You ever have those people in your life?  The ones who are CONVINCED they know what they’re talking about?  But maybe don’t…quite?

Yeah – me too.  Case in point: One time I was at a dinner party, and a man there was talking about how he had read a book about the secret to the longevity of the Centurions.

Me:  Uhhh…Centurions?  Like dudes in skirts who worked for Caesar?

Him:  No, no.  CenTURions.  Scientists had studied them and compiled a book on their findings of why they lived so long.

Me:  Sooo…CENTURIONS??  [It’s at this point that I’m pretty sure he’s talking about people who are 100 years old.  But I can’t remember what they’re called.  All I can think of is that Colorado became a state when America was 100 years old and that’s why it’s called the Centennial State.  But are PEOPLE called CENTENNIALS?  That doesn’t seem quite right either.  But I KNOW they’re not called Centurions.  And unless Pythagoras took a break from his tedious theorems, there wasn’t a scientist alive in 32 A.D. who studied the secret to the longevity of the Centurions.  ‘Cause if they had, they would have found that the secret was: 1) stay cool in your cute dress, 2) drive a swift chariot and 3) stick together in groups of 100.  There’s just not enough there to make an entire BOOK for people to talk about at dinner parties.]  So I say, “Actually, I’m pretty sure Centurions were Roman Soldiers.  Speaking of which…” 

And I’m off!  Telling everyone about this sweeping epic movie I’d seen one time about the life of Jesus.  And at the crucifixion scene, JOHN WAYNE was playing the role of the Centurion who stood by and watched Jesus take his final breath.  All is quiet after darkness falls over the land and the shroud in the temple has ripped, and it’s time for Mr. Wayne’s voiceover, “Truly this was the Son of God, Pilgrim.”

When we’re all laughing at my rendition of John Wayne as a Roman CENTURION (he doesn’t really say “Pilgrim” in the movie – I added that part), the man friend pipes up again with, “Ok, maybe they’re not called Centurions.  But they lived to be over 100.”  It’s at this point my husband strolls over and says, “Oh, you mean like Centenarians?”

-End Scene-

So where does this leave us when we’re faced with those people?  Whether it’s an innocuous dinner party conversation, or something more important?  I find it best to stick to my guns.  All the while using a little positive self-talk.  But in a cartoon voice, “I knows what I knows.  And that’s all that I knows…guck, guck, guck!” 

And if that fails?  Call my husband.  He’ll know.

Bloggity, blog, blog

UPDATE:  After I posted this blog, Hubby sent me an email “clarifying” (in an exasperated sort of way) that it’s Red SHIRT and not Red LETTER. Not that I care. But you might. So FYI in case you think he’s a total football moron. He’s not. I am. And I’m proud of it!  Now read on…


People who find out I have a blog fall into three distinct categories: Category A, those who want to be IN the blog; Category B, those who DON’T want to be in the blog; and Category C, those who are in the blog all the time, and don’t even know it.  This category mostly pertains to my kids.  (I have named my daughter, Sissy and my son, Sonny.  No, of course those aren’t their real names, ‘cause I’m wack, but not THAT wack.  I just named them that for blog purposes so as to protect the guilty.)  And sometimes my husband falls into Category C as well.  His name is Hubby.  Hey – don’t blame me on that one!  His PARENTS named him Hubby, which is a weird coincidence, don’t you think?

Category A people always think that the conversation we’re having – right now – should be in the blog.  Hey, here’s an idea….I could be in your blog!  In fact, this conversation we’re having right now is pretty funny.  This conversation should totally go in your blog, right?   Yes.  Totally.

Category B people always think that their deepest, darkest secrets might appear in the blog and therefore avoid me at all costs in case I can see into their souls and pull out said secrets for blog-fodder.  While I can’t actually do this, I give the appearance that I can.  This “appearance” mostly consists of me giving them the stink-eye from across the room at parties. 

And as previously stated, Category C people include my kids and hubby.  And finally, here’s where we get to the jumping-off point for today’s blog. 

[The Editorial Calendar is a bit slow this week, so I gotta make do.  If you have better ideas for blog topics, please submit.  Until then, look right into my eyes.  Look DIRECTLY into my eyes so that I can SEEEEE to your VERRRRY SOULLLLLLL….] 

In no particular order (ok, I lied.  It’s actually age order – youngest to oldest – but I wasn’t sure if that was considered “chronological” or counter-chronological? so I didn’t mention it), here are the conversations I have had in the last day with three of these main characters in my lifestory:

Sonny: As he’s going to sleep last night, he asks (apropos nothing, always apropos nothing), “Do the babies hold their breaths in their moms’ tummies the whole time they’re in there before they’re born?”  Sigh.  This is always how he gets me to go down some confusing (to him AND me) path where I speak in euphemisms and code words that even I don’t understand.  Resolving to speak plainly in specific words this time around, I reply, “well, actually…the babies, while they’re alive, aren’t air-breathing yet.  They get everything they need from the umbilical cord that connects them to their mother.  Even oxygen.”  Judging by the puzzled expression, I can tell that Sonny is now picturing the umbilical cord snaking down the baby’s throat to feed oxygen directly into its lungs.  So I clarify, “I mean, the umbilical cord gives the babies everything they need in addition to oxygen, but directly INTO their bloodstream.  Like Vitamin C, Vitamin B12…” ok, where did THIS come from?  Why am I DOING this?!?  WAAAY too much weird, granular detail.  B-12??  Pull back!  Pull BACK!!   This sound-the-retreat voice in my head tells me this is clearly making NO sense, so I wrap up with, “The umbilical cord is how they get their nutrients to grow big enough to be born.  They don’t breathe air until they’re born.  So it’s not like they’re holding their breath the whole time.  ‘Cause they’re not.  They don’t breathe air.  Until they’re born.”  Hmmm…that was VERY good.  Very good, indeed.  People should put me in charge of telling this to other people.  It’s so clear and insightful.  Sonny replies with, “Soooo, is that why babies are blue when they’re born?  Because they aren’t breathing yet?”  Oh, geez.  This kid is BRILLIANT!!  Despite my best efforts to complicate the simplest things, he sees through it.  To which I say, “Yes!  That’s exactly right.  But then they pink-up.  Pink-up?  Who says: pink-up?  I’VE never said pink-up!  Yet now I’m using it in a conversation?!  This isn’t gonna go well.   Meaning: they get all pink when they’re born because then they’re breathing and oxygen causes them to pink-up.”  Sonny then says (in a horrified tone of voice), “Like pink up…like ALL the way pink?  Like HOT pink??”  Sigh.

Sissy: Told us ALL about her dream this morning over breakfast:  “So then, we met a girl from the state of Miladelphia at the pool while we were on a family field trip to Disneyland.  And I said, do you mean PHILadelphia?  And she said, no, MILadelphia.  But then we kicked her out of the car on the way to see the movie because she answered Dad’s question wrong about the honeybees.  And also we know there’s no state of MILadelphia.”  Uhhh…ok.  There’s also no state of PHILadelphia either, but this is your dream.  So what happened then?  “But then it turns out she’s IN the movie, like one of the actors.  And Jennifer Lawrence is also in the movie.  She’s the main character.  It’s about these people who live in Antarctica.  But now they’re on a cruise ship, and Jennifer dives down to the front of a cruise ship.  It’s like a room, but underneath the water.  And we can see the room’s window-porthole thing from outside.  And in the window is a pencil drawing of a guy.  I mean it’s just a pencil drawing but then we hear Jennifer off-screen say, ‘Hello brother’ and a bunch of fleas come out of nowhere and swarm over her.  We left and when we were back in the car I asked why we left and Dad said, ‘Because the movie was too scary.’  And then I screamed at you because I was mad that we left.”  Ooooooh kaaaaaay.  Less conversation, more one-sided rant than anything.  But that was interesting, right?   

Hubby:  With that freshman who just won the Heisman Trophy, the topic of our conversation last night was the whole ‘Red Letter Freshman’ concept.  I don’t know where I’ve been, but apparently this nonsense has been going on for a long time.  I was not aware of it until this conversation and so was asking perceptive and insightful questions that resulted in Hubby yelling that I should look it up and stop bugging him.  I will give you just one example of a perceptive question and then let you go about your business because I’ve taken up too much of your time already.  This question was, “Ok, let me get this straight…in Football Land they’re called a Red Letter Freshman, but in Real World they’re called a Sophomore?  But this guy who just won the Heisman is a REAL Freshman in the REAL World AND in the Football World??  But then what happens if you were a Red Letter Freshman but now you’re a Football Senior?  Does that mean you actually GRADUATED from college but have no life and you’re coming back to college just to play football?  You don’t have a job??  How many people are like this??!?”  This is when the yelling came in and the strong suggestions to “look it up, educate yourself, leave me alone!” may have started.  Whatevs.  It’s dumb.  And I actually don’t really care.  I thought the whole thing was going to be a Scarlet Letter/ostracizing sort of concept.  Which would have been intriguing.  But it wasn’t.  Instead it was just one more way football makes itself so confusing as to be completely uninteresting to me.

Now Folks, the captain has turned off the “blogging on and on about the family” signal.  You are free to go about your day.  Thank you for your attention.

Bread and milk

Ok.  I do NOT get this.  When a snowstorm hits, why do folks head to the store for bread and milk? 

Do they enjoy sitting in their dark, cold, power-outage kitchen snarfing down pieces of bread and swigging glasses of milk?  To keep up their spirits AND their strength??

What about a little butter?  (It’s funnier if you say it this way: buh-dah.  Buh-dah.  Buh-dah buh-dah buh-dah.  See?  Funny.)

Or howz about an egg or two??

‘Cause really – bread and milk by themselves are a total non-starter.  Add a little butter and an egg?  And NOW you’re cooking with oil!  (Oil might also be something to add to your snowstorm grocery list.  So you can cook with it.)

Unless, of course, I’m missing something and people are MAKING things with bread and milk as the two key ingredients?!  And that’s why they are so sought after when the snow hits?? 

The only recipe I can think of would be bread mush.  You make it by putting slices of bread in a bowl and then covering them with milk.  Wait until it’s mushy.  Then top with a sprinkling of sawdust from waaaaay baaaaack in your bare cupboards.  Nummy num num!  Comfort food.

Is there a recipe for pot roast you can make with bread and milk?  Or perhaps apple pie?!? 

If not, then I say SKIP the bread and milk and just head-up the snowstorm grocery list with pot roast and apple pie.  Because itSNOWstorm (it’s no storm – get it?  Me funny.) grocery list a’tall unless you have pot roast and pie.      



My mother emailed me to let me know that in the East, people go to the store to buy bread, milk AND toilet paper (because you don’t want to be caught short on that staple).  But I maintain that if you buy pot roast and apple pie instead, you do into some weird hibernation mode and  end up comatose on the couch and don’t need any toilet paper.