Yay! Dinosaurs! If you would

Yay! Dinosaurs!

If you would buy this
I have a garage full of
real old dugong bones

Seriously. I have a ton of dugong fossils in my garage. I dug them all up on a dig I went on when I was about 10.

Why are you laughing?

I also found a 65 million year old parrot fish palette. Bad ass, I know.

Are you still laughing at me?

It was the best damn afternoon trip I ever went on, digging up those fossils. Bones, shark teeth, parrot fish palettes… I found some of the best stuff of any kid on the excursion. Of course, now that I see this, maybe I should suck up my pride and sell the whole damn lot on ebay.

Not sure what the “meat” part means, though. Brings a whole new meaning to boutique jerky doesn’t it?

argh gritting teeth, wrinkles some


gritting teeth, wrinkles
some threats of strangulation
it’s a no nap day

How do the No Nap days always manage to coincide with the I Finally Have an Idea For The Book days? Why is it that when I’m feeling creative I can barely patch together ten minutes to write, but when I can’t think of anything to put on paper I have hours of time to waste watching crap TV?

Speaking of crap TV, I buckled under the pressure of a tempting rebate and bought a Tivo yesterday. I’m so excited I have to keep squelching little squeals of happiness. Does this make me a sad and crazy young woman? Hell yeah. Does that fact bother me? Hell no.

Now, if only I had a tivo for all that wasted free time when I can’t think of anything to write. I’d tivo my spare time and save it for No Nap days like today. THAT would be a truly awesome invention.

dome homes Cult member: Can

dome homes

Cult member: Can I interest you in our free weekend session?
Homer: When is this weekend?
Cult member: It’s this weekend
Homer: Oh, I see… and how much is this free weekend?
Cult member: Er… it’s free
Homer: Uh huh, and when is this weekend?
Cult member: It’s this weekend
Homer: And how much are you charging for this free weekend [gets dragged away by
Bart], it’s free right?

rising from the earth
like big pimples, maybe boils
domes homes here to stay?

Meet Bruco (above). He’s a caterpillar made out of monolithic domes. Actually, I think he may be a factory for the domes, too. He’s actually been painted since this picture was taken – each of his humps are a different, shiny color, and his cowboy boots have been freshened up as well.

How do I know Bruco, you ask? He’s a landmark on the Dallas-Austin drive down Interstate 35. Bruco lives in Italy, Texas. (We pronounce it “IT-lee.” Or at least I do, for fun.)

I’ve been passing Bruco now for over a decade. He always has that same smile, and though his color changes from time to time, everything else about him stays the same. Recently, though, a sign has popped up on the side of the road just past Bruco, advertising the dome homes he represents, and inviting the public to stop by and take a tour of the “facilities.” As Bruco is located just about a stone’s throw from Waco, we’ve been a bit cautious about stopping to visit for fear of being brainwashed into some kind of neo-David Karesh dome home cult.

After reading msnbc.com the other day, though, maybe I shouldn’t fear a tour of Bruco. Apparently the dome home folks are going mainstream (so to speak). Good ol’ Bruco is helping people build houses to survive hurricanes (and random rifle fire, as well).

So maybe next time we drive by we should stop by and see what the inside of the caterpiller is like.

It’s probably not a cult.


emmy’s numerous boobies incidents of


numerous boobies
incidents of blindness from
glowing pearly teeth

last night, emmy night
the use of bronzer was just
so out of control

that mariska h?
looked like she just stepped out of
hurricane ivan

I have to admit, the Emmy’s have never kept me as rapt as the Oscars (except maybe when the X-Files was nominated). Yet, somehow I’m drawn to watch all 17 hours of the Emmy broadcast, even though I haven’t seen hardly any of shows for lack of cable.

So last night, just like ever other Emmy night, I sat back in my comfy chair, hollered for silence, and then struggled to stay awake as I watched the boob tube illuminati pat themselves on the back and generally celebrate their overall superiority over everyone else. And that’s cool. I mean, it’s an awards show, why not go a little crazy with self-indulgence?

It was interesting, though, to see the uncomfortable shifting in seats that ensued when Garry Shandling (the overly bronze host) brought out two regular ol’ people to give out the Emmy for best reality contest show. The two regular people were brought out onstage, blindfolded and wearing giant earphones, so that they presumably had no idea where they were going. When it was unveiled to them where they were, well, they freaked. The dude started to cry, proclaiming that all of his favorite people were in the audience. And the girl went a little apeshit about Brad Pitt being so close to her. At first, I hated this. I thought it was kind of making fun of regular people, putting their stupidity on display so that the TV illuminati could laugh at them (much like playing the piano for your high school talent show after the cheerleaders come out and wiggle their butts).

But what happened was that the illuminati were made to feel very uncomfortable. Here a lot of them were, sitting there in their uncomfortable dresses and suits and shoes thinking, “God, when is this going to be over so I can go get smashed at the after party?” When, lo, regular folk – folk that make it possible for the illuminati to have jobs – were on stage flipping out at the extravagance and the specialness of the evening. I think it brought some of the stars back to earth for a minute.

Or maybe not.

Anyway, as a whole, the show kind of sucked. Why give Garry Shandling and Ray Romano five minutes to perform inane schtick from the men’s room instead of letting the winners have a measly 30 extra seconds to thank people? There were a bunch of irritating moments like that, but I guess without them it wouldn’t be an awards show.

I did like the fact that writers seemed to get a lot of extra props this year. They were thanked a lot, and the thank-you speeches they gave were generally better than everyone else’s – it was exciting to watch. And when Terence Winter, the writer who won for the Sopranos, talked about having written for the New Adventures of Flipper, I found myself wishing for a crap TV writing job so that I could be on my way to becoming one of the illuminati that I love to make fun of.

Ah, well. I enjoy being part of the story-time and dance class illuminati. And I enjoy working my way towards being part of the “I have a published novel” or at least “I have a literary agent” illuminati. So who needs bronzer and botox and a sweaty dress worth a gazillion dollars? Not me. But I would like one of the presenter gift baskets.

ARRRR! parrot poo on ye?


parrot poo on ye?
wondrin’ whar be the booty?
pirate talkin’ day!

It’s International Talk Like a Pirate Day and I’ve almost missed it. Only an hour and half left to say things like “Aye, yer a bloomin’ scurvy fellow, ain’t yeh?” and “Ahoy, matey, shiver yer timbers fer a dubloon?”

Quick. Go here and find out what your pirate name is. I’m Mad Mary Kidd:

Every pirate is a little bit crazy. You, though, are more than just a little bit. Even though you’re not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!

That makes me kind of a lame pirate, huh? Crap.

shhhh “classified” paper you know


“classified” paper
you know that war? It sucks
um, no shit, Sherlock

The news is chatting away about this “highly classified” intelligence report that just came out about the Iraq war. Now, I’m sure the report has a bunch of stuff in it that wasn’t leaked to everyone under the sun (or at least I hope so) because the stuff that was leaked? Doesn’t seem very classified to me.

For instance, the report says:

The fate of Iraq could be civil war.

The current Iraqi “government” doesn’t have a lot of power.

Democratically held elections will be difficult to achieve.

The war in Iraq has increased extremism from militants.
And duh again.

These are the kind of brilliant deductions we can expect from a highly classified document? Wow. If that’s the case, I have some more highly classified info for you: Shhh. You know those “flying contraptions” in the sky? They’re called “air-planes.” Also, that strange green stuff you found in front of your house today? It’s called “grass.”

Those National Security Council guys have really outdone themselves this time.

wee one-isms can hear gears

wee one-isms

can hear gears creaking
tiny boy makes connections
invents new language

So the wee one has started making up words. He just kind of fills in the blanks when he doesn’t know the correct word. For a while there he was really honing his Koko the gorilla vocabulary (“mine nose is cryning”, “thunder noise in air”, “doggie coughed on the floor” etc.) Now he’s really working on the complete sentences.

This afternoon our neurotic dog, Newman, was scratching his ears and he yiped. The wee one looked at Newman scornfully and said, “Newman gooched his ears.” ???

Earlier today the wee one was demanding requesting some fruit chew things (things he’s not allowed to have, as they will rot out all the teeth in his head) and he said, “Mommy, get me the oobloos. THE OOBLOOS!” I stared at him, not immediately equating fruit chews with “oobloos” but instead of arguing with him over semantics I just told him that he couldn’t have anything at all until he could ask for it nicely. That did the trick.

Also, for some reason, undoubtedly related to something I said that I’ve now forgotten, he calls the powdered chocolate milk stuff, “Super powers.” It took two days to figure out what he meant when he kept hollering, “I want super powers! Super powers!” I was all, “Baby, I do, too, but there’s nothing we can do about it except get bitten by a radioactive spider.” Luckily, I figured it out.

Here’s another one: The wee one is watching TV and says, “See that monkey?” I look up from the newspaper, “What monkey?”
“See that monkey booped up and crashed?”
I still don’t see a monkey so I ask again, “What monkey?”
The wee one cocks his head, sighs and says in an exasperated tone. “He booped up and crashed.”
I still haven’t figured this one out.

Who knew that mothering required a translator device? The trouble is, I don’t know if there are any translator devices out there with “oobloos” in them. Guess I’ll stick to Koko the gorilla’s vocabulary for now.

“Me go now. Drink cool stuff. Watch tube of boobs.”

(the tube of boobs things isn’t from Koko, though. It’s from *hanging head in shame* Father of the Pride. I can’t remember if it was Siegfried or Roy who said it, but it made me laugh, and there you go. The NBC marketing warlords finally got me to watch their stupid show and I laughed. Damn.)