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Posts Tagged ‘silly’

Likelihood that twinkly’s Index will have at least one photo: 100%

Chance that it will feature breasts: 0

Rank, in importance of kitchen rules, of not using the non-garlic-and-onion cutting board for cutting garlic and onions: 2

still life by Jeffrey Freedner

Rank, in importance, of not washing twinkly’s vintage glassware in automatic dishwasher: 2

#1 rule in twinkly’s kitchen: this is what keeps the mystery in the marriage; why should I tell you?

Mathematical equation by which twinkly calculates rank of kitchen rules: 6 kale leaves multiplied by number of maple syrup quarts left in pantry stock ÷ granola³

Maximum number of females in twinkly’s household at press time: 5

Maximum number of males: 1

Number of household members sleeping: 4

Ages of non-feline, non-sleeping household members, respectively: youngest, oldest

Rank among parents in twinkly household that Hubby holds for “funniest person in the house:” 1

Amount by which twinkly suspects other voting members were paid off to attain this rank: 1 Lindt chocolate each

Percent more absorbable heme-iron is than non-heme iron, according to twinkly’s Energizing Iron supplement: 33

How tired twinkly will be of frying beef in a cast-iron pan after the next 2 months as she tries to build back her iron stores (multiple choice: not at all; sort of; very; please don’t make me eat a hamburger ever again in my life)

Likelihood that Hubby, at any given hour of the day, is listening to yet another live version of Wilco’s Handshake Drugs: 29%

Amount of inward joy twinkly feels when she hears him listening to this song: unmeasurable

Minimum number of Julian Cope CDs in twinkly’s household: 23

Minimum number in which Julian is playing a Casio: 19

Likelihood that eldest teenager in house, given her druthers, will sleep past noon on any given non-school day: 98%

Likelihood that anyone has druthers to give: 7.4%

Non-heme iron sources found in twinkly’s kitchen at this time: appx. 5

twinkly’s favorite among these: kale

twinkly’s least favorite, though tolerable: organic molasses, straight from the bottle

enthusiasm twinkly has for eating roasted pumpkin seeds: meh

likelihood that she’ll eat them anyway in any given day until anemia is resolved: 87%

love that twinkly has for 20-year old Dualit 2-slice toaster, purchased with wedding money: ABUNDANT

love that other family members have for said toaster: appx .09% (one might say, an anemic amount of love)

Rank, among household appliances, of Dualit toaster and Sebo vacuum, in twinkly’s mind, respectively: 1, 1

Number of years pink Cuisinart toaster, which twinkly managed to purchase at the bargain price of $69, lasted: 2

Number of times, in 20 years, that Dualit toaster has broken down: 1

Price to fix by Ed of Ed’s Electric: $15

Original cost of toaster: $199

Price of toaster, adjusted for inflation while factoring in built-in obsolesence of all small-kitchen electronics produced by American companies but manufactured in China: -$199

Money twinkly has saved on bagels over the last 11 years by purchasing them on $5.99 Wednesdays instead of paying full price: 3 million, 211 thousand, 50 dollars and 22 cents

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You know what the Advent Calender window had behind it on Christmas Eve? Annie insisted that Paul be the one to open it, so I speculated that it would be a picture of Tweedy. But not really. Perhaps a picture of a bottle of Polar Seltzer, black cherry flavor. No. Maybe a fully-decorated Christmas tree. So wrong. It was an ICE DRAGON in the tiny double window. I love my kids!

Got my first iPod nano from Hubby for Xmas. It is tiny, so tiny. I feel dangerous when I have it on. Am I the only one and will this feeling pass? Are there any iPod virgins left? I look forward to loading hundreds of songs onto it. I am figuring it out, but as intuitive as Apple products are reputed to be, I find it klunky and somewhat unfriendly. I also couldn’t figure out how the little fucker clips on to my clothes. Hubby had to show me. Why, Santy Apple Claus, why, do you insist on making me feel dumber than I really am?

Christmas was good. This is the first year since we moved to Western Mass in which I didn’t feel financially stressed more often than not. Eleven years of living in the bliss/hell of self-employment in a New England state, so different than when we lived in Ohio. I am so grateful that our income was more predictable this year. It’s amazing what that does to my ease my mind.

Best present given this year? Behold the perfect gag gift for the consummate lover of Polar Seltzer in our house:

Be afraid, be very afraid!

I am grateful for this blog, for the technology which allows it, for my readers, for the kindness of those who leave comments.

I am grateful that I started writing poetry again and not only that, grateful to be reading it again

Grateful that I was able to take an improv class this year.

Glad that I celebrated 20 years of marriage. Glad that we get to go away to amazing places within a few hours’ drive, stay overnight, eat, shop, walk, swim, hike, visit friends, hear cool musicians, see amazing art.

Grateful that I found out about and saw Gogol Bordello.

Grateful that I got to go to my 30-year HS reunion, see lots of old pals (including my biggest high school crush, which was a hoot), stroll about Kent, Ohio, home of myself, land of the birth of my adulthood*, have that nude photo shoot in a garden in the heat and flower of summer.

Grateful for all the cool music I’ve discovered this year, in part because of the technology and youtube, but more because I do stick to my Music Monday posts. Especially my new-found love for all things Wilco and Tweedy.

Grateful that Willow was in our life.

Annie’s shrine to Willow (detail, not the whole thing), which includes a nail-polish painted (I kid you not, my kids are goofy) white bathroom tile

That is an origami Willow with a little paper bird (crane) in its mouth. Annie must have made a thousand paper cranes on her own this year and went on a bit of an origami adventure. SO GREAT!

My latest fad of photographing bathrooms from our travels. This is from the newly opened Atlantic Pizza Company in Rockport, MA. One of the prettier public restrooms in New England (this photo does not do the bathroom justice)

And this, the environmentally-friendly Euro-loo at The Wired Puppy, Provincetown, Mass

Grateful for any way that a reader might find my blog. Truly, the most abundant search term seems to be some manifestation of “ass tattoo.” That’s not even the most ass of the ass tattoo searches. Ready? I’ve had to live with this and I think if you’ve made it a year here, you will be able to live with it, too: asshole tattoo. You can imagine that I don’t want to know more about asshole tattoos. I do not think someone was thinking, hmm, how many assholes (meaning people who are jerks, idiots, morons) have tattoos? No, I take it as a literal search for tattoos on people’s assholes. First of all, OUCH and second, DUMB and third, if you want a tattoo on your asshole, you’ve come to the wrong place–begone with ye!

Thanks for coming along for the ride this year. Who knows, I may post again before we see the dawn of 2012, but ciao for now and thank you.

With tres mucho love, twinkly

this one is from the uber-tacky, red-and-white tiled bathroom at Five Guys Burger and Fries on Cape Ann

*for some reason, this seems like I’m talking about my maidenhead: why, Santy Claus, why?

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introspection  spectacles

ticks  fleas

scabies  itchmites  black poodle

your dog has zee mange

German  French

romance

column

kiss

language

tongue

speak

say  tell

don’t tell  whisper

ear  sing

sing-song  song

schlong-dong

Okay, maybe it’s time to end this little game. That was real, yo!

How about this: things we don’t need:

organic massage*

weight-loss hot pants

Dancing with the Stars

“news” about Dancing with the Stars

TV

Reality TV

celebrity haircuts

celebrity dresses

celebrity suits

pantsuits

It is Wednesday, November 16, 10:24 pm in Singapore.

In less than a month it will start getting dark at about 3:30. The sun will set at around quarter after four.

It is already too dark at 4:15 every afternoon. It’s not even afternoon, it’s a bad joke. I am shocked by the darkness. I should be asleep like a farmer, every night at 5:30 pm, 6 at the latest.

*as a massage therapist extraordinaire, I take offense to the Groupon which advertises services for “organic massage.” AHEM and WTF? I want it stopped

[insert curlicue pause here to indicate change of subject]

or maybe use these: ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Tom Waits + youtube= falling down the rabbit hole

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Remember how prickly I can be about details? Well, I got the geography wrong yesterday–some names and some finer points. Burma is Myanmar. So when I wrote Burma, it should simply have been Myanmar. And I think I meant the Malay Peninsula, because Myanmar doesn’t really have one (a peninsula, don’t get any ideas).

The things in my head are curries. And beautiful, vulvar orchids (even though you know what the Latin word orchis means, right?). And pythons (Burmese python, right?). And cats (a Burmese is a kind of cat, right?) and dogs (same thing, only in dog form). Nope, scratch that. That’s a Bernese Mountain dog. I used to massage a couple who had one of those. Large, neurotic dog, originally bred in the Swiss mountains and related to the better-known St. Bernard. At least that’s what I remember from my clients….I’d best shut up before I get any more facts wrong….

So for any fellow sticklers, you’ve now seen that I, too, can make mistakes of a geographical nature. Not like I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground or anything, but you get the idea.

Sigh.

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Here is my attempt for this week’s Poetry Jam. What’s cooking this week? Write a poem which uses the following words:

laugh  laundry  ghost  edges  beer

I’ve tried to fulfill the assignment and the result may be the worst poem I’ve written since I started this blog (believe me, not my worst poem ever, because some of those I wrote in my younger days are real stinkers).

I’m terrible with humorous poems and I tried to go that route with this one; then I decided, what the heck, I’ll let it be what it is. Not too happy with the result, but as I’ve said before, the shit can get pretty deep around here so it’s good practice not to take myself and work too seriously.*

If you are new to my blog (maybe came via Silent H, Deadly H?), welcome and please look at some of my other poems via the Category column to your right. I swear I usually do better…..

Ghosts of My Grandmothers Hanging Laundry

I love the laundry,
it is true,
I always have,
I always do

The sheets hang like ghosts
in autumn’s fading light
sins of my fathers
labors of my mothers
precede the
rhythm of my days

My grandmothers make sharp edges
with hot irons

Sometimes an uttered curse
up to God or down to Hell
rarely a laugh
the labor long
with diapers
and stained undershirts

Oma didn’t drink
because alcohol
was a demon
walking side-by-side
with the soldiers and the bombs,
Meine Opa’s
fists livelier with every slug
from the bottle

For my Jewish Grandma Elsa,
ceremonial wine

And me?
Do not I love the laundry?

Jeans on the line,
and genes from my fathers,
slugging my beer
‘til I can’t drink any more

I love the laundry,
it is true,
I always have,
I always do

October 16, 2011

*Dear Readers–the trick of setting you up for disappointment is not new to me. I understand this robs you (and me) of a fresh ear to my work and a genuine, untainted discourse in regards to it. It’s an old behavior of mine and I pull it out here consciously. Perhaps a woman of greater character and strength would have let the chips fall where they may. My only defense is I don’t do it often and I’m pretty strong most rest of the time (you know I’ve got a pair of brass ovaries, peeps!). I love you, my dear readers; don’t forget it!

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“the spider spins a web each day”: Kate Richardson’s daily artwork–a small drawing or painting (sometimes rubber stamps, too!)–which you can see at eyespider. I have purchased 2 of her pieces (at reasonable prices). The last was the drawing she did on my birthday (this was coincidental, but I love the coincidence). Poke around, click on a picture, be amazed.

My Casabella pink rubber gloves. I don’t have a mirror in my kitchen, so I’m not sure, but when I wear the gloves, I suspect my lips are as pink and youthful as the woman’s on the box. She’s Italian, you know, and her lips match her kitchen gloves, all the while protecting her delicate, yet strong, world-wise hands from dangerous hot water and soap. When the gloves are new, they smell like vanilla, not crappy Yankee Candle fake-o, headache vanilla, but like genuine pink Italian vanilla. Bueno!

time for a dance interlude since we’re all in the kitchen doing dishes

♥♥♥

put your high-heeled sneakers on, don on your favorite pink gingham apron, and turn it up!

The unripe quince I picked from the neighbor’s yard. The shrub seems terribly neglected, but I have noticed it over the years and have seen fruit on it many times. The funny thing about quince is I have no idea how I know it. I remember walking in Ann Arbor, Michigan once and seeing a quince bush (is it a bush? should it be a tree?) and maybe my knowledge stemmed from that one time, before google, before I could have seen a photo on a website. Anyway, the mini-fruit is rotting now, though it was never full-bloomed yellow, only light green, on my credenza (yes, I said credenza!), but it smells heavenly–spicy, bright, and warm. I pick it up and smell it once in a while and will do so until mold forms, then pitch it into the compost bin. Fall is upon us.

sleep, which I’m staying up a bit too late to get enough of…

(okay, I’ll admit, in hushed tones, that maybe the gloves aren’t really Italian, but they are manufactured in the EU–says so on the box–and they are as stylish as all things Italian and don’t worry, I never pay full-price)

oh, if your pee is jewel-pink, don’t freak out! you probably ate roasted fall beets for dinner and simply forgot!

CIAO BELLA!

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I never knew who Leonard Cohen was until well after college and beyond, into the time after I became a massage therapist (the late ’80s). I have a strange memory of the song “Bird on a Wire” from my younger years. I definitely knew the song “Suzanne,” because I went to camp as a kid and the wanna-be hippie counselors were probably singing it on their hippie guitars around campfires. Or maybe I heard Judy Collins singing it on the radio, or both.

I had a massage client in Kent (Brady Lake, no less), and he used to give me cassette tapes, back in the day, of all sorts of music I hadn’t previously known. He turned me on to Leonard Cohen and I introduced him to Robyn Hitchcock and Tom Waits. He gave me Marianne Faithful and Ken Nordine and really every Leonard Cohen song that you couldn’t find any more on vinyl and that would never be released on CD (or so I thought in the early ’90s).

I think the song I’ve most listened to is “Famous Blue Raincoat.” I like how it’s in a minor key–it’s so fucking depressing–and then he switches to a major chord for the Jane came by with a lock of your hair line. For a tiny moment, he gives a respite. But not for long, plunging us into the depths again.

and you treated my woman to a flake of your life

Sweet Jesus, can you believe that line?

This is the one that I listened to over and over when he was new to me:

This whole post was inspired by my recent listening to “Hallelujah” for about the last 4 months.

When my kids were younger, we forbade them from using the word “awesome” because of its disgraceful misuse by the youth of today (well, by now, the youth of yesterday), but we finally caved because we are NOT word Nazis, dammit!

This is an awesome song, as bad as that adjective sounds when applied to anything of substance. It’s beautiful and rich and complex and deep and meaningful and I am in awe of it. I love it and I think I can sing it, too, but I have to read along because my capacity for actually remembering new lyrics has greatly diminished of late. Perhaps, too, I could use a good guitarist. Maybe someone cute, even beautiful and sexy, younger than me, but not too young. I would like the challenge of singing with a man playing a guitar, but I’d probably prefer a woman because, ultimately, things would be less subject to any confusion, you dig?

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‘Cause somewhere in the “Quisling Clinic”
There’s a shorthand typist taking seconds over minutes

I want to bite into those words and hold on with my teeth

I didn’t know Quisling (how’s that for an infamous eponym?) and had to look it up. I thought the word was quizzling, which I quite like. It would be akin to quizzical, like Joan was quizzical, studied metaphysical, but more like puzzling, like he puzzled ’til his puzzler was sore.

Here:

The sky had been cloudless and full of sunshine, so the afternoon’s quizzling rain made no sense to Jeannie Bright, Holden Elementary’s amateur weather-girl.

I’d love if each of you leave me a sentence with your particular interpretation, especially since my sentence is a rather piss-poor example. It’s hard to make up a good definition for quizzling!

(I won’t even tell you the other lyric I’ve had wrong all these years, but it’s when Elvis says “she takes all the red, yellow, orange, and green” I thought it was she takes all her radio unguent creams

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Is it good or bad that I didn’t put my contact info in the little black notebook that I lost this week? You know, the one with my random musings, interesting web sites for future reference, notes on good music I heard on the radio, inspirations for writing, and, gasp, my privatemost poems….(can you tell that I don’t have an iPhone or Blackberry?)

Why do some women’s breasts get smaller after menopause and why do some get larger?

Why can you get the same pimple in the same exact pore over and over?

Why isn’t the local police blotter as interesting as it used to be? This has been going on for almost 8 months.

What kind of paint was used to spray paint the giant penis in the road?

How can one man have this much soul?

When someone tailgates me, which I consider not only aggressive but dangerous, why do I allow myself to get aggressive in return by slowing down even more?

Would you say this post is more testosterone or estrogen?

Can you gently slam on your brakes (or gently slam on anything else for that matter)?

Blue mascara: discuss.

Really, how many rodents can my cats kill in one day (and those are only the ones I see)?

Am I really missing out since I don’t know how to text?

Do you realize that there is a universe of posts 180 degrees in the opposite political direction from yours on Facebook? What if yours is the incorrect direction?

Have you ever looked in the mirror and thought Luddite? I can assure you that I haven’t.

Why do companies discontinue wildly popular products, like the pink marshmallow bunny Envirosax that I recently lost? I am crushed, I tell you, crushed. (If anyone out there has one, please forward to twinklysparkles!)

Do I really have to post a photo of a naked or bikini-clad woman at least every-other day to maintain my site stats? What about Justin Bieber (not naked)?

True or False: I have never watched American Idol.

True or False: I have only the slightest clue who Justin Bieber is.

In the True and False portion of this post, who is I?

Will someone please throw out the last chocolate cupcake? Please?

HIT IT AND QUIT IT!

twinkly loves you baby!

photo: ©kgfarthing2011

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My daughters are both back in school. Yesterday was monumental in that my 13-year old was in the annual Flower Ceremony at her school. The tradition at a Waldorf school is this: each 8th Grade student is assigned a 1st Grade student with whom they will spend time doing special things together throughout the year. On the first day of school, the 8th Grader (and at our school, a 12th Grader as well) gives a wildflower to her 1st Grader. At the end of the year, when the 8th Grade students graduate, the 1st grader then gives a rose (symbolic of a student progressing from wild to cultivated) to the 8th Grader and so on each September morn and each June afternoon for the first and last days of school respectively.

On the heels of last week’s Thankful Thursday, I took some photos of a few of the mushrooms that continue to emerge in my yard:

and

and

Aren’t those interesting?

This week, something else sort of special happened. “Best Penis” made a deposit into my spam inbox. I know we all get lots of spammy emails, but as you can imagine, this one had special appeal. Who doesn’t want a correspondence from [the?] Best Penis? Is it the best penis in the world or just in the USA? How can it write an email? All these questions…

In the same vein, one of the ways someone found last week’s Thankful Thursday was by searching for the following information:

can you trip from a phallus rubicundus?

I am sorry that someone out there did not get an answer to that question on my blog and I hope that person is sensible enough not to consume any unauthorized fungi in search of a great hallucinogenic experience.

All of this makes me think of the song, Wildflowers by Dolly Parton. Well, the toadstools and spam don’t make me think of it, but the flower ceremony does. I also predict that my pal pt dismal will be telling me all about Mama Maybelle Carter rockin’ the autoharp, too. Am I right pt?

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