Random Thursday: Sunny with a Chance of Photos

It’s Thursday already?  Where does the time go?

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Writer Bling!

This is, you will note, a magenta, molded plastic, ballpoint quill pen, which my friend Grace bought for me at the Stratford Shakespeare Festival:

I love it. It has good heft and sits in my grip well—the ink flows nicely, too.  I wrote part of my revenge scene with it.

Little known fact: silly pens help with writing serious stuff.  It’s true.

And the pen goes very well with my new scribble book, which I found at Border’s for $2.99.  There’s foil on the cover!

I love writer bling!  Especially shiny bling!

oooooOOOOOooooo

Doing the Happy Geek Dance

I found out the voice of Smaug in the new Hobbit movie is being done by Benedict Cumberbatch, who caught my attention in BBC’s Sherlock and never let go.

He’s on my personal list of actors I would gladly pay scale—hey, librarian’s salary—to read the telephone book, should no erotic poetry Shakespearean sonnets be at hand.

He’s also starring in a screen adaption of one of my favorite John le Carré novels, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.

                 

I am replete with squee, y’all.**

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Talenti Gelato:  The Best Ice Cream Ever, Grocery Store Freezer Division:

I’m not kidding.  I bought it on a whim this past weekend because I liked the screwtop lid—I am a simple person—and I love milk chocolate ice cream, which is difficult to get around here.   That night, I sampled a spoonful.

I’m fond of ice cream.  We have an emotionally satisfying relationship.   I’ve even been known to down a whole pint now and again.  And again.

But please believe me when I say that I’ve never been tempted to describe ice cream as a holy experience—and I’m not tempted now.

This is a pint of sex.

oooooOOOOOooooo

Shifting gears, now.

Can anyone tell me what this is?

It’s growing at the end of our driveway.

I thought it was a lily of some sort, but I really don’t know.

oooooOOOOOooooo

If I was three feet tall . . .

Sunny was bored the other day, and I was busy, so I gave her my camera.  This is what life looks like when you’re knee-high to a duck:

 First of all, you’re a lot closer to your feet.

 And turtles.**

                 

Tall people always put money, car keys, and phones out of reach. And art appreciation is a real pain in the neck.

 But one can always create a three-dimensional interactive floor collage. This one is called,
“A Few of Sunny’s Favorite Things”:

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*And before a few of you comment, I am not a cougar—I respect his talents as an actor.  And anyway, he was born in 1976 and the fact that I knew that date off the top of my head is not relevant in the least.

**Yes, turtles are the serendipitous, unplanned theme o’ the week.  This one was my birthday present a few years ago from my MIL, because nothing says affection like a sixty-five-pound concrete turtle.   His name—the one he came with—is Shelley, though before we moved him out of the way, his nickname was Ouch-Damn-It-My-Toe.   I love him.

Random Thursday: Abbreviated Awards for Random Excellence

Short post, today, as I’m coming up on that deadline.  You know the one.

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Best New Catchphrase of the Week:

A few days ago, Sunny was walking around in her pink cowgirl hat and plastic Disney Cinderella heels, dragging her unicorn hobby-horse with her.

“I’m a cowgirl,” she said to my MIL.

“Really?  I don’t think cowgirls wear high heels to ride horses,” my MIL told her.

Sunny tilted back her hat, squinted up at her grandmother, and drawled,
“Some do.  Some don’t.”

oooOOOooo

Best Two-Minute Short Film Ever:

Gumball Wars from Scott Thierauf on Vimeo.

See?  Wasn’t kidding.

oooOOOooo

And the Award for the Best  Husband  Ever—Dune-Quoting Enabler Division—goes to:

I wrote until well-past midnight last night this morning—Lisa (aka First Reader of Awesomeness) is my witness, as I keep e-mailing her in the wee hours with the latest chunks of Pigeon,* and telling her I’m going to bed—and had to get up a little earlier than I’d planned to wait for the central air guy to look at our system while everyone else went off to summer camps, yoga classes, ladies’ meetings, or whatever it is they do while I’m hard at work providing the raw informational materials for a better, more literate democracy.**

I was okay with this, until I realized that the only diet Pepsi in the house was the half  bottle I’d left in the cupholder in my car. 

With dire predictions of the state I would be in when they returned, I schlepped off to my laptop to string words together. 

Two hours later, when I was trying to decide if combining the last respective bags of English Breakfast and Irish Breakfast teas would cure the pressure in my skull or start some sort of internecine warfare in the microwave, my husband returned.

With two 24-ounce six-packs of carbonated liquid gold.

“I love you,” I told them  him.

“He who controls the spice, controls the universe,” he said. “And they were on sale.”

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*Yeah, I know how that sounds.

**It’s true.  I can’t help it if people use the blank sides to scribble down Farmville cheat codes.

Déardaoin fánach

As I have no Gaelic at all, my friend Siobhan provided the title for this post. It’s supposed to translate roughly into Random Thursday.

If you happen to know that the translation is so rough that it doesn’t have anything to do with Thursdays, random or otherwise, but is instead some sort of innuendo, insult, or affirmation of vile perversion, please let me know so that I can send the link to her mother—and don’t think I won’t, Van.

And if you know of a better translation, I’d appreciate it!

oooOOOooo

The first sign of Spring: I kicked three patrons off our public computers this afternoon for viewing inappropriate* images and/or videos.

Anyone know where I can find some brain bleach?

oooOOOooo

My two favorite Irish movies are The Commitments, which is authentically Irish and stars Irish actors, who play kick-ass music:

and The Quiet Man, which is authentically Hollywood Irish down to the last stereotype and stars John Wayne, who kicks Maureen O’Hara’s . . . um, well, here:**

Make of that what you will.

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Me:  Learn anything at school today?

Janie (without looking up from her book):  Houseflies buzz in the key of F

Me:   . . . Okay.

oooOOOooo

And on  a far less random/Irish note:  The students at Janie’s school are asking for poems, prayers, and thoughts in support of Japan. These are being written onto oragami paper to be folded into cranes. Traditionally, one thousand paper cranes will grant one wish–the students hope to gather enough cranes to ensure that Japan will find the strength, courage, and perseverance to rebuild their communities. The cranes will be sent to Japan to be distributed to victims of the disaster.

If anyone would like to participate, please e-mail me what you would like to say, and I’ll give them to the student coordinator. My e-mail address is at the top of the sidebar.

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*I’m not going to debate what’s pornographic or obscene or falls under artistic license. Nekkid sex is nekkid sex—and that one goat wasn’t even wearing a bell.

**But earns a point for Maureen O’Hara and another for maintaining the proprieties at all times. This doesn’t quite make up for the typical Wayne/O’Hara Taming of the Shrew dynamic, but at least he doesn’t spank her with an ash shovel in this one.

Random Thursday: Already?

I’d swear I did a Random Thursday about three days ago . . . is it just me, or is time speeding up?

I mean, unless one’s Internet connection goes down just as one hits the Publish button—and doesn’t come up again for three hours. 

Which is my way of apologing for the late post.  Sorry!

oooOOOooo

After the in-service yesterday, I scooted over to Borders to enjoy some child-free time before heading over to Jane’s school.

I didn’t go near the children’s area or read a single book out loud.  I dwelled for ten whole minutes in the mysteries and I passed by the various toy displays without once telling someone to look with their eyes and not their hands.  And I didn’t feel the need to tell anyone but myself that we weren’t going to buy that today, put it on your birthday list, how much of your own money did you bring today?*

I tried out all the  pens for weight and comfort and bought one,** then spent half an hour scribbling in my pink cupcake notebook, brainstorming plugs for a small plot hole that recently opened up because I changed—okay, fine, corrected—one little thing.

Had a smoothie, too.

I must do this again, sometime.  Soon.

oooOOOooo

Speaking of random, at the In-Service, during a pause between speakers, my friend Grace leaned over and said, “Want to go to the shooting range with me and take a beginner’s class?”

Do I!?  Is it Christmas?

I know a few things about guns—a very few, according to my Gun Expert— though most of those things are  important, like which end is dangerous. *** But since two Pigeon characters are experts and a third is learning, it’s past time I learn the basics with the real thing—and experience recoil.

I fully expect to stink at it, but I also fully expect to have, no pun intended, a blast.

Matt MacNish has it right:  there’s nothing like experience!

oooOOOooo

Will someone please tell me why it’s always pouring down rain when my children need poster board for an assignment due tomorrow—except they forgot until after dinner, sorry, Mom?

Jut asking.

oooOOOooo

It wouldn’t be a Thursday without the report of a brand new (to me) Time Suck.  This week, you can blame my husband, who sent me the link to  Space Base 8, a terrific webcomic by the talented David Scott Smith.

It’s only a temporary Time Suck—it’s relatively new, and I’m almost through the archives—but SB8 is compulsively readable.

It features—among other cast members both animal and mineral—an Everysimian crash test monkey, a smart and green-complexioned clerk who isn’t his girlfriend (“Why?  Did he mention me?”), and the cutest little ancient lighthouse robot in the universe:

You’ll have to check it out to see the adorable robot.  And you know you want to.

oooOOOooo

There’s been a sort of theme around here, lately, an examination of what it means, or can mean, when one attains a certain age that isn’t, for lack of a better word, young.

I believe the general consensus was, “Anything we damn well please.  Who knew?”

In one of those odd coincidences, a (an?) historical romance crossed my desk day before yesterday that also deals with the themes of age, self-worth, and for a bonus, body-shame:   Pleasure Me by Monica Burns.

Lady Ruth is a 41-year old professional mistress whose latest protector has dumped her for a younger woman.  If that wasn’t enough, he has also reneged on his promise to support her.   Retirement is inevitable and due to her own generosity, she doesn’t have much of a financial cushion.  She has no real options for improving her situation.

Worse, she believes no one will ever desire her again.

But then handsome, rich, and  younger Garrick Stratfield makes her an offer . . . but not exactly the kind Ruth expects.  Assuming it was made out of pity, she refuses.

When she discovers the real reason Garrick needs her, and exactly how shamefully young he is . . . everything changes.

And that’s before they fall in love.

oooOOOooo

And, to close this most random of random posts:  my latest earworm, courtesy of Kev the Earworm King, who has been bombarding me with every YouTube vid in which Benedict Cumberbatch appears. I think he even threw in one about cummerbunds.^ 

But this one song stuck.  I’ve been humming it for three days and finally broke down and added it to my playlist.  You’ll have to click through to hear it—for good or ill, it’s one of Sony’s:

There.  Now maybe I won’t be the only one.

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*As you might suspect, this didn’t go over any better with me than with the kids, but at least my whining and rationalizing was internal, and didn’t appear to disturb the other customers.

**See?

***The answer is both.  Two other things I know:  all firearms should always be treated as if they’re loaded, even if you think you know otherwise; and outside of a range, you do not point one (or even unholster it) unless you’re prepared to kill.

^I’d say he needs a hobby, but apparently, he has one.

Random Thursday is back!

Jewel Quest: Sleepless Star is my new favorite way to waste time.  I don’t even bother with lies about percolating plotlines any more.  I’m addicted.

It’s not just the spatial puzzles or the click of the shiny little jewels  or the ratzen-fratzen timer—there’s a story.  An action-adventure romance.  And you can only read it by winning the boards.

Perfect name, too. . .  I can lose hours of sleep playing this.

I’ve had to restrict myself to forty-five minutes a day.  With the egg-timer, set by my children, who are far more strict about it than I would be—and positively gleeful about it, too.

ooOOoo

Jane’s asked me to take her to her school’s Family Math Fun Night (“They have pizza, Mom!”) after work today.  Not Dad or Sunny or Grandma, just us.  Because she wants to spend time with me.

Kid brought out the big guns for this one.  And it worked.

I did offer to take her out to her favorite pizza place instead, since I’m going to be at least fifteen minutes late, but apparently math fun trumps punctuality and double mushrooms and sausage.  Who knew?*

I  also warned her I might embarrass her with my ignorance of elementary school math, but she only laughed—as long as I don’t call her Honey Bunny Pootie Pie,** she’s good.

ooOOoo

Tawna Fenske did an interesting experiment with writerly voice on her blog this week.  She held a “Guess What’s Weird” contest yesterday, and today’s answer surprised everyone but her co-conspirator.

She went on the discuss the problems with selling voice.  I found it fascinating.

And now I’m wondering—and worrying a bit, because that’s SOP—that I don’t have a unique writing voice.  Double-dash addictions don’t count, do they?

Can one even hear one’s own voice?

Is this getting too Zen?

Any thoughts?

ooOOoo

Whew, the referrer-bots are out in full force today.  One of them has added 28 hits since early this morning—I think Evil, Inc. needs to reboot their Spaminator.

The annoying little beasts are ruining my compulsive stat checking.

Then again, they are forcing me to brush off my math skills before tonight . . .

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* I’d demand a DNA test, but my FIL was a professor of mathematics and my uncle is a retired CPA.  I’d also complain about the capriciousness of genetics, but I did avoid the Family Nose—capitals deliberate and deserved, so it isn’t all bad.

**We have occasional discussions about the yuckiest, most embarrassing thing you can call someone.  This is the current winner.  We will entertain other suggestions—but keep ‘em G or mild PG, please.  She’s eight.