Caffeine: The Double-Edged Sword

Those of you who've been coming here (faithfully, may I add) for some time know that I'm pretty fussy about my coffee (click the ol' wayback machine here for one of my java rants).

Like millions of other coffee lovers, I have my sacred morning ritual of coffee and newspaper. I try valiantly to speed my way through the lion's share of the news so that by the time the caffeine opens the sluiceway between brain and body, I'm primed and ready to kick some booty on the NY Times Crossword.

Sometimes, though, there are articles in our 'News of The World'-esque journal that trip me up. I have to screech on the mental brakes and take a look.

And sometimes, only being half-caffeinated can make for some pretty amusing information gathering.

One piece that caught my eye was about a recent attack on a small girl by a rogue mountain lion.

Yes, this event could have been tragic. Yes, it's pretty serious. Yes, it's yet another argument for the encroachment of man on local wildlife, the encroachment of local wildlife on man, and all the ensuing debates. Blahdee, blahdee, blah.

But really.

To my barely awake mind, it was these two magic words:

"Cougar", and

"Expert". Nothing else really mattered.

My heart began to pitty-pat. Here was something potentially fraught with double entendres, and therefore worthwhile persuing further.

I was not disappointed.

(Thank you, Mr. Andy Ivens, reporter extraordinaire)

By the way, if you are a woman of older-ish persuasion and are:

a) in the midst of your hormone circus, and
b) the proud owner of a pulse

then you have, at one time or another, exhibited cougar-like tendencies.

If you deny this, my friend, methinks that you are not being totally honest with yourself. Hell, I've admitted it. Proudly. Publicly. More than once (check out sausage-fest Exhibit A and Exhibit B).

Do any of these attributes sound vaguely familiar? C'mon. Confess.

"Cougars try to avoid large meal tickets, expert says"

"When a cougar attacks, the struggle is violent and brief"

"Their jaw strength is quite strong, so that they can grab something and break through and sever the spinal cord"

"They are very explosive, like a sprinter"

"A lot of times when cougars attack humans, there's something wrong with them - either they're inexperienced in hunting or they're starving to death"

"If they aren't able to finish the job within a minute, they'll have to back off and try again later"

"The most amazing thing about them is their jumping ability and how athletic they are"

and finally,

"Cougars in Northern BC are probably the largest in the range"

Hey, now.

That one hurt my feelings.

Rawr.

[*vonB Aside: blogger has been having brain farts throughout my writing of this post. I've already redone it twice, and really? It's not worth doing a third. Apologies for the hot mess of layout mixups, irregular fonts, italics, whatnot. ]

Asking for Money is Uncomfortable...

...but then so is a rectal exam.

Trust me on this, people.

If my sad lack of posts over the last few weeks has not already derailed the usually effervescent vonB party train, this item will surely send it careening off the tracks and into the ravine.

Because, once again, I'm trotting out the cancer card (run away! run away!).

But this time, it is definitely not cranky nor doom and gloom. This has the potential to actually be pretty - wait for it -

fun.

On July 11th, I will participating in a run/walk called "The Underwear Affair". Its subheading (far less titillating) is "Uncover the Cure - for cancers below the waist". Everyone participating in this event has the opportunity to run in their ginch. And really. How often does one get the opportunity to do that? Nowhere near damn enough, in my estimation.

(although I suppose one could, in reality, do that whenever they pleased. Here I just mean without the threat of legal proceedings)

(or public stoning)

I'm so excited. This event is a fantastic opportunity to:

. be a community superhero for a couple of hours (our team is called 'The Colon Crusaders' - we'll be rocking the capes)


. be silly - I will SO be looking for Team Jockey to get my picture taken in these:


. raise a little moola for research into some pretty insidious diseases.

And who knows? If I pimp my granny panties out just right, maybe next year I could be the poster girl...
Should you feel the urge to donate, just click on the underwear button on the top right.

Should you feel the urge to run in your underwear, go to uncoverthecure.org

Or just, you know, run around.

In your underwear.

Fun.

The Truth Will Set You Free (& Keep You Poor)

The Year - 1966.

The Place - the production set of a local television show, "Popcorn Playhouse".

The Premise - Your typical 60's show, with short cartoon segments (Tom & Jerry, Popeye) interspersed with the host interviewing kids on the Klondike/mining-themed set. Those kids who were there on the day of their birthday (give or take a couple of days latitude ) were called up at the end of the show to dig for 'gold' (i.e. gold-wrapped nickels hidden in a boxcar of playbox sand).

The Players - the Baroness (aged 5) and her doofus cousin (aged 8), whose birthday it was.

******

Without painfully stating the obvious (although I will just in case Doofus ever happens upon this), it is pretty HUGE to be able to not only have your name called on television, but to go up to Ye Olde Fake Mining Car on Popcorn Playhouse ON your BIRTHDAY and potentially find a gold coin.

Yet, my cousin did not grasp the enormity of all of this.

She told me in no uncertain terms, while the cartoons were going on, that when the birthday kids were called, she would not be going up to dig. She would merely pretend that she had not shown up that day.

Can you imagine? What an idiot.

There was no way in hell that I was about to let a fine opportunity like this go wasted. Then and there, I decided that - not unlike the Academy Awards - I would go up and take Brenda's place. But, in true Method Acting, I would not merely accept on her behalf.

Oh no, no, no.

I would BE Brenda.

My heart began to pound as the last cartoon of the day ended. This was my chance.

The host began his usual schtick...'Would all of the birthday boys and girls come down to the Klondike Kart to try out their luck?'


I know that both my mother and my aunt were watching this Kodak moment present itself from the green room. My legs feel like jelly, but I know that this is my 5-year old destiny. I have mentally committed to this - there's no looking back. (because if I did, I would see the slack-jawed look on my cousin's face and potentially turn to a pint-sized pillar of salt).

Down I strode to take my rightful place in line.

The host would ask the child their name as they dug away. We would be allowed 3 shovels' full of sand into the sifter - no poking around. Best of luck, blah, blah, blah.

When it (finally!) became my turn to dig, it was though the host handed me a diamond-encrusted ceptre rather than a dinky little garden spade.

'And what's your name, birthday girl?'


(C'mon Baroness - be the Brenda. Live the Brenda.)



'Brenda vonBloggenschtern'.

(Perfection. Now smile broadly directly into camera one, completely pushing the thought out of your mind that your mother is somewhere nearby dying of embarrassment)



'And how old are you, Brenda?'

(There's no way you look 8 - use the truth, Baroness. OWN the truth.)

'I'm five years old, Eric'

(Ha! He bought it. I am SO freaking there. These nickels are all mine. MINE! MINE!)(Dig, Baroness, dig. Dig like your life depended on it.)


'And when's your birthday, Brenda?'

(C'mon Baroness. Bring the Method. Be the gold miner. Use excellent form - shoulders over, back straight, arms taut. Concentrate. Nothing can stand in your way now. Go. For. The. Gold. Answer his stupid question, but KEEP DIGGING!!)

'November 18th, Eric'

It is here that everything goes completely silent.

Cue crickets chirping. . .

Cue singular tumbleweed rolling lazily across the set. . .

. . . Did I mention that we were there in April?

For Just One Week

My nephews, aged 21 and 19, were talking about employment strategies. And when I say 'talking', this is only a vague use of the word. 'Snarking' might be a more realistic term. 'Kibbitzing' even more so.

The younger one, recently graduating from high school, is having a hard go of it. He has a job, but isn't getting enough hours. The older one, a cabinet maker, told him to just get in his car and drive around any of the construction sites that dot the landscape within their ever-expanding suburb.

'Any construction site', said N1, 'will have bitch jobs for you to do.'

Bitch jobs. Oh, how I love that phrase.

No sarcasm here. I really love that phrase.

In this particular context, I do not find it sexist in the least, just strangely apt. You are making someone your personal assistant to do all the icky things that you keep putting off.

This got me to thinking...

One of my friends owns a small working farm. There is never a shortage of duties to be done, and almost continually, she has helpers called "Woofers". These fine people come to her via the W.W.O.O.F. - Willing Workers on Organic Farms. It's kind of like an international dating service for travellers who want free room and board in exchange for a bit of day labour and perhaps some edu-mack-ay-shun about the finer intracacies of organic farming. I assume that the organisation does all of the pre-screening; what you're left with is a young person who gets to see another part of the world while lending a helping hand.

So now I want to create a new service (mostly just for my own selfish use) - W.O.H.B .- World Organisation of House Bitches. I get positively giddy thinking of how much I could accomplish in a mere 7 days with someone who could paint, sew, cook, can, shop, garden, clean, and repair.

And to get to stay at vonBloggenschtern Manor? They should be paying ME.

Now if I can just get the wording down for craiglist... Suggestions?

Thoughtful Thursday

I think, in my humblest of opinions, that there is not enough loveliness in the world.

Strike that.

I think that there is not enough loveliness noticed in the world.

And what defines this fine quality?

Something that makes you smile, both inwardly and maybe a little outwardly. Something that makes you feel light and content and cognizant that you are in the presence of something very sweet and something very special. You feel all of your good qualities being drawn out by some magic magnetism, and you wish your experience could never ever end. You're a little wistful when it does.

I thank The Good Countess KR for ever having introduced me to the loveliness that is one Ms. Molly Wizenberg, author of the equally lovely foodie/life-y blog called Orangette.

Never mind about her lack of current work (said the BvonB, vaguely aware that this very phrase was strangely resonant...), I urge you to go have a gander at her archives. She explains that she's a little overwhelmed right now - she and her husband are in the midst of constructing a new Seattle restaurant. But if you start at the beginning (a very good place to start), and wend your way through, you'll soon find yourself smitten and infinitely patient at waiting for new posts.

She loves food. In a lovely way. This was very evident at the food workshop KR took me to where Molly and Brandon showed us the wonder and potential of eggs.

Yes, eggs.

Girl can rock the chicken ova like no one's bin-ness. Even reminiscing about the aioli she whipped up, I'm starting to get a little Pavlovian.

Now Molly has a book out - 'A Homemade Life - stories and recipes from my kitchen table'. KR so kindly gifted me a signed copy from the book reading she recently went to. While my first instinct was to tear through it at breakneck speed, I'm now parceling it out a chapter a day. I don't want it to end. I will be wistful when it is.

The dedication is to her late father - and while brief - speaks volumes:

"We know we are shining
Though we cannot see one another"

James Wright

This could not be any more perfect for the affection I feel for all of you.

Or more - you know*.



(*lovely)

Fit Like?*

In the animal kingdom, the only thing that sets us apart from most beasts is opposable thumbs. Unless you're Chuck Norris or Liberace, and then you're both man and beast. Rawr.

In the von Bloggenschtern kingdom, it is dresses, skirts, liberal doses of pink and an arsenal of discreet Hello Kitty accessories that separates this singular chicky from the rest of the testosterone palace that I helped create.

Imagine my delight then, upon reading today's business section (!)(slow news day, I guess...) that Sanrio Co. will introduce a new tartan collection of Hello Kitty, resplendant in a lovely pink plaid.

This is an exciting intertwining of three things I love very much- Kitty, pink, and thick, itchy Scottish fabric.

I will admit that I wasn't always a fan of the Japanese feline - when the trend first hit in 1974, it was obnoxiously conspicuous, and usually splayed about on stupid, giggly high schoolers with the maturity of 5th-graders.

I do not have, nor have I ever had, time for these silly representatives of the female persuasion. Their tee-hee-hees are like nails on a blackboard, and their antics, to my mind, are an abomination to any foothold that hard-working women have carved out. However.

Over time, I married (a man), popped out Duke #1 (another man)(well, actually he started as an infant), Duke #2 (more dudeness), and then got a penis-festooned dog. I gradually became a minority in my own home.

Anything of mine (and I do mean anything) that was gender-neutral was gone.

Poof. Assumed borrowed and never to be seen again.

This does not sit well with me.

I do not share well.

I am an only child.

Strangely enough, all of the invisible force fields I created around all of my stuff continue to go completely ignored. Anarchy reigns supreme. I really need to find some Jedi Adult Ed courses.

This is incredibly irksome. Rash-worthy, even.

So, what's a gal to do? Go pink, that's what. Go cute, that's what. Go all girly on their asses. Yeah!

No self-respecting bro would be caught dead drinking out of a Hello Kitty glass. Or listening to a Hello Kitty iPod. Or typing on a Hello Kitty laptop.

This has been extremely effective. Thank you, Sanrio.

When I read an article recently about how Kitty was not a mere plaything, but a statement for the political silencing of women throughout the world (she never has a mouth - manufacturing defect or disgruntled factory worker? You decide), it just made me love her and her iconic ways even more.

Now it is me who is giggling like a 5th Grader. I just giggle a little more discreetly, that's all.

Here's tae the heath, the hill and the heather,
The bonnet, the plaid, the kilt and the feather

*Fit Life? - an Aberdeen, Scotland greeting for 'how are you?"

Something Magical In the Air

God willing and the waters don't rise, I will be back next week.

I have been busy - mulling, brooding, and taking copious mental notes of all the irksome qualities that the glamorous life of a surburban mother of teens has to offer.

Oy.

In the meantime, take a 4-ish minute tea break in the middle of your day and witness the awesome-osity known as 'The Information Highway'.

The song is beautiful, and the interactive video (HOW do they do this?) is as lovely individual as each and everyone of you are.

Go here and soar:
http://soytuaire.labuat.com