As I begin today's post, I am a bit nonplussed.
One of the leading search terms that landed people at this blog this week was "hairdos for fat people". While I do not begrudge proper-BMI-challenged folk the right to a kick-butt coiffure, I am not so sure they will find what they need here at Unbagging the Cats. I've discussed bad hairstyles, and my personal stylist, the Butcher of Seville. But I don't recall advocating one specific hairdo that was flattering for fats. Go figure. Believe me, if I knew of one, I would be the proud Poster Val, and display a banner of my likeness.
I could understand if people with bladder-control issues showed up at my virtual door, after my post about the gas-station-chicken checkout line used the word "incontinence" in the second sentence. While they are not my target audience, it's a fairly large demographic, if we are to judge from the number of pharmaceutical commercials featuring full water-balloon class-reunion attendees and leaky pipe people taking drives in their pipemobiles.
Now that I've mentioned that topic again, even more might drop in. Any traffic is good traffic, right? Surely they have a sense of humor. Maybe a few will check in regularly. I promise to strive to keep my writing at a wry smile level, to prevent inopportune bladder leakage. No ROFL allowed.
But I'll be darned if I'll cater to those "fat proboscis monkey" people.
Unbagging the Cats 1
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
A Severe Tongue-Bashing
A malady has befallen me on this holiday week. Not a malady of epic proportions. But not an insignificant malady, either.
I have a bump on my tongue.
You know that bump. He's a rogue taste bud. He grows bigger than the complacent taste buds who loll about on their fleshy tongue carpet, enjoying, then imparting, a plethora of Christmastime flavors to the non-rent-charging landlord of their mouth. Big Bud acts like he can make an escape. Sometimes, he blusters until he's flushed and red. Sometimes, he works out his anger and pales in comparison to his taste bud buddies. That's the stage my malady is in right now.
It's right on the tip of my tongue, as the saying goes. Off to the left side just a bit. It catches on my left Bugs Bunny tooth if I check to see if it's gone. Big Bud is a bit painful. Not as bad as earlier in the week. But he still makes his presence known. I blame his appearance on holiday gorging. I first noticed him after nearly foundering on Chex Mix. It was not the Mix itself, but rather the constant searching for crumbs stuck in my teeth. Big Bud must have snagged himself on one of my snaggleteeth.
There's nothing I can do to hasten the departure of Big Bud. And he is blatantly obvious about his presence. When I lean over to look in the mirror, there he is. I can even see him from a good three feet away. And that transfers to six feet away counting the reflection. In all actuality, Big Bud is no bigger than a grain of rice. But he feels like a mini marshmallow perched on the end of my tongue. Honestly, he feels like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man has plopped down to sit a spell in my mouth. But I will not describe Big Bud as Mr. Stay-Puft, because...well...even my exaggeration knows some limits.
I am eager for this uninvited guest to take his leave. To blend back into the billowing mosh pit of regular tastebuds. He has worn out his non-existent welcome.
I have a bump on my tongue.
You know that bump. He's a rogue taste bud. He grows bigger than the complacent taste buds who loll about on their fleshy tongue carpet, enjoying, then imparting, a plethora of Christmastime flavors to the non-rent-charging landlord of their mouth. Big Bud acts like he can make an escape. Sometimes, he blusters until he's flushed and red. Sometimes, he works out his anger and pales in comparison to his taste bud buddies. That's the stage my malady is in right now.
It's right on the tip of my tongue, as the saying goes. Off to the left side just a bit. It catches on my left Bugs Bunny tooth if I check to see if it's gone. Big Bud is a bit painful. Not as bad as earlier in the week. But he still makes his presence known. I blame his appearance on holiday gorging. I first noticed him after nearly foundering on Chex Mix. It was not the Mix itself, but rather the constant searching for crumbs stuck in my teeth. Big Bud must have snagged himself on one of my snaggleteeth.
There's nothing I can do to hasten the departure of Big Bud. And he is blatantly obvious about his presence. When I lean over to look in the mirror, there he is. I can even see him from a good three feet away. And that transfers to six feet away counting the reflection. In all actuality, Big Bud is no bigger than a grain of rice. But he feels like a mini marshmallow perched on the end of my tongue. Honestly, he feels like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man has plopped down to sit a spell in my mouth. But I will not describe Big Bud as Mr. Stay-Puft, because...well...even my exaggeration knows some limits.
I am eager for this uninvited guest to take his leave. To blend back into the billowing mosh pit of regular tastebuds. He has worn out his non-existent welcome.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
The Gas Station Chicken Establishment. Where Val is Always Next to Next in Line.
I can hardly contain my excitement. But I will. Since the alternative is incontinence.
Around noon, I made a trip to town for some caffeine. Since I cannot readily buy the pure, uncut product (what do you think I am, a frequenter of highway truck stops?) I settled for a 44-ounce Diet Coke. It's not the same in a can or bottle, you know. It has to be a fountain drink.
Since my dust-up with the Sonic drive-thru dude, I visit that establishment sparingly. Okay, I've cut it down to twice a week. But the point is, I only ventured as far as the gas station chicken gas station for my beverage. Did you know that if you take your cup, you can get a refill for $1.39? Tax included. Thirty percent cheaper than Sonic. I threw in that little fact for all the math teachers. Don't lecture me on how I could buy a whole two-liter bottle for that. Pay attention. It's not the same out of a bottle.
I trekked down one aisle and around the bend to the soda fountain. I filled my recycled cup with about four fingers of ice. I suppose that reference is for bartenders or labor-and-delivery nurses. Take your pick. I added the Diet Coke, and reached for a lid. No dice! And no lids. They were out. Out of 44-ounce-cup lids! I should have recycled the lid as well, but I never see anybody carry in the lid for their refills. Still, I was not leaving without my magical elixir. I figured I could sip it on the blacktop road, enough so that sloshing on the gravel road would not breach the rim.
I got in line behind a woman buying lottery tickets, and a man paying for gas. At some point, another man appeared, off to the side of the original line. For some reason, the check-out counter has been modified of late, allowing people on both sides of the register by the door. That only encourages encroachers. It used to be perfectly clear where the line formed. But seriously. There's only one cashier at that register. One cashier, with two arms. It's not like she's the Hindu deity, Vishnu. I'm sure Vishnu has more pressing matters to attend to than ringing up gas station chicken, sodas, and lottery tickets.
When it was my turn, I said, nodding to the off-side man, "I'm not sure which of us was here first." I did that to be polite. I'm pretty sure I was in line before he came in and stood there.
Encroacher stepped up to the counter. "I want you to check these lottery tickets for me."
Cashier looked at me. "Just the soda?"
"Yes. But go ahead with him."
"Oh, you just have the soda. That's a dollar thirty-nine."
I handed over two dollars. "You're out of lids for this size."
"Well, I'll go get you a lid. That's easy enough." She handed back my change.
"It can wait a minute."
"No. This comes before checking lottery tickets. They're last." She came out from behind the counter, walked to the back of the store, and grabbed a bag of lids. "Here you go. Sorry for your wait." She carried the bag up to the counter with her. "I can put these in later."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. You come back."
All this while, the lottery-checker Encroacher was glaring at me. Too bad, so sad. I was a paying customer. Or maybe Checker knew this guy from experience. She said, "Do you think they're winners? Or do you just want me to check them?" Because they were scratchers. Normally, you can tell if they're winners if you read the instructions. It's not like they were Lotto or PowerBall and he didn't have the numbers. He looked like the kind of guy who would win, trade for more tickets, and stand at the counter to scratch them. I have nothing against lottery players. I've won a couple of big jackpots myself. But have the common decency to step out of line while you do your scratchin'.
So there you have it. Val's act of kindness was repaid by karma. Or by Even Steven, the poor man's karma.
Around noon, I made a trip to town for some caffeine. Since I cannot readily buy the pure, uncut product (what do you think I am, a frequenter of highway truck stops?) I settled for a 44-ounce Diet Coke. It's not the same in a can or bottle, you know. It has to be a fountain drink.
Since my dust-up with the Sonic drive-thru dude, I visit that establishment sparingly. Okay, I've cut it down to twice a week. But the point is, I only ventured as far as the gas station chicken gas station for my beverage. Did you know that if you take your cup, you can get a refill for $1.39? Tax included. Thirty percent cheaper than Sonic. I threw in that little fact for all the math teachers. Don't lecture me on how I could buy a whole two-liter bottle for that. Pay attention. It's not the same out of a bottle.
I trekked down one aisle and around the bend to the soda fountain. I filled my recycled cup with about four fingers of ice. I suppose that reference is for bartenders or labor-and-delivery nurses. Take your pick. I added the Diet Coke, and reached for a lid. No dice! And no lids. They were out. Out of 44-ounce-cup lids! I should have recycled the lid as well, but I never see anybody carry in the lid for their refills. Still, I was not leaving without my magical elixir. I figured I could sip it on the blacktop road, enough so that sloshing on the gravel road would not breach the rim.
I got in line behind a woman buying lottery tickets, and a man paying for gas. At some point, another man appeared, off to the side of the original line. For some reason, the check-out counter has been modified of late, allowing people on both sides of the register by the door. That only encourages encroachers. It used to be perfectly clear where the line formed. But seriously. There's only one cashier at that register. One cashier, with two arms. It's not like she's the Hindu deity, Vishnu. I'm sure Vishnu has more pressing matters to attend to than ringing up gas station chicken, sodas, and lottery tickets.
When it was my turn, I said, nodding to the off-side man, "I'm not sure which of us was here first." I did that to be polite. I'm pretty sure I was in line before he came in and stood there.
Encroacher stepped up to the counter. "I want you to check these lottery tickets for me."
Cashier looked at me. "Just the soda?"
"Yes. But go ahead with him."
"Oh, you just have the soda. That's a dollar thirty-nine."
I handed over two dollars. "You're out of lids for this size."
"Well, I'll go get you a lid. That's easy enough." She handed back my change.
"It can wait a minute."
"No. This comes before checking lottery tickets. They're last." She came out from behind the counter, walked to the back of the store, and grabbed a bag of lids. "Here you go. Sorry for your wait." She carried the bag up to the counter with her. "I can put these in later."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. You come back."
All this while, the lottery-checker Encroacher was glaring at me. Too bad, so sad. I was a paying customer. Or maybe Checker knew this guy from experience. She said, "Do you think they're winners? Or do you just want me to check them?" Because they were scratchers. Normally, you can tell if they're winners if you read the instructions. It's not like they were Lotto or PowerBall and he didn't have the numbers. He looked like the kind of guy who would win, trade for more tickets, and stand at the counter to scratch them. I have nothing against lottery players. I've won a couple of big jackpots myself. But have the common decency to step out of line while you do your scratchin'.
So there you have it. Val's act of kindness was repaid by karma. Or by Even Steven, the poor man's karma.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Whatever You're Buyin', I Ain't Sellin'
This BLOGGER is driving me crazy!
Say that with all the different inflections, like Kramer practicing for his line in the Woody Allen movie that was filming on his street: "These pretzels are making me thirsty!"
And, like in the Cigar Store...Person episode, I will dance around using a certain word.
BLOGGER thinks I am a...not-real commenter. One who leaves messages to sell products that may not be a good investment, or to solicit funds for my own personal gain by tricking others.
I assure you, I do not have one of those not-real-commenter bones in my body. To think, I have been conscientiously perusing my daily-read blogs, and leaving thoughtful, if lame, comments, only to have them go to the not-real-comment folder! Where's the fun in that?
I have an old blog buddy who ends up in my not-real-commenter file. Six years we go back, yet still BLOGGER sends her into limbo. I can always rescue her, because I use comment moderation. Before that, I was missing comments on older posts, because I didn't go back and check them every day. Now I get them in a pretty little list, by post, as well as email notification. So when I see her in email, I go back and mark her as NOT a not-real-commenter in the dashboard/comment/not-real-commenter section. Sometimes it works for the next time. Sometimes it doesn't.
Now, for reading through this, I would like to announce that you have all been awarded...NO! I'm not one of those not-real-commenters. What was I thinking? I am not awarding you anything. Nor am I allowing you to be my trustee, make investments for me, bail me out of jail, or wire me moolah to replace what was stolen from me in another country.
You just read it for free. The horror!
Say that with all the different inflections, like Kramer practicing for his line in the Woody Allen movie that was filming on his street: "These pretzels are making me thirsty!"
And, like in the Cigar Store...Person episode, I will dance around using a certain word.
BLOGGER thinks I am a...not-real commenter. One who leaves messages to sell products that may not be a good investment, or to solicit funds for my own personal gain by tricking others.
I assure you, I do not have one of those not-real-commenter bones in my body. To think, I have been conscientiously perusing my daily-read blogs, and leaving thoughtful, if lame, comments, only to have them go to the not-real-comment folder! Where's the fun in that?
I have an old blog buddy who ends up in my not-real-commenter file. Six years we go back, yet still BLOGGER sends her into limbo. I can always rescue her, because I use comment moderation. Before that, I was missing comments on older posts, because I didn't go back and check them every day. Now I get them in a pretty little list, by post, as well as email notification. So when I see her in email, I go back and mark her as NOT a not-real-commenter in the dashboard/comment/not-real-commenter section. Sometimes it works for the next time. Sometimes it doesn't.
Now, for reading through this, I would like to announce that you have all been awarded...NO! I'm not one of those not-real-commenters. What was I thinking? I am not awarding you anything. Nor am I allowing you to be my trustee, make investments for me, bail me out of jail, or wire me moolah to replace what was stolen from me in another country.
You just read it for free. The horror!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
When It Snows, I'm Deluged
Gosh! Here I've been, partying it up, playing games like there's no tomorrow, and people have been trying to contact me via email! Okay, so it's actually via SPAM email. But still! I'm in high demand. So much so that I deleted a whole boatload of requests just so I could start fresh. But here are the latest.
I'm a brand new one-hundred-thousandaire! It's true! The Western Union Board has awarded me the sum of $100,000. Or as they refer to it, $100000 USD. Because you know, that's how we wacky American United Statesians refer to our money around here. And that's simply for doing nothing! I didn't have to enter a contest, buy a lottery ticket, or even contact Western Union. I was rewarded for sitting here in my basement pecking away at the keyboard, with brief intervals of intrafamilial game-playing to liven up my existence. Kudos to me! I can't wait to get my fortune.
Oh! I don't have to wait. Because you know what? The first $5000.00 was sent today. Today, as in December 23, according to the Transfer Alert from Western Union Money Transfer. I'm surprised it didn't arrive TODAY. That's plenty of time. Four days. I wonder how they got my bank information for a direct deposit? Those zany Western Union cut-ups! They are all about giving during this holiday season. They even sent me the $5000.00 before they awarded me the $100000. Can't beat that with a stick!
If that's not enough money for me, I also have a business to fall back on. Perhaps it is a business instructing people how to use prepositions to end sentences with. Perhaps not. But whatever it is, Mr James Adom is a potential buyer. He contacted me on December 21. What a polite fellow, though a bit challenged in the capitalization, punctuation, and syntax departments. "Good day and how are you. please am interested in your product i want to know more about the price and your packaging and more also send me your product details and your website" I hope he will not be disappointed in my as-yet unwritten instruction manual. I'm sure he won't mind sending me the money first. He might even be a Western Union one-hundred-thousandaire himself!
I wonder if Mr James Adom has relatives operating a business called JADOM'S TRADE? Because I'm thinking he shared the news of my fabulous non-product with them. They are so interested that they contacted me on Christmas Eve. And they are also very polite. Though I might need a makeover, because they apparently cannot tell if I am a man or a woman. Or their mom. My bad. Attention SIR/MA I want to buy your product kindly send me your website and your contact phone number and more also the new product you have in the market now, Please get back to me as soon as you can with this details i requested for, Thank you and have a great Christmas and New Year calibrations" Who could resist such a polite request? Me, for one.
But wait! Back up the Brinks truck, because BBC One National Lottery congratulates me on my success in the email electronic online sweepstakes! "A Draft of £1,263,584.00 GBP (One Million Two Hundred and Sixty Three Thousand, Five Hundred and Eighty Four Pounds Sterling) will be issued in your name as one of the lucky winners." I'm rollin' in dough! All I have to do is send my full name, address, nationality, phone number, age, sex, and occupation/position for validation. I don't know why I even bother to work.
Money is practically falling out of my nether regions. As if my award and current profits from my future business were not enough, a kindly foreign lass by the name of Zara Bulle wants to make me trustee of her inheritance! She is a Somalian citizen, female, age 24 years old, whose lawmaker father was killed in a bomb attack. Poor Zara just can't catch a break. She needs a trustee in another country to help her clear her refugee status. All I have to do is deposit her money in my bank account. "Before the death of my father, he told me that he made a fixed deposit of the sum of Four Million, Eight Hundred thousand United States Dollars (4.8Million USD) in one of the Banks in Burkina Faso with my name as his next of kin." I think she might give me a portion of that fortune, even though she doesn't specifically say so. You know how shy those Somalians are.
Everybody wants to give Val money! A Sergent Thomas Allen wants me to make an investment for him. He can't, you see. He's all tied up serving his country. I would suggest that he invest in a crash course on how to spell "sergeant" but that might be unpatriotic of me. He asks if he can trust me. Thomas! Zara trusts me! Why you wanna be that way? "My name is Sergent Thomas Allen. I am an American soldier presently on active service with Squadron battalion here in Afghanistan. I served with the Third Infantry Division in Iraq since 2003, before thousand of my lucky colleagues were pulled out in August last year, leaving my superior and myself among the unlucky ones redeployed to Afghanistan where I am serving presently. During my call to duty in Iraq, my superior and I moved US$25million (Twenty five million US dollars) being part of funds from late Saddam Hussein during a search in one of his palaces in 2003. Through the assistance of a Senior Red Cross Delegate to Iraq, this fund has been safely moved out of Iraq to a secured location" For helping, I could take 30% for myself. According to Sergent Thomas, that's $7.5 million. I didn't do the math, but I'm hoping he's better with numbers than with words. Gosh! I could be helping a serviceman! Not to mention Zara the orphan! I'm a true humanitarian!
I also have a Christmas Day email that is written in Chinese. I do not yet speak nor read that language. But I'm sure it's from somebody offering me money.
"When it rains it pours," as the Morton salt umbrella girl says.
I'm a brand new one-hundred-thousandaire! It's true! The Western Union Board has awarded me the sum of $100,000. Or as they refer to it, $100000 USD. Because you know, that's how we wacky American United Statesians refer to our money around here. And that's simply for doing nothing! I didn't have to enter a contest, buy a lottery ticket, or even contact Western Union. I was rewarded for sitting here in my basement pecking away at the keyboard, with brief intervals of intrafamilial game-playing to liven up my existence. Kudos to me! I can't wait to get my fortune.
Oh! I don't have to wait. Because you know what? The first $5000.00 was sent today. Today, as in December 23, according to the Transfer Alert from Western Union Money Transfer. I'm surprised it didn't arrive TODAY. That's plenty of time. Four days. I wonder how they got my bank information for a direct deposit? Those zany Western Union cut-ups! They are all about giving during this holiday season. They even sent me the $5000.00 before they awarded me the $100000. Can't beat that with a stick!
If that's not enough money for me, I also have a business to fall back on. Perhaps it is a business instructing people how to use prepositions to end sentences with. Perhaps not. But whatever it is, Mr James Adom is a potential buyer. He contacted me on December 21. What a polite fellow, though a bit challenged in the capitalization, punctuation, and syntax departments. "Good day and how are you. please am interested in your product i want to know more about the price and your packaging and more also send me your product details and your website" I hope he will not be disappointed in my as-yet unwritten instruction manual. I'm sure he won't mind sending me the money first. He might even be a Western Union one-hundred-thousandaire himself!
I wonder if Mr James Adom has relatives operating a business called JADOM'S TRADE? Because I'm thinking he shared the news of my fabulous non-product with them. They are so interested that they contacted me on Christmas Eve. And they are also very polite. Though I might need a makeover, because they apparently cannot tell if I am a man or a woman. Or their mom. My bad. Attention SIR/MA I want to buy your product kindly send me your website and your contact phone number and more also the new product you have in the market now, Please get back to me as soon as you can with this details i requested for, Thank you and have a great Christmas and New Year calibrations" Who could resist such a polite request? Me, for one.
But wait! Back up the Brinks truck, because BBC One National Lottery congratulates me on my success in the email electronic online sweepstakes! "A Draft of £1,263,584.00 GBP (One Million Two Hundred and Sixty Three Thousand, Five Hundred and Eighty Four Pounds Sterling) will be issued in your name as one of the lucky winners." I'm rollin' in dough! All I have to do is send my full name, address, nationality, phone number, age, sex, and occupation/position for validation. I don't know why I even bother to work.
Money is practically falling out of my nether regions. As if my award and current profits from my future business were not enough, a kindly foreign lass by the name of Zara Bulle wants to make me trustee of her inheritance! She is a Somalian citizen, female, age 24 years old, whose lawmaker father was killed in a bomb attack. Poor Zara just can't catch a break. She needs a trustee in another country to help her clear her refugee status. All I have to do is deposit her money in my bank account. "Before the death of my father, he told me that he made a fixed deposit of the sum of Four Million, Eight Hundred thousand United States Dollars (4.8Million USD) in one of the Banks in Burkina Faso with my name as his next of kin." I think she might give me a portion of that fortune, even though she doesn't specifically say so. You know how shy those Somalians are.
Everybody wants to give Val money! A Sergent Thomas Allen wants me to make an investment for him. He can't, you see. He's all tied up serving his country. I would suggest that he invest in a crash course on how to spell "sergeant" but that might be unpatriotic of me. He asks if he can trust me. Thomas! Zara trusts me! Why you wanna be that way? "My name is Sergent Thomas Allen. I am an American soldier presently on active service with Squadron battalion here in Afghanistan. I served with the Third Infantry Division in Iraq since 2003, before thousand of my lucky colleagues were pulled out in August last year, leaving my superior and myself among the unlucky ones redeployed to Afghanistan where I am serving presently. During my call to duty in Iraq, my superior and I moved US$25million (Twenty five million US dollars) being part of funds from late Saddam Hussein during a search in one of his palaces in 2003. Through the assistance of a Senior Red Cross Delegate to Iraq, this fund has been safely moved out of Iraq to a secured location" For helping, I could take 30% for myself. According to Sergent Thomas, that's $7.5 million. I didn't do the math, but I'm hoping he's better with numbers than with words. Gosh! I could be helping a serviceman! Not to mention Zara the orphan! I'm a true humanitarian!
I also have a Christmas Day email that is written in Chinese. I do not yet speak nor read that language. But I'm sure it's from somebody offering me money.
"When it rains it pours," as the Morton salt umbrella girl says.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Not as Serious as a Soccer Riot
We are a family of game-playing fools.
It's a good thing that we only gather for competition on holidays. A melee was brewing yesterday, midway through a game of adult Hedbanz. I think that's how to spell the game. You know kids and their creative spelling these days. The object of the game is to guess what you are. Everybody has a plastic headband with a slot on the forehead section in which a card is placed. A mini hourglass, perhaps a minute-glass, is turned over, and you can ask questions of the group until time runs out. Then the person to your left gets a turn to guess his card. The first person correctly identify five of his cards wins. Well. Let me tell you, our family needs adaptations. We lowered the bar to three right. And still, nobody won.
It didn't help that NUDE BEACH bossed everybody around. LIBRARY was downright shaking in her shoes, afraid to make a mistake. Then GLASSES cheated by looking in the mirror and asking questions like, "Do they help people? Do we use them everyday? Can you carry them in a pocket? No! I did not cheat! Just because I looked in the mirror and said 'This is like looking at the optometrist's chart' does not mean that I could read my card in the reflection!" Like we wouldn't notice that his questions were way more specific than the standard, "Am I a place? A person? A thing? Am I alive?"
BICYCLE was chided for asking, "Am I a hose?" while looking at the player who was HOSE. "C'mon already!" hollered GLASSES. "You have figured out that you have two wheels and you might be red. Seriously? A hose?" PARKING LOT was confused by people responding that she was visited by adults, but answered with seven exclamations of, "No!" when she inquired whether children like to go there. SHERLOCK HOLMES suddenly asked if he was a detective, right after taking off his glasses, peering at them, then shining them on his shirt. And SARAH PALIN could not understand how she could be a woman on television, yet not be blond or have a regular show.
No prizes were given. Which is a good thing. OZZY OSBOURNE was getting testy, and PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE was getting antsy. So it was a relief, kind of, when CHEESECAKE and NEWSPAPER had to leave, and the game broke up.
We might need to hire security for next year's Christmas Challenge.
It's a good thing that we only gather for competition on holidays. A melee was brewing yesterday, midway through a game of adult Hedbanz. I think that's how to spell the game. You know kids and their creative spelling these days. The object of the game is to guess what you are. Everybody has a plastic headband with a slot on the forehead section in which a card is placed. A mini hourglass, perhaps a minute-glass, is turned over, and you can ask questions of the group until time runs out. Then the person to your left gets a turn to guess his card. The first person correctly identify five of his cards wins. Well. Let me tell you, our family needs adaptations. We lowered the bar to three right. And still, nobody won.
It didn't help that NUDE BEACH bossed everybody around. LIBRARY was downright shaking in her shoes, afraid to make a mistake. Then GLASSES cheated by looking in the mirror and asking questions like, "Do they help people? Do we use them everyday? Can you carry them in a pocket? No! I did not cheat! Just because I looked in the mirror and said 'This is like looking at the optometrist's chart' does not mean that I could read my card in the reflection!" Like we wouldn't notice that his questions were way more specific than the standard, "Am I a place? A person? A thing? Am I alive?"
BICYCLE was chided for asking, "Am I a hose?" while looking at the player who was HOSE. "C'mon already!" hollered GLASSES. "You have figured out that you have two wheels and you might be red. Seriously? A hose?" PARKING LOT was confused by people responding that she was visited by adults, but answered with seven exclamations of, "No!" when she inquired whether children like to go there. SHERLOCK HOLMES suddenly asked if he was a detective, right after taking off his glasses, peering at them, then shining them on his shirt. And SARAH PALIN could not understand how she could be a woman on television, yet not be blond or have a regular show.
No prizes were given. Which is a good thing. OZZY OSBOURNE was getting testy, and PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE was getting antsy. So it was a relief, kind of, when CHEESECAKE and NEWSPAPER had to leave, and the game broke up.
We might need to hire security for next year's Christmas Challenge.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Games People Played
I regret to inform my well-wishers that I have been dethroned as supreme Christmas Eve Game Champion at my sister's holiday finger-food festival.
My performance was just not up to snuff. I am suspicious of her motives. Upon gathering at her kitchen-counter smorgasbord, we were informed that she had forgotten to lay in a supply of Sprite. That is a major beverage faux pas for the Thevictorian family. The Pony, you see, is forbidden to consume caffeine. He is very good about refusing such elixirs when his drink of decreed choice is available. And still, he turned down the Mountain Dew which Sis so courteously offered him in lieu of Sprite. I started to suspect a conspiracy when her husband said, "Mountain Dew is okay. It's a clear soda, isn't it?"
Throughout the meal, I kept an eye and an ear on the kids' table. The Pony was quite animated. Like his cousin said, "He appears to be a social drinker." He regaled them with tales of his friend in the trombone section of the eighth grade band hiding Oreos in his unruly halo of hair. He licked his elbow. He clicked his other elbow. Funny how breaking both of them infused him with such super powers. Just before game-playing time, my niece asked, "Can The Pony have some coffee?" Um. NO.
I was a bit distracted during the Christmas card jigsaw puzzle competition. That's how I lost. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it. That, and I was too lazy to stand up and grab at puzzle pieces in the center of the oval table. It was like a game of PIT in there. Except we were risking life and limb for pieces of cut-up Christmas cards, not commodity cards for wheat and barley and flax. And even more vicious that a Saturday night game of spoons in off-campus college housing.
So...I lost the individual competition and the prize of noodle soup. It was in a gift bag: a jar of dry noodles and a bouillon cube and a recipe. If that's chicken noodle soup, I'll take mine rare. Pardon me for paraphrasing Kurt Russell as Drew Stephens in Silkwood, in the scene where he learns that Cher's girlfriend, Diana Scarwid as Angela, is a beautician. She has just applied her makeup to Cher, who looks like a corpse. And Drew says, "If that's what a beautician does, I'll take mine rare." To which Meryl Streep as Karen Silkwood replies, "Drew, Angela works at Thayer's." And Kurt says, "Funeral home? Hell, why didn't you say so?" Just before pouring a beer over his head and walking out.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. I lost. But my team won the Unwrap Ten Hershey's Kisses While Wearing Oven Mitts Relay. And everybody won the game of Pass the Gift Bag to the Left and Right During a Reading of the Wright Family's Christmas. We all won a 750-piece jigsaw puzzle. Mine was the Chicago skyline. The Pony had a fruit market. Genius had a trolley. And Hick won a puzzle of a pile of gumballs.
Sis declared that I was in charge of prizes for next year, and I told her that I would buy them throughout the year. She said the cost had to be one dollar or less. I said I thought I could swing it, a dollar a month. Then my mom handed me her puzzle, on top of the Thevictorian stack, giving me five. So I told Sis, "I've already got it covered up through May, for zero dollars."
She was not amused.
My performance was just not up to snuff. I am suspicious of her motives. Upon gathering at her kitchen-counter smorgasbord, we were informed that she had forgotten to lay in a supply of Sprite. That is a major beverage faux pas for the Thevictorian family. The Pony, you see, is forbidden to consume caffeine. He is very good about refusing such elixirs when his drink of decreed choice is available. And still, he turned down the Mountain Dew which Sis so courteously offered him in lieu of Sprite. I started to suspect a conspiracy when her husband said, "Mountain Dew is okay. It's a clear soda, isn't it?"
Throughout the meal, I kept an eye and an ear on the kids' table. The Pony was quite animated. Like his cousin said, "He appears to be a social drinker." He regaled them with tales of his friend in the trombone section of the eighth grade band hiding Oreos in his unruly halo of hair. He licked his elbow. He clicked his other elbow. Funny how breaking both of them infused him with such super powers. Just before game-playing time, my niece asked, "Can The Pony have some coffee?" Um. NO.
I was a bit distracted during the Christmas card jigsaw puzzle competition. That's how I lost. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it. That, and I was too lazy to stand up and grab at puzzle pieces in the center of the oval table. It was like a game of PIT in there. Except we were risking life and limb for pieces of cut-up Christmas cards, not commodity cards for wheat and barley and flax. And even more vicious that a Saturday night game of spoons in off-campus college housing.
So...I lost the individual competition and the prize of noodle soup. It was in a gift bag: a jar of dry noodles and a bouillon cube and a recipe. If that's chicken noodle soup, I'll take mine rare. Pardon me for paraphrasing Kurt Russell as Drew Stephens in Silkwood, in the scene where he learns that Cher's girlfriend, Diana Scarwid as Angela, is a beautician. She has just applied her makeup to Cher, who looks like a corpse. And Drew says, "If that's what a beautician does, I'll take mine rare." To which Meryl Streep as Karen Silkwood replies, "Drew, Angela works at Thayer's." And Kurt says, "Funeral home? Hell, why didn't you say so?" Just before pouring a beer over his head and walking out.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. I lost. But my team won the Unwrap Ten Hershey's Kisses While Wearing Oven Mitts Relay. And everybody won the game of Pass the Gift Bag to the Left and Right During a Reading of the Wright Family's Christmas. We all won a 750-piece jigsaw puzzle. Mine was the Chicago skyline. The Pony had a fruit market. Genius had a trolley. And Hick won a puzzle of a pile of gumballs.
Sis declared that I was in charge of prizes for next year, and I told her that I would buy them throughout the year. She said the cost had to be one dollar or less. I said I thought I could swing it, a dollar a month. Then my mom handed me her puzzle, on top of the Thevictorian stack, giving me five. So I told Sis, "I've already got it covered up through May, for zero dollars."
She was not amused.
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