He who lends a book is a fool.

He who returns a book is an even greater fool.

Gossips, by Norman Rockwell

The Belated Birthday of Leny

There are moments in which one wishes one can have readier access to the past, and also the useful ability of tran- scendence, that is to say, freedom from the limitations inherent in matter. This in itself is a persuasive argument in favour of the notion that Man, including the female of the species, yearns for the perfection (and awesomeness) of the Heavenly state.

Be that as it may, it certainly would be absolutely ripping if, whenever the desire arises, one might simply transcend the globe and appear someplace else at will; better still, to be able to transcend the bonds of time and go back to the good ol' days, in the company of ye olde pals, minus all the baggage accumulated during the lapse of years and miles.
All that to say, I haven't seen Elena Steiner--just Leny to her friends--in a coon's age, and we did have such a blast back in Switzerland all those years ago, when we were carefree, slightly mischievous teenagers, with an eye out for adventure.

I remember one occasion in which we were tripping gaily over hills and dales (literally), and nearly got knocked over by an exuberant heifer, who seemed to think that we, or something in our possession, might be edible. We were a tad frightened, I think, until we heard a shrill whistle, and the cowlet ran past us towards the fence. Not a little shaken, and wondering what on earth, we followed the animal and, just as we were in the very act of leaping the cow fence, which HALLELUJAH was not electrified, a tall skinny young lad in soiled white wellingtons, coat and feed bucket, turned a corner on the path not 10 yards away, and stopped dead in his tracks at sight of us. Awkward...
Well, anyway, I don't think I'll ever have occasion to forget that day; both Leny and I were as bright red as poppies, and so, I'm snickering to say, was the lad. His scarlet cheeks made him look all the more comical for his carrot-orange hair. Evidently a farm lad on his way to feed the stock; he was doubtless very surprised at seeing two eccentric-looking females hopping over his cow fence. Not backpackers, as we had no backpack. In a split second of wicked hee-hee-hee-ness, we decided to do the tourist act. Putting on grossly exaggerated accents, we babbled in english, interspersed with a few words in french and switz-deutsche, giving the lad to understand that we wanted a photo. Of him. (His blush deepened considerably, but our smiles and giggles masked our amusement) We snapped one of him, mouth open in protest, one with him and the cow, and finally, one of him with each of us. I think we might have even taken one of the three of us, but I can't say for sure, because much to our horror, those pictures never materialized. The batteries of our ol' camera must have called it a day before we began, or maybe the lens was shut, or whatever. We never got to see those pix with the blushing red-headed lad in the cow-byre suit. If anybody sees him, or if you are the lad in question, pop us a line sometime, because that really was one of the most amusing adventures I've had. Sorry if we made you blush.

Whether or not Leny remembers this occasions, and the countless others that comprised my tenure in her lovely home in ... where the devil was it, I forget the name. Entlebuch, or something-- I'm proud and glad to have known her, and know that my life was definitely enriched by her company and the gracious hospitality and forebearance of her esteemed folks, as well as the other occupants of the beautiful maison. We celebrated my 18th birthday there, her 16th birthday, and now, oh-so-many-years later, I'm waaay overdue to wish her, once again, a very merry birthday, with ever so much love, best wishes for a joyful future and present, another present, and more presents.
PS In preparation for this post, I obtained permission from dear Leny to access her facebook and help myself to a picture of her. However, I regret to say that after sifting through the 4 pages of people named 'Elena Steiner', I only found one picture that looked as though it might be the person in question, and that was almost unrecognizable, due to a significant amount of very red hair which the subject did not possess during our acquaintance. Thereby, I'll have to put the picture-adding on stand-by until I've received word from the lady with specific directions. Excuse the delay! Much love to y'all!

PPS Cancel the above PS; scratch it, obliterate it from mind and memory. Said picture was, after all, Lenny--can't be two identical Elena Steiners on this planet now, can there?

Thanks/Sorry Krome

In protest of the fine given to the French rugby team for 'defying' the revered Haka of the Kiwis by stepping a few inches across the 10-metre line in their bee-utiful brotherly arrow-march, hand-in-hand and shoulder to shoulder, here's a fabulous bit of fun photography-interpretation, while we toast in tequila to the victory of the All Blacks, and congenially slap our Froggy buddies on the back and say, "ah well, there's always next time, mates..."

Sing along with me!

Girls, if this isn't the best damn pic you've ever seen of the dashing SBW, I'd like to see its better.

Cheers!

My Favourite Video

An old video of SOMEONE singing a popular local song...

Singing together

Here's the result of a little singing spree with baby this afternoon. She garbles so; it's really cute. Sorry there's no visual, just audio. I'd like to get a camera soon so we can take home videos of us and the kids.

http://www.mediafire.com/?fnxyuuxwk4ipd11

Another Marvellous Missive by Bruce Cameron

Phoning It in to My Parents

W. Bruce Cameron, Creators Syndicate, Apr. 30, 2011
My mother called me a few days ago to proudly announce that she and my father now have voicemail, which they don’t. What they have is an answering machine my mother found at a garage sale, which is where I think she also found my birthday presents: four t-shirts that all say “Call Me Pinky” on the front.

My mother likes garage sales because they are a less expensive place to buy things she doesn’t need. She brings her purchases home and puts them, naturally, in her garage. Maybe someday she’ll have the inventory for a garage sale of her own.

Before this newest technological addition to their household, my parents’ answering machine was my father. My father sits by the telephone and basically hasn’t moved since 1981. He would take messages like, “Oh, your doctor called.”

“When?” my mom would ask.

“I don’t know. A while ago.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know. Does it matter? You’ve already outlived your life expectancy.”

When I call my parents now, here’s what happens. First, the phone rings four times. (When my father was the answering machine, it usually rang until the ballgame was over.) Then a woman’s mechanical voice comes on.

Mechanical Voice: The party you are trying to reach is not available to take your call …

At this point, you hear my father.

Dad: What? There’s a woman talking.

Mechanical Voice: At the tone …

Mom: What do you mean, a voice?

Dad: I’m telling you, there’s some woman on the phone.

Mechanical Voice: At the end of your message …

Mom: Well, maybe someone is calling. Give it to me. Hello? Hello?

Dad: No, we’re supposed to be recording our message. Give it to me. Hello? Where’s the thing we wrote down?

Mom: I just had it.

Dad: Well, where is it?

Mom: Here.

Dad: That’s not it, that’s the letter I wrote to the home association.

Mom: You wrote the home association again? Do you know how humiliating that is?

Dad: Just find the script.

Mom: I have to see those people every day.

Dad: Here it is. We’re not home right now. Please …

Mom: Say who it is.

Dad: What?

Mom: Don’t just say we’re not home, say it is the Cameron residence.

(At this point, if you have met my parents, you already know it is the Cameron residence.)

Dad: You have reached the Camerons. We’re not home …

Mom: Don’t say we’re not home. What if it’s burglars? Say we can’t come to the phone.

Dad: We’re home, but we can’t come to the phone.

Mom: Well, that just sounds rude.

Dad: Do you want to do it?

Mechanical Voice: Thank you. (Beep)

Me: Hi, Mom and Dad, it’s me, your son, leaving a message on your high-tech voice mail.

There’s a sudden crashing noise, the sound of my father’s breathing, and in the background, a ballgame.

Dad: Hello?

Me: Hi!

The sound of an extension being picked up.

Mom: Don’t hang up!

Dad: Who’s that?

Mom: It’s me, who do you think?

Dad: Where are you?

Mom: I’m upstairs!

Dad: Why are you shouting?

Me: She’s not shouting, it just sounds louder because she’s on the extension.

Mom: Who’s that?

Dad: It’s me.

Me: Hi, Mom.

Mom: Bruce? Why do you sound so far away?

Me: It’s because Dad’s on the extension.

Mom: What’s he doing on the extension?

Dad: I answered the phone!

Mom: I thought I answered the phone.

Mechanical Voice: Sorry, you’ve reached the maximum length of time for your message. Thank you for calling. Goodbye. (Click.)

There’s complete silence from the phone as my parents process this event.

Me: This voice mail thing is working out pretty well.

Mom: Bruce? Who was that woman?

Atheist Holiday

A well-known Judge is reported to have once been approached by a delegation from the Atheists United board committee.

"What can I do for you?" the judge asked severely.

"Well, your Honour, it's just not fair. Every religion has its own paid holiday, from which we who despise religion are exempt! We firmly demand that, in the interests of fair play and justice, a special atheist national holiday be observed."

The little crowd of scowling men and women all nodded their heads stentoriously in agreement.

The judge pulled out his pipe and placidly began filling it.

"Why," he said, with a surprised look on his face, "how very odd. The fact is that there is an annual national Atheist holiday, and to my knowledge, always has been."

"No!" The eyebrows rose questioningly, and faces screwed up into bewildered wonder. "None that we know of."

"But of course! And it always has been faithfully observed, to my understanding."

Now the atheist delegation was head-scratching, and whispering among themselves. "Well, when is it?" the spokesman sputtered at last.

"April 1st," came the judge's reply.

"The Fool has said in his heart, 'There is no God'..." Psalm 14:1

No Ski Like Snow Ski

Here is an article by one of my favourite humourist writers, Bruce Cameron, from the Creators Syndicate. As skiing is NOT one of my favoured sports, despite having lived among the slopes of some awesome Swiss mountains, this article particularly struck my fancy. Hope you'll enjoy it too!

No Ski Like Snow Ski

Bruce Cameron, Creators Syndicate, March 26, 2011

I am the sort of athlete who participates in a lot of winter sports—basketball, for example, is an activity that I’ll spend many hours a week watching. And I’ll sometimes agree to let my children drag me out for a day of snow skiing, though I prefer this occur in the summer, when it’s not my fault we don’t go.

My philosophy on snow skiing is that there are less expensive ways to fall down a mountain. Yet every couple of years I go on a ski trip for the same reason that women will have multiple children—they simply forget how much it hurts.

Ski-lift tickets became rather expensive in the 1980s, but since then the ski companies have helpfully limited their price increases to keep pace with inflation—in Zimbabwe. The good news, though, is that at the top of the mountain there is a beautiful lodge where you can relax, rest and pay a month’s salary for a hamburger.

My ski equipment is top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art for something purchased in the Carter administration. The skis have some elegant Japanese characters written on them—I don’t know what the words mean, but I do know that Japanese women won’t let their children look at them and that Japanese men sometimes tell me I am a “vile pig.”

My ski boots are so tight it feels as if I’m wearing matching bear traps.

My ski outfit is layered and as uncomfortable as sleeping underneath a wet Buick. It takes so long to undress that I head to the men’s room about an hour before I actually need to go.

But once I’ve gotten dressed and assembled my gear and mortgaged my house for a lift ticket and headed for the slopes, I’m always glad to get on the chair lift because it means I can sit down. I also appreciate the ski poles, because they are designed to poke your children when they annoy you.

(If you can catch your children. The fact that they ski so much better is actually what you find so annoying.)

There are two kinds of slopes: “cruisers,” where the snowcats have mashed the snow down as hard as a cement driveway and where you can build up a lot of speed before you fall, and “bump runs,” where the terrain slams you like anti-aircraft fire. Joining these two are often a series of “catwalks,” where people are expected to ski uphill.

My favorite ski slope is the kind that winds up at the cafeteria. My children, though, usually insist that I get out and take on a few expert runs, in a game called “Let’s See if We Can Get Our Inheritance Early.” An expert run is what would happen if an obstacle course and an elevator shaft had a baby. The best way to survive the whole ordeal is to collapse on the first turn and fall all the way to the bottom.

You’d think skiing wouldn’t be strenuous—all you have to do, after all, is start at the top and let gravity pull you to the dessert bar in the lodge. But at those elevations you’ll find about as much oxygen as you’ll find kindness from your children. It’s like spending six hours holding your breath.

By the end of the day, you’ll have body pain in a) your calf muscles and b) everywhere else. If you’ve fallen, your body will be covered with bruises and impact craters. If you haven’t, you’re sore where your muscles detached themselves from your skeletal system and tried to find someone else to attach to. Doctors will tell you to apply cold to the afflicted areas, which is ridiculous—you hurt because you’ve been falling in snow. Cold caused the pain! In my opinion, if you want to feel better, you should get into a hot tub and film a beer commercial.

You want to feel really better? Stay at home, and watch a game. Nobody ever crashed watching basketball.

Read this and WEEEEEP!!!

What Every Man Thinks About Apart From Sex


By Matt Blake, Daily Mail, 15th March 2011

When author Sheridan Simove sat down to write his new book, What Every Man Thinks About Apart From Sex, he drew a blank … literally.

So he had it published anyway with a front cover and 200 completely empty pages.

But it’s proved a hit and has outsold both Harry Potter and the Da Vinci Code within weeks of its release on cyber bookshop Amazon.com.

The £4.69 masterpiece has transcended its original purpose as a novelty gift, and is being used by students as a lecture notebook. And it’s selling by the thousands.

Nottingham university student Jess Lloyd told the Telegraph: ‘I bought a copy for my mate as a joke and he started using it as a note pad for lectures. Now everyone seems to have one. It’s started a real craze on campus.’

Mr Simove, 39, an Oxford University graduate, author, performer and entrepreneur, said: ‘I never anticipated that my book would be used for students to take their lecture notes in.

‘In a sense they are proving me wrong by filling my book with content. But I wonder how many of them go back to thinking about sex once the lecture is over.’

The item has sold out its first print run, slotting in at number 744 on Amazon’s list, ahead of Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code (2,910) and JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2,406).

What Every Man Thinks About Apart From Sex, rather unsurprisingly, took just nine days to complete, from conception to publication.

Mr Simove says his follow up is going to be called Reasons to Trust Politicians.

Essay on Writing an Essay

Essay on Writing an Essay

by Praise C. Martin, © 2004

A short prologue, by the author

This essay was written as a school project whilst in Switzerland, aged 17. I actually wrote it in two sittings, during breaks in dinner-prep. The first part is quite poorly executed, as I really had no idea what I was writing about (it was an experiment in ad-libitum writing) but it gets better as it goes along, once inspiration took over. Anyway, it's just a touch of silliness to brighten your day. Cheers! --P. C. Martin, 2010

A: Introduction

I: Why I’m writing an essay on writing an essay

Well, to begin with, I have a dream. See if you can guess... no, you’re wrong. It’s NOT to be done with this essay. My dream is to graduate from High School. Senior, if possible, but General will do for now.

SO! That’s my dream. Now, in order to complete this grand dream, I am, among other things, required to compose a grand total of 3 essays. This, of course, won’t get me much more than 3 credits, but at least it’s SOMETHING. Now, my only problem was to choose 3 topics. What to do?

Good thing Izzy was around. She inspired me to choose WRITING AN ESSAY as the topic for my essay. Plus, I figured that I could enlighten you, the reader, while I’m at it, with the knowledge of how to properly and correctly write an essay. So let us begin.

II: My feelings at this point in time

I just came back from get-out, so my hair is dirty and so are my clothes. The instant I’m done with this I’M IN THE SHOWER!! Sorry, had to yell that out to make sure no one takes the bathroom before I get there. My legs are hurting from get-out 8 days ago.

I‘m writing this while chewing on my favorite snack—a toothpick. I do believe I shall soon exhaust our Home’s supply of toothpicks one of these days. I’m also trying to decide what to write. Believe me, once I get started I won’t be able to stop... but you have to get me to start first. That can be tough.

Well anyway, back to how I feel about writing this didactic essay on how to write an essay. I feel... uh, I feel wonderful. God is good, life is fair, people here are wonderful, the Family is delightful, today is Chrissy’s birthday and tonight we’re gonna have a party! Yay. All that to say, I’m happy and well.

B: Getting Started

I: Doing warm-ups

Right, so, the essay. The essay on how to write an essay. Okay! Before we start, we must always, always do our warm-ups. This includes flicking each finger a number of times and grabbing a fresh toothpick to chew. Get up, stretch your back, stretch your toes, stretch your limbs, go to the bathroom, come back, and sit down in front of your notebook—or whatever you’ll write your essay on. Oh, run to the furthest tap and have a drink first. Better now? Good. So sit down, grab another toothpick, and let’s start. No, wait, you forgot your glasses. Go find them, take them out of their case, place them firmly on your nose, check the time, and then place your glasses’ case neatly in front of you. Done? Lovely. Let’s commence.

II: My daydreams

A good writer must have a muse. Uh... that’s 2 words, not one, by the way. I, personally, particularly enjoy simulating Shakespeare at work. Oooh, I can see it as I speak! Picture me, sitting at a table with a flourish, picking up my quill and clasping it to my breast, thrusting my eyes Heavenward and crying...

“Oh Love! (Pick up a fresh toothpick.) Why dost thou elude me! I must write thereof, but thy words escape me! (Scribble scribble) I must write a tale!—Of Love! Yes, yes... I must let the fires shoot from my pen!” (At this point flames shoot out of his pen.) “Props!” He yells loudly, “I said a FAKE fire-pen, not a real one! Now see what you’ve caused me to do to my fine handiwork (admittedly not much more than a collection of scribbles... but hey)! (Recall this lesson forever, dear readers: never, and again I say, NEVER use a genuine fire-pen to write an essay.) Let us recommence.

I imagine myself in a moonlit garden, under the balcony, behind which my object of passion is hidden in her darkened room. I call to her. No reply. I call again, louder. Still no reply. I fall on my knees (and this dramatically, with a hand clasped to the bosom, and the other raised high) in the soft grass under the starlit sky, weeping aloud for the heavens to swallow me up if my love does not requite this passion! At last a light turns on in the darkened alcove above me (pick up a fresh toothpick and scribble frantically on a sheet of paper, brow feverish and eyes anxious), I call out to her,

“Meggie, my love! Come forth upon thy balcony from thy chamber! I must see thy lovely countenance! I have so much my heart wishes to whisper, to shout forth to thee! Meggie, I must know! Dost thou love me? Meggie, pray, answer, I beseech thee!”

Suddenly a big huge woman with a nightcap, an apron and a rolling pin rushes out of the room and glares over the balcony.

“And ‘oo would be lookin’ for Meg at this time of the night? There ain’t nobody ‘ere bearin’ that name! Ye’re at the wrawng ‘ouse, mister! Now git movin’ and don’t make me come down! Shoo!”

(She advances menacingly, and he backs off hurriedly, profusely apologizing, then dashes off, red-faced, out of the garden, hopping over the low wall and losing a shoe in the process. He then stops on the sidewalk a ways away and checks the address Meggie’s best friend secretly gave him—after much tactful persuasion—at the last masquerade ball, where he’d implored her to aid him in winning Meggie’s hand and heart.)

“Ah me!” he cries at last, after patiently deciphering the hastily-scribbled note, “I’m on the wrong street!” His passion not being the least bit dampened, he marches bravely, minus one shoe, to the correct house and repeats his scene, under what he hopes to be the correct balcony. Ah, sweet Love! his love appears on the balcony, and, in a whirl of passion, and after inquiries concerning the nature and whereabouts of the missing shoe, she consents to fly away with him, and he whisks her away to a fairy-tale land, where Meggie and Sir Teacher live happily ever after...

TEACHER????!!? Um... hee hee, I was just, um, yeah, like, um, heh, MUSING,... um, yeah, that’s it... gulp?...

III: Wake-up blues

I’m now in a baaaad mood. Just got 3 black marks on the demerit chart. Two more and I’ll have two weeks worth of dishes lined up for me. And all because of daydreaming... musing. Yes, boys and girls, musing is NOT what you should be doing during school time. My teacher ordered me to learn 25 Bible verses about not letting my mind wander, and now I have the song “Shoo Shoo Daydream” running through my head... oh woe is me.

But hey, I’m sure glad I’M not Sir what’s-his-name, singing serenades in the middle of the night to the wrong house... ooh, talk about how many demerits I’d get if I did that—ouch! I’d be on dishes until next Christmas! Well, let’s get started with the actual facts and how-to’s of writing an essay.

C: Choosing My Words and Laying Out

I: To begin with

Have you chosen your theme yet? Hrmm? No? Well, choose one now. Pick something sensible, such as, the life story of some infamous fiddle... uh, no, I meant famous infidel—or great man or woman of God; or perhaps how to grow carrots, or how babies are made (not for little eyes and ears), or whatever other subject you so desire.

Research your topic extensively, taking notes of essential facts and figures, and all appropriate details. Organize and lay them out in an orderly fashion, and then get started! I find it practical to make a simple outline. It helps me not to get off on too many tangents... um, sometimes, at least.

II: Continuation

You must now start writing. This is when you must (pick up a new toothpick—your last one has long since worn out) cross your fingers and bow your head and implore, claiming the almighty and powerful KEYS, that your essay be speedily over with and written with masterful genius and, most importantly, lively, not tedious, truthfulness. Now—this part gets a bit tricky—notice that your spine is curvable. Hunch your shoulders and lower your head so that it is no farther than 3 inches away from your paper. Make sure your back is in a perfect C-curvature. This is the surest and best way to strain your eyes and get a really, really big backache. I’d sit straight and keep my head a little higher if I were you. That’s perfect. Now, hold your pencil between your thumb and first 2 fingers, curling the other remaining fingers in the palm of your hand (and you can quiver and shiver slightly in anticipation of the tête-à-tête... uh, the actual ‘pen-to-paper’ showdown).

III: Grande Finale!

Hours pass. You scribble frantically, furiously, gloriously!—Then you go back and erase about half of what you just wrote. The seasons change, and still you write. You write, and you write, and you write. You remain devoted to your essay. You dream of it at night, you long to finish it soon, you work with burning passion, your teacher presses you to complete it, and you ready yourself to read it aloud to a class full of snoozing fellow-students. You are glued to your essay, until... finally... it is done! It’s complete! You read it over one last time, and then collapse, thoroughly spent with your expenditure of energy. Your many years of total devotion to your essay have finally paid off: it is finished at long last. The great day comes in which you stand up before thousands of students, teachers, the school board, mom, dad, the president and her husband Bill—and you read your essay, aloud and dramatically, correctly intoning and emoting every word and nuance. Then you bow as the crowd gives you a standing ovation. You raise your eyes Heavenward, and, with a twinkle in your eye, picture yourself ticking off one box from your 80-square credit chart, and you descend and fondly place your treasured essay in an illuminated glass vault in the center of the School’s Hall of Momentoes, then turn to firmly shake your teacher’s hand. Teacher?! Oops, there go another 2 demerits for daydreaming... see you at the dishline!

The Owl Critic

One of my favorite poems, with a purty darn good lesson...

And by the way, I would like to dedicate it to MY DADDY, who, as I recall, likes owls very much. I love you, papa!!

The Owl Critic

"WHO stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop:

The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;

The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading

The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding

The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;

Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"

Cried the youth, with a frown,

"How wrong the whole thing is,

How preposterous each wing is,

How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is--

In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is!

I make no apology;

I've learned owl-eology.

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,

And cannot be blinded to any defections

Arising from unskilful fingers that fail

To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down,

Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls,

And other night fowls,

And I tell you

What I know to be true:

An owl cannot roost

With his limbs so unloosed;

No owl in this world

Ever had his claws curled,

Ever had his legs slanted,

Ever had his bill canted,

Ever had his neck screwed

Into that attitude.

He can't do it, because

'T is against all bird-laws.

Anatomy teaches,

Ornithology preaches

An owl has a toe

That can't turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years,

And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed

You should be so gone crazed

As to put up a bird

In that posture absurd!

To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;

The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise

Taxidermists should pass

Off on you such poor glass;

So unnatural they seem

They'd make Audubon scream,

And John Burroughs laugh

To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down;

Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark

I could stuff in the dark

An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat

Look more like an owl

Than that horrid fowl,

Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.

In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,

The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,

Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic

(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,

And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:

"Your learning's at fault this time, any way;

Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

James T. Fields

Earrings and Fun

Kids are awesome. I mean, God bless those who spend their lives devising new and expensive toys and gadgets, but while those are lovely to have, life is entirely possible without them. And inventing toys and games certainly contributes to creativity in the children, and compels me to use my brain occasionally.
Here's our latest fit of foolishness. Floppy was rather grumpy last night, and so to cheer her up as she went to sleep I put on a new pair of "earrings" I found leftover in my clean-laundry basket and did a mime. She fell asleep in a fit of giggles.
Today we were all four (the baby, Floppy, Raff and I) feeling a bit under the gloomy weather, so I put the earrings back on and the merriment resumed.
I also found Danny's big pink monkey puppet, put a hat on the creature and chased the kids around with it.
A word about the monkey: Danny originally made him to be the villain in our puppet shows for children's schools; anyway, we left him behind with the rest of the puppets when we moved here. Danny sent for it when he realized he would need a 'partner' in his up-coming video spots for the Art Contest.
At present the monkey usually sits in a big paper bag in the garage. Occasionally I pull him out to liven up a dreary afternoon with the kids; due to his rather wicked countenance he is naturally the "good example of what not to do", and the kids have great fun correcting him for his bad manners. It's so cute to hear them instruct the monkey in all the fine points of good manners, heh.