Happy Halloween!

Wicked Supreme Court Nominee of the West

Last Minute Scary Jack-o-Lantern Idea

Tom DeLay Jack-0-Lantern

Toting Guns in the Streets

There’s a section of Chandler that makes me think the City Council sat down one day and decided that there aren’t enough Street names that invoke the Old West in this town. So they threw out some ideas, Lasso and Spur and probably some other equally Old Western, benign suggestions. Then someone, probably a Republican, card-carrying member of the NRA decided that the history of the gun was too intertwined with the Old West not to have gun street names. Thus was born Derringer Way, Winchester Place, and AK-47 Lane.

Okay, I know six shooters supposedly tamed the Old West, but do you really want to live in the section of town where most of the streets are named after guns? Does a responsible City Council invite Old West sensibilities into the fair City of Chandler? Do we have to be worried about the NRA and NAR collaborating? Is Ocean Street really that bad of a choice for a desert city?

I’m not saying we should bury the link between Cowboys and guns. Though frankly, it would have been nice to have found child-friendly images when I wanted to buy Cowboy stickers for my 3-year-old cousin. (I’m sure he knows that Cowboys have guns, but I don’t want to be the bad influence auntie.) Instead, I found Cowboys wielding some serious weaponry--not one with a lasso, or even a skillet. I’m sure that whitewashing history is not the answer, but there is so much more to the Old West than bleeding to death from internal injuries and infection caused by inept shooting and barbaric weaponry.

Decoding Realtor Lingo

• All appliances stay = All appliances over 15 years old
• Close to Freeway = Hopefully earmuffs look good on you
• Cozy = Save money by using postage stamp as rugs
• Cute = Forget being able to turn around
• Fixer-upper = May be habitable if you put Contractor’s children through college
• Great neighborhood = there hasn’t been a carjacking in three years
• Handy Man’s Delight = Tear down
• Huge covered rear patio = sunroom that homeowner left unfinished
• Just reduced 10K = home backs dirt bike race course
• Just reduced 15K = home backs High School football stadium
• Light Fix-up = Water main breakage
• Location! Location! Location! = Close to the mall, but backs up to street that makes New Jersey Turnpike look like soap box derby
• Lots of grass and trees = Back yard contains plot of Brazilian Rainforest
• Low maintenance back yard = yard completely paved over
• Many upgrades = tile and countertops lovely shade of pink
• Priced to sell = priced 15% over comparable homes
• Pride of ownership = homeowners scrubbed mold out of grout before showing
• Unlimited potential = Older than dirt, but spacious
• Walking distance from Elementary school = six registered sex offenders w/in 3 mile radius

Crazy AZ

I recently moved to Arizona from Illinois. I wasn’t really expecting much culture shock. This is still America, after all. And I have lived in two other deserts. But I have found, after 6 months of living here, that there are some vast differences in Arizona.

Confusing things about Arizona:

• Lush front lawns
• The multitude of “lake” communities
• People who moved here to escape allergies and then planted trees and grass
• Grocery stores that only have three kinds of salsa
• Anytime is a good time for flip-flops
• Wearing jeans when is over 80 degrees
• Wearing jeans when is over 100 degrees
• New York Burrito
• Street names like “Ocean” and “Lakeside”
• People who think it’s okay to have wooly husky dogs here

There’s a big change in the climate, as you might imagine. But you really don’t know about eyeball-searing heat unless you spent a summer here where the high was over 105 degrees, pretty much from June to September. I think I’ve eaten my weight in fruit popsicles this summer.

The drivers in Illinois were impatient and reckless. Arizona drivers are fancy free and reckless. We went from “Get outta my way you law-abiding freak!” to “La de da…is that another car on the road?” We've been in two almost accidents out here already, because someone decided they were the only ones on the road.

The atmosphere seems to be much more relaxed here. I do believe the stereotypical California penchant for healthy living and stress management has wafted right over the border. People actually use the gym in the apartment complex where I live. It’s not just a senseless waste of space with a stationary bike and a Soloflex here.

These amazing people also seem to be in denial that it is, not only hotter than hell outside, but also that we live in the middle of the desert. I’ve never seen so many fountains, lakes and other various water features in my entire life. (It makes me think that the people here are expecting California to fall right into the ocean, and they're just anticipating the change in climate.) I do miss the green. I really do. But I think when someone moves to the desert and decides they can’t live without maple trees and peonies, why don’t they just move back?

Actually, I’m hopping some Arizona readers will take me up on that, because you can hardly swing a dead armadillo. I’ve never lived anyplace where there are so many Super Wal-Marts going up at once. Everything is so sprawled out. I live in the East Valley and my parents live in the West Valley, and it takes an hour to get back and forth. Unless you have a lead foot husband that has be gently reminded that he’s not on the Autobahn. And neither of us lives at the far edges of the Phoenix suburbs.

The delicate Sonoran ecosystem is being crushed under the heel of a lot of crazies, who seem to have conveniently forgotten that we live somewhere that's really hard to make habitable. It makes me wonder what we were thinking when we moved here. Now Google wants to move to the East Valley, too. It just makes me wonder, is the water going to run out before California slides off the continental shelf?

Greedy and Colorblind

I have a kind of embarrassing confession to make. Sweetface and I have been looking for a house since July and toured over 50 homes. We found two houses that we liked. The first and only house we fell in love with was arranged so that it was too difficult (perhaps impossible) to install an exhaust vent in the kitchen. Because Sweetface likes to smoke us out of the house with various adventures in cooking on a regular basis, the ability to install such an exhaust is a must. The second house we were not in love with, but could live in, so we asked for comparisons on the price the afternoon of the day we saw it. It was gone the next day. Gone, like the short time we planned to stay in this wonderful, luxury apartment.


A month ago the housing market in East Valley was hotter than molten cheese. But I’m perfectly willing to admit that we’re being picky. This house is going to cost us far more than we anticipated when we moved out here. For the price we are paying we will probably have to live in this house a little longer than we would have to make it worthwhile. And we will not have the money to make any significant changes to any house we buy: unless we want a 1960’s-electrical-nightmare tinderbox, or a house in a flood zone. I say: no thank you.


(I know that Readers outside of the Southwest are going, “Flood zone, what’s the likelihood of being hit by that? Your average annual rainfall is 2 inches for Pete’s sake!” While I’m pretty certain that we wouldn’t see anything anywhere near as devastating as the Katrina floods, there is still a high risk of flooding here. It’s not the amount of rain so much as the lack of absorption by the crispy-crunchy ground. Hence what little water there is, runs in torrents through low-lying channels called washes that could sweep a herd of elephants downstream, and gathers in puddles that could swallow Hummers. In a matter of minutes we have instant lakes. And that is your nature lesson for the day. If you need more proof that floods are a real risk here, call an insurance agent. Flood policies on Homeowner’s Insurance are still separate and expensive here.)


It’s still a seller’s market. Take the case of the 3 bedroom 2 bath that’s in an okay location, but not that close to Phoenix proper. They are asking $270,000. They paid $149,000 in 2003. According to numbers I pulled from the special section on Valley Home Values in the AZ Republic this Sunday, the owners/agent think that house has increased in value by about 20% more than other houses in the 85225 Zip Code. Can you say moneygrubber? I knew you could.


The house is pretty average in both quality and how well it is maintained. The fixtures in said house are pretty standard and the few upgrades there are aren't that special. There is attractive tile in the living room and kitchen, and hallway, but everywhere else is pretty much mauve carpet. I suppose they might also be proud of their Frankenpaint. There is a red on gold faux finish in the kitchen—yes, it's as lovely as it sounds. The living room wall is split pea soup green and there is a cut out, where you can see the kitchen paint. Red and green are usually complimentary—look at Christmas, the homeowners managed to find a red and green that clash. One of the walls in the guest bathroom is black. The other walls are dark green. All of the other rooms have various unrelated paint colors. (One of them is actually Buy Me Brown, though.) Anyone who moves in there will have to paint so they won't get dizzy.

Turnoffs Include: Mouth-breathers at the Movies

Yesterday evening we went to see Wallace and Gromit on Sunday evening. We went to the 7:20 showing, hoping that small children would have to be in bed by 8. It wasn't bedlam, but there were pretty many children there. Including some parents that decided to sit right behind us. You know the kind of jokes they slip into Wallace and Gromit, through text on books and packages. More than one person felt the need to read these puns out loud. Trust me, those of you who read those things out loud to your kid, they won't get it, because there’s a good chance that they're just as intelligent as you.


The person that had the honor of sitting behind me to annoy me through the whole movie was a baby. That baby babbled behind us for a good portion of that interminably long movie. I always thought that spine-crunching screams of a newborn were horrible, but this was more annoying than the helpful purchasing suggestions by the Timmy at the concessions stand. I just couldn't bring myself to shush a baby. To add insult to injury the proud parent of this darling little creature thought it was the cutest thing that Baby talked through the whole movie.


I suppose I should count myself lucky that the dribblers in the audience weren’t as bored by that movie as I was. Then I’m sure we would have had someone’s Little Einstein hanging from the light fixtures. It’s times like this that I wonder why I even bother going to the movies anymore. At $18 for two tickets, plus another $10 for sodas and popcorn, and $3 worth of gas while Sweetface does parking lot laps for a “close” space, that totals $31 per trip. If we go five times a year that’s $155. I’m sure if I adjust for inflation, it would only take 16 years for that projection TV that Sweetface wants to pay for itself.

Renting Luxury

Four months ago we moved into so called “Luxury” Apartments. It turns out that the quotes are there for a reason. I knew that it must have been exclusive, because we had to wait in the Social Security office for three hours next to a man in a used-to-be-white undershirt who smelled like industrial strength alcohol and moldy onions. We were sitting there because Happy Good Luck Spy Company that the “Luxury” Apartments used thought that my SSN was issued in 1972, and not the year I was born. I had my SS card, I had my valid US passport, my birth certificate, I had my marriage certificate, I even had a couple of value savers cards with my name on them.

They sent us to the SS Administration so that I could get a letter saying, I kid you not, “Your Social Security Card is the official verification of your Social Security Number. This printout does not verify your right to work or rent apartments in the United States.” Okay, so I put in the part about renting apartments. It was officially stamped three times and officially signed by D. K. Gribblepots (or something like that), but it refers the recipient to my Social Security card, which I had in the first place.

After checking our credit, and backgrounds, getting the names and phone numbers of our next of kin , checking our names against the known sex offender list and taking DNA samples they wanted an in-state check. “Well,” I said, “We might have been able to find a local bank if we hadn’t been running around getting letters that don’t officially verify anything.” Thank god they took the check, because I think my head would have exploded if they’d sent us out of there homeless.

Our particular apartment carried extra special charges because we have a pool view. After living with a pool view I can tell you, there’s nothing “luxurious” about seeing your fat-ass neighbors lounging in Speedos. We also have a view of the dog park, which has the benefit of being not only gorgeous but also aromatically unpleasant. I do believe the lawn in the dog park is so lush because of all of the thoughtful pet-owners who leave fertilizer. I think that these “Luxury” accommodations, along with the screaming four-year-old next door, has lowered the rental value of our apartment considerably.

Our next experience with luxury was an adventure in ceiling fan installation. We were told that we could have ceiling fans installed by maintenance. Granted they said the list was long, but we were also told that they would be working their way down the list next week. Next week came and went, we were tripping over the fan boxes and no one came, no one called. I called the front office and was told it would be another week. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what happened. But the next week they said that maintenance was too busy putting up the numbers over the carports. After two weeks of not seeing any carports get numbers I went back and asked about my fans again. Then I got a story about the sun damage on the main office that maintenance had to fix. The complex wasn’t even eight months old. At least this time they gave me a coupon for an electrician, which convinced even naive little old me that I could pretty much forget about ever seeing the maintenance guy come to put up our fans.

It seems that the staff at the front office has more time on their hands; a couple of days ago we gotten a newsletter that included a list of services for residents. Among the list of services for residents is “free a/c filters.” I thought, “Our a/c needs filters? I thought it was kind of warm in here. Oops.” So yesterday I made the long sojourn in the in 105 degree Arizona sun to the front office. When I got to the office and said “Hi,” to the rental monkey I got a sixth-sense feeling that they didn’t have any filters, but I asked anyways. The rental monkey went to the back office and heard him rustling around. My suspicions were confirmed when I heard, “Awww.” He returned empty handed and asked me if I would be at home for the rest of the day. I said yes, and I was going to be home, because I like to tell the truth. He said that he would send maintained by later with a filter. Here it is today, and my a/c is chugging through 4 months of dust.

Though, I did get something from them yesterday, a calendar of events and a survey asking if there were any other “luxury” services they could offer. I’m putting my list here, because I don’t think they are capable of filling my requests:

• Keep your word, at least half the time.
• Also, it’d be nice if I could buy postage stamps at the front office.

The maintenance guy just showed up to install our ceiling fans. I stood in the doorway, stunned. “I never thought I’d see you here, so we installed the fans ourselves. I hope the building doesn’t burn down. But thanks for coming anyways.” It’s only been three months since I requested ceiling fan installation. Of course, it occurs to me that they were luxuriously taking their time so that we would get tired of waiting in the triple digit heat and then they wouldn’t have to install anything. Meanwhile there are still naked carports threatening the “Luxury” of our apartment community.

Nightmare on Saguaro St.

Went to see two houses this morning. It was like a contest for the smallest back yard. One was like a wide hallway, and there was a neighbor's huge tree hanging over it. I guess at least most of it was shaded. The other backyard had a little more room, so I could just barely turn around with my arms stretched out. Neither house had bathroom fans. What kind of people can live without ventilation? Oh the bad carpets and the acoustic ceiling! The horror, the horror! Oh the pink tile and the peeling laminate counters. Oh the ratty brown carpets and the outdated unsightly cabinets. I am about ready to give up.

Little Yellow Tattlers

Ever get the creepy feeling that the government is watching you? Welcome, Paranoid Delusional! You’re right. Apparently, each page printed with a color laser printers prints itty-bitty yellow dots that contain the serial number of the printer and the time and date the page was printed. The Electronic Frontier Foundation found and cracked the code in color laser printers manufactured by Xerox, HP, Cannon and Lexmark.

Conspiracy Theorists, now you know that printing that Manifesto on your laser printer was a bad idea. I thought the Patriot Act was appalling, but at least the government did that in public. The yellow dots are the result of secret backroom deals with all of the major printer manufactures. It’s all in the name of busting counterfeiters. I certainly don’t want to end up with a fake $50, but there had to be a better way than making technology betray us. I firmly believe that technology should be allowed to betray us the way we always thought it would: robot overlords.

I'm not above making stuff up for a laugh, so the following is a link to an article in the Washington Post:

Sleuths Crack Tracking Code Discovered in Color Printers

To add insult to injury, it seems that the code was cracked with a magnifying glass and a blue light, by some intrepid Intern. That's right, they sent in Timmy, and he came out with invasion of privacy that would make the KGB proud. The U.S. Government doesn’t even respect us enough to try really hard to invade our privacy.

Whenever I print a crazed letter to the President demanding accountability and sagacity, “they” know exactly which printer it came from. It's time to dig the six-year-old ink jet that only prints black out of the garage. This revelation begs the question, “How many other devices are tattling on us?” Get the aluminum foil from the cupboard. I think it's time to make protective hats.

Buy Me Brown

This is a color I like to call, Buy Me Brown. Isn't it, lovely? Gaze a moment at it's magnificence. Is it taupe? Is it muddy gray? Or is it just the result of many leftover colors being mixed together?

Buy Me Brown

My husband Sweetface, and I are amidst the grueling process of finding a house in this over priced, crazy Arizona housing market. When the homeowners have bothered to repaint (many don't even bother to scrub the grout) this is the color they choose most often. Except for the Barbie Dream House where everything was some shade of pink. Yes, even the tiles and the cabinets. The homeowner had the walls freshly painted for whatever lucky buyer lands that house.

It's a good thing we plan on painting anyhow, because the houses on the market that are in good order, tend to be painted "Buy Me Brown." Taupe can be a wonderful thing, but in a house with no furniture, covering every square inch of wall space, it seems a little overwhelming.

Speaking of taupe, if you need a laugh, visit The Reverend Taupe Dog. He's "qualified to perform all of the sacraments on your pets by e-mail." At last, dogs can be bound in holy matrimony in the eyes of God, not just the state, and leg humping can be forgiven. Praise the Lord!

Confessions of an Autophobe

I realize as I start this article that admitting my fear of driving is tantamount to writing the word “commie” on my forehead in indelible red ink. There is nothing more American than hopping into the mammoth gas-guzzler, which is so big it doesn’t fit in your garage, to pick up milk at the corner Quick Mart. But I suspect I am not entirely alone in my fear driving, and I may at least, get a support group out of the deal. My fear began when I was a child and my parents, in their infinite wisdom, put me behind the wheel of a mini racecar, that kiddie death trap known as the Go-Cart. If you’ve been to a “Fun World” with Go-Carts you’ve probably seen the kid that drove straight into the pilings on the side and can’t seem to get turned around. That kid was me. I pulled my hair, sweated with frustration under the pounding sun and cried while my parents, and other obliging grown-ups shouted instructions to me. The least helpful of which was, “Calm down!” My frustration mounts as I hear the zips and whizzes and woohoos behind me as the other kids whip around the track, the cool breeze of success on their cheeks.

There was also the lingering trauma of an early childhood mishap, that was caused by my brother, who lives breathes and eats in cars and has ever since he first wrapped my long blond hair in the wheels of his Matchbox. My father was away on an all-expense paid vacation to Guam (courtesy of the U.S. Air Force), and since we were living with our grandparents in Wisconsin, we had not much need to use the car. It was winter, and at that time (way back in the 80’s) it was necessary to turn the car on every once in a while to make sure it would start up when we needed it. I was sitting in the passenger seat with the door wide open. Mom was sitting in the driver’s seat with my brother on her lap. He was merrily vrooming and steering in the little station wagon that was sitting in the driveway warming up while in “Park.” When suddenly the car took off in the direction of the neighbor’s brick column, which is what stopped us. Fortunately, no one was injured physically, except for the white picket fence and the brick column, but those things were fixed, and the tragedy of it was borne well by the good humor of the neighbor.

So, when it was time for me to practice driving I was more than a little hesitant. But to sweeten the pot I had a hot-tempered father or a nervous mother to practice with, not to mention a younger brother that would take to driving like a warthog to a mud puddle. (He would actually sleep out in his first car.) I took the extra scenic route to license ownership. I had driver’s permits in two states, and one in another country. Mom had to drag me into the car to get me to practice. But eventually I took the final driving test, and was rather disappointed in my little trip around the block where the DMV was located, having had four years to build it into a horrible manic nightmare, complete with a cackling clown reveling in my failure when I got to the end. Despite the feeling that I didn’t quite deserve it, I couldn’t help being a little pleased with myself when I was handed a shiny new plastic card with a picture that made me look like Jo-jo the wild girl. And then I was scared because I knew I shouldn’t be behind the wheel of a thousand pound vehicular weapon, and that there must be other people out there who were also legally incompetent drivers.

The good thing about having my license, at that point, was that I didn’t have a car. I had all of the pride of driver’s license ownership without any of the fear or road pizza guilt. I walked everywhere, and was in pretty good shape, actually. But my physical fitness came crashing over my belt-line after I was married. We bought a little blue Saturn. While we were setting up our household, I had to drive, but once we were settled in I was pretty good at finding ways of avoiding it. My husband aided and abetted, I’m afraid. Because I made him nervous when I drove.

To help me overcome my fear I began unscientifically collecting data on should-not-be-insured drivers. There are some general rules to help you pick out bad drivers: the foremost of which is to beware red cars. Any “car improvements” such as under carriage lights, or semi truck wheels on a Toyota are signs that this driver may do stupid things—like forgetting to use their turn signal when they dart into your lane. Even something as innocent as a Jesus fish can be a sign of a militant, bloody-thirsty psycho behind the wheel. Another red flag is vanity license plates. “NO 1 MOM,” and “DR PROCT” are not just declaring their individuality by plunking down an extra $50 to $100 for their license plates. They are saying, “Watch out for me! I must get there first because I think I’m more important than any of you.” Not only are these bad drivers narcissistic, they tend to be stupid. You can’t tell me that they highway patrol wasn’t waiting all day for the cherry red pick-up with the “SHMOKIN” license plate to come whizzing by.

I have also noticed that certain models of cars often attract crazed drivers that live in the world of “I saw this in a cartoon, but I think I can do it. The following aren’t hard and fast rules. I’ve just noticed that bad drivers are often driving one of the three following cars. Nissan Maximas, and Jeep drivers seem to enjoy weaving in and out of the regular flow of traffic, speeding and being general vehicular nuisances. My brother has owned both of those brands of car at one time or another. Operators of PT Cruisers drive as if they have to prove that they’re worth more than the only luxury vehicle they could afford. I’ve seen PT Cruisers do crazy things like pulling into oncoming traffic to get around a car that’s waiting until it’s safe to make a left turn. My brother thinks it must be V6

While I'm sure that mose of these people are upright citizens when they are not behind the wheel of a steel killing machine, for some reason they turn in to slobbering maniacs when they are. I think it is easy to forget that there are other actual living people in other cars. Such as those who accidentally cut off cement trucks, and like to wait to be certain the road is clear before making a left turn. I think all drivers could benefit from taking a few deep breaths at every stop light, and from realizing that it isn’t worth bursting a main artery because you’re not going to be on time. It’s better to get there late than dead.

Fearing the Millers

I realized in the post dream state fog at 6:18 this morning, that I only have about a tenth of my Christmas shopping done. You may believe that it’s a little early for me to be waking up in a cold sweat panic about Christmas shopping, and you may be right. It’s only October. I even have enough time to buy the gifts for my in-laws in Germany have plenty of time to send them Ham Class. (I do love my in-laws, and they are worth First Class, but sending mail to an APO address is always sending it Ham Class.) There is plenty of time—technically. But usually, I’m much further along in the gift selection process. I usually still end up at the mall in November, but don’t have to stay there that long.

Now, I’m sure that you, Dear Reader, are perfectly amicable in a crowd. But there are certain people; I like to call them the Millers, because they stand in the doorways with their hands in their pockets. They clog the mall corridors with their seven, adorable, free-range children. They stop suddenly in front of you, because they just decided to have a conversation, and are incapable of walking and talking at the same time. And, if they’re in a line they stretch that line right across the flow of traffic, and tune out any amount of “Please, excuse me,” in the belief that you are surely after their spot in line. I definitely don’t mean to offend any actual Millers, except for an old roommate of mine. (I’ve yet to meet anyone else filled with so much hate and rage. I’m sure it wasn’t that bad living with me.)

You might be thinking—why doesn’t that Nit-Wit Blogger shop the miraculous electronic highways and byways so she doesn’t take my parking spot at the mall? I do some of my shopping via the Internet. But there’s really no substitute for delivering a perfectly good gift that’s now covered in blood, sweat and tears, come Christmas morn. There is no better way to say, “I love you,” than by enduring the mall. They don’t have to know that I was there in August, before the Christmas spirit turns everyone into absolute raving lunatics.

Everybody Loves Yukon

This here is Yukon. He’s not as smart as he looks. The “Sit” command takes about five minutes to travel from his ear to his brain to his large, square, wooly rear. You may believe that it is inborn stubbornness, but trust me on this one: he’s a furry Mack truck with all of the thinking power of a bag of rusty nails. You might wonder what such a fine, physical Arctic specimen is doing in Arizona. The answer is: Panting—a lot.
He is the subject of today’s blog entry because I’m stressed. And all I have to do for a laugh is look at a picture of Yukon. You might think I’m being a little hard on him. He is a dog, after all. No one is expecting him to do quadratic equations. Don’t mistake my insensitivity for derision. He’s a big fuzzy puppy-puppy, with paws the size of dinner plates, and if I didn’t love him I wouldn’t be laughing at him. So he’s afraid of the Swiffer, and jumps and strains that the end of his heavy-duty leash towards small children (he wants to be petted, it only looks like he wants dinner). And open garage doors and open car doors are always a personal invitation to him. Because, he deeply believes that everybody loves Yukon. With that mug, who wouldn’t?

Cursed Tongue

Cursed Tongue

Good Day, Reader! You tech-savvy, magnificent visitor to my new Blog! You good-looking sophisticate with the excellent sense of humor! No, I'm talking to you. May the sun shine down a thousand blessings upon you! May the wind be at your back, all of your journeys be downhill, and the next time you go shopping may you get that parking spot right by the door. Sit back and stay as long as you like.

Timmy

Timmy: an expendable, inexperienced peon. They are plot furniture. They're the Interns, the Clerks, the Ensigns, the Red Shirts that don't come back from the planet Zorgon.

Unnamed and little acknowledged in this book, the Timmy knew he would be a goner as soon as fire broke out among the ranks.

Mook

Mook: thoughtless bungler.

Unable to comprehend the danger he was in, the mook told his girlfriend that her jeans were unflattering.

Homer gift

Homer gift: gift that is intended for the giver instead of the supposed givee. As in the episode of the Simpsons, entitled “Life in the Fast Lane,” in which Homer buy Marge a bowling ball engraved with his name, for her birthday.

Timmy’s new train set was a Homer gift; his Dad set the train up, and then “tested” it all morning.

Posted junk

Welcome, Dear Reader, to the beginning of the little Cursed Tongue universe. Putting my pictures into a posted junk bin so I can change the template ever so slightly to my liking. Ah...yes, now I feel like a real hacker. Hopefully someday I'll get an honest to goodness web site. If I can ever figure out what Qwest will charge me for space. But for now, I'll be putting my junk here, so the rest of my Blog can be beautiful.







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Aquifer

Aquifer: an underground permeable geological formation containing water in quantities sufficient to support a desert community for a few years. After which, the desert community will have to make other arrangements.

One dry desert afternoon, the entire community of Mountain Vistas became Sudden Valley, because they had unwisely drained the aquifers dry and there was no longer sufficient water to support their $500,000 homes.

Virga

Virga: precipitation that evaporates before hitting the ground, because the weather has been dryer than a proverbial popcorn fart.

After being coaxed into promiscuous sex with her boyfriend, the chances of the character escaping the horror flick alive evaporated like virga.