HAPPY SUMMER SOLSTICE!

Today is summer summer solstice. Go out and do something pagan-y!

Pagan-y activities Cyndi recommends:
Pick flowers
Go camping
Watch the sunset
Play in the rain
Have a barbecue (this is a delightfully practical way of sacrificing an animal and burning its flesh without those pesky satanic undertones that plague a work-a-day pagan).
Frolic in a meadow (If you've never frolicked, think Bambi in the part where he and Thumper discover the meadow. 'The MEADOW' the shout as they jump and roll about. This is before Bambi's mother snuffs it of course. And do avoid fields with stinging nettle. They tend to be frolic-inhibiting. And let's face it, you don't want to be in the ER explaining how your rash was acquired in the act of frolicking.)


Pagan-y activities Cyndi does not recommend:
Dancing naked outdoors: (Your neighbors won't appreciate this. Police tend to discourage it as well.)
Leaping naked over a fire: (I shouldn't have to tell you that this isn't a good idea. Unless of course you have been longing for a Brazilian wax. I imagine singeing the hair off your nether regions might be even more effective, though the potential for pain expands exponentially depending on your lack of coordination).
Sacrificing a goat: (Unless the goat has insulted you in some way. In which case a sacrifice might me acceptable. But mostly I recommend that you give the goat a good talking to.)


It is also my and Andy's anniversary. We will be sacrificing some french cheeses in a red-wine fig reduction, followed by a Roman style grilled quail agro dulce, and then finally a mascarpone cheesecake with a apricot hazelnut crust. *mouth waters. Cyndi dabs her keyboard with a tissue.

Yes, well. Solstice. Go out and be glad to be alive.

Cyndi

Only Humans can Treat Chickens Humanely

Wha?? See, I know what you are thinking. But the title of this post was taken directly from a Foster Farm's billboard that I encountered this morning on my way to work. "Only Humans cans Treat Chickens Humanely" it touted. To the left of this slogan a family portrait bragged of Foster Farms' obviously impeccable value system. Mom, Dad, charming country house behind them. Three little ones, glossy and well fed presumably on humanely treated chicken parts.

I snorted as I passed, considering the ramifications of this statement. The Webster's dictionary defines humane as " marked by compassion, sympathy, or consideration for humans or animals." I'm almost positive that having the flesh gnawed off your bones after being economically snuffed, bled, hung and plucked would not qualify as humane in most circles. Don't get me wrong here. I'm not all activist-y and I do eat chicken. My roast chicken kicks ass, if I do say so myself. And I do. Because it's delicious. And I rock. Woo!

Okay, back to what I was talking about. Humanely killing chickens. This kind of sentiment bugs. Can't they just be honest about what's really going on here? Here are some alternative slogan suggestions.

"Foster Farms: Only Humans can Kill an Animal and Consume its Flesh while Still Convincing Themselves it's Humane. Aren't You Glad You Are a Human Instead of a Chicken?"

"Foster Farms: We Electrocute our Chickens and Chop off Their Heads While They are Passed Out. This Is Much Better than Clubbing Them. Trust Us."

"Foster Farms: Death so Quick You'll wish You Were a Chicken."

"Foster Farms: We Only Killed the Ones who Had it Coming."

"Foster Farms: What to Chickens Have do Live for Anyway? They Don't Even Celebrate Christmas."

"Foster Farms: We Didn't Kill them, they Willingly Sacrificed Themselves for the Greater Good of Humanity. It's As it Should Be."

"Foster Farms: We Eat What We Kill. This Way They Did Not Die In Vain, Thus Making Their Death Honorable."

I'm a hypocrite. The honest truth is that if I could only eat what I killed, I would have to be a vegetarian. I couldn't even kill a turkey, nature's butt-stinking-ugly D-student. In fact, knowing me, I'd cut open a tomato one day and get all guilty when I think how happy it was sitting on a vine in the sun. Slowly I would starve to death as I thought about the various humiliations that produce endures in order to arrive orphaned on a grocery store shelf. I'd end up buying all the rotten and bruised items, feeling sorry that they wouldn't get picked. Instead of eating them I would take them home and make them a little bed from tissues and an egg carton where they could live out their last days in peace.

Then I'd die.

Good thing there are places like Foster Farms that relieve me of the obligation to kill things and do their best to make me feel warm and fuzzy about the way they were dispatched. Yep, I'm glad to be human.


Cyndi

Cyndi vs. The Jetted Tub: An Epic Battle of Wills

*Note: This is a true story. Names have not been changed to protect the terminally stupid. For the purposes of this story, the Jetted Tub will heretofore be identified as "Larry." *

Immersed in the palid half-light seeping under the bathroom door, Larry waited. Many days had he passed thusly, cagey with barely restrained rage and disgust. He was a Windward six foot Whirlpool with integral apron and left handed drain for porcelain's sake. How had ever been brought so low? he mused to himself. They'd done it again today. The male and female both in their turn, pressing their feet in his face, ignoring his luxurious depths in favor of the bargain Walmart shower head. A shower head without massage settings no less. Humiliation burned deep in Larry's plumbing. Soon, he vowed. Very soon they would regret this choice.

Larry's jet-holes squinted at the burst of sudden light. It was the female. Come no doubt to indulge in her pathetic vanities. Typical. But what was this? What was in her hand. Surely these were not cleaning implements. Those had better be for the toilet, he thought. Horror descended in pounding waves on his high grade porcelain. She was turning not toward the toilet, but toward him! And now she spoke!

"Alright you. This is long overdue," she said taking a knee before him on the tile, her yellow gloves glowing like the very fires of hell in the fluorescent light. Frantically, Larry's troubled mind scrambled to think. Long overdue for what? What could she possibly mean? What was the oddly shaped brush in her hand coming ever closer to one of his jet holes? "No!" he shrieked in his mind. "Something make her stop! For the love of porcelain! Please!"


His anguished cries fell upon the cold hearted tiles, deaf to his plight in their travertine treachery. The brush, laden with un-namable horrors was shoved mercilessly into Larry's mouth, then eyes, then ears. Befouled with muck long neglected in his pipes, it judiciously plunged for what seemed to Larry an eternity.


"Much better!" the female exclaimed, mocking his suffering. He peered up at her, silently praying she could see the rage and injustice in his eye. Feel my pain you skin bag! he implored. She seemed not to notice the waves of hatred emanating from him; instead she turned his plug closed and began to fill him with frigid water. Had she no mercy? No ounce of compassion? Could she not at least make the water tepid to ease his tortured joints and u-bends?

"Now, the British cleaning ladies say to fill you with water, then drop in a cup of bleach and turn the jets on." In her vile hand she clutched a smooth white bottle, measuring out a draught of the toxic liquid.

She's trying to kill me, Larry registered with shock. She trying to kill me. His mind fought against the chilly waters threatening to numb him of all thoughts. Think Larry! he screamed. Think or we will die! A single thought slithered across his frantic mind, his revelation registering with a plop. Turn the jets on. She'd said she was going to turn on the jets. Could it be?, Larry thought with elation. Was salvation really at hand? The water was climbing higher now. He felt his pipes beating wildly. Would she do it? Would she?

Her gloved hand broke the surface of the water and depressed the jet button. NOW! screamed Larry. Larry drank deeply of the bleach tainted frigid water and with strength beyond his experience, forcefully ejected it through his jets. Geysers of bleach and sludge erupted skyward, scoring a direct hit in the female's eyes. She hadn't even had time to blink. Glorious fountains erupted, soaking the floor and the shower head, repaying them for every ounce of indignity he had suffered their hands.

The female shrieked, covering her eyes, spitting the tainted water from her mouth, blindly slapping at his jet button with one hand, trying to plug his jet holes with the fingers of the other. She she sputtered at the awesome fury of Larry's revenge, his heart soaring upward with his streams of justice. With one last desperate push, she jammed her finger into the jet activator button.

The filth-laden stew fell earthward, Larry's joy crashing downward with its descent. The female panted wildly, soaked to the skin as she stood in the great puddle Larry had created. "That wasn't nice," she finally managed, eyes narrowed at him.

"I can see that we're not going to friends after all," she said, flipping the plug to drain him. No, thought Larry fondly. We are not. The water drained away leaving a scarred wasteland of pipe gunk on Larry's underbelly. Battle wounds, he thought, puffing with pride. He peered over the edge of himself and watched as she used towels to sop up the spreading filth on the floor. She turned back to him and reached toward the detachable shower head.

What is she doing, Larry wondered. What can she possibly be doing? She reached down and turned the water to scalding, pulling the lever to guide the water to the shower head. She was spraying him down! With the shower head! Taking away his hard wrought sludge, subjecting him to further humiliation.

"Yes, well. At least you're cleaner now, even if I can't use you," she remarked idly. Larry reeled with hatred. All this, and still he would go unused. Despair took him as she gathered her things and left, returning him to the semi-darkness. Just you wait, he thought clearing his throat of the hair wad gathering there. Just. You. Wait.

Larry giggled sardonically, allowing himself the luxury of a grin before closing his jets. Until next time, he whispered, drifting into blessed oblivion. Next time.


Hope y'all enjoyed!
Cyndi

La Boheme!!!!!!

I get to go see La Boheme tonight! It's a recording of the spring season encore performance at the Met! The MET!!!! In surround sound!

So in review: Opera! La Boheme! Met! Encore Performance! Dolby Digital Surround Sound! Me! Tonight! Gushy happy tail wagging bouncing up and down pure unadulterated nerd glee!

Huraaaaaaaay!
Cyndi

50 Questions

Many thanks to Heather, who by sending me this meme spared me from having to come up with anything too clever to write about today.

1. Do you like blue cheese? I laaaahv it.
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> 2. Have you ever smoked heroin? No suh.
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> 3. Do you own a gun? Yes. It shoots marshmallows. Fear me.
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> 4. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic? Chili cheese fry- oh wait, they refused to put that flavor into a drink. Jerks.
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> 5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments? Yep.
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> 6. What do you think of hot dogs? They tend to be rather full of themselves.
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> 7. Favorite Christmas movie? Gotta go with the classic. A Christmas Story. I can't get up Ralphie!
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> 8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Anything that will keep me from biting people who ask me questions (oddly they discourage this where I work). This usually means a caffeinated beverage of some sort.
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> 9. Can you do pushups? Hmm. Pushups? Is this some sort of ice cream pop? If so, I could definitely do many.
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> 10. Age? Too close to 30 for comfort.
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> 11. What's your favorite piece of jewelry? Bling is bling baby. I like it all.
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> 12. Favorite hobby? Cooking or writing. I also read a great deal, but have the feeling this isn't really a hobby. This is something sad pathetic people claim as a hobby. People like me!
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> 13. Favorite Actor? Anthony Hopkins
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> 14. Do you have A.D.D.? Let me think. Hey! Let's ride bikes!

> 15. What's one trait you hate about yourself? My shyness

> 16. Middle name? Lynn

> 17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment? My coat itches but I'm too cold to take it off. I need to go water my boss's plants. The sleeves on this shirt are actually long enough for my monkey arms. Exciting peek into my brain, ain't it?
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> 18. Name 3 things you bought yesterday/today: Baseball pants for Chris. That's about it.
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> 19. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink? Milk, Diet Pepsi with lime, water
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> 20. Current worries? Staying awake during the upcoming garnishment meeting I get to take notes for. Whoopee!
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> 21. Current hate right now? Utah spring weather. Bitter cold winds one day, 80 degrees the next. Ptooey I say. Ptooey.
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> 22. Favorite place to be? At home on the couch in my comfy pants.

> 23. How did you bring in the New Year? I can't really remember, so it must have been fun. ; )
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> 24. Where would you like to go? Everywhere. I hear the weather is nice this time of year.
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> 25. Name three people who will complete this: Me, Myself, I.

> 26. Do you own slippers? Yes. Big pink ones that look like dinosaur feet. Complete with talons. Rawr!

> 27. What shirt are you wearing? A black camisole under a sheer black button up shirt.
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> 28. Do you like sleeping on satin sheets? Too slippery. Less coordinated people like me don't need any further help flopping off a raised surface while unconscious.
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> 29. Can you whistle? Reports show that previous attempts at this suggested activity have been heretofore unsuccessful.
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> 30. Favorite color? I love em all.
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> 31. Would you be a pirate? Yarrr! Aye would be the most piratey pirate yar ever sar!
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> 32. What songs do you sing in the shower? I don't sing in the shower. I shave my legs in the shower. Hazardous to allocate any available bandwidth to other activities.

> 33. Favorite girl's name? I'm not tellin.

> 34. Favorite boy's name? Buckminster

35. What is in your pocket right now? The little stretchy thing on my badge.
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> 36. Last thing that made you laugh? Andy accidentally shaving a big chunk out of his goatee. And not noticing it until I pointed it out at home last night. Hee hee hee.
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> 37. Best bed sheets as a child? Rainbow Bright.
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> 38. Worst injury you've ever had? I think I covered this topic more than amply in my last post. Perhaps not the worst, but certainly the most prolific.
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> 39. Do you love where you live? I love the town house where I live. But I would not be at all disappointed if I woke up and my townhouse had wandered over to Florence, Italy.
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> 40. How many TVs do you have in your house? 3
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> 41. Who is your loudest friend? Heather- love you baby!
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> 42. How many dogs do you have? 0
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> 43. Does someone have a crush on you? If they do, they haven't let me know.

> 44. What is your favorite book? Anything by Janet Evanovich- This was Heather's answer! I have infected her! Bwahahaha!
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> 45. Where were you born? Plattsburg, New York.

> 46. What is your favorite candy? Heath

> 47. Favorite Sports Team? Don't really have one.

> 48. What song do you want played at your funeral? Another One Bites the Dust would be fitting. Even better if there were a Queen cover band there to do it.
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> 49. What were you doing at 12 A.M.? Sleeping.
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> 50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? Hmm. Isn't it lovely of Stewie (my cat) to park his furry ass right by my face.

The Universe Hates Me

I think the universe hates me. This morning I fell off my heel and rolled my ankle on the way to the car. It hurts, but I can walk on it. So I'm going to walk on it. Thirteen some odd years wearing ridiculously high heels and I have NEVER fallen off. NEVER. I mean, I used to run up icy hills in stilettos when late for church at good ole Ricks. And I never slipped. Not once. Ever. Honestly, this is getting ridiculous. I'm too lurpy to live. I'm a mess.

Here's the current injury count: (In a neatly bulleted list, just for you! See how I love you?)

• Ugly healingish bruises on both legs and back (from the stairs)
• New bruises on both legs from running into things in the new apartment
• Bruised foot due to falling vase - (at least I caught it)
• Gouged and bloodied tootsie from Stewie's failed attempt to scale the washer and dryer last night
• Rolled ankle
• Pulled back muscle (begun whilst rolling down he stairs, exacerbated whilst tensing for a side- walk fall this morning)
• Bruised ego

I think I must have bad karma. I need to universe to love me again. Maybe I need to go out and rescue some grasshoppers. Or buy a three legged dog a prosthetic limb. Or help an old lady cross the street.

Better yet, I will find an old lady who needs to cross the street and give her a ride to Wendover instead. I will watch her purse while she plays the slots. I will point out suitable elderly gentleman companions who appear jaunty and well-dressed. Then I will purchase for her a new scarfy thing that all the old ladies wear to keep the wind off their hair. I will carefully make sure the scarfy thing is in a color that compliments her Buck and Buck sweat suit. I will press her sweat suit, paying careful attention not to iron over the delicate appliques.

I will apply an appropriate polish to her gold LA. Gear tennis shoes. Perhaps I will purchase some creams and lotions for her arthritis. Then I will cook for her a dinner of fiber rich foods in specifically selected textures appropriate to her chewing abilities. Following this, I will set up a DVR to record her favorite programs, such as Matlock and Murder She Wrote, and perhaps even Poirot. When I am finished, she will be happy, and will look something like this.



Hopefully then the universe will forgive me for breathing.

Ta,
Cyndi

If you give a klutz some stairs

Sigh. Sigh. Big heavy heartbreaking sigh. (People, I'm sighing here!)
Oh? What's wrong? Well how kind of you to ask. The trouble is, I have an absolutely hilarious post, and I really don't want to write it. Because it's embarrassing. Okay fine, excellent point. About 95% of this blog is dedicated to the stupid and embarrassing things I do. Well I guess I have no excuse then, have I? Okay then. But one last time, I really don't want to do this.

I suppose in order to lighten the mood, I will write this tale in the format of my favorite childhood book, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. I mean, how freaking adorable was this book? A little mouse in overalls, how terminally cute is that?


Look at him. Have you ever seen anything so...What? What do you mean get on with it? I'm not trying to distract you. Really I'm not.

Okay, okay. Without further ado, I present. If You Give a Klutz Some Stairs, first ed. By Cyndi Olsen.

If you give a klutz an apartment, she'll probably want something cute.

And when she asks for something cute, she'll probably want a townhouse.

This townhouse will likely have stairs.

Once you give her a cute townhouse with stairs, she will want to make herself comfortable.

So she will begin unpacking all of her crap... er things and clutter up the place.

Since she needs to unpack her things, she will probably make her husband go to the other apartment and finish the cleaning.

When her husband goes to do the cleaning, he will likely forget his wallet at the new apartment.

Because he needs the wallet to pay the carpet cleaners the klutz has hired, he will probably call the klutz and ask if she can bring it over.

Since the klutz is also obsessive and worried about the cleaners showing up early and her husband having no money, she will attempt to leap around the empty boxes and rush down the stairs to get it to him, while still talking to him on her cell phone.

Because the klutz is a klutz, she will FALL DOWN THE STAIRS.

When the klutz falls down the stairs, she will get several bruises.

The bruises will probably turn lots of different colors. Colors so remarkable that the klutz will send a picture of them via text message to her parents.

The klutzes parents with then call her and ask what the heck is wrong with her.

They will question if she has some sort of balance-affecting neurological disorder, or if she was concussed.

She will tell them that she is fine, and that her pride is what is bruised worst of all. She will be grateful that she was the only one home, and that staircases are unable to laugh.

Assured that their daughter is not suffering any major cerebral damage, they will then ask her if she is going to write a blog post about her accident.

After much hemming and hawing she will.

And does.

The End!