A Little Zobmondo In Your Day

More nonsense. Because I can.

Remember, that “I won’t choose either”, “Neither one”, “Who cares?”, and “I would rather die” should never be uttered in a given answer. Would you rather …

1. Eat a cup of uncooked popcorn


a box of uncooked spaghetti?

2. Have a see-through nose


entirely white eyeballs?

3. Have to kill Winnie-the-Pooh



Why did Tigger look in the toilet?
He was trying to find poo.

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Common Household Ingredient Aids In Curbing Appetite

Found the perfect deterrent to that late night snack. Looking to resist some extra calories? Try poo under your fingernails. It should do the trick! Yeah, was watching the children of some friends again last week. I’m rocking the little girl, 2-and-a-half-years-old, to sleep after a bedtime story and thinking that all is right with the world when she exclaims, “I have to go potty!” Well, glory be, this is a welcome development! Potty training has stalled as of late, so to hear such initiative on her part is a great thing. A little off in timing perhaps, but nevertheless …

We troop out to the nearby bathroom where I look to her to kinda lead me through the steps she’s been taught and we’re doin’ great! That is, until, down come the jamma bottoms, to reveal the almighty poo-poo, untamed poo-poo overflowing, nearing gush mode, out and down the little legs of my little friend.

“Stay right there! Don’t touch a thing, okay? I’ll be right back with wipes!” Who tells a 2-and-a-half-year-old that and actually expects positive results, you may ask? A desperate woman, that’s who.

Up to the tile counter I whisk her.

Running downstairs grabbing the container of wipes, running back, all with delusional hopes of little fingers staying out of the brown mush emerging from her drawers. It acts as a magnet to most little fingers. Had visions of smeared brown walls, tufts of rug covered in random pieces of drudgery. The possibility of dookie poked in ears, wiped in hair, squished in between tiny little toes. I re-entered the bathroom to find the little lady laughing and pointing gleefully at the poo. “Tinky!” she says. “Yes!” I agree, with krinkled nose and nodding head. Up to the tile counter I whisk her. Strip off all remaining clothing, promptly gagging at the sight of what looks like a brown chocolate cake glued to her little bum. Visually, can totally deal with this. Having huge difficulties with the aroma, however. From the waist down, I remained standing in front of her while I flung my upper half out the bathroom door into the hallway gasping for fresh air.

She didn’t miss a beat! “What doing?” she asks. I tell this child the truth. “Honey, the poo-poo is stinky like you said, and I was trying to breath in some fresh air.” “Oh,” she replies, and promptly laughs. Ha! She totally laughed at me in all her 2-and-a-half-year-old wisdom. “This lady’s an amateur,” she had to be thinking, “Wait till she gets a LOAD of what I dosed Daddy with last week!”

Love that munchkin. We wiped and cleansed and freshly dressed our way back to a lovely time in the rocking chair. Me nodding off while she snuggled in, wide awake and “reading” to me this time around. No poo-poo displaced to walls or carpet or little ears or little toes.

Yeah, just to under my fingernails. ♦

Smiling Toddler Girl

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Ever Pull Your Ponytail Too Tight? Youch!

The insomnia is back. This isn’t a bad thing, just an odd thing that leaves me wide awake until daybreak. I’m awake just enough to be wired, fully conscience of the fact that I’m WIDE AWAKE, unable to sleep, but not so awake that I’m of a mind to be productive in any way. Whatsoever. Instead, hours pass by, often quickly, thank goodness, in which I float through existence in a surreal-like state doing nothing much else other than thinking, contemplating, philosophizing. My brain won’t shut off … must count sheep … 13 sheepies …

So happy to have the temperature drop. Several weekends ago, I couldn’t remove enough clothing, drink enough water, sit still enough, take enough cold showers. Hot, sticky. I would have slept in the bathtub, had I not had “one can drown in three inches of water,” running through my head. Bean told me about a dude who lobbed a fan at her in desperation when she politely told him at the register that it was against store policy to sell him the display model, and that, yes, she did know they were out of stock, along with every other store in a fifty mile radius … 12 sheepies …

Alias Season V will be available soon. Utterly ludicruous, totally outlandish series with every character in possession of at least nine lives. And I love it! Watched all the back seasons via Netflix during this past year’s Christmas gift wrapping. The BEST cameos EVER! Christian Slater. Ethan Hawke. Quentin Tarantino. Isabella Rosellini. More! Haven’t been this excited to see the outcome of an on-screen romance since the last time I got caught up in a television series: X-Files. Yep, back-to-back episodes late Sunday nights kept me company while working on assignments for class. My complete lack of interest in the show blossomed into a post-series obsession quickly turning to undying loyalty in the watch for any sign of requited love to be found between Mulder and Scully (almost typed Mully and Sculder). Was rewarded with a long-awaited, most perfect declaration of love stated through one fantasmic kiss near series end. Le sigh. Ok, that’s my abbreviated plug for shows revolving around agents. Don’t get me started on Keifer Sutherland AKA Jack Bauer in 24 … 11 sheepies …

Sporting ruby red slipper nail polish for the third week in a row … 10 sheepies …

Ruby Red Slipper Nail Polish

My chicken popped! Everyone should have a pint-sized rubber chicken in their car. Just be sure that when the sun rises in all it’s warmth and super-hot glory, that the liquid-filled, squishy yolk substance lying within your rubber chicken, doesn’t ooze down the dash as mine did … 9 sheepies …

Popped Rubber Chicken

Cliff is outta the hospital, hallelujah and yahoo! Been out for several weeks and getting better every moment. A friend from school, and a good painting buddy, he apparently got really sick, passed out on the front lawn, and woke up days later in the hospital fresh from a coma. Remains unexplained. Here’s to you … 8 sheepies …

Superman Logo

Went to the Street of Dreams recently. A row of gorgeous, high-priced homes decked out to the nines with the latest in design and amenities and for the price of admission, one can peruse every nook and cranny in the search for their own decorating ideas. This is one of my favorite little bits … 7 sheepies …

Outdoor Chess Board Game

Would like a ballroom dancing partner come autumn with cooler weather and the taking up of new activites, but alas, they apparently only reside in Florida nowadays … 6 sheepies …

I’m crazy about edamame. The little green buggers. Darn McDonald’s Asian salad … 5 sheepies … 


I like the pick-up line in Derailed.

Clive Owen and Jennifer Aniston In Derailed

I wanna go to a monster truck rally! Wanna buy an obnoxious over-sized foam finger and mightily wave it to and fro in the air screaming my lungs out for mondo vehicles … CRUSH THE COMPETITION! Yeahhhhh!! Woooooo-hooooo!!! Jump those doubledecker school busses! YeeeeeeHaaaah. It could be fun … 4 sheepies …

“Thawed For Your Convenience”. These are the words that grace the orange juice container I purchased at Jack In the Box the other day. The words imply a favor. That they’ve gone and actually liquified a former solid so that I may quench my thirst immediately as opposed to waiting until the rock melts. Simply amazing … 3 sheepies …  

Oh, look. It’s Bean.

Tina Holding A Dolly

She’s come for a visit.

She’s left friends.

Dolly and Stuffed Toy

That pointy thing up there scares me. I sometimes imagine it falling, landing sharply on my face somewhere. It is only paper. But hey, it’s folded sharply and positioned precariously. Sure, it’s a pretty paper lamp at the second angle, but lying directly underneath, squarely on my pillow, insta-weapon.

What I won’t endure for decor … 2 sheepies …

Cobalt Blue Star Lamp

Cobalt Blue Star Lamp

Am making one of these for breakfast come morning with the mum…..

German Pancake

… 1 sheepie … ♦

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It’s Mindless, It’s Senseless …


Thought I’d give Zobmondo a go. Zobwhat, you may ask? It’s a “would you rather” game. Questions, often fairly grody questions, where you’re asked to choose between the two options provided. Show me your sickness. which of two evils would you choose, and why?

Phrases such as “I won’t choose either”, “Neither one”, “Who cares?”, and “I would rather die” should never be uttered in a given answer. The questions are meant to be nonsense, mindless semi-entertainment. Hey, at least they aren’t in a bulletin post with a threat attached stating that your third child will be born with no forehead if you don’t reply in 0.8 seconds, yes?

Let the fact that this is just a game of questions, and not a game of dares to complete nasty, nasty tasks in reality, maybe make your day a bit brighter. You gotta go with the choices presented, no altering. And any fun to be had lies in not only choosing, but in telling WHY.

I’ll post two questions. One tame, one not. Answer one. Or answer both. Will post more if there are responses. Will still love you, if there aren’t. :)

1. Suck the white dried spit off the edges of a speaker’s lips after a two-hour talk


Suck the crud that gathers in the corner of a cat’s eye?

2. Be stupid and rich


Be smart and poor?

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Who Knew?

I am an Asian Mafia of one.

Who knew? The other night, a weeknight, there were four boys, 15-ish-years-old, out in the courtyard making the ruckus of the century by whooping, literally, saying “Whooooop! Whooooop! Whooooop!” at the top of their lungs to badly projected music playing at top volume from the family mini-van, of all things. Over and over and over and ooooover again. Started at 10:30pm-ish. Grr. This particular night was just another one in a series of nights, all equally loud.

After about an hour, the woman across the hall opened her window and bellowed down, “Shut up, already! Some people gotta get up in the morning.” Ironic, because she leans over the stair railings and screams like a banshee for her kids multiple times, day and night. Karma, anyone?

Needless to say, the “whoooooping” ceased. Only to be replaced by Krump dancing. Badly, I might add. And still a ruckus. I’m often up into the wee hours of the morning, as it is, so the noise wasn’t keeping me up per say, but the total disregard for the existence of other human beings sure was. Shoulda got dressed and traipsed down the three flights of stairs to where they were and

A) asked if I could join them. They teach me to Krump. I teach them to Charleston.


B) played the ditsy-impressed-female role of “Golly gee, boys. Y’all do that so well. Love to see you perform in the daylight sometime, but ya think ya could maybe let a girl get some rest tonight and wrap it up-blah-dee-blah-blah-blah” … yeah, not happening.


C) enlightened them by demanding actual responses as to what made them so very special as to be the uninvited vocals disturbing other folks drifting off to dreamland. Would have left me to feel like an overly stern wretch of a woman. Ms. Butt-Inksie, I am not.

All the while, there was a family of five unloading a large U-Haul truck into their newly rented apartment from the courtyard. One of them approached the boys asking if they could keep it down, casually pointing out that it was disrespectful. So, save dancing with them, I saw my two options more or less, tried and tested. And failed.

Sometime after 2 am, hours later, I was sitting in the Spare Oom at the computer in the dark. The light of the monitor had gone out as the computer slipped into sleep mode upon finishing up some work. In the dark, I reached for my nearby camera and snapped a shot out the window in their direction. Ha! Such wonderful dorky fun. One of the boys says, “Whoa! What was that? You guys see that?” His three friends went on totally ignoring his observation. I giggled to myself. Snap! Took another shot. The same kid says, “See?! Oh my God, what was that? You see that red light? And a flash?!” to which his friends said, ” … yeah … yeah! What WAS that?”

His friends all ran in the opposite direction scrambling up the short hill to the cover of the roadside trees.

Now all four boys are standing side by side staring up at my window, and I grew quiet thinking surely, their gonna come upstairs and check it out. I’m thinking I’m not quite sure what the heck I’m gonna do. Ignore them, answer the door, etc. My short-lived dorky fun is at its end. Snap! Took another photo! The first guy, the observant one, shouts out, “Asian Mafia!” leaps up into the air, his body splayed out in an “X” formation as though he’s in a suspended jumping jack. He lands well behind the parked U-Haul truck hidden from sight. His friends all ran in the opposite direction scrambling up the short hill to the cover of the roadside trees.

And I thought my fun was over. Too funny! Over the next minute or two, all four crept back into the courtyard area and proceeded to loudly say things such as, “Man, crazy how some people gotta take all the fun outta a guy trying to be positive, do the right thing, and have some innocent fun. We ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.” After their statements of angelic purity, they sat themselves down on the stoop near their own apartment and QUIETLY talked on. The family of five gathered around the back of their open U-Haul where one proceeded to tell the others, “Those kids leaping all over the place out here just a minute ago all scared themselves silly thinking the Asian Mafia is out to get ’em. Dumb-asses.”

I think I like the new tenants! And the boys? They haven’t been out at night since. Too bad, I really wanted to teach them the Charleston. ♦

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Illuminated Nipples

Bean and I went to see The World’s Fastest Indian at the Grand Cinema in downtown Tacoma awhile back. I love, love, love quaint independent movie houses. How I’d yet to pay a visit to the Grand is beyond me. (Best theatre goes to the Harvard Exit off of Broadway & Roy in Seattle with its creaking staircases between floors, musty curtains, old piano and gorgeous tree-lined sidewalk easily viewable from the large foyer windows.) The Grand has an aqua blue velveteen-covered scrapbook in the lobby. It contains all the articles written about them over the years. They’re missing at least one, though. Bean did an article on them back in school and now plans to send them a copy to add to the book. Neato! Did I mention that the Grand serves REAL butter for their popcorn?

Her coy suggestion was that they hang tassles from each light’s knob in homage to Ms. Page.

So, cut to us sitting in the theatre awhile later, chatting about this and that. My gaze falls to the light fixtures. Installed are a series of round lights along the perimeter of the room every few feet, or so, near the ceiling. Definitely looked like glowing boobs. A brass knob jutting out from the middle of each orb-like fixture serves as the nipple. After commenting on them, Bean said Matt, her boyfriend, had also noticed them on a previous occasion. Conversation between us continued, and then off to the left, an older couple was sitting quietly eating their popcorn, when the man loudly proclaims, “Why, I see there be illuminated nipples for our viewing pleasure!” in his gravel-tinged voice. Ha. *Smile* I love old men, they’ve had time to develop character and therefore have great entertainment value. Bean’s wonderment was whether they’d be showing the new Betty Page flick. Her coy suggestion was that they hang tassles from each light’s knob in homage to Ms. Page.

I was out and about tonight. Was driving through a neighborhood, rounded a corner, and lo and behold, there stood a group of teenagers wearing black top hats and dancing with canes in cabaret style smack in the middle of the road, apparently rehearsing for a performance. They were gooood, too. Crisp in their movements, in sync, smiles on their faces. Life is too good, it’s true that you never know what’s right around the corner … ♦

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Smitty’s Demise

Goodness gracious, me-oh-my! Let me tell you what has transpired going into this past weekend …

Last Thursday afternoon, I’m driving along up the road on the way back to work. This tremendous sound, an out-n-out ruckus, begins. Like a piggie-squeal. UUUUURRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! I look over to my left at the Bronco next to me, thinking, “Sheesh, that poor vehicle has some issues!”

A few minutes later, I roll up to a red light. UUUUURRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! It’s back! Look to my left again. Yeah, no Bronco. Look forward. POOF! Large grey puffs of smoke are billowing out from all sides of my hood. MY hood. Look to my right. People are staring aghast at me in my little car. I slowly slide the sunglasses on my forehead down to over my eyes. Must hide. The light turns green. No one in any lane moves. They hang back allowing my dying car to lead the pack one last time. Lead, little car, lead.

I managed to pull into the parking lot of where I work, still squealing, all the while. The car, not me. The day passes and then after work, I call my dad who lives nearby and let him know I’m gonna attempt to head over to his place where the car can rest in peace free from fear of being towed away until I can call to have it junked (Waaaaaaaaagh).

Upon turning the key, UUUUURRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! Without a moment’s hesitation. I head out to the main road, only to find myself coming up on the rear of a black SUV, real quick! My brakes are ceasing up, the clutch is useless, it’s a total melt down! What to do?! Luckily, I veer off to my only out before impact and pull into an open spot in a large parking area. Call my dad to please come pick me up.

So, this means that SOMEONE, some nut, has stolen my beloved, though dead, little car.

It’s all about timing. You see, the week prior, plans were set in motion to purchase a new car. To be purchased and picked up Friday morning. Yeah, the very next morning! YAY! Big-time YAY. The next day, I’m on my way to work, and I pull into the lot where my little car had died just the evening before. Hhhmmm. No car. Double. Triple take. Once at work, Bean and my Dad call, as they often do, and I mention the car being gone. We detemine calling the towing company posted on signs outside is the first course of action. Thing is, there are no signs posted on the other side of the building in the lot where my little car died. All the same, I call only to be told “Nope, no record of a lightish, greenish, little car with a giant daisy on the hood!” So, this means that SOMEONE, some nut, has stolen my beloved, though dead, little car. Smitty. He was such a good little car. Now he’s probably been stripped and sanded, buffed, and redistributed as mere parts to only God knows where. Smitty lives on as a patchwork amongst many other little cars now. He always wanted to travel …

And so here I sit, smugly enjoying the last laugh with my brand NEW (used) little car. What to name him. Or her? ♦

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