A MISFIRE (AKA: "OH, FUUUUUUUUDGE!")

If I lived in Utah or Arizona, I would be fuming over how their state lawmakers are wasting time. Utah has recently passed legislation to designate the Browning M1911 semiautomatic pistol as the "official state firearm." Arizona may soon be voting on whether or not to designate the Colt revolver as its "official state firearm." What the heck is going on out west? Have they lost their minds?

State flowers and birds and trees are okay, I guess, and I didn't moan too much when Kansas designated the box turtle as its "state reptile" a few years back and the honeybee was declared the "state insect"--although I think ladybugs are cuter. But a firearm? Ridiculous. The sponsor of the Colt legislation in Arizona defended his action saying only 120 seconds were spent working on the bill's creation. Well, I'd say that's about two minutes too damned much.

If the lawmakers in Kansas ever decide to jump on the wagon train and take up arms, I'm going to be screaming all the way to Topeka. The only way I would EVER accept such an assinine idea is if our state designates the "Official Red Ryder 200-Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a Compass in the Stock and This Thing That Tells Time" as our state firearm. Then we could replace our current state motto, "Ad Astra Per Aspera" with "You'll Shoot Your Eye Out" and everyone would be happy.

PEA BRAIN

Recently I received an email from the good folks at Best Buy asking the tantalizing question: "Do you want to see the Black-Eyed Peas live?" Good god, no! After having the misfortune of viewing their Super Bowl halftime performance on TV a few weeks ago, make that a definite, emphatic, no doubt about it NO! Best Buy couldn't pay me to attend one of their concerts.

Although I have to admit Fergie has a rockin' solid, albeit knock-kneed, body in her little alien outfit, her pitchy screeching at the SBowl left me flat. The Pea Boys weren't as bad, but their dance troupe (I guess they were supposed to be robotic glow-sticks) were simply too robotic for my taste.

Anyway, I emailed back to Best Buy, thanking the business for its invitation, but said I would most certainly rather eat black-eyed peas, rotten ones, than go to a Black-Eyed Peas concert. Then I got an automated response back telling me not to respond to their email. Fine with me. Remove me from your mailing list, if you like. But please, no Peas.

TODAY IN HISTORY

From out of the photo archives and into the dishpan, today is not only the 279th birthday of the Father of our Country George Washington, but it's also the 56th birthday of the Father of the Remote Control, our dear Big Bore (age 3 months in the photo above, experiencing his first-ever Water Fart). Washington is famous for the saying, "I cannot tell a lie!" Big Bore is famous for once crying out in our kitchen, "I cannot smell the pie!" And there you have it. Your history lesson for today.

RUNAWAY

A question on an episode of "Family Feud" yesterday asked, "What would a 7-year-old take when running away from home?" That prompted another question from Big Bore.

"Did you ever run away from home when you were a kid?"

"Oh, sure," I answered. "I was probably 8 or 9--grade school, anyway. I can't remember what I was mad about, but I do recall announcing to Mom that I was leaving and she'd be sorry." Didn't we ALL try that song and dance at least once during our formative years?

"Where'd you go?" BB asked.

"As far as the brick trash burner out in the backyard," I said. "There was a hedge on the west side of it, and I stuffed myself between it and the burner. It was a good hiding spot."

Well, my plan was to stay there until Mom came running out in the backyard, frantic, shouting my name, and apologizing.

"Nancy Elizabeth!!! Where are you?? Please come home!! I'm so sorry!! You were right and I was wrong!! I'll do anything if you just come back home!!" Everything a kid wants to hear.

The trouble was, it didn't happen. I waited and waited. No Mom. No apology. No begging for forgiveness. Sonova____.

Eventually, it started getting dark. I was also getting hungry. Time to eat crow and go in for supper. When I sulked inside the house, Mom didn't say a word to me. It was like she hadn't even missed me. Geeesh! She took all the fun out of running away. What a spoilsport.

Years later Mom told me she knew where I was the entire time I'd "run away." She'd looked out a back window as soon as I stormed out of the house and saw where I hid. So much for making her worry. Our mother/daughter family feud had ended about as soon as it began--I just didn't know it.

TELLING IT LIKE IT ISN'T

Since I'm a diehard KU basketball fan, for better or for worse, I keep up with the news releases and comments on kusports.com. A variety of intellects respond to this site, but one of the most opinionated and funny is "jaybate," who recently outdid himself with this sarcastic remark to a story about two KU players who made the Big 12 All-Academic Team. Here's a portion of his response to these superior student athletes:

"....How lame are these guys for getting high GPAs, graduating, and being in grad school? I resent how inferior I am to these guys. Cut me some slack. I have to complain about something because my wife uses me for an emotional tampon and doesn't give me any. My father never thought I was as good as my brother. My boss uses me for scutt work. The adult video store has cut off my credit. My car has been repossessed--twice, and I haven't had steak in two months...."

And you thought YOU were having a bad day.

DROP ZONE

Okay. Enough is enough. Time to excavate the bedroom and hang up clothes. Let's take inventory: one sweatshirt, one t-shirt, one pair sweatpants, two pairs of socks, two bras, and one pair of undies strewn on the floor; three pairs of sweatpants, one pair slacks, one top slung over the quilt rack. Somewhere underneath is a quilt.

If this was the 1950s or early 60s and I was back home sharing a room with Big Sis, the above scenario would be grounds for war. Not some minor spat. Oh, no. We're talking Battle of the Little Big Horn, the bombing at Pearl Harbor, and Braveheart all rolled into one. Sis couldn't stand my slovenly ways, and I thumbed my nose at her neatness. Back then, we didn't have a quilt rack so I targeted door knobs as my main clothing drop-off spot. It drove her CRAZY!!!! Big Bore is another story. He could care less. He has his own little stash of clothes building up on the bedroom floor. As long as he can move around in the kitchen, he's happy.

Now, I am nowhere near the slob I used to be; in fact I have a good excuse. The dresser drawers are stuffed to the gills and my craft basket has been blockading the closet since Christmas. Yes, I still have ornaments rolling around and spools of ribbon ready for the cats to unwind. So, today and today only, I will find a better place to stash the basket and get the clothes put away. I promise. When tomorrow morning arrives, another clothing explosion may have hit the bedroom, but at least they will be different articles of apparel than the current ones. And I call that progress.

OUR CEILING GHOST

There is an old water stain on our bedroom ceiling that both Big Bore and I noticed one day has the appearance of a woman's face. She is a little Victorian lady with high cheek bones, deep-set eyes, and hair piled atop her head. See her? I've darkened this picture so maybe your imagination will have an easier time making out her features. She has a tiny button nose and frowning lips. Come on. Tell me we are not hallucinating. She is Mrs. Walter Moonlight, first lady of this home, and she watches over us every night. Seriously. I would have this stain repaired/removed except for the fact that I would miss her. Michaelangelo had his ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. We have our ceiling lady. This house has character--mainly, Mrs. Moonlight.