Keeping with our new theme song- BTW... Are we even worthy enough to use a Weird Al song? He makes my dorky heart go squeeee!- and with the Dork Side, I bring you these!
I am in loooooove with Squee.
I want to marry it.
Don't stop, baby!
I only just found squee. I haven't even had a chance to make my kids sick of it.
I am also very fond of the phrase "butt-hurt" for that sensation of being wounded by a good friend. I KNOW I am taking it wrong, and I KNOW I'll pull my thumb out and get over it, but you know what? Right now I'm still a little butt-hurt.
I shudder to think of the origins of that phrase, but it is so very appropriate for that third-grader gut reaction to an unthinking comment or act.
I posted this on my blog too! :D
When I look back at my life, and all it's dorkfulness, I have no doubt of where my dork genes originate. That's right folks I said genes, plural. I think we all know by now that I am above average in the dork department.
I believe what they say is true to some degree... that we are a product of our environment, and I wonder to myself if the fact that my mother (whom I refer to most times as the "egg donor" because I hate calling her mom, because she sucked and doesn't deserve to be called that) is NUTS. Seriously, she has papers.
Anyway, I probably could keep you here all day reading about my dork origins, but I will tell you about the ones that are most prominent in my mind.
When I was about 15, my parents had decided that we kids needed a little culture and took us away from the redneck town we lived in to Annapolis. Annapolis is a beautiful city on the Chesapeake Bay that is famous for its quaint cobbled and bricked streets lined with town houses (for Yuppies), it's inner harbor with elegant restaurants and bay side views of the sail boats going by (owned by Yuppies), and the Naval Academy (which often housed of the spawn of Yuppies).
Being poor and unrefined, my mother (who had a nose for sniffing out bargains and freebies) thought that the best place for used to get a little taste of culture would an art gallery in downtown Annapolis. This art gallery just happened to be serving free wine and cheese! Well, imagine that. Me and my older brother were allowed to have a sip of free wine with our free cheese and crackers. Meanwhile, the egg donor enjoyed quite a bit of free wine with her free cheese and crackers.
My mother, always appreciative of a good piece of art, pointed to a painting of the Annapolis inner harbor and said, "Wook at da pwee-wee wah-wah!"
Roughly translated to : "Look at the pretty water!"
My dad quickly grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of the art gallery, and we kids followed closely behind with our eyes on the floor. My dad- having had considerable experience with free alcohol and it's affects- decided that mommy dearest should probably walk it off. My parents came up with yet another brilliant idea... why not take the whole family- including more than a little tipsy and inappropriate mommy- to the actual inner harbor? The place where the affluent strolled, and maybe even enjoyed a few quiet moments on their sailboat or yacht, and where Naval Academy plebes and midshipman sauntered in groups or with dates.
Sure, why not.
We went to a nautical store. This store had in its window a brass door knocker that my mother had been eying, in the shape of and anchor. My dad dragged her to the register, and my mother - the drunken egg donor- was elated and very pleased with herself for finally being able to afford the thing she had coveted for over a year.
As we walked by our station wagon on our way to a hat store called The Belfry- which I assure you, stuck out like... well a semi-redneck family trying to pretend that they were well off enough to even be there mingling with Maryland's upper crust- and just as a group of really cute midshipman walked by, mother loudly slurred that she needed to "put her knockers in the car".
The whole of Annapolis stopped to stare, and a hush fell over the city- but only after a collective gasp that was heard around the world. I looked over to the midshipman, who were all decked out in their dress whites and plainly said,
"I do not know that woman."
I did an about face and walked into another shop.
AND FINALLY, a story that I recant with fondness and light heart... well because it involves my dad...
Lets travel back in time to when I was about 12. My step-dad- who raised me from the age of 6, so I really consider him my dad, and was a geek computer programmer in the Air Force- was outside building his new fabulous tool shed. This shed was not just a shed, and in actuality it was probably at least 1/2 the size of the main floor of our house. With some help from friends, we had a foundation of cinder blocks and plywood over the support beams of the floor. My dad was happily working away outside on a sweltering morning as I brought his steaming cup of coffee out to him, because you see- my dad was a proud Okie, and drank coffee all year round.
While I was walking out to him, I noticed he was waving a hand around violently. I handed him his cup and giggled when I asked what he was doing. Evidently there was a big, ugly horsefly whizzing around him, stopping occasionally to light on his body and bite him. Oh, I said, well here's your coffee, dad.
I walked back inside, and a few minutes later we heard a yell come from outside. We ran outside to see if dad was hurt. It turns out that dear old dad had been fighting that horsefly for about a half an hour, and my dad had gotten so annoyed that he had even taken a couple of swings at the horsefly with the hammer in his hand. He whacked at the coarse and ugly bug with the hammer and missed several times.
"I finally got it, though, " My dad smiled and chuckled, thrusting his mighty hammer in the air in triumph with one hand and cradling his leg with the other, "But unfortunately it had landed on my shin."
The scene:
1980 VW Rabbit, 2 door, thank you.
Four adults and a future Dork child, plus one full grown chocolate lab.
Two day trip from Northern California to Washington State.
The catch:
Three cassette tapes. Count 'em, THREE.
1) The soundtrack from the movie "The Sting"
2) Beach Boys Greatest Hits or something...
3) The 1812 Overture with Live (!) Cannons.
It's raining, and the dog has gas. My father is convinced he'll find a great radio station if he just keeps searching. and searching. Father also convinced that we can save money on hotels by just driving in shifts through the night. By three a.m. my reserved, dignified mother is punchy as hell and begins the lifelong odyssey known as Tongue-ducting. Can you picture it? Yes, it is exactly what you're thinking.
The 1812 Overture, conducted with our tongues.
The rest of the trip, whenever the dog would stop farting, we would tongue-duct. We were giving my brother's best friend's girlfriend a ride to Portland to see him, and I am sure she was never so happy to escape a car ride.
But what a sight we would have made, barrelling up I-5.
Good Times.
*See Factor 10's info for the contest below please*
I don't know about you guys, but I'm pretty excited about Friday the Dorkteenth. The Grand Dork Mistress, Factor 10 asked me to make a banner from an awesome pic she found. Factor 10's idea was that if we have a classy banner, more people will want to participate. Here they are, please be sure to post one on your blog when inviting others to join in with Friday the Dorkteenth . (I plan to totally pimp Dorkteenth on my blog with a banner, quoting the rules, and linking back here.) Let me know if they are too HUGE for your blog and I will resize them (or you can edit the size in the html mode, see below).
Just right click and "save as" a banner you like. There are more to choose from here and here, but the one above is the one that Factor 10 really liked.
I really like these too!
If you would like something different to post on your blog when Friday the Dorkteenth rolls around, you can find some Space ball banners here.
The page you will see is thumbnails so to save one in it's original larger size, please click on the thumbnail then
right click/save as.
Also, when uploading to your blog, the image might be automatically resized by your blog. You can edit the size of the banner in the "edit html" tab of your post. In html mode, look for width:400px.
Change 400px to 550px for the banners with the shadow, and from 400px to 516px for the banners without the shadow. That way the banner is showing up in it's true size and it wont look weird.
Also, I made Dork Blogger Space ball buttons for your side bar, you can get them here.
Enjoy!
IT's coming...
A little competitive Dork Off.
Start thinking of your dorkiest moment (yes, you have to choose ONE).
The biggest Dorkfessional Friday happens on
There will be fierce competition.
There will be stories galore.
There will be prizes.
There will be dork glory.
Start prepping your loyal readers now, because they will be able to vote for you, and bring you to greater dorky heights!
Friday, April 13th.
Get your Dork on.
Static, all day, no one told me, why me
cute doctor, barfed, how much will it cost to replace his shoes
boss, why me, let one rip, monster.com
stains out, blender, no lid
I think it's an established fact that being a dork is inherent. It's not something you learn, or become, it's something you are, no?
I observed something the other day that confirmed it for me: dorkism is genetic and, as such, there is very little hope for my children.
Mom and Dad took me and the kids out to Friendly's (The Viking stayed home, sick). Ice cream and pleasant chatter was enjoyed by all, we got to get out of the house, grandparents got to see their grandchildren, all was merry and bright.
As we were leaving, things took a weird turn. Friendly's has one of those wretched toy machines in the vestibule. You know, those ones that for only $2 provide you with the joy and amusement of using a joystick to steer a metal claw around a plexiglass cage to snatch a cheap, ugly, useless toy and drop it down a chute? I don't know what it is about them, but my children are powerless against their charms. Every time we're there, they beg for money for it and every time I say no and roll my eyes.
This time, my mother took pity on them. My Boy offered to pay her back out of his own birthday money and that was too much for her. She coughed up the $2 which Red Headed Snippet stuffed into the slot. That's when the magic began, beautifully executed in tandem by my mother and father.
Mom barked out the orders. The target was carefully selected. Mom manned the joystick. My Boy manned the "drop" button. Dad and Red Headed Snippet were placed strategically in order to pinpoint the exact location of the target, "No, a little more left...no toward you...no back..."
Mom practically quivered with anticipation as she gave the command to My Boy, "NOW!" He hit the drop button forcefully. They all watched, breathless as the claw hit the target dead-on and then, with a slight swish of metal, closed lamely on itself and slid over to the chute, empty.
A gasp settled over the team, but their spirits were undaunted. Again, working together like a well-oiled machine, they aimed at the target. Again the drop was made. Again the claw failed to snag the treasure.
After the fourth attempt, Mom turned to get the manager, "This toy is stuck. He wants this little brown dog and it's stuck." The manager looked at her sideways for a second then said, "I'm sorry, we don't own that machine. I don't even have the key," before turning back to her work of watching ice cream melt.
Peeved, but undeterred, Mom turned to Dad and gave the order, "Shake it loose." Dad, still a beefy guy despite his age and pasta gut, grabbed the machine in a bear hug and rocked it back and forth. I threw my arms over my eyes, anticipating flying sparks and shards of glass, but nothing happened, outside or inside the machine. Brown toy dog was unmoved. I had a vision of a bear shaking a hiker out of a porta-potty as Dad grabbed that machine again.
This time he rocked it so hard it banged against the wall, then the floor, then shimmied forward a few inches. It made quite a racket. I looked over my shoulder to see that all noise and activity in the entire restaurant had ceased. All eyes were on the nutjobs who were trying to break open the vending machine. And the manager looked pissed!
All I can figure is the manager ducked back into the kitchen with a throbbing vein in her forehead and hissed, "SOMEONE get those people out of here before I throw hot oil at them!" because a very nice and calm waitress came presently to assess the situation. Somehow she and I managed to persuade my rabid parents to allow My Boy to just pick another toy. He had been saying, "It's okay, I'll take the blue bunny instead," but they wouldn't hear of it. The bunny proved to be much more accessible than the dog and we finally slinked out of the Friendly's with what little dignity we could scrape off the sides of the toy machine.
It was with the first blast of cold air hitting my face outside that the previously mysterious origins of my dorkiness became obvious. Only a dork would mobilize an entire team with military precision in order to obtain a cheap stuffed toy for her grandson. Only a dork would pick up a vending machine to shake said toy out of it. It all became crystal clear at that moment and I was never more aware of who I am and where I come from.
So, thanks, Mom and Dad. You've made me what I am today.
(Following my muppet theme)
Feel free to chime in here, guys!
I bake. I enjoy baking and baked goods. My scale tells me I should lay off on the baked goods. But baked is better than fried, right?
My first solo baking job was chocolate cupcakes. I was very proud of them, but man, were they wierd. And hey, why were those eggs sitting on the counter? What did I get those out fo-- oh. Well, I'll just frost them and no one will know. Hmmm...buttercream frosting--well, I have butter, and I have sugar, and--what do they mean confectioner's sugar? Sugar is sugar, man.
Yeah. Kinda gritty.
I think I was ten? Can you say latchkey kid?
My girlfriend in high school had a very controlling Korean mother, and Lena was never allowed in the kitchen. When her parents went away for the weekend, Lena's big rebellion was that she was going to bake a batch of cookies. She decided on snickerdoodles, and was fine until she got to the cream of tartaar. She couldn't find anything that said cream of tartar, but she did find something creamy that SAID tartar. Tartar Sauce. ack.
*Can I say that my typos almost make them BETTER posts, but I don't want you guys to think I spell that badly!
