Maturity

My dad and I are the designated Family Historians for our particular branch of the family. Both of us [sort of] speak French to an extent, so we're working fairly exclusively on the French line of the family (yeah, I'm French - wanna make something of it American pig-dogs?). This means reading extremely flourishy, faded, and headachey old records from the 1700s for HOURS, which has the same effect on our brains that Halloween candy has on the brains of 5-year-olds. Being the pillars of maturity that we both, are we never *ever* make fun of any of the hilarious French names we find; and we certainly don't giggle like school children in the corners of the archives while the more elderly patrons frown upon us, too polite to slap us upside the head.

But if we were of the ridiculous sort of people who make fun of names from foreign countries, we might laugh at names like, say, Pigache and Le Coq (pronounced like "pig-ash" and "luh cock" respectively). If you don't see the humor, that means you have never experienced that state of surreal hysteria brought on by spending hours sitting in a tiny room, staring at microfiched copies of the handwriting of provincial 18th century priests. That or you've reached a maturity level beyond age 5.

At any rate, the winner of the giggly-name contest is by far the town of Pissy-Pôville, for obvious reasons. Reading this name reduced my father and myself to a state of giggles and snorts, such that will never be surpassed in that family history center. I wish you all the delight that can be found by forcing a tired brain to stare at microfilmed records for hours on end, until every thing seems like it would be an awesome joke - only to find a name that really *is* an awesome joke.

Incidentally, we are certain Pissy-Poville is the ancestral home of Ms. Pootie Pootwell, for rather apparent reasons.

FUN FACT!!! Also, reading selection

This isn't exactly a book quote or anything, but I read it on a website and it made me laugh so I figured I'd share it since, once again, I am reading nothing worth quoting.

#%*@!!!

Cartoon Vocabulary Lesson of the Day: that random string of non-alphanumeric
characters that represents a swearword in cartoons is called a grawlix.

USE THIS KNOWLEDGE WISELY.

Who started the whole "children are evil" thing?

Long long ago in Hollywood when horror movies started being made, they were about horrific things. We had vampires, the undead, ghosts, etc. That was fine and reasonable; those things exist to be scary.

Today's movies still have some of those things, which is natural and right (inasmuch as one can call a zombie "natural"). I have no problem with the Japanese obsession over angry spirits that has led to such terrifying movies as "The Grudge" and "The Ring", because ghosts are scary. Well, with the exception of Casper the "Friendly" Ghost - more like Casper the *Stalker* Ghost, really. Have you seen that movie?

But who decided that children, their toys, and their nursery rhymes should be the theme for horror films? Why is there a fixation with making innocence creepy? I guess ghosts weren't scary enough; no, Steven King had to invent murderous shape-shifting clowns. Throwing Tim Curry in the mix just added to the terror. And who needs a lame ol' zombie when you can be terrorized by The Children of the Corn or alien hybrid kids from The Village of the Damned (another reason to idolize Christopher Reeve).

I shouldn't have to be afraid of blond kids! It makes me a little sad that I can't think of The Lord's Prayer or Mary Had a Little Lamb without a teeny shudder; that whenever I see clowns or life-size dolls, I wonder whether they might be plotting to kill me. I say: Down with the creepifying of things formerly innocent! Let's have a return to being scared of things that are scary in their own rights, like skeletons and monsters and Kevin Bacon.

Oh great.

Something new to add to my list of totally rational and really scary fears (courtesy of postsecret):

Sweet sauce

HEY LOOK WHAT I GOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now I realize that out of context, this is not impressive. That's because I'm a terrible terrible computer person, and I can't figure out how to paste the entire reward in here.

But basically, a blog I consider to be extremely witty, intelligent, and well written gave me an award: Blog of the Year. And even better, it's an "untimely" award, which I choose to interpret much the same way the Three Amigos interpreted the word "infamous"; that is that un-timely is somehow more impressive and better than just regular timely.

Thanks, Livin' Bur'nati. You've made me the happiest girl in all of blogdom.

What dreams may come...

So I know where babies come from (the stork), where donuts come from (heaven), and even where Jell-O comes from (cow hooves). But where do dreams come from? I really need to know this, guys, because mine are starting to trip me out.



For instance, what was up with that dream where Christian Bale needed me to shave his beard? REALLY?? I can't imagine what I was watching that inspired that. I had to make home-made shaving cream and use a straight razor too, like from pioneer days. Seems like a mixture of Sweeny Todd and 3:10 to Yuma.

Except I've never seen one of those movies and it's been a while for the other, so... yeah. And that was one of my more tame dreams!



This is why I need to know where dreams come from: I have a letter of complaint to issue. If Christian Bale *must* appear in my dreams, do I have to be his barber? LAME. This dream couldn't have come from my imagination, because I could think of waaaaay better things to do with Christian Bale.




I was talking about riding a tandem bike, jeez you guys are dirty!

Ode to Idaho

Today I was introduced to a poem that completely captures my feelings about these brief months I have spent in the frozen... well I was looking for an appendage to describe Idaho with (ie. armpit, booty), but what appendage gets frozen? Toes? The tip of your nose? Anyway, this poem will invite you into the heart of an Idahoan winter and allow you to verbally experience what the rest of us poor suckers are experiencing in the frozen tippy-toes of the world, even though it's APRIL.

Winter Poem

It's winter in Idaho

And the gentle breezes blow

Seventy miles an hour

At thirty-five below.

Oh, how I love Idaho,

When the snow's up to your butt

You take a breath of winter

And your nose gets frozen shut.

Yes, the weather here is wonderful

So I guess I'll hang around

I could never leave Idaho

I'm frozen to the ground!