Category Archives: Silliness

What’s the significance?

DISCLAIMER: Management assumes no responsibility for any songs or song fragments that may become permanently lodged in the reader’s head as a result of the following post. Proceed at your own risk.

One date. Two trivia questions. Two songs. Ten years apart. One fabulous prize.

Two songs — one recorded in 1967, and one recorded in 1977 — begin with the line:

“It was the third of June …”

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to supply the following information for both songs:

1. The rest of the line.
2. The name of the song.
3. The name of the singer-songwriter who wrote and recorded it.

First person to post the correct answers will win a fabulous prize, to be revealed later this week. Bonus points if you can get the answers without the aid of Google.

(Note to Mom, Dad, and Nerd: Y’all are not eligible to participate in this contest, ‘cos we’ve already discussed the answers.)

Emily

On a quest

I went on a quest this evening to find a pair of Rockford Red Heel socks for making a sock monkey. I’d hoped they might be available locally (I seem to remember seeing them at a craft store not long ago), but I couldn’t find any at my usual haunts, so I finally gave up and ordered some online.

I’m not exactly sure why, but I have decided that it is simply wrong for Jamie to go through life without a sock monkey. I have also decided that it is simply wrong for me to go through life without a sock monkey. I intend to right this wrong as soon as my socks come in.

I think my fascination with sock monkeys started a few weeks ago, when I stumbled across the aftermath of Craftster.org’s sock monkey challenge.

Then I got online today and found these hilarious Halloween monkeys, and after that, it was all over for me — I can’t possibly survive much longer without making a sock monkey of my own.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have something else I need to be doing. Lots of somethings, in fact. But what I want to do is make sock monkeys.

I didn’t have the right kind of socks tonight, so I just worked late, laid out my section of the paper, and then came home and made stroganoff for dinner.

I know I still haven’t uploaded my cute Jamie photos from last weekend. I really am going to Photoshop them soon. Honest I am. I’ll have to do it before tomorrow night tonight, as I am heading to Sapulpa to take pictures for work and need to clear off my card before I go. Hopefully I can slip out of the office early enough to get that done….

Emily

Don’t call him a cyclist

Conway Twitty released a great song in the late ’70s or early ’80s called “Don’t Call Him a Cowboy.” The lyrics stated, in part:

Don’t call him a cowboy until you’ve seen him ride.
That Stetson hat and them fancy boots don’t tell you what’s inside,
And if he ain’t good in the saddle, then you won’t be satisfied,
So don’t call him a cowboy until you’ve seen him ride.

I thought of this song this evening after taking Songdog for a training run on the river trail.

At least a half-dozen times, I watched people in spandex outfits and color-coordinated helmets send Song into a blind panic by flying past him on their bikes at top speed with no warning whatsoever.

These so-called cyclists were obviously trying to project an image. They had their fancy racing bikes and their fancy helmets and their fancy outfits, and they were trying their best to look like serious athletes … but it was painfully obvious that they hadn’t spent enough time on the trail to learn even the most basic concepts of etiquette and safety.

If they had, they would have known that three little words — “on your left” — will do wonders to protect a pair of joggers (one on two legs, one on four) from potential injury and certain annoyance.

Three little words would give me time to put just a wee bit more tension on the leash and say my dog’s name in a firm tone to calm his lingering fear of having wheeled objects speed past him at close proximity (a fear that has been with him since the day almost three years ago when a car hit him and sent him rolling into my neighbor’s yard).

Three little words would help me keep Song at heel where he belongs.

Instead, the staunch refusal to utter those three little words sent my sweet collie mix slamming into me in raw terror, tripping me and sometimes knocking me off the trail, every single time anybody on a bicycle passed us from behind.

Here’s a clue: You can put on your fancy “serious cyclist” costume and ride up and down the busiest half-mile of Tulsa’s 20-some-odd-mile-long trail system at top speed to show off your high-end racing bike all you want, but if you’re not going to follow that trail’s universally accepted safety procedures, you might as well have baseball cards clothespinned to your spokes, because it’s obvious to anyone unfortunate enough to have to share the trail with you that you are nothing more than a silly poser in a silly outfit.

I’m sorry, but I’m not calling you a cyclist. I’ve seen you ride.

Emily

Gigglebox

My mom sent me this great video of Jamie giggling his head off while Daddy tickles his belly. If there is anything more squee-inducing than a 5-month-old shrieking with laughter, I’m sure I’ve never seen it. This is a prime example of what Daddy was talking about when I was little and he would say, “You’ve got your gigglebox turned upside-down.”

Insane cuteness. I can’t wait to go home over Memorial Day weekend and listen to Jamie giggle in person.

Emily

Somewhere That’s Green

So I bought an utterly fabulous book in Weatherford a few weeks ago: the Better Homes & Gardens Decorating Book (copyright 1956).

I’d had an idea I might scan bits of it and post them on my blog, accompanied by snarky comments, a la the Lileks Gallery of Regrettable Foods or It Came from the 1971 Sears Catalog (two of the finest time-wasters on the Internet) … but I thought I’d better Google it first to make sure that nobody else had already done something similar to what I was planning.

In my search, I found a great blog entry from a guy who not only scanned several of the illustrations, but also painted three of them on a wall behind a friend’s mid-century furniture store. Go take a look at it, because it’s fabulous.

So is the book, for that matter. If you can find a copy on eBay or in a used bookstore somewhere for less than 20 bucks, it’s probably worth owning.

Emily

You’ve got stupidity!

When I was in seventh grade, Mrs. Chiaventone’s second-hour honors English class met in a classroom that had big windows looking out onto the playground where the children in the adjacent elementary school played.

Second hour coincided with the elementary students’ morning recess. The school was not air-conditioned, so we had to keep the windows open during warm weather.
This combination of factors provided an endless source of entertainment (read: disruptions) for our class.

On one particularly memorable morning, a little boy stood right outside our window, loudly upbraiding a playmate: “You’ve got stupidity! Stupidity! YOU’VE GOT STUPIDITY!”

I have no idea what his companion had done to earn this diagnosis, but it became a running joke in our class. Every time someone forgot his homework, or missed a question on a test, or gave a lame oral report, or we were confronted with a situation that we just weren’t sure how to address, one or the other of us would announce: “YOU’VE GOT STUPIDITY!”

This would, of course, bring down the house. Especially when Chris Redfearn did it. I don’t know why it was funnier when Chris said it. It just was.

I mention this tonight because I can hear that little boy’s voice shouting in my thought.

I am supposed to be laying out a newsletter for a local nonprofit group. Someone asked me if I could throw something together on the fly. In the past two weeks, I have designed a 76-page magazine for the Oklahoma Route 66 Association, which I followed up with a 12-page newsletter yesterday, and in between, two deadlines have come and gone at work, meaning I have laid out something like 18 pages at the office. Frankly, I’ve spent about as much quality time with inDesign as I care to. But I promised I would have this other newsletter done by Monday.

It’s not a big deal. It’s based on a very simple template. It’s only six pages. I have all the items I need, along with a list of everything I am supposed to have and where it’s all supposed to go. I am not responsible for writing, shooting, or editing anything. All I have to do is Photoshop some pictures into black and white, slap the stories and photos on the pages, and send a PDF to the editor. The whole thing probably won’t take an hour and a half. I’m just not in the mood to do it … and haven’t been all weekend.

So what am I doing tonight?

I’m looking up pictures of ’50s bombshell dresses to wear to the Will Rogers Banquet in June. I’m exchanging e-mails with a buddy of mine in California. I’m approving blog comments. I’m going back and rereading old blog entries from eight months ago. I’m thinking about changing my gerbil’s litter, because something in here smells weird, and I’m pretty sure it’s her. (Note how I am not actually changing her litter, which would represent a productive use of my time … just thinking about it.) And now I am blogging about something that happened during the Reagan administration.

In short, I am procrastinating in grand fashion. And I have been procrastinating for at least three times as long as it would have taken to simply lay out the newsletter.

You know why?

Because I’ve got STUPIDITY.

Emily