Stupid Human Tricks

Brought to you by people who can laugh at their own foibles. Generous contributions to the SHT list include:

• One day I parked my car on the street and went into my building to work. When I came out at lunch, the car wasn't there. Gone. Crap, I thought. It has been stolen! These were the days before I had a cell phone, so I ran to the nearest house to call the police. As I pounded on some poor old lady's door, I glanced across the street to see my car. In someone's front yard. With the bumper lodged in between the boards of the house.

  
  I had left the car in gear when I parked it, and it was on a slight slope. So as I walked away, blissfully ignorant, it had rolled backwards down the street and into the front yard of the house. Thank GOD it didn't run over anyone in the process. Funny thing...the people in the house hadn't noticed. I knocked on their door and pointed out to them that I had done some creative parking in their living room wall. They were amazed. What can I say. College students. (Nancy)
  

• In high school, my sarcastic English teacher announced, in a completely serious tone of voice, that the word "gullible" had been removed from the most recent edition of the dictionary. Never having heard that particular joke before, I asked (in front of the whole class), "Why? It's a perfectly good word!"

  
  Also, as a new homeowner, I spent an entire spring season carefully nurturing an unusual and spectacular-looking "volunteer" plant that was unknown to me. I kept it well-watered, gave it some fertilizer, weeded around it ... only to have a neighbor inform me it was a stinging nettle. (Grassmaster)

  
  [Editor's note: Grassmaster grew up to become not only an accomplished writer, but the editor of an award-winning gardening magazine.]
  

• A few years ago I was so upset after breaking up with a boyfriend that when I went to the service station to fill up I paid with a credit card at the pump, and in a fog, drove away with the nozzle still in my gas tank! In case you never knew this, there is a special break off junction in the hose for just this type of incident so that the unconscious person doesn't damage the actual pump. Well I hear this clanging behind me as I drove away and looked out to find the nozzle, hose and all dragging on the ground. Did I feel stupid? YES! I sheepishly replaced the nozzle into the pump and drove away quickly. I figured that I couldn't possibly be the only person that had ever done this and they would know how to fix it. (Sister Amy Sunshine)

  
  

• Having dinner with a very cute boy who I've just met. We're talking about art and artists over bagels and grilled cheese. And I start talking about this artist I love, Jeremy Blake, who makes trippy video paintings in bleating bright colors. I saw him speak at a museum the week before. And I'm talking and talking and talking, and I reach for the artist's name, and instead of Jeremy Blake, it comes out Andrew Blake.

  
  Andrew Blake. Who is a porn director.

  
  There is a flicker of petrified, mutual recognition. I verbally fumble for about six seconds, and recover. And the conversation continues as usual. (Madame X)
  

• My senior year of high school, three other National Honor Society officers and I were headed to a conference in Appleton, WI (from Milwaukee). At this point in my life, I had a loose grip on directions and instead preferred to describe how to get someplace by associating the destination with the closest mall. In this case, when asked what freeway to get on, I said, "Go towards Brookfield Square" and promptly fell asleep.

  
  An hour or so later, I was woken up and asked, "Should we be hitting Madison first?" If you know Wisconsin at all, you know the answer to that is a resounding "no." Unfortunately, I had mixed up my malls and said Brookfield when I should have said Mayfair, sending us west rather than north. Fortunately, someone then figured out that we had a map and we eventually made it to Appleton. Yes, we were a fine representation of the best and the brightest.

  
  My directional sense has gotten MUCH better over the years (points of the compass are much more reliable than malls), but my family still enjoys mocking me when I set out on long road trips. "Call us if you get there." (Jen X)
  

• Click link to read Gunfight at the Spider Coral (Guest blogger: Señor Editor)
  

Thanks for sharing!

Today around the world: February 28 is Andalusia Day in Spain.

Gunfight at the Spider Corral

Guest blogger: Señor Editor

Most folks who know me know that I have very few aversions. I'm open-minded, adventurous and enjoy experiencing new things. This willingness does not, however, extend to spiders. I hate the eight-legged freaks. In fact, I'm convinced that God created unabridged dictionaries for one purpose alone: to be dropped or hurled at any spider that has the misfortune to be anywhere near me.

I grew up in the countryside of southwestern Ohio, a land brimming with abundant fields, leafy deciduous forests, wonderful river valleys and, unfortunately, a LOT of large spiders. My personal nemesis was the Golden Orb Spider, a gold-and-black monstrosity that, legs and body included, could grow to about the size of a baseball.

One afternoon in my eleventh or twelfth summer, I discovered one of these suckers living in my parents' hedgerow. Obviously the thing had to die, but I had recently graduated away from dictionary lobbing and entered into the wonderful world of BB guns. I had a great BB gun, a Crossman 870 Airmaster, if memory serves, capable of shooting a BB at more than 1100 feet per second. The perfect spider killer.

I chambered a BB, pumped the gun to its maximum pressure and crept close. With the muzzle of the barrel no more than about a foot from the body of the spider, I took careful aim and gently squeezed the trigger. What I failed to notice was the chain link fence immediately behind the spider. The BB missed, hit a link of the fence, ricocheted back right at my face and pegged me right between the eyes. My interpretation of the event at the time was a tad removed from the facts, however. What I believed had happened was that I had missed the spider, and it, in its wrath, had flung itself at my face, where it was now biting me squarely between the eyes. I flung the gun away, threw myself on the ground and began rolling over and over, slapping myself in the face to a desperate attempt to remove the phantom arachnid. It was only once I got my heat under control that I realized that I had managed to shoot myself in the face via the ricocheting bullet and that the spider was still safely ensconced in the hedgerow. Needless to say, the spider and I reached a state of détente.

Oscar Wieners

The Oscars were last night. I dutifully watched (with the mute button pressed 95% of the time) so that today I could pretend more cultural awareness than I have. Truthfully, though, I saw none of the Best Picture movies and none of the Best Acting performances. The closest I came was having seen Shrek 2, which was nominated for Best Song, I think, and maybe an animation award. And, due to my chronic fashion impairment, I'm not even qualified to comment on the gowns, although I thought the tuxes looked very nice.

So tell me, did the Academy and the stars get it right?

Hello My Name Is

Brought to you by an overabundance of gravity and an underabundance of grace. There's noplace like the ski slopes for getting one's comeuppance -- or comedownpance, as the case may be.

I styled myself quite the downhill diva in my early teens. I liked the rush of speed skiing afforded, and I had just enough confidence to take on the moguls from time to time. I got in a bit over my head one day, however, and landed badly after a small jump. By "badly" I mean that I alit on my back, snowballed for several yards, and came to rest with my head pointed downhill and the back ends of my skis jammed firmly into the snow. With gravity pulling at my torso, wearing snowpants and a jacket too slick to provide any traction, I could not get my hands up to the skis to free my boots from the bindings. I was stuck. Stuck. Flailingly, helplessly stuck. And there was snow packed into the neckline of my coat.

I wasn't the only one helpless, either. Dad, bless him, had stopped a few feet uphill from me, and while he tried valiantly not to laugh at me, he just had to. He did it quietly, but he did it. After spending a few minutes doubled over, he schussed gracefully to my side and hit the boot release. I slid another couple yards and collected a couple more cups of snow down (up) my neck. Seeing that I was unhurt, few onlookers applauded before continuing their runs.

As if Dad laughing and strangers clapping weren't bad enough, I quickly discovered that something even worse had occurred: the wipeout had put an L-shaped tear in the back of my ski pants, up one leg and across the seat. I had to complete my descent with a mudflap fluttering behind me. I was too embarrassed to be thankful that I hadn't seriously busted up either my body or my equipment.

Little did I know, but there was more to come!

We found Mother Media at the bottom of the hill (in her hunter-orange parka, she was hard to miss), and, once convinced of my safety, she quickly found a solution to my ventilation problem. She clunked off toward the ski school office and returned with a handful of adhesive-backed patches -- the kind that say "Hello, my name is ______." Over my protests, she used them to glue my gluteus back together. It was only through great wailing and gnashing of teeth that I dissuaded her from filling in the blanks. My butt might be a billboard, but at least no one could identify me by name.

I think I was the only person on the slopes not laughing at me that day. But I learned.

The lesson stood me in good stead a year or two later when I wrecked again. As I coasted slowly toward the lodge, some friends called to me from overhead in the chairlift. I braked to a full stop and looked up to yell back to them, lost my balance, and kissed snow. Disoriented, I hit face first and broke my goggles right in half. Everyone on the lift, and quite a few people on the bunny hill nearby, applauded. This time I bounced to my feet and bowed with a flourish.

Coming soon: More stupid human tricks!

Don't miss your chance to contribute! Learn about Senor Editor's phantom arachnid, Grassmaster's gullibility, and SAS's gas problem!

Today around the world: February 25 is Revolution Day in Suriname. There is no downhill skiing in Suriname, which enjoys a tropical climate on the northern shoulder of South America just above Brazil. If there were, my bum would have blared (in Dutch), "Hello is mijn naam ______."

Extra, extra!

I fessed up (see below), so now it's your turn: Let's hear about some other extraordinarily D'OH! acts by ordinarily smart people.

Running into the Store

Brought to you by the marauding Subarushi.

Have you ever said, "I'll run into the store?" Well, a couple years ago, I did just that. With my car.

It was a Saturday morning in late winter or very early spring, depending on how you figure it. I had stopped at the gas station on the way to the studio to buy a Coke to fuel a morning of martial endeavors. When I came out, there were two fat men in bad suits staring at the Subarushi, which was nuzzling the front of the mattress store next door to the station. Its front bumper kissed the building a half-inch below the plate-glass front window.

"Miss, is this your car?" the fatter one asked as I approached. He seemed more bemused than angry, which I took as a good sign.

"Um, yes." I did not look much like a responsible citizen that morning: ponytail, moon boots, a parka filthy from a couple months of brushing up against dirty vehicles. Apparently I didn't drive like one, either. What the heck had I done?

"Well, I think you left it in gear. We heard this thunk and came out to look, and here's your car trying to get in."

Always eloquent under pressure, I replied, "Oh . . . crap. I am so sorry!"

"No harm done, I don't think," the second suit man said. "But it's a good thing you don't drive an SUV. A higher bumper would have shattered that window."

I paled at the thought. The finances of a modest Media Sensation are not conducive to replacing commercial storefronts. I had dodged a very big bullet. I apologized again.

I backed the car away and we inspected the scene of the crime. The metal flashing beneath the window was slightly dented in the center. Still is -- I've checked periodically. And my front bumper showed no signs of wear. So I shook hands with the businessmen and drove, very carefully, away.

Moral of the story: Go to the store. But don't run into it.

Does this count as an extraordinary act, or just an extraordinarily stupid one?

Anyway, thanks again to all who helped make me Blog Queen for a Day yesterday. I appreciate your kind remarks, and your sharing of extraordinary events in your lives.

Today around the world: February 24 is Flag Day in the U.S. and Mexico.

Tag, You're It

Brought to you by Michele and her many intrepid blogfriends.

Imagine my surprise this morning when I woke to discover that BND had been named Site of the Day by super-blogger Michele. She invited her own regular readers to stop by BND and say hello. And they did! Today the BND hit counter officially topped 10,000. Woo hoo! Par-tay!! Of course, half of those hits are from yours truly checking the site myself to make sure it looks right. Does that count as my Geek Moment of the Day?

Anyway, many of these generous visitors have added to the list of extraordinary acts by ordinary people. They're visible in the comments, but I'll put them up front here, too. Without further ado:

• Many of my virtual friends inspire me daily with their humour, compassion, honesty, and willingness to share a part of their day-to-day life. Yes, this is an extraordinary act.
  Tag — you're it. (Michele)
  
• I was able to stay with an Amish family for a short time when I was a domestic exchange student years and years ago. (Lynda)
  
• I have crawled on my belly through "wild" caves. Nothing like exploring a cave with a flashlight and other supplies. And boy the cleanup afterwards. I swear I had mud and bat guano in my nose and ears and fingernails for weeks! (Sleeping Mommy)
  
• My grandfather survived three years in a German prisoner-of-war camp in WWII. (Zinnia Cyclamen)
  
• I've never done anything extraordinary. Well, unless beating the holy snot out of some guy I thought was about to attack me counts. And beating the holy snot out of someone who tried to snatch my kid when he was 2 months old. I need to stop beating the holy snot out of people... It's probably quite rude. [and] Jerry Van Dyke once bought my mom lunch. If that counts... ;) (Thumper)
  
• Garth Brooks brought my husband a sandwich! (Christine)
  
• Bobby Knight once asked me to dance, and we did. (Mamacita)
  
• Sorry to hear about your spatula! I hate it when that happens. I once got something resembling caulking in my mashed potatoes at a restaurant... maybe it was spatula debris after all. Oh well, good for a free meal. (Marie)
  
• Ever walked in front of a charging rhino ?
  neither have i. :-P (SEV)
  
• I participated in "Hands Across America" back in 1986. (natalie)
  
• I saw Monica Lewinsky walking down the street in Greenwich Village, talking on a cell phone.(zee)
  
• I've done so many extraordinary things in light of my own limitations, that might not seem so fantastic to anyone else! (alda)
  
• Played Fiddle On The Roof on a violin on at least 20 different roofs over the last 10 years! (Last Girl on Earth)
  
• I had eleven children and didn't lose my marbles. (Bonnie)
  
• I once attended a party in Kansas City at which Alice Cooper, Elton John and Minnie Ripperton were all in attendance, as well as the members of the Steve Miller Band. (Nancy)
  
• firstly eyeing the Guinness book of records -- locking lips for 31 hrs... have plans to make it 40-50. secondly convincing someone to share the record with me. (Blaze)
  
• I once took a GRE prep course with my mother and survived. (La Nina)
  

Nothing ordinary about this crowd! Blogging from the U.S., the U.K., Europe, Canada, Iceland, and elsewhere, they're exactly the sort of people you'd like to meet at a dinner party. Well, now's your chance! Go see them this week, and tell them Jugglernaut sent you -- because she stole the idea from Michele.

Today around the world: February 23 is the Butter Oil Lantern Festival in Tibet. Mmm, butter oil! The better to see your Spatula Biscuits with, no doubt.

Welcome, blogtrekkers! Imagine my surprise at checking my mail this morning and finding that BND is it today! The best part of waking up . . .

While you're here, please add to my list of extraordinary acts by ordinary people. See the most recent few entries (and comments!) for examples.

Spatula Biscuits

Brought to you by the Media Sensation's culinary acumen.

I made spatula biscuits over the weekend. "Spatula" is a secret ingredient not mentioned on the package my mix came in, but which I inadvertently added. The tip of my spatula broke off into the last wad of batter I scraped onto the baking sheet. I didn't notice the problem until the biscuits were half-baked (not unlike some of my other kitchen schemes) and I had begun to clean up. D'OUGH!

Fortunately, the rubber did not melt or scorch in the oven, and the untimely addition resulted in the demise of only one biscuit. And I located the missing piece visually, not orally, in case you were wondering.

So, on to less icky things! Many thanks to those who wrote back to share more extraordinary acts by ordinary people (and special thanks to those who included your humble narrator on their lists). My friends know people who have:

• visited the 48 continental United States on a motorcycle not once but twice, on two different bikes (Big Rog and Little Phyl)

  
  

• spit from atop the Leaning Tower of Pisa, back in the day when tourists could still go up (Chef Jeff)

  
  

• had the misfortune of being on hand to witness two fatal heart attacks in two different gyms during the past few months (Burt Clown)

  
  

• served on the U.S.S. Arizona during WW II and also cobbled together one of the first washing machines seen in Japan (Grandpa W)

  
  

• built their own house in Maine (Blueberry and Kyle)

  
  

• volunteered at a nursing home every Tuesday, putting smiles on all the residents' faces (Arlo, Wild Rice's canine companion)

  
  

• flown one of only 48 remaining WW II B-17 bombers (Senor Editor)

  
  

• accidentally blown off Jerry Garcia as he was offering to help set microphones (also Senor Editor, sadly)

  
  

• jumped out of a perfectly good airplane 10,000 feet above the Florida Keys (Merry)

  
  

• had Jon Bon Jovi buy him a beer (Fuzzball)

  
  

• had breakfast with Capt. Kirk (Senor Editor)

Keep 'em coming! It's never a bad time to hear about groovy things people have done. Except maybe when they involve spatula bits in the biscuit mix.

Today around the world: February 21 is Family Day in Alberta, Canada, President's Day in the U.S., and the birthday of King Harald V in Norway.

What's New

Brought to you by my current obsession with lists.

• New template for BND: Looks great, doesn't it? Yeah, thanks.

  
  

• New #1 on my fecal roster: Hotmail, for pantsing up the last several BND mailings. If you're signed up but not getting your daily dose, e-mail me, OK? I'm working on it.

  
  

• New favorite quote: "I'm on the tightrope, trying to knit myself a net." — Andrew Chaikin. You tell 'em, Andy. I knew there was a reason I should learn to knit.

  
  

• New favorite beverage: Gatorade's Propel Water. (1) Water with a little flavor but not many calories; (2) cobalt blue bottle with a good twist-spout.

  
  

• New haircut: Best thing I've done for myself in a long time, even if I can't make a ponytail any more.

  
  

• New jeans: Comfy & stylish, though rather low-rise in the back (Levi's 550). Fortunately, I remembered to wear low-rise undies, too (Elmo; thanks, Sister-san).

  
  

• New personal policy: Shoes that make my back so twingy I'm afraid to even do T'ai Chi go in the dumpster.

  
  

• New Kids on the Block: No.

  
  

• New Coke: Again, no.

  
  

• New word(s): DIEPLZKTHNXBYE. In online writing and text messaging, nothing is sacred, including caps/lower case rules, spelling rules, and word spacing rules. So that character string actually says DIE (die) PLZ (please) K (okay) THNX (thanks) BYE (good-bye). What a chirpy little way of saying "buzz off," huh?

  
  

• New messages:

  
  Dear Crustypunk -- yeah, you, with the soap aversion -- BATHEPLZKTHNXBYE.

  
  Dear Fellow Motorists: SGNLPLZKTHNXBYE.

  
  Dear Flirtatious Spanish-Speaking Guys Outside the Mexican Bakery: UNOMASPRFVRKGRCSADIOS.

  
  

• Not-so-new request: Add to my "extraordinary acts by ordinary people" list. I've gotten several contributions already, which I plan to share sometime next week. Keep 'em coming!

  
  

Today around the world: February 18 is Independence Day in Gambia.

Shoe Swayed Blues

Brought to you by fiendish footwear.

I threw away a pair of shoes tonight. My pantsy blue loafers. I end up with a backache every time I wear the dang things, so I don't know why I've kept them so long. I also can't explain why I kept thinking "This time it will be different" when I had ample evidence to the contrary. I've ousted suitors for lesser infractions, so why spare the shoes? I don't know. I don't even know what it was about them that didn't agree with me. They just don't.

Well, tonight I finally broke the cycle. I wore the shoes to work, and between them and my punitive office chair, I left with my back nastily knotted. An hour in the car didn't help matters, either. When even T'ai Chi warm-ups and practice failed to loosen things up, that was the last straw. The shoes went in the dumpster. My heart lightened as they thunked to the bottom. I spent a few extra minutes stretching, and I think I'm on the road to recovery. Lesson learned.

Sincere request: Add to my "extraordinary acts by ordinary people list." Please! Tell me the coolest things you can think of about your best friends, spouses, children, parents, siblings, coworkers, and casual acquaintances. Even yourself. Reason? February 17 is Random Acts of Kindness Day. So be kind: Ditch the bad shoes, then e-mail me.

Who Loves Ya

Brought to you by the people I know, love, and admire.

I know someone who has:

• swung from treetop to treetop in a Coasta Rican rain forest (G-Doc)
  
• dressed up as the Easter Bunny for a job (Grassmaster, Jen X)
  
• studied cooking at the Condon Bleu in Paris (Jen X)
  
• written a book of ghost stories (Senor Editor)
  
• helped direct a shelter for women who have no one else to turn to (El Queso Grande)
  
• sewed Muppet costumes for a living (Stage Coach)
  
• written a musical about lawyers (Dad)
  
• pretended to carry a severed head in a hat box (the Lotus)
  
• nursed a friend through cancer treatment (Sister-san)
  
• bought a shot for a rock star in a bar (the General)
  
• been trusted to pack other people's parachutes (Chef Jeff)
  
• learned to speak Icelandic (Loop)
  
• learned to speak Greek (Julie-la)
  
• almost joined the clergy (BuntCake)
  
• pioneered study in a brand-new branch of mathematics (MJM)
  
• received an organ transplant (the Bear)
  
• donated organs for transplant (Dad)
  
• organized a benefit concert for a gravely ill friend (LexiCan)
  
• volunteered at Ground Zero (Six)
  
• serenaded her favorite singers with one of their own songs (Aura)
  
• typed top-secret military documents inside a locked vault (Mother Media)
  
• taught aikido (Lightbringer)
  
• become a surgeon (Butch)
  
• chased burglars down the street while 9 months pregnant (TammyD)
  
• dedicated her life to art (the Kerner)
  
• cleaned rental cars for a living (Professor George)
  
• placed high in the Boston Marathon (BritWit)
  
• written obituaries for people not yet dead -- and then met some of them (Grassmaster)
  
• taken vows of silence (MJM)
  
• designed bus schedules (El Queso Grande)
  
• partied with Hell's Angels (Senor Editor)
  
• sold encyclopedias door to door (Mother Media)
  
• won a pan-Asian martial arts competition (Grandmaster Wai-lun Choi)
  
• run a shady character out of town (Dad)
  
• injured herself with a frozen turkey (the Kerner)
  
• made white noise an art form (Datura 1.0)
  
• moved to a new country for love (Sister Amy Sunshine)
  
• invented yo-yo tricks (Magic)
  
• contracted malaria in the Peace Corps on the other side of the world (Lisa-la)
  
• taught English to recent immigrants (Grassmaster)
  
• immersed herself in a foreign culture (Wild Rice)
  
• founded a design/fashion magazine (Wry'un)
  
• followed a dream to Jamaica and back (Sherlock)
  
• danced like Pee Wee Herman for an audience of 500 professional peers (Gail Force)
  

Hats off to these extraordinary people who have let me be part of their lives. This list only scratches the surface, of course. It's been a pleasure compiling it.

So tell me: Who/what should I add to this list?

Today around the world: February 16 is Independence Day in Lithuania.

Duckie Luck

Brought to you by a few random thoughts.

• Appreciating: Sister-san's V-Day gifts, which included chocolate chip scones and a purple rubber duckie spangled with pink hearts.
  
• Begging: for some of G-Doc's ultra-naughty brownies containing chocolate chunks, toffee bits, and chocolate-caramel candies
  
• Celebrating: Grassmaster's & Sister Amy Sunshine's birthdays. Happy birthdays!
  
• Dithering: over what to wear to Dorkfest -- excuse me, MarsCon -- in a couple weeks. Don't know why I care; no one else will.
  
• Eating: Reese's Peanut Butter & Crack Hearts. Curse those Reese's people! Curse them!
  
• Feeling: caffeinated!
  
• Gulping: tea, Earl Grey, hot
  
• Hungering: for sesame chicken
  
• Inhaling: fragrance of Night-Blooming Jasmine hand lotion
  
• Juggling: story to write, story to edit, files to retrieve
  
• Keeping: my shoes on
  
• Listening: to the House Jacks album Drive. Needed an a cappella fix. They sound much better through my headphones than through the DVD player or the computer CD player at home. Must replace car stereo!
  
• Missing: having a favorite TV show
  
• Needing: to trim my nails
  
• Ogling: certain items on my Amazon.com wish list
  
• Pondering: last night's wisdom soundbite from Sifu Paul: "The outside makes the inside." As in, your outer expression affects your inner feeling. Smile for a happy day. Scowl for a pantsy day.
  
• Querying: Soup Group about where to have lunch on Thursday
  
• Refraining: from giving advice I was not asked for and which I am unqualified, yet all too eager, to give
  
• Smelling: burnt popcorn. Come on, people, keep an eye on those microwaves!
  
• Thinking: about George, Ph.D., former grad school officemate. I owe him a note. Or a call. He's so sweet. And so much smarter than me. And so far away.
  
• Understating: my eagerness for the arrival of spring
  
• Viewing: photos of CNE (Cutest Niece Ever), courtesy of Sister-san. Can't wait to see my little J-Bird again in May.
  
• Wearing: new khakis. Woo pants that fit.
  
• X-raying: a mysterious box in my office
  
• Yearning: for frizzless hair
  
• Zeroing: in on a date to meet with my tax preparer
  

Today around the world: February 15 is National Flag of Canada Day, in honor of Sister Amy Sunshine, the grooviest near-Canadian I know.

Wait for the Beep

Brought to you by every junior PR rep and intern who has ever made a follow-up call to see if I got the press release they sent me.

Here's what I'd like my voicemail greeting to say:

Hello. You have reached [me] at [award-winning magazine HQ].

If you're calling me back because I contacted you and therefore actually want to talk to you, please press 1 to leave a voice message -- or better yet, send me an e-mail as I requested in the message I left you. You have the address. Don't tell me you don't. I spelled it out twice.

If you're an intern calling to follow up on the press release your PR firm sent me, you might as well hang up now. The reason I have not contacted you already is that your firm did no research before sending this press release to me and clearly does not realize that it is entirely inappropriate for my publication. I know you're just doing your job making the follow-up calls, but seriously, kid, we wouldn't run that pile of pants if you paid for ad space.

However, I realize that you're obliged to try to look busy there at your tiny desk with the phone with the gunky number pad and the headset with somebody else's hair wrapped around the earpiece and somebody else's cabbage breath infusing the foam mouthpiece cover. So if you want to talk back to this message as if we're having a productive conversation, that's fine with me.

And since we're having this little chat, might I suggest that you get out of the PR business now while you still can. It's an industry based on self-serving falsehood. It is a tale full of sound and fury, told by an idiot, signifying nothing. It will eat your soul, and you'll die still owing your parents money for the college degree in mass comm that got you into this mess in the first place.

Take some friendly advice and go to trade school. Become someone respectable like an electrician or a plumber or a car mechanic. You'll make better money and be able to sleep at night with your self-respect intact.

Have a nice day.

Beep.

It does not say that, of course. It's very cordial and professional. But I'd fielded two such calls within 15 minutes of sitting down at my desk this morning, and it was enough to make me want to forward the phone to voicemail for the rest of the week.

Today around the world: February 14 Hallmark Day in the U.S., Green Monday in Cyprus, and Wine-grower's Day in Bulgaria. Any guesses as to where I'd like to be partying down today?

Complete Pants

Brought to you by our good friends across the pond.

Pants is a U.K. slang term which means, essentially, crap. As in, "Working weekends is pants, man." Or "Michael Jackson? Complete pants." Easy, right? Feel free to toss your pants into conversation immediately.

More fun with pants: Play the Pants Game! Either in speech or online, replace a crucial noun in a sentence/movie line/whatever with the word "pants." For example: "Pants: the final frontier." Or: "To be or not to be? That is the pants." Or "Damn the torpedoes, full pants ahead!" Or "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a pants." Provides minutes of fun and laughs -- hours if alcohol is involved.

We all have our pants issues. Sister-san's college roommate Fritzie became helpless with laughter anytime she heard the phrase "pants are falling down." And I’m OK with "pants" but not with "slacks." "Slacks" is right up there with "moist" and "davenport" among words I'd rather not hear or say. "Slacks" is pants, man.

And speaking of pants, the zipper on my favorite black ones gave up the ghost this week -- discretely, fortunately for me and everyone nearby. RIP, black pants. Time to go shopping. Aw, pants.

Continuing the clothing theme, try the Shoes Game. Whenever you hear a love song (which ought to be about every 11 seconds with VD right around the corner), substitute "shoes" for "you." Or encourage the Girl Scouts in the back of the van to do so. If you dare. Can you hear it? "Shoes light up my life, shoes give me hope . . ."

You're welcome.

Today around the world: February 11 is the Anniversary of the Lateranensi Pacts in the Vatican City State.

Undershirt

Brought to you by the changing winds of fashion.

When I was in elementary school, I HATED wearing an undershirt. HATED it. Why? Because only babies wear undershirts, and only because their mommies make them, and the last thing a grown-up third-grader needs is to have anything in common with babies. Besides, girls' undershirts were so, well, girly, with their lace-trimmed collar and cuffs and tiny pink bows. I was a dedicated tomboy. No lace for me. So even on the chilliest days on that windy hilltop playground, I was glad I wasn't wearing an undershirt. It meant I was a Big Kid, even if my skin was purple.

The movie Flashdance -- which I still have not actually seen, by the way -- changed that in junior high. Flashdance fashion involved ripped sweatshirts falling off the shoulder, and this required a shirt underneath to hide those embarrassing bra straps. So the layered look took hold. Notice, however, that I did not say undershirt. There's a difference between an undershirt and an underneath shirt. Underneath shirts are cool because you see them in movies.

High school brought another turn of the fashion screw as the layered look expanded into the dancey layered T-shirt/tank top look, the preppie layered polo shirt/sweater-vest look (best accessorized by a pair of earrings stuck brooch-style through the sweater to jab you in the chest all day), and, ultimately, the ultra-preppie double-layered polo shirt look. While I tried the first two, I never mastered the ultra-preppie. The fabric tended to bunch, and I could never get the collars of both shirts to stand at attention at the same time. Still, for me, two out of three, fashion-wise, ain't bad.

Grunge fashion became popular in my college years, which meant T-shirts topped with flannel shirts. Undershirt? No. Underneath shirt? Yes. Rock on, man. On the windswept prairie where my alma mater squats, I also rediscovered the beauty of the just-for-warmth underlayer. But that's not an undershirt, that's longjohns. Longjohns are cool because they're kind of raggedy, and raggedy is hip.

Grad school meant paying my own heating bills on a teaching assistant's salary, so I was seldom without a second layer except on the hottest days of summer. And that's the way it remains to this day. I still don't wear undershirts, though. No way! Turtleneck and overshirt? Yes. Camisole and button-down? Sure. T-shirt and pullover? You betcha. Sweater set? Of course. Undershirt? Never!

In fact, the word undershirt had retired from my vocabulary until CNE Jocelyn was born. (CNE = Cutest Niece Ever -- I have proof!) Then I started shopping for baby clothes, and there they were. Undershirts. Everywhere. Tiny little undershirts with lace trim and little bows.

They're totally cute. I can't wait to buy some for Jocelyn.

Today around the world: February 10 is New Year's Day on the Islamic calendar. Yesterday was New Year's Day on the Chinese calendar. So: Happy New Year!

Fat Tuesday

Brought to you by Julie the Kerner.

Not much blog today; I'm too busy basking in the reflected glory of the Kerner, who won the Reach for Excellence Award for her division this morning. WOO Julie! The entire city of New Orleans has dedicated this week to parades and parties in her honor, which is only right.

Today around the world: Today is Mardi Gras. Laissez les bon temps roulez!

Farina Croquets

Brought to you by Barry Carl, former Rockapella bass singer, current voice of Tony the Tiger, and all-around low-octave force of nature. The man is a fantastic musician, as his recent SoLow album attests (don't miss the Marshall Stack interview), and his writing is even more fun. Don't take my word for it, however; click here to read about farina croquets just like Barry's mom used to make. (Scroll down past the blue text until you hit black.)

When you're done with that, do South Dakota a favor, would you? Help choose the design for the new state quarter. Show me the money! Vote early, vote often. It's your civic duty.

Today around the world: February 7 is Carnival Monday. And you know what that means: tomorrow is Fat Tuesday!

Off on a Tangent

Brought to you by the daring Lotus.

It's BND's first ever Fiction Friday!

A few weeks ago, Lotus issued this dare: "Write a short story in which a teenage girl is hopelessly in love with her geometry teacher from 10th grade and writes made-for-TV-movies and sitcoms about him with her friends."

Well, what the heck. Here goes. Disclaimer: This is not autobiographical in any way. No sirree bob. ;-)

---

When I was a sophomore in high school, I had to take geometry. I'm glad it was required, because otherwise I wouldn't have taken it. And if I hadn't, I would never have met the love of my life.

When I found out my teacher was Mr. Beckett, geometry became my new favorite subject. Never mind that I was a mathematically impaired music geek; suddenly areas and angles, sines and cosines, diameters and hypotenuses were all I could think about. Well, that and blue blue eyes, cornsilk hair, gangly legs in rumpled khakis, muscular forearms peeking from rolled-up sleeves, Daffy Duck neckties, and a quick sharp wit that pierced my heart.

Aaah, Mr. Beckett. Super smart. Super dork. Super hot. He was all broad shoulders and big hands scribbling on the board, all Irish Spring and gentle correction when I took my stupid questions up to his desk. He teased me into understanding geometry, teased me into liking it, teased me into believing I could do it. I'd never been teased quite like that before. I liked it.

It was the most ridiculous of schoolgirl crushes. I knew it even at the time. But I was powerless to stop myself. I hung around the boys' cross-country team he coached, made him a card on his birthday, baked him cookies at Christmas, named my fish after his kids. Heck, I even joined the math league, where I had to fend off the advances of geekboys who couldn't hold a candle to their geek god, Mr. Beckett.

But all of that was nothing compared to the stories. Oh god, the stories! I cringe thinking about them now. Because the thing was, I was not alone in my addiction: My best friend Merrilee loved Mr. Beckett just as much as I did. We enabled each other's pathology to ridiculous extents, and no one can map the intricacies of the heart like a pair of 16-year-old girls. We talked about him all the time, passing notes in class, huddling in the hall between classes, calling each other after school. We even had a code so no one would realize whom we were talking about. We referred to Mr. Beckett as PS: the Perfect Square.

At first we simply lamented that none of the boys at our school was as smart or good-looking or mature as Mr. Beckett. Then we started to speculate about what it would be like to date him. Well, not really him, of course, because naturally he was too moral to leave his wife for a student (or two) half his age. But a man like him, an older man wise in the ways of the world but young enough at heart to appreciate our comely youth, part older brother, part teacher, part lover. Mr. Beckett, or the notion of him at least, was the ideal boyfriend, and our devotion to him kept us out of trouble with real boys our own age.

Then one day when I was bored in history class — that could have been any day, actually — I jotted down one of the romantic scenarios we had concocted. I didn't use anybody's real name, of course; god forbid my notebook should fall into the wrong hands, and the last thing I wanted was to get the Perfect Square fired for improper behavior. But I got the rest of it on paper, and Merrilee helped me embroider it further over lunch. From our maniacal giggles and furtive looks, you'd have thought we were plotting to take over the world.

Well, you know how it is: you can't stop with just one. Soon we had a small Harlequinesque library of stories about "Dan Tangent." Sometimes Dan was a schoolteacher who realized he was in love with one of his beautiful young students but held himself away from her, pining chastely, until her 18th birthday, whereupon he quit his job and they eloped and lived happily ever after. Sometimes Dan was a firefighter who rescued a beautiful young student during an emergency at the school, and they dated for a while, then eloped and lived happily ever after. Sometimes Dan was a music producer who discovered a beautiful young student at a high school music competition and made her a star, and then they eloped and lived happily ever after. You get the idea.

The stories amused us tremendously, and we started passing them around for our friends to read. By this time we'd changed enough vital information to make Dan a fairly generic hero, not easily identifiable as Mr. Beckett, and the beautiful young student could have been any of us. Other girls jumped on the bandwagon, and soon a small literary society had sprung up around Dan Tangent. We called ourselves the Tangentials. The seniors even went so far as to write bodice-rippers and soft-core porn about Dan. A cast of minor characters coalesced around him, and soon we were speaking of Dan and his friends as if they were real people. New students at our school spent weeks hoping to meet or even date the infamous Dan Tangent before finally learning the truth.

I got so busy helping Helen work out her own romantic travails through a Dan story that I forgot to make Mr. Beckett a Valentine's Day card. I quit math league because it took too much time from my other after-school activities. A dozen of us sophomore Tangentials decided to hold our own Dan-prom in the spring — girls and their imaginary dates only — and it was so much fun that it eclipsed the actual dance, much to the chagrin of the juniors and seniors. At the end of the school year, Merrilee and I both passed geometry with Bs.

By the time junior year rolled around, Merrilee and I were the center of a large clique of writers. When a new English class on screenwriting popped up in the curriculum, naturally we all signed up. We figured we might as well get some easy credit for the summaries and scripts we were already turning out in our spare time.

Our teacher, the tough but fair Mr. Remington, was onto us from Day 1 and forbade us from writing anything about Dan Tangent. No problem! That's why God gave us the search and replace function on our word processors, right? With a few quick keystrokes, Dan Tangent became Quentin O'Kelley or Reggie Chops With Fist or Hideki Tanaka. We were writing TV scripts, for heaven's sake; the protagonists didn't have to be different, they just had to be there.

Looking back, I suspect Mr. Remington was onto that little trick, too, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he encouraged us to team up with the video production class and make one of our scripts into a movie. So we did.

The project wasn't the overnight success we expected. The screenwriting class was made up mostly of Tangentials, so it was mostly girls. And the video production class was mostly boys. Teenage girls + teenage boys? You do the geometry: love triangles everywhere. We had behind-the-scenes and on-set meltdowns that would put any Hollywood diva to shame.

Through it all Mr. Remington sat serenely in the back of the room, interrupting us only when we got loud enough to disrupt the class next door. He spent most of his time grading papers and singing quietly along with the tunes on his iPod, rehearsing his role in an upcoming community theater production of Oklahoma. In my role as executive producer, I had plenty of time to kill as well, so I hung out back there with him.

We chatted a bit, and a bit more. He turned out to be younger than he looked, and funny in a cynical way completely different from Mr. Beckett's sunshiny style. He had a tattoo, which he showed me one night after everyone else had gone home, swearing me to secrecy even though it was just a harmless armband.

I sent him roses on his opening night, sort of as a joke, sort of not. He brought the house down as Curly. A Broadway talent agent in the audience got his signature on a contract before the week was out. He finished out the year teaching, then moved to New York to pursue his thespian dream. We kept in touch all through my senior year — thank god for e-mail!

When I graduated, he invited me to come spend a few days in New York, see the city, get a backstage look at Broadway. He told me to bring a few of my scripts along and he'd show them to a producer friend of his, sort of as a joke, sort of not. I did, and he did, and soon I had a contract of my own.

You can probably write the rest of the story yourself. Mr. Remington and I — his name is Shea — never parted from one another's sides after that. We didn't need to. I wrote the plays, he performed them, and we both became huge stars. We eloped and lived happily ever after.

---

Today around the world: February 4 is Setsubun (Bean Scattering) in the Shinto faith.

Poster Child

Brought to you by me. Warning! Contains traces of annoyance!

Let's say you and I meet at a party. You tell me a little bit about yourself and I reply, "Wow, you sound really deviant and mean."

Not very nice, is it? But I get that all the time. When someone learns that I study martial arts, I often get some version of, "Wow, you must be a lot of fun on dates." Women say it occasionally, men almost every time.

What I hear when they say this is, "I assume that you attack people indiscriminately, especially men." It hurts my feelings to be stereotyped as pointlessly cruel and misogynistic. And it's insulting when people think I couldn't come up with something more interesting to do on a date than fight. I am a very interesting date! For instance, we could talk about Star Trek. Or Rockapella. Or ways in which The X-Files resembles Victorian literature.

Some stupid jerk said "you must be a lot of fun on dates" to the Kerner and me at our martial arts class last night. (I call him a stupid jerk not because he uttered the fateful line, but because I have the proof of personal acquaintance.) We both tried to redirect the conversation, but he kept coming back to the humor value of our dangerousness. Apparently he wanted us to recognize how clever he was or something — as if we both haven't been hearing this refrain for the past 15 years or so. He could also not seem to grasp the fact that the Kerner is happily married. (To a man, might I add. Studying martial arts doesn't make a woman a lesbian, either, although I know some of you think it does. I know because you've asked me.)

Finally I lost patience with Stupid, looked him in the eye and said, "Bottom line: I have better things to do with my time than kick your ass." But I couldn't think of any at the moment, which shames me. We split for a water break after that.

Even our classmates -- the men (and women, sad to say) whose asses we consistently do not kick, week in and week out -- spout this crap! Of all people who ought to know better! Aren't they in class for the same purpose: to get some exercise, improve their health, and learn some self-defense?

No one attends those classes to hurt people. No one. People with that kind of attitude get weeded out very quickly. You would never say of one of the male students, "This guy is likely to use what he's learned here to beat people up for no reason." No one would think that was funny. They'd think the guy had a problem, and they'd be right. Well, same goes for the rest of us, OK?

The women listening to me carry on about this in the dressing room have all heard the same thing, with varying degrees of frustration. We all know that the knee-jerk reaction says more about the speaker than about us. But still. It stings.

When I discussed this with Grassmaster, she pointed out that it's the female equivalent of people oohing and aahing when a man holds a baby tenderly, or of calling it babysitting when a father minds his own children. When a woman holds a baby, the focus is on the baby. When a man holds a baby, the focus is on the man and his "abnormal" behavior.

News flash, friends. A man holding a baby is not abnormal, and neither is a woman studying martial arts. It may not be what you're used to, but that doesn't make it abnormal.

Next time I get "You must be a lot of fun on dates," I plan to reply, "What makes you say that?" in a very calm and reasonable tone. That's the T'ai Chi way. It's better than snapping, "Don't worry, sweetie, you're safe; I would never date someone who scares so easily." Firing off a zinger is not the T'ai Chi way. But that's what I'll be thinking.

And if you're the one tempted to say "You must be fun blah blah blah," try "How interesting. What style do you study?" instead. Aim for conversation, not accusation.

When people can think of me as "artist" as well as "martial," then I'll be happy.

Today around the world: February is Groundhog Day. Looks like six more weeks of winter.

Step on Faith

Brought to you by Sifu Ray.

Last night's T'ai Chi lesson was about leaps of faith -- or steps of faith, anyway. "Don't look in the direction your posture is going," said our instructor, Sifu Ray. "If you look ahead to where you're going, it will mess up what you're doing right now, and you won't get there correctly.

"Don't focus on what's in the room around you, either," he continued. "Focus your gaze inward, collect your balance, and then set your heel out there to test the ground. Don't look yet. Take that step on faith."

You don't need to know kung fu to understand this lesson. Sifu was telling us that the destination will be there whether we look or not, so we can stop worrying about it and concentrate on the steps we're taking to get there. Right steps in the right direction will get us where we want to go. If we pay attention to the stances we take and the inner balance and harmony we feel, if we test the path with an empty foot before shifting onto it, we will get there. If we give our full attention to balancing and stepping, we won't have time to worry about the destination anyway.

Hmm.

The second part of the lesson was not to linger at the destination. "As soon as you get there, you have to leave," Sifu said. Where one T'ai Chi posture ends, another begins, each flowing smoothly into the next. There's always another, so we have to move on.

The destinations of those faith-filled steps aren't really destinations at all, then, but merely stopovers on a longer journey, said Sifu. The journey isn't over until we've moved in all directions, stood tall and sunk low, opened our arms wide and folded in upon ourselves, until we come full circle and conclude where we began. That is the way.

Like all the best lessons, this one is easier said than done. But we're doing it, and doing it, and doing it. And we're getting there.

Today around the world: If you're a pagan, February 1 is Oimelc, or the time when sheep come out and are milked -- the beginning of spring. It’s also the Feast of St. Bridgid.