The Password’s Lasagna.

And Happy New Year!!!

Hippos are fun to draw. This is a hippo: Hippos are also considered by many to be the most dangerous large animal in Africa. This is also a hippo: You’re welcome.

For the record. That was just the most awful thing I could think of off the top of my head. Here’s a less awful thing I thought of off the top of my head, once when I was very bored and had been researching Mt. Everest (which I decided not to climb after learning that even in this modern age, there is a very strong likelihood of plunging to your death over a cliff). Sloping          in an     Endless fall         Of shining           Snow, still          Descending               River-hill,              Turned to                 Fractals,                    Free of                        Tracks            ...

...how’s it going? How are you? Have a nice day! These are things people say. They’re called “polite, non-committal remarks,” and they’re perfectly normal. ...how are you like this? Have you had a head injury? I hope you drown in a goldfish bowl! These are things people think. They’re called “socially innappropriate truths,” and they’re perfectly normal. This is when (if you are at all a naturally honest, negatively-trending person) you realize you have a problem. Do you lie and be accepted? Do you tell the truth and be arrested? Do you remain silent, and trudge through life in an aura of mystery? My friends, there are questions that have no answers, but I personally think the world would be easier to navigate if there was a little more blunt truthfulness or a little less people.

So you turn instead to Google and let your questions be seen by all the world, including snoops like me. I happened to look up a strange sensation I’ve been experiencing lately (yes, I do it too, and yes, I’m probably on the brink of death) that involves a crawling sensation on the back of my scalp.  Since it’s not tick season, I assume it’s a tiny person attempting to scale my head in order to have a look around.  Unfortunately, I wear a lot of hats this time of year so even if they make it to the top, they aren’t likely to see much. But that’s not the point. If you ask Google to give you any information involving tingling sensations and your own head, it will immediately throw at you a list of questions asked by similar unfortunate individuals, along with the all-knowing answers provided by an unspecified internet friend. Some of them make you shake your head in pity, such as this sad, lonely soul, who asks, “Can I test myself for a brain tumor?” The answer is undecided...

For example, snow is glittery and the stars are brighter.

If you’ve ever wondered who’s most likely to die in a pedestrian/snowmobile collision, I’ll give you a hint. (Whisper whisper...It’s not the snowmobile.) If you’ve ever wondered what the exact likelihood of your dying in a pedestrian/snowmobile collision is, I’ll give you a hint. (If you are in the right state at the right time of year, say, anywhere north of Iowa between December and March, and you are outside...well, it’s high.  I would include a graph to show you exactly how high, but I’ve never been very good at graphs and I think you’ll understand if I just say that your survival rate plummets very quickly to less than 1 percent.) If you’ve ever wondered how a motorcycle could possibly make a more annoying sound, I’ll give you a hint. (You take the wheels off and put little runners on it.  In other words, a snowmobile.) (Note: It also helps if you drive it across dry pavement every few minutes...it’s slightly nicer than the sound of a giant misusing a chalkboard and...

I’m going to a write a post that is made entirely of stream-of-consciousness.  It is a stream of sonsciousness. “Sonsciousness” is not a word. My grammar, and my spelling, fail at times like this. Man, this will interest nobody and horrify a few, but here we go. Pie. Pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pie pipe, spell check, I meant to write “pie,” not “pipe.” Chimney smoke, wintry woods, Santa beards, elves in hoods. Christmas time and fire is high, reindeer run and folks eat pie... Also, folks eat pie at Thanksgiving. Which was yesterday....Happy Thanksgiving, all! Pie pie pie pie pie pie pie. You know when you eat a lot of pie, and then you still want to eat more pie? Exactly. Which do you prefer, pie or whipped cream? Both, duh. Together, obviously.  Obviously shmoviously. And even while I think about pie, there are so many other things that cross my mind.  Like whales.  And pie.  And lighthouses.  And pie.  And yogurt.  A...

Yesterday, I had an emotional breakdown. It was all because of a banana. Now, I know that I write about bananas a lot on here - either I identify with them or I’ve eaten too many of them, maybe both.  Maybe I just like the word “banana.”  Speaking of which, have you ever eaten a peanut butter and chocolate covered banana?  If not, please do, thank me later. But back to today.  It was in the restroom at work.  The breakdown, I mean.  And the banana.  Or what was left of it.  There it lay, the skin (or, as you might call it, the peel), tossed in among heaps of paper towels, crammed down, flowing over, heaped up; what might have been a small tree, once upon a time.  And amid it all, like a yellow M&M in a bowl of damply buttered popcorn, lay the banana skin.  It had been out in the air for a while – probably tossed there early in the morning by someone who had, undoubtedly, chewed on it in their cubicle with grating teeth and s...

Need we go into details? A lot of things bug me. A lot. Bugs bug me. Things bug me. Me bugs me. Lots of things. Lots of bugs. Lots of me.

Pee and tree Sign and mine Nose and no’s English was made For dog poetry. Cow and now Chair and hair Eat and meat English was made For dog poetrow. Barf and snarf Burp and slurp Fart and heart English was made For dog poetrarf.

I actually wrote this as a spinach post (my “inspiring” post of the week, lest you forget) sometime last winter.  I’m sure it will leave you with a rosy glow of some sort.  Enjoy. Do you hate things?   I’m here to help.    I also hate things.    There.    Now we both feel really lousy about how lousy and horrible and evil and jerky we are.    Which means we share a common bond.    Which means...it’s sad if that’s the only common bond humans can find.    But it’s better than nothing.

Made-up words are difficult.  See, you get to make them up.  But there are still rules.  Is there anything more frustrating than that kid who turns your game of “exploring the Andes while running from tigers and crocodiles and other accurately-placed harmful animals” into a game of “this is how we do it and there’s no other way and I AM THE PRINCESSSSS!!!” Not that I speak from a bitter personal experience. Anyway, the thing about made-up words is this: Even when you’re talking about them, you have to say “made-up” with a hyphen.  If you don’t, it looks like this: made up.  Which looks absolutely awful. And then “blogstipation” (see last post).  My heart yearned to write it out as “blongstipation,” because “blong” is more entertaining to say than “blog,” which isn’t even a made-up word (except it sort of is, but not by me, which makes me angry).  It’s also probably something inappropriate.  I’m sheltered and wouldn’t know. Other made-up words ...

You may have noticed I’ve been a little less consistent here lately.  I believe I missed a week, which goes against my strongest moral principles.  However, there has been much change in my life as late, yada yada, the crux of the matter being this: The Lasagna is finished.  It is no more.  I don’t have time for it.  The end. JUST KIDDING (okay, I’m sorry mom, that was mean). There may be some changes here though.  See, recently something happened unexpectedly which, to be as brief as possible, is this:   I now write for a living.   This has not always been so.    I used to spoon tiny seeds into tiny packets with holes in them, but I like to look at that as more of a hobby.    Anyway, these days, I’m a legit, published writer with a special badge that allows me to ask people nosy questions and take photos of their children.   Because of this,   a ravenous fan (hi Auntie!) recently showed concern that I ...

Last fall I had a pumpkin.  It grew in my garden to an unanticipatedly healthy size, and, once picked, sat on my counter for a solid six months, during which time I sat nearby, gnawing my fingernails and waiting for it to turn into a solid gold carriage...i.e. to magically slice itself open and toast its own seeds into crunchy yumminess, and roast its own flesh to a state of luscious, pie-ready perfection. This never happened.  Instead, in April or May of the year following the pumpkin’s birth and subsequent harvest, I placed it in my yard, still perfectly sound and wholesome, and wished it away, being sick of the sight of it.   This time, the magic worked, and in a matter of days the entire pumpkin had more or less vanished, leaving the earth slightly more enriched and slimy than it had been. The moral of this story is:  If you possess only one small, underly serrated steak knife with a disreputable past, you’ll probably never be in the perfect mood t...

Research is obviously not my strongest soote. Neither is spelling. However, there is someone in this world who is even lamer than me (because being terrible at the most minor research makes me a lame person? I guess?). And that is: A person (or persons, or people, or aliens, or anyone, really) who plays country music on a low, low volume. Where you can hear everything except the lyrics themselves. If you, too, know someone or someones who practice this abominable behavior, I suggest you join me in taking up arms against it. We shall take action on November 1st of this year 2019, we shall carry easily concealed sharp implements with us wherever we go, and when we find these muted-country-music-listeners, we shall, by opposing, end them. Who will stand with me?