Just Call Me Helga

I finally got a new bathing suit last night. Ever since the wardrobe malfunction on the beach last summer, in which I issued a public apology to the inhabitants of that section of Rehoboth Beach, I've needed a new one.

Well, I got one last night.

It was a family affair, so you can imagine the unadulterated joy it was to bathing suit shop - which I hate - with The Man and Urchins in tow. I basically got the one that I could tolerate and called it a night.

So I now own a bathing suit with leopard print. Grey and black toned leopard print. I've never owned a leopard printed anything in my life. (I heard those gasps of shock, but believe it, leopard print ain't my shtick.)

It also has cups of steel. I kid you not. I could knock on these knockers and hear a resounding ~BONG~. I feel like I should be sporting a helmet with horns protruding from each side and wielding a spear as I descend from Valhalla.

If only I could work it like Bugs bunny, then at least I'd know I looked good.



But alas, I fear I wear it like Helga, the opera singing warrior in my old favorite video game Clayfighter.



I originally was trying for some rockabilly style. It has that vintage pinup vibe about it. Here's a picture. It doesn't show the cups that well, but you get the idea.



I may add little gun barrels to the center of each cup just to give a nod to the Austin Powers Fembots. We'll see.

Speaking of vintage pin up girl style, if you haven't checked these guys out, you're no hep cat of mine. I love their designs.

So, any bathing suit disasters you'd care to share with the rest of the class? We're all ears!

Gotta Have Some Soul

I just needed a little vintage R&B tonight. Add a little Soul, and this is what you get.

Enjoy!



And this song always takes me back to that night I was underage and on the dance floor in a bar down in Delaware. And that's all I'm saying about that.

Nursemaid's Elbow. Um, Yeah

So my newest medical terminology that I've acquired is, "nursemaid's elbow". What is nursemaid's elbow, you may ask? Well, let me tell you a little story.

The following story is true, the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Dan dant dant dant.
Daaan dan dant dant daaaaaaaa!
(Dragnet theme song, in case you were wondering)

Time: early Thursday afternoon - fifteen minutes before kindergarten bus arrival.

Place: Chez Quinn backyard

Suspect: Oldest Urchin

Dant da naaaaa,
dant da nant na naaaaaaa

(Dragnet theme continued)


The oldest Urchin bursts into the kitchen where I'm cleaning up lunch and doing dishes, shouting for me to come quick.

I remove myself to the yard and observe the three year old lying in the grass crying. As I help her up, I get the fragmented and most likely, highly polished version of what happened from the eldest of the urchins.

She fell. Older urchin grabbed her arm to help pull her up. Much crying ensued.

There being no other witnesses to the altercation, I try asking the three year old- who is crying profusely. Which is actually very uncharacteristic of her. Through the tears and around the blowing of the nose I get, "Sissy pulled me."

I settle the youngest on the couch with an icepack on her arm and some tv to soften the blow and take the eldest out to the end of the driveway to put her on the bus.

When I re-enter the domicile, The crying has stopped, but younger urchin is very pale. I proceed to examine the arm. She can wiggle her fingers, though making a fist hurts, she can move it, but wails and immediately begins crying again when she bends it. There are no marks on the arm or swelling. Tylenol and liberally applied ice packs are administered.

Symptoms don't change for several hours. That evening I call the doctor's office. There are no appointment openings, but the nurse takes down the symptoms and says she'll tell the doctor and call back. Within fifteen minutes I get a call from her requesting that the subject come in immediately.

Diagnosis: nursemaid's elbow. One of the lower of the two bones in the elbow joint has come out of its socket, causing extreme pain whenever it moves. The doctor was able to pop it back in quickly and less than thirty minutes later the youngest urchin was back to her crazy rambunctious self.

And that is only one of several extremely crazy things that have happened over the past four days.

Hope things aren't quite so exciting at your house.

For My Classically Trained Readers

It's a little known fact that I played the violin for many years. (You never would have thought they had gnome sized classical instruments, but they do. The Eastern Deciduous Woodland Gnome Orchestra is a highly respected institution. But, alas, that is a post for another day.)

Here, for your viewing pleasure, is an oldie but a goodie that's been around the internet for a while. Yet still just as hilarious.

Enjoy!

Grilled 'Possum Memorial Day BBQ

What Memorial Day weekend is complete without a barbecue? And as your reigning 'Possum Queen, I'd be remiss in my duties if I didn't remind y'all about the interesting and economical choice of 'possum for your grill!

Here's the "before" version -



And here's the "after".

Now, doesn't that look delicious?

Don't forget to stock up on all those yummy 'possum sauces and things. I'm sure your local grocer has plenty of these on the shelf for this holiday weekend.



So, to make this Memorial Day unforgettable, run right out and get a mess of 'possum - the third white meat, sorta*.




*copyright Pot-Bellied Processed 'Possum Co. All rights reserved.

From Krass to Class

Okay, okay, stop calling in. (That means you, mother.) I'll move on from those Krass Bros. commercials. (But they really did explain a lot. Amiright?)

So in an attempt to purge the memory of those commercials from your brain without poking your eyes out, here is a wonderful song that Ray Charles covered titled You Don't Know Me. It's such a beautiful, emotional song. One of my favorites that he's ever recorded. Here is an early live rendition.

Enjoy. And please accept my humblest apologies if I inflicted any lasting damage due to your viewing the Krass Bros. spots.

Well, This Explains Some Of It

When I was a kid growing up just outside of Philly, I loved these commercials. I still do. They're hilarious.

(The hair is definitely typical of the area in the eighties!)

Click 'em if you dare!

Back From Retreat With Goldfish Emergencies

My writing retreat was awesome. The new place is fantastic. Getting together with my writers group for three consecutive days was absolutely phenomenal. Three days of writing and eating and laughing and eating and writing and laughing some more. Though, the fifteen fire trucks that came the first night for the industrial dryer fire was not so fun.

I was able to complete my writing goal and talk to friends. It always astounds me how amazing it feels to be with like-minded insane people. There's quite a comfort in that.

So whilst I was away, The Man had a good time with the urchins. On Friday night, they attended the eldest urchin's school May Fair. And yes, carny goldfish were obtained. Over a hundred dollars later to outfit the two dollar slimy things, and one has the gall to up and die last night.

Our neighbors, wonderful people that they are, didn't blast my head off with a shotgun when I knocked on their door at 10:30 at night to ask for a bucket of water. Seems our water is too hard and has raised the ph of the tank to intolerable limits. They were all asleep, but her father-in-law was still up. So here I come, tromping through the rain, up to the back door in my pajamas, garden clogs and a rain poncho to ask for a bucket of water because they have a water treatment system installed.

As I'm filling said bucket, he proceeds to give me the down-and-dirty-nitty-gritty of her side of the family. He must have spilled every family secret they had in the time it took to fill up a bucket. Apparently I have one of those faces. You know the one, the "let me tell you every embarrassing thing that's ever happened to our family now that I've known you for 45 seconds" face.

Yeah. That one.

It was all, this daughter died in a car crash and we buried her on her graduation day, and this son-in-law cheated on this daughter and ran off to Kentucky, and I had my gallbladder out and the little wife had her lady parts removed. And the whole time I nodded and made concerned noises at the appropriate times, all the while thinking - For the love of all things holy will you fill faster!!

And after all that I endured, the little fish bastard went and died anyway.

So then there was the morning after fall-out with the urchins. They have been so excited about the fish. Everyone within a sixty mile blast radius has heard about getting these fish. I cringe every time I take them to the store because each and every unsuspecting clerk gets to hear the tale as they scan our items at a faster and faster rate of speed.

So the dang thing died. There was much gnashing of teeth and renting of garments that morning. I was severely chastised by the oldest urchin for its impromptu burial at sea (I now know how Obama feels). Explicit instructions were given on how I must find a mini coffin to lay the fish to rest in as well as schedule a family viewing instead of a watery burial in an undisclosed location.

And I know these little cretins disguised as harmless fish are in league with the sea monkeys. Their tank has clouded up in under an hour. You know what this means. The sea monkeys have already infiltrated. Mark my words.

The Man just shakes his head and adds chemicals. But I know. It's a portent of watery sea monkey doom if ever I saw one.

So, if you haven't already guessed, this post, which I began at eight a.m. and am finishing now at 9:15 p.m. is the only writing I've gotten done since getting home from retreat.

Ahh, retreat. It seems like a distant memory. *sigh* Well, there's always next year.

How was your weekend?

I've Begun My Overpacking

Sing with me!! It's the most wonderful time of the year!

No, not Christmas. Or back to school.

It's time for my writer group's annual writing retreat! We have a new venue this year in a galaxy far, far away. Okay, it's Pittsburgh. (But really, same thing as far as I'm concerned.) And therefore, I have no idea what to pack. Will it be cold or warm? (Tauntuan or Hoth?) Will I want comfy sweat pants or get-down-to-business jeans? Will the weather be nice enough to go write outside? Will I need a sweater? Will there be Sand People to battle? The possibilities are endless.

One thing is out of the over-packing equation, though. We won't be going out for drinks, so I won't need to pack anything for that. But, that outing was replaced by an inning. A pajama clad cocktail hour. If only I had Hugh-Hefner-like pj's, I would rock that thing. But alas, I have flannel.

But the wardrobe is not the sing-along-with-me-roof-bustin' exciting part. I get to go for three days and just

WRITE!!

Yes, you read me correctly. Write. It's an all meals provided, no urchin taxiing, sea monkey battle-free zone. All I have to do is show up and write my little heart out. And paint my nails. (That's usually my major goal of the weekend, anything over and above that is gravy.)

So, any big plans coming up for you? Have you ever gone on a retreat? Do you suffer from the same over-packing affliction as I do? Tell all. Operators are standing by to answer your comments. Thanks, and have a nice day!

To The Roller Derby!

I may be taking my next field trip tonight. Where to? Why, the roller derby, of course.

The Harrisburg Area Roller Derby (or H.A.R.D.) is having their recruitment night this evening.

Now who to try out for? The Nuclear Knockouts? The Fallout Femmes? I think I may be leaning towards the Atomic City Rollergirls. Mainly because their colors match my motorcycle.



Roller derby - not to be confused with Rollerball, which used motorcycles, so you know I had to be interested in that too.



I have to admit, I didn't know much about roller derby before a few days ago. So, what was an ill-informed twenty-first century gnome to do? Duh. Wikipedia! (You thought it'd be a trick question, didn't you?) Anyway, here's what wiki has to say:

Contemporary roller derby is an American-invented contact sport with roots in sports entertainment. The game is based on formation roller skating around an oval track by two teams. Points are scored when the designated scoring player (the "jammer") of a given team laps members of the opposing team;[1] hence offense and defense typically occur simultaneously.

So the jammer gets flung forward around the track, trying to get past the opposing team as they block and try to get their jammer past first.

This is definitely a full contact sport.



These gals have spunk, style and stamina. What's not to like? I just hope they'll give me a tryout, even though I'm only three foot nine (with the pointy hat).

And besides . . .