In a Manner of Speaking...

Before the Baroness begins, let me first say that I do not wish to offend anyone. I'm merely puzzled, and thought that my ever-so-helpful readership could help me out. I realize that I may be opening a gargantuan can of worms with this, but I'll brace myself for the fallout, and let the worms wiggle where they may.

My question:

Why, oh, why in the United States (note here that I do not say "North America"), when someone is thanked for something or other, is the response consistently, "Uh huh"?

I have been all around the States, and nothing seems to have influence over the response of the "Thankee" - geographical location, education, economic strata, age. It's always the same - "Uh huh."

I acknowledge that our pucker-butt Canadian standard, "You're Welcome" - when deconstructed - really doesn't make a lot of logical sense. Really.

"Thank you for pinning me down for 2 hours and giving me that root canal."

"You are welcome."

Huh? OK, I agree - it's kind of silly and over the top. Welcome for what?

"You are welcome (to come back to my highly overpriced dental office any old time for unneccessary procudures)."

But it's what I've heard my entire life and it's what I would consider to be polite. And by and large, we Canucks are all about the politeness.

So why is it that everytime I hear "Uh Huh" I'm checking for slack jaws and toothless grins? Looking for a sign that I'm not knee-deep in hillbilly country? Listening for banjos?

My fellow North Americans, please illuminate. Baroness von Manners has to know.

How About That?

Bonjour, bonjour! The Baroness welcomes you to another fascinating weekend installment of the 'How About That?'.

A note of apology here. As I was "researching" my holidays for last weekend, it became clear that my resource was quite off with their dates. While they got the organization of the months correct (there are still 12, right?), they may be slightly off with the calendar year.

Surprisingly enough, it is somewhat difficult to find accurate information on the internet. Who knew? I must admit I didn't look too far - that would fall into the realm of investigative journalism, and B von B don't pay those union dues. Too much work; I wouldn't want to take food out of the mouths of say, Maury Povich or Stone Phillips.

So I ask a small favor of you all. Please consider these to be arbitrary dates - don't get too bogged down with details like facts. Expand your definition of truth a little. Get loosey-goosey with days of the week. Do that for me, and this will all work out quite nicely for all involved. Agreed? Splendid. Moving on:

Sunday, April 27
"Rural Life Sunday". This was clumped together with "Soil Stewardship Day". So it apparently involves appreciating the good folk who work the earth. Like these two:

Ambassadors for
Happiness through Agriculture

All you city-fied peeps, don your overalls, get your Green Acres on and at least go out for a drive in the fresh (manure-scented) air of the country. Ahhhhh. Breathe it in. And then, for god's sake, roll up the windows and let's get the hell out of here. There's a sale on at Nordstrom's.

Monday, April 28th
Although a rung or two lower on the aesthetic ladder than say, oh I don't know - pugs, this is "Bulldogs are Beautiful Day". I mean, how could one not glimpse the artisanry that went into this and not be appreciative?

Can I get an "Awwww?"

Or this?

Obviously pandering to the camera.
Slut.

Tuesday, April 29th
In order to keep balance and harmony in the feline and canine worlds, I will point out that today is:

"National Hairball Awareness Day"

I believe that most cat owners are well aware of when a hairball is about to make an appearance, but perhaps this day was established to bring awareness to new methods for cleaning/burning the carpet, or of late-breaking disposal techniques. Or how to quell the sympathetic gag reflex when hearing this happening at the end of the comforter at 3 am.

Wednesday, April 30th
For the sake of your appearance, and for the potentially long time frame required to remedy any "accidents", please mark in your Daytimer that today is "Hairstylist Appreciation Day". And by "appreciation", I think that they mean "exceedingly generous monetary acknowledgement". Should you choose to disregard the warnings, I have 3 words for you.

Flock. Of. Seagulls.

Have a rewarding week, everyone!!

Affectionately,
The Baroness


.

Categorically, Friend

~ A friend in need is a friend indeed~

~Friends for a reason, friends for a season, friends for a lifetime...~

~A friend is a present you give yourself~

Bleccch.

Ptooey.

I hate these platitudes. Mostly, sadly, because - as precious and cloying as they are, they do have a fundamental grain of truth to them. And I so hate when hackneyed old adages become self-fulfilling prophecies. Because, really. It completely undermines my (perceived) sense of total knowledge and control. Over. Everything.

The categorization of friends is a tricky one, and a sacred cow that the Baroness tries to give wide berth to. Please understand, I have more than my share of reason-, season-, and lifetime friends, and I wouldn't trade these chicas for all the Godiva Dark Chocolate Cherries* in the world (although, if you should feel compelled to bribe me with confections, I might not say no).

But.

Something's been picking away at me. Something about why friends are friends. Something about the line between casual acquaintance and beloved friend, and that grey area in between.

How is that line is crossed over, and by whom? Can it be crossed over, back and forth, time and again? Whose responsibility is it to stride that barrier? If one person takes the leap from acquaintance to friend, and the other lags behind, what then? How is this reconciled?

If it were to somehow be quantified by the scientific community, we would find that the effort exerted to be polite - especially when it is not in our nature to do so - burns a hell of a lot of calories.

It is, then, a puzzlement to me as to why I am not mistaken more often for the unknown triplet sibling of Mary Kate & Ashley. Because I have been on the dance floor doing the Politeness Minuet for far too long, and people - I am tired.

I'm tired of not asking the questions I really want to, because it could be construed as judgmental or prying.

I'm tired of not saying the bilious, vitriolic things I really want to say, because I would come off as a first class hag.

I'm tired of trying to hold my bottom jaw nearer to the top, when all it wants to do is drop open at the sheer stupidity of things said or deeds done.

I'm tired of backflipping, headstanding, cheerleading and acting the court jester for the mopey and blue, because that is the right thing to do.

I'm tired of bad manners, and insensitivity and general carelessness.

Screw the right thing, the kind thing, the proper thing. I'm tired of it all. And at this point, I could care less if I am thought of less.

One of my dearest friends is my dearest friends for the very reason that we each can show each other the good. The bad. And the irksome. It's very liberating. I can call her anytime on her crap, and she feels free to do the same (I think she secretly delights in this). Regardless, I respect that. It invigorates me.

What tires me out is the recent realization that all those old adages are true (damn it, you old people, for being smarter than me).

There are basically two categories of friends:
1. The No-Holds-Barred Buddy, and

2. TheTreading-Lightly-Oops-I-Didn't-Mean-To-Hurt-Your-Feelings-by-Saying-Hi-In-The
Wrong-Tone-of-Voice Associate

The odd thing is, I have met #1's in the last few months that could potentially be life long friends. And I've know scads of #2's, where the nature of the relationship is stuck in the primordial ooze, never to evolve. How many #1's do you know? How many #2's? Have you mistaken 2's for 1's? Are you tired like me? Are you through with your dancing? Rest your feet, doll - I'm cooking up a plan.

The Baroness doth declareth: I think it's high time to schmush up these two categories into one.The Number Ones will love it. Who doesn't want a little nicety thrown in with the candor and disclosure every once in a while?

And the Number Twos? Well, the name kind of speaks for itself.


* Re: Godiva Dark Chocolate Cherries. This offering could help just about anyone climb up the friendship ladder.

Like a bullet.

If bullets climbed ladders.

Thoughtful Thursday

My, my, my. Oh, how the Baroness' life is filled with secrets.

Here's the latest spill for you - I've recently become re-acquainted with an old love. Even now, every word uttered, every phrase turned makes me weak at the knees. I remember the passion I initially felt - the awe, the lightheadedness, the giddy afterglow. And guess what? It's no different this time around. Nothing has changed.

The beauty of which I speak? It's a book. But no, no, no, no. Not just any book. It's Ex Libris, by Anne Fadiman, and it is a thing to behold - not only for the exquisite essays of Miss F, but by the volume of notes and underlining I did throughout. I (almost) never write in books - such bourgeoisie manners. But I couldn't help myself.

Today's TT comes from its second essay, "The Joy of Sesquipedalians". I will give you a list of words that had me itching to find out their meaning. I doubt if any ordinary human bean could ever find opportunity to pepper their everyday conversations with these, but they are fascinating nevertheless, and a gateway to becoming the equivalent of a Scrabble Jedi Master* (*note here you will be despised; this is the toll to be paid for word glory. With great vocabulary comes great responsibility, it does.)

Here we go:
(For God's sake, indulge me [yet again], would you? You have to read all the way to the bottom of the list - there's a challenge!)

monophysite
mephitic
calineries
diapason
grimoire
adapertile
retromingent
perllan
cupellation
adytum
sepoy
subadar
paludal
apozemical
camorra
ithyphallic
adcalde
aspergill
agathodemon
kakodemon
goetic
opopanax

I challenge you, dear clever readers that you are, to send along a sentence with the word in the appropriate context. Or better yet, make up your own definition! It might be fun. Word.

Triple Word, even.

!

Whoa! Wednesdays

True story - I kid you not.

Today, on my daily rounds, I found a munched up penny lying in the curb. And picked it up.

And when I got home, the amazing art of muralist Eric Grohe was waiting in my mailbox for me to share with you.

BEFORE
Mount Carmel Health System building
Columbus, Ohio

AFTER
Same side of building
(click to enlarge)



BEFORE
Miller Brewing Company
Milwaukee, Wisconsin


AFTER
(click to enlarge)


AFTER
(click to enlarge)

For more of this fine gentleman's other work, go to his website here.

Lucky me. Lucky you.

The View From Here

Every morning, the Baroness plops her regal tush down and ponders. What could I possibly write today that makes any difference at all?

Some days, the words flow with ease and effortlessness. Other days, I sit. And sit. And as I sit, and begin to panic, and my eyes dart around the room in my charming distractable way, I always am, without fail, drawn like a magnet to this postcard which has been tacked to my inspiration board for years and years:

Child on Forest Road
1958
Photograph by Wynn Bullock

As I begin to get lost within the picture, my normally anxious nature quiets. One would think that the opposite would occur, given the enormity of the landscape versus the weensiness of the toddler. But no.

In a catalogue from one of his 2002 exhibits, there is a description that sums it up beautifully:

"...he presents humanity without sin in a
world without danger"

For an opportunity to view more of his work, go here.

As you wander through your day, may you discover wonder and exploration, nature and stillness.

Alexander the Great

I remember fondly the times when my Californian aunt would return to the fold to visit us in our humble little suburban rancher. I felt as though royalty had descended upon us - I didn't know why she would deign to come, but I was sure thrilled when she did. From many an afternoon in the beauty salon with my mom, I had been indoctrinated in the ways of Hollywood; so to me, my aunt was the personification of all things movie star glamourous.

She was a prairie girl who had escaped the confines of small town living, and was making up for lost time. For lounging around the house, she wore kitten-heeled slippers with pom poms on the toes, for her bedtime routine she had flowing chiffon peignoir sets. She had a train case (remember them?) full of lotions, potions, and perfume. She was the epitome of style.

Now? She's 86, and I'm beginning to refer to her as The Messenger of Death.

Because every time she calls, it's to tell me about another relative who has passed. She, as the oldest living sibling of the clan, has had this position foisted upon her. Yesterday, she called to tell me about the passing of my weird and wonderful Uncle Alec.

To the outside world, my uncle was somewhat of an eccentric hermit. Sure, he lived the front half of his adult life in a socially "normal" way - as a family man with wife and kids. But eventually, the girls grew and left home, his wife divorced him, and the second half began. He chose to live alone, in a monastic outbuilding on his farm, with his herd of cows. He was very skittish in public places; from what I recall, he did not do well in crowds, and outwardly appeared to be brusque. Terse. Dismissive.

But to those of us who really knew him, he was none of those things. He was a fraternal twin with my Uncle Bob, and they could not have been more different from each other. Bob was lithe and quiet, Alec was solid and chatty. When the two of them were in a room together, it was only a matter of time before Alec's incessant chattering would drive Bob out. How they shared a womb for 9 months defies medical explanation.

When I was around 11, we went to spend part of a summer with Alec and his wife. Throughout the time we were there, I followed Alec around like a puppy. Farm life was novel and exciting to this city girl, and I think I badgered him with questions from dawn until dusk. He never lost his patience, and he always answered me with respect and thoughtfulness. Perhaps he had a soft spot for me as I was the only other relative who could keep up with his jabber, word for word. I could not get enough of this guy.

I was growing up with a father who barely spoke, and never revealed anything at all about his years of childhood. In sharp and exciting contrast, Alec was an open book, who would ramble on about his experiences on the farm as a boy. No question was too intrusive or prying. I was exhilarated.

Alec was a fisherman, replete with cabin on the lake, and instilled in me a love of fishing that I still have today. He taught me about boat safety (be careful, but don't be nuts), how to start a motor and drive the boat(don't go too fast or you'll stall), and where to find the best conditions (deep and still waters work best) . In retrospect I see that, in his basic prairie way, he was teaching me a lot more than fishing. Because as we're all aware, rod and reel enthusiasts or not, here is an activity teeming with metaphor. I regret not having more time out on the water with him.

A few days ago, the fine words of Blog Antagonist caressed over the notion of windows - how if we were to look through the windows of people's lives, what would we see? What interior events would be illuminated so that we could observe some soul-shaping moments?

This concept, together with my uncle's passing, has that one thought looping over and over in my mind - how one person's life can be perceived so differently from two groups of people - those on the outside looking in, and those who have the privilege to already be on the inside, sharing the weird and wonderful with love and understanding.

And, while it's easy enough to look through a window, it may ultimately be far more worthwhile to search for the door.

Thoughtful Thursday

The age-old joke:

"I say, do you like Kipling?"

"I can't say as I know - I've never Kippled before."

From Rudyard Kipling, on the subject of Social Progress:

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man.
There are only four things certain since Social
Progress began; -
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns
to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling
back to the Fire.

Wanderlust Wednesday

Cherry Blossom Festival
Ueno Park, Tokyo

A Whole New World

And doth proclaimeth The Baroness: The world is your oyster (unless you keep kosher).

So, travel. Wanderlust. I've been thinking a lot about the movie I recently saw, Into the Wild. I've been thinking about my friend's daughter who just returned home from a European romp. I've been thinking about how some people have no physical boundaries, and how they are completely comfortable roaming the earth, while others have distinct, small boundaries they erect around their world. Who's right and who's wrong?

I suppose the question really is "What makes some feel free enough to think the entire World their own, while others choose to create their own compact universes?" Why does this happen, and is the opportunity to learn equal in both scenarios? Hmm.

Sure, sure, the Baroness has travelled quite a bit. But not all the time. On most days, most weeks, most months, the world of the Baroness is fairly small.

For days on end, my entire world can be encompassed within the walls of my home. The universe, as I see it, consists of a laundry room, a family room, a kitchen and a bedroom. I have no clue what the weather actually feels like - I can only see it through the window. It looks nice enough.

Other times, it expands just a little to involve errands in and around the neighborhood. I go to the same places the same route and do the same chores and see the same people doing the same thing. Whoopdee freakin' do.

Imagine my shock and delight, then, this weekend when I went to take the Duchess up to the mountains in a neighboring suburb. For a time commitment of only 35 minutes, I had driven to a place so beautiful, so different from what I was used to - I couldn't believe I was actually in the same general area. I could have been a million miles away.

But I wasn't - I was only half an hour from my home. Here's a taste of the refreshing "new" vista I saw:

Ocean. Beach. Mountains. Ahh.

A little venturing, a little meandering - it was like a mini-vacation. As I drove around I thought to myself - I never come over here, and look how cool it is. I could wander around here all day, and feel completely like a tourist. I left to come home reluctantly, but feeling completely refreshed.

And then I thought - how often do we all get stuck in a rut, trudging from familiar place to familiar place in a closed loop? Yet if we took just a few minutes to the left or the right of our normal routes, we could find something fresh, something to give us a slightly different perpective. And really - all it takes is a few minutes. Out. Of. Your. Way.

This whole train of thought also reminded me of a lady I had the good fortune to meet on a road trip we took a few years ago. She lived here:
in Lucas, Kansas, home of the Grassroots & Folk Art Gallery (which is why we stopped there), and this:

The Garden of Eden.
Not like you thought it would be, huh?

Population 436, give or take. She was born there, and has lived there her whole life. She does not travel, and does not want to. One of her sons lives in "the city" - Topeka. She had visited him there once, but found it to be too busy.

I have no real way to conclude this. Only to say that, I guess, within each of us lies a barometer about what feels ruttish, what feels like home, what feels like adventuring, what feels like refreshment. And that maybe, everyone has their own definition of what "Into the Wild" means.

What's yours?

Culling the Leopard Population

As you know, the Baroness has many loves.

Ranking high near the top of the list?

Exhibit A:Leopard skin

This is not me, but I love every single
element of the outfit.
And I do honk on the bobo.

Second on the list?

Exhibit B: Eavesdropping

Again, not me.
But I have been known to also wear
a tablecloth on occasion.

At first glance, it would appear as though these two things have nothing in common. But oh ho! Do they ever.

This past weekend, I was making my usual daily rounds. Well, not really. I was actually making the morning rounds that the Baron has foisted upon me whilst he is afield. Not that I mind. In fact, I quite love it (that's for you, honey). This love, though is nearer the bottom of the list.

As I was coming out of the grocery store, a vision in leopardskin caught my eye, like a blazing beacon of fierceness in the fog of neutrality. Because The Baroness is always on the lookout for how the leopardskin is worked.

And I am most fascinated when it's not just an accessory, but a head-to-toe fashion extravaganza.

And I am over-the-moon ecstatic when the said ensemble is worn, by not a hoochie mama selling her wares in the parking lot but by a senior citizen.

Granny a go-go, baby! It gives me hope and inspiration to see that someone has not relinquished her elan, her joie de vivre once the meter clicks over to 70 years of age (give or take 10 years).

So, there she stands with her coiffed hair, and her stunning ensemble, talking to another older woman, who herself is wearing something darling: that deer-in-the-headlights look. Because this woman has mistakenly asked the Feline Goddess "How are you feeling?". I mean - really.

Where was this woman (whom we will now call DIL) when they were distributing the Senior's Handbook? It's right there on the list of Don'ts. Numero Uno: Don't ask a senior how they're feeling, if you don't want to know, and if you don't care to hear the subsequent tangential thinking that will occur.

The Leopard Lady (LL) starts to rattle off her various ailments (I guess she starts at the head and works her way down...). I, eavesdropper extraordinare, breeze by to return my cart as she gets to the knees. LL says that her osteo-arthritis is acting up, and she's probably be going in for a knee replacement soon. DIH coos and makes appropriate sympathy noises.

As LL goes on and on about all the things she's unable to do, I can't help but quickly check out the her footwear, because - oh yeah, Baroness' Love #1:

Exhibit C: Shoes

LL was not wearing Loubs. Sad, really.

Shoehorned onto her teeny-tiny feet at the bottom of her roly-poly body were a pair of 3 inch heels. Helloo? Sweetheart? Do you think, with all of your years of accumulated wisdom, that you could possibly put 2 and 2 together, and realize that this could be partly to blame for your knee issues? That, and the fact that your Center of Gravity closed for business in about 1983. And you're kind of swaying like a sapling in a windstorm.

So much anxiety overcame me, so many accident scenarios danced through my head that I had to bravely avert my eyes from the magnetic draw of leopard skin and walk away. The potential for imminent disaster was too much for me.

It was like a National Geographic special, where the hyenas are circling and laughing , and hope as you might that the weak will prevail, you know the outcome is not going to be favorable. I just couldn't watch anymore.

I know you can't run because of your sore knees. But for goodness sake, Leopard Lady, at least change your shoes so you can walk a little faster.

The Baroness has been Botoxed!

So one day, my blend and I are chatting. Knowing that she has a superior knowledge of that nastiest of nasty 4 letter words (HTML)(ok, not a word per se)(are you paying attention?)(because this is really important...), I ask for her help. Because, dear readers, she really does know so, so much. And the Baroness, used to old world ways (i.e. quill and scribe), knows so little.

Lo and behold, out of the blue, I get an e-mail with this gorgeous, hand-crafted header for my blog. Can you believe this? She says she was just "having fun" and "trying things out". Uh huh. If this is what she does in her leisure time, I would love to see what she could do with a small country and a decent operating budget. She has de mad skillz, people!!

Thanks to the very hard work of Countess NATUI over at Not Afraid to Use It, the Baroness has a whole new, customized and oh-so-shiny look! And let me tell you - this woman had to endure. Because the Baroness is one picky mother.

I love it so. It's new - yet it's old. It's new/old. It's old/new. It's Hannah Montana sings Eartha Kitt. It's Jane Fonda reading the Vajayjay Monologues.

Hip. Broke-a-hip.

Did I also mention that, aside from all of her other skills , The Good Countess NATUI is quite possibly one of the funniest woman I've had the good fortune to get to know? Check her out. Check out her Top 100 - she is a huge smarty pants.

Like I had to tell you that.

Listen Up, Yogi...

... Give the people what they want.

And by "people", here I mean the Baroness. I'm pretty sure that I am not alone, though, when I humbly ask for less of this:


And less of this:


And more of this:

Ahh. All I need is a fleece blankie, a flaxseed-stuffed neckroll, and some sort of chant CD, and I am go-o-o-o-o-d to g-zzzzzzzzzzzz.

Rethink your class. It's wholesome and granola-crunchy and all, but it could be so much better. And quieter. I swear to Vishnu, call it "Yoga Naps", and the people will flock to it with such enthusiasm, it will rattle your chacras. Not to mention line your pockets for that new Ashram you've been looking at...

And a fine namaste to you, sir.

Thoughtful Thursday

It's another shiny Spring day in vonBloggenschtern world; like clockwork, the birds are chirping, the bulbs are flowering, and the Baroness has done her early morning skulk-around to abscond with some cherry tree branches.

[Before you think me to be a common thief (I am so far from common, to think this would be sheer lunacy on your part), these blossoms were procured from a well-established tree on public school grounds. Ergo, my tax dollars went into that tree. And I'm just taking a little miniscule amount back. Really, only 2 small branches.]

OK, maybe 4. Hmm.

As you may recall from my weekend list of upcoming 'holidays", today's celebration of note is "Encourage a Young Writer Day".

So, in honor of this, I humbly offer up two pieces. One is from a duo who are just beginning their literary career, one is from a poetess well on her way. Without further ado:

Direct from Ms. Briscoe's 3rd grade class at Springridge Elementary in Frederick, Maryland, I give you Norman (aged 10) and his associate Steve (without whom this would not be possible, aged 9):

There was a small boy from our school
Who didn't know how to be cool
He wore disco pants
While trying to dance
And then picked his nose with a tool.

Such keen observational powers. Metaphor. Allegory. Hey, Kerouac had to start somewhere...

And now, fresh off a 3rd place showing (out of 945) at the Patricia Grodd 2008 Poetry Prize for Young Writers, I give you Samantha Berstler of Morristown, New Jersey:

SELF PORTRAIT

I.
she can’t write poetry.
the old ways are gone, she says and
wishes the snowflakes might scepter
our pizza box on the porch. her warm
fingers try to eucharist her lips, three slender holy candles
upon the cold apple. there isn’t any poetry
anywhere, she says, staring wistfully at the
kid on the street with dyed hair, walking
in plumes of smoke, plumes of smoke
like the silver swirls
around a statue of a vishnu. no poetry
anywhere.

II.
she can’t write poetry. she is a collector
like the man who hoards paintings in an attic
or the magpie with a nest of bluebird feathers
and silver thumbnails. she glues together fragments,
magazine letters pasted on a canvas sheet, lifts up
two fingers coated in the smells and textures
of kindergarten. she
weaves pieces of yarn together found on the
artists’ floor and calls it
high fusion.

III.
she can’t write poetry. she can’t revel,
can’t get drunk on the rains that corrode statues
and kill fish. she can only embellish graffiti like
some hindu god, sculpt images out of
modern art, and wonder, god, what’s with this world?
she is the don quixote
with the pen brandished at the boy’s tattoo
in science class, where she sits and tries to flourish away
in words, formed perfect and complete
until she tried to carve them out
with her ink-blotched
fingers.

Well. She may think she can't write poetry, but the awards commitee (and the Baroness) say differently. Eloquent piece, Ms. Berstler. I look forward to reading more of your work for many years to come.

As for you? Keep a keen eye out for the Samanthas, Steves, and Normans around you. And tell them how their craft made you laugh or made you think. They need to know.

Encourage, people. Encourage.

Tooby ooby walla, Nooby abba nabba...

...Early morning singin' song.

Good Morning, Starshines! The Earth (and the Baroness) says hello.

For those of you who have no freakin' clue whatsoever as to what I am babbling on about, it's part of a song from the late 60's, from a little musical called "Hair"; sung by a dude called Oliver (who bravely paved the way for one-named singers everywhere).

Thanks to Montgomery Burns of Simpsons fame (who sang it while tripping out on something) and many cover versions recently abounding, the tune is having a bit of a resurgence, with a whole new generation grooving on it. For that, I am very happy.

The song, which I have deep nostalgic affection for, is the center point of today's chitty-chat. Today's story has all the elements of a epic novel - the oppressed, idealism, the struggle to unite generations, confusion, resolution, and a bang-up musical number.

The year - 1968. A time of liberation, of freedom, of personal expression. The place - a surburban elementary school, thousands of miles away from Haight-Ashbury, free love, the Peace Movement. You - a Grade 2 elementary school teacher.

You're struggling around for a song that your class can sing for the upcoming year-end concert. The concert where not just the students will attend, but also their parents and family. This can't be just any old song - the time is now, babe - and the pressure is on to Make. A. Statement. It's got to somehow encapsulate all that has happened in the world in the past year. It's got to put its finger on the pulse of that groundswell that's sure to happen here eventually, that cultural revolution. It's got to show where we, as a society, are going. It's got to be meaningful, relevant, happening, man.

It's got to be "Good Morning, Starshine".

When the dear Ms. Grey first told us that we would be singing this song, there were more than a few giggles in the classroom. I mean, really - what grown adult in their right mind writes lyrics like this:

Glibby gloop gloopy, Nibby Nabby Noopy, La, La, La, Lo, Lo
Sabba sibby sabba nooby abba nabba Le Le Lo Lo

But I've got to tell you, once we started actually singing those whack-a-doodle lyrics, we found out they were magical. They tickled our tongues and our funny bones.

It did not take long for us all to become hooked (yeah, kids - the first one's free...). Soon we were practising the song everywhere. Recess. Lunchtime. Playground. Home.

It is at this point where the struggle to unite generations began. I think it warrants mentioning at this point that my parents were not plebeian idiots, devoid of any culture. They owned a vast and varied record collection. They both loved clever, wry, well-written, classic music. Their music.

As I was singing around the house one day, I was stopped by my mom . My non-Hippy, raised-in-the-country, walked-10-miles-to-school-in-the-snow, 48 year-old mother.

"What exactly are you singing, BvonB?"

Indignantly (because a true artist should not have to defend their masterpiece), I repeated - "Song song song sing, sing sing sing sing song."

Furrowed brow ensued. Danger, Danger, Will Robinson - she's starting to lose patience...

"And what exactly is that nonsense supposed to mean?"

Ugh. Think quickly, BvonB. Think! Plan "A" Defense Mode- blame someone else.

"It's called Good Morning Starshine, and Ms. Grey chose it for us to sing for the end-of-year concert." (this was all said in the span of a second, and as one complete word).

"Oh".

And that was that. She returned to cooking dinner, pleased that her daughter would be singing for the concert, but ultimately uninterested.

I should also point out that their being a fair amount older made them vastly different from my friends' moms and dads. My parents were brought up in a climate of hard work and clear boundaries between parent and child. There were no grey areas, nor was there any room for rebellion or - gasp - revolution. The whole Hippy philosophy was something they believed did not have much merit, and would blow over soon. This was merely a trend that would peter out very soon, once the lure of toil and commerce were discovered by these young hedonistic whipper-snappers.

The evening of the concert. Imagine a small gymnasium, filled with parents who were in their early to mid-twenties. Groovy, hip, with it moms and dads. Then pan over the crowd, an-n-d stop.

Right there. See a couple in their late 40's. Not so groovy. So not hip. Concentrate on them as their daughter gets up with her class to sing their song. Move to the class starting off. Now back to the vonB parents. Looking at each other, proud of their little girl.

Pan over the crowd again. See most of the parents, acknowledging the cleverness of Ms. Grey; amused by the choice and by their children's obvious love of the song. They are digging it, baby.

Back to the children, being led by a fervent Ms. Grey:

Tooby ooby walla Nooby abba nabba
Early mornin' singin' song

Now back to the vonB parents again. Agape. What did they say?

So not ready to love a song, laugh a song, nor sing a song.

Look at Ms. Grey, triumphant - bringing the au courant to the burbs. Look at the kids, boppin' and beaming. And la la la la lo lo'ing.

Thank you for trying, Ms. Grey. You twinkle above us. And we were definitely twinkling below.

But Wait! There's More...

The Baroness promises that if you bear with me just a little at the beginning of this post, I will reward you with the written equivalent of a lovely set of Ginzu knives.

All for the low, low price of $19.99!

(fyi , it's always $19.99)

I am truly honored to have been tagged for a meme by the lovely Blog Antagonist over at Blogs Are Stupid. She is a real wordsmith, that one, and I love, love LOVE her writing.

How could I refuse? It's like turning down a cigar from Don Corleone - just ain't done. Unless, of course, you have some dead-animal-head-fetish. And, well really. At that point, it's between you and YouTube. I wash my hands of the whole sordid affair. Go ahead, ruin your life. See if I care.

The On-Going Tag Game, a/k/a 6 Unimportant Things About Me*
* (not to be confused with all the astounding, deep things you just learned)

1. My perfect food: Turkey
2. Favorite colors: yellow, robin's egg blue
3. Hair: Curly
4. DVD I recently saw: Into the Wild
5. Guilty TV pleasure: America's Next Top Model
6. If I were a tree, I would be a(n): Oak

There we go. Now comes the fun and important part - my 6 tag-ees. I tag:
Sandi at A Widow For One Year
Countess Babs at Barbra Peapod Disco Bubbles
Countess NATUI at Not Afraid to Use It
Step Right Up at Warped Viewings of My Mind
Asthma Girl at Is My Cape Fluttering?
Countess Macaroni at macaronimaniac

Spill it, you - six unimportant facts. Then tag 6 more. Why? Because it's fun, dammit.

OK, on to the promised Ginzu knives. Were you aware that the Baroness adores children's books? I actually enjoyed reading them a smidge more than my kids when they were little, and thus began the shift where I decreased in mental age, and they became the parents.

Here though, are some titles I missed, but have been brought to my attention:

"The Boy Who Died From Eating All His Vegetables"
"Dad's New Wife Robert"
"Fun Four-Letter Words to Know and Share"
"Curious George and the High-Voltage Fence"
"All Cats Go To Hell"
"The Little Sissy Who Snitched"
"That's It, I'm Putting You Up for Adoption"
"The Magic World Inside the Abandoned Refrigerator"
"The Pop-Up Book of Human Anatomy"
"Pop! Goes the Hamster...And Other Great Microwave Games"
"Daddy Drinks Because You Cry"
"Some Kittens Can Fly!"
"Mr. Fork and Ms. Electrical Outlet are Friends?"
"Start a Real-Estate Empire With the Change From Your Mom's Purse"
"How to Become the Dominant Military Power in Your Elementary School"

and the Baroness' favorite, for personal reasons:
"Eggs, Toilet Paper, and Your School"

How About That?

Wa-Hoo! B von B, back in the house, and back from the oh-so-compelling 7 days of shock and awe.

I must be brief today (yuh, right...), as I've been out of the compound, running amok here and there, and generally playing hooky from all responsibility. And now it is time. To face the music. Perchance, to dance.

Before I get started (remember, Baroness - brief), may I tell you just how much I love these guys?

Brendan Gleeson & Colin Farrell

This is how I spent part of my afternoon, watching "In Bruges". That Mr. Gleeson - ooh, he's quite the guy. I would love to spend an afternoon yik-yakking with him. And for most of the movie, I actually liked Colin Farrell - something I wouldn't usually find myself saying. The story itself? Eh. It was pretty good right up to the end. And then, it ended. With me sitting in my seat going "wha-a-a-?"

An-n-n-n-y-ways, it's a chock-a-block week, and something pretty special each day. I couldn't help myself.

Sunday, April 6th
There is still time for you to rummage your way to the old record collections, find that cherished hunk 0' vinyl, and listen to the dulcet tones of The Bay City Rollers: S-A-T-U-R, D-A-Y, night! S-A-T-U-R, D-A-Y, night! Today, in all the smart countries (Canada, US, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand - hey! No fighting, you two) it's "N-A-T-I-O, N-A-L, (Tartan) DAY". If you don't have a clan, today's the day to ingratiate yourself into one. And if you don't have anything tartan, why not make your own with some Sharpies? This could be great fun. Please - no pictures. On second thought...

Monday, April 7th
Like I need an excuse. On a Monday, no less. Today is "No Housework Day" - knock yourself out.

Tuesday, April 8th
On a clear day, Babs says, you can see forever. On a clear night, you can see the mothership hovering over there by Orion's Belt. Or is that just me? Hm. Today is "Astronomy Day" - get a blanket and a snuggle bunny, and head outdoors to behold the great infinity surrounding us.

For those in an inclement weather area, watching any version of Star Trek/Star Wars/Dancing With the Stars will suffice.

Wednesday, April 9th
Cigar. Bowler. Jowls of steel. Shex-ay accent. 350 lbs of manly man. Yup, it's "Winston Churchill Day". Be nice - this guy is not doing so great at eHarmony.com right now - he has nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.

It is also the 175th anniversary of the opening of the first Public Library. It's time to dust off that copy of "Tropic of Capricorn", and get it back there. If you're lucky, they're having an amnesty day today, and you'll get off without the $3011.25 in late charges. HURRY!!

Thursday, April 10th
This is a day after my own heart, and I'm sure there are so many others of you out there who could do your part to - "Encourage a Young Writer Day". The Baroness truly misses her girly get-togethers with Miss Sadie and crew (who aren't so young anymore). Say a kind word to a young 'un, because there really is a world of words inside us all.

Friday, April 11th
Oh, how the Baroness loves happy music. You know this. I also love the kitsch. So, imagine a day that rolls it all up into one big sappy ball - "Barbershop Quartet Day". Come down by the old mill stream, sweet Adeline, and we'll have a listen. See that cute one, 2nd from the left? Yes, sir, that's my baby.

Have a faboo week, one and all!

With Affection,
The Baroness

This is the End, My Friend (Day 7)

Ta Dahhhhhhhhh! We made it, people. We are on Day 7 of the "Everything You Kinda Wanted to know about the Baroness But Were Ashamed to Ask" Fact-a-thon.

Because I love you all for coming back again and again, and I have loved doing this so very, very much, I think a Day 7 mini-celebration is is in order! Click here first (don't forget to come back!) - I'll just sit and do some chair dancing...

Was that not just the greatest? I'm sad, though, that little blonde boy has a whopping 35 cents in his piggy back. And it's a real pity about those pumpkin pies (in retrospect, how did that baker continually have a restaurant to work in? Jackass).

Enough nostalgia - it's getting me all emotional and squishy.

And The Baroness doth proclaimeth: It's go time.

9. I know I've kind of covered this before, but it always, always, always bears repeating. I have the most amazing husband. He's the lox to my bagel, the yin to my yang. We really are partners, and he deserves, to quote Scarlett 10,oo0 fabulous points for a) putting up with me, and b) making me laugh every damn day. I am blessed.

8. I do not like to ask for help. And if I should ask, no offense, but it's a last resort. I have exhausted all other possibilities first.

7. I am loyal to a fault.

6. Not many people really know me.

5. Dream vacation #2 - Scotland. I'm afraid if I go here, I might not come back. It's the land of my mom and her clan, and the pull to go there is extremely strong. Plus, I want to see my men in kilts. They could seriously rock the MacTartan.

4. I am not being in any way glib or superlative when I say I have been to hell, and stayed there for two and half very long days. Trust me when I say it is not for the weak, and it smells like Dettol.

3. I have been known, on rare occasions, to be slightly sarcastic (see? I just did it right there). Yes, I know it's the lowest form of humour. Yes, I know it's petty. But it comes to me so easily. It's a gift. And a curse.

2. I love blogging. I know that it might not be the perfect venue for my style of writing, but it's immediate, and I'm impatient, and I can not begin to explain the glee I feel when I write something I consider amusing. Because I'm a tough audience.

And to the person who asked if I ever took the time to read what I'd written prior to pressing the "Publish Post" button, I would answer an emphatic yes. I read them over and over.

1. I love my blends. Ya know, Bl(og) (Fri)ends (thanks to Miss Scarlett for coining such a great word). You are a fascinating group, and for your individual perspectives and the lives you choose to share, I thank you whole-heartedly. I don't believe in coincidence, and I'm so very thankful I stumbled upon your pathways. The learning is definitely in the journey.

Well, darlings, that is it for me. I've laid myself bare, and it's a chilly Canadian day, so I'm off to at least throw on a cardigan.

Baroness - out!!

Take Me Out to the Baron-ess.... (Day 6)

...Take me out with the crowd.

It's the beginning of baseball season, so in a loving nod to the Baron's adoration of America's favorite pastime (no, not NASCAR) , I would liken this junction in the Baroness 70-Fact-O-Rama to the famous 7th Inning Stretch. We're so close to the end;I know you're tired, baby. You've really toughed it out like a trooper (who knew this game would last seven lo-o-ong days), and I'm so proud of you - but there's still just a little more commitment required.

And then it will be all over, we can wipe the mustard off our shirts, grab our half-eaten bags of peanuts and CrackerJack, and start the long walk back to the car. The Baroness validates, by the way. Just show me your ticket on the way out of the ballpark.

I'll wait patiently right here until you adjust your "Baroness is #1" foam finger, and turn to page 6 of your program. Shall we commence? Play Ball!

19. Dream vacation #1 - Telluride Film Festival. Never hear of Telluride? It's kind of like the Sundance FF's older, drug-dabbling cousin. To be honest, I'm not really there to throw down with the celebrities, though a chat with Ralph Fiennes would be quite yummy. I just love that I could potentially walk around seeing underfunded yet wonderful movies dawn to dusk.

18. I am a award-winning grudge holder. I'm not too proud of this, and I've let go of quite a bit. But still...There's that whole Aunt Ruby thing.

17. I am an adult orphan, and have very little contact with whatever living relatives are left. My mom was the family liaison, and now that she's gone, I don't have the heart nor the stomach to pick up the reins.

16. When I am focussed on something, I am freakishly focussed. Possessed, even. Don't waste your breath asking me a question - I'm in another world, brother. I'll send you a postcard. Maybe.

15. Words can't sufficiently express how grateful I am for what I have: a fantastic husband, healthy kids, a home, amazing friends. I might not get mushy very much, but my gratitude has made me cry on more than one occasion.

14. Please take note. When I am tired, I am cranky. Not just your garden-variety cantankerousness. But foul. Nasty. Spiteful. Exorcist-esque. Just clear me a path to my bed and let me be. We'll talk in the morning. Trust me - you want to do this.

13. I'm not the best friend in the world, but I'm learning. And I have an unbelievable array of mentors, who each provide exquisite examples of what to do.

12. Call it survival, call it empathy, call it bat-shit loco. I have the ability to enter a room and sense what's going on - who's pissed off but think they're hiding it well, who's about to lose it, who's checked out and is a million miles away. All in about 3 seconds flat.

11. One of my favorite relatives was my Great Aunt Lexa. She was the epitome of a strapping Prairie Woman. She somehow managed to always be wearing dresses and, at the same time, the pants of the family. She was big, and tall, and loud, and funny as hell. She had a husband who was p-whipped to within an inch of his life, and he adored her. When she passed, my Great Uncle sent me a whole box of her jewelry that she wanted me to have. I love it to bits.

10. Again, in keeping with the baseball motif, I maintain a "3 Strike Rule" about almost everything. I'm pretty generous with the first two calls. After the 3rd that's it. We're done.

Sadly/happily, tomorrow will end our fascinating exploration of the outer chamber of the inner workings of the Baroness. I hope that you've been paying attention, and maybe smiling every once in a while (maybe you had an "Aha!" moment. For that, I would kindly direct you over here. There is no "aha-ing" in vonBloggenschtern world. There - I just gave you a bonus fact, free of charge. 'Cuz that's how I roll, babe).

Yes, I hope. And as you know, my hope does spring eternal.

Until Saturday, I bid you a fond adieu.

29 Bottles of Baroness on the Wall... (Day 5)

29 Bottles of Baron-esssssssss... You take one down, click the exit button, 19 bottles of Baroness on the wall.

See? It's that easy. Before I get too entrenched in the BvonB love-fest, I thought I would give you loyalists a oh-so-brief Thoughtful Thursday. It comes from a beautiful little letterpress book (really little: 3" x 4.5" - so sweet!) called Friends and published by Orange Art Miniatures:

But of all plagues, good Heaven,
thy wrath can send,
Save me, oh save me, from the
candid friend. George Canning

What can I tell you? There is no saving you today from this candid friend. Or tomorrow. Or the next day, even. By Sunday - appropriately enough - salvation will be once again be yours.

Truth be told, I'm not even being as candid as I could be. I am a Baroness, after all. And I do have boundaries. I call them moats. And they are definite, and deep and tall. Teeming with defense. Just as I teem with defensiveness. Fine. That being established, let's go.

29. I'm an extremely fast talker. As is The Baron. When we get going, it's almost a foreign language. Woe be to the poor exchange students who stay with us - they aren't going to learn a damn thing here.

28. Favorite-ish season? Spring. Fall. Summer. Winter. Each has its own redeeming qualities, non? Spring for my garden babies, fall for scrunching around in other people's leaves, summer for long days without a coat or shoes, and winter for those crisp shiny days.

27. I am a selective Hello Kitty collector. Nothing too flashy or obvious; only subversive.

26. While I try very hard to be nice to everyone, I do not suffer fools gladly. Not even madly. They are idiots, and my contempt runs deep. Like my moats.

25. And the Baroness doth proclaim: Garlic is the new black.

24. To quote Miss kd lang, I am a big-boned girl from Southern Alberta. Yeah, you crazy Prairies.

23. I once fell down 3 stairs and nearly tore my patellar tendon (see WebMD) clean off. I do not recommend this.

22. I am absolutely crazy about my sons. They are smart, clever, kind, polite, and quite possibly funnier than me. OK, they are funnier than me. They make me guffaw at least once every day.

21. Not a morning person. Or a night owl. I hit my peak around 1:20 pm, and it's downhill from there.

20. The song "100 Years" by Five for Fighting makes me cry. Every time.

We're at 50% (Day 4)

To quote the always beautifully-coiffed Jon Bon Jovi:

"Oh, we're halfway there..."

You know the rest. Livin'. Prayers. Livin' on prayers. Whoa whoa whoa.

We are now in the middle of the Great Getting to Know the Baroness 70 Fact Extravaganza (cue the confetti and streamers)(Hel-looo? Confetti & Streamer guy?)(Bah).

And it's a Wednesday. The Middle of the Week. Hump Day. Coincidence or not?

Perhaps you're feeling a little scre...., er, humped by this whole list thing. I'll ring Jeeves, and he'll help you upstairs for a lie down with a cool face linen on your forehead. It will pass. Only 3 days to go, darling. Buck up.

Ready, Freddie? Onward, and downward:

39. Totally undisciplined. I so admire the people who have routines, and really wish I was one. And I try. Instead, I spend a lot of time spinning in circles. Making lists help a lot.

38. I am a purist. With food, I do not want condiments. One can hide a pretty crappy hamburger in a mountain of relish, pickles and assorted goo. A good burger can stand on its own. Bun, burger. C'est tout. Same w/ hot dogs. Oh, and I like vanilla ice cream.

As for the constant tinkering w/Dr. Seuss books into movies? Don't get me started.

37. I love beautiful things. As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that beautiful doesn't always have to equal expensive, and I've also begun to really look for beauty everywhere. And it's there, people. This lovely lady finds it every day.

36. For as much disdain as I have towards her, I must credit Ms. Winfrey with directing me towards my favorite parfumier ever - Jo Malone. I am currently rocking the French Lime Blossom. So divine.

35. I love dressing up. I have no where to really go dressed up, and have a closet full of clothes for a person that doesn't really live my life. Someday....

34. On the flip side of dressing up (well sorta), I'm also a comfort whore. Everything has to feel good on - even the shoes with sexy heels (yes, they are out there). Towels can't be scratchy, and bed linens must evoke an "ahh" when one pops between the covers. What happens after that is your business.

33. I am an eternal optimist. Hope should have been my middle name (it's Joy, for the record). I, in fact, believe that if I watch "House" enough, there will actually be a microsecond down the road where he shows a redeeming characteristic.

32. If I see a picture of something, chances are I can make it. I should clarify that I only use this skill for good. Never for evil. OK, almost never.

31. I LOVE power tools. I took a woodworking class a few years ago, and now want my garage tricked out with all these goodies. So far: Table saw, compound miter saw, jigsaw, router, multi-speed drill, Dremel. On the wish list: mini-generator and a brad nailer. Sigh. MY BIL's all find this highly amusing. My husband - not so much.

30. I think family traditions are the backbone of a generation. Holidays, day-to-day, whatever. I love to hear about what families do, and the reason why.

Ta Ta for now, dahlings. We'll catch up tomorrow.

Savour your day.

All Baroness, All theTime (Day 3)

Hello, Darlings! You're back! That is both lovely and amazing. Aren't you just the best readership group EVER? I have to tell you right now, I think the world of you all and I'm so glad that our blog paths have crossed. If we weren't so geographically dispersed, I'd be organizing a bowling team right now. Or maybe a pub crawl. Or sewing bee...

For those of you just tuning in, we're on Day 3 of the 70 Most Something Facts about The Baroness vonB. Please don't adjust your sets - unless you want to ramp up the vertical to make me appear taller and less pear-shaped.

[Note to the young, hip, and blogging-savvy: I'm trying, really trying, to keep it brief. But the fact I'm incredibly undisciplined (oops, I just gave away # 39 away) makes me unable to do so. Most find this annoying; some find it charming. The others - they're just too cool. Really. Take it or leave it, hon. I'm not pointing a gun at your head here.]

49. I am extremely curious. About everything. Few things, in fact, escape my scrutiny.

48. While my sons seem to view me as some bohemian, time-challenged hippy chick, truth of the matter is that I look at everything pretty scientifically.

47. I love shoes! And have since I was 3 years old, and bitched at my mother for not buying me 2 pairs instead of just the one that I needed.

As I've gotten older and be-bunioned (kind of like bedazzled, but not so shiny), I'm starting to admire shoes from afar, and regard some of them simply as stunning works of art. Not the implements of torture that they probably are.

46. I am a muller. I. categorically, am absolutely useless at thinking on my feet (regardless of what loveliness they're clad in).

45. I'm tough , but I'm weak.

44. A former boss told me "Some people want to change the world. You want to redecorate it".

This statement is true. Sad, but true.

43. I am a control freak, and on a day-to-day basis have to curb my inclination to take over anything at least 37 times.

42. I'm a list maker (oh, the irony). Every morning, I make a list of the day's (I Don't Want) To Do's. It's usually long, with many sub-headings, and if I get halfway through, it's been a good day.

41. My favorite mystery authors include Faye and Jonathan Kellerman, Rick Mofina, Sue Grafton, Janet Evanovich, Tim Cockey, and Sarah Shankman.

40. I love the idea of small towns, but think that you have to be born and raised in one to fit in.