Everything on this site has been transferred to the new one (though I’m still working on restoring some of my pics), and all new posts will be there.

So what are you still hanging around here for? Go to the new site! Go!

Some day write the money      then spring me out late at night

Come hurt the graduate student

Inhale no other smoke     smell the one

I like my food loud

This athlete could use more school

Good sciency research borrows my brain

Pizza philosophy can let a jock skip life

Cram paper in roommate

Take all semester to study break dancing

Talk long      learn little       fail test

Make coffee soon after college

High time to give us a job

Smell every professor and you never need a friend

She too pout

Stay in library and cry

Better call this girl or her sister would hurt you

Blow mind here

]]> http://pumpkinankles.edublogs.org/2009/04/07/wisdom-from-the-refrigerator/feed/ 0 http://pumpkinankles.edublogs.org/2009/04/02/ye-tragical-e-maile/ http://pumpkinankles.edublogs.org/2009/04/02/ye-tragical-e-maile/#comments Fri, 03 Apr 2009 00:22:18 +0000 witherow http://pumpkinankles.edublogs.org/?p=165 First, I want to say that something very exciting is happening to Pumpkins don’t have Ankles … it’s coming soon … it will blow your socks off … or your sandals if you’re not wearing any socks … You’ll see soon.

Some time ago I received the following email from my sister Becky (a.k.a. “the great f”)

BECKY:

Subject: TRAGEDY!!

the coffee grinder stopped working this morning! mid-grind, no less, so i have some half ground beans now. alas! =(

MY RESPONSE:

“Alas and alack!! And art thou gone, noble grinder, yea, and the beans which thou hast ground so sweetly??” –Shakespeare, the Taming of the Shrew

BECKY:

uh… i didn’t know they had coffee grinders in the 1600s.

ME:

“Question not thine eldest sister, for surely she knoweth all things Elizabethan.” –Hamlet, Act 2 scene 1

BECKY:

i think you’re making this stuff up. we all know that willy didn’t  like his older sister, and that he would never say something like this.

ME:

“Shall I compare thee to an eldest sister?
Such ladies are lovely and so wise,
So thou hast better watch it, mister,
If thou darest imply otherwise.”

–Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

Thankfully this story had a happy ending, because for my birthday a few days ago, I received not only a new coffee grinder, but a BRAND NEW coffee maker! With a timer!! and a burner that actually keeps the coffee hot!!!

It’s the little, caffeinated things in life …

Wait. “All things Irish” is probably going to necessitate a much longer post than I’m willing to write. So how about I just talk about one thing Irish, that thing being Irish music.

I actually listen to Celtic music all year round, not just in March. I’ve always liked it, but have been more interested since I went to the Scottish Festival last June (see the post “A Wee Bit ‘O Scottish Fun) (yes, I know all of the pictures are gone) (yes, this makes me sad and I am trying to work on a solution to this).

By Celtic music, I’m referring to traditional or mostly-traditional Irish/Scottish/etc. I like interpretations of old folk songs, because I’m fascinated with people and cultures, and folk music is like a snapshot into the world of common people.

I am not so fascinated by synthesizers. So I’m not into a lot of music that’s labeled Celtic.

Right now my favorite groups are Altan and a now-disbanded group called Deanta (pronounced JAUNT-ta) (because Gaelic is like that). I like Deanta except for when they sneak ’90s-style saxophones into their traditional pieces. Because ’90s saxophones make me think I’m in a department store restroom or something. And they sound, so, well, ’90s.

But there are plenty of other Celtic groups out there (some that I like, some that I don’t) that have some pretty wicked awesome names, including:

• Niahm Parsons and the Loose Connections
• Old Blind Dogs
• Rig the Jig
• The Whistlebinkies
• Banshee in the Kitchen

Okay, “Whistlebinkies” probably doesn’t qualify as “wicked awesome,” but I did think it was funny.

There are also some great album names, including:

• The Girls Won’t Leave The Boys Alone (Cherish the Ladies)
• If We Were Us (Banshee in the Kitchen)
• Mouth Full of Potatoes (Quagmyre)
• Celtic Diva (just one of those ubiquitous collections, but the name makes me laugh)
• Give Us a Penny and Let Us Be Gone (Teada)

Actually, I’m thinking about maybe becoming a Celtic Diva myself. But there are some obstacles:

Obstacle one: my mediocre voice. Um, I’ll just sing low and crackly. Yeah, that should work.

Obstacle two: Backup music. Too many of my friends are musicians, which means they’re not going to play anything if I’m writing it or singing to it. Hmm.

I can’t play fiddle, harp or accordion to accompany myself. I could maybe pick up flute, but that would be hard to sing along with. My guitar skills are not quite what they’d need to be.

But I do play ukulele.

(no, for real, I do)

(don’t laugh, it’s a great instrument)

(I bet my ukulele could beat up your piano, so there)

So … maybe I’ll come out with a recording called Celtic Ukulele. Yeah, that’s a good name. And my band (or, uh, just me) could be called something like the Ukulele/Emerald Isle Connection. Or Uke in the Chimney. Or … Witherow and the Loosely Defined Concept of “Music.”

Oh, yeah. This is going to be bigger than Riverdance, just wait and see.

A loser who hasn’t posted on my blog for OVER A MONTH.

I repent in sackcloth and ashes.

Actually, no, because ashes are messy and hard to vacuum out of the carpet, and it’s hard to find good sackcloth these days. But you know what I mean.

But though I may be a loser, I am a loser who went to a murder mystery dinner … in a castle.

Yes, a castle.

A couple in Traveler’s Rest built a castle (well, technically a “castellated house” but it was still grand and impressive). My friend Amy (who is a generally awesome person) knows the couple, and they came up with the idea to host a murder mystery, using a kit you can get at a game store. ‘Twas fun.

Amy played the part of the waitress. And of the Mastermind behind the whole thing. So, kind of a … waitress mastermind.

And I dressed up like a groovy Flower Child psychic. Because that was my character for the murder mystery script. Well, I was supposed to be a psychic. I kind of added the Flower Childness. And definitely the grooviness.

Here’s me in all my groovy, Hippiesque, stone-wearing glory. Oh, and you may notice I’m wearing the antler pendant that was blessed by a shaman (if you have no idea what I am talking about, see my post “Of Mustaches and Medicine Men”).

There’s really not much to say about the evening, except that it was hilariously fun, I didn’t kill anyone, the Grim Reaper came to call, and … did I mention the house was a castle??

Here’s a link to more pictures of the home: www.castlewoods.info. It’s really beautiful. And it’s for sale! So go visit the website! Look at all the pictures! Buy it at the auction in March! Move in and host your own murder mystery! And invite me! I do a pretty sweet Flower Child psychic.

I’ve played a version of this particular game before, but it never ceases to entertain. Here’s the basic concept: each person writes a sentence or so of a story on a sheet of paper, then passes it to the next person, who—without reading what’s already been written—writes the next part. Each story, then, has six different writers, none of whom knows how the story is turning out until it is read out loud at the end.

So are the stories random? —Well, no, but that’s only because we have decided the word “random” is overused. We are now replacing it with the word “aleatory,” which means “dependent on chance or luck.” Which is kind of the same as “random,” but it sounds much more intelligent, does it not?— So the stories do end up being quite aleatory. Non sequiturs abound. And it’s really, really funny.

To help the stories have a little hint of structure, the first entry must describe the time of the story; the second, characters; the third, a place; fourth, an event or action; fifth, a motivation or reason for the action; and finally, a conclusion.

So here are some of the results. I’ve done a little mixing and matching, and I have separated the phrases of different writers with ellipses.

So without further ado, let the madness begin:

In the year 1987, when hair was big, jeans were stonewashed and any teen named Corey was an automatic heartthrob. … Bobo the Conqueror, overlord of the sunlit lands … was in the international foods aisle at Wal-mart … doing his favorite indoor sport. … “I admit it,” he said. “I did it—all of it—because I wanted the Everlasting Gobstopper. I know it’s dumb—but it is a really good Gobstopper. And it lasts forever!” … And so he went waltzing into the sunset, not caring where he was, or if the person he was with even wanted to waltz. THE END.

It was morning—you could, like, practically hear that Grieg piece playing, it was so gorgeous … Frederich Heimlich Gugenstein the Fourth, the amazing court jester … was in the valley where Simba’s dad was plowed under by the wildebeests. … A swarm of long-eared yellow locusts descended, consumed every African violet, orchid, and spider plant in sight … because the whole town was out of mouthwash and the aroma of gingivitis permeated the air. … The music swelled, the dancers swirled. Somebody’s toupee fell off but nobody noticed. It was the Grand Finale. THE END

On a day in the not-so-distant future, proclaimed “Obama Day” in which everyone goes outside and chants the word “change” until they are all confused … the Vienna Boys Choir (who were taking a tour of the lower 48 provinces of Brazil and were distressed to find there weren’t 48 of them) … were on top of that mountain peak that’s in all those inspirational office things (you know, the “success” wall art—well, anyway, the actual peak). … They jumped for joy at the thought of having their toenails surgically removed … because butterflies are priceless, helpless victims. … So they all ate fish and sang happy songs about bowling. THE END.

This is a postmodern story. It happened whenever you want it to. … Shaw McGillicutty O’Patrick the Hun … was amid the blazing tropical effervescence of exotic Murupaypay Island. The birds were singing, the lotuses swayed, and the porpoises had stolen someone’s pina colada. … He sang. No one listened. He stood on his head. No one saw. He drank an entire gallon of milk. That’s when people started noticing him. … Because it felt good, so he did it. … So he got out the cold roast beef, the cold ham, the freshly baked bread and the Grey Poupon, had a picnic and called it a day, ignoring the cries of distress around him. THE END.

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. … Augustus G. Pfeffenroth … in the furthest reaches of perfumed Arabia … wept until he could weep no more, then got bored and started making squeaky whale noises using blades of grass … because his third grade teacher told him to. And he knew everything, even long division. … And then he was relieved to discover that the Boxcar Children were finally retiring after 180 years of solving mysteries, all the while remaining the same ages they were 178 years ago. THE END.

And then there are two story endings that I especially liked.

The first is compliments of Becky: “But in the end, it all turned out okay because Josh’s mom won the lottery and split the reward with the entire seventh grade.”

The other is by Catherine, who at this point admitted that she was feeling pretty sleep deprived: “‘Tadpoles! Tadpoles is the winner!’ cried all the characters in our story. Then they all went home and slept it off.”

Which is what I’m going to do now … sleep all this aleatory stuff off. THE END.

TWICE THE TEMPERATURE, HALF THE TIME^TM!

Catchy, isn’t it? But what does it mean? Why, I appreciate you asking! Let me explain.

It’s simple, really. Anyone who has completed junior high math, or can at least operate a calculator, can apply this principle. In order to cook foodstuffs, one puts said foodstuffs in the oven at a certain temperature for a certain amount of time. Thus the formula for cooked food is:

number of degrees  x  time in minutes  =  cooked food   (also written as    n^d  x  t  =  cf)

Let’s say you have a roast you’d like to cook for supper, but you don’t want to wait an hour and a half for it to cook. So you whip out your calculator and apply the TWICE THE TEMPERATURE, HALF THE TIME^TM principle.

An average roast cooks at 325º for 90 minutes. So if you set your oven (or kiln, whatever the case may be) for twice 325º (which would be 650º), the roast will only need half of the 90 minutes (which would be 45 minutes) to cook. Wonderful!

Let’s look at the scientific explanation for this roast-cooking phenomenon.

Old-fashioned cooking method:

325º  x  90 minutes  =  29,250

New-fangled cooking method:

650º  x  45 minutes  =  29,250

There you have it, folks- scientific proof that TWICE THE TEMPERATURE, HALF THE TIME^TM really works! As you can see, the same number of degrees is applied to your meat, but in half the time. Voilà! The TWICE THE TEMPERATURE, HALF THE TIME^TM principle makes your life more efficient, one supper at a time!

*Letters of adoration and generous monetary contributions to fund my cooking show are graciously accepted.

*The Great F is not responsible for any illness acquired due to food poisoning or salmonella.

*This principle is a trademark of the Get Rich Quick Schemes Department of Great F Unlimited.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Today’s post is going to be a little different, meaning it’s actually going to be about something, instead of me just blathering on about raisin armies or whatever it is I talk about on here.

That’s because Christmas always makes me more meditative. The thoughts I’m meditating on this Christmas are twofold: “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light,” and “the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

The people that walked in darkness …

In preparing for A Jerusalem Story, I did some reading about the historical setting in which Christ was born. It wasn’t the cute pastoral land so many children’s nativity plays would have us believe. Israel in the first century was a violent, unstable political landscape. When Herod the Great took power, he massacred Jews by the masses, including women, children, refugees. And he didn’t hesitate to murder anyone who was a threat to his throne, real or imagined, including several members of his own family.

But the terrors of Herod were nothing compared with what was still coming. In a few decades, the Romans would crush the Jewish Zealot revolt and Jerusalem would be devastated. The Temple would be torn down, stone by stone, and perhaps a million people would die, many brutally.

God’s people lived in the shadow of death.

But there was still Hope.

Simeon, a somewhat mysterious character in the Nativity account, waited for this Hope with his last breath. T.S. Eliot, one of my favorite poets, captures a little bit of what this might have been like in his masterful “Song for Simeon.” Here’s just a part of it (go read the rest; it’s amazing): 

Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation
Grant us thy peace.
Before the stations of the mountain of desolation,
Before the certain hour of maternal sorrow,
Now at this birth season of decease,
Let the Infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken Word,
Grant Israel’s consolation
To one who has eighty years and no to-morrow.
According to thy word 

In these darkest of times, God did not forget His people, but came to suffer with them, for them. 

“The people who walked in darkness
      Have seen a great light;
      Those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death,
      Upon them a light has shined. …

For unto us a Child is born,
      Unto us a Son is given;
      And the government will be upon His shoulder.
      And His name will be called
      Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God,
      Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”

And the Word became flesh …

My second thought is the whole mystery of Christmas, the great paradox of the Incarnation. How could the Immortal put on mortality? How could the Word that spoke the world into existence be given an infant’s babbling tongue? How can the life-sustaining Creator become a creature, and one that needed a mother to feed Him, rock Him to sleep and keep Him warm? How can He be both God and man—at the same time?

It’s a mind-bending paradox, one that we will never understand but can always kneel and wonder at.

Mark Lowry reflects this mystery in “Mary, Did You Know?”: 

Mary, did you know
that your Baby Boy will calm the storm with His hand?
Did you know
that your Baby Boy has walked where angels trod?
When you kiss your little Baby you kissed the face of God?

But I think John Rutter captures it the best in his lovely “Candlelight Carol”: 

Shepherds and wise men will kneel and adore Him
Seraphim round Him their vigil will keep
Nations proclaim Him their Lord and their Saviour
But Mary will hold Him
And sing Him to sleep

Find him at Bethlehem laid in a manger
Christ our Redeemer asleep in the hay
Godhead incarnate and hope of salvation
A Child with His mother that first Christmas day

How great a mystery. How great a love, that He would come to dwell among us, knowing He would be unrecognized, dishonored, persecuted, killed. For us.

Gloria in excelsis Deo. Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men.

Merry Christmas.

Wait, I just remembered. I will sleep.

A lot.

Until like March.

In all seriousness, I am excited how God has allowed everything to come together, even when I doubted this all would work. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s not about the acting or the set or the fake beards (which I am SO glad I don’t have to wear) — it’s about showing a little glimpse of how wonderful Christ really is. Soli Deo gloria.

Midway Bible Church doesn’t always do a drama at Christmas, though. Last year we just had a small program of Scripture reading and singing. I found another old instant message conversation from last Christmas, this one with my friend Mike, in which we allude to this program. Among … other things.

MIKE
do you hear the bells?
for whom do they toll?

ME
the silver bells, or the big scary church bell?

MIKE
um…

ME
Ask not for whom the bell tolls

MIKE
the little ceramic ones shaped like snowmen and things
except little bells don’t toll
they tinkle
or ringle
or go ching ching ching

ME
Ask not for whom the bell ching ching chings

MIKE
hmmm
it chingeth for thee
somehow that doesn’t make chills go down my spine…

ME
it’s the kid-friendly version.

MIKE
who wrote that anyway?

ME
Um, I was about to ask you that.

MIKE
rats

ME
I am a failure as an English major.

MIKE
oh well
uh..
I mean
that’s too bad. I fully commiserate
here’s a virtual hankie

ME
thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhttttt!
That was me virtually using said virtual … oh, never mind

MIKE
my friend made fun of me the other day and I asked him if it was possible to send whooping cough as an e-mail attachment
he said to try

ME
Did it work?

MIKE
I didn’t try
I’m too nice
WE’RE GOING TO COUNTRY CUPBOARD TO GET THE BREAKFAST BUFFET TOMORROW MORNING
oh what happiness

ME
Fancy!!!

MIKE
I can eat breakfast sausage until it comes out my ears

ME
I’M GOING TO MY MOM’S HOUSE TO GOOF OFF ALL DAY TOMORROW.

MIKE
cool
I was going to ask if you were there already yet

ME
I went home earlier this weekend, but came back here so I could go to Midway today for the Christmas program.

MIKE
how’d the program go?

ME
I was reader number three. nothing fancy, but it was little and good.

MIKE
I’ve always wanted to be the Third Reader
kind of like Shakespeare’s Second Murderer
Only not

ME
Hee hee. Becky and I thought of a prank to outrank last year’s refrigerator decorating

[[To explain--The year before Becky and I had decorated the refrigerator on Christmas Eve. We tied dozens of little ribbon bows around the pickles, ketchup, steak sauce, everything. On Christmas morning, my mom sure was ... wondering about the mental health of her daughters.]]

MIKE
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh
I have just written the longest “ooh” in the history of English literature
what is it?

ME
I doubt that’s the longest one, but I digress. we are going to string yarn across the kitchen. It will be so obnoxious and we will be in such trouble! oh boy!

MIKE
can I help?
I could maybe create some sort of diversion

ME
can you send us some virtual yarn?

MIKE
I can try
I’m going to get going
I need to go to bed early if I’m going to get up and eat all that food in the morning
it takes a lot of energy

ME
Wow. That’s intense.

MIKE
yes it is rather
I’ll send an attachment with some yarn

ME
say hi to Judith for me

MIKE
I will and I will tell her that you’re super offended cuz she hasn’t called

ME
Great idea! adios and merry Christmas!

The yarn stringing did work. Now we just have to come up with another Christmas Eve prank … one that is funny, random, and will make my mom laugh, instead of one that will irritate and anger my mother and make her want to return all of our gifts on the spot. Christmas morning is a sensitive time to do things like this.

Oh, and right after our conversation I had to go look up the poet. Because I’m dorky like that. And if I can’t match random lines of poetry with their poets at a moment’s notice, at least I have some pretty amazing Google-fu (that’s like kung fu for nerds).

It was John Donne.

So these past couple of weeks we’ve all been helping out how we can. This year’s float featured artificial snow machines, and so I was sent to Wal-mart to pick up the “snow” ingredients as well as a few other items.

We needed four gallons of each of three ingredients. The distilled water was easy. You just go to the bottled water aisle (OK, why do we even have a whole bottled water aisle? Are there really so many ways to put water into overpriced bottles that we need dozens of varieties??) and pick up four jugs of distilled water, each containing one gallon.

Next on the list: isopropyl alcohol. That wasn’t so easy, because Wal-mart didn’t have gallon jugs of that. The largest bottles they had were quarts. And they were all on the bottom shelf. Of course. So, glancing over my shoulder at other customers and trying to look casual, I got down on the floor and proceeded to load 16 bottles of isopropyl into my cart.

Last ingredient: bubble bath. Specifically, Mr. Bubble bubble bath, because Mr. Bubble bubbles are the best for snow. Or so I was told. (Incidentally, when my boss was giving me the list of things to buy, he just said to get Mr. Bubble. Which somehow I was confusing with Scrubbing Bubbles. Which is like toilet cleaner. Which made me wonder why we would be shooting it at the children riding the float. But thankfully he set me straight and thus averted several awkward lawsuits.)

So I find myself in the bubble bath aisle. Mind you, I never have had a bubble bath in my life, so I have no idea where to look for the venerable Mr. Bubble. Having come to the end of the aisle, I happened to turn around and—lo and behold, yea verily—Mr. Bubble. In teeny tiny bottles.

All in all, to make four gallons, I had to fill my cart with 25 fluorescent green and bright blue and hot pink bottles of bubble bath. (If anyone from the Greenville Wal-mart is reading this, um, you’d better go restock the Mr. Bubble shelf. Because I took it all. Every last one. It was almost Grinch-ish of me.)

So now I am wheeling around a cart filled with an army of Mr. Bubbles with reinforcements of isopropyl, and I realize how poorly I have planned because I still have several things on my list. And wouldn’t you know, all of the items are spread randomly throughout the store.

I lug the Mr. Bubble to the garden center to find charcoal for the snowman faces. I lug it to the hardware section to find staple gun staples. I lug (and in case you were wondering, it was heavy and made the cart really hard to navigate) it to the Christmas section, the craft section, and finally the produce section to get carrots for the snowman noses.

And as I was lugging, I tried to come up with things to say if anyone asked me about what seemed to be unconventional purchasing habits.

Things I could have said (with recent input from a few of my friends):

1. It’s for my swimming pool. It’s going to be WICKED AWESOME!!

2. Well, my family’s coming to visit, and I read bubbles are good de-stressers …

3. Bubble bath stock … that’s where the real money is.

4. Bubbles bubbles bubbles bubbles! My bubbles! (this one would work best if paired with a slight facial twitch)

5. Bubble bath? Aw man, I thought this was vanilla extract …

6. The Reedy River will never be the same. Ah-hahahahaha!

7. Bubble bath? Um, what bubble bath?

Disappointingly, no one asked, though I did get an odd look or two. And no burning cars crashed into my trunk on the way back to campus (which I had wondered about, seeing as my trunk was filled with rubbing alcohol and charcoal. I would imagine a fiery crash could result in a gigantic flare-up, possibly an explosion, and the distinct possibility of little flaming bubbles in the night sky. Hey, don’t you ever wonder about stuff like that?)

Thankfully, there were no exploding cars and the Mr. Bubble made it to the parade safely.

If you accidentally got on this page because you Googled “bubble bath,” “Scrubbing Bubbles” or “exploding cars,” thanks for reading. You may go back to your surfing now, hopefully somewhat entertained. Check back again some other time. Tell your friends.

And I hope you find some really wicked awesome pics of exploding cars.