Getting to Know Al-l-lll About Me-e-e-e (Day 2)

For those of you just joining us, The Baroness recently clicked over to blog post number 70; for the next 6 days I'll be doing the countdown on all things me. To recap:

Hausfrau. Car Singer. Only child. Ham. Dog Lover. Scorpio. Reader. Movie slut. Unco-ordinated. Child pseudo-prodigy.

Now on to the next ten:

59. I love camping, although I'd never go alone.

58. I am a recovering perfectionist.

57. I'm a big fan of kitsch. Rubber chickens? Bring 'em on. Magnetic Marys for the dashboard? Oh, yeah.

56. The crooner I adore the most is Dean Martin. His voice is like balm to my soul. I had them play my favorite CD during my cancer surgery - I have to believe that he should take some credit for my speedy recovery.

55. In 2006, I was diagnosed with Stage II colon cancer. I've had radiation (got some pretty edgy-looking tats from that experience), surgery, and chemo. As of March 16, 2008 I've been NED (no evidence of disease) for one year. Five years is usually the all clear sign - four more to go!

54. I truly believe that there is a good element in everyone. It may be buried down pretty deep, but it's there.

53. Animals in commercials that are doing human things make me clutch and roll with laughter. Chimps in the CareerBuilder.com ads? I seriously lose it.

52. I'm hooked on The Dog Whisperer. That Cesar is magic.

51. Most days, I think too much, and do too little. I've lived most of my life from my shoulders up (this could very well explain the unco-ordination).

50. My mom and dad were 40 and 43 years old when I was born. So, in essence, I was raised as a mini-adult.

Just so you know, this has yet to get easier. Every fact I extract is kind of like a root canal. Yet I know I must.

So I will.

5 days to go!

A demain, mes cheries...

What Exactly is it You Want?

I have to be completely honest and true. I am paralyzed with anxiety.

It has been suggested that I "flesh out" the About Me section of my blog site. I have put off doing this for a very long time for a couple of reasons:

1. I wanted to keep myself surrounded in an mysterious aura - hasn't it been so-o-o alluring up until this point? Yuh. You know, so that readers could focus on my words (my many, many words) rather than me.

2. I have no idea what exactly to tell you. Everything I've written I've erased. It all sounds stupid to me, and mind-numbingly dull. What can I say?

So, I'm taking a casual poll (not too casual, though - maybe Smart Casual. Because we all love that).

What DO you want to know? I'll try my best to oblige, but be warned - all nasty requests will be whipped off here so fast it'll give ya whiplash.

Thanks in advance to all who reply. And to those who choose to reply in a less-than-gracious way, beware - my friend Babs is a voodoo practitioner, and she'll go bayou on your ass.

Thoughtful Thursday

First off, thanks ever so much to Miss Britt over at Ask and Ye Shall Receive for taking the time to honestly review my blog page. She gave many good pointers and much for me to think about. As a new blogger, I have so much to learn. Look for a new and improved B someday soon.

On to today's TT*. One of my favorite authors has to be Alexander McCall Smith. He is the fine fellow who has written the "No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" series, as well as "The Sunday Philosophers' Club" series, and the "44 Scotland Street" series. Today's poem comes at the end of "Love Over Scotland", as one of the characters gives a toast to a friend who has just come back from a mission abroad.

* A warning before you proceed. Make sure you're well-caffeinated, as this post is more that 2 lines long. If you don't have the patience for poetry, now would be a good time to leave. There will be no brevity, no swearing, nor any talk of vaginas - just bland, bland, bland - 24/7. So sorry - I guess you'll have to go elsewhere. Save yourselves!!


A Poem on the Subject of Maps:

“Although they are useful sources

Of information we cannot do without,

Regular maps have few surprises; their contour lines

Reveal where the Andes are, and are reasonably clear

On the location of Australia, and the Outer Hebrides;

Such maps abound; more precious, though,

Are the unpublished maps we make ourselves,

Of our city, our place, our daily world, our life;

Those maps of our private world

We use every day; here I was happy, in that place

I left my coat behind after a party,

That is where I met my love; I cried there once,

I was heartsore; but felt better round the corner

Once I saw the hills of Fife across the Forth,

Things of that sort, our personal memories,

That make the private tapestry of our lives.

Old maps had personified winds,

Gusty figures from whose bulging cheeks

Trade winds would blow; now we know

That wind is simply a matter of isobars;

Science has made such things mundane,

But love – that, at least, remains a mystery,

Why it is, and how it comes about

That love’s transforming breath, that gentle wind,

Should blow its healing way across our lives.”

Alexander McCall Smith

Worth a 1000 Words (at least)

Sshhhh. The Baroness has a little secret. Come closer to the monitor and I'll tell you. Here it is:

I'm a little lacking in the inspiration department lately.

As of late, to try and kickstart my wee little brain, I have been trying out some "theme" days. I know, I know. A creative crutch - but there you have it. I would choose to limp along than not walk at all. Thoughtful Thursday, How About That? on Saturdays. I've even started to dabble in Teacher Tuesdays. And let me tell you something - the two teachers I write about today have taught me more about life, character, values and relationships in their combined 33 years than I could ever have learned in my own 46 on the planet.

Those of you who have been visiting here for a while know that the Baroness is not one to usually use visual aids. They are not on the agenda; not my bag, man. I would much rather paint a picture in your mind's eye (I'll be careful; I know that the paintbrush could damage your cornea). I'd rather use words. Lots and lots and lots of words. But, after a rather strange and irksome dinner conversation with Duke 1 and Duke 2 recently, I thought it would be vastly more illustrative if I approached this subject in a different way. Here goes:

Most every day of the week, I look something like this:

This is not me, by the way
(although I wish I was on a beach somewhere...)

Yoga pants, a t-shirt, runners, a down-filled vest in winter. Pretty crunchy granola. If I have to be somewhere and have my game face on, I'll choose something like this:

Again, not me - but I do have these shoes (fierce- raWHr!)

To summarize where we are thus far. I'm either in yoga pants, or jeans. Nothing extraordinary, nothing particulary fashion forward. If I need to get my girly girl going on, I would choose something fairly classic, like one of these:

Yet my two beautiful sons somehow believe that every time I leave the house, I look like this:

(I am not, nor I have I ever been married to IceT)
(although I like to drink iced tea now and again...)

And they've told me that they would prefer that I look like this:

(check out the mismatched leggings - edgy!)

And act like this:





Or did they say I should look like this:




And act like this?

(note the fine crafting of the crocheted apron - I could definitely rock this...)

I really can't remember. I was kind of not listening - I was thinking about these:

(Mmmmmmmmmm.)

Maybe they're not such great teachers after all.

How About That?

Bonjour, dear readers! Happy Bunny Day to those who embrace the egg and all its symbolism, and to those who don't - Happy Sunday to you.

I apologize for not getting this post up yesterday - as usual, time just slipped away. On to the days ahead:

Sunday, March 23rd
Aside from the obvious - which involves the comestibles of hard-boiled eggs, chocolate, turkey or ham - were you aware that today is also National Chip & Dip Day? I've always felt the whole chip dip thing to be a little on the dubious side; this could have something to do with a flashback to the Baroness and some funky onion and chive concoction. Horrific. I shudder. And reflux a little.

Today you may also think to yourself, "Self, I'm heaving a huge sigh of relief, yet I do not know why." Let the Baroness illuminate. Because today is Near Miss Day. This day, in 1989, an asteroid came within a cosmic hair's breadth (that's 500,000 miles to us earth dwellers) of hitting us.

Need I connect the dots for you as to how to spend the evening? Ruffles. Sour Cream & Onion. Armageddon. Deep Impact*. Underground lair. Zoloft.

*Please note here that I am fully aware that this movie is about a comet, and not an asteroid. But they're similar, no? Except for the shape. And temperature. And maybe composition.

Monday, March 24th

There is, and always has been, a certain amount of tension in the von Bloggenschtern compound. For the Baron and I share very opposite yet definite opinions about the very thing that is celebrated today. I had to think long and hard as to whether or not to even acknowledge this day; to do so would be a win for the Baron (and we're so competitive - do I really want to do this?). But I must. For, dear readers, you might side with the Baron here, and your voice should be heard, loud and proud. Today, for you and your ilk out there (who may have allergies to the far-superior chocolate-covered peanut, or just questionable taste) it is National Chocolate Covered Raisin Day. Enjoy your shallow victory, Baron.

For the man who, while waiting at a stop light, opened his driver's door and spit onto the street, please be aware that today is also the UN's World Tuberculosis Day. And while I don't know for a fact that horking out clams onto the pavement is the starting point for this awful disease, I can't help but think that it isn't particularly sound practice in isolating germs. And it's beyond disgusting, and, and well - pandemical. Use a kleenex, for goodness sake. Then burn it. Am I asking too much?

On a less-phlegmatic note, it's also National Family Day. Take a moment to think of something positive about each member of your family. This in and of itself could possibly take all day.

By then, grateful yet exhausted, you'll need:

Tuesday, March 25th

National Sleep Day. Altogether, everyone: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Warm wishes for a wonderful upcoming week.

Posturepedically Yours,
The Baroness XO

Turn That Racket Down!

At dinner the other evening, I was illuminated by the von Bloggenschtern children regarding what they thought was age-appropriate behavior for a Baroness of my many years. Apparently, I don't measure up in this department, and my joyful and capricious spirit is not representative of my biological age (if these gentlemen have such definite ideas about women, their mother doesn't have the heart to tell them that they're in for a world of hurtin'). But, in deference to Duke 1, who thinks I should act "crotchety and sour" and should complain incessantly about anything and everything, here goes. Please be patient and bear with me as I adjust my dentures and take my arthritis medicine. Ahem:

" You there. Yes you - thuggish youth type who just drove up to the house 2 doors down in your souped up, mufflerless vehicle. If you were to actually take a moment and actually think about it, would you still maintain that all of us want to hear Kanye West blaring out the rolled-down windows of your car? Think again, dear. I know that you're at an age where you're asserting both your independence and your personality. Frankly, I don't care. What I know is that I was having a pleasant time out in my yard, doing my gardening until you burst on to the scene. Take your noise and go park it at some street meet like I saw in "The Fast and the Furious". Oh, one more thing before you get back into your car and peel out, may I just say that I think your hoody is about 20 sizes too big? Oh, and pull up your damn pants. I don't care to see where you bought your boxers from. What I do care about is that you're loud. That you're trying so hard to be ghetto in a middle-upper class suburb, and your true street cred sadly has approximately the same worth as mine where it matters. I care that you aren't being true to yourself, and your pretending is a silly, dangerous act. I do care that you might not have someone of influence in your life to tell you all of this.

I do care that I have to write this instead of telling you face to face how ridiculous you are acting and dressing, because I don't care to get stabbed or shot. "

How's that? Cranky enough for you, sonny? Now if you'll all excuse me - it's almost 4pm, and I have to get changed to be ready in time for the early bird special.

Thoughtful Thursday

In anticipation of the upcoming "Thoughtful Thursday" post, The Baroness decided (for once) to be a little prepared. So she started searching. She searched poetry.com. Nothing jumped out at her. She went to her "Great Thoughts" reference book. Not so great. She thought of her "Ex Libris" book - that would indeed have something. But it was in her 3rd floor study - too much of a schlep, and Jeeves was no where to be found to do said schlepping. Damn servant. So, she scanned her office bookshelf, and her eyes alit on a book near and dear to her heart. Not quite the book to get warm fuzzies from, but it has context and meaning to the Baroness. And it was the perfect springboard for today's post.

The book "Surviving Cancer", was given by a dear lady and is about another dear lady. It was just the touchstone I needed at the beginning of my walk, and was so very appreciated. In her introduction, Ms. Levine quoted Joseph Campbell (whom she referred to as "the famous mythologist"):

We must be willing to get rid of the life we have planned,
so as to have the life that is waiting for us

The fact she referred to him as a mythologist was intriguing, so I sought out something a little more substantial to share with you. But - story of my meandering life - instead of looking for Joseph Campbell, I somehow ended up at Joseph Conrad instead. A happy accident. Mr. Campbell, we'll save you for another day. Back to your mythologicking.

I found this to be appropos- for all of us who craft our posts day after day; for those of us who inspire, who cajole, who amuse. Think of the visual that Shining Egg created in her wonderful post - we are all a community.

Enjoy - and keep on keepin' on.

"You perceive the force of a word. He who wants to persuade should put his trust not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power of sound has always been greater than the power of sense. I don’t say this by way of disparagement. It is better for mankind to be impressionable than reflective. Nothing humanely great—great, I mean, as affecting a whole mass of lives—has come from reflection. On the other hand, you cannot fail to see the power of mere words; such words as Glory, for instance, or Pity. I won’t mention any more. They are not far to seek. Shouted with perseverance, with ardor, with conviction, these two by their sound alone have set whole nations in motion and upheaved the dry, hard ground on which rests our whole social fabric. There’s “virtue” for you if you like!… Of course, the accent must be attended to. The right accent. That’s very important. The capacious lung, the thundering or the tender vocal chords. Don’t talk to me of your Archimedes’ lever. He was an absent-minded person with a mathematical imagination. Mathematics commands all my respect, but I have no use for engines. Give me the right word and the right accent and I will move the world.

What a dream for a writer! Because written words have their accent, too. Yes! Let me only find the right word! Surely it must be lying somewhere among the wreckage of all the plaints and all the exultations poured out aloud since the first day when hope, the undying, came down on earth. It may be there, close by, disregarded, invisible, quite at hand..."

Joseph Conrad, preface to "A Personal Record"

Kleenex Clothes, or The Beginning of My Life of Procrastination

Dear Mrs. Couch:
I know you've long since passed, but I feel the need to apologize for being such a maniac to teach. Having now dealt with a few nutbar children myself, I realize what I must have put you through, and I am so very sorry. I am forever in admiration of your fortitude, and for your willingness to actually arise every morning and make the brave decision to come back to your classroom. You, more than a lot of other adults in my life, taught me what patience and nurturing meant, and I am eternally grateful for that. May you be content in whatever your heaven might be.
Sincerely,
The Baroness

I can still remember the look on Mrs. Couch's face as I regularly pulled my shenanigan o' the day. I know in my heart of hearts that deep down, she was amused. But on the surface, she was gruff and hard and pinched. This saintess was the Baroness' Grade 3 teacher, and the Baroness made that poor woman toil in earnest for every single penny of her meager teacher's wage. Taking into account that she was no spring chicken at the time, The Baroness no doubt also had some disturbing influence on her blood pressure and ulcer formation.

To say, non-chalantly, that I was a handful would be an understatement of the highest magnitude. I was by turns chatty, disruptive, noisy, sullen, anarchistic, and maddeningly individualistic. And poor, dear Mrs. Couch was saddled with me.

Not too long ago, the Baroness had a shower epiphany. Given the true nature of the word "epiphany" (look it up, lazybones), it's not entirely accurate, but you get the drift. I realized that the genesis of most of my less-than-flattering characteristics started in Grade 3. (Don't get me wrong here, as I plead for you to not think badly of the Baroness. I do have some good qualities as well). But, the sad truth is that most of my neuroses-fuelled shortcomings started around this time. It may have been coincidence. It may have been fated. Only God and Mrs. Couch know for sure. And neither one is talking; if she were still alive, Mrs. Couch would be approximately 115 years old. And it's hard to talk after 115 years. I get hoarse after a few hours.

So, what happened in Grade 3? Well, a handful of my fellow classmates and I were an "experiment" for our school district. At the end of Grade 2, we were assessed to skip Grade 4 and move directly into Grade 5. Grade 3 would be our "grooming" year. Enter Mrs. Couch. She had the onerous job of keeping us in line and on task. While others seemed to thrive on the extra work, I failed miserably. For example, I could not, for the life of me, get the whole concept of money. I didn't even get an allowance. Sure, I'd see it - but if I didn't have it, what use was it to learn about it? So, you're saying that there's one coin, but this coin is worth five coins. Hmm. But it's one coin. Where's the other four? My money issues have deep roots, people. Ask the Baron. Mrs. Couch tried. Yes she did. She had me in early after lunch for at least a month. I just didn't get it. When it was just the two of us, she had every opportunity to yell or throw chalk at me, or wing an eraser at my head. But she didn't. She just calmly, patiently kept going. She must have known that I was an experiment doomed to fail. But she tried. And I tried. Just not as hard as her.

What other charming trait did I develop? My procrastination skills. To this day, my own children sing their "Time Management Challenged Mom" song. (Isn't that lovely? To have a song written just for you?) Now, I do not know exactly why other people procrastinate, but I know why I do. Believe me when I say this - it's not because I don't care. It's not that I feel the need to put things off because I deem them to be unimportant. It's because I get distracted so very easily. All this became crystal clear on the lunch hour before my partner and I were supposed to present our project on Switzerland. I was in charge of clothing. But, in the 3 weeks we had to prepare, I was distracted. So I forgot. Until about 12:40 pm. That's when my mad Project Runway skills came into play. I decided I no longer had time nor the fabric to recreate the Swiss clothes that were in our book. So what crafty resource did I use? Yuh. I used Kleenex. Thankfully, mercifully, they stayed intact until our presentation. At which time, I could have sworn I saw Mrs. Couch's eyeball actually throb. Again, she remained calm. And waited until after school to let me know that my time management skills were sorely lacking.

To this day, I still have many of these "oh, crap, I forgot to do that" moments. But I am much better, thanks to the Baron taking up where Mrs. Couch left off. But I am still a work in progress.

By the way, did you see my new dress? It's 3 ply, and quite absorbent. Fierce.

A Room of One's Own

Firstly, to all of you getting your green on today, a hearty Happy St. Patrick's Day to you. Or, as they say in the Emerald Isle, Erin Go Put on a Bra.

While the Baroness realizes that it is rather ungracious to be wishing for another holiday, for just another schtickle of quiet time in a quiet room, for someone else doing the cooking, for the absence of an agenda, she is also very happy to report that - thanks to a suggestion by Dr. Jerald Block of the Oregon Health and Science University - this wish might just come true in the very near future. And on the government's dime, no less.

For you see, Dr. Block (a psychiatrist by trade) is suggesting that compulsive e-mailing and text messaging are gateway activities to dementia, and that some people may require medication or hospitalization. He also is pushing for any weirdness resulting from these activities to be included in the upcoming best-seller "Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders". This tome is apparently considered to be the dictionary of mental illness.

Now I'm no therapist (although I do enjoy a good shrinking from time to time - does wonders for the wrinkles), but I can't imagine that blogging mania is too far behind. And, based on the weirdness I create and read , I guess I'm near the front of the line for santuary, 3 squares a day, and potentially enough psychotropic drugs to fell a horse (because, contrary to what you may have heard, the Baroness is not a cheap drunk).

Why is something so very very interesting suddenly bad for us? How does connecting with like-minded (and polar opposite) people make one loopy? There is such potential in the blogosphere, & I've only just begun to scratch the surface. Don't yank this away from me just yet.

Take this fellow, for example. I discovered him yesterday after leapfrogging from blogroll to blogroll. His Great Interview Experiment aligns two unrelated bloggers in an arena that will shine a light on both of their talents. How great is that idea? How can either reading about or partaking in something that acknowledges people in a positive way be the basis for mental illness? You really must check him out and check out some of the interviews. Maybe even volunteer to do one. Let me tell you, he's really quite marvelous, darlings. And the Baroness knows her marvelous. Yes she does. Mmm hmm.

There's so much more out there to explore, and white fitted jackets be damned - I'm breaking out the machete and bejewelled pith helmet, and asking Jeeves to bring the Range Rover 'round and to summon the guide.

Because some days I feel like a nut, and some days I don't. Today, I'm positively macadamian.

How About That?

Greeting from chez Bloggenschtern, y'all. The Baroness has settled back in to everyday life again, and is trying very hard to re-establish routine. For, while no one is about to admit to anything without a hard chair, a bare lightbulb and a severe browbeating, I can only assume that chaos reigned supreme during my absence. If there had been a few stray typewriters around, a Shakespear-esque play could have perhaps been written. And that is entirely ok. Pandemonium and anarchy have a place. Just not anymore. And just not here. You see, the Baroness rules with an iron fist. Draped, of course, in a lovely robin's egg blue satin opera glove replete with diamond Hello Kitty ring. If one must rule, one must rule with style. Be in awe of me. And beware.

Saturday, March 15th
So Brutus and Julius Caesar are on an elevator, and they start fighting because Julius is taking too long to press the button for the floor. Brutus (who, if all accounts from Popeye are correct, is on steroids) gets disproportionately irate and stabs Caesar. "Et tu, Brute?", Julius cries out before collapsing. "No, you damn idiot", says Brutus, "I moved to A3 last month." Something other than the power of the Baroness' mad joke-telling skills (and with far more historical mojo) to beware of - The Ides of March. Not to be confused with the March of Dimes, which I believe also happens some time around now. It is said that the Ides bring funky things. There is evil vibe-y voodoo lurking around. Here's hoping that you were able to side-step this, or at least were able to get most of it off your shoe if it could not be avoided. Because really - the smell of voodoo can taint your whole world. Hence the warning.

For those who still have a hour or two left in the day for some pillow talk, today is also True Confessions Day. Embrace this opportunity to enlighten those around you about what really is going on. I would suggest that you choose your audience wisely, though - no lawyers or police present. Let's not be stupid here. Unburdening your soul = edgy, honest. Revealing the truth + detectives = 5 to 10, with chance of parole in 7.

Sunday, March 16th
When one is describing someone's features, there is a characteristic often overlooked. Today is the designated day for changing all of that - it's Lips Appreciation Day. The very thought of suggesting to you the many ways you could appreciate these fleshy wonders leaves me giddy. For those who can appreciate another's lips and vice versa -have at 'er. For those appreciating their own lips, treat yourself to an upscale version of lip balm. You are so worth it. Look at those! They're awesome. Especially when you do that thing. You know. How you keep the middle straight and turn up the ends? Magnificent.

"In a perfect world...". How many times have you wished for this? Well, I wave my magic wand and voila! For twenty-four whole hours, you get your wish. Today is also Everything You Do is Right Day. Perfect for teenagers and their parents alike. Because, in the unperfect world, teens can do no wrong, and their parents are ruining their lives on an hourly basis. Gawd-dah, mother! Enjoy this brief period of self-imposed bliss. Tommorrow we return to the regularly scheduled programming. Sigh.

If you are getting your Pinot Grigio on, or perhaps dining on a delightful PB &J sanny, there is a fine fellow to whom thanks are due. According to legend, a fine fellow by the name of St. Urho once chased the grasshoppers out of Finland, thereby saving their grape crops. I was not aware that Finland had a large grape industry, but there you have it. Today is St. Urho's Day - you're supposed to wear green (for the grasshoppers) and purple (for the grapes). Maybe you can just drink enough grape-related product until you're a little green around the gills. Close enough.

Monday, March 17th
Yeah, yeah. We know about that Patrick guy. He's a real saint. He's fouled up the beer supply and his eyes are smiling. There are other things going on as well, you know.

Like how about this? It's Submarine Day. Make a sandwich. Or fill your bathroom precariously close to the rim, and dive, dive, dive. Or watch Das Boot in a closet (to get that heady airless feeling). So many ways to celebrate.

Were you aware that it's also the anniversary of the invention of the rubber band (1845)? Just think for a minute about all the myriad of activities that can be done with a rubber band. Can your St. Patrick propel a balsa wood plane, or cut off the circulation to your finger, or bundle up a pile of old love letters?

Hmm. Thought not.

Thoughtful Thursday

Greetings, dear readers! I'm back today, with a little more sleep under my belt, far less cranky than yesterday, and rarin' to start the day anew and refreshed. Today's little jaunt to the library reminded The Baroness of one of her favorite quotes. What I love even more is that these bon mots are artfully embedded into the floor directly inside the entrance to the library, to remind one and all who enter there the joy and merriment to be found in literature:

Outside a dog, a book is man's best friend.
Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.
Groucho Marx

Enjoy your Thursday - may you have the opportunity today to spend at least 15 minutes curled up with a good read.

As an aside - what are you reading?

Did They Find You a Kidney?

You there. Yes, you. You at the mall, the movie, the meeting, the synagogue, the airplane. Are you in the Top 10 on the transplant list? Are you afraid that, if you're away from your home number, you would miss a call that could potentially save your life? If so, I apologize for thinking that you are a obnoxious buffoon with an inflated self-worth that gets exponentially higher every time your phone goes off (with that incredibly annoying ring tone).

If you're not waiting for a call for your new:
a) liver
b) kidneys
c) lungs
d) brain

get off your damn phone, already.

The Baroness is of the steadfast belief that any wonderment of technology - while initially intended for the good of all mankind - is, without exception, a double-edged sword. The (mis)use of cell phones is a perfect example of a how a once-fantastic elitist tool for communication has become the great equalizer of the masses. They have a phone, so we get a phone. Your phone has internet capabilities? Mine has a 5 gig camera. What once kept us apart now keeps us both on even footing. Yet the quality of the conversation is still in no way equal. Far be it from the Baroness to rate your conversation, but let me ask one question - is what you are talking about at this very moment necessary? Think about it.

See Mr. Businessman over there at the airport? Wheeling, dealing, setting up appointments, getting his very important messages from his personal secretary? Trading stocks on his Blackberry? Wired-in, productive, making things happen? He is using this piece of equipment properly.

See Mr. Lard-Butt Wanna Be in front of you in line, yakking away on his phone? What's he talking about? About how he had this amazing epiphany in the shower this morning, and has almost figured out the synthesis process for curing cancer? No. Maybe he's talking about this great idea he had that will bring an entire small-town community together to make care packages to send to the US troops abroad. Nope, not that either. He's talking to his buddy about how wasted he got last night, and how his golf game sucked today because of it. Not only is he talking - ABOUT NOTHING - he's made sure that he's in an arena where all of us poor suckers waiting to board the plane get to enjoy the pleasure of hearing his side of the conversation. How fascinating his life is to us. How important he must be, talking on his phone until the last possible moment. How much do I hate this guy?

For me, a cell phone is a communication device, pure and simple. I don't need to chitchat - I need to either get, receive, or exchange information in the most efficient way & in a timely fashion. I sure as hell don't need to be talking in a place where everyone and their dog can hear me (while I do have regal tendencies, I'm not quite pompous enough to think that everyone wants to hear my every word).

But there are so many people out there who feel the need to yik yak everywhere, all the time. Why, why, why?? What is so very wrong with waiting anymore? Of waiting that extra 1 hour or 2 to actually meet the person face to face and have a lovely conversation? Isn't that so much better? In an era of instant gratification and entitlement, it appears that a lot of people equate being always-accessible to being "important".

Here's my unsolicited advise to those who love to talk loud and proud and endlessly - if you want to feel important, do something important.

Just stop talking about it.

Dallas, We Have a Problem

Oh where, oh where has my suitcase-y gone,

Oh where, oh where can it be?

To be honest, at this very moment, I do not have a frickin' clue. When the travelling sages would tell the Baroness that she should take a toothbrush and clean underwear in her carryon, the Baroness would guffaw. Chortle. Mock. Judge (repeat as needed). What kind of crackpot bumpkin peasant would she be, carrying girly drawers in her purse? Gawd. And then it happened. 5 planes and 3 airlines later, I arrived at my destination, sans baggage. Well, there's that unresolved stuff with my father, but that in and of itself won't brush my teeth. Try as I might, I can in no way fashion pajamas out of my laptop. Although - I did craft a fabulous origami bra out of my Yoga Journal magazine.

What complete moron chose Savannah anyways? Oh yeah, that would be me. I'm sure it will be a lovely city to visit - at least according to the bang-up job the tourism bureau does on their website. It's just that right now, given all the crap I've dealt with to get here, it better be pret-ty farging amazing, with Targets resembling Neiman Marcus, and an easy-access Walgreens so I can replenish my non-existent toiletries. Paula Deen herself better be tappin' on my hotel door (y'all) to deliver my room service. Scratch that. Send one of her sons instead. Then everything will be even.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm still thrilled beyond belief to be able to spend some girly time with my sister. Huge, huge, massive thanks to Mr. American Airlines ticket counter guy who pawned me off to Delta Airlines. A big warm embrace to Herb at Delta, who somehow got me on standby out of Dallas, to sweet Allen at the gate, who actually managed to get me on the plane, and to the pilots, who decided to take off from Dallas when the rest of the airport was shutting down from the snowstorm. This is a trip that was obviously meant to be, and through the effort of some fine individuals who spent most of yesterday being crapped on, I'm here and truly grateful to you all.

Some random thoughts I jotted down while on various planes yesterday:

1. In all the years I watched "Dallas" on tv, I never recall it snowing on Southfork. WTF? Did JR and Sue Ellen use all of their ill-gotten booty on some sort of biodome?

2. "Last Call" for boarding a plane surprisingly does not bring about the same emotions as "Last Call" at a bar.

3. An apology to all the seat-pee-ers at the airport - in a desperate toilet fly-by between planes, it became clear to me how some flushing may get overlooked (note here that I said it became clear. This in no way implicates me in said eww-ness). The odds are still astronomical that this happens so often that no matter when I fly, I'm in the stall immediately following the toilet seat tinklers. I still do not grant pardons to areas other than the airport - you know who you are.

4. If, for whatever reason, in some far-fetched skewed reality I were to be on "Amazing Race" - I would be a cryer. Or at the very least, a whiner. It's a fact I'm not too proud of, but there you have it. I'm so not cut out for guerilla travel. I'm in awe of you all who must zigzag back and forth across the country for business. You are made of strong mettle. I, on the other hand, am made of marshmallows and feathers and resemble a quavering house of cards.

5. One of the flight attendants reminds us that, "overhead space is shared space." Yeah, she's talking to you, Mr. Jerk in 10A, who spends 10 minutes trying to Tetris not only his 2 suitcases into the overhead bin, but I believe also a live chicken.

6. I notice that the food truck loading comestibles onto the place boast the logo "Pride in Quality". Hmm. When sir, exactly, were you last proud?

7. Where did I read that "keep hydrated" advice? In Style? New England Journal of Medicine?

This theory only works if you are in close proximity to one of the paltry few airplane lavoratories and have also slipped the flight attendant a 20 upon boarding that will maybe earn you VIP access. Young supermodels who can keep hydrated = bladder of a camel. Older, menopausal frumps - bladder capacity of a thimble. (Mental note - maybe a 100 instead. $20 may come across as cheap instead of desperate.)

* Note from the Baroness - I had to come back and format this post - for some reason, I couldn't get it to work on my laptop, and the non-justified paragraphs and clumped-together paragraphs were driving me mental.

Thoughtful Thursday

For once in her life, The Baroness is actually early with something. Please excuse me for just a moment as I defibrillate the Baron. He's not used to such pre-organization from yours truly. I mean really - my talents lie in much grander arenas than that of planning ahead. Yech. Just the thought makes me shudder slightly.

I found the little gem for this week's TT in the discount bin of the local bookstore. These idiots have no conception of the wonders they're tossing away. Not that I was bargain-hunting or anything like that, I was just, er, passing by (yeah, that's it, passing by...) and it caught my eye. Looking through this little gem far surpasses reading any Reader's Digest/Cliff Notes version of the classics to get to the seed of the plot. For you see, dear readers, this clever fellow David M. Bader, in "Haiku U." , has taken many well-known pieces of literature and distilled the storyline down into one single, elegant passage.

Talk about economy of thought. The oh-so-verbose Baroness could definitely learn a thing or three. Here we go with the summary of Henry David Thoreau's classic work:

Walden, or, Life in the Woods

Morning: Pond-gazing.

Afternoon: Berry-Picking.
What a hectic day.

I hope the tail end of your week does not rush by you at the same harrowing pace as life on Walden Pond. Happy Thursday and Friday, dear readers.

She's So Hot Right Now

A little while back, the Baroness had the good fortune of being treated with a visit from Countess JBL (of the Rive Noir principality). She was on her way to her annual family reunion, and as the von Bloggenschtern compound is so close to the airstrip, she decided to stay for a day and catch up before grabbing her connecting flight.

As we got into the back of the Bentley for her departure, I commented on how great she looked in her cute travelling outfit. "Thanks," she said, "it's all cotton". As if this had some magical significance. She must have noticed that I wasn't exactly bowled over by her fabric selection, so she added this innocuous little qualifier, "so that if that plane catches fire, my clothes won't melt on to my body." Wow. Cheery thought, that. Bon voyage, have a good flight, and stay clear of the polyestered granny in your row. She'll go up like a fireball. Especially with all that hairspray.

But here I am, packing up for another foray into the South United States of Amuur-cka, and guess what? I'll be wearing cotton. Don't want to jinx anything. Oh, and in the too much information category, I have neglected any defoliation processes for at least a week. I figure the the hair gives me an extra layer of protection. In case... ya know.

It should be four days of fabulosity with the Countess of Chit Chat, and I will endeavour to keep in touch (when I'm not out stalking Paula Deen and sons) (or in a fried chicken coma at some off-the-beaten path roadside) (or hiding in the car during the Countess' proposed midnight graveyard tour).

Bye for now, y'all!!

Affectionately,
The Baroness

PS to Countess NATUI: Rest assured that one of my upcoming travel-rama posts will be regarding the afore-mentioned travel etiquette (or lack thereof). I just need to gather a little more information. And, since I'll be travelling most of tomorrow to get across 2 countries, I'll have plenty of time for subversive observation...

Let's Face the Music and Prance

Yet again, the Baroness is a little conflicted, dear readers. She so-o-o-o wants to confess something. At the same time I'm worried that once I pick away at the thread that begins to reveal my little secrets, I will be standing before you with nothing left to offer but some stretch marks and a uber-sexy 10 inch scar (scars are sexy, right?) . I have grave concerns that my carefully crafted mystique will erode exponentially. Ah, what the hell. It's Monday, it's raining, and I think it's time to shine some light on another of the Baroness' little quirks.

Here goes. I love, love, LOVE dance movies. And when I say dance movies, here I am in no way, shape, or form particular about the quality. I do draw the line at movies depicting dancing of the mattress/horizontal variety. Don't get me wrong - these cinematic gems have their place. They're just not my bag, man. Barring these, anything else is fair game. "Shall We Dance?". "Take the Lead". "Stomp the Yard". Yesterday, for example, the good Countesses KR and Felicitas and I went to go see "Step Up 2 - The Streets". KR is my guilty pleasure companion - we try to see a movie every couple of weeks that no one else would dare to - with the theater to ourselves, it's almost like having our own private screening. Oh, the irony.

So what is it, exactly, that has me tapping my toes and chair crumpin'? It's the music, the vitality, and the incredible physicality of it all. We admire things we cannot do but wish we could. I love watching them pop and hip hop, and do things with their bodies that seem utterly impossible to you and I. Well, maybe not you - you, too, may be keeping secrets from me. But definitely I.

Part of the reason for the movin' groovin' lovefest is that it's accessible. Anyone who lays out their money can watch. Rumour has it that in some of the more metropolitan cities, you can even watch for free - there's a show somewhere on the street any time of the day or night. It is an expression of joy and freedom, of confidence and spirit - by the people, for the people.

Contrast this with the hoity-toity ballet I had the "priveledge" of attending a few weeks ago. For some reason, whenever I think ballet, I always have in my head that it will classical, of the Swan Lake variety. I completely zone out that there is such a thing as the dreaded "Modern" ballet. Ack. Now, I consider myself to be a fairly intelligent woman. A well-read woman. A thinking woman. All that seems to mean absolutely nothing when one attends a modern ballet. I admit I am not conversant in this language. What I want to know is this - is modern dance intended to make the average audience member feel like a complete moron, with the cultural sophistication of a cave-dweller beating a rock with a pterodactyl bone? Is this the great litmus test of the elite, the dividing wall between the patrons and the artless?

Nowhere in the evening's programme did we receive any clue as to the intent of the choreographer. Sure, I learned about the titles of his other works, and other non-informational items (Mentors. Hopes. Dreams. Favorite Baryshnikov codpiece). What I really wanted was one of those headphones, where some soft, soothing British accent would guide me through the dance. Why were different women wearing different colored costumes? Why was that one particular dancer segregated from the rest? Did this depict violence in 15th century Latvia? Was that gesture a metaphor for man's inhumanity to man? Would it have killed them to put in a single line about what the piece was actually about? Apparently so. And there I sat, feeling utterly stupid, investing 2 hours of my life that I won't get back. I wondered at the end of the evening, if the audience was polled, how many would actually know what they just saw? Or is it a case of the Emperor's New Tutu? No one knows, but no one is willing to give up a thing.

Unlike me. I give up. Gladly. Give me "Step Up 3 - Electric Boogaloo" anytime. That, and some pro-biotic yogurt are all the culture I need.

How About That?

Dear Readers (and I use a capital "R" here, as you are all so important to me)! The Baroness has returned from the oh-so-successful land of public service announcements, and is back to the oh-so-meaningful world of holidays we often overlook. In the interest of time (and apparent enthusiasm), I will keep the list brief. The vonB villa is in need of a little sprucing before yours truly once again goes off to gallivant; I know, boo frickin' hoo for me. The great vonB outdoors also beckons, and to quote my prairie ancestors, we really must make hay while the sun shines. Nelly.

Ready for planning your Sunday and Monday? Here we go...

Sunday, March 2nd

Step one-open egg. Step two. Take out gloopy mass. Step three. Press said gloop onto colored comic books. Step four. Make Charlie Brown's already globule-shaped head into a even more bloated, contorted depiction. Step five. Laugh uproariously. Step six. Wet pants. Yes, today is the birthday of Silly Putty. Far from the original flesh-colored plastic that my generation knew and loved, it now comes in a variety of colors, and far from the uneducated bumbling that we went through (also know as creativity and learning), thanks to the introduction of the internet, current generations can be edu-macated in the fine art of the putty at Silly Putty U. I will be applying on-line today for my doctorate. Wish me luck.

Which one of you remembers this line? "THREE TREE. Three fish in a tree. Fish in a tree? How can that be?" Or perhaps you can recall a personal favorite of the Baroness, "BIG Q. little q. What begins with Q? The quick Queen of Quincy and her quacking quacker-oo"? (Did you all know that I'm related to the Queen of Quincy? By marriage, of course, but still.) What about "The Grinch that Stole Christmas". Does that ring a bell? I can say with certainty that unless you spent your formative years under a rock, you will have come across the scribings of the man who was born this day in 1904. Yup, Dr. Seuss. Or as his mom called him when he was in trouble - Theodor. Theodor Geisel. Take a trip down memory lane at the Seussville website. And while today is "National Banana Cream Pie Day", may I suggest an entree of Green Eggs and Ham? Always a good time for that breakfast, I say.

Monday, March 3rd
Ring, ring. Hello? Hello? There's nothing but strange static on the other end of the line. Whoever could be calling? Spirits of the netherworld? Time travellers from a parallel universe? No, it's just Macy's telling me about their umpteenth sale of the month. Where would our favorite people in the world, telemarketers, be if it weren't for the hard work of Alexander Graham Bell, born this day in 1847? Speaking of parallel universes, why is it never dinnertime on your end when you decide to call me? Huh. Yet another of the great 21st century mysteries.

The next two celebrations could be construed as related - "33 Flavors Day (the birthday of Baskin-Robbins), and "I Want You to Be Happy Day".

For goodness sake, stop your crying and eat your ice cream.

Butt Really, Darling....

Happy March, dear readers! After perusing past posts, and analyzing my fellow bloggers, the Baroness has realized that she may have been a little remiss in disclosure about who she is, and what it's all about, Alfie. Truth of the matter is that I'm much better in writing than conversing, and while I love, love, love to read blogs where they just lay it all out there, I cannot believe that someone would even be vaguely interested in my crap, and I'm a little skittish about being very forthcoming. But today, I am literally willing to spill my guts. Or part of them, anyways. To offer a glimpse into the world of the Baroness and the vonBloggenschtern villa, we're a winning combination of high-brow, with liberal dollops of low-brow thrown in. We are conversant in both French and fart jokes, and things gross and poopy are very familiar territory for us. We have seen the dark side, you see, and lived to tell the tale. The gaseous, bootylicious tale.

It's funny how in the world of internet chit-chat, a semi-colon and a bracket ;) infer some sort of sly inside joke or a secret. In another world that the Baroness travels in, the semi-colon refers to the secret club that tells of one's insides - that you've have part of your colon removed. In my case it was a mere 10 inches, due to colon cancer. March is Colon Cancer Awareness Month, and the following is part of a presentation I gave last March - I thought I'd share it with you, in hopes that you might send it along to the ones you love. For those of you here for "How About That?", do not despair; it will return tomorrow. For those of you ready for a stonkin' good crapload of valuable information, read on, McButt.

I would like to start with a little game. Here goes. Name this planet:

If you guessed Uranus, you're correct! Treat yourself to a high-fibre cereal and some fruit!

So today's topic is Uranus. Well, Uranus, my anus, everyone's anus.

You may or may not know this, but March is Colon Cancer Awareness Month. You also may or may not know that in August of 2006, I was diaganosed with Stage II colon cancer, and have had radiation, surgery, and chemotherapy to treat it. I'm hoping that by the end of this chat, you will be just a little more aware, and hopefully feel compelled to make an appointment to get screened. Oh, and that you'll tell 2 friends. And they'll tell 2 friends. And so on. And so on.

And so on.

Colon Cancer has the second highest fatality rate behind lung cancer, although it's also one of the most curable cancers with early detection. It's an equal opportunity disease - the rates of occurrence are nearly the same for men and women. There's a myth that colon cancer only affects older people. The fact is, while the median age is 62, risks start rising at 40 years of age. And there is an increasing number of cases of people under 50 with no known risk factors (I was 45 when diagnosed). Another myth is that colon cancer occurs only in people with a family history. The truth is that approximately 75% of all new cases occur in people with no known risk factors for the disease.

It's sometimes referred to as a "silent" cancer, as the symptoms may not appear until the cancer has progressed significantly. If they do appear, indicators such as fatigue, abdominal pain, bloating or changes in bowel movements can mistakenly be attributed to other conditions such as ulcers, gallstones, hemorrhoids or reactions to certain foods. In doing so, early detection can be missed. This leads to a strong argument for getting screened as soon as possible. While most doctors won't suggest screening before the age of 50, if any of the above symptoms seem significant to you, you should insist on a colonoscopy immediately. You know your body better than anyone else.

Another factor that makes people hesitant to take the first step is the stigma surrounding the screening process. Even though I knew something wasn't quite right "back there" (or in Scarlett language, the Sea Captain had a nosebleed), I felt incredibly embarrassed about having to bring up the subject to my GP. But I knew it had to be done. Something just wasn't right, and I finally conceded that it wasn't going away on its own.

After the barrage of tests I've been through, I can assure you that a colonoscopy itself is not so bad (given the alternatives). Everyone involved is a complete professional, although why they chose this particular profession will always remain a mystery to me. I liken the colonoscopy staff to spelunkers - they're really not too interested in how the cave looks from the outside; they're far more interested in what's actually inside the cave.

Humour, they say, is the best medicine. I can personally assure you that without it, you are sunk. So here are a few ice-breakers that could ease your tension, and - dare I say it? - tight-assedness:

Ice-Breaker #1: "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"

Ice-Breaker #2: "You know, in Arkansas, we're now legally married."

Ice-Breaker #3: "Hey, now I know how a Muppet feels!"

Ice-Breaker #4: "Doctor, let me know if you find my dignity"

All kidding aside, I urge each and every one of you to make an appointment for a baseline colonoscopy. You may feel great discomfort at taking this step, but knowledge is power, dear readers, and this only takes one day of your life. Listed below are resources that I found to be extremely helpful.

Thank you so much for your time, and as we semi-colons say(keeping with the solar system theme): Prevent Colon Cancer - Moon a doctor!

Affectionately Yours,
The Baroness ;)

Web Resources

American Cancer Society www.cancer.org

National Cancer Institute www.cancer.gov

Canadian Cancer Society www.cancer.ca

Colorectal Cancer Association of Canada: www.colorectal-cancer.ca

Colorectal Cancer Alliance: www.ccalliance.org

Books

Pezim, Michael E. and Owen, David, The Intelligent Patient Guide to Colorectal Cancer, Intelligent Patient Guide Publishing, 2005 (ISBN 0-9696125-7-5)

Pochapin, Mark Bennett, What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Colorectal Cancer, Warner Books, 2004 (ISBN 0-446-69412-6)