SNOWBOUND

Tuesday Ramblings

It's snowing again today. Big fat, puffy flakes that have been falling for hours. Another good day to cuddle up with a book, although my current read is a Stephen King newbie and nothing he writes comes close to being cuddling material--blood curdling, maybe.

KU beat Evil Mizzou last night on the basketball court. Rock Chalk, my Jayhawks! Big Bore actually watched the entire game with me AND even clapped and cheered our boys on to victory. I'll make a rabid KU fan out of him yet. He keeps advocating that all 'Hawk fans need to wear yellow shoes to the games--the bird is the word.

We had plans to go to Pittsburg tomorrow to visit the family. Today is Mama Bore's 87th birthday, plus I have Valentine's Day goodies for the wee ones. Not sure now if we're going to make it, as the weather may put the skids on any travel. If that's the case, I'll just continue my hibernation with Stephen King and keep reading about madness and mayhem.

OH, SAY CAN YOU SING?

Did anyone out in cyberland watch the Super Bowl pre-game show last night and experience super agony when pop singer Christina Aguilera sang "The National Anthem?" It was torture!!

Now, at first I didn't say anything, just thinking my ears were acting up again. Did she just mess up that third line?" I thought. But then Big Bore blurted out, "What the hell is she singing?" and I knew I wasn't just the only person who wasn't feeling so proudly about what she was hailing, or wailing, or whatever it was she was doing.

"I'm not sure what she's singing, but it can't be The National Anthem," I answered.

I consider myself an anthem expert because once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, I used to sing it before Fredonia High School basketball games in three-part harmony with a girls trio. We played it straight. No runs up the octave scale or drawn-out words. Our philosophy was to get it sung in 60 seconds. Otherwise, it was too long.

I didn't time Christina, but it was obvious her rendition was burned beyond recognition. And worse yet, she was probably getting paid tens of thousands of dollars to screw it up! Aaaaggghhhh!!! Joe Cocker on acid could have done a better job. Of course, what else should we expect from someone who became famous singing, "Gitchy, gitchy, gitchy, yah, yah, yah"???

On a more positive note, a new episode of "Glee" came on after the game, and BB and I were simply super bowled over when the Guy Gleeks sang, "She's Not There," a 1964 standard by The Zombies. Remember them? Applause, applause, encore, encore, standing ovation!!

Next year, we suggest that the Super Bowl planning committee just recruit some random high school glee club to sing "The National Anthem" and spare all of us the misery. The results will be ever so much better...and cheaper.

TRIPPING OUT

The other night Big Bore tried to locate Mount Rushmore on Google Earth, so I was compelled to drag out this old picture of Big Sis, Beans, and me (circa 1952) with those four famous faces. Who looks more stoned--the presidents or the goobers in front? It's a toss-up.

This was the one and only family trip we ever took, and I have absolutely no recollection of it. I think Beans would probably like to forget he ever wore red socks and black tennis shoes…and, no, he is not otherwise stark naked in this picture. It just looks that way. As usual, Big Sis has the pained expression of one who wishes she didn’t have two younger siblings hanging around.

This second picture is on the same family excursion up at Glacier National Park. I’m not sure what the deal is with me showing off my underpants--maybe I’m trying to explain that cool red socks run in the family--who knows. I always did have a knack for ruining family photos. That’s Mama Bore in the stylish sun dress and wacky hair-do.

Big Bore and I are in the talking stages right now of taking a late summer trip to Glacier, and believe me, if we are lucky enough to get to go, I will NOT be packing short dresses and red socks!

HAVE A COOKIE

Well, Big Bore and I got through January without blowing our diets, and we each lost 10 pounds. I have 15 more to go, and we don’t even want to talk about what he has left because it’s mildly depressing. I have created my own diet, which I call "The No Diet." Anything that tastes good is a NO.

And speaking of cookies :) ….my diet really hasn’t been too hard to follow (outta sight, outta mind) until the Girl Scouts recently came calling with their cookie sales. I can never refuse a scout of any kind, so I’ve purchased five boxes so far. I will put them in the freezer until such time I’m allowed to celebrate upon reaching my weight loss goal--hopefully before the next millennium.

Whoever writes up the cookie sales sheet for the scouts needs to provide a better description for them. When my super great niece Maddie was selling over the telephone recently, I asked her, “What’s a Thanks-A-Lot Cookie?” after she read it from her list. It’s something new.

“Well, it’s flat and brown and it has some lines and letters on it,” she said.

“I mean what flavor is it?”

“I don’t know.”

And sure enough, she’s right. The little neighbor gal was over here yesterday with the sales sheet, and she had no clue what a “Thanks-A-Lot” is, either. From looking at picture on the sheet, my guess is it’s shortbread half dipped in chocolate. Whatever. I went ahead and ordered a box of something flat, brown, with “thanks” written on it in five languages.

I actually look upon my Girl Scout purchases as a weight loss incentive. The sooner I lose these damned pounds, the sooner I get to bust open a box of those fabulous cookies and chow down. So, here’s shouting out a big Gracias, Danke, Merci, Grazie, and Thanks to all my scouting friends for helping me stick to my diet!!
　
　
　
　

SHOVE-L IT

Big Bore and I decided to dig ourselves out of the snow yesterday morning. Even though our town only received about a 6-8 inch dump of the stuff, the wind caused drifts in the backyard and driveway that were over two feet high, and there was no way we were going anywhere until we did some serious snow removal.

I’m not much help with such a task, even though I like to pretend that I am. Basically, I just get in the way. The snow was dry and light, so I started out all gung-ho, freeing the car’s back tires from a drift that had blown into the garage, but my lower back soon played out--well before the driveway was cleared. I tossed aside the shovel and tried the raking method, then just ended up stomping and kicking the drifts around. The scatter method is what Big Bore called it. While he was methodically cutting the snow into small sections and neatly clearing each patch all the way down to the cement, my areas were a mess. "That looks like you just set off a bomb in the snow," BB remarked. True.

Next, I decided to drive the car back and forth in the driveway as far as I could--while BB continued shoveling. Now, mind you, I cannot even steer the car straight out of the drive on a clear summer day, so I don’t know what possessed me to think I could do it with snow all over the place. Big Bore was wary right from the start.

“Use your side mirrors!” he yelled. He knows I NEVER use the side mirrors. I don’t trust them. I always just crank my head around and, in the process, crank the steering wheel around, and the next thing you know I’m ready to crash into the house.

Well, he got safely out of the way, put his hands over his eyes, and I just gave it the gas until the Saturn was somehow out in the middle of the street. "Hooray! Free at last!" I drove the car haphazardly in and out of the driveway, only briefly getting stuck one time out in the street, and soon we were ready to roll. Ta-Dum! No more shoveling needed!

Fortunately, I don't have driving privileges past the front of our house until the spring thaw.

　
　
　
　
　

MORE BIRD WATCHING

Fluffy and Critter spent most of yesterday watching birds flying around with the snow out one of the living room windows. The feeder hangs from an eave, only a few feet away. After the cats kept jumping up to the window for a better view, Big Bore got them a step stool and that's where they stayed for hours at a time. --I've got to hand it to the birds. For as little as they are, they sure do tolerate the cold well and they sure enjoy antagonizing the cats. I could almost hear them twittering: "You can't catch me! You can't catch me!" as they fluttered in front of their captive audience.

THE NOSE KNOWS

(The Flaming Bore is in Brain Freeze-Mode this morning because the weather has turned frightfully cold; therefore, I am re-printing a dandy little essay I wrote maybe ten years ago. It's longer than my usual blog, so set your snooze alarm.)

Is there anyone out there besides me who detests those scent strips that seem to have invaded magazine advertising in recent years? The perfume industry has created some noxious plot with the publishers to bombard readers with their stinkin' ads, thinking that this is a great idea to generate sales. I say it smells of a conspiracy.

The other day I settled down with my Entertainment Weekly and a turkey sandwich, prepared to read all about the "eternally hip" John Travolta, when I was attacked by the "essence" of Calvin Klein's "one"--touted as a unisex "fragrance for a man AND a woman." Now, it was bad enough that the models pictured with the ad looked like anorexic heroin addicts who had escaped from a circus freak show, BUT the worst part about it was the accompanying scent strip.

In the good old days, one had to scratch and sniff a pre-treated area on the perfume ad before being exposed to the lethal fumes. Thanks to advanced aroma technology, however, the reader is now immediately overwhelmed by the stench upon getting withing 50 feet of the infected magazine. Removing the culprit does little to cure the problem, as a lingering odor seems to permeate every page.

The effects these scent strips have on their victims obviously varies from sniffer to sniffer. I, fortunately, only suffer from day-long throbbing headaches and slight nausea. There is rumored to be medical documentation, however, of more sensitive smellers who've landed in trauma units when their lungs became clogged with aroma residue upon opening their magazines. Call 9-1-1! This is not good.

So, to combat the onslaught on noses everywhere, I took it upon myself to counterattack with a letter-writing campaign to every magazine that has fallen prey to this maddening advertising trend. One must be assertive when dealing with the forces of evil. I got out my pen and paper and proceeded to write EW a kind request to eliminate its use of scent strips. I labored over the wording, attempting to avoid any hints of hostility, and proofread my work, which wasn't easy considering the fact that Calvin's "one" was starting to cloud my vision.

When the masterpiece was ready to mail, I cautiously re-opened the magazine to locate an address for the envelope. Lo and behold, right there in fine print, was the following message: "Entertainment Weekly sometimes carries ads containing perfume or cologne samples. Subscribers who would prefer copies without the scent strips should..." write or call a toll-free number. I scrapped my letter and staggered to the phone, regardless of the fact that my previous experiences calling 1-800 numbers have typically left me subjected to elevator music for 45 minutes--another aggravation of life that will need to be addressed in a separate diatribe.

I am pleased to report that Entertainment Weekly only kept me waiting for 13 seconds before Norma of Customer Service came on the line to forever free me from the torture of scented advertising in that particuar magazine. Of course, it will take two to three weeks to make the necessary adjustments, but that's all right. I'll need about the same amount of time to recover from "one."

I think that it's mighty nice that publishers are finally giving their subscribers an option to have stink-free magazines, but this still doesn't solve the problem for those who buy magazines right off the rack or check them out from the library. Perhaps a warning label could be attached by the Surgeon General: "This magazine contains one of those obnoxious scent strips that could possibly make you violently ill or give you the appearance of being an anorexic herion addict who has escaped from a circus freak show." Either way, beware!!