This post is brought to you by Facebook and its new anti-privacy rules, because it was a friend of a friend who I have never heard of who posted this photo and my friend, a guy I actually do know, “liked” it.

Which apparently means the whole world gets to see it now, in case you just got out of that coma don’t know Facebook is raping you daily, right now.

Hold onto your britches. Take a gander at the girly cupcakes:
Puts new meaning in the term variety pack, eh?

Okay, focus, readers. Are ya with me? I posted this because I want to ask if you think it was would be outrageoushorrendousdisgusting of me to show this photo to my eight-year-old daughter?

Purely, a hypothetical question, Mrs. Child Protective Services, for the purposes of discussion.

I mean, if I did, I wonder if my child would guess right away what she was looking at or needed a hint from me.

I wonder if she’d then drop her jaw first, and then with a twinkle in her eye, her own drawers to show me hers as comparison to the frosted ones.

I also wonder if young girls should possess a relaxed, secure knowledge of their amazing, delicious cupcakes body.

Purely hypothetical, ya’ll. Don’t go get your panties in a–oh, never mind.

What do you think? Would you show a daughter and not a son? Is age a factor?

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I took the Kid to see Hugo in 3D after ripping into our lottery winnings in our mattress. The movie was great in a very dontwealllovethemovies kinda way. If you go, be on time or you’ll never have me as your movie date because the opening shot in 3D is the highlight of the film, imo.

But this post is not about the movie. It’s about the concession stand. What they think we are not seeing them do there.

First off, I am a popcorn fiend. I admit it. I am powerless to it. So, I usually always get some at the movies, however nasty it may be. I said I’m powerless, you judgey judgers! Plus, concessions is where the exhibitors make their money, and haven’t you heard, the movie business is in trouble, so I’m doing my part.

But what amazes me is how they serve up those golden morsels nowadays. They lift the scoop of popcorn highohsohigh above the bucket and let those popped fluffballs of joy float, single file, down, down, down. Leaving as much air in the bucket as possible while still remaining on Planet Earth.

Now, if you’re 15, this is The Way It’s Always Been. But if you’re 29, like me, you have not forgotten the days when they were not so lovingly tender with the corn.

They roughly scooped, slapped it down in the bucket, and scooped some more. And then, they’d pound the bucket on the counter several times like they’re about to make a free throw shot with 1 second to go to settle the corn and make room for yet another incoming scoop of popcorn.

I am not shitting you. That is how it was done. It was a beautiful thing. Ask your dad.

Now that I’ve written this, honestly, I’m lost in my movie concession stand reverie, so talk amongst yourselves. *sigh*

Do you have any great memories of going to the movies?

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It is . . . my pink scarf.

To be honest, once I realized my powers I felt a tad guilty, but hey, I got over that…

Here’s the deal. Whenever I wear my scarf, whenever wherever, someone tells me how awesome it is. They can’t help it.

So, now, I put it on every day wondering what unsuspecting innocent will be my victim? (Last time it took 1 hour, and that included 40 minutes of driving alone).

And when they find I-like-your-scarf or what-a-pretty-scarf involuntarily pouring out of their mouths, I say Thank You and smile graciously on the outside while I’m MWA-HA-HA-HAAAAA’ing and mentally putting another notch in my scarf-conquering belt inside.

But I wanted to gloat share this insight because maybe you, too, have those times when you feel blue, or your prescription ran out you need a tiny boost from a total stranger in order to feel better about yourself.

My advice is this: Get your own an awesome scarf, because you ain’t getting mine a) getting compliments feel good, b) manipulating the human race feels good, and c) having just one thought of hopeful expectation for your day was one of Oprah’s favorite things may save on your liquor store bill.
No promises on c).

Yes? What’s that? I’m listening…

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It’s not you. It’s me. It’s actually you.

I had hoped we could have some fun together, but I’m seeing problems now that are hard to ignore. For starters, you’re totally obsessed with the children of the world. Day and night, night and day, they seem to be all you think about. How is an ordinary and somewhat high maintenance woman to compete?

But it’s not just that. You’re, shall we say, a tad judgmental about it all. Naughty, nice, good, bad, all your love is completely conditional. I’m sure if you held me to that standard, I’d be getting that famous lump of coal, coal you like to coerce behavior with, coal you make those poor elves mine.

Which brings me to the elves. The more I know them, the more they seem like slaves. There’s really no payroll, is there? Sure they sing while they work, but I can’t get comfortable with that. How do you sleep at night?

Actually, between the snoring and the sleep apnea, you don’t. You should consider a better health regime, San. I’m sure once you drop out of the obese category, you’ll sleep better. That and getting Rudolph off the bed. I know he’s your favorite, but still. Hello? Antlers. Plus, sitting around 364 days and then an insane energy burst one day of the year would not be good for anyone.

Anyway, I’m sorry it’s not working out. Maybe you just need someone better suited to your lifestyle. I know you said it’s a marriage in name only, but you may have been on to something with that Mrs. Claus in the first place. She’s certainly tolerant, if nothing else. I bet if you put some effort out, she may come back from St. Thomas. That chief elf couldn’t really mean anything to her.

Best of luck to you,
Me

P.S., My kid would love an iPad2 and an Xbox 360 with Kinect. Thanks bunches!

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Allow me to preface this post with this thought: We think of shame as a very human quality with some of us feeling it more than others, who frankly based on fashion choice alone, probably should be feeling it more…; nonetheless anyone with a pet knows that animals must experience shame at some beast-like level, as well. Am I right??

If you’ve read this blog from the start (Hi, Mother!), you may recall my discussing lack of sleep during a road trip due to a certain wirehaired pointing griffon. Here’s my preschool cave wall-style graphic.Maybe not worth a thousand words, but you get the idea. And that’s not saved for vacations. This is every night help, someone save me!.

So imagine my surprise the other night when I walked into my bedroom and saw Becca sleeping like this:

WTF? Now, when no one else is in the bed, she goes all generous?

Once I got over the flare of rage (anger management this, baby) shock of her position choice, I had that exact same anxious thought I now get when I see the Kid’s glass (or, truthfully, anyone’s glass) at the edge of a table.

Did I intervene? Did I ooch my pooch over a tad, just in case?

Nope, I did what Dione Warwick would do–I walked on by.

Several times, actually.

Then, as I watched my recorded episode of 2 Broke Girls that fascinating Nova on particle physics in the living room, I heard a familiar, doggie moan emanating from the bedroom. I can only assume she had launched into another Great Squirrel Chase in her walnut brain of dreams.
Just as I am visualizing her canine fantasy, I heard this:

THUD!

No. Shittin. Way.

And when I finally paused my show and got off my ass walked into the bedroom, what did I find?

The dog only just then standing up and doing a big shake with a big WTF was THAT? I meant to wake up that way look on her fuzzy snout.

I laughed so hard I have the wet underpants to prove it could barely stand.

And I’m sure she’d like to thank her dad for his giant, cushiony pile of dirty laundry on the floor. He always has been her favorite.

But she still can’t look me in the eyes.

Have your animals done embarrassing things?

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[Note: This is not my dog. She would never allow such ridiculousness.]

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What with all the pumpkin decomposing going on.

When we last joined our garbage on the porch story, Vampire Kitty was looking a bit saggy, a bit un-Botoxed British actress-y. And Dog Pumpkin had its dark side growing from within.

Let’s see how they’re doing…

DAY SEVEN
What a difference a day makes, eh? Poor Vampire Kitty, she seems so deflated.
DAY EIGHT
I did not see that coming! Bat lost a wing! Although, in bat hindsight, totally predictable since he was sitting by the front door a metropolitan runway with his wings all vulnerable, hanging out there.

Meanwhile, Vampire Kitty has some nasty stuff happening internally. It almost looks like my shower drain hair growing in there. Zombie pumpkin hair?
DAY NINE
There’s really no magic serum to save Vampire Kitty in this story. (As an aside, those smiling pumpkins seem to be holding up. Perhaps it is all attitude? Or that they were carved most recently…)
DAY TEN
Bat got a little triage, see? But Vampire Kitty is turning rapidly into Pancake Kitty. And she’s leaky.
DAY ELEVEN
Okay, this is just plain gross.

Which is what the Hubs finally said.

Leaving us with this:
Aw. I miss their slimy, leaky, stinky pulpiness.

(Which is also what I said about the cancellation of As the World Turns.)

Well, you laughed, you cried you were grateful not to live with me or have to come over this past week.

Thus concludes our little gourdy drama…

Pumpkin bread, anyone?

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Well, it’s November 5th, and guess what?! We have some gourd-ous decomposing activity happening on our front porch.

Hi, neighbors and hot UPS guy!

So, the pumpkin goo writing is on the wall. It’s time for an experiment, doncha think?

If I avert my eyes, how long do you think these puppies will remain melting on our porch?

I’ve already taken a few days’ worth of snaps. Here’s where we are:

DAY ONE — HALLOWEEN
Everyone looking pretty fresh.

DAY TWO FIVE
(Yes, I skipped a few days; once in a blue moon ocassionally I do have a life!)
What’s that? We have some action, people! Notice the black mold happening in the dog pumpkin. Mmmmmm.

DAY SIX
Uh-oh! Vampire Kitty’s looking a slumpy, isn’t she? So deflated and sad….

Who’s gonna come out looking good? Will Vampire Kitty flatten before Dog Pumpkin bites it? Betcha can’t wait to see! My money’s on the bat. What do you think? Also, what day will the Hubs finally notice and say GROSS!?!

Isn’t science fun, kids?!

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Oh, that’s right, I changed the title of this post…duh.
Yes! We went to the Port Townsend Kinetic Sculpture Race!

It was my first time. I was a kinetic sculpture race virgin.

And what is a kinetic sculpture race?

Just what is “kinetic,” you may wonder if you chose to grow up and not live in academia for decades like moi?

Dictionary.com says this:

ki·net·ic [ki-net-ik, kahy-]
1.pertaining to motion.
2.caused by motion.
3.characterized by movement: Running and dancing are kinetic activities.

So, this doesn’t actually say anything about “goofy” or “ridiculous” or “drunken” or “silly” or “goodoletime,” but it was. All that.

Contestants built their unique sculptures and raced on them through the streets of Port Townsend, as well as traveled on the water.
All kinds of themed sculptures competed.

Sure, many looked similar to not-so-disguised bikes with pontoons.

Fros N Peas ended up leading the water leg of the race we saw.

(“Fros,” get it? I only did just now.)
Some worked a little harder than others.
Some even carried dead weight passengers.
The pumpkin team had a smooth operation. We decided they must be engineers.The race was a bit surreal, but in a fun way.
So, you could understand why some spectators were a tad perplexed by the outlandish behaviour…
Watching all the drunken racers, we had a good laugh while the Hubs mentally designed his sculpture for next year.Check back with us next year…maybe we’ll be in race photos on someone else’s blog.

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