Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
I've got this problem with voles eating my lawn and shrubbery. How do I get rid of them?
-VoleH8erDear VoleH8er,
Thank you for your indelible and fastidious question.
The voles will stop trying to eat our lawn and shrubbery if it is not there. But it would be a pity just to destroy your lawn and shrubbery to get rid of a few voles. What a waste! That’s what you’re thinking, right? I agree. Instead, I would suggest donating your lawn and shrubbery to charity.
There are several respectable charities that you can consider. Goodwill and The Salvation Army come immediately to mind. And if I’m not mistaken, the knights who say, "ni" have formed a charitable foundation for tax purposes. They will take excellent care of your shrubbery, however, I’m fairly certain that they don’t deal with lawns, so you would have to split the two up. I’m not sure if you’re willing to do that or not, but you would at least be certain that your shrubbery was going to a good home.
Not only will donating your lawn and shrubbery to charity eliminate the voles in your life, but think of all the less fortunates who always wanted to have a lawn and/or shrubbery, but due to unforeseen financial difficulties were never able to make this dream come true. Your little contribution could fulfill someone’s life long longing. You will be making someone’s life better.
We should all be so lucky.
- Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
I’ve got a date coming up and we’re supposed to go see a movie. But the thing is I really, really don’t want to shell out the big bucks for popcorn. I know she’s going to want some. What can I do?
Druther Buy Gas
Dear Druther,
Did you know that today’s gas prices have inflated as an echo of popcorn price rises? It’s true. Unfortunately, it has also led to dilemas for any almost broke college student who’s trying to take his girlfriend out on a date.
People do not understand how much damage buying popcorn does to your psyche. As a "psychoanalyst" about 2/3 of my patients’ histories could be traced back to traumatic nights at the movie theater. But there is actually a good way to skirt around this.
Take your date out to dinner BEFORE the movie starts. (A nice romantic (filling) dinner at an exclusive restaurant with large servings is not only cheaper than buying popcorn, it is mentally healthier.) Feed her a LOT of food. Explain to her that you will take it as a personal insult if she doesn’t eat everything on her plate, dessert, and all your leftovers. Keep going until she excuses herself because she feels that she’s going to be sick.
Offer to hold her hair back. This will give you quite a few of these little things we in the business call brownie points.
Once her stomach has corrected itself, give her a mint. Now it’s time to go to the cinema. You get in line, you pay for the ticket, and you find yourself in front of the concession stand. You say (in a very concerned voice), "You want anything?" she’ll smile demurely and shake her head. And you’re home free. Congratulations!
But remember, always use this power for good, or little imps will tweeze you nose hairs while you’re handcuffed to a raging hippo.
- Miss Eliza
Dear Readers,Do you have a question you always wanted to ask an expert but never did because said expert would make you feel stupid? These are my favorite questions. Not only will I answer them (way better than any expert... depending on your defintion of "better," but I'll also make you feel really smart at the same time. So give me your thoughts, end them with a question mark, and start them with a "Dear Miss Eliza." Send them to me by e-mail: selizawalden@yahoo.com or just plunk it into the comments section. Really, it's a good thing.- Miss Eliza
What Color Is Your Towel?
In case you are keeping track, it has now been four posts since my last Dear Miss Eliza. While I normally stick another column in right about here, I'm afraid that's impossible today because no one in the world is even slightly curious about anything. Oh what a feeble race we have degenerated into. I'd like to comfort you, and say it's all going to get better... but I don't want to lie to you. (I bummed that one off the American Beauty screenwriter(s) so don't give me credit for it or evil, stinking, nasty, STDs will attack you with fervor.)
So instead of Miss Eliza, I'm going to turn into Concerned Older Sister. And because I care about you, I want you to know that there's this movie opening today called Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy. From what little I've investigated about it, there's this itsy bitsy chance that it might even live up to its potential. What Potential?
Why all the potential that Douglas Adams could stuff into his book/radio program/any other incarnations of Hitchikker's Guide To The Galaxy that I'm not fully aware of. And believe me, he crammed a LOT of potential into that book. You know that the graph for a tangent looks like? How it's got all those lines stretching all the way up to infinity? Well, that's pretty much a measure of the potential endowed to Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy... the book. If the movie lives up to the potential of a sine wave, I'll consider that worthy.
Has anyone noticed that I'm writing a critique of this move before I've actually seen it? A terrible idea, I know, and one that I could easily be ashamed of tomorrow morning, by which time I will have seen the movie. But we'll let tomorrow be tomorrow, and if this glowing recommendation turns out to be very poorly assigned, well, I guess I'll just have to write a REAL critique. And if it's worth writing a REAL critique, then you know it's going to be worth reading a REAL critique, because would I lead you astray, my young and impressionable siblings?
p.s. If you have some relief for this Miss Eliza drought, questions can be directed to the comments page or to miss eliza personally at
selizawwalden@yahoo.com must the dry spell continue?
Cliché Busters: The Consolation Speech
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.
A priest a rabbi and a chemist walk into a bar…Oh no, that’s the wrong one. I’m looking for:
Oh honey, don’t worry. You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re a beautiful person. Some day a boy is going to come along and see that, but these things take time. You’re still young. You’ll find someone, I promise. Things will work out, I just know it.
You have heard it before. I knew it. You know how I knew it? It's standard. pretty much verbatim actually, and I should know.
And as one who should—and does—know, I think I can speak for all other young, smart, funny, beautiful people when I say, "can’t you spice things up a little?"
Because it isn’t really comforting when I already know what you’re going to say. (And when I say "know" I mean both that I can see the words coming before they show up, and that I am in agreement. Of course I’m smart and beautiful, and have a sense of humor. Isn’t it obvious? Egotistical I know, but that’s me.) What I feel is more along the lines of, "I already know that, so get to the new part."
This is strikingly similar my reaction to classes ¼ of the time, but I digress.
There has GOT to be something else you can say to someone who just got dumped. How about:
- That rat cum isn’t fit to clean spit of your mary-janes.
- What’ll it be kiddo? (appropriate if you are behind a bar. While this is a cliché in it self, if you can make it sound sexy, I’ll totally forgive you.)
- Good.
- Did you see that episode of South Park where [fill in synopsis of episode here]? Even that had a happy ending. (NOTE: Make sure the episode of south park you’re referencing really has a happy ending.)And if you really, REALLY need to go with the adjective format with your new dumpee, try something fresh. Applicability isactually second to use of wide ranging vocabulary. It probably won't make any sense, but I’m sure I’ll forgive you if they’re random enough. How about:
Sweetie, don’t feel bad. You know you’re a catch right? You have so much
moxie (NOTE: Use moxie in any sentence any time and I’ll give you a hug. It’s just one of those things.) and you’re
Orwellian and
indefatigable, not to mention
a great lay. (NOTE: Downright lying is a little different from not applicable, but she’ll appreciate it if you do it right)
Also a good rule: Make her laugh. Actually, make her laugh condescendingly. When your heart is broken it’s absolutely ok to try to make yourself feel better than someone else. Use snide comments about
Democrats
Republicans
Right wing nut jobs
Liberal pinkos
The ex
Stupid people
Tree huggers
Siblings
Celebrities
Red Necks
People who watch Public television
People who watch network television
Peoplw who watch cable
People with satellite TVs
PeopleEtc.These are surefire tips to avoid having your sympathetic monologue met with rolling eyes. That is always a good thing. Really. I should know. Because I like rolling my eyes.
When In Doubt Look To The Numbers
I'm finding that people counters on my blog are much more useful than one would think. Not only do they give my self esteem a much needed kick in the pants (In that loving way that only a people counter can accomplish with any authority... you know of what I speak) It also gives you a fairly fascinating topic, whenever you're suffering from th ever dreaded bloggers block.
Lets say that nothing worth discussing with the world at large has occured to you in recent times. Normally, this is where you would insert one of your painful attempts at actual fiction writing, but you're not in the mood today. Because for some reason you've got this feeling that real fiction isn't nearly as satisfying as fake fiction, because you're telling a story, which is completely different from lying... you know of what I speak.
So you're stuck. Topicless. Hung out to dry. And those bloodthirsty readers that you imagine are actually paying attention to you (ahhh, the imaginary audience... you know of what I speak) are clamoring out there for another installment! You've got bubkus! You're empty! You've been watching too much TV (is this a new recurring theme that will be surfacing whenever I'm not paying attention? Probably) and your brain looks like that ad where the guy's frying the egg! What are you going to do?
And the Lord sends a miracle. Manna typed from heaven floats gently down and touches your computer screen. You look at your people counter, and lucky you! You've hit another one of those hundred people milestones! This one happens to be 400 which happens to be twice the number since the last time you wrote about your loving (granted blood thirsty) audience. You are golden. You are saved. Your fans will have food for their starving mental palates this evening. Life can continue.
Random question (which is really the ONLY truly cool type of question... you know of what i speak) does anyone happen to know who was lucky # 400? Cuz I've got this fabulous idea involving you and me and a gallon of antibacterial soap...
I jest. But anyway, from here on out, keep an eye on my people counter, and if you happen to be one of those cool numbers ending in 00, pop me off an e-mail (
selizawalden@yahoo.com) and I'll feature you in a prominant-yet not at all painful-featurette. it'll be like hosting SNL, I promise.
Vote For Me
Thank you all for coming, please enjoy the free ice cream while you’re here. Oh, you didn’t get any? Pity, it must have been gone by the time you got here.
Anyway,
I’d like to announce my candidacy for Next Late Night Talk Show Host.
[Insert cheers, whistles, catcalls, boos here]
I’d be great, I promise. Why? You need reasons? What level of reality are you living on?
Oh, in that case…
Vote for me because I’m a girl. Why is it you hear all kinds of girls saying, "I want to be the first woman president when I grow up" but not, "I want to be the first woman late night talk show host when I grow up"? Have we already had one that took that title and never told anybody? Is that what this is?
Vote for me because if I ever get to be in the same room with Ben Affleck, I promise I’ll tell him off.
Vote for me because I’m a smart girl. You have NEVER seen one of these on TV before. Well, it’s possible that they exist, but are forced to stupidify themselves for ratings purposes (Oprah, this means you). I promise that as your next late night talk show host, I will not stoop to this level!
Vote for me because you can come sit in the audience and I’ll feed you ice cream.
Vote for me because I’ve got this theory about TV. Ready? It goes like this. Currently, TV has two modes. As a show you either make stupid people feel good about being stupid (WB, this means you) or you make stupid people feel smart while letting them still be stupid (CSI, this means you). This is a bad thing. Sure, if you made people smart, they might not watch TV as much anymore, and you wouldn’t make any money off of advertising because people wouldn’t watch your show. BUT you can’t let people go around being zombies all the time. Sure, it’s good business but it’s just plain rude. Where are your ethics?
Vote for me because you know you want to see what I look like drooling in front of Kevin Spacey.
Vote for me because I’ve got this theory about celebrities. Ready? It goes like this. They’ve got to HATE interviews. Why? Because answering the same questions all the time gets really boring. And because they end up talking about their private lives which, when you think about it, are NONE OF OUR FRIGGIN BUISNESS. (E! this means you.) I vow that as your next late night talk show host, I will put the joy back in the celebrity interview, and I will NOT bring up personal lives because this is NONE OF MY FRIGGIN BUISNESS.
Vote for me because if you don’t, I’ll hunt you down and strangle you with a rubber hose.
Vote for me because you want to watch me go down in flames. Seriously, what kind of ratings am I going to get if I go around and try changing the whole theory behind TV’s role in our society? Are there really enough living people in this culture to notice that I’m there to help them?
Vote for me because I promise not to be on TV the same time as Jon Stewart. You will not be forced to choose between us. Isn’t that nice?
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Golf season is quickly approaching. Do you have any tips on getting rid of my slice?
-Willie Munchright
Dear Willie,
Thank you for your incendiary and multi-dimensional query.
Contrary to popular opinion, the slice actually serves a valuable purpose, otherwise, why would it have been invented in the first place, am I right?
Imperfection is celebrated far less than it ought to be. It is, after all, our nature. We were never meant to be gods, not even before the whole apple thing. In fact, it was trying to turn ourselves into gods where we got into so much trouble. If Eve had just been satisfied with her slice originally, none of this would have happened, and I would not be afraid of giving birth. Thanks Mom.
The slice is your unconsciousness trying to tell you that you need to think outside the par. Go wide, go long, go short, go underground. Has your ball ever ended up in a rosebush? Let me guess. You grumbled and mumbled about all the thorns, but you never once stopped to smell the metaphor it offered. As my Paddy used to say, "It’s all in where it DOESN’T go."
Not to mention that a slice really improves the chances of your client winning, which is exactly the way the Fates intended it. So go on, embrace your inner slice. Celebrate and expand your slice related neurons, they will take you far in life.
- Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
I am in an internet cafe, it is 11:19 at night, whole families with squalling infants are at the surrounding cubicles. (3 actually) What kind of a family outing is a trip to the internet cafe, exXxspecially one where I think the sign on the door says smoking mandatory or maybe it was "monitored", shaky on the alphabet, maybe it's something you understand once you have kids?
SkatecatDear Skatecat,
Thank you for your caffinated and salacious question.
Once upon a time Stork was soaring the vast blue expanse and she looked down and frowned. Many large families with squalling infants lived in small cramped houses turning grumpy and saying cruel things to one another. These words pierced Stork in the heart and caused tears to fall from her eyes. These tears turned into a stream, which became a creek, which became a river, which flooded a young town that lay in its way. The houses and elementary schools and banks and post offices were pulverized into the sticks and bricks and ticks from whence they came. The river calmed itself until the next year when Stork cried again. The river swelled again and this time when it receded there stood an Internet café. Stork saw this Internet café, and she said it was good. From that day forward, the Internet café would act as a family outing away from the small cramped houses which made them so grumpy and nasty.
Epilogue: Unfortunately, the internet café did not have the desired effect. Families still felt cramped and grumpy, and they still said cruel things to each other. But what can you do?
- Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Now I’m not a Catholic or anything, but I have many good friends who are. What is the proper way to congratulate them on their new leader?
Mr. Jones from JonesboroDear Mr. Jones,
When in doubt, always send a thank you card. It heals a multitude of wrongdoings. I remember one such occasion involving me, a butcher knife, and my host’s poodle. One thing lead to another, and we found ourselves in a gruesome and awkward situation. Fortunately it was all smoothed over with a simple thank you card. You have no idea how much money that saved me!
- Miss Eliza
Dear Readers,This is the part of the show where I remind you how EASY and FUN it is to send a question to Miss Eliza. Because 1. It will totally get answered. 2. Everyone will be able to see how cool you are by what question you decide to ask. 3. It's my only form of communication with the outside world. Don't let me down! You can post your question in the comments section, or e-mail it to me @ selizawalden@yahoo.comYou know you want to, and if you don't, you know you wish you want to. I'm right, aren't I? - Miss Eliza
And I'm The Nutcase
Does the world ever scare you? Do you ever read the paper and think to yourself, wait, isn’t this supposed to be fake? Why am I reading it in the newspaper?
Contrary to popular opinion, I think I’ve got a pretty firm base in reality. I can tell the difference between things I (or someone else) made up, and things that are actually happening. But then things happen:
-A lady gets charged with grand larceny because she says she found a finger in her chili.
-Tom DeLay decides that congress is actually supposed to control the judicial branch.
-Some cardinals get together, talk a little, vote a little, burn some white smoke and poof! Now someone who was just human five minutes ago is infallible.
And this scares me. Because I didn’t read about these things in some short story, or Hunter Thompson novel (or memoir depending on whether he was writing novels or memoirs) or supermarket tabloid. I watched it on the news last night. I read it in the newspaper last week. This is reality.
So I end up asking myself if reality maybe needs a stronger foothold in reality. I mean, if I can tell what’s supposed to be real and what’s not, then why can’t they? And if they CAN tell what is supposed to be real and what is supposed to be fiction, then why DON’T they?
And what about the public? Does the rest of the population know that things like this are supposed to be followed by a, "Just kidding"? Because I don’t get that feeling. It’s more like they take it with an "Isn’t that nice?" and a handful of popcorn.
Is this where the American Dream has ended up? Have we put tranquilizers in our apple pie? Is it really ok that reality is so insane? Because I’m just not feeling it.
Words of comfort to my cynical soul anyone?
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Crazy
Ok, so I know that everyone thinks that their family is the craziest one in the universe, but I might have a legitimate claim on the title. I mean does your dad dress up like Buffalo Bill and stage imaginary Wild West shows on the lawn? Does your older sister stage Save The Platypus marches in the halls of junior high and expect fellow students to give a whit? And my mom? Let me tell you a little story about my mom.
I thought it was just another trip to the supermarket. I figured, we go. We pile things in the grocery cart, we put them in bags, we leave. That’s how grocery shopping works, right? And things were working so smoothly until we got to the paper products.
"David, honey, can you pick me up some toilet paper?" she asked me.
So I went to get some. Mom gets the green Soft Aloft toilet paper, which I never really understood. Why green? What does it really add to your bathroom that white toilet paper doesn’t?
But there was no green Soft Aloft. That was weird. I pulled down a package of this blue green color and went to catch up to my mother who had made it to dairy.
"Here you go," I said, and put the TP on top of the box of cereal.
She looked at the toilet paper, and she looked at me. "David, this isn’t green. Go find me the green. And put this teal crap back on the shelf."
Crap? Now, that’s harsh language for my mother. I didn’t understand what there was to be getting upset about, but she was working on it. Great.
"I looked for the green, Mom," I replied, "it wasn’t there."
"Of course it is, honey. It would be right next to this."
"It’s not. I checked. This was in between the blue and the pink. NO green."
She turned her cart around and headed in the direction of the Aisle 10. "You just have to look harder David. When are you going to learn to take your time and double check things?" cruising down the aisle we came to the toilet paper. She stopped in front of the rainbow of Soft Aloft.
"Here we are. Now, orange, pink, teal, blue, yellow… Where’s the green? The green’s not there."
"I know. So this blue green is close enough, right?"
"Teal, David. It’s called teal. You should always call things by their true name."
Blue green sounds like a true name to me, truer than teal anyway. what's with those random names of colors that no one can figure out?
"Whatever, can’t we just get it and move on?" I asked. Mom’s cart was in the middle of the lane. Some girl was coming up behind her, plotting a way to get by, not having much luck.
"No David, this is not the time to settle for second best. It’s the principle of the thing." That was one of her favorite things to say. It came up a lot when she felt indignant about something, mostly during arguments with my dad. "It’s time for you to learn about principles."
"In the grocery store? Can’t I learn about them when we get home?"
The girl rolled her eyes and decided not to wait for my mother to move. She pushed her cart over to the edge of the lane and squeezed by. These aisles must be wider than they look.
"But that is not the present. And there is no time like the present to learn about principles."
And with that she sat down on the floor and crossed her legs like an Indian.
"Mom, get up. You can’t sit on the floor here. I don’t think it’s allowed."
"Sweetheart, I think you’d be very surprised by what they allow in supermarkets."
"Well even if they do, it’s not cool. Please, can we go home?"
"There are more important things in life than cool, David. How many times have I told you that?"
An old man in one of those wheelchairs you can get in the store that have the steering wheel and the basket in the front was coming down aisle 10 now.
"Excuse me, ma’am," he said, "I need to get by you for some tissues. Would you mind moving over a bit?"
"I’m sorry, I can’t do that."
"Mom!" This was worse than not cool now. This was embarrassing. And we were going to get in trouble. "He’s just a nice man who wants to pick up a couple groceries. Can’t you please let him by?"
"Honey, when you decide to take a stand—or a sit in this case—the most important thing you can do is not cave in to outside pressure."
The man rolled his eyes. There must be something I could do.
"What kind of tissues were you looking for?" I asked him.
"Puffy Dreams, the biggest box they have."
I scooted around Mom’s blockade and grabbed him a box.
"I’m awfully sorry about her," I said on my way back. She was humming something and rocking back and forth, oblivious to us. "I just don’t know what to do."
He nodded. "Thanks for your help son." And he set off back down the way he came.
"Mom, I think you’ve made your point by now. Can we please, please go home? I’ve got homework to do."
She shook her head. Not allowing me to do homework? I really don’t know this woman.
Someone else was walking our way now. A tall young man in a button down shirt and a blue tie, he was wearing a badge that said, "Ted: Store Manager."
"What seems to be the trouble?" he asked. He was looking at me, so I pointed to my mom. Her head snapped towards his voice.
"You have no more green Soft Aloft. Were you aware of this situation?"
What kind of a question was that? He was the store manager, of course he’s aware of the situation. They know everything, those store managers.
"Yes ma’am," Ted replied, "It has been discontinued. Soft Aloft has stopped manufacturing their green toilet paper."
"And you just let them? Who cares about the customers who depend on this product. If it'’ not making any money, just pull it. How can you be so shallow?"
I wondered if this made any more sense to Ted than it did to me. Apparently not. He looked at me for help. My face was getting really hot, which meant that it was getting really red. I wanted to go home.
"You all right buddy?" he asked me.
I shook my head. "I had nothing to do with this. I just want her to get up. None of it makes any sense to me either."
He nodded. "What’s your name?"
"David Farthing."
"And you’re how old?"
"Eleven."
"I remember when I was eleven. My dad bought a bunch of old airplane seats and a movie screen and set them up on our front lawn. He wanted to charge all my friends to come watch. I was supposed to sell concessions."
"Crazy," I replied. I was getting to be an expert on the subject.
"Excuse me," Mom interrupted, what do you plan to do about this Soft Aloft situation? As a loyal customer, I demand action on your part."
"Well Mrs. Farthing, I can’t allow you to sit on this floor forever. You are stopping other loyal customers like yourself from shopping, not to mention the publicity from news crews that will most likely be arriving shortly. I’d like to settle this quickly. Is the teal so bad?"
"Young man," my mother snapped, "have you ever been in my bathroom?"
"No ma’am."
"That is correct. Because if you had been in my bathroom, you would know that my hand towels are green. Further more, you would know that that toilet paper," she flung her arm accusingly in the direction of the shopping cart, "has no business being in the same room as green hand towels. The clashing would plunge me into deep depression from which I might never recover."
So this was about hand towels? Hand towels! Crazy doesn’t cover this. Poor Ted.
Poor me.
Meanwhile, the lane was becoming more crowded. Gawkers with carts or baskets of groceries were pooling at either end. And was that a video camera? Great, the news was here. All my friends were going to see my crazy mother on TV. Not good.
Ted was thinking. You could see the gears working in his brain.
"Hmmm, hand towels. Well Mrs. Farthing, there’s only one way I can see to end this amicably."
My heart leapt. The ordeal was almost over. Life might go back to normal, or at least the weird version of normal that we usually settled for at my house.
"Now," he continued, "you are not going to be able to go back to green toilet paper. But if the only impediment is hand towels, then I would tell you that all you need is new hand towels."
Silence.
Mom blinked. She frowned. She squirmed. I feared. She shrugged and said, "Ok."
Clapping and cheering and whistling from the crowd. People began to file down the aisle for those groceries they hadn't been able to get to. Ted was receiving pats on the back and congratulations from customers. He deserved them too, talking my mom out of her insanity is just as noble as talking a suicidal jumper down from a window ledge. Ted was going to go places in life.
And as for us? Well, two weeks later my father informed us that we were moving. He’d found this great place in rural Maine. Got a great deal on the house and five acres of land because it was right next to the landfill. Crazy?
Crazy.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
My co-worker is a very competitive person. For example, today I told her that I had cleaned my apartment last week. She countered that she had cleaned her house. What is the correct way to respond to someone who’s always trying to one up you like this?
Almost in Albuquerque
Dear Almost,
Much time, energy and money can be spent on being better than the other one. Instead of being bullied into playing the well-I’m-even-cooler-than-you game, you may want to laterally side swipe your opponent. (While I mean this in the most figurative of sentences, the literal sense can also work.)
Simply replying with an, "Oh, I’m so sorry!" is an excellent approach to take. Unless sympathy is what you are competing for. Then a rousing rendition of, "Well, they do say that laughter is the best medicine tee hee hee!" will work wonders.
Equally endearing are the responses, "Nope, sorry, not buying it," and, "I know you are but what am I?"
- Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza
I've heard that noodling for giant catfish is dangerous. Can you confirm or deny?
Rick ShawDear Rick,
Thank you for your cautionary and distilling question.
The rumors are true. As I have had the unpleasant experience of finding out first hand, noodling for giant catfish is indeed dangerous.
"Go," they said. "It’ll be Fun," they said. "It’s only noodles and a catfish," they said. Fie, fie to them and their other thems. How could they have hoisted this tragedy upon my frail young shoulders?
Here’s the thing. One: The noodles are dry. Two: Giant catfish are extremely adept at weilding noodles. Since my "incident," Serious restrictions have been hoisted upon the noodling catfish industry. Some say that these restrictions take all the fun out of it, but those particular suicidal nuts have simply moved on to cheesing giant leopards.
But even with these new legislations, noodling giant catfish is still to be approached with caution and a very large plastic shield. These can be purchased at most respectable toy stores. And believe me, it’s worth the $3. $4 is pushing it though, so haggle a little if you need to.
Oh, and don’t try this on your honeymoon. It will only end in wailing and misery. I should know.
- Miss Eliza
Dear Readers,
You know you want to try it, this asking of questions. Believe me, it's way easier than it sounds. 1. write a sentence. 2. re-write it in the form of a question. 3 post it in my comments or e-mail it to me @selizawalden@yahoo.com 4. Come up with a sweet smelling pseudonym. it makes all the difference in the world.
And remember it's a great tax writeoff.
- Miss Eliza
How To Stage An Argument
According to one who would know because he gave me half his genes, I am an abstract thinker.
You’re shocked, aren’t you?
With this realization, I have decided to channel my powers towards the greater good of all mankind. I am going to teach it how to argue. Because, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but mankind has got it all wrong.
The first step towards arguing Nirvana is correctly picking your partner. What you’re looking for is a go with the flow kind of person. You don’t want to get in the middle of a brilliant point only to have her stop you and say, "But that doesn’t make any sense!" You want someone who can match you in flexibility, nimbleness and subject jumping.
Next thing you want to choose carefully is your topic. Do not pick something that you hold so near and dear to your heart that you are forced to take it seriously. That gets in the way of amusement. Or, if you do want to argue about this thing, then argue the other side. It’s more difficult, but that also means it’s better exercise. Good topics: pros and cons of McDonalds salads, humvees, or dandruff shampoo. Bad topics: your relationship with your mother, tsunami relief or the catholic church (this last one only if you are devout, for anyone else it’s fair game).
And you’re off. Now what you want to remember is that people today have the wrong focus when they are arguing. It’s not about whether you win or lose or get the last word. What is really important is how smart you look when you say something. That’s important enough for me to repeat it in color.
It’s not about whether you win or lose or get the last word. What is really important is how smart you look when you say something.Also to be remembered: Logic is much more pliable than they would have you believe. Un-logic (is this different from illogic? Perhaps, perhaps not) is to be avoided at all costs, but pseudo-logic is God’s favorite gift to mankind. Or maybe it’s my favorite of God’s gifts to mankind. Yeah, that’s it. And when inserted into arguments, pseudo-logic (perhaps better known as sophistry, but perhaps not) is a butt load of fun.
NOTE: Use of pseudo-logic is the reasoning behind finding yourself a pliable sparring partner. If you find yourself stuck with an old fuddy duddy who wants your points to conventional sense (as opposed to pseudo-sense) you have my sympathy.
And finally, it is exceedingly cumbersome to have an over arching point that all your little baby points are trying to lead to. It really limits where you can take this thing. So instead of arguing your thesis, concentrate more on "anti-other guy" tactics. Jolly good fun, that, and it really spreads out the playing field and weapons of choice.
With these simple rules you will able to astound your anti-you and entertain listeners everywhere. In the end all sides are left with a sense of profound relaxation and the need to smoke a cigarette.
Demographics
Happy 200!
I have been doing research on the topic of demographics. Who is reading my blog? Are they coming back and reading the next day? And so I have been conducting a thorough survey of surfers. My sample size was "everyone who has read this blog except you." Why did I feel the need to leave you out of this? Well, our history has been a little rocky, if you’ll recall. But here are the results that I have complied. (I would enter them into a pie chart or graph or something, but my computer savvy ends with typing letters.)
90% of users are lonely single males. Without exception they found this web address on a bathroom stall. You would be surprised at how popular I am on bathroom stalls. I’ve heard tales of notes saying, "Thanks bud. You were totally right about Miss Eliza" or, "She can stick a mouse in my hair any time."
5% of readers are super well adjusted males. You can define a super well adjusted male by how much time he spends reading blogs. The lower the number of blogs read, the more well adjusted he is. For my purpose, "well adjusted" can be determined as less than or equal to three.
4.9% of my readers are male fictitious beasts. The minatour especially is very fond of my adorable post topics. He told me that he sits down with a big bowl of popcorn, but he leaves the ice cream in the freezer because It'’ just too rich.
.09% of my readers are prokaryotes. Now you wouldn’t expect single celled organisms with no nucleus to be able to maneuver the internet, or a computer for that matter. But in the future computers will in fact become this simple to operate, and time travel is actually going to make it’s debut in time travel, so they enjoy visiting my blog in the here and now.
.009% (which if you’re keeping track is .0018th of one person) of my readers are unsure of their own identities. You may find this fact curious, but it’s easy enough to come to grips with if you are aware of the following facts: First off, some people have vitamin deficiencies, and in the next place, we aren’t all Mister Smarty Pants like you.
Finally,
.001% of my readers are female. This is really the most interesting number of the bunch. Why do so few women read my blog? This requires further reasearch, but I am told that the president of Harvard is a leading authority in this area. You could ask him.
Do you have any questions about these numbers? Would you like to argue with them? Feel free to try. I can’t promise you’ll win because I don’t argue fair, but that’s a whole new bottle of bubbles.
Profanity
Like all things, swearing ought to follow several simple rules to maintain maximum effectiveness.
First:
Only swear when you mean it. Extraneous usage dilutes potency. So wait. And if it gets to the point where you feel deep down in the very core of your being that it’s time to let it go, just open your mouth, and life will take care of itself.
NOTE: Listening to your inner potty mouth does not mean that you need to be sparse in your choice of vocabulary. An example: Lets say I was watching the Red Sox game against Toronto last Friday. (Ha! As if you thought I would be able to talk about this subject without bringing up baseball. Do you not know me at all?) And lets say we got to the ninth inning. And lets say that I got a little pissed at Mr. Foulke for his downright shitty performance. Am I going to stop after shitty? Hell no. An appropriate response would be, "You god damned mother fucking cunt of an asshole!" followed by, "fucky, fucky" through every at bat thereafter.
And don’t get me started on David Wells.
Second:
Be creative. If the situation calls for swearing, you must not settle for a half hearted "dick." If you’re going to get your mouth washed out with soap, you’re going to want to get enough dirty words in there to make it worth while. You don’t clean your dishes after just one meal. You wait, let them accumulate, and do a mother load that takes you an hour. So put some heart into it. Instead of "dick" why not go with "asshole with a hard-on" or "you ass fucking whore of dip shit."
Third:
Swears do not under any circumstances have to make sense. (And if you think differently, then I would suggest a week of cuticle therapy.) Be honest with yourself. If you’re sending off a stream of foul rottenness, no one is going to be paying attention to the grammar. If I say, "Pansy fucking cock wadded asshole" are parents going to ask just how you think you’re supposed to fuck a pansy, and where the wadded cock fits into this picture? I don’t think so.
But be careful. Swearing was not meant for everyone. In fact I firmly believe that there are two types of people in this world. People who can pull it off, and people who should be banned from swearing for all of eternity. And I fully back any legislation that would call for a liscencing process for swearing.
To My Dearest and Most Adoring Public
(That’s all of you, so don’t worry. You can feel free to continue reading. I’m not going to bite your head off. Actually, I’m not going to bite anything of yours at all. I have to teeth. That’s a lie. Confused yet? No. You haven’t even been introduced to Confused yet. If he stops by I promise I’ll introduce you.)
It has recently come to my attention that I am a loser. (Ok, that’s a lie. It was not so recently. See, it’s one of those pretty hard to miss things, you know like American Idol or that bus that’s heading right for your head. Duck!)
But this particular incarnation of belittlement has to do with my blog. Have you noticed how few comments I get? Me too.
This is all my fault. You see, I lack pizzazz. Because why else would people not comment on my sharply dressed, insipid words that leave warm fuzzies in your heart? (Don’t worry, these fuzzies will not lead to clotting, It’s more of a hug than anything else.) And I do lack pizzazz. The concept is as foreign to me as the word "sexy" or the implementation of transition sentences.
So obviously, I have work to do. How can I make all you people visiting my site write something? It’s tricky. (I mean, I can’t say I’m surprised. When I start talking the most a get in response is what is referred to as a smile-and-nod.) (For those of you that are not familiar the smile-and-nod can be translated to "and why is this person allowed to walk around on the streets?" to which I reply, "crazy yes, but I’m also completely harmless." Of course, I don’t SAY this. It’s implied in my answering gesture, the headstand-and-giggle.) (Have I mentioned how cool parentheses are?)And it’s hard to turn the smile-and-nod into a comment. But I’m sure that once the move has been perfected, my comments will rise dramatically (in number if not in content) and I’ll step away from my loser blog girl status.
In the meantime I understand that it’s up to me to point a gun at my beloved (and beloving—at least until I pointed a gun at their heads—) public. And so, here goes.
You should post a comment on my blog because it means that you’re smart. You will even get a chance to look smarter by snootily denouncing every word that I have written, much the same way that I do.
You should post a comment on my blog because it’s good buisness. It draws attention to yourself. And we all want more attention. It’s why we dream about being naked. All about attention. Mark me. You want it. This is a GREAT place to get attention.
You should post a comment on my blog because you never know, this could be your chance to get discovered by talent scouts… or writing scouts… or boy scouts. Famous people might read this site. (Why? They’re waiting for me to say something evil about them, which I will… just you wait.)
You should post a comment on my blog because you like to tell people what to do, and this is the perfect opportunity. Think I need more iron in my diet? Or that I ought to stop leaning in on my back swing? Or that I need to fix my grammar? (This could actually be a lost cause. Studies are being performed at the moment to look into this possibility.) TELL ME! I cannot satisfy your every need if I am not aware of them! I don’t know everything (unless I’m wearing my Miss Eliza hat) and I’m not psychic. You must give me directions.
You should post a comment on my blog because it’s polite. Just ask Abby. Even better, ask Miss Eliza. She would know.You should post a comment on my blog because you want to see how I will react. I can always be counted on for a reaction worth paying attention to. What can I say, it’s a gift.
You should post a comment on my blog because it makes an excellent release valve for pressure. And I should know. It’s my number two reason for writing a blog. (My number one reason is of course to move the people counter.) So blow off some steam and sit back, relax, sip a hot toddy, and laugh condescendingly at my reply to your comment. You should post a comment on my blog because you vehemently disagree with the statement (made originally by a third party, or possibly a fourth, there’s no real way of knowing) that I am a loser. I know that it is truly your desire to play the night in glistening armor, galloping in to save the reputation of a fair maiden. You should post a comment on my blog because there is absolutely no better possible use of the 60 seconds it would take to write it. I didn’t make that up either. I have it on the highest authority. I’d tell you, but I made a vow early in my blogging career never to reveal my sources.And I promise, I’ll work on my pizzazz.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Why do some people have a drive to do great things, while others have a drive to see great things, and yet others seem to have no drive at all?
Driven Crazy in ThesislandDear Driven Crazy,
Thank you for your inspirational and limpid question. As with driving a car, this sort of driving is also based on a licensing system. Class A drivers want to do great things. Class B drivers want to see great things. And class C drivers failed the test.
Wait, you say, I don’t remember taking this test. When did I take this test?
Little known fact, this is the true story behind kindergarten screening. Between the eye test and the ear test and the part where you soon-to-be teacher gives you a book is this test. Being so early in life it has faded away into the oblivion of our memories along with all those geometry theorems and that song you learned for the piano recital.
The test has three different parts. First we have the interview:
Teacher: Now little Johnny, what to you feel you can contribute to the greater good of your community, your nation, mankind and a future galactic empire?
Kid: I have a dog. Do you know my dog? He’s brown and his name is Duke.
Teacher: What is your impression of the surrealist movement. Do you feel it was a cause of o an effect of early twentieth century counterculture and drug usage?
Kid: I like to play with play dough. My mom has this recipe and we help her make it, and we get to choose what color we want. I like orange.And so it goes. Points are awarded based on how relevant the answers are to the questions, though actually answering the questions is not required.
The second part of the test is all about the child’s abilities. Those measured are:
whistling
skipping
eating without needing to change your shirt
following one direction
following a Socratic argument
implementing a Socratic argument
Jumping rope
Sliding down a banister
Throwing a right hook
Grades prove that where Johnny is now determines where he will be in 40 years. The grading system is highly complicated with five different differential equations, but the results, oddly enough, are smack on accurate.
The third part is the swimsuit competition. This is a newer addition to kindergarten screening. The first year it was included was 1967. It is a co-ed test, but the boys are asked to try it in their mothers’ high heeled shoes (wearing boy bathing suits) while girls walk the runway barefoot and laugh. It is all about poise, confidence, and hair.
And in the end the children are separated into three categories: Class A drivers, Class B drivers, and class C drivers. And then they grow up and act like it.
Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Why do they make baseball caps of football/basketball/hockey/etc. teams?
- Tam O’ ShanterDear Tam
It is obvious that makers of football/basketball/hockey/etc. are big fat cheaters. They are simply too lazy to stick their logo on things that belong to themselves. As my Paddy used to say, "This is tragic." Not only does it teach our children to plagiarize (it’s not like you have notes attached to the hats saying, the design for this hat was originally intended for baseball players) but it show a shocking lack of creativity. I could do so much better. See here:
Football: ought to be selling team shoulder pads.
Basketball: Stick logos on arm/leg/finger extensions.
Hockey: teams should claim fighting styles.
Soccer: Team accents. As in the verbal kind.
Now tell me that wouldn’t be way fun and totally cool.
- Miss Eliza
Stephen King Throws Like A Girl
Yes, I saw Fever Pitch. What did you expect? I’m one of… you know… those people. And I can relate. Do you know how hard it is to try and keep baseball talk to a reasonable amount in this blog because of all those other people out in the world? It’s WAY harder than not talking about myself. So we’ll see.
But about that movie…
It had its great points.
-Tek makes an appearance, and I think I got a half second shot of Nomar which is always good for my heart. Unless it wasn’t him. It was hard to tell in half a second.
-Ben’s green monster wall? Classy. Nice touch. I like seeing that Ben has his priorities straight… -Red Sox, sex and breathing? That’s such a good line.
-The sound track. Dirty Water, Sweet Caroline, Tessie. They know how to pull heart strings, those ones.
-The Bill Bucker intervention? Dead on.
And it’s got evil nasty points.
They definitely downplayed the whole Red Sox thing. I know that sounds illogical, but they did. The choice seems to have been made. Lets make this about the fans. And we fans LOVE to talk about ourselves. All Ben’s philosophizing on the subject is dead on. Dead on in that we do spend an awful lot of time philosophizing about our fandom (and looking down on Yankees fans. Seriously people, booing Mariano Rivera? What is wrong with you!!?)
But let me explain something. Reveling in Red Sox fans is like eating condiments. It’s not the most attractive part of the meal. We need the food, we need the actual nutritional value. We need the Red Sox! Where’s that post season eight game winning streak? Where’s all the Yankee hating? Come on, the least you could do is have one disparaging remark on the subject of A-Rod. That July 23 game? Hello! It’s like they thought the movie was supposed to be about the plot or something. I mean, come on.
So I’ve been one of… well, you know… for a few years now. A relative new comer, I’m pretty low on the totem pole. This doesn’t bother me. I know my place. But still, I’ve learned things. For example, we get emotional about these games. We pout when we lose, we jump up and down when we win. Ben was disturbingly level headed throughout the movie. I blame this on Jimmy Fallon. And why the Farley brothers let him get away with that is beyond me. They should know better.
Then there’s nitpicking.
Let me explain something. If it’s September and Schilling pitches on Saturday, Pedro is not pitching on Sunday. Kudos for ever, Ben would not have let that comment by Linsdey slide, but his line should have been, "Schilling’s pitching Saturday, Arroyo’s going on Sunday." Come on, they can’t have totally forgotten the rotation: Pedro, Wake, Schilling, Arroyo, Lowe. (And this was the September rotation. For most of the year Lowe was #4.)
The F in Bucky F. Dent does not stand for Friggin. Nobody says Bucky Friggin Dent. I can see their reluctance to use harsher language, but still. Some things are just wrong enough to hit a chord.
Remember that half shot of Nomar? That was supposed to be at Fenway Opening Day. But he wasn’t in the lineup Opening day. He was on the DL most of the first half of the season… and with the Cubs most of the second half of the season… so yeah. Unless it wasn’t really Nomar. Could have been Tek. I was going by the go-tee.
So it’s got issues. Which I understand. The movie was not made for Red Sox fans it was made for everyone. And y’all might have a hard time relating if the movie was concocted as Red Sox Nation intended it. But this is not so hard to remedy. We are patient people. We can wait for the DVD. But what I want is an RSN cut. So put Tek/Damon/Nixon’s lines back in. More Yankee stuff. You can’t just act like the rivalry is all about toilet paper and getting tickets to their games. More post season stuff. This cannot be stressed enough. More post season.
Join with me in a petition to put the Red Sox back in Red Sox fan!
Questions Of The Day
When did public libraries become so irrelevant to my life? Why can I never find the books that I’d really like to read and not want to buy?
Where has all my nonsense gone? I blame it on my current reading material. We are what we eat, right? So If we’re eating boring books then we’re writing boring blog entries. I apologize for this. But if you have anything tasty to offer, I’ve got vacation coming up. And we all know that they were invented for reading books suggested by blog readers. Further incentive: giving me good books will lead to worthy blog entries.
Will you still love me when I’m sixty four?
Does David Wells belong in a Red Sox uniform?
How many books can I read over April vacation? This I will attempt to keep you updated on. With any luck I’m going to finish this Howard Hughes biography this week, which will leave that next week WIDE open for better things. Honestly, this book? I have no idea how these authors manage to make Hughes sound exactly like any other person that was ever born. All biographies ought to be reflective of the life they are explaining. So the question is, who is nutty and obsessive-compulsive enough to talk about Howard Hughes? I’d like to see Ray Bradbury give it a try. Or James Ellroy, The Cold Six Thousand is how I got into Hughes in the first place.
Why aren’t more people asking questions of Dear Miss Eliza? Seriously, you do realize that it’s fake advice, right? You know what that means? That means that fake questions are TOTALLY par for the course. So make something up. Then I’ll make something up. Then we’ll all be happy.
Have the Red Sox decoded Mariano Rivera?
Who is going to be the next pope?
Why is Keith Foulke trying to kill me? For those of you who didn’t follow the game, let me explain. Bottom of the 9th. Red Sox winning, 6-3. At the end of the game the score is 6-5 Red Sox with the bases loaded. He wants me to die. So maybe it’s not just Rivera. Maybe it’s a bad year for closers.
What’s with my new young adult novel fetish? I don’t know. But I just finished Hoot by Carl Hiaasen. It’s just like all of his adult novels, except he toned down the language.
And why is it that authors who write about life in Florida ALWAYS write about life in Florida?
Does the song "Dirty Water" count as classic rock? Does it count as classic rock when you’re talking about it in relation to a radio station owned by Stephen King?
Are there more people in the future who are going to expect Jimmy Fallon to carry a movie? Could he do Kevin Smith? That might be interesting.
Why is it so easy to pass three hours + of time listening to a baseball game?
I need sleep. Well, that’s what my eyes are telling me. They’re turning very unnatural colors. Let your imagination take you where it will. In fact, give your imagination five minutes to do just that. It’s good practice. Then tell me how it goes. I promise I won’t laugh… unless I’m supposed to… and if I am, you’d better warn me ahead of time, just so I know.
Speaking of which, you’d think that my entries would be improved at needing sleep stage. Why? Because all my blogs sound like they were written when I was half asleep. I know, because I read one once. So what’s the problem?
Right.
Girl Meets Boy
He’s been staring at these fingernails for two minutes. I’ve been timing him. How long can it last? What, you think I’m gonna stop him? You know how much these babies cost? Two inches and cherry red, (to match my lipstick) admire away. How long before he buys me a drink?I can’t help it. Those fingernails? Some sexy. The way she’s tapping that glass? They’ve gotta leave marks, the good kind. No ring. I should do something about this. Nice girl like that? It’s a pity to let an ass like that get lonely.Three minutes, four seconds, and on to my butt. Now that is a work of art. And if I’m bragging it’s only because I deserve it. I worked hard on that thing. Buns of Steel, Stairmaster, leg weights, please let me stop. When’s he going to make a move?
I need another shot. Will three be enough? Who decided that the man has to do all the hard stuff? Oh sure, she does the whole baby thing. Nine months and all that, but WE’RE the ones who have to make that move. The first line? That perfect mix of cheesy and smooth. Those things are not so easy to find. And they never manage to appreciate it. Maybe after four. Or five. I’ll order five.Tell me he’s going to do something. Tell me he’s not going to sit on that stool until it forgets how to hold him. Look at his hair! Think a guy with that much style shows up every day? We’re talking keeper just based on that. Maybe a smile. Those break the ice. And I haven’t been using that tooth whitening shit for two months for nothing, right?She smiles at me and raises her glass. I follow suit. Here’s to tonight. I down the shot. I’m almost there. One or two more. The bar tender’s rolling his eyes. As he pours he looks at me. I know. Shut up. And how about a little camaraderie, huh? Like he really doesn’t know what this is doing to me. He pours another."Oh, is that for me?"
I had to do something. Boys. Why do they always manage to freeze like that? And we have to do everything. So not cool. And yet, those arms? So very cool. And the boy can dress. He’s had lessons. That’s not a male’s natural state. Me on the other hand? It may take hours, like these stilettos, or days, you should see this halter top I’ve got on, but I will keep on. I know what to look for. And that would be him. Come on, bubba. Your move.She smells like cinnamon. And mere inches away. I can touch her. Ok, I could touch her. I don’t. I offer her the shot instead. She accepts, and those nails sort of scratch my fingers. Nice. So nice. Oh, did I mention that? Yeah. I need to say something. Something cool. What’s cool?
"So uh, you have a watch or something?" Oh shut up. It used to go down really well. Sure, it was middle school. But things don’t cange that much in ten yers, do they?A watch? With this belt? Right. So he’s not perfect. Like that’s a shocker. I’m not kicking him out of bed yet. I pull out my cell.
"10:42. PM. You late for something?""What?" Where’d that come from? Why are girls always pushing what you say way out of proportion? "Oh, no. It’s just…" Just what? I’m such a dork. And she’s such a… yeah."Curfew, huh?" I’m joking. I hope he can tell. Does sarcasm penetrate when you’re trashed? It had better. I could use a little help here."Ha ha. So hey, My name's Adam. It's a pleasure, I must say." He's grinning. Comfort level rising. Stress level falling. This is working. "You’re kidding! My friends are always teasing me about meeting an Adam. I get it a lot. Never from a real Adam though. You’re my first." That got through all right. Like I didn’t see that coming. "See, my name is Eve."Eve. That sounds familiar. Do I know an Eve from somewhere?It’s not registering. This is worse than I thought. So much fo progress."Oh! Eve! I get it. Sorry, I get a little slow sometimes."
"Bars will do that to you." Now that was a good line. If all words added up to good lines like that all by themselves, we'd be dandy forever and always.
"So Eve, is that your real name, or are you making fun of me?" Why is talking so much easier when it comes in the middle of a conversation?
"Adam, would I do something like that?" The tease wasn't too heavy in there was it? A little thick maybe? Apparently not. He's still mired down in his liquor.
"Good question. I’ll have to investigate before I answer that." Investigate? Oh wouldn't I love an investigation. Keep your fingers crossed, k? I mean, she looks like she's up for it, but you know how girls are... wait, women, how women are. Yeah."Uh oh. This sounds serious. Am I in trouble? Do you have a pair of handcuffs I don’t know about?"Wait a minute. She must be doing this on purpose. Right? This isn’t a conversation. This is completely different. It’s called flirting. I should have noticed sooner. I haven’t had that much to drink have I? Anyway, flirting. Forward ho!
"Sorry Miss. That’s confidential. I could tell you but…"And I’ve got him. Like pulling teeth. When are they going to come up with an easier model? "That serious, huh? Looks like I should be pleading no contest."
"As your attorney, I must advise against trying that sober. Why don’t I buy you a drink?"Thirteen minutes and twenty nine seconds. Bingo!
Yankee Hating: It's just not a Choice Anymore
It’s hard not to hate the Yankees. I know because I’ve tried. Once upon a time in the earliest halcyon days of red sox fandom youth (clunky, yes. But it says what I wanted it to.) I was an idealist.
"I like the Red Sox, but I don’t hate the Yankees," I told people. They smiled and nodded. It’s a gesture I’ve become very familiar with. And I thought it would work. Honest. But then something happened.The Red Sox played the Yankees.There wasn’t anything special about this series. I don’t remember a single thing about it except that we lost. More than one game. Hmmm.
This was a problem for me. I tend to take losing personally. And just as suddenly as I had developed my Red Sox fixation, I acquired my Yankee Hater badge.
And things went downhill from there.2003 ALCS.
A-Rod. (For the record, I was always a Garciappara girl. A-Rod was unwelcome from the very beginning. I didn’t mind him going to the Yankees either. But then he tried to pick a fight with Dear Mr. Arroyo, and ended up with a face full of glove courtesy of Dear Mr. Varitek. Now tell me that wasn’t personal. And do I even need to mention Game 6 ALCS 2004? So if my babies want to take pot shots at this creep and put it all on the record, well, who am I to stop them?)So if bad/stupid things happen to members of the Yankees roster (for example, say the Yankees starting pitcher gets a little upset after a loss and relieves this aggression by punching a wall, and as a result he breaks his hand) you can bet I’m going to be sitting right here with a smirk on my face.
But then, I never said I was a good person… unless I did, in which case, I was lying.
And now, this is all ancient history. And the Red Sox came from Three Games Down, and we’ve spent the winter gloating. Which, while pleasurable, is also a good way to set yourself up for an incredibly painful Opening Day.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m rooting for the Red Sox (because, while not genetically inclined, I’m a hopeless Yankee hater) but when you add our recent opening day history to the New and Improved Yankees pitching staff, it could get ugly. Riot police part deux? I wouldn’t rule it out.
And as for me, I’ve got my Red Sox hat… and swat shirt… and t-shirt… and my red socks and I’m hoping to enter a land with many soft throwable objects and intoxicating beverages. But my cussing is a little rusty. I forgot about my spring training. Oops.p.s. Today is a double dose of Signs of Spring (triple if you include the flooding) because we change our clocks today. Doesn't it give you warm fuzzies all over when you go ouside at 7:00 and find the sun hovering there on the horizon to say hello? It doens't get any better than Baseball and seven o'clock sunsets. Life is good.
Dear Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Why are slugs usually found in gardens?
-Dirty Hands in DenverDear Dirty Hands,
Thank you for your grubby and slimy contribution to the Miss Eliza column. Please write again!
You’ll be happy to know I went right to the source on this one.
I stepped out into the early morning haze and inhaled that infamous aroma that says, "I hope you parked your car on the high ground today," and trotted off to that 4x4 patch (and that’s inches) better known as my herb garden. And as I looked down at my bare toes I beheld a golden lump of snot. He looked so contented with his lot in life, care taking my plants and telling them stories about when they were knee high to a grasshopper’s nose. I poked the young gentleman onto my forefinger and brought him up to eye level.
"Oh, it’s you," he says. I attribute the flatness in his tone to the fact that he is after all, a slug.
"Oh, wise and aged creature, share with me your delectable secrets. I long so to be one with nature and her family," says me.
"Freak," says he. (You may wonder, how did I know it was a he? The guy would not stop looking at my chest. Dead giveaway.)
"Answer me this, oh heart of the land, why do you and your kin reside in the soft dirt of man’s garden? What secrets does Mother Earth share with you here?"
"Look, I don’t know what’s up with you, but I took this job cuz of the bennies. And when they take my bennies away, I’m gone. Get it?"
And there you have it. Slugs reside in gardens cuz of the bennies. Of course, it didn’t occur to me to ask what kind of bennies come with being a slug in a garden, but lets hope there’s a dental plan.
-Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Each evening my husband and I get in a huge argument over who should do the dishes. This quite often ends in hurling of said dishes across rooms. To date we’ve gone through 15 casserole dishes, 54 plates, 99 water glasses, and 4 windowpanes. We’ve agreed that the only way to keep our deposit on the house is to get an arbitrator, and congratulations, that's you! So, Miss Eliza, who should do the dishes, me or my husband?
--Paper Plates in Portland
Dear Paper Plates,
Thank you for your philosophical and clearly equalitative question. I shall do my best.
This is a conundrum as old as human civilization. The minute Eve brought home her first set of Correllware, Adam immediately replied, "Ain’t to way I’m cleaning that." And Eve retorted, "Don’t go there, buddy. You eat off it, you clean it."
Which sounds like a good rule of thumb, doesn’t it? But here’s the problem. If that was the answer, then it would come later in my letter. So we must look for other alternatives.
My personal favorite is the "Baby Knows Best" theory. This says that infants are far more in tune with the age old wisdom of the universe. Their answers to life’s questions ought to be recorded somewhere and kept sacred. But you have to ask before they lose this knowledge. There is a very small window of time between the time they learn to speak and the time their wisdom shrinks to the size of a singularity. (But without all the density which is disappointing.) About the only time you’re going to get anything useful out of them is around the time of the first word.
Which means basically that which ever name your baby says first, "momma or dada," that’s you’re answer.
Not that the other partner gets off scott free. Where’s the equality in that? No, whoever doesn’t do the dishes is forever after in charge of washing, pairing, and folding socks.
And as for all you sparring couples out there that have no children, I’m an old fashioned girl, and I fall back on old fashioned methods. This particular one is called "Rock, Paper Scissors." Perhaps you’ve heard of it. You can play it once, or you can play best of three. But upwards of that and you’re just stalling and should be shot.
I hope that answers your question.
-Miss Eliza
Dear Miss Eliza,
Why are boys such liars?
--Honest AbbellaDear Abella,
The answer to this question lies with us. Females have none to blame but ourselves. Boys lie to us because the truth has the same effect on us as water does on the Wicked Witch of the West (only without the melting). This is true. Why do you think you can’t get a straight answer when you ask "does this make me look fat?"
Let’s review this question. In my experience it can come into play on two types of occasions. The first is if you really are having doubts about your outfit. In which case the answer is one you can give yourself. If you have to ask, you ought to change.
So let’s say you ask your date, "Does this make me look fat?" If his answer in any way echoes your concerns (which presumably are related somewhere to the truth) then you’ll be upset because the thinks you’re fat. You get huffy and he gets scared because they were right about women scorned. He knows this. He’s not a big fan of scared. He’s going to avoid it.
Girls are scary. You know it, and I know it, and boys know it. But for the sake of sex, they are required to find a way around this. This is called lying. Under the circumstances, I would only call it fair.
-Miss Eliza
Game Day
So I’ve been awake for all of half an hour, and already I’m bursting with today’s blog entry. See, I had the idea while I was toiletrying in the bathroom this morning, and as soon as I was out, it was zip zap to the computer. NO, no, it’s not that I’m trying to be a goody two shoes:
Ooh, look at her the little do gooder. The Blogger’s pet, she just wants to make us look bad.
(We make ourselves look bad enough. We don’t need help from the rest of the world. Am I right? Who’s with me?)
It’s more that my fun idea… because a blog by any other name is a fun idea… may or may not stick around long enough to fiddle with if I don’t fiddle as you read this.
So here’s things. I’ve come up with a couple really fun games in the space of twenty minutes. This two fer is really a deal, considering how often it is that I come up with games… at least games with rules. So here goes.
They
Yes, it’s an off shoot of my blog yesterday. I know it’s not kosher to go harping on this one idea, but then this game came up and bought me a drink, and it’s all downhill from there. You know how it is.
Anyway, here’s how to play. Person One (for our purposes we’ll call him One) names several people. Ex. Ruth Ginsberg, Beverley Cleary, and Lucy Lawless. Then persons Two through whatever (for our purposes we’ll call them Two through whatever) have to come up with a sentence starting with They, where They is all the people that One mentioned.
Sadly, due to people’s dearly lacking creativity skills, we are forced to add more rules. Your sentence has to be at least ten words long, three of them having more than three syllables, and you have to have a verb, an adjective and a (dreaded) adverb in the sentence. None of this "They are nice," crap. Scrabble may go for it, but not me. If it’s not challenging it’s not educational.
Then all players vote on the best sentence, unless you only have One and Two, in which case you play until you get hit over the head by a foul ball. In this case, the one who’s still alive wins.
WWWS
Better known as "What Would W Say?
NOTE: While I realize that in the blog society it is proper to write Dubyah or something similar, as with all my other Bushisms, this one is purposian, and for effect.
NEXT NOTE: I understand that he’s given up his fun habit of rewordification, which is why this isn’t a drinking game. But just because he’s decided not to play this game anymore, doesn’t mean we can’t. He did inspire it after all, and it is the natural way of things to enjoy our leaders’ soft spots. Monkeys do it too. Just watch. And if nothing happens, watch longer.
Anyway, I’m sure you can all guess how this game goes. Person A (we’ll call him Person A for our purposes) shouts out a word. Then Person B (we’ll call him Person B) shouts out a modificationism of that word. Then Person C (who may or may not exist) shouts out another modifcationality. And round and round it goes until some one can think of any more modifiscetomations, at which time he yells "Nuculear!" and you start over again.
And remember, as with all games, so it goes with these. The fun isn’t in winning or losing. The fun is how you get there.
