Recently in I Have Learned Category

Span, Schman.

I'm stickin' with my good ol' paragraphs.

William Shakespeare NOT. And as I don't have a baby, per se (my dearest Kitten Children, please cover your wee little ears - you know I love you much more than one with a full deck would define as seemly), the question was never germane.

Here's the situation: For three entire days now I was under the mistaken impression that William "Yo - THE BARD" Shakespeare was my twelfth great-grandfather (ah - Twelfth Night, twelfth grandfather). I was CHUFFED, as those Northern Brits like to say; I was thrilled right down to my little pink toes. I LOVE Shakespeare - I've taught Shakespeare, I've performed Shakespeare, I've read Shakespeare since I was in grade school, and YES - I thought I knew a thing or two about Shakespeare.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
NOT my
Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Grandfather

Damn computer genealogical tools. They appended "John Hall" as son to "John Hall" - who just happened to be the physician spouse of no other than Susanna Shakespeare. I knew Shakespeare's oldest surviving child was Susanna. I knew his son Hamnet had died. The time period was correct, the name made sense, I just didn't notice that the "son" John Hall (my actual kin) was born in Connecticut. Oops.

Now I know that Shakespeare's children failed miserably at providing him with bouncing baby grandchildren - even unbouncy ones for that matter. Hamnet had a twin named Judith. She and her spouse had three children, none of whom married. Susanna and John had a daughter named Elizabeth (born, I believe, AFTER Shakespeare died). She was married twice and never had a child. So that's that for William Shakespeare's lineage. Dead and gone.

I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. If there had been a documented bloodline you know that people would have been shouting about it from the rooftops and trying to get a piece of the merchandising action.

I would have certainly prattled on excitedly all about it (hold your tongues). I could still name drop, I suppose, but I don't feel like it now. I'm filled with a serious case of "bardic ennui." Royalty-Scmoyalty. Like I've always joked, I have a passel of ancestors of "high" birth who no doubt oppressed and or killed or dispossessed the throng of the ancestors of "low" position. It's a laugh riot.

I located my important founding Mennonites in Pennsylvania and a direct relation from the Mayflower (my tenth great-grandfather - evidently he and his brother were Governors of Plymouth Colony at different times). I guess I could ponder the ramifications of that influx of these settlers on the Native population. Huzzah!

Oh well. Back to figuring out who perished of the Black Death and who survived it. Pretty festive.

Every morning at David and Julianne's house Green Smoothie® is the breakfast preference du jour. When they'd visited at holidays I had looked askance at Green Smoothie®. Then I tried it. It's downright scrum-diddly-umptious. Not to mention it's full of vegetable and fruit and flax seed goodness sans sugar -and it's so GREEN.

To successfully make Green Smoothie® it's best to own the super extraordinary blender (like David's and Julianne's - they have connections) that can, evidently, pulverize an iPod. It takes raw power.

This is where I must take a moment to express my dismay at the heartless mistreatment of ANY fine Apple product. I'm sorry, but it is cold-hearted and brutal. If I hear that this demonstration is to take place again I shall have to bodily hurl myself in front of the salesperson who is about to push the button (this begs the question: How does one UN-bodily fling or throw themselves anywhere?) screaming, "Nooooooooooooooooo!" I would then offer up to be sacrificed a Walkman (from the 1980's, you know, which is evidently an historical era ALREADY - a while back I had a sixteen-year-old voice student who told me they were studying the 1980's in HISTORY CLASS as the 1960's and 1970's were SO overdone) and I would even load the Walkman with Air Supply's Greatest Hits. Don't ask where I could get that...

Aside from the iPod controversy, this blender is AMAZING. It grinds the fruits and the vegetables and the flax seeds like NUTHIN'. I smoked out a blender once (literally) just trying to make hummus. After seeing Green Smoothie® made a number of times, I offered to do it. I was given instructions, which included the detail that since spinach shrinks down so much you can really pack it to the top of the container. I unfortunately translated this “packing” method to the fruit container as well. Have you heard the expression, "Shrinking peaches?" Right. That's because IT DOESN'T EXIST. Here are the results of my poor fruit eye-balling skills:

Luckily David and Julianne were dressing upstairs so that I could clean up the evidence. Now, one may ask why there is a container full of PINK smoothie that is somehow part of the Green Smoothie®. You see, both containers are dumped into the pitcher with the magic-mixing plunger, and once everything is fully incorporated, the green overwhelms everything (go CLOROPHYLL!!!). Then you have enough Green Smoothie® for several days.

But when my Father was in Maryland last week he MOCKED THE GREEN SMOOTHIE®. Openly. He showed disdain for it and "choked it down." He's lucky I still gave him the Trader Joes fruit spreads I'd purchased for him...

There are oh-so-many generators of hip-hop handles and DJ names and stripper titles and types and levels of intelligence and so forth recently (because of "those kids these days" - what more need I say). I have been amused by a few, but this, hands down, is my absolute favourite of all times (at least today): The Peculiar Aristocracy Title Generator. And since I go interchangeably by two name, I have CHOICES. Here are my Peculiar Aristocratic Titles:

Reverend Countess Kathryn the Lachrymose of Oxbridge by Camford

OR...

Reverend Lady Kate the Discombobulated of Hopton Goosnargh

Naturally, I have to give my highest favour to anything that contains the term "discombobulated." It's so ME! And isn't it ironic that BOTH my titles contain "Reverend" - "Reverend Countess" and "Reverend Lady," respectively. As some of you know, I am an Ordained Clergy Person of the former Church of Spiritual Humanism. (Of course I paid extra to get the title "Druid" and the parking pass.)

By the way, all Lauds and Honours for introducing this brilliant tool go to Reverend Earl Michael the Clement of Giggleswick on the Naze.

And in case you think that I am again going to regale anyone who'll listen with sordid tales of my personal hygiene (or lack thereof), this is NOT that kind of mint. This is the "Mint" that tells you if you're popular or not (NEWS FLASH: I am NOT popular) in terms of blogerage (don't fight with me, it's a word. Or it will be - HERE I COME OED). But I am getting more and more UNPOPULAR. I do not like this trend. I might choose to doubt my recent "Mint" statistics (saying I had ONE - count 'em - ONE unique viewing last week and I know I had at LEAST three...), but they are probably close enough. I am now OFFICIALLY taking suggestions and/or requests.

Oh, my faithful readers (all two or three of you), PLEASE MAKE REQUESTS. Or, you can give me CRITIQUES: Too many pictures of my adorable nieces and nephews? Not ENOUGH? Too much cheese (can there BE such a things?????)? Not ENOUGH (she says, hopefully)? Entries TOO LONG and full of NOTHING PROFOUND (although that was the MISSION of this blog, I'm willing to reconsider, after all, I, TOO WANT PEACE ON EARTH (?))? Too SHORT? Would you like Dickens's style serial drama about wee, repressed parentless children and porridge and deranged people who run poor houses and orphanages? Something more SORDID (well, that's what I have the mostly secret "bleu" page for, but it's ended up being largely DEPRESSING above all)? Something sweeter and more HOPEFUL (though today I might give you anatomical indications about where you might put that HOPE - but that would be the PMS talking)? Speaking of PMS, TOO MUCH INFORMATION? I wait with my ears as open as possible (apart from the mucus, but I can't be BLAMED FOR THAT). Hmmm - PERHAPS Ma Monde suffers from TOO MUCH ALL-CAP EMPHASIS (as well as the RAMPANT over-use of the parenthetical statement).

The recent upgrade to Movable Type 3.31 was utterly SEAMLESS. Well, to be fair, it was seamless for ME. That's because in the midst of all sorts of other chaos with which I was dealing, my Web Guru, my Cyber Hero, my CODE KING quietly fixed all my broken templates. The best part is that I always get an email WHILE he's fixing everything that APOLOGIZES that the upgrade broke some of my templates. And the template are crazy because of ME. In fact, one day recently I was posting a new entry. I went back a number of times to fix little bloopers and oversights here and there in my writing (I have to do this about three thousand times because I only have AFTER-SIGHT not FORESIGHT) and every single time I looked at my blog it had changed FOR THE BETTER. One of my favorite new things is that I now have WIDGETS!!! I'm still figuring them out, but I love them dearly just because they are WIDGETS (made, I can only hope, in the Widget Factory that was always in the mathematical story problems of my youth). My most and best favourite Widget right now is my "Tag Cloud." I don't know why or what for or where or WHATEVER - it just pleases me to no end.

Something else happened that I really probably should fix, but I am holding on to a clandestine hope that it's NOT a mistake and that I somehow have become hip without realizing it. No one needs to point out the low probability of this - just let me pretend for a little longer. See, the label (title and/or alt) of my Flickr image of Paisley now says, "My Pics are a WIP." I don't think this what I wrote originally (and find this conclusion well-supported by the fact that I haven't the vaguest CLUE what "My Pics are a WIP" means). BUT I think it sounds rather "cool." Try it on for size, "My Pics are a WIP!" Say it again! Isn't that fun?

Sadly, it either means NOTHING or it means something that I don't INTEND for it to mean; perhaps "My Pics are a WIP," is somehow vulgar, and any obscenity on my part is usually very intentional. I still think I'll leave it for just a LITTLE longer... Then, on a slightly cheerless day I'll change it back to what I'm fairly certain it said (something about Paisley saying or thinking that my images were "number one" - very prosaic and decidedly NOT hip).

Kitten Children do NOT like getting their temperature taken (at least BeBe doesn't). Perhaps it has something to do with the RECTAL THERMOMETER.

I maintain that RECTAL THERMOMETER is just one of those phrases that should always be capitalized. RECTAL THERMOMETER. See?

"And a REAR-END thermometer, too."

Click here and HEAR! Thanks for the sound byte, "Me."

Instead of asking you the day AFTER if you bewared (bewore? Be-ware-ed?? BEWARNEDDED???), I shall warn you now:

Tomorrow (March 15, 2006) is the IDES OF MARCH. Take the age-old advice and BEWARE!!!

The soothsayer said, and one must LISTEN (or, in this particular case, BEWARE) when the soothsayer sayeth the SOOTH!!!

Nearly a year ago I asserted that today's teenagers were not "fair dinkum." I would like to correct that sweeping generalization. Let me say that about fifty percent of teenagers today ARE fair dinkum and the other half - well, let's just say they aren't going to win any humanitarian, philanthropist, "good Samaritan" awards any time soon. REPROBATES!!! Perhaps that's a little strong (then again, perhaps NOT - DEGENERATES).

Let me attempt to explain how I came to this amended conclusion. Ironically, it was prompted by two separate incidents from the very same day. Let's see - good first, then bad? Or bad, then good? Hmmm. The bad is probably more amusing...

As I mentioned the other day, William's wee (SO tiny) little dog Zeke had gone missing. Everyone was very concerned, particularly because he was not wearing his collar, and if someone took him in they wouldn't necessarily think to search for a microchip. Moreover, if you weren't looking closely you could step right on him (oooooh!), not to mention the threat of cars and trucks and SUV's of death AND cougars (we DO have cougars here - don't laugh - and Zeke would be a perfect, bite-sized hors d'oeuvre for a big cat like that). Therefore, many flyers were distributed and posted and so forth. As luck would have it, a teenager (guess YOURSELF whether this individual is a wretched troublemaker or not) found itsy-bitsy Zeke (he really is a diminutive, miniscule, teeny lil' pooch - I'm myopic and if I weren�??t wearing my glasses he�??d probably be almost invisible) after he'd wandered clear down past Geneva Road. He'd been out all night; he was freezing and terrified, as well as filthy and wet. This teenager bathed him, tried to get him to eat, and attempted to comfort the little nipper. Fortuitously, this individual attends the same school as Sarah and William, so they saw one of the posters and called Shirleen immediately. ALL LAUDS AND HONOURS TO THIS TEENAGER AND ALL ACCOMPLICES THEREOF.

As for the OTHER half, I SPIT ON YOU! I BLOW MY NOSE IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION (Well, I am at the moment beset by allergies, so I must blow my nose in SOMEONE�??S direction �?? why not in the general �?? nay, PRECISE �?? direction of good-for-nothing rascals)!!! Here�??s the bottom line: I was trying to rescue a bird from the wood stove chimney, and I almost had a BIG FAT ACCIDENT - not my usual little smidgen of a mishap, but a SERIOUS CONCRETE CALAMITY.

See, the bird was in the chimney. I'd wondered why my Kitten Children were paying unusually close attention to the wood stove (Fiona stands up on the stove behind the chimney when it rains as though it were the most scintillating phenomenon in the world, but it was NOT raining), and then I heard wings beating. I opened the flue and removed some of the lining bricks from the inside of the stove thinking that if I could get the bird INSIDE the stove that I could get it into a box and then outside. But the bird didn't listen to my knocking and beckoning and such. I realized that I'd have to get on the roof to get a better view from above of what was happening. Besides, that chimney is completely overgrown with grapevines, which probably caused the befuddled entry of the wayward bird down the chimney in the first place. I collected my tools: leather work gloves, medical gloves, a container of suet, a flashlight, a ladder and a pitchfork. I put on my sunglasses and a germ-barrier mask (oh, the things to which you have access because of cancer patients...) - you know - because of the avian flu (NOT "flue," like where the bird was stuck or "flew," no doubt what the bird wished it had done) and I was ready to go. I quickly recognized that I needed some extra height to get to the roof using the ladder I'd found, so I set up on the front porch. This may sound ill-advised, imprudent, a tad reckless, and - oh - to call a spade a spade - REALLY, REALLY STUPID. But I thought I could get away with it. I donned the gloves (medical gloves on the inside, naturally), and first put my other supplies on the roof. Then I attempted to climb up myself. This involved some tricky maneuvering past the rain gutter, as I had to perch the ladder dangerously close to the porch edge in order to avoid the overhang. Just when I though I'd figured it out - I had one hand ON the roof, the other grasping one of the big bolts that runs through the rain gutter (very secure, thankfully), the ladder started to teeter - and I don't mean wobble just a bit - I mean it was lurching - and not TOWARDS the house, but OFF THE PORCH. I managed to glance down and saw that one of the legs of the ladder had somehow become wedged up on the bottom of the porch railing, and I was basically trying to re-balance it (or CATCH it, even) with one foot (the other I'd taken off to boost myself up). I was, in essence, hanging from the roof. I, at this point, intoned a little mantra of a quickly repeated curse word (appropriate for the occasion, I might argue). It was something along the lines of, "Oh, blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity blankity." I also said, "Help me, Help me," but I admit I was too embarrassed to, in fact, scream for assistance, so it was more of a timorous little, "Hey - help me? Help me - I could fall and injure myself MIGHTELY, but I wouldn't want to trouble anyone too much with MY insignificant problems."

Enter the reprobates (to, I think, faint strains of Send in the Clowns). The bus for one of the junior high schools picks ups and drops off right next door. Just as I was perilously dangling and wobbling and swearing and whatnot, the school bus showed up and the students began to de-bus (you "de-plane" - therefore one should "de-bus," yes?). They casually walked away from the vehicle in little groups, this way and that, hither and thither, having deep conversations along the lines of (please imagine the droll accent I would use to recount their banter if we were face to face):

I can't BELIEVE she said that! And then he goes, "I broke up with YOU." I about PEED MY PANTS. AND did you see that she copied my new outfit - she always copies me - it is so LAME. And she looks like such a POSER! But he is such a HOTTY!

So help me, not ONE of the little cliques even gave me a sideways glance! Shirleen said later, "But they are raised to stay away from crazy people who frighten them." She thought the swearing might have scared them, too. But I must answer to both counts: THEY GO TO JUNIOR HIGH. As though they don't hear CUSSING in JUNIOR HIGH. And as though JUNIOR HIGH is not the most FRIGHTENING PLACE IN THE WORLD. Are they really going to be daunted by an unsteadily suspended "Lady" - they would all call me Ma'am - that's if they had manners - but I just KNOW they would call me "Ma'am" because I'm "old." I am, as it happens, evidently unworthy of their slightest attention. I honestly think the ladder could have toppled off the porch, I could have fallen TO the porch and then "KERBANG, KERBANG, KERBANG" down the cement stairs (more math - as I'm a scientist - "kerplunk" + "bang" = "KERBANG" - which is a necessary term for HARD smash ups) and not a single little neophyte would have batted an eyelash.

I did, somehow, manage to steady the ladder with my foot and pull it off the porch railing. Then I proceeded to climb up onto the roof (after all that I was GOING TO DO IT NO MATTER WHAT). I assaulted the vines with the pitchfork and my bare (okay, gloved) hands. I had to throw one nest off the roof (it was right next to the chimney - it had to be done). Then, I took off the work gloves, opened the suet, and hurled it off the roof as a peace offering to the poor creatures whose beloved homes I had to destroy (you were wondering why I needed medical gloves - were you not? Suet is greasy, GREASY, so I used and then discarded those gloves to open the package). Work gloves back on, I yanked and whacked and pulled and pushed until the chimney was free of vines. I did leave a HUGE overhang of branches that I just pushed off the roof edge with the pitchfork (we later chopped the top off) because I didn't want to disturb the nests down inside any more than necessary. When the chimney was clear, I took the flashlight - which, ironically, worked PERFECTLY on the ground and suddenly was exceptionally DIM and tried to see where my bird friend was caught. I thought perhaps I caught a glimpse of it on a small ledge that's must above the stove chimney, but I couldn't be sure. So then I started talking down the chimney - you know, the things you say to rescue wildlife - "Little birdie - GO DOWN! Little birdie - GO DOWN IN THE STOVE SO WE CAN RESCUE YOU!!!" The disembodied voice wafting from the stove apparently scared the hell out of Shirleen, who'd come over after picking up Zeke from his rescue champions. She came to see WHAT ON EARTH was happening on the roof. This was, indeed, providential, as I called down the chimney for her assistance (in holding the ladder) when I was finished de-vining.

So, as I've CLEARLY proven, some teenagers are fair dinkum, and some are VILE, DESPICABLE REPROBATES. Hmmm. Perhaps this is a good metaphor for ALL humanity; half fair dinkum (lauds and honours to YOU - and you know who you are), and the other half consists of base and debauched, slimy gobs of putrescent pond scum on legs. Now I am a scientist AND a philosopher.

In the end, don't you think we've all learned something? I've learned, with a deep and abiding conviction, THAT DAMN BIRD IS STILL IN THE CHIMNEY. All my beseeching, imploring and Morse code tapping (ha - didn't really do that - people these days don't know the simplest Morse Code, our avian friends shouldn't be expected to do any better) was for naught. I currently am devising a plan wherein I climb onto the roof again (with ASSISTANCE, I promise), give the bird one more verbal request to kindly move down into the stove (if it's not dead already - how poignant!), and if it does not or cannot move, I thought I could knock it off the ledge with one of William's Airzookas (the "fun gun").

Need I say I am OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS?

Okay, I've HAD it. This entry is driving me MAD, MAD, I say!!! I cannot seem to fix the way it completely befuddles the columns in Internet Explorer (I'll say it just ONE more time; it looks GREAT in Firefox...). So, for the time being, if you'd like to read this entry, follow the link:

Link to the Entry that is driving me MAD - MAD, I SAY!!!