Have you heard the one about the clown who went to the doctor?  Apparently he was feeling funny.

Happy Tuesday!

Well, I hope you’re forewarned, this post may get graphic.

Apparently the spud’s class made a big deal out of Groundhog Day. Lately it’s been Punxsutawney Phil this and Punxsutawney Phil that, and what is a little less apparent but I believe I managed to logic out of context clues, if you can call 7 year old jabber context, there was some story about a girl groundhog named Phyllis (which took me a few extra minutes to decipher, because she first pronounced it phallus, and so I probably missed a good three minutes of the conversation pondering that one) who wanted to be Phil and borrowed her grandfather’s top hat (you can see why the mispronunciation threw me off, I thought for sure she’d stumbled across some dirty joke).

Don’t even try to ask what all this means. This is the best I can translate.

Spud: Phyllis was a groundhog just like Phil.

Me: Mmmhmm.

Spud: Well, she wasn’t exactly like Phil. She was a girl, Phil was a boy.

Me: Mmmhmm.

Spud: Boys and girls are different, Momma. That means they’re not the same.

Me: Yes. *ecstatic to finally understand something she said* Yes. That’s very true.

But, in the back of my mind I was also thinking, “Well thank you Captain Obvious.”

Of course the spud understands the differences between boys and girls. We’ve talked about it before from time to time, especially since about a year or so ago when she asked her daddy why his pants bunched out between his legs.  A few weeks ago I found a book about reproduction with tasteful age appropriate pictures. I don’t believe in making sex and babies a mystery, besides, I’ve had multiple health and biology courses where she’s already seen all kinds of photos in my text books. But, at seven, there is a different interpretation of the obvious.

Spud: Momma. When girl zebras have a baby the boy zebra gets on top of her.

Me: Well, actually that happens first. The boy zebra gets on top and puts his penis in the girl zebra to make the baby zebra.

Spud: Right. Because boys have penises.

Me: That’s right.

Spud: And girls don’t.

Me: That’s right.

Spud: So daddy put is penis in you before I was born.

Me: *insert sound of needle being drug across a record album (surely you all remember that sound, right?) and suddenly this conversation isn’t so fun any more* Ahh. Yeah, that’s right.

Spud: That’s gross.

Me: *it was rapidly becoming clear as to why the poor stork was such a popular scapegoat* Yeah. Yeah. It kinda sounds that way right now, but you’re only seven.

But, what I was really thinking was, “Are we done here, Captain Obvious?”

Me: Chicken and tortellini noodles.

*Later*

Spud: Are these the turtle noodles?

Me: Turtle noodles? You mean tortellini noodles?

Spud: Yeah. Well, they kinda look like little turtles.

Me: You think so?

Spud: Yeah.

Me: Well, maybe they do sort of. A little.

Oh, and by the way, here’s some Spanish vocabulary trivia. Tortuga is how you say turtle in Spanish. It kinda rolls right of the tongue. Tortuga. Say it with me. Tortuga. Tortuga. Tortuga.

I think I’m loosing my mind.

So without further ado:

What knock-knock joke does Cupid never get tired of hearing?

Knock-knock.

Who’s there?

Olive.

Olive who?

Olive you!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

If I was trying to be a blog hit-counter-whore, I guess the public is sending me a clear message that I should write more posts about meatloaf and Black Moor fish.  Or perhaps a meatloaf made with Black Moor fish, then I could combine my search totals and triple my hits per post.

Ewww!  Maybe not so much.

Sadly our last Black Moor fish died a couple weeks ago, and I don’t think we’ll be getting any more anytime soon, so I guess the meatloaf topics sans Black Moor fish will have to carry my blog from now on.  That’s probably a blessing in disguise.  I don’t think people would really like Black Moor Meatloaf.  Black Angus Meatloaf though may be worth contemplating.  Strange how changing just one word can take something from disgusting to delicious.

Any way, I’m just rambling and procrastinating at this point, mostly because I have a writing class assignment I have to complete which I so do not want to do.  But, if I want to get any grade other than a zero, I suppose I’d best put on my big girl panties and get at it.

But first I think I’ll thaw some meatloaf for dinner.  Oh, and go feed all the fish we have left that aren’t Black Moor fish.

Happy Monday.

To which Leif replied:  Just remember; in life, you never make it out alive.

The spud wrinkled up her nose and made a face.

Leif clarified:  Life is the best teacher, but it ultimately kills all its students.

The spud sighed heavily again.

Seriously.

I have been nominated for the Liebster Blog Award courtesty of Jess at Scratching to Escape. 

Now I know a lot of you think these blog awards are just the blogosphere version of chain letters, but I have to say, they are fun, and being acknowledged by Jess, who has some great material on his blog, is quite an honor, if for no other reason than in the six months or so while he’s been blogging he’s accumulated over 14,500 hits and in the year and a half that I’ve been at this blog home I’ve only just this month hit 4000.  Obviously, he’s a blogger who’s doing something right.  Or maybe it’s just that everyone is just afraid of my lightning Super Powers.  You know, I love having super powers, but with great power comes great responsibility, hence I choose not to exercise my powers unless it’s a matter of life and death.  So there’s really no need to be a stranger.  Really.

Come on people I promise not to zap you even if you don’t LOL in the comments. Okay?

Any way, a big thanks for my nomination!  I understand that the idea is to in turn nominate 3 other small time bloggers.   I’m not too sure what exactly would constitute small time bloggers, but short of a spiffy algorithm like Jess has, I’ll just pick via the tried and true eeny-meeny-miney-moe fashion.  So, I nominate:

Laughykate, who’s blog always makes me laugh (perhaps that has something to do with her nom de plume?)

Sarsm, one of the newer blogs I’ve enjoyed stumbling upon, perhaps this award will cheer you up a bit from the flu doldrums.

And,last but not least:

Tinman, whom I nominate in reciprocity for once nominating me for a blog award.  Plus, he has great material on his blog and has better drawing skills than he gives himself credit for.

Happy Liebster Blog Award Nominations!

A week later the woman awoke from anesthesia.  The doctor was there, he offered her a mirror to view the results.  She was thrilled.  “Now,” said the doctor, “reach up to the nape of your neck.  There is a knob there now.  In a few years, when you begin to see some wrinkles or some sagging skin, just give the dial a turn, about an eighth of a turn should do.”

“Really!”  Exclaimed the woman excitedly, “That’s it?  No more surgeries?  Just spin the dial and voila!  I’m young again?  This treatment is worth every penny!”

“Now, just a minute.”  Cautioned the doctor.  “This is a new experimental treatment, and it is extremely powerful.  Do not over do it.  Just an eighth of a turn every couple of years should do the trick.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes.”  The woman replied gazing admiringly at her reflection and fingering the knob.

The woman left feeling very pleased with herself and the world.  However, as the years passed and the woman grew older she began to feel less and less pleased with her appearance until she found that an eighth of a crank every year or two was not enough, then it wasn’t enough every 6 months.  Eventually she began turning it further each time, a quarter crank, a half crank, a whole crank.  Eventually the cranking became painful and no matter how far she turned the crank she was dissatisfied.  So she phoned the plastic surgeon’s office and demanded to speak to him.

The surgeon got on the phone and said, “Ma’am I see you had a self permalift knob procedure 35 years ago!  How has the procedure has held up?”

“Well,” said the woman, “for the first 25 or 30 years it was great.  However, recently it’s become less and less effective.  And you never warned me about the hair.”

“Hair?  What problems do you seem to be having?”

“Well, when an eighth of a turn didn’t seem to work any more I began cranking it further and further.  Then it began to pinch rather painfully.  Now, no matter how far I crank it, I can’t seem to get rid of these huge bags under my eyes and the last time I cranked it unsightly, coarse, kinky hair appeared on my chin.”

She is the only person I know who can go into the bathroom to brush her teeth, stand toothbrush in one hand and tube of toothpaste in the other hand, and after 5 minutes still not have put toothpaste on the brush much less actually brushed her teeth.

And, then I’m all like, “Come on, it’s time to go!”

To which only the spud can answer, “Wait!  I’m not ready.  I need to brush my teeth.”

Then I’m all like, in a slightly hysterial and strangled tone, “What!?!?  You’ve been in there over 5 minutes.  What have you been doing?”

“Uh, idunno.”

With her, it’s not so much that you need to be afraid that silence means mischief is afoot, but silence means absolutely nothing is afoot.  She’s like 49 inches and 55 pounds of black hole, where brain matter is so dense it’s like time stands still.

I think I now need some very stout tea with a Swedish Fish chaser.

Thank you everyone!

You all da bomb!  Hope you all have a wonderful week!