everything be akin to fluffy puff marshmallows (which I'm sure Homestar totally loves).
Anyway, my whole point is that I think there's something lacking and fostering a child's already self-centered mentality is probably going to end up somehow to their (or another's) detriment. Breeding an entire generation and nation of such thinkers might just flush us straight down the toilet. Good thing that's not at all where we're headed.
What do you think? Have you ever explored classical education? How many languages do you speak fluently and how many have you studied somewhat? Are you able to label a map of Europe, the states within the United States, the continents and most countries around the globe?
It's not too late to learn. Go on, get out there, expand your mind. (Not in an LSD kind of way.)
And while you're at it, have a sip of kombucha. You'll feel so awesomesauce you might almost want to explode.
Peace, love, and here's to using our brains,
Ms. Daisy
Today let's chat about the shrinking world view of many, specifically those born and raised in the U.S. of A. Now I'm not saying that people in other countries aren't self-centered, I'm sure they are. But there's this proliferation and pride that comes with it in the United States that I believe may not be comparable anywhere else.
First - let's talk about language and domination. Anywhere in the history of the world where there was successful takeover and invasion, the language changed to the group of power in order to foster a growth of the new culture. The deep desire for power and for acceptance drove the rest of the masses toward adopting that dominating language and culture, making those who stick with their original language fall toward becoming obsolete. (This is not in every historical instance, but there is a pattern that can't be ignored.) This unites a larger group, making the original takeover power able to consolidate their power and continue to spread.
What percent of natural-born Americans (when I say "Americans", I mean "United Statesians". America is a huge place that encompasses North, Central and South America, but I am using the term loosely to make it easier.) speak more than one language? More than two languages? As far as a second language in general (meaning anyone born here or elsewhere: a.k.a. more likely to learn English as a second language), we're up to around 18-20%. In Europe, the statistics look more like 52-56%. Now I totally get it - in Europe, you've got a smaller land area per country and each country (for the most part) speaks a different language, so just to get around and get along, you've got to figure something out. And if you're in India, you've got to be trilingual at minimum to make it work, it seems.
What happens in America? People figure, "Aww, if peeps wanna talk to me, they gotta speak English." And you can forget about having an accent. People are going to strain their eyes, crinkle their brows, and get their undies all up in a bunch about it if they can't catch you clearly. Then they're gonna be all, "Aww MAAAAN! Why can't people just freakin' speak English!?" Ahem. Way to go.
Great jeaorb. (-Coach Z)
Second - the traditional approach to history and social studies in the education system within the United States proliferates a small-minded, self-centered view. When kidlets start off in preschool as little 3 and 4 and 5 year olds, their well-meaning teachers instruct them about their communities and social studies topics are things like "community helpers" (a.k.a. let's talk about what a fireman and a librarian are).
I know that most people think that little kids are dumbo heads, but if you think twice about it, you know that they actually are little sponges. Teach them good stuff! Teach them about the beginning of this story of our world and how we're just the latest chapter in a very long novel. In the education system of the United States, once students get past their own small community, they learn about their area, then by the time they hit 3rd or 4th grade, they learn about their state. After that, it's a free for all in repeating the history of the United States from about 1775 and a half to present.
Thus, according to our education system, the world pretty much did not exist before 1770. And not only that, but there aren't any other countries out there except for those that deal with us in a major way. This is so utterly absurd and hideous that for the most part, most students barf when they think of history and don't want to go further and think about the rest of the world. They lack in geography skills (think of Jay Leno asking Americans to point things out on a world map and they can't do it) because all they need to know about anything related to a map is the directions to a mall and they've got an app for that on their iphone.
 |
| As seen in Martha Stewart's Everyday Living this month: kinda funny, except for the part that there are some people out there who might not actually know this is a joke. |
Students learn Latin starting at 3rd grade (for the most part), and from 1st grade they begin learning about the start of our world in a chronological order, weaving histories together into a beautiful and logical tapestry. They are given tools they need to break up and make sense of classical books and literature through learning grammar (including diagramming of sentences, yay!). Grammar is the base of learning other languages by facilitating the development of necessary foundational building blocks and the understanding of those foreign languages. Classical texts are chosen for review and thought, exposing students to beautiful and thoughtful works instead of fluffy puffy brain crack (stuff along the lines of Goosebumps, Sweet Valley Twins, and other high fructose corn syrup for the mind).
And p.s., I'm all for reading for fun, but let's not have everything be akin to fluffy puff marshmallows (which I'm sure Homestar totally loves).
Anyway, my whole point is that I think there's something lacking and fostering a child's already self-centered mentality is probably going to end up somehow to their (or another's) detriment. Breeding an entire generation and nation of such thinkers might just flush us straight down the toilet. Good thing that's not at all where we're headed.
What do you think? Have you ever explored classical education? How many languages do you speak fluently and how many have you studied somewhat? Are you able to label a map of Europe, the states within the United States, the continents and most countries around the globe?
It's not too late to learn. Go on, get out there, expand your mind. (Not in an LSD kind of way.)
And while you're at it, have a sip of kombucha. You'll feel so awesomesauce you might almost want to explode.
Peace, love, and here's to using our brains,
Ms. Daisy
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
I love tomatoes!
Well, it's true. I do.
Let me show you the crazy ways.
A couple years ago I got all excited because they were coming into season, so I went to a farmers market and got an exorbitant amount of them. What did I do next? Ah yes, now I remember. I ate them like my life, your life and the fate of the world depended on it.
Then I got mouth ulcers and I couldn't stand up straight because the acid in my stomach was burning holes on the insides of my body. I called a chiropractor who instructed me to eat beets (now I know some of you say "yum" when you hear the word beets. I say "dirt" and "barf" and "bleeeeeeaaaachhh".), and not only eat beets, but to eat them with...get this, apple cider vinegar. As if the beets and the stomach aliens weren't enough, now I'm going to have to bottoms-up-drink-er-down with some ACV. Fan-freakin'-tastic. So, I did. I love torture.
After a few days, I was able to stand back up again. It was great. That whole being upright thing is actually really handy.
Then came the next episode in the saga of my life and tomatoes. Canning!!! My dear friend Jen taught me how to can. This girl can can! (Isn't that a great sentence?) Jen can actually do anything. She knows how to knit, quilt, garden, can food, deal with boys (she has only 5 of them - six if you count her hubby) AND chickens, and she is a patient and calm teacher. So I went over to her house for a hands-on tutorial. Yay! (Thank you, Jen. You are awesomesauce!)
After I learned, I figured I could try it myself in the privacy of my own stingray-laden kitchen. So, I did it. It took like four hours. Then I read about botulism and I dumped all of the jars I did myself into ziploc bags and put them all in the freezer instead. Great experience.
Today I decided to climb back up onto the horse. I was inspired by my other friend (hej bastis, hur ar laget!), Tess. We went to her house and had the best spaghetti in the whole world. She brought me to a beautiful row of canned tomatoes and showed me that that was her starter. I knew that I must do it, too.
Now I am not afraid of canning preserves of fruit, that is a rip-roarin' good time. But the tomatoes! OH! They scare me. The day I read about botulism is burned on my brain! Maybe it's burned there with tomato acid. Anyway.
Today was my day.
So, since I like to be completely over the top at all times, I purchased some tomatoes to can today. How much?
Thirty-five pounds.
Yes, f'real.
I got this huge box from a lovely farmer who told me he doesn't spray anything on his little beauties and that was good enough for me. He carried it to the car for me (I let him.). Then I was off, speeding on my way towards home with a box that was the size of a small dog's cage filled to the top with tomatoes of all sizes. I got home, took out the canning supplies and then went out to get the box. This is when I realized that thirty-five pounds is a lot of tomatoes.
Then I opened the box. What I saw before me was a vast sea of unending tomatoes. Botulism flashed in my mind. No. I'm going to do this. I will be just fine.
Holy smokes, that is a lot of tomato! Yes, yes, yes, I will get lots of practice. It will be great. Hubby came home. He says, "When you said 35 pounds of tomatoes, I thought you were kidding. You were not kidding."
Psh, I can do this. Okay. What was it again that I'm supposed to do? Just what everyone does - look up stuff on the internet. Then call Jen in case of an emergency.
Got it.
So I make a mess and make it look like I slaughtered something in my kitchen - there's red tomato madness up the side of my fridge, every countertop is covered in tomato and canning accessories and my hair is curling from the amount of humidity I am putting into the air in the form of billowing steam.
Let me just make something clear here. I hate messes. Hate. They can be in other people's places, I don't mind them there. But when it crawls over into my area, we've got a problema.
Oh we had a problema, all right. I made the local dump look like a professional garden with a complete butterfly house in it! Okay, I say, self - get it together. We can clean this up later. Focus. Tomatoes.
Yeah, I think I can focus on the tomatoes. They're on every surface.
So in go the first batch of jars. Pop! Pop! Pop!
Wait, wait, wait! What is that? Is that supposed to happen? What is that popping? I don't remember that happening when I was with Jen.
Open lid.
Awesome. The bottoms of the jars busted off. So now I have a sea of squishing tomatoes in glass-infested waters. Time to go fishing! Boiling water + broken glass = a pretty good time. I only broke 5 jars total. Only.
After about 6 hours, I wondered if I was absorbing the acid through my skin. My lips were chapped beyond recognition, my fingernails were turning slightly orange.
But, yes, oh yes. I did it. I had to scrounge up every jar in the house to get them all in, but off they went.
I conquered the tomatoes.
And now, even though I won't want to look at a tomato until January, they'll be there. Waiting patiently for me.
Sans botulism.
I hope.
Long live spaghetti!
Let me show you the crazy ways.
A couple years ago I got all excited because they were coming into season, so I went to a farmers market and got an exorbitant amount of them. What did I do next? Ah yes, now I remember. I ate them like my life, your life and the fate of the world depended on it.
Then I got mouth ulcers and I couldn't stand up straight because the acid in my stomach was burning holes on the insides of my body. I called a chiropractor who instructed me to eat beets (now I know some of you say "yum" when you hear the word beets. I say "dirt" and "barf" and "bleeeeeeaaaachhh".), and not only eat beets, but to eat them with...get this, apple cider vinegar. As if the beets and the stomach aliens weren't enough, now I'm going to have to bottoms-up-drink-er-down with some ACV. Fan-freakin'-tastic. So, I did. I love torture.
After a few days, I was able to stand back up again. It was great. That whole being upright thing is actually really handy.
Then came the next episode in the saga of my life and tomatoes. Canning!!! My dear friend Jen taught me how to can. This girl can can! (Isn't that a great sentence?) Jen can actually do anything. She knows how to knit, quilt, garden, can food, deal with boys (she has only 5 of them - six if you count her hubby) AND chickens, and she is a patient and calm teacher. So I went over to her house for a hands-on tutorial. Yay! (Thank you, Jen. You are awesomesauce!)
After I learned, I figured I could try it myself in the privacy of my own stingray-laden kitchen. So, I did it. It took like four hours. Then I read about botulism and I dumped all of the jars I did myself into ziploc bags and put them all in the freezer instead. Great experience.
Today I decided to climb back up onto the horse. I was inspired by my other friend (hej bastis, hur ar laget!), Tess. We went to her house and had the best spaghetti in the whole world. She brought me to a beautiful row of canned tomatoes and showed me that that was her starter. I knew that I must do it, too.
Now I am not afraid of canning preserves of fruit, that is a rip-roarin' good time. But the tomatoes! OH! They scare me. The day I read about botulism is burned on my brain! Maybe it's burned there with tomato acid. Anyway.
Today was my day.
So, since I like to be completely over the top at all times, I purchased some tomatoes to can today. How much?
Thirty-five pounds.
Yes, f'real.
I got this huge box from a lovely farmer who told me he doesn't spray anything on his little beauties and that was good enough for me. He carried it to the car for me (I let him.). Then I was off, speeding on my way towards home with a box that was the size of a small dog's cage filled to the top with tomatoes of all sizes. I got home, took out the canning supplies and then went out to get the box. This is when I realized that thirty-five pounds is a lot of tomatoes.
Then I opened the box. What I saw before me was a vast sea of unending tomatoes. Botulism flashed in my mind. No. I'm going to do this. I will be just fine.
Holy smokes, that is a lot of tomato! Yes, yes, yes, I will get lots of practice. It will be great. Hubby came home. He says, "When you said 35 pounds of tomatoes, I thought you were kidding. You were not kidding."
Psh, I can do this. Okay. What was it again that I'm supposed to do? Just what everyone does - look up stuff on the internet. Then call Jen in case of an emergency.
Got it.
So I make a mess and make it look like I slaughtered something in my kitchen - there's red tomato madness up the side of my fridge, every countertop is covered in tomato and canning accessories and my hair is curling from the amount of humidity I am putting into the air in the form of billowing steam.
Let me just make something clear here. I hate messes. Hate. They can be in other people's places, I don't mind them there. But when it crawls over into my area, we've got a problema.
Oh we had a problema, all right. I made the local dump look like a professional garden with a complete butterfly house in it! Okay, I say, self - get it together. We can clean this up later. Focus. Tomatoes.
Yeah, I think I can focus on the tomatoes. They're on every surface.
So in go the first batch of jars. Pop! Pop! Pop!
Wait, wait, wait! What is that? Is that supposed to happen? What is that popping? I don't remember that happening when I was with Jen.
Open lid.
Awesome. The bottoms of the jars busted off. So now I have a sea of squishing tomatoes in glass-infested waters. Time to go fishing! Boiling water + broken glass = a pretty good time. I only broke 5 jars total. Only.
After about 6 hours, I wondered if I was absorbing the acid through my skin. My lips were chapped beyond recognition, my fingernails were turning slightly orange.
But, yes, oh yes. I did it. I had to scrounge up every jar in the house to get them all in, but off they went.
I conquered the tomatoes.
And now, even though I won't want to look at a tomato until January, they'll be there. Waiting patiently for me.
Sans botulism.
I hope.
Long live spaghetti!
Friday, October 5, 2012
Knock down, drag out, remember the Alamo, it's an election year!
If you've heard in the news lately, you may have noticed that in the good ol' U.S. of A. here we've got what you'd call a big ol' full on political fight. Yes, my dearies, it's an election year. The time in our country where people dig out their bumper stickers, get into loud shouting matches and check their brains at the door (and forget the pick up ticket) so they, too, can jump on their favorite 100%-always-right-political-party boat while it sinks to the bottom of the ocean.
Good plan.
We have these two main parties that fight for the spotlight and point out how the other party is totally el wrong-o. One party gets blamed for being in love with rich people, another party is blamed for being in love with murdering babies, both of them promise you (cross their heart and hope to die) that they'll never in their entire life ever even think about raising taxes on you (pinkie swear, stick a needle in my eye). How's that working out for yas?
It's also the time that you can play everyone's favorite game: The Reagan Tally! Whoever says "Ronald Reagan" the most, wins. Bonus points are given for whoever makes a better smirk at their opponent. Smirking must always be done as you look away and downward, half an extra bonus point if you shake your head (pretending you're meaning, "Oh-you-are-so-el-wrongo" to the public, but on the inside thinking, "I gotta think up a really great whopper to get out of this one. Maybe I can talk about...taxes and healthcare, that will steer 'em off of this sticky stink!").
You can usually pick your political party based on your race or religion or sexual orientation. Those all carry some weight. If you're a teacher or any other type of union worker, you've got yours picked for you also. Are you pro-life? Well, get into your category. Nobody anymore really actually thinks about those pesky little whiners in the back of their own head, namely their own thoughts.
People on the radio and the nightly news are making those decisions for you and you can just smile, clap and get on board with them, because that (quite frankly) takes a lot less effort than having to go through all that hard thinking garbage. Thinking! It's for the birds.
(Put a bird on it! - Portlandia ...sorry.)
I love also how the main political candidates pretend that they are regular, normal, Joe Schmoes. This is actually my favorite part of the whole thing. "My grandmammy always used to tell me, 'Sonny! You gotta eat yer grits and grow big and strong or yehs won't be able to work up at the factory like Uncle Bob!'" Lookie here, me smarties, get real - they couldn't tell you the amount it took to fill up their Hummer/private limo/Aston Martin/private jet airplane for the literal life of them. They wouldn't be able to tell you the price of a gallon of milk (neither hormone-laden nor organic), a stick of butter, a loaf of bread (Aunt Millies OR Ezekiel), or what regular human people pay for their Payless shoes. (They don't even know what Payless Shoes IS.) It's pretty much like Andy Bernard asking Darryl if he should pretend he grew up in an apartment. Or if that's too harsh.
I wonder how long it will take for people to see that maybe, just MAAAAAYBE, the candidates and the parties with which they are involved are only putting the questions out there that they want you to think about. I know that many of you think of the Dems and the Repubs (new word, yes, thank you) as polar opposites. That might be because they're opposite on the topics they present to you and would like you to talk amongst yourselves about (I'm feeling verklempt!).
It's like being a parent. You give your kid two options, neither of which you care that much about and either one is just dandy cakes. "Johnny boy, do you want to scrub the floor or wash the toilet?" Great. That's kind of different from, "Johnny boy, do you want to eat ice cream for dinner or would you like some yummy vegetables?" Now we're on a different planet and one isn't really where you want to go.
I wonder if they'll get into it about audting the Fed or why corn is subsidized, why they think it's a good idea Monsanto is the FDA, or why it's best that the government is making out with McDonalds in the back room while they stand on the front porch and yell at the masses for being such a bunch of Fatty McGhees. Perhaps they'll talk about the gold standard. Or maybe they'll talk about the freedom to drink your favorite kind of milk.
I know that seems rather...um...odd. But my point is this - if they can get all up in your business between your glass and your lips, who knows where they'll try to go.
But most people don't care about any of that. They've got an iphone, satellite tv, a car that talks to them and pretends it's their friend, and every type of entertainment and distraction you can think of. They don't need to think of weighty matters because such nonsense would interfere with the next season of the Bachelorette and Dancing With The Stars and every teenage vampire tv show on the CW.
You see, my dearies, our sad little country is (mostly) filled with people who think only about how the government is going to help them and fill up their pockets with leprechaun gold nuggets and rain down blueberry surprise Kool-Aid from the sky for them. My peeps, I know that we will be affected by a myriad of decisions and we want to protect our families and help them in the best way possible, but perhaps, JUST PERHAPS - we should think about how everything is going to pan out for the good of the country and our future - based on our actual, oh, I dunno, Constitution. No? You don't care about that? Okay, cool. Good idea.
Whatever you do, I beg you to think. I beg you to research candidates. I implore you to think about what you believe FIRST before being convinced by MSNBC/Fox/Rush Limbaugh/CNN/Rachel Maddow, et al. You can do it. God made you different, he made you special and he gave you your own brain.
And please remember - above all - those peeps out there care about one thing more than anything else in the whole wide universe: getting to live in a special white house over in the D.C. area and get to fly around in a special plane named Air Force One. They will do and say anything to you, for you, with you so that they can make their dream come true. This, my darlings, is something you mustn't forget. As they speak to you, filter it through their numero uno goal.
Think. You never know what could happen when you do. You might even change the world.
Good plan.
We have these two main parties that fight for the spotlight and point out how the other party is totally el wrong-o. One party gets blamed for being in love with rich people, another party is blamed for being in love with murdering babies, both of them promise you (cross their heart and hope to die) that they'll never in their entire life ever even think about raising taxes on you (pinkie swear, stick a needle in my eye). How's that working out for yas?
It's also the time that you can play everyone's favorite game: The Reagan Tally! Whoever says "Ronald Reagan" the most, wins. Bonus points are given for whoever makes a better smirk at their opponent. Smirking must always be done as you look away and downward, half an extra bonus point if you shake your head (pretending you're meaning, "Oh-you-are-so-el-wrongo" to the public, but on the inside thinking, "I gotta think up a really great whopper to get out of this one. Maybe I can talk about...taxes and healthcare, that will steer 'em off of this sticky stink!").
You can usually pick your political party based on your race or religion or sexual orientation. Those all carry some weight. If you're a teacher or any other type of union worker, you've got yours picked for you also. Are you pro-life? Well, get into your category. Nobody anymore really actually thinks about those pesky little whiners in the back of their own head, namely their own thoughts.
People on the radio and the nightly news are making those decisions for you and you can just smile, clap and get on board with them, because that (quite frankly) takes a lot less effort than having to go through all that hard thinking garbage. Thinking! It's for the birds.
(Put a bird on it! - Portlandia ...sorry.)
I love also how the main political candidates pretend that they are regular, normal, Joe Schmoes. This is actually my favorite part of the whole thing. "My grandmammy always used to tell me, 'Sonny! You gotta eat yer grits and grow big and strong or yehs won't be able to work up at the factory like Uncle Bob!'" Lookie here, me smarties, get real - they couldn't tell you the amount it took to fill up their Hummer/private limo/Aston Martin/private jet airplane for the literal life of them. They wouldn't be able to tell you the price of a gallon of milk (neither hormone-laden nor organic), a stick of butter, a loaf of bread (Aunt Millies OR Ezekiel), or what regular human people pay for their Payless shoes. (They don't even know what Payless Shoes IS.) It's pretty much like Andy Bernard asking Darryl if he should pretend he grew up in an apartment. Or if that's too harsh.
I wonder how long it will take for people to see that maybe, just MAAAAAYBE, the candidates and the parties with which they are involved are only putting the questions out there that they want you to think about. I know that many of you think of the Dems and the Repubs (new word, yes, thank you) as polar opposites. That might be because they're opposite on the topics they present to you and would like you to talk amongst yourselves about (I'm feeling verklempt!).
It's like being a parent. You give your kid two options, neither of which you care that much about and either one is just dandy cakes. "Johnny boy, do you want to scrub the floor or wash the toilet?" Great. That's kind of different from, "Johnny boy, do you want to eat ice cream for dinner or would you like some yummy vegetables?" Now we're on a different planet and one isn't really where you want to go.
I wonder if they'll get into it about audting the Fed or why corn is subsidized, why they think it's a good idea Monsanto is the FDA, or why it's best that the government is making out with McDonalds in the back room while they stand on the front porch and yell at the masses for being such a bunch of Fatty McGhees. Perhaps they'll talk about the gold standard. Or maybe they'll talk about the freedom to drink your favorite kind of milk.
I know that seems rather...um...odd. But my point is this - if they can get all up in your business between your glass and your lips, who knows where they'll try to go.
But most people don't care about any of that. They've got an iphone, satellite tv, a car that talks to them and pretends it's their friend, and every type of entertainment and distraction you can think of. They don't need to think of weighty matters because such nonsense would interfere with the next season of the Bachelorette and Dancing With The Stars and every teenage vampire tv show on the CW.
You see, my dearies, our sad little country is (mostly) filled with people who think only about how the government is going to help them and fill up their pockets with leprechaun gold nuggets and rain down blueberry surprise Kool-Aid from the sky for them. My peeps, I know that we will be affected by a myriad of decisions and we want to protect our families and help them in the best way possible, but perhaps, JUST PERHAPS - we should think about how everything is going to pan out for the good of the country and our future - based on our actual, oh, I dunno, Constitution. No? You don't care about that? Okay, cool. Good idea.
Whatever you do, I beg you to think. I beg you to research candidates. I implore you to think about what you believe FIRST before being convinced by MSNBC/Fox/Rush Limbaugh/CNN/Rachel Maddow, et al. You can do it. God made you different, he made you special and he gave you your own brain.
And please remember - above all - those peeps out there care about one thing more than anything else in the whole wide universe: getting to live in a special white house over in the D.C. area and get to fly around in a special plane named Air Force One. They will do and say anything to you, for you, with you so that they can make their dream come true. This, my darlings, is something you mustn't forget. As they speak to you, filter it through their numero uno goal.
Think. You never know what could happen when you do. You might even change the world.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
The magical wonder of kombucha...and you.
Today I shall tell you about the magical wonder of kombucha.
Ahem. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Benefits.
I just got this for you from kombuchakamp.com. She lists the benefits of the elixir of awesomesauce for you and heeeeeeere they are!
*Probiotics – healthy bacteria
*Alkalize the body – balances internal pH
*Detoxify the liver – happy liver = happy mood
*Increase metabolism – rev your internal engine
*Improve digestion – keep your system moving
*Rebuild connective tissue – helps with arthritis, gout, asthma, rheumatism
*Cancer prevention
*Alleviate constipation
*Boost energy – helps with chronic fatigue
*Reduce blood pressure
*Relieve headaches & migraines
*Reduce kidney stones
*High in antioxidants – destroy free-radicals that cause cancer
*High in polyphenols
*Improve eyesight
*Heal excema – can be applied topically to soften the skin
*Prevent artheriosclerosis
*Speed healing of ulcers – kills h.pylori on contact
*Help clear up candida & yeast infections
*Aid healthy cell regeneration
*Reduce gray hair
*Lower glucose levels – prevents spiking from eating
Woah. Dude. Insane, right? After reading this list, did you just say, "Holy kombucha!!" I know I did!
So you're all like, okay, yeah, right. What? You think I'm a dummy head, don't ya, Daisy Pink? You think I'm gonna believe all that. What, are you selling me a miracle cure? I've been around the block too many times to know that if it sounds too good to be true, it must be. So what's your catch, Pinks?
First of all, no, I don't think you're a dummy head. I think that if this were in pill form and marketed by Top Dawg Pharmaceutical Company, I'd be quite leery too. BUT! ALAS! This special K drink doesn't cure you of anything.
What?
Yes, that's right. It doesn't cure you of your ailments at all. It reduces the stress on your liver from all the toxins you put in it from your high fructose corn syrup (Adam) or whatever else you've got going on in there - by purging and detoxing your liver so that your liver can do the work God made it to do. Namely, clean out your body.
Our bodies have a few lines of defense of getting rid of the improper crapola we put into it. The first is our liver, the main junk system of the whole place. If your liver is all freakin' out because you are slapping it in the head (or equivalent) with all that disgusting processed food, environmental toxins, etc. and it can't do it's job anymore, you've got a backup plan. (Thank God. No, literally. You should.)
You've got other systems in place in there - the last one being your skin (eczema, zits, et cetera.). By that point, it's literally trying to leap out through your pores.
(And can I just recommend a book to you right now? It's old. It has no fancy pictures. It was written in like 1960. But let me just tell you, there are some things in there that you might look at with a crazy eyebrow, but there is so much good stuff in there that it will blow your whole mind. It's called Food Is Your Best Medicine by Dr. Henry Bieler. This guy was a stinkin' genius. You'll have to find it on amazon or something because this puppy is out of print. Get your hands on a copy of this and I promise you, it will change the way you think about food completely. And then you'll feel ultrapopular because you have an out of print book and all your friends will want to be just like you. Duh. Isn't that the easiest and best way to seek popularity among your peers? I thought so. Anyway...)
So, anyway, I just want you to think about it. Could this help you? Consider it.
There is one thing I must say to you, though. I must warn you. If you do decide to get into it and go all stingray in the kitchen, you've got to be super hygenic. You can't be a gross-ey pants because if you introduce outside bacteria into your scoby, you could end up with making yourself an e.coli cocktail. And I'm pretty sure that's not what you're going for here. Scobys can also grow mold if they aren't kept in the proper way. If they're too humid or don't get enough air to breathe, they can get moldy - just like bread mold. It doesn't have fancy special mold, just the regular run of the mill kind you're used to on your 12 day old loaf that got shoved in the back of the fridge/cupboard, etc.
If you want to do it right, find someone near you who has done it before and have them give you a hands-on tutoring session. The wonder of kombucha is not only all these benefits that are mentioned above but (gasp!) there's another - scobys have babies! They double every batch. That means your friend can give you one of her/his baby scobies and you can go on with your bad self on your own.
If you have nobody in the entire circle of your world who has ever even heard of kombucha, search our wide world of the web and find a how to. I recommend the KombuchaKamp website, they are very knowledgeable and they can even sell you a scoby, I think.
If you want to see someone make it, you should check out this youtube video of a guy with no shirt and a flappy winter hat who does a great job of it. He uses green tea, though, and I only use black tea, but it's all good.
Last thing. I know you're thinking, "So what in the world does this weird voodoo thing taste like anyway?" I have heard it was an acquired taste, but I liked it right off the bat. It has a vinegary smell, but it doesn't taste vinegary (unless you let it brew for like 20 days and then you can clean your floors with it fo' sho'). Have you ever had apple cider that went a little too long and got all fizzy? It's kind of like that plus a little "beer-y" from the fermentation and bubbly-ness. Do you like beer? Maybe you'll like it. It also has thoughts of apple cider vinegar but not that sharp and bitter taste that vinegar has. The longer you let it brew, the more vinegary it will be.
Did I just totally freak you out by saying vinegar? I know. It sounds HORRIBLE. In fact, I hate vinegar. But I LOVE KOMBUCHA!!! Seriously. Be brave. You can do this. Put on your big girl undies and man up. (Er, um...?)
Just see if you can get your little mitts on a cup of it and try it for yourself.
Your liver will thank you.
Did you just say, "Sambuka? What the heck is frambuesa!? Or whatever you...just...said..."
(For the record, I think Sambuka is a town [?] and a frambuesa is the Spanish word for raspberry. Kombucha is neither one of those.) Now. Let's begin. Kombucha is a drink. It has been called "the elixir of immortality" by some and it has been around for, oh, let's say, like 2,000 years. No, for real. Not kidding. This is just an ounce of the awesomesauce, hang with me. Some people have put their nasty, mean cancer into remission with the concoction. Getting interesting-er? I think yes. Not only are these things reported about our babushka, er, kombucha, but it is also repudiated to be an excellent detox-er for your liver. You kind of need your liver. Just in case you were thinking that's not a big deal, you would be el wrong-o (not even close to Spanish). Your liver is the junk bucket of your body, getting rid of all that high fructose corn syrup you've been eating (Adam and A-beans, this is a good thing - don't argue, just keep sipping your 24L of coffee and read on).
Now I don't know if it promotes weight loss or anything - I haven't necessarily heard that - but you could totally pretend it does, because I am quite sure if I said that, you would be drinking it up the wazoo. Weight loss is such a huge industry and interest that you could pretty much get people to drink pig bladders if you said it would make you lose 30 pounds. And some of you would do it, wouldn't yas? Drinking pig bladders. For crying out loud, please, for the love of all that is good and decent, work with me here. If you would consider eating spiders legs or drinking pig bladders if it promised you the worthlessness of being a waif, consider the slightly more important thing of let's say...overall health here. And actually, since it's a probiotic, you've got that whole...um... elimination of toxins from the intestines going on...perhaps it would be a slight weight loss thingy. But don't be shallow, c'mon, big picture, big picture.
So let me just tell you one very important thing here. You need to drink it before you see it. See the "scoby", that is. Because I must be quite frank with you here, a scoby looks like an alien and feels like...a stingray/dolphin. It is white and is generally shaped like a pancake. I'm trying to protect you from the whole, "Thanks but, uh, no thanks!" thought that will absolutely invade your brain if you see the little dear scoby first. Drink the lovely drink first, get all addicted to it (c'mon, I don't mean LITERALLY!) and then go brew some and you'll be all thinkin' you're cool since you're handling your stingray in the privacy of your own kitchen.
Now, one other thing. It is made from brewed tea and slightly ferments (awesome, something like .0000005% alcohol going on there) so if those things are forbodden (say that word aloud in a foreboding, deep manly English accent voice) to you, you ought to just sigh and say, yes, well, I guess that's not my thang. People do give this to their children so I'm being quite serious when I tell you about the very miniscule alcohol level in case I just freaked you out. Less than cough syrup. Less than O'Doules, and 1000 times less than the rubbing alcohol the wayward vagabond is drinking on the city street under the overpass with the sign. (p.s. I am totally in favor of you packing some snacks in your car to hand out the window when such opportunities arise.)
Now I don't know if it promotes weight loss or anything - I haven't necessarily heard that - but you could totally pretend it does, because I am quite sure if I said that, you would be drinking it up the wazoo. Weight loss is such a huge industry and interest that you could pretty much get people to drink pig bladders if you said it would make you lose 30 pounds. And some of you would do it, wouldn't yas? Drinking pig bladders. For crying out loud, please, for the love of all that is good and decent, work with me here. If you would consider eating spiders legs or drinking pig bladders if it promised you the worthlessness of being a waif, consider the slightly more important thing of let's say...overall health here. And actually, since it's a probiotic, you've got that whole...um... elimination of toxins from the intestines going on...perhaps it would be a slight weight loss thingy. But don't be shallow, c'mon, big picture, big picture.
So let me just tell you one very important thing here. You need to drink it before you see it. See the "scoby", that is. Because I must be quite frank with you here, a scoby looks like an alien and feels like...a stingray/dolphin. It is white and is generally shaped like a pancake. I'm trying to protect you from the whole, "Thanks but, uh, no thanks!" thought that will absolutely invade your brain if you see the little dear scoby first. Drink the lovely drink first, get all addicted to it (c'mon, I don't mean LITERALLY!) and then go brew some and you'll be all thinkin' you're cool since you're handling your stingray in the privacy of your own kitchen.
Now, one other thing. It is made from brewed tea and slightly ferments (awesome, something like .0000005% alcohol going on there) so if those things are forbodden (say that word aloud in a foreboding, deep manly English accent voice) to you, you ought to just sigh and say, yes, well, I guess that's not my thang. People do give this to their children so I'm being quite serious when I tell you about the very miniscule alcohol level in case I just freaked you out. Less than cough syrup. Less than O'Doules, and 1000 times less than the rubbing alcohol the wayward vagabond is drinking on the city street under the overpass with the sign. (p.s. I am totally in favor of you packing some snacks in your car to hand out the window when such opportunities arise.)
Ahem. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Benefits.
I just got this for you from kombuchakamp.com. She lists the benefits of the elixir of awesomesauce for you and heeeeeeere they are!
*Probiotics – healthy bacteria
*Alkalize the body – balances internal pH
*Detoxify the liver – happy liver = happy mood
*Increase metabolism – rev your internal engine
*Improve digestion – keep your system moving
*Rebuild connective tissue – helps with arthritis, gout, asthma, rheumatism
*Cancer prevention
*Alleviate constipation
*Boost energy – helps with chronic fatigue
*Reduce blood pressure
*Relieve headaches & migraines
*Reduce kidney stones
*High in antioxidants – destroy free-radicals that cause cancer
*High in polyphenols
*Improve eyesight
*Heal excema – can be applied topically to soften the skin
*Prevent artheriosclerosis
*Speed healing of ulcers – kills h.pylori on contact
*Help clear up candida & yeast infections
*Aid healthy cell regeneration
*Reduce gray hair
*Lower glucose levels – prevents spiking from eating
Woah. Dude. Insane, right? After reading this list, did you just say, "Holy kombucha!!" I know I did!
So you're all like, okay, yeah, right. What? You think I'm a dummy head, don't ya, Daisy Pink? You think I'm gonna believe all that. What, are you selling me a miracle cure? I've been around the block too many times to know that if it sounds too good to be true, it must be. So what's your catch, Pinks?
First of all, no, I don't think you're a dummy head. I think that if this were in pill form and marketed by Top Dawg Pharmaceutical Company, I'd be quite leery too. BUT! ALAS! This special K drink doesn't cure you of anything.
What?
Yes, that's right. It doesn't cure you of your ailments at all. It reduces the stress on your liver from all the toxins you put in it from your high fructose corn syrup (Adam) or whatever else you've got going on in there - by purging and detoxing your liver so that your liver can do the work God made it to do. Namely, clean out your body.
Our bodies have a few lines of defense of getting rid of the improper crapola we put into it. The first is our liver, the main junk system of the whole place. If your liver is all freakin' out because you are slapping it in the head (or equivalent) with all that disgusting processed food, environmental toxins, etc. and it can't do it's job anymore, you've got a backup plan. (Thank God. No, literally. You should.)
You've got other systems in place in there - the last one being your skin (eczema, zits, et cetera.). By that point, it's literally trying to leap out through your pores.
(And can I just recommend a book to you right now? It's old. It has no fancy pictures. It was written in like 1960. But let me just tell you, there are some things in there that you might look at with a crazy eyebrow, but there is so much good stuff in there that it will blow your whole mind. It's called Food Is Your Best Medicine by Dr. Henry Bieler. This guy was a stinkin' genius. You'll have to find it on amazon or something because this puppy is out of print. Get your hands on a copy of this and I promise you, it will change the way you think about food completely. And then you'll feel ultrapopular because you have an out of print book and all your friends will want to be just like you. Duh. Isn't that the easiest and best way to seek popularity among your peers? I thought so. Anyway...)
So, anyway, I just want you to think about it. Could this help you? Consider it.
There is one thing I must say to you, though. I must warn you. If you do decide to get into it and go all stingray in the kitchen, you've got to be super hygenic. You can't be a gross-ey pants because if you introduce outside bacteria into your scoby, you could end up with making yourself an e.coli cocktail. And I'm pretty sure that's not what you're going for here. Scobys can also grow mold if they aren't kept in the proper way. If they're too humid or don't get enough air to breathe, they can get moldy - just like bread mold. It doesn't have fancy special mold, just the regular run of the mill kind you're used to on your 12 day old loaf that got shoved in the back of the fridge/cupboard, etc.
If you want to do it right, find someone near you who has done it before and have them give you a hands-on tutoring session. The wonder of kombucha is not only all these benefits that are mentioned above but (gasp!) there's another - scobys have babies! They double every batch. That means your friend can give you one of her/his baby scobies and you can go on with your bad self on your own.
If you have nobody in the entire circle of your world who has ever even heard of kombucha, search our wide world of the web and find a how to. I recommend the KombuchaKamp website, they are very knowledgeable and they can even sell you a scoby, I think.
If you want to see someone make it, you should check out this youtube video of a guy with no shirt and a flappy winter hat who does a great job of it. He uses green tea, though, and I only use black tea, but it's all good.
Last thing. I know you're thinking, "So what in the world does this weird voodoo thing taste like anyway?" I have heard it was an acquired taste, but I liked it right off the bat. It has a vinegary smell, but it doesn't taste vinegary (unless you let it brew for like 20 days and then you can clean your floors with it fo' sho'). Have you ever had apple cider that went a little too long and got all fizzy? It's kind of like that plus a little "beer-y" from the fermentation and bubbly-ness. Do you like beer? Maybe you'll like it. It also has thoughts of apple cider vinegar but not that sharp and bitter taste that vinegar has. The longer you let it brew, the more vinegary it will be.
Did I just totally freak you out by saying vinegar? I know. It sounds HORRIBLE. In fact, I hate vinegar. But I LOVE KOMBUCHA!!! Seriously. Be brave. You can do this. Put on your big girl undies and man up. (Er, um...?)
Just see if you can get your little mitts on a cup of it and try it for yourself.
Your liver will thank you.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Saran Wrapping a Lawn: Concrete Evidence of Insanity
Let's talk about how to make your neighbors think that you are absolutely, certifiably, and completely nutso in the head-o.
What? Do I have experience in this area? Funny you should mention it, because, why YES, I DO!
Let me begin by saying that I love a good lawn. I suppose I love a good garden even more (UK-ers - lawn = garden; garden = the place you grow flowers and veggies). After I watched that video from that lady from the U.K. (speaking of which!), I would one day consider turning my lawn into a food plot, but for now, I'm still growing grass.
Anyway. My grass is HORRIBLE. This makes me sad. I try to fix it but I refuse to put bomb salad on it (chemical fertilizer. You do know that's where they got that from, right? No, literally. It's the same stuff that's in bombs. After the second World War, they had to figure out what to do with the ultracrap and saw it killed weeds and greened up your grass real nicey-nice like.)
So the main problem is my dog (speaking of ultracrap). My dog has this special problem. She...how shall I say it...has liquid poo six times a day. It kills grass. Nearly instantly. So the backyard has a myriad of brown spots. The front yard is utterly murdered because of the large tree that sucks up all of the water instead of sharing it with the grass.
One thing is a must - even though I may have a crunchy brown lawn, I insist on having it edged. Nothing is worse than when the grass hangs over the crack of the sidewalk or driveway. It's like a kid who has hair so long it's hanging over his ears in an unsightly manner. (I can't stand that either.) It lets me be in control of something in the horrid world of crispy crunch lawn.
Did you just tell me to water it? Oh my goodness, you are so smart. I can't bear to have that high of a water bill, though, so thanks anyway.
So instead I've done something else.
Go ahead, it's time to get worried.
So my brother was an engineer in his past life and rubbed shoulders with other such folk. They like nothing more than to do crazy experiments on things to figure out what works best. One of his buddies did such an experiment on his lawn. He got plastic cups and filled them with different soils, put them in different areas (shade, sun, half, etc.), did different stuff with them. He found that the best growing one was when it had its own personal greenhouse. What does this look like?
It looks like saran wrap on your lawn pinned down with toothpicks.
So that's what I did.
You basically dig up some ground, add your seed and water it up and then cover over it with your fancy schmancy handy dandy plastic wrap.
Now you're thinking, hmmm, that's kind of interesting.
What my neighbors were thinking was, "SHE'S kind of interesting. She's pinning saran wrap onto her grass. I knew she was weird, and now I have empirical evidence."
They slow down and stare and elbow the passenger in the car. The people walking their dogs stop and scratch their heads. I am nearly as special as an Ohioan.
Oh, but soon, very soon, I am hoping for little green sprouts.
So my dog can kill them.
Insanity is really hard to get rid of. But for now, you'll have to excuse me, I'm going to go check on my saran wrapped lawn.
What? Do I have experience in this area? Funny you should mention it, because, why YES, I DO!
Let me begin by saying that I love a good lawn. I suppose I love a good garden even more (UK-ers - lawn = garden; garden = the place you grow flowers and veggies). After I watched that video from that lady from the U.K. (speaking of which!), I would one day consider turning my lawn into a food plot, but for now, I'm still growing grass.
Anyway. My grass is HORRIBLE. This makes me sad. I try to fix it but I refuse to put bomb salad on it (chemical fertilizer. You do know that's where they got that from, right? No, literally. It's the same stuff that's in bombs. After the second World War, they had to figure out what to do with the ultracrap and saw it killed weeds and greened up your grass real nicey-nice like.)
So the main problem is my dog (speaking of ultracrap). My dog has this special problem. She...how shall I say it...has liquid poo six times a day. It kills grass. Nearly instantly. So the backyard has a myriad of brown spots. The front yard is utterly murdered because of the large tree that sucks up all of the water instead of sharing it with the grass.
One thing is a must - even though I may have a crunchy brown lawn, I insist on having it edged. Nothing is worse than when the grass hangs over the crack of the sidewalk or driveway. It's like a kid who has hair so long it's hanging over his ears in an unsightly manner. (I can't stand that either.) It lets me be in control of something in the horrid world of crispy crunch lawn.
Did you just tell me to water it? Oh my goodness, you are so smart. I can't bear to have that high of a water bill, though, so thanks anyway.
So instead I've done something else.
Go ahead, it's time to get worried.
So my brother was an engineer in his past life and rubbed shoulders with other such folk. They like nothing more than to do crazy experiments on things to figure out what works best. One of his buddies did such an experiment on his lawn. He got plastic cups and filled them with different soils, put them in different areas (shade, sun, half, etc.), did different stuff with them. He found that the best growing one was when it had its own personal greenhouse. What does this look like?
It looks like saran wrap on your lawn pinned down with toothpicks.
So that's what I did.
You basically dig up some ground, add your seed and water it up and then cover over it with your fancy schmancy handy dandy plastic wrap.
Now you're thinking, hmmm, that's kind of interesting.
What my neighbors were thinking was, "SHE'S kind of interesting. She's pinning saran wrap onto her grass. I knew she was weird, and now I have empirical evidence."
They slow down and stare and elbow the passenger in the car. The people walking their dogs stop and scratch their heads. I am nearly as special as an Ohioan.
Oh, but soon, very soon, I am hoping for little green sprouts.
So my dog can kill them.
Insanity is really hard to get rid of. But for now, you'll have to excuse me, I'm going to go check on my saran wrapped lawn.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
My Top Reasons to Hate Ohio
So, here I am, driving through the great U.S. of A. on my way to Virginia. It is a lovely trip. Well, minus the part about driving through Ohio.
Ohio is a special land. Very. Filled with...special things. Like the most boring scenery you have ever seen in your life. Like you might want to just stop off at one of their fast food chain restaurants to get a plastic fork so you can poke your eyes with it. That kind of boring.
Now this wouldn't be so hideous (although hideous actually might be an understatement) if you could just zoom on through it. No, no, no. In Ohio, they want you to ENJOY their special ed state by making you go the speed of a blind and lame wombat throughout their land. They have a special 65 mph speed limit. Some places have a 55 mph speed limit! For real. When was the last time your state had that? Like 1991? Something like that, I bet. Ohio is sooooo 1990...or something.
If you try to go quickly through it (or shall I say "quicker" - since we all know that quickly would not apply in this case), you will be greeted by their apparent #1 most populous profession of the special state: a state police officer. These people are so plentiful that they can space them out every twelve feet or so along the highway. You can count miles by them. (In Estelle Costanza's voice:) "George, look, we must have gone a whole mile by now! I've counted fifty police officers! It's only taken us fourteen minutes!"
I actually don't have anything against police officers, just to make it clear. I'm just amazed that there are THAT many of them.
Then, you can drive down the expressway with views of interesting companies with names like GROB. Have you ever watched Ren and Stimpy? Remember the "log commercial"? Sing along with me - it's GROB, it's GROB, it's big, it's heavy, it's wood - it's GROB, it's GROB, it's better than bad, it's good! Hi, I work for GROB and my name is Bob. My boss' name is Borg. We report to Brog. The other guy who works here is Barf. Or Bart. Whatever. So, that was some good entertainment. For like four minutes.
Oh! But wait! If you want to be entertained - you need to watch for decorated overpasses. It is very important in Ohio to decorate your overpasses. I think maybe there is a special and secret competition. I think the (plentiful) state police come around and give you a ticket if you didn't decorate your bridge fancily enough. They have large city names plastered across them (because exit signs are clearly not enough) and sometimes they design plants in a pattern around them. It is very special. I wonder if the state police vote you off of the island if you don't sass up your overpass.
Have I mentioned the toll roads? Oh, silly toll roads. Great idea for the government, though. Here, pay some taxes and we'll fix up the roads. Hold up, homeboy! Oh, you want to drive on it? That's not how we roll here the Ohio! You've gotta pay up. Suckas!!! You didn't think you'd get to actually driiiive on it just because you paid the taxes to build it in the first place, right? It's like a roller coaster at the fair. And in Ohioland, you just pay up every time you want to ride that special ride. Aren't we having fun now?
There's also special places like Cleveland. If you haven't seen the youtube on Cleveland (Julie D - you've GOTTA see this one), you are missing out. "See our river that catches on fire, it's so polluted that all our fish have A.I.D.S., our main export is crippling depression, don't slow down in East Cleveland or you'll die..." I won't take away the surprise punchline. It's a good one. And it's true.
The last two are equally disturbing in our quest of the exploration of Ohioland.
The second, a billboard I saw. It shows a picture of a farmer out in his field. The bold and main words are something like, "Supporting our local farmers." The bottom? One word. One crippling, horrifying, murderous, lying, malicious and giant piece of propoganda: "Monsanto." I am sure that many have screamed the aghast screams of incredulosity in that space - and I joined the ranks with a hysterical cry (and a wild slapping of the dashboard) in that moment and in that very special place. This very sign in itself contains enough bunk in it that a whole blog ought to be dedicated to it. Perhaps I shall. Later.
So you see, Ohio has a lot to offer. Whenever you feel the need to pay to drive on a street or see a police officer every fifteen seconds along the expressway or if you're just in the mood for checking out good ol' GROB, a fancy bridge or a Monsanto billboard, it's just a hop, skip and a jump away. Once you're in, it will feel like decades of your life have passed by - so take the time to enjoy every special second.
Ohio is a special land. Very. Filled with...special things. Like the most boring scenery you have ever seen in your life. Like you might want to just stop off at one of their fast food chain restaurants to get a plastic fork so you can poke your eyes with it. That kind of boring.
Now this wouldn't be so hideous (although hideous actually might be an understatement) if you could just zoom on through it. No, no, no. In Ohio, they want you to ENJOY their special ed state by making you go the speed of a blind and lame wombat throughout their land. They have a special 65 mph speed limit. Some places have a 55 mph speed limit! For real. When was the last time your state had that? Like 1991? Something like that, I bet. Ohio is sooooo 1990...or something.
 |
| Look! Ohio is hangin' with the times! Go fast, go 55! |
 |
| Georgey boy! Watch your driving! |
Then, you can drive down the expressway with views of interesting companies with names like GROB. Have you ever watched Ren and Stimpy? Remember the "log commercial"? Sing along with me - it's GROB, it's GROB, it's big, it's heavy, it's wood - it's GROB, it's GROB, it's better than bad, it's good! Hi, I work for GROB and my name is Bob. My boss' name is Borg. We report to Brog. The other guy who works here is Barf. Or Bart. Whatever. So, that was some good entertainment. For like four minutes.
Oh! But wait! If you want to be entertained - you need to watch for decorated overpasses. It is very important in Ohio to decorate your overpasses. I think maybe there is a special and secret competition. I think the (plentiful) state police come around and give you a ticket if you didn't decorate your bridge fancily enough. They have large city names plastered across them (because exit signs are clearly not enough) and sometimes they design plants in a pattern around them. It is very special. I wonder if the state police vote you off of the island if you don't sass up your overpass.
Have I mentioned the toll roads? Oh, silly toll roads. Great idea for the government, though. Here, pay some taxes and we'll fix up the roads. Hold up, homeboy! Oh, you want to drive on it? That's not how we roll here the Ohio! You've gotta pay up. Suckas!!! You didn't think you'd get to actually driiiive on it just because you paid the taxes to build it in the first place, right? It's like a roller coaster at the fair. And in Ohioland, you just pay up every time you want to ride that special ride. Aren't we having fun now?
There's also special places like Cleveland. If you haven't seen the youtube on Cleveland (Julie D - you've GOTTA see this one), you are missing out. "See our river that catches on fire, it's so polluted that all our fish have A.I.D.S., our main export is crippling depression, don't slow down in East Cleveland or you'll die..." I won't take away the surprise punchline. It's a good one. And it's true.
The last two are equally disturbing in our quest of the exploration of Ohioland.
 |
| A buck eye. Of course. |
One, easy to guess: Ohio State University. (shudder) There's really nothing left to say besides everyone is proud to be a "Buckeye". A buck's eye? Of a deer? Um, okay. Cool. And the colors are red and white. Like a bloodshot eyeball. You're even tiring out the deer in your state, for crying out loud! Unless you mean a dollar's eyeball. Which maybe has something to do with your toll roads. You sure are proud of those things, eh? Good job, Ohio government.
 |
| Found on etsy.com. What the billboard ought to have said... |
In full 1990 fashion.
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