Notes from a Nerdling

Sampling the Sushi

2012-01-25T17:30:00.000-08:00

It was embarrassing to say the least, and completely avoidable. I should never have let Linda talk me into sampling sushi.

Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against sushi. I think sushi is very pretty. It would make lovely earrings.

But I prefer my edible pastels to be of the candy variety.

With that said, when Linda begged me to buy some sushi at Publix last Sunday so she could try it, I agreed.

The problem was that we were sushi virgins, and the sushi inventory was vast and, frankly, overwhelming. So we asked the nice Japanese man standing behind the counter (let's call him "Takayuki") for advice.

"Excuse me, sir, but which of these would be best for sushi newbies?"

Takayuki looked at us in confusion. Apparently he was not fluent in English and thought we were asking to sample sushi. He sliced a couple pieces and handed them to us.

“Oh, no thanks!” I said politely, backing away.

“Try it, Mom!” Linda encouraged.

I inspected it.

“What’s in it?” I asked Takayuki. He came around the counter and pointed at a sign. Linda read the ingredients. “It has raw crab and avocado rolled in sea weed covered with white rice”

“Are you stinkin’ kidding me?” I asked, suppressing a gag.

Then, as Takayuki watched, Linda and I regressed to a couple of 5 year-olds.

“You try it”.

"No, you try it first"

"No.. you. No you No you..No you..."

Where’s Mikey when you need him?

Linda took the first plunge. Then she elbowed me, and waited for me to do my part. Takayuki was looking at me expectantly. Since I'd rather die of food poisoning than hurt someone's feelings, I took a teeny tiny nibble.

It was horrid.

“Thank you so very much!” I said, backing away while Takayuki shook his head in what appeared to be a combination of disappointment and pity.

Linda pushed me down the soda aisle spitting the mouthful of sushi into her hand. I was retching, but managed to suppress the urge to vomit. Somehow we managed to avoid the embarrassment of "Clean-up in Aisle 9".

Then my Catholic guilt kicked into gear. Big time. We had insulted Takayuki, his sushi, and most likely his entire culture!

So on the way out of the store, I found a manager and told him what a fabulous employee Takayuki was and how he had given us samples of the best sushi I'd ever tasted.

It was also the worst sushi I'd ever tasted, but I left that part out.

But guess what! I've been converted!

I love sushi now! I found the perfect sushi for someone like me:

Twinkie sushi.

It's absolutely delicious. And good for you, too!

I found the recipe today on the Hostess Twinkie web site and cooked up a batch of my own. And it only takes 3 ingredients: Twinkies, green fruit roll ups, and candy.

I think Takayuki would love it.

I'll have to bring him a sample.

Not Your Ordinary Bullet Wound

2012-01-21T13:02:00.000-08:00

Not long after I graduated from college, I drove my 15-year old sister Linda to the emergency room with a bullet in the head.

Thinking back, I'm not even sure why we went to the ER. I mean, having a BB lodged deeply in one's ear isn't exactly life threatening. We were relatively certain that the ear canal was a dead end street. But what if there was an alley that led to the brain?

Keep in mind that this was before Al Gore invented the internet, or else we could have googled "How to get a BB out of your ear."

In fact, I just googled "how to get a BB out of your ear" and this is what I found:

Question: I was messing around with a bb pellet and now its stuck inside my ear canal, not yet to the ear drum but far enough so that I can't get to it with my short fingernails, should I tell my parents or something or try to vacuum it out ?

Hmmm. We never thought of trying the vacuum. That might have worked!

And by the way, here's the "best answer": Start by telling your parents so they can get you into the doctor right away.

You are probably wondering how the BB became lodged in my sister's ear. It was an act of athletic prowess never before seen in Sanborn, NY. My brother Jim (who had never played a round of golf in his life) tossed it to Linda while she was laying on her side watching TV.

He got a hole-in-one!

Linda immediately jumped up and started doing what has since become known in Clyde circles as the "BB in the Ear Dance", violently shaking her head sideways in an attempt to eject the stubborn BB. The more she tried, the deeper it seemed to go.

So we headed off to the Emergency room.

I have to admit that I had a riot at patient registration. I was laughing so hard, I could hardly get the words out. The nurse thought I was the patient (in the middle of a mental breakdown.)

"My brother...BB....in..her...ear!" I gasped.

"You brother shot a BB in her ear?" the nurse asked, her voice rising an octave.

Which made me laugh even harder! I howled.

When we finally explained what had really happened, the nurse took us back to the triage area. An ER doctor grabbed the longest set of tweezers I'd ever seen and attempted, unsuccessfully to retrieve the elusive BB.

After about 10 minutes of trying he gave up. By then Linda was in tears and I was starting to get nervous. Maybe it was life threatening after all. "We'll have to call in a specialist. He'll get it out. He's got more tools... better tools."

Better tools? What the heck was he going to bring in? A nuclear weapon?

"Get up, Linda! We can get that thing out," I said and I grabbed hold of her head and started shaking it like there was no tomorrow. I had to protect my little sister from this mad doctor.

What happened next was something right out of a situation comedy.

We didn't notice the curtain open and the little Asian doctor stepping in. He put his hands on his hips as he watched our "BB in the Ear Dance." Then he said, "Ahhhhhhhh. You must be the girl with the BB in your ear."

Talk about stating the obvious.

He was able to flush the BB from Linda's ear with some fancy water tool.

Last summer a bug flew in my ear while I was out for a walk. I danced the "BB in the Ear Dance" all the way home.

My neighbors just shook their heads, "There goes that crazy woman who does theater. I wonder what show she's in now?"

"Looks like it's got some really stupid choreography."

Spilling the Beans

2012-01-18T18:44:00.000-08:00

Kimmy's third year of life can be summed up in two words.

"I spilled."

Kimmy spilled EVERYTHING. It was like her arms and elbows were on amphetamines. One minute the carton of orange juice would be in the middle of the table; the next it would be rolling across the floor, catapulted by a 3-year old arm reaching for the syrup.

"I spilled."

At least once a day Kimmy would manage to tip over something, usually liquid, most certainly sticky, and always voluminous.

(We considered enrolling her in Spiller's Anonymous, but they didn't have a local chapter in Milwaukee.)

In an effort to protect our home value, we had strict "eat only in the kitchen" policy. So when I heard her "I spilled" voice calling for me from upstairs that day I knew it meant trouble.

Big trouble.

I gathered the paper towels and carpet cleaner and headed for the stairs. But what was she saying? Not "I spilled."

It was worse.

"I made a mess."

Holy crap, I thought. This must REALLY be bad. I mean, doubling the number of words used to describe a spill must indicate a truly significant mess.

I started praying. Dear God. Please don't let it be as bad as the infamous pitcher of lemonade spill. The one that left the invisible adherent that caused our feet to stick to the floor for weeks. And drew ants from as far away as the Twin Cities?

And God, please make it easier to clean up than all that stinkin' pink Amoxicillin that exploded all over the kitchen as a result of shaking a bottle that hadn't been properly closed.

I held my breath as I ran upstairs, praying for the best, but fearing the worst.

Kimmy was in the bathroom.

Oh no. A bathroom mess. The worst kind.

But Kimmy was smiling. She was pointing to the toilet bowl, the contents of which were shaped like the letter "S".

I had misunderstood her.

"I made an S," she repeated proudly. And she had.

Holy crap is right.

Snot Just Another Craft Class

2012-01-15T17:27:00.000-08:00

Step aside Martha Stewart.

Today I'm going to teach my readers how to make a one-of-a-kind tissue box cover to adorn your residence and increase your home values.

You're welcome.

You will need the following materials:

a shoe box
a tissue box
box cutter
band aids (just in case!)
tape
scissors

And most importantly, you will need a picture of someone with a big nose.

Of course, you know one of the cardinal rules my blog is to never hurt anyone's feelings. (Sure, there was that one time when I made fun of Miss Teen S.C. (The Accidental Pageant June 21, 2011) But that was a very special exception to the "no hurt feelings" rule. She asked for it.)

I needed a picture of someone with a big nose. But who? Jimmy Durante was obvious, as was Barbra Streisand. Lea Michele might work. But considering the fact that my nose is not exactly petite, I could not in good conscious exploit their noses for my craft project.

I decided to sacrifice my dignity and use a picture of myself.....until I envisioned my guests pulling tissues out of my nose. You may think that's funny but it's snot.

Get it?

Instead I chose to use Shrek. I mean you can't offend a cartoon character, can you?

You know, the more I think about it, I should set up a kiosk in the mall. Right next to the eyebrow threaders. These guys will sell like hotcakes.

And I've already thought of a couple product line extensions. The nose shower gel dispenser

and my personal favorite, the nose egg white separator.

I'm going to be a stinkin' millionaire.

Bang-Bang, The Prequel

2012-01-11T08:35:00.000-08:00

I learned my lesson that day.

Never invite a clients’ child over for a play date.

My client, let’s call her “Prudence” lived in our neighborhood in Jacksonville. When she discovered that we both had 4-year old daughters, she suggested we get them together to play. Something told me that this was not a good idea, but I agreed.

There was one word to describe Angelica. Precocious. Angelica was a miniature adult.

My older daughter, Kimmy occasionally babysat for Angelica, and when she did, she'd come home smarter. "Hey, Mom. I learned a new word from Angelica tonight: iconoclast. It means a non-conformist".

Angelica not only acted much older than her age, she looked older, too. In fact, she reminded me of Moe, from the 3 stooges. She had one of those bowl cuts that look cute on some kids.

Not on Angelica.

But Angelica's maturity and confidence helped her compensate for that Moe haircut. (She was far more mature than anyone in my family...myself included.)

But back to the play date invitation. Red flags should have been going up all around me, but I chose to ignore them. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

Bottom line? I was focusing on the wrong potential outcome. You see, Linda had flunked Sharing 101 and that’s where my focus remained.

“Linda, make sure you share all your toys with Angelica,” I instructed.

“Not my Barbies. My Barbies are special. She can play with my giraffe Beanie Baby. The one with the missing eye. That's all,” Linda responded, generously.

“No, Linda. Angelica is our guest. She is welcome to play with all of your toys.”

“Not my Marble Works. She might break it."

“Linda. If I find out that you didn’t share your Marble Works with Angelica, I will give it away. To Angelica. Come on! Be nice," I pleaded.

I was worried.

Prudence dropped Angelica off and they headed to Linda’s room to play. For the 1st hour, I popped my head in every 10 minutes or so and Linda was sharing. They were getting along famously.

Then I let my guard down.

Linda and Angelica came out of Linda’s bedroom. Angelica was wearing one of Linda’s t-shirts, turned inside out. But that’s not what got my attention.

“We were playing beauty shop. I cut Angelica’s hair,” Linda announced proudly.

That's when the doorbell rang. The next five minutes were a blur. "Go get your things, Angelica!" I instructed.

I opened the door, hesitantly.

Prudence asked, "How'd it go?"

I said, "Well, I've got good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first"

Prudence gave a nervous laugh. "What do you mean, is everything okay?"

"Well....the good news is that they had fun and Linda shared!!! And nobody got hurt" I added.

Prudence looked over my shoulder, beginning to panic, "Angelica, honey...where are you?"

I didn't have to tell her the bad news.

Angelica rounded the corner with her new haircut.

Meer words cannot describe the scream that came from Prudence's mouth when she set eyes on Angelica. But I will attempt to replicate it.

Apparently, the family photo had been scheduled for the next Monday.

Oops.

Behind the Thumb Drive Curve

2012-01-07T16:39:00.000-08:00

I had no idea I was so behind the times. Where have I been?

I mean, I have a flash drive. It works perfectly well. But it is boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. Until today, I had no idea just how boring it is. It's rectangular. And very gray. Dull.

I used to like it. Now I hate it.

Somehow I missed the Renaissance of Flash Drives. But I am not going to get left behind in this flash drive fashion phenomenon.

I just don't know how to chose the replacement for my dinosaur...my cave man. There are so many options. Since I'm a geek that likes to eat, maybe I should chose a drive in the food genre.

But then again, my new memory stick might make me hungry. I probably wouldn't be tempted by the bacon memory stick hanging off my computer all day, but that donut one sure looks delicious.

Maybe I should avoid food thumb drives and get a regular old thumb drive.

Sorry. Couldn't resist.

I asked Kevin to chose, and he voted for the tampon flash drive. According to advertisements, this drive absorbs a lot of data. It also comes in slender (4GB), regular (16 GB) and super (32 GB).

Probably the most entertaining - in an "immature and somewhat disgusting but I can't help giggling kind of way", flash drive that I found is the Humping Dog Memory Stick.

(I know this may be shocking to you, but the Humping Dog Memory Stick comes from our friends in Japan.)

According to the advertisement: "Plug him in and immediately his legs will start shaking as the pooch transfers his, ahem, data to your computer. A great gift for the geek in you, or the perfect accessory for an office prank - the humping dog is guaranteed hilarity."

I'm just a wee bit concerned that the Humping Dog Memory Stick's guaranteed hilarity could offend some of my co-workers and land me in the Corporate Compliance office.

I think I'd be a lot safer with my own invention: the Drunken Mexican Toothpick Holder thumb drive.

And I just thought of something else! I could replace the toothpicks with paper clips, thereby doubling its functionality. They don't call me a stinkin' Marketing genius for nothing.

The Quicker Picker Upper

2012-01-04T16:28:00.000-08:00

It should have come with a warning label!

I'm talking about my new sweater. My very snazzy sweater. My sweater that makes me look like I'm ready for a game of polo.

See what I mean? I think it's cute. And it's is very warm. I wore it to work today and for the first time since that day last summer when the power was out for 2-hours and employees were dropping like flies, I was not freezing.

But I did encounter a bit of trouble today while sporting my snazzy sweater.

Stop reading this now if you are easily grossed out.

(Note that my blog posting comes with a warning label. Too bad my sweater didn't.)

I'm not sure if it's a design flaw or user error (or both), but the first time I sat on the toilet at work, my very snazzy sweater landed in the toilet water.

The good news is that I realized it before I...um increased the water level in the toilet. (Which is quite an accomplishment, considering how badly I had to use the bathroom at the time.)

I stood up quickly and surveyed the damage. As I swung the back of the sweater around for inspection, I inadvertently flooded the side of the bathroom wall with a tidal wave originating from my sweater.

As a side note, It is absolutely amazing just how absorbent my snazzy new sweater is. It would give Bounty paper towels a run for their money.

But lucky for me, only an inch of my sweater got wet.

It could have been worse. Way worse. I won't go there.

You're welcome.

Yep, this snazzy new sweater definitely needs a warning label.

Finding the Fountain of Youth in the Dollar Store

2011-12-31T19:32:00.000-08:00

At the risk of sounding arrogant, I have completely outdone myself.

I've conducted research regarding ways to retain my youthful features.

Stop laughing. Youthfulness is all relative. My features are youthful compared some individual's.

At any rate, I've uncovered a product out of Japan that will train and tighten my cheek and jaw muscles, helping to offset the signs of aging and bring a fresher, youthful look back again to my cheeks!

It's called Pupeko Anti-Aging Mouthpiece Cheek Exercise Beauty Skincare Product.

I know what you're thinking. How can something that resembles an adult pacifier offset the signs of aging?

It's easy. You simply insert the Pupeko into your mouth, puff out your cheeks or suck them in while breathing through the mouthpiece, and voila!

And there are also financial benefits to this product! The Pupeko is considerably cheaper than plastic surgery ($40 plus $20 shipping and handling).

But being the Nerdling that I am (not to mention the cheapskate), I examined the Pupeko carefully and determined that I could make my own, more attractive version for a significantly lower cost.

I wasn't sure what materials I needed, but I knew I'd find them at the Dollar Store.

(As an aside, I really should have measured my mouth before I left. It would have saved me considerable embarrassment.)

I had to find something circular that would fit into my mouth. The top to a Silly String can showed potential. I looked up and down the aisle to make sure nobody would see me. The coast was clear. I opened wide. Nope. Too big.

Next I tried on (so to speak) some toddler Tupperware cups. Too big. The Key Chain was too small.

I hit pay dirt in the kitchen aisle. The drain stops were too small, but the silicon baking cups appeared to be the perfect size. I was just taking them out of my mouth when the woman rounded the corner. "I'm just making sure it's the right size," I said defensively.

I purchased 4 items, costing a total of $4.28, just a fraction of the cost of the original Pupeko.

I'm proud to introduce the Nerdling Anti-aging Mouthpiece Cheek Exercise Beauty Skincare Product.

I am so glad I decided to add the lipstick bag clip to my purchase. It adds so much aesthetically. Don't you think?

Plus, now I can do my Anti-aging Mouthpiece Cheek Exercises in public.

Hanky Panko

2011-12-27T13:37:00.000-08:00

I have to keep reminding myself that she didn’t mean any harm. But she hijacked my damn recipe. My Chicken-Parmesan Bundles.

Let me back up. It was Christmas Eve and my sisters and I were trying to plan dinner. I know this is shocking to you, but I do not have a reputation among the Clyde family as being a stellar cook. So when I made a suggestion for the dinner menu, my sister Linda almost fell over.

“What did you say, Lou?" Linda asked, her chin dragging on the floor. "You mean you can make something other than toast and brownies?”

“Yes,” I said, proudly. “I make this really good meal where you mix spinach with mozzarella cheese and cream cheese, smear it on chicken breasts, roll them up, poke them with toothpicks to keep them from unrolling, and cook them.”

My sister Jean Anne said, “Oh, I’ve had that. Only you don’t use cream cheese. You use ricotta cheese.”

“Have you made it before?” I asked suspiciously.

“No, but I’ve eaten it at restaurants. A lot.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s cream cheese. I can look it up. Oh, and after you roll them up, you dip them in egg and coat them with crushed up Ritz crackers. They’re delicious.”

“Ritz crackers?” Jean Anne asked in disbelief, attempting to suppress a gag. Then she reconsidered. “I know….we can use Panko crumbs”

(Did I mention that Jean Anne is a complete health food nut who weighs about 92 pounds soaking wet? She eats about 20 meals a day, each meal consisting of about 3 ½ bites of something healthy. She avoids junk food like the plague, although I once saw her eat a Hershey’s Kiss in 3 sittings.)

“Oh…OK. We can use Panko crumbs,” I said, not wanting to show my ignorance, but wondering what the heck Panko crumbs were. I’ve since learned that Panko crumbs are from Japan (big surprise). Apparently,they come from bread that has been subjected to an electric current that gets rid of the crust.

Am I missing something? Why would anyone, besides a toddler, want crust-less bread? That’s the best part.

“So, do you put spaghetti sauce on the chicken?” Jean Anne asked.

“Yes. Just a spoonful of Prego.”

“Prego?” Jean Anne said. “No way. My friend, Mary, (the chef) makes an unbelievable spaghetti sauce. I’ll make that.”

That’s how quickly it happened. My Chicken-Parmesan Bundles became Chicken-Spinach Pasta-Free Lasagna with Panko and Chef Mary’s Sauce.

My attitude soured as we prepared “my” recipe.

“How long do you cook your recipe?” Jean Anne asked.

“This isn’t my recipe. You hijacked my recipe.”

“But how long do you cook your version?”

“Oh, do you mean my recipe with the cream cheese, the Ritz crackers and the Prego? It takes 30 minutes”

“We better cook it for 40 minutes,” Jean Anne said, completely oblivious to the grand theft entrée she was committing.

I have to admit, the Chicken Spinach Pasta Free Lasagna with Panko and Chef Mary’s Sauce was pretty good, although not nearly as tasty as the original, hijacked recipe.

But on a positive note, I’m pretty sure I’ll live at least another minute or so longer because of that Panko.

Remembering Root Beer Beetles

2011-12-22T20:25:00.000-08:00

They just don't make toys the way they used to. I'm disappointed that my nephew Shane will never get to experience one of the most unusual, grossest, disgusting toys ever made.

Incredible Edibles.

If you are a child of the 60's, you will probably recognize this amazing novelty, the boy's version of the Easy Bake Oven.

Incredible Edibles was quite similar to the Easy Bake Oven, in that it plugged into the wall and made marginally edible things.

The main difference was that while girls made cakes and other pastries in their Easy Bake Ovens, boys made insects, snakes and turtles in their Incredible Edible "ovens", which resembled a cross between Adolf Hitler and a UFO.

The gross creatures were simple and fun to make. You just squeezed "Gobble De-Goop" into the molds and waited for them to cook. Gobble De-Goop came in 6 flavors: cherry, mint, root beer, licorice, and butterscotch.

The worst was root beer (involuntary gag).

My brother Tom, Shane's Dad, got an Incredible Edible oven for Christmas one year.

His specialty was root beer beetles.

OMG this is bringing back wretched memories. Just looking at the pictures stimulates an intense flashback...make that an hallucination.. of eating horrendous, raunchy root beer beetles. And did I mention their consistency? Gummy, slimy, and nasty. Just like you'd expect a root beer beetle to taste.

Shane would have loved them.

I'm going to have to finish up this blog before I lose my lunch in my high tech toilet (see posting: Toilet Envy: September 9, 2011)

If you can believe it, Mattel took Incredible Edibles off the market about 40 years ago. They didn't ask my permission.

There's hope for Shane, yet! I've discovered the Japanese have their own version of Incredible Edibles...Gummix Jelly Insect Maker Set for Kids' Edible Bug Kit.

They have a wide variety of insects, including crayfish, stag beetle and sow bugs. Sadly, they do not sell root beer flavored goo.

Shane will never know what he's missing.

I imagine he'd find a root beer stag beetle absolutely delicious.

I know Tom would.

Romance in the Science Lab

2011-12-17T20:24:00.000-08:00

The long-awaited Rollerblade Barbie Hairspray experiment has been conducted.

And it was done right, this time. As you may recall, I inadvertently used Dry Hair Shampoo rather than hairspray on my failed attempt of last summer.

Not my finest Nerdling moment.

But I was prepared this time. I inventoried the materials:

Rave Hairspray: check

Poop Freeze (in case the hairspray didn't work): check

New Rollerblade Barbie Rollerblades: check

Underwear: check

I also had water on hand, just in case the fire got out of control. (I know, call me an optimistic. But one can hope!)

It took several (22) attempts, but eventually Rollerblade Barbie's rollerblades did ignite the hairsprayed underwear!

In truth, the flames never got anywhere near the intensity of the fire in the photo above.

We did not have to call 911.

In fact, I'm not sure it is necessary to use the plural "flames", when describing the outcome of the experiment. There was really only one flame, and it somewhat resembled a birthday candle found at a mosquito's birthday party.

But it was a flame. So it counted.

We attempted, unsuccessfully, to replicate the experiment this afternoon. And we learned an important lesson.

Excessive hairspray ruins Rollerblade Barbie's rollerblades.

But all was not lost during today's experiment. You see, a budding romance developed on the driveway.

It turns out that Barbie finds Kevin to be much sexier than Ken.

Kevin wasn't so sure about Rollerblade Barbie.

She would not leave him alone.

He found her somewhat stalkerish.

Then there was the whole "Kevin, do you want to borrow my rollerblades?" thing.

Obviously, they didn't fit.

But Barbie was OK with that.

You know what they say about the size of a guy's feet.

Moving Out of Order

2011-12-13T18:23:00.000-08:00

Robert's Rules of Order make me giggle.

I can't help it! It's either giggle or groan and giggling's way more fun.

I was at a board meeting today that was completely overflowing with attorneys. I think one of them was named Robert.

"I move that we blah blah blah blah blah for blah blah in blah blah until blah blah. Pursuant to blah blah, I move that blah blah blah at blah blah," Robert declared.

Another lawyer replied, "I second the motion."

Madam Chair said, "All in favor say 'Aye'".

"Aye"

"All opposed say 'Nay'".

Silence.

"The motion stands."

Then Robert reconsidered. "Upon second thought, we were in executive discussion when I made that motion. I move that we end executive discussion so I can re-make the motion in peon mode."

A third lawyer replied, "I second the motion to re-make the motion."

I groaned.

Madam Chair said, "All in favor say 'Aye'".

"Aye"

"All opposed say 'Nay'".

Silence.

"The motion stands."

We apparently entered peon mode and Robert said. "I move that we blah blah blah blah blah for blah blah in blah blah until blah blah. Pursuant to blah blah I move that blah blah blah at blah blah".

I replied, "I second the blah blah". (Not really, but I wanted to.)

There were more moves in that 1 hour meeting than in a month of Body Jam classes!

Which gave me an idea. I jumped up on the board room table.

"You want to see a motion?!?!" I said. "Watch this!" I started pumping and moving my hips and began singing "What you gon' do with all that junk? All that junk inside your trunk?"

"I move that we remove Lou from the board room table", Robert said, in a panic.

"No! I move that you let me move!" I screamed! I started singing my Gypsy strip song, "She can uh.. she can uh.. she can uh uh uh..."

That's when the meeting was adjourned and my day dream slash fantasy ended.

Too bad. I was having a stinkin' good time.

The Blind Leading the Blind

2011-12-11T06:08:00.000-08:00

There are times when not having reading glasses with me is an inconvenience (such as when I'm at a restaurant and I have to rely on my kids have to read the menu to me.)

Then there are the times when not having reading glasses is more of a tragedy.

Like last night.

I was dropping off Linda at work when I remembered. "Crap! I have to shop for the Giving Tree gift! Linda, read the tag to me, OK?"

Linda rolled her eyes and read, "She wants Body wash, deodorant, XL pajamas, and diabetic candy. Elderly."

I do my best Giving Tree Giving when I personify my givees.

I named her Gladys. Gladys is a lot of fun. Bingo bores her; she much prefers poker. Gladys wants to smell nice for George, the handsome widow who lives down the hall from her at the nursing home. Gladys hopes that George will sit next to her at movie night.

I decided to shop at WalMart, not because WalMart sells body wash, deodorant, XL pajamas AND diabetic candy. I decided to shop at WalMart because they sell reading glasses (so I could read the price tags on the body wash, deodorant, XL pajamas and diabetic candy).

I picked out cucumber melon and strawberry breeze body wash for Gladys. I got some Dial deodorant. And I found some absolutely fetching pink pajamas (with size-18 font price tags).

George will not be able to resist Gladys in that luxurious lingerie. Just saying.

All I needed was the candy.

There were bags and bags of sugar free candy. I tried to picture Gladys. Would she prefer chocolate or hard candy?

What would George like?

Then I had a practical thought. Is sugar free the same thing as diabetic candy? I didn't want to send Gladys (or George) into a diabetic coma.

There was small print on the back of the bag. Enter the reading glasses.

I compared the candy description on the back of the bag to what was written on the Giving Tree tag. It was then I noticed a critical demographic element that Linda had failed to mention when she was reading the gift tag to me 45-minutes earlier.

Gladys was an elderly man.

Shut the front door.

I wasn't shopping for Gladys. I was shopping for Herman.

I exchanged Cucumber Melon for a more manly version of body wash. Old Spice deodorant replaced the Dove.

And the pajamas? One thing's for certain. Herman would never wear pink pajamas.

Gladys would never give him a second look.

The Masquerading Hairspray

2011-12-05T19:24:00.000-08:00

When Linda broke the news I was shocked. It did not seem possible. How could I make such a critical error?

But the evidence was overwhelming.

Barbie was standing right next to the hairspray in the photo. (see posting: The Barbie Doll Experiment June 14, 2011)

But it wasn’t hairspray. It was dry hair shampoo, masquerading as hairspray. How did I miss that yellow writing on the can?

It’s no stinkin’ wonder my experiment failed! I couldn’t get that training bra to catch on fire no matter how much hairspray…make that dry hair shampoo I applied to the training bra.

I even added dryer lint.

To make matters worse, I completely unsparked my Barbie roller blades that day with all my fruitless attempts at creating a fire. The blades twirl freely today, unencumbered by any friction. No sparks.

Duds.

And I'm relatively certain that Barbie’s laughing at me in this picture. She apparently knew I was using dry hair shampoo, and not hairspray.

Bitch.

Yes. I’m a failure. And you know who’s to blame?

Me. I guess I didn’t bring my reading glasses to Food Lion on my hairspray shopping trip that day.

But being the responsible Nerdling that I am, I have located a vintage Rollerblade Barbie on Amazon.com and have placed an order for her and her dangerous, sparking rollerblades. When she arrives, I will properly conduct the experiment using REAL hairspray (Dave Berry recommends Rave).

You're welcome.

And if the hairspray doesn’t work, maybe I’ll try some Poop Freeze. I understand that’s quite flammable.

In the meantime, I have to get busy.

I’m going to wash my hair.

Studying the Spasm

2011-12-02T18:40:00.000-08:00

It was wrong of me.

I know it was.

But I couldn't help it.

You see, I don't know what a back spasm looks like. The character I'm playing in Rumors has back problems and I have to perform several back spasms on stage.

So when my colleague (let's call him Harold) mentioned that he will be needing back surgery, my ears perked up

"Really!" I said, trying to control my excitement. I crossed my fingers.

"Have you ever had a back spasm?" I asked non-chalantly.

"I have them all the time," Harold said. I took a deep breath.

"Just last week I had a major back spasm when I was out shopping with my wife. It hurt like hell."

I jumped out of my chair.

"What did it look like? I mean, how did you move your body. Can you show me? Was it like this?" I said as I spastically shoved my shoulders back and stomach out.

Harold shook his head, "Actually, it was more like this" and he demonstrated hunching of the shoulders and folding his body forward. "The pain was like a knife and it spread across my ribs. It was awful."

If Harold was expecting pity, he didn't get it. My smile widened.

"How about this?" I asked, as I attempted to imitate poor Harold's back spasm.

"Well, I wasn't smiling," Harold said. "It was agonizing."

I think Harold was beginning to get annoyed.

So I told him about my play and how I wanted to win an academy award for back spasms.

"Let me try one more" I insisted. "Please?"

Harold politely started to leave my office.

I thought of something else. "Harold! Wait!!!" I called after him.

"What?"

"If you have a back spasm while we're working, would you mind giving me a call? I'd like to watch."

I didn't quite catch his response.

Infinite Fun!

2011-11-30T18:26:00.000-08:00

With the holidays just around the corner I know many of you are looking for the perfect gifts for your loved ones. In the spirit of giving, I've decided to provide my readers with some unique gift ideas for the special people in your lives.

You're welcome.

Don't worry. I won't be recommending any run-of-the-mill, mainstream items such as the Christopher Walken Chia Pet. Your friends and family deserve something special. Something more unique. Something exceptional.

And I've discovered the ideal gift for the beer drinker in the family: Mugen Beer, a.k.a. Infinite Beer.

(I must admit, when I first saw this photo of Mugen Beer, I was a bit confused. I thought it looked much more finite than infinite.)

But that was before I understood the genius behind the product.

You see, Mugen Beer doesn't really contain any beer. It just sounds like it does!!!

According to the advertising: "Nothing beats the feeling of coming home and cracking open a cold one. Recreate that feeling over and over, whenever you want, with Mugen Beer (Infinite Beer), the beer can that you can open forever!"

Wow! A beer can that you can open forever! Astounding. And it's only $32 (plus $16 shipping and handling).

Did I mention that it was developed by the same people who brought us the Beauty Voice Trainer?

Mugen Beer comes in 6 fun colors. I hope it's not too complicated to operate; the 3-page manual is written in Japanese.

What a phenomenal concept! With Mugen Beer you can enjoy all the benefits of a nice cold beer, such as looking at the can, opening the can, and listening to the can being opened.

But why take my word for it?! Here's how the Japanese advertise Mugen Beer:

Product Feature

#1:Pushhhhyu!! (fizzy sound come right after pull up cans)

Hey foks, there are more sounds including secret and none secret effects!

Try and feel "Yeah!" playing with our can opener keychains/ cell phone straps ; )

#2: Get a weird, stupid or funny even you hear

with cool sounds every 30 pulls!!

Think how much your loved one will enjoy getting a weird, stupid or funny even they hear cool sounds every 30 pulls! (I know, easy for me to say.)

But they're leaving off 2 very important benefits of Mugen Beer:

1- No calories.

2- No hangovers.

The Poopsickle Experiment

2011-11-27T17:05:00.000-08:00

The box was waiting for me when I returned from vacation.

The red and white label said: Hazardous Materials. The shipping label provided additional detail: Compressed Gases. Flammable, NOS (Tetrafluorethane and Dimethylether).

Hallelujah! My Poop Freeze had finally arrived!

For those of you unaware of this exciting product, Poop Freeze Aerosol Freeze Spray is for people looking for a "clean, easy and affordable solution to nasty waste clean-up problems". Pet owners spray Poop Freeze on their pet's poop, freezing it, thus making it easier to pick up.

I was excited to test Poop Freeze, and see if it lived up to its brand promise (printed on the can): "Poop Happens- Just Freeze It! Because it's our Dootie."

I also wanted to see if Poop Freeze was more effective than hair spray.

The following instructions were on the back of the Poop Freeze can:

1. Shake 5 seconds

2. Lightly spray 5 seconds

3. Flip and Re-Spray

What?!! Am I the only one who sees a problem with these instructions?

Flip and Re-Spray?

Seriously. I'm not making stinkin' pancakes. I'm picking up poop. Exactly how is step 3 supposed to make picking up poop easier?

But, doggone it. I'd invested $11.99 plus shipping and handling in this product. Plus, I'm probably being investigated by the Department of Homeland Security for purchasing hazardous materials over the internet. And most importantly, I promised my readers that I would test Poop Freeze.

I decided not to get hung up on a little poop flipping. I would test Poop Freeze.

I took Kevin to the park.

Now, my apologies for the graphic nature of these photos. But this is a scientific experiment that had to be documented. With a little help from Kevin I had the opportunity to test Poop Freeze.

And guess what?

Poop Freeze froze poop.

And it was easier to pick up than poop at park temperature. The bag was a bit cold to the touch, but then again, it contained frozen poop.

I know what you're thinking.

Lou, how did the Poop Freeze compare to the hair spray?

I'm happy to report that the Poop Freeze was more effective than hair spray.

At least on my mall hair.

Fun with Hairspray

2011-11-15T19:51:00.000-08:00

For only the second time in my life I purchased a can of hairspray.

I bought my first can about 5 months ago for my failed attempt at starting a fire with my Barbie Roller Blade’s roller blades. (http://notesfromanerdling.blogspot.com/2011/06/barbie-doll-experiment.html)

I have looked everywhere for that virgin can of hairspray. I looked in all the likely places: the bathrooms, Linda’s bedroom and my blog bag. That Barbie Doll Hairspray completely vanished!

So I invested in a second can of hairspray.

You may wonder why I needed hairspray for only the second time in my life. It’s simple.

To spray on Kevin’s poop.

You see, I’ve discovered this product called Poop Freeze that makes cleaning up after your dog easier.

Apparently, you spray Poop Freeze on the poop and it freezes it, making it easier to pick up.

I was intrigued by the concept of a product that makes cleaning up after your dog easier (although not nearly as easy - and innovative- as a PooTrap). So I got to thinking about other products that could possibly accomplish that same goal.

Hairspray might.

It won’t freeze the poop, but it should stiffen it.

Becca’s dad suggested I try Freon or Liquid Nitrogen, but they’re too expensive for my blogging budget. So I gave in and ordered a can of Poop Freeze on Amazon.com. Once it arrives, I will be able to do a product comparison test: Poop Freeze vs. Hairspray.

But in the meantime, I decided to conduct another experiment with my new can of hairspray.

I wondered if I could make my hair as big as Mall Hair Girl’s. (http://notesfromanerdling.blogspot.com/2009/12/mall-hair-girl.html)

Close but no cigar.

It's Electric!

2011-11-12T12:48:00.000-08:00

Some days blog topics just present themselves to me.

Today is one of those days.

Becca, Kevin and I went for a morning walk around the trails of Harbison Lake. It was a beautiful morning and there were a lot of other walkers out and about. (None were wearing bananas.)

We were nearing the end of our walk when we saw her.

She was middle-aged and was about 50 yards ahead of us, walking sideways down the path in our direction. Suddenly, she turned and began moving away from us.

"What the heck is that lady doing?" I asked Becca in confusion.

"The Hokey Pokey?" Becca suggested.

When the woman did a grape-vine and turned 90 degrees I started giggling.

For you to appreciate what happened next, I must disclose some very sensitive information about Becca. She is not a dancer. Sure, she had to do that Viennese Waltz in The Secret Garden, and she only fell once on stage. She also survived Cats relatively unscathed. But I don't think she enjoyed dancing in either show.

And one time I dragged her to Body Jam and...Well, I must be honest here. I love Becca dearly, but..I have to say it.

Becca stunk at Body Jam. She's lucky she didn't hurt herself! Or me.

She just doesn't have my moves.

Oh! One more thing. Becca does NOT share my affinity for So You Think You Can Dance. Now, admittedly, I am a bit of a SYTYCD addict. It's not unusual for me to watch some dances over and over again, getting completely wrapped up in emotion.

In fact, that Travis Wall "Fix You" routine can still make me cry like a baby. When I made Becca watch it, guess what.

SHE DIDN'T EVEN NEED A KLEENEX!

(In case you want a good cry, here's that dance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnguqsMQmg4 )

Let's just say Becca is not a connoisseur of dance, which makes what happened next on our walk even more startling.

Becca was studying the woman and her unusual movements.

"She's doing the electric slide," she concluded.

That was exactly what the woman with I-Pod buds in her ears was doing. And my good buddy Becca, the dancer don't-wanna-be, was the one to correctly analyze the steps and come up with the correct dance.

She's a stinkin' Name That Dance genius!

As for me? I just knew is that it wasn't Body Jam. Or tap.

My next challenge was passing the woman without peeing my pants. (She wasn't making much forward progress, considering she was doing the Electric Slide down the sidewalk.)

I somehow managed to remain composed.

Yes, I love it when blog topics just present themselves to me. As I drove into my neighborhood I was greeted with another one.

Inspirational Art

2011-11-08T18:52:00.000-08:00

Please don't think me arrogant when you read this blog. I realize it's a risk to toot my horn so much, but darn it, I can't help it.

As I was surfing the nerdy corridors of the internet last night, I happened upon an undiscovered work of art that took my breath away. It is the essence of artistic aspiration and it should be hanging in the Lourve- or at least in Michael's. (Perhaps this posting will catapult the artist to fame and fortune.)

The painting is called "First Aid (Bandages)."

Not only is it aesthetically pleasing, it is truly motivational.

In fact, I was inspired by First Aid (Bandages) to learn first aid bandages.

But first I needed materials..i.e., first aid bandages, so I cut up an old cloth diaper into 2-inch strips and sewed the strips together.

Next I needed a patient. Dave was watching TV.

"Dave, can I practice my first aid bandages on you? You look like you have a lower jaw injury."

"Go away"

"Linda, let me try and set your broken arm..."

"No."

"Kevin?"

He ran under the bed.

Dave suggested that I had a hole in my head.

I treated that injury but I needed to find a real patient to practice on.

That's when I remembered my pet boulder. He was a perfect. He had a head injury. Then he had an eye injury. He even had a fracture of the jaw.

And he's not the least bit camera shy.

And thanks to my Pet Boulder, I have recognized yet one more of my many gifts.

I'm a stinkin' expert at First Aid Bandages.

Is there anything I can't do?

Rewarding Good Behavior

2011-11-05T19:22:00.000-07:00

I have found the perfect companion product for the PooTrap. For those of you not familiar with the PooTrap, it is a mechanism that straps onto a dog to collect their poop, sort of like an inverse feed-bag. (see: No poops No oops! May 3, 2011 posting).

The main concern I have with this amazing innovation is that it could be a wee bit embarrassing to a dog (not to mention the owner). Especially after the PooTrap has been filled.

One of the PooTrap FAQs addresses this issue:

There's motivation and reward for the owner, in that she doesn't have to pick up dog poop. But what's in it for the dog? Where's the reward?

Leave it to the nerdling to come up with a scathingly brilliant idea that will motivate dogs to want to wear their PooTraps.

I'm talking about the Rear Gear Butt Cover.

Once the PooTrap is filled, the owner can remove it, praise the dog, and adhere a Rear Gear Butt Cover in place of the PooTrap.

Talk about rewarding good behavior!

Now, the official Rear Gear Butt Covers come in many designs including a disco ball, air freshener, heart, flower, biohazard, smiley face, number one ribbon, sheriff's badge, dice, and cupcake.

Time out. Is it just me, or does anyone else find the concept of a cupcake butt cover unsettling?

At any rate, I decided to save the $5.00 plus postage and buy Kevin some Dollar Store Butt Covers, just to see how he liked them.

He didn't.

In all honesty, I'm not sure he's got the right ass for one of these things. Way too much fur.

You get the picture.

But guess what? Kevin has decided to re-purpose the Dollar Store Butt Covers.

Introducing the Dollar Store Butt Cover Necklace.

Apparently, there's more than one stinkin' marketing genius in the family.

Now we just need to get working on our Dollar Store Butt Cover Jewelry Line video. Hope it's as good as this one:

The Head Shot

2011-11-02T19:43:00.000-07:00

I felt like a contortionist in a scene from The Exorcist. The photographer made me turn my body down-stage with my shoulders and head turned up-stage. "Ouch! This hurts!" I objected.

"Stop whining and tilt your head 37 degrees South East," the Nazi photographer demanded.

I've never been a fan of head shots. I suppose it all stemmed from years and years of horrible class pictures growing up. In 13 years of schooling, I never had a good one.

"Hey carrot top...nice picture," the boys would tease.

It's even worse when you combine my lack of photgeneity (I made that word up) with my predisposition for passive aggressive bug-eye behavior. You see, when I get frustrated my eyes react. Big time.

I can't help it.

My eyes expand in perfect correlation to my level of frustration.

You should have seen my drivers license photo taken on Good Friday in 1992 when the Milwaukee D.M.V. was closing at noon and the line wrapped around the room 3 times and the one woman unlucky enough to be working that morning kept ignoring me.

I looked like Marty Feldman by the time she snapped the picture.

But on a positive note, it provided hours of entertainment at family gatherings over the next 4 years. "Hey Lou! Show Uncle Buck your license. I don't think he's seen it"

"Holy crap!" Buck said, in admiration. "How'd you do that?"

Then there's that photo on my work ID. The security camera woman told me to step up to the line and smile. Click.

"Can I see it?" I asked as she pulled it up on her full screen. I took a look. "Oh, would you mind taking another one?"

Click. I look. "I'm sorry, would you take another one please? I don't like the way my eyes look."

Tsk. Click. I look. "One more?"

"Uh, Lou. This is how you look."

So, considering my lifetime of bad pictures, I shouldn't have been surprised when I opened the email from the photographer containing my head shot.

I screamed.

"I DIDN'T KNOW I HAD WRINKLES ON MY NECK!" Are you stinkin' kidding me?

But guess what! I just had a neck life. And a face tuck. And botox.

It's called Photo Shop. And that Nazi photographer is a stinkin' genius.

I just have one question.

Where was she when I was in 1st grade?

I so could have used her.

Improper Intervals

2011-10-28T21:38:00.000-07:00

I have never had a root canal. I imagine such a procedure could be a wee bit more painful than a musical audition. But, not by much.

There's something about standing on a stage with a number straight-pinned to my chest, singing 16 bars of a song to a room full of humanity that makes me want to crawl into my stinkin' armpit. "Hello my name is Lou Clyde and I'm going to be singing 'Sponge Bob Square Pants', from…. Sponge Bob Square Pants."

I actually just thought of something less enjoyable than musical auditions: cleaning vomit out of the side pocket of my car when my sick daughter doesn't have the where-with-all to tell me to pull the car over when she's about to puke.

Yeah. That's worse than musical auditions. But, not much worse.

Thank God I will NEVER have to worry about musical auditions again!

No, don't worry! I haven't given up auditioning! I'm getting my very own Beauty Voice Trainer. And it's going to give me the dulcet voice I've always wanted.

In just 5 minutes a day.

I know what you're thinking. Is this a Japanese product?

Of course it is.

The Beauty Voice Trainer is a cutting-edge innovation. According to the advertising materials, the system works in three ways: First, the specially designed mouthpiece positions the tongue to open the voice passage, allowing a much stronger sound.

Secondly, it helps with abdominal breathing, a necessity for proper singing. Finally, the included tuning fork guides you to the notes you want, and trains you to hear the proper intervals between pitches.

I cannot wait to test out that stainless steel tuning fork so I can learn the proper intervals between pitches. It's no wonder I wasn't cast as Belle in Beauty and the Beast!

My intervals were improper!

The only thing that bothers me is the specially designed mouthpiece. It only comes in 2 colors: orange and purple. I'm a Carolina fan, for crying out loud!

Plus it looks like a damn pacifier. If I'm going to put a pacifier in my mouth, I want a good looking one.

In fact, if that specially designed mouthpiece looked like this, I would use my Beauty Voice Trainer for way more than 5 minutes a day!

Can you imagine my vocal transformation?

I'd be the next Susan Boyle!

No more chorus line for me. I'm destined for the top, thanks to my Beauty Voice Trainer!

Now, if they would only come out with a Beauty Dance Trainer.

I could head straight to Broadway.

Teenage Wadder!

2011-10-25T20:01:00.000-07:00

I stared blankly. Certainly, I must have misheard Linda.

"I'm sorry, what did you say you did on your first day of work?" Linda had just returned home after her new job at a certain unnamed retail establishment at the mall.

"I said, I folded clothes."

"Holy stinkin' cow!" I said to my daughter who has never folded a piece of clothing in her 17 years of life. "Did they provide on the job training?"

She rolled her eyes (for the 47th time that day.)

You may wonder how someone can make it 17 years without ever folding a piece of clothing. It's simple. Linda's a "wadder".

Linda basically takes clean clothes from the laundry basket, wads them up and shoves them into her drawers. Those that don't fit remain in the laundry basket.

Linda typically tries on several outfits before choosing the "right one." The wrong ones end up in the discard pile on her floor.

When she runs out of clean clothes, or can no longer find something to wear, she brings in a bulldozer and hauls the garments to the laundry room, where the cycle begins anew.

So you can imagine my shock when Wadder Linda announced that she is now folding clothes for a living (well, at least 12 hours or so a week through the holidays).

Truth be told, after the initial shock, and once I was assured that she wasn't fired for incompetence, I began to giggle.

You see, Linda can't even fold a towel. I mean, HOW DIFFICULT IS IT TO FOLD A TOWEL?

I know what you're thinking.

I am a gifted towel origamist. I should not expect my daughter to be able to display the same level of achievement.

Not everybody can create a...I can't recall exactly what the creature was that I created in this picture, but he is impressive. (see posting Refusing to Throw in the Towel: Dec. 18, 2010).

Trust me. I am not trying to get Linda to replicate my works of art. Is it too much to hope for some sort of quadrilateral? Something that will fit in the linen closet?

But NO! Linda can't even fold a towel parallelogram!

I'd even accept a towel rhombus.

OMG. The answer is right in front of my nose.

Linda is working at the wrong store!

She needs a job at Bed Bath and Beyond!

Stuck on You

2011-10-21T19:14:00.000-07:00

Earle Dickenson is probably rolling in his grave.

Who is Earle Dickenson? I'll give you a hint. He was a cotton buyer who worked for Johnson & Johnson company in 1921. His wife, like me, was not very good in the kitchen. (Although, I am an excellent cake decorator, having graduated summa cum laude from Michael's cake decorating class.)

Anyhow, Josephine was a bit of a klutz. Apparently, she was always cutting herself in the kitchen.

Kind of like that Sunday in 1995 when Dave almost cut his thumb off while slicing a sandwich in half. Pardon my detour, but I'm drinking a glass of wine. And sometimes wine takes me down memory lane.

Not only did Dave have bad aim with his cleaver, he had exceptionally bad timing. I had just started my new job at Barnett Bank 89 days earlier. My health insurance began 90 days after my start date.

Being the devoted and loving wife that I was (errr..am), I applied first aid to the very deep cut.

And I told him to hold the towel around it very tightly for the next 23 hours because we were uninsured until the next day. Unfortunately, applying pressure did not stop the gushing and he was forced to visit the E.R. for stitches.

Damn him.

But, back to Earle Dickenson. You got it! Earle invented the band aid.

I'm not certain how Earle would feel about the band aids I've been looking at online. I recently purchased a box of bacon bandages, thinking that they would be fun and entertaining. And I wasn't disappointed!

But now I see that I could have purchased pickle band aids. They look like a lot of fun, too! So do the Macaroni and Cheese band aids. They even sell Sushi and toast band aids. How to choose?!!

But I'm not so sure about those scab band aids. I mean isn't the whole point of band aids to cover and protect the wound, and subsequent scabs?

I can only imagine Earle attempting to put one of these on poor, clumsy Josephine's sliced finger.

He probably wouldn't have dared.

At least if she was still holding that knife.

Prodigious PABilities

2011-10-19T19:32:00.000-07:00

When Becca asked me to be her PAB ("Personal Assistant to the Bride"), I envisioned my role as somewhat of a "figurehead". Kind of like Queen Elizabeth.

Or Andre Bauer.

Or a combination of them.

But when push came to shove, I was actually more like the Road Runner than either.

My first mission: The Getaway Car. The day before the wedding, Becca's sister Robin "deputized me" (her exact words). "You know... make a Just Married sign, and hang tin cans off the back of the car. Something vintage." Then she added..."Not tacky."

I got right to work, strategically making tuna fish sandwiches and cranberry sauce for lunch. The resulting 3-can arrangement looked stark, so I threw in a Diet Coke can and a couple of orphan sneakers I’d found in the garage.

Just to be safe I took a whiff. (Wouldn't want it to be "tacky", right Robin?)

It was a work of art. In fact just looking at it brought a tear to my eye.

I was one Proficient PAB.

Next I found the Wedding Director, gave a salute and said, "PAB Lou, reporting for duty."

Geesh. Did she ever put me to work. Heavy duty.

"Lou, take the handkerchiefs to the groomsmen."

"Lou, find Becca's Dad"

"Lou, why is that flower girl in her bare feet?"

About 30 minutes before the wedding started it got even crazier.

"Lou get the ushers and put them to work"

"Lou, bring the parents. STAT!"
"LOU, ON YOUR TOES! FIND THOSE FLOWER GIRLS! LOOK IN THE NURSERY"

My adrenaline was pumping. This was more exciting than a 5-star soduku!

(I took a breather during the most excellent wedding ceremony ever!)

Then it was the photographer who took command.

"Lou, bring me the flower girls."
"Lou, find Becca's Aunt Janet"

Then came the ultimate challenge: my own, personal Mount Everest, nearly impossible to achieve.

"Lou, round up the Kelly's"

"All of them?"

"Yes!"
"But...um...I..."
"FIND THEM!"

I gulped. "Crap! I mean, Aye Aye M'aam."

Seriously? There were scores of Kelly's around. And they were elusive. When the ceremony ended they had scattered like a bunch of kids playing freeze tag.

I regret to say that I could only find 43 of the 44 Kelly's. (The MIA brother apparently had left church in search of the marriage license.)

But you know what? I'm okay with that. Thomas Edison failed more than 1,000 times when trying the create the light bulb. Heck, I scored 97.7% on my first attempt!

And overall, I was quite proud of my Prodigious PABilities.

Seriously, I don't think Queen Elizabeth would last 5 minutes as a PAB. She's not nearly nimble enough.

But you know what? Andre probably would make a good PAB. Rumor has it he can move pretty fast.

Where Have They Gone?

2011-10-15T19:53:00.000-07:00

You know what gets on my nerves? When a piece of dental floss breaks off between my teeth. And the string is too short and/or slippery to grab.

So I use another piece of dental floss to try and pull the broken-off piece out, but there's no room for the second piece because of the helpless, immobilized original piece of floss.

So the second piece breaks off.

You get the picture.

Yep. That bothers me.

But you know what's even more irritating than un-dislodgable dental floss?

Orphan Socks.

I don't know if you knew this, but I'm very anal. And the fact that my orphan socks would beat my nice, orderly, paired socks at a game of basketball completely unnerves me.

I wanted to get to the bottom of this problem, so I conducted a root cause analysis on my orphan sock problem. And there are 3 root causes: Kimmy, Linda and Kevin.

First let me address Kimmy and Linda. Somehow, my sock drawer has become "our" sock draw.

And Kimmy and Linda do not practice my "Post Sock-Wear Safety Pin" process.

Oh, how I've tried to train them. It's been fruitless. I've held plenty of training classes.

"Girls! If you safety pin the socks together when you take them off, they return safely to 'our' sock drawer together!"

4 eyes roll. Nobody passed Orphan Sock Avoidance 101.

And then there's Kevin. Need I say more?

And these root causes are interrelated. The other day I caught Linda taking off a sock and throwing it at Kevin to play with!

The thing is, I'm not even picky. I'll wear two different colored socks if necessary. I do, however, have to draw the line somewhere.

Although this look may work well in theatre, it does not bode well in my day job.

Out of desperation I googled "orphaned socks" and found the following suggested uses for lonely sock orphans:

1. Slip a pair over the hands of a nail biter, or a kid with a rash or hives.

Were they not listening? They are not a pair!!! If I had a PAIR of orphan socks they would not be ORPHAN SOCKS.

2. Make a chew toy.

Hello!! That's why we have so many orphans!

3. Sew a sock bed for your pet.

Are you kidding?!!!

Talk about rewarding bad behavior!

I guess I have to wait for the Japanese to come up with a solution for me.

Or perhaps I should sew them together with dental floss.

Do Not RAISE YOUR VOICE!!!

2011-10-11T19:51:00.000-07:00

I know you find this difficult to believe, but I have occasionally yelled at my children. I try not to raise my voice, but there have been times when I have been pushed to the point of no return.

A few times the explosion was stimulated by the discovery of a major school project due…the next day...requiring poster board…at 10:00 pm at night…when our printer was out of ink.

Or discovering an entire dumpster’s worth of garbage, moldy food, and dirty clothing wedged underneath furniture in a child’s bedroom.

(I could go on and on, but it's too early for a glass of wine.)

But, you know what? It feels good to yell in these situations. Damn good! The louder the better.

But, the funny thing is that my kids do not respond well to yelling. What gets there attention is when I get intensely quiet. In fact the softer (and more sinister) my voice gets the more seriously they take me.

“Are you skinkin’ kidding me!! Your WW-II trench project is due tomorrow?"

This would be the more effective way to continue this conversation: “And how long have you known about this?” “And what the heck do you plan on using for poster board?”

Do you know how difficult it is to pull this off?

It is so much easier to say "Why did you wait until now to remember?” "You need to make a paper mache what?" “GIVE ME YOUR CELL PHONE- NOW! YOU CAN HAVE IT BACK WHEN YOU'RE 21!"

But guess what! Thanks to Japanese technology, I no longer have to control my shouting! In fact, my irrepressible rants can will come across as gentle whispers when I use my new Japanese Shouting Vase.

According to the advertising:

Turn your loudest, most urgent frustrations into mere whispers with the Shouting Vase. The plastic jug is designed to fit over the contours of your mouth and absorb your screams and shouts, “storing” them in the vase and emitting a softer version of your angry cries through the tiny hole at the base.

Believe me. I have many "most urgent frustrations" that I'd like to turn to mere whispers.

I can see it now.

Linda comes to me at 10:00 and tells me she just remembered she has a Chemistry test in the morning and she left her study sheet and her Chemistry book at school.

I pick up my Japanese Shouting Vase.

Just the sight of it terrifies Linda: "I'm so sorry, Mom!"

I put it to my lips and scream, "I hate Chemistry!"

It comes out in a mere whisper.

Linda starts to whimper. "That's OK, Mom. I can get the study sheet online"

I scream, "I got a C in Chemistry decades ago. The only thing I remember about the class is that H20 is water"

Another mere whisper.

Linda pales. "Don't worry Mom. The teacher has a web site with a study guide. I can review it myself."

And the best part? Linda adds, "Can I get you a glass of wine?"

Those Japanese are stinkin' geniuses.

Making Martha Proud

2011-10-07T19:19:00.000-07:00

Martha Stewart would be so proud.

It has always my goal to make my guests comfortable and entertained in every stinkin' room of my house. Even the bathrooms.

Sure, I do have that fancy toilet, with its Q.C.S. (quiet close seat) technology. Bathroom guests can entertain themselves for hours, lifting the seat, nudging it, and then watching it s-l-o-w-l-y drop down without making a sound. Lift-nudge-drop...lift-nudge-drop.

Now that's entertainment.

The problem is, when you need to be entertained the most in the bathroom, you cannot (or should not) be in lift-nudge-drop mode. It could get a bit messy if you're playing lift-nudge-drop while you're ...um...(please pardon my crass language) going number 2.

I needed to find a pastime for prolonged perchers.

I considered the Potty Putter game, but I kind of agree with Mark Twain: "Golf is a good walk spoiled". And if golf ruins a great walk, imagine what it would do to a good...um...number 2?

Especially if you were incapable of making a 3-inch putt.

I also thought about supplying Sodoku toilet paper. Although I would find that incredibly entertaining, not everybody is a nerdling. (And, between you and me, the thought of flushing an unused Sodoku puzzle down the toilet makes me break out in hives.)

It's a moot point, anyhow. For, you see, I have discovered the ultimate product for bathroom entertainment: Doo Doo Darts!

I know what you're thinking. What the heck are Doo Doo Darts, Lou?

It's a dart game!! The toilet shaped dart board is made of felt. And the Doo Doo Darts are...doo doo darts! But, relax; they're not real. They're made of plastic, and are wrapped in Velco so they stick to the toilet bowl when tossed.

The rules are simple: you throw the poo at the dart board. Toss it is the middle and get 100 points!

(I don't know about you, but I wouldn't award any points for hitting the seat.)

And, being the marketing genius that I am, I am considering turning this recreational entertainment complex into a profit center, by adding:

The Poop Bank!

(I have yet to work through my pricing scenarios.)

You see? This goes way beyond Martha. I mean, Donald Trump would be amazed at my stinkin' entrepreneurial genius.

Literally.

All I Want for Christmas is a Biri Biri Kaze Hiki Wanko

2011-10-03T16:46:00.000-07:00

It’s never too early to start working on your Christmas list. And you know what’s at the top mine? A Biri Biri Kaze Hiki Wanko.

I know what you're thinking. What the heck is a Biri Biri Kaze Hiki Wanko and where can I get one for Lou?

A Biri Biri Kaze Hiki Wanko is a game: a cross between the game Operation and an Easy Bake Oven.

For those of you who have never played the highly intellectual game of Operation, let me describe it. Imagine a toy operating table on which lies a naked patient, Cavity Sam (who looks suspiciously like stooge Moe). Sam's body has numerous cavities from which the player is to remove organs and other ailments with tweezers.

You must have a very steady hand or your tweezers will bump into the wrong organ and cause internal bleeding and/or death to poor Sam. If that happens, a buzzer goes off, Sam's light bulb nose will turn on and, worst of all, you will lose your turn.

I was never really good at Operation, which is why I gave up my childhood dreams of becoming a surgeon. I figured if I couldn't remove a Charley Horse from Cavity Sam without buzzing, I'd be better off as a statistician. (And I wouldn't be risking any lives, either.)

But wait until you hear about this Biri Biri Kaze Hiki Wanko. It is way cooler than Operation!

The patient in the Biri Biri Kaze Hiki Wanko is a sick dog. (Isn't that sweet?)

To play, you first mix the multi-colored germs with the slime. Then you then lift up he pup's head and pour the germ-infested slime into the his brain cavity. Then just close the head, pull out the stopper and watch the ooze begin to drip from Fido's mouth!

Your goal? Catch more germs with your tweezers than your opponent can.

But it's way more exciting than that lame Operation game. If the metal part of your tweezers touches the slime, the buzzer goes off and you get an electrical shock! (Which explains why the translation of Biri Biri Kaze Hiki Wanko is "Shocking Sick Puppy".)

You are probably wondering why someone who requires nitrous oxide and a Margarita when getting her teeth cleaned would want her own Biri Biri Kaze Hiki Wanko.

It's simple. I haven't yet given up on that dream to be a doctor.

True, I may not be surgeon material.

But with a little training, I could be an awesome ENT.

The Nearly Perfect Babysitter

2011-10-01T13:22:00.000-07:00

When we lived in Florida we had a fabulous 13-year old baby sitter who lived across the street from us. Emily was responsible, mature, and fun. The girls adored her.

Emily was nearly perfect.

Her flaw? She liked to roller blade barefooted. In Florida.

We were on our way to Publix when Kimmy noticed Emily roller blading down the sidewalk. “Stop the car, Mom!” she ordered. “Emily can come with us!” Being the obedient parent that I am...er, was, I pulled over so Emily could join us on our shopping trip.

Emily got in the back seat with Linda.

About 2 minutes later the most revolting, repugnant, odor wafted its way to the front seat.

“Oh my GOD! What is that?” I asked as the fumes engulfed me.

Linda started crying. “Emily took her skates off!” she wailed.

“Mom, roll down the windows…quick!!” Kimmy ordered.

I rolled down all 4 windows at once (which is difficult to do while driving with one hand and holding your nose closed with the other).

“Emily, honey, would you please stick your feet out the window!” I begged. We aborted our shopping trip. Nobody was in the mood. I parked my car in the driveway for the next few days with the windows down.

The smell was barely noticeable after about a week.

(Note: It would be a lie to suggest that Emily's feet looked anything like this. I've included this photo just for the shock value.)

I had a sort of P.T.S.S. flashback to that infamous Publix trip a couple days ago. Dave had taken Kevin outside to pee. Upon his return, Kevin didn’t smell quite as bad as Emily’s feet had 14 years earlier.

But it was pretty damn close.

The first thing I noticed was that Kevin’s neck looked dirty. I got closer and saw that it was covered in some kind of gray sludge...very foul smelling gray sludge.

“Dave, what the heck did Kevin get into?” I asked incredulously.

“Nothing,” replied Mr. Oblivious.

“You guys were outside for 2 minutes. How did you have time to go to the morgue?” Kevin smelled like he’d stuck his neck into the torso of a decaying corpse.

I began wretching.

"Or did he accidentally slip into a septic system?"

I threw Kevin in the sink and turned the nozzle up to fire hose pressure.

We never could figure out what Kevin had gotten in to.

Dave swears he barely ventured off the front sidewalk.

If I didn't know better, I'd suspect that Kevin had encountered one of Emily's old roller blades.

Nah. He couldn't have.

He smelled way better than that.

Proliferating Productivity

2011-09-27T15:36:00.000-07:00

I hate wasting time. And I waste 30 stinkin' minutes every day driving to and from work, sitting in my car. Valuable time that could be spent analyzing data.

That’s an hour a day! 5 hours a week! 260 hours of lost analytic opportunity per year. Nearly 11 Days wasted.

Think about the insights that have gone undetected.

Not no more. I've discovered an amazing new product that promises to bolster my productivity: the AutoExec WM-01 Wheelmate Steering Wheel Desk Tray - Gray.

Before ordering my $19.98 AutoExec WM-01 Wheelmate Steering Wheel Desk Tray - Gray, I did my homework. There were 583 reviews on Amazon.com (some more helpful than others).

In case you're interested in purchasing your own AutoExec WM-01 Wheelmate Steering Wheel Desk Tray - Gray, I have included some of the most helpful reviews.

You're welcome.

It didn't take me long to realize that the AutoExec WM-01 Wheelmate Steering Wheel Desk Tray - Gray is much more than a steering wheel desk!

This has been a total lifesaver. It allows me to prop my sheet music against the wheel, allowing me to play the guitar with both hands while driving.

Wow! I wonder if my High School Musical keyboard would fit on the AutoExec WM-01 Wheelmate Steering Wheel Desk Tray - Gray?

This one is not as positive:

This is the worst ironing board ever. Why would it not come with the cloth cover? There are scorch marks all over it, melted plastic everywhere and my clothes are tearing between the iron and the board.

Uh-oh! Plus, it appears that the AutoExec WM-01 Wheelmate Steering Wheel Desk Tray - Gray has a serious product flaw:.

This thing needs to have non-slide padding or ridges. My peculator and butane stove slid off during a right turn and tossed everything into the passenger seat. My car seat is now completely stained and it ruined a perfectly good cup of coffee. Oh, and my wife got burned by the flames. We are considering litigation.

We live in such a litigious society.

I personally think this next review is a bit on the picky side:

Kind of difficult to take a quick nap when stuck in traffic. I can rest my head on it but it's not cushy enough for me to feel comfortable.

Come on! Recline your seat if you want to nap while you're stuck in traffic.

I'm still scratching my head over this next review:

I read some 4 and 5 star reviews by those who used this device successfully to change a baby while driving. On that basis, I bought one. I put my baby on it and drove for over an hour. It did not change. Same baby. I am glad it worked for some people but I will be returning mine. (The steering wheel desk.)

I don't know what to say about this:

I bought this laptop. I have never been so disappointed in my life. This laptop has no screen and no keyboard. There is no slot for a floppy, no battery, no mouse, no printer, no camera and no loudspeakers. There was not even an instruction book or a parts list. Just a slab of plastic.

I was still pretty much sold on the AutoExec WM-01 Wheelmate Steering Wheel Desk Tray, despite those negative reviews. But when I read this next review, I realized that the product could pose a safety risk.

In several accidents that I have had whilst using this, the airbag causes the laptop screen to slam shut. I've suffered several broken fingers because of this.

What? I can't risk breaking my fingers! How in the heck could I analyze data with broken fingers?

But I kept reading and, sure enough, other reviews offered solutions to the broken finger risk.

One person suggested: "boxing gloves provide excellent finger protection and might just be the thing you are looking for."

I suppose that could work.

But as a back-up plan I could always disable my airbag.

The Reluctant Turd

2011-09-23T22:11:00.000-07:00

I probably shouldn't have taken Kevin for a walk right before the show, but I had my make-up on, my hair was done and we had 15 minutes before vocal warm-ups. What could possibly go wrong?

We were about 2 blocks from the theater when Kevin decided to poop.

He assumed "poop position" in the grass. I waited patiently. Then he jumped out of the grass like he'd been standing in a fire ant hill and started running in a circle.

Uh-oh.

Problem.

Kevin moved to the middle of the sidewalk and resumed his position. I tried to be patient. Minutes passed.

Nothing dropped.

Uh-oh.

I decided to lift his tail and take a peak.

Crap! (Literally.)

"Kevin-push it out!," I encouraged. I waited a few more minutes. Nothing.

I took another look. He was giving birth to a reluctant turd.

All I could think about was the costumes. Three of the four people who hold him onstage are dressed entirely in white. This was serious!

Plus the clock was ticking!

"We have vocal warm-ups in 5 minutes, Kevin!" I reminded him. He looked over his shoulder at me pathetically.

A man walking down the street stopped to look. "You can't rush him" he advised. "Thank you," I said politely.

(and under my breath, "What are you, a stinkin' dog protologist?")

I took another look. It was so close to being delivered. All it needed was a little nudge.

Or some forceps.

I considered using a stick, but reconsidered. It couldn't be a messy delivery, with all those white costumes. It had to be clean.

I reached in my pockets in desperation. I found a Kleenex.

Score!

I took a deep breath, lifted his tail one last time and removed the troublesome turd.

Kevin immediately started prancing back to the theater as if nothing had happened. He actually looked back at me as if to say, "Hurry up, we have vocal warm-ups in 3 minutes."

There I was, holding the leash in one hand and a Kleenex full of dog poop in the other. I finally found a trash can and returned to the theater, a bit less composed than I had been at the start of the walk.

In contrast, Kevin was completely relaxed.

But most importantly, the costumes escaped completely unscathed.

Oh What a Tangled Web

2011-09-20T15:20:00.000-07:00

Linda said it was all my fault. But it wasn't.

I mean, it's really not my job to remind her to bring a towel to the gym. And I did, in fact, come up with a scathingly brilliant Plan B: using her sweat pants to dry off after her shower.

The problem was that she didn't want to use sweat pants to dry her hair. So I suggested she use the B52-turbo powered hand dryer. "Stick your head under this", I said, pointing to the most powerful hand dryer I have ever used.

“Hold on to your head, though, or it will end up in the men’s locker room.”

I guess Linda stuck her head a wee bit too close to the hand dryer. She ended up with a B52-turbo sized dreadlock.

And it would not comb out.

It reminded me of Kimmy, during her "cave girl" phase. She was around 5 years old and had incredibly naughty, knotty hair which she refused to let me comb. She insisted on combing her own hair every morning...or at least the top layer of it.

I know. What kind of Mom would let her daughter go to school looking like Cave Girl?

Me.

Kimmy would leave the house every day with a perfectly combed, wispy layer of hair which rested atop of a rat's nest that took on a life of its own. Her hair seemed to grow, both in height and volume, by the day.

It would inevitably reach the point where she would not be able to find even a wispy layer to hide the growing ball of tangle. Only then I was able to get near her crown with a comb (resulting in trauma and drama). I would spend upwards of an hour unraveling wads of intricately entangled dreadlocks while she screamed for mercy.

In my defense, I’d be as gentle as possible. And I tried to keep things light, “Oh, here’s that barrette you’ve been looking for…. And look! I just found the math homework you said you lost!” Kimmy saw no humor in these moments. And I was not always successful. Sometimes I would have to cut out the dreadlock.

(Her kindergarten bald spot was barely noticeable by 2nd grade.)

Although Linda's dreadlock paled in comparison to those harvested by Cave Girl Kimmy, it was, in itself, quite impressive. This picture really does not do it justice.

I started unraveling the tangle. The problem was that Linda’s hair is quite long, and this dreadlock incorporated hairs from every square centimeter of her scalp. I tugged. I pulled. I unraveled.

Truth be told, it was actually kind of fun (for me), not unlike the 5-star Sunday Soduku.

Except, unlike the Sunday Soduku, this mission was impossible.

After about 5-minutes Linda was in a near frenzy, exacerbated by my locker room bellow of, “Does anyone have a pair of scissors?”

Someone from our Body Jam class had nail clippers which I used to removed the tangled tress. Yes!!!

But Linda was not happy.

"It could have been worse", I said, attempting to reassure her.

"At least I didn't need that chain saw I used to use on Kimmy."

Go Fish Face

2011-09-16T22:25:00.000-07:00

I've blogged before about my inability to keep a Poker face.

I'm afraid it's gotten worse.

Tonight I couldn't even keep a "Go-Fish" face.

If you have ever read my blog, you may have picked up on the fact that I have a rather goofy sense of humor. Well, the closing scene of "Anything Goes" contains some outrageously goofy dialogue. (Right up my alley.)

And that poses a problem for me.

You see, I am supposed to be a passenger aboard the U.S.S. American, an ocean liner traveling from New York to England in 1934. And when *spoiler alert* Billy and Moon Face run onstage disguised as Chinese men and stop about 9 inches directly in front of me and say things like "No can marwy... Pwum Bwossom...Wittle Pwum Pwudding... etcewa...etcetwa..etcewta" I have a VEWRY difficult time staying in character.

Tonight was opening night, and for the first time Billy and Moon Face were wearing their doo-rags with braids going down their backs.

I found it extremely funny.

Giggle worthy.

I bit my tongue. I knew I had to retain my composure. I had to think about something sobering...utterly mournful. So I flashed back to all those (8...count'm, 8) unsuccessful high school cheerleading auditions.

OK.... I had my composure back. I could once again pass for a passenger aboard the U.S.S. American in 1934: one who was very confused about the antics happening right in front of her.

That's when I made my critical error. I looked at the actor standing one person down from me.

She was trying desperately to contain her own laughter to the point that she had tears running down her face. I heard her whisper to the guy on my left, "Don't let Lou look at me."

I had to look. (It sounded like a dare.)

That's when I lost my "Go-Fish" face.

We were like Tim Conway and Harvey Korman on the Carol Burnett show.

I needed to compose myself! We had a sold out house!!!! I looked away. I thought about the Holocaust: Adolph Hitler.

It was nearly impossible to control my Go-Fish face.

Finally the Captain of the S.S. American brought Kevin on stage and handed him to his stage mom.

Thank God for my A.D.D. I thought to myself, "what a cute dog!"

And then it was curtain call. Whew.

But I don't think I'm going to win any stinkin' Tony award for my performance.