This is my thousandth post on this blog!
One. Thousand. Posts.*
Holy. Cow.
I’d like to take a moment to reflect on the last three years . . . and also to practice saying, “thousandth,” because let me tell you, that word does not flow easy off the tongue.**
Other bloggers seem to celebrate this occasion by sharing links to their five most popular posts, but a friend suggested that since logic dictates that most of you have seen those already, it might be more embarrassing interesting to list my five least popular posts, in a shameless bid for stats and see if anyone is brave enough to click ’em.
I’m not sharing the rock bottom least popular,*** as WordPress very kindly doesn’t extend their stats list past a certain threshold and crossing that line to do my own math seemed like the exact opposite of “celebratory.”
But here are the last five on the WordPress list, starting from the lowest, because reasons:
Slow and Steady Confuses the Enemy
Random Thursday: Coffee, Tea, or Time Sucks?
A Man Who Loves His Mother . . .
The Bedtime Adventures of Super Sunny; Knotty Necks
On a Scale of One to Childbirth, I’ll give it a Root Canal
It’s an eclectic assortment, which fits the general Thursday attitude around here—and it’s a relief that this is happening today, instead of, say, Wednesday, as I’d probably end up holding a last-minute thousand-word poetry contest to the sounds of loud crickets.
Instead, you’re getting these:
_________________________________________
A Thousand Dances, Land of
Well . . . technically nine, according to the lyrics, which rival “Louie, Louie” for sheer . . . um . . . sheerness.
But it’s Tom Jones, baby, so who cares?
That man can leave his hat on any time he wants . . .
oooooooooooooooOOOOOooooooooooooooo
The Thousandth Reference to Danger-Fusion Cuisine since Monday
Watson sent me this image a few days ago, and I just realized that this is the reason I’ve been humming “Cottleston Pie” all this time—though the lyrics have become twisted along the way:
Cuttlefish, cuttlefish, cuttlefish pie,
A squid can’t whistle and neither can I . . .
Ask me for dinner and I reply:
Cuttlefish, cuttlefish, cuttlefish pie
oooooooooooooooOOOOOooooooooooooooo
A Thousand Yards of Bubble Wrap
For when cards in your spokes just aren’t enough . . .
I can’t tell you how tickled I am that this exists.
oooooooooooooooOOOOOooooooooooooooo
A Thousand Tiny Stitches
I’ve been thinking of picking up cross-stitching again, because I used to enjoy it and it makes watching TV look semi-productive.
I’m currently fiddling around with graph paper and a couple of books of alphabet patterns, trying to find the right combination for my current favorite inspirational quote,^ but a co-worker sent me the link to Alicia Watkins’ etsy store, which has some of the best geek/nerd in-jokes I have ever seen stitched to a canvas.
The brilliant Ms. Watkins has designs for Firefly, Community, Doctor Who, Douglas Adams towels, a lovely assortment of virophages, and much, much Star Trek
Including this one:
My stitching skills are a little rusty . . . but I have the urge to try the Really Good Ninja design, anyway:
Her stuff is fantastic.
Go check it out—and remember, my birthday is in June.
oooooooooooooooOOOOOooooooooooooooo
A Cast of Thousands
And a thousand clips, too, all brilliantly edited by Vadzim Khudabets — they’re all listed here.
You’ll want to click the full screen button before you play this one.
Goosebumps, this gave me.
__________________________
I hope this was a suitably Thursdayesque ode to the wanderings of my scattershot mind.
I’d love to say I’d carefully worked it out this way, but it was totally . . . wait for it . . . random.
Thanks for humoring me!
Onward.
____________________________________
*And lord knows how many footnotes.
**Try it five times fast—or better yet, get your kids to try it with you. It’s hilarious.
***Which would probably be the first five I wrote, because not even my mother knew I had a blog. I’m not sure she knew what a blog was at the time, but I’m glad she knows now, because with her schedule, it’s nearly impossible to get her on the phone unless I call her at 4am—and there’s really no point in two dreadfully undercaffeinated people trying to communicate using only three or four alert brain cells, total. Except I could probably get a pretty funny post out of it . . . supposing I remembered any of it.
^”Calm Down. Write a Book.”
Earful of Cider 