An Affair to Remember

Recipe for amusement of the highest magnitude:

Rope youngest son into being the official vonB photographer (I love ya, kid),

Take 1 of these:

(step off, ladies - he's all mine. And I do mean 'all'...)

Add two of these:
Apply liberal amounts of bedazzled badonk-a-donk, a dash or two of goofy to taste, sparkle with shiny, the slightest hint of nerple from the Baron...and voila!

You get three fabulous 'What Not to Wear's ready to participate in the 2009 Underwear Affair, an annual charity race for cancers below the waist.

Then, because of our celebrity status (?), add some police protection (doesn't HE just look so menacing?)

And we're off. . .

In true Canadian fashion, all facets of the population were represented:

Cowgirls,
Abba-didginals,
Local Flora,

West Coast Fauna,

(I think there may have been some cross-pollination going on at the after-party)

Sasquatches,

(a rare sighting - the moldy green fur is the result of all the rain we get)

and beavers.

(that is some fine-looking tail, mister)

While it wasn't too length a walk, the Countess of YikYak and I were feeling a little schvitzy; apparently being a superhero is hot work. We decided to have a rest and take in the scenery:
We did eventually manage to struggle against all rules of physics and get our gargantuan butts up to finish the race.

And then, as quickly as it started, poof!

The affair was over.

I guess there's always next summer.

The End(s).

***********************
A million colon-felt thanks to all my kind-hearted friends and blends who generously supported me in this worthwhile fundraiser. As of this morning, our team The Colon Crusaders had raised $10, 867 towards research into finding a cure for all of those insidious yet under-funded cancers below the waist - ovarian, colorectal, uterine, testicular, prostate. And we were just one team of many.

And of course, I must give props to my sistah partner in crime - I can always rely on her to raise our antics to a whole new level.

Love ya, PattyCakes!

Really - Aren't We ALL a Little Dotty?

So.

I hear it's some sort of bank holiday-type thingy for a lot of you tomorrow.

Here's a little sump-thin that will make your foray into all that tummy-rumbling picnic fare seem boldly justified, and maybe even a little cultural.

A flatulent soprano named Dotty

had a luncheon of beans and biscotti
Then, I'm sad to depart,
Her intestines took part
In her duet with poor Pavarotti

Three cheers for your red, white and blue!

[I wish you this because: a) we share a border, and b) I think the world of you all]




[But mostly c) I don't want you pissed off at me - I know how scary patriotic y'all can get. . .]

Thoughtful Thursday

One of the cool things about tinkering away at a blog is that once people find out about it, they begin to shoot all sorts of world-class wordstuff your way.

I rarely need any original ideas anymore; I just go to my 'blog ideas' button, and pick one out.

Today's quote arrives to me via The Good Countess KR. She's also know around here as The Book Pusher and she was the dear one who gifted me with what is quite possibly one of the most awesome-est presents I have ever received - my own theme song (click here and let the aural tickling ensue...)

This is a passage she came across whilst doing some Saturday morning exploring, and it seems appropos in these days when I really wonder what in Sam Hill I am doing with this whole writing schtick:

Lend us the wit, oh God,
to speak the lean and simple word;
give us the strength to speak
the found word, the meant word;
grant us the humility to speak
the friendly word, the answering word.

And make us sensitive, God,
sensitive to the sound of the words
which others speak -
sensitive to the sound of their words
and to the silences in between.
Sheldon H. Blank

Caffeine: The Double-Edged Sword

Those of you who've been coming here (faithfully, may I add) for some time know that I'm pretty fussy about my coffee (click the ol' wayback machine here for one of my java rants).

Like millions of other coffee lovers, I have my sacred morning ritual of coffee and newspaper. I try valiantly to speed my way through the lion's share of the news so that by the time the caffeine opens the sluiceway between brain and body, I'm primed and ready to kick some booty on the NY Times Crossword.

Sometimes, though, there are articles in our 'News of The World'-esque journal that trip me up. I have to screech on the mental brakes and take a look.

And sometimes, only being half-caffeinated can make for some pretty amusing information gathering.

One piece that caught my eye was about a recent attack on a small girl by a rogue mountain lion.

Yes, this event could have been tragic. Yes, it's pretty serious. Yes, it's yet another argument for the encroachment of man on local wildlife, the encroachment of local wildlife on man, and all the ensuing debates. Blahdee, blahdee, blah.

But really.

To my barely awake mind, it was these two magic words:

"Cougar", and

"Expert". Nothing else really mattered.

My heart began to pitty-pat. Here was something potentially fraught with double entendres, and therefore worthwhile persuing further.

I was not disappointed.

(Thank you, Mr. Andy Ivens, reporter extraordinaire)

By the way, if you are a woman of older-ish persuasion and are:

a) in the midst of your hormone circus, and
b) the proud owner of a pulse

then you have, at one time or another, exhibited cougar-like tendencies.

If you deny this, my friend, methinks that you are not being totally honest with yourself. Hell, I've admitted it. Proudly. Publicly. More than once (check out sausage-fest Exhibit A and Exhibit B).

Do any of these attributes sound vaguely familiar? C'mon. Confess.

"Cougars try to avoid large meal tickets, expert says"

"When a cougar attacks, the struggle is violent and brief"

"Their jaw strength is quite strong, so that they can grab something and break through and sever the spinal cord"

"They are very explosive, like a sprinter"

"A lot of times when cougars attack humans, there's something wrong with them - either they're inexperienced in hunting or they're starving to death"

"If they aren't able to finish the job within a minute, they'll have to back off and try again later"

"The most amazing thing about them is their jumping ability and how athletic they are"

and finally,

"Cougars in Northern BC are probably the largest in the range"

Hey, now.

That one hurt my feelings.

Rawr.

[*vonB Aside: blogger has been having brain farts throughout my writing of this post. I've already redone it twice, and really? It's not worth doing a third. Apologies for the hot mess of layout mixups, irregular fonts, italics, whatnot. ]

Asking for Money is Uncomfortable...

...but then so is a rectal exam.

Trust me on this, people.

If my sad lack of posts over the last few weeks has not already derailed the usually effervescent vonB party train, this item will surely send it careening off the tracks and into the ravine.

Because, once again, I'm trotting out the cancer card (run away! run away!).

But this time, it is definitely not cranky nor doom and gloom. This has the potential to actually be pretty - wait for it -

fun.

On July 11th, I will participating in a run/walk called "The Underwear Affair". Its subheading (far less titillating) is "Uncover the Cure - for cancers below the waist". Everyone participating in this event has the opportunity to run in their ginch. And really. How often does one get the opportunity to do that? Nowhere near damn enough, in my estimation.

(although I suppose one could, in reality, do that whenever they pleased. Here I just mean without the threat of legal proceedings)

(or public stoning)

I'm so excited. This event is a fantastic opportunity to:

. be a community superhero for a couple of hours (our team is called 'The Colon Crusaders' - we'll be rocking the capes)


. be silly - I will SO be looking for Team Jockey to get my picture taken in these:


. raise a little moola for research into some pretty insidious diseases.

And who knows? If I pimp my granny panties out just right, maybe next year I could be the poster girl...
Should you feel the urge to donate, just click on the underwear button on the top right.

Should you feel the urge to run in your underwear, go to uncoverthecure.org

Or just, you know, run around.

In your underwear.

Fun.

The Truth Will Set You Free (& Keep You Poor)

The Year - 1966.

The Place - the production set of a local television show, "Popcorn Playhouse".

The Premise - Your typical 60's show, with short cartoon segments (Tom & Jerry, Popeye) interspersed with the host interviewing kids on the Klondike/mining-themed set. Those kids who were there on the day of their birthday (give or take a couple of days latitude ) were called up at the end of the show to dig for 'gold' (i.e. gold-wrapped nickels hidden in a boxcar of playbox sand).

The Players - the Baroness (aged 5) and her doofus cousin (aged 8), whose birthday it was.

******

Without painfully stating the obvious (although I will just in case Doofus ever happens upon this), it is pretty HUGE to be able to not only have your name called on television, but to go up to Ye Olde Fake Mining Car on Popcorn Playhouse ON your BIRTHDAY and potentially find a gold coin.

Yet, my cousin did not grasp the enormity of all of this.

She told me in no uncertain terms, while the cartoons were going on, that when the birthday kids were called, she would not be going up to dig. She would merely pretend that she had not shown up that day.

Can you imagine? What an idiot.

There was no way in hell that I was about to let a fine opportunity like this go wasted. Then and there, I decided that - not unlike the Academy Awards - I would go up and take Brenda's place. But, in true Method Acting, I would not merely accept on her behalf.

Oh no, no, no.

I would BE Brenda.

My heart began to pound as the last cartoon of the day ended. This was my chance.

The host began his usual schtick...'Would all of the birthday boys and girls come down to the Klondike Kart to try out their luck?'


I know that both my mother and my aunt were watching this Kodak moment present itself from the green room. My legs feel like jelly, but I know that this is my 5-year old destiny. I have mentally committed to this - there's no looking back. (because if I did, I would see the slack-jawed look on my cousin's face and potentially turn to a pint-sized pillar of salt).

Down I strode to take my rightful place in line.

The host would ask the child their name as they dug away. We would be allowed 3 shovels' full of sand into the sifter - no poking around. Best of luck, blah, blah, blah.

When it (finally!) became my turn to dig, it was though the host handed me a diamond-encrusted ceptre rather than a dinky little garden spade.

'And what's your name, birthday girl?'


(C'mon Baroness - be the Brenda. Live the Brenda.)



'Brenda vonBloggenschtern'.

(Perfection. Now smile broadly directly into camera one, completely pushing the thought out of your mind that your mother is somewhere nearby dying of embarrassment)



'And how old are you, Brenda?'

(There's no way you look 8 - use the truth, Baroness. OWN the truth.)

'I'm five years old, Eric'

(Ha! He bought it. I am SO freaking there. These nickels are all mine. MINE! MINE!)(Dig, Baroness, dig. Dig like your life depended on it.)


'And when's your birthday, Brenda?'

(C'mon Baroness. Bring the Method. Be the gold miner. Use excellent form - shoulders over, back straight, arms taut. Concentrate. Nothing can stand in your way now. Go. For. The. Gold. Answer his stupid question, but KEEP DIGGING!!)

'November 18th, Eric'

It is here that everything goes completely silent.

Cue crickets chirping. . .

Cue singular tumbleweed rolling lazily across the set. . .

. . . Did I mention that we were there in April?

For Just One Week

My nephews, aged 21 and 19, were talking about employment strategies. And when I say 'talking', this is only a vague use of the word. 'Snarking' might be a more realistic term. 'Kibbitzing' even more so.

The younger one, recently graduating from high school, is having a hard go of it. He has a job, but isn't getting enough hours. The older one, a cabinet maker, told him to just get in his car and drive around any of the construction sites that dot the landscape within their ever-expanding suburb.

'Any construction site', said N1, 'will have bitch jobs for you to do.'

Bitch jobs. Oh, how I love that phrase.

No sarcasm here. I really love that phrase.

In this particular context, I do not find it sexist in the least, just strangely apt. You are making someone your personal assistant to do all the icky things that you keep putting off.

This got me to thinking...

One of my friends owns a small working farm. There is never a shortage of duties to be done, and almost continually, she has helpers called "Woofers". These fine people come to her via the W.W.O.O.F. - Willing Workers on Organic Farms. It's kind of like an international dating service for travellers who want free room and board in exchange for a bit of day labour and perhaps some edu-mack-ay-shun about the finer intracacies of organic farming. I assume that the organisation does all of the pre-screening; what you're left with is a young person who gets to see another part of the world while lending a helping hand.

So now I want to create a new service (mostly just for my own selfish use) - W.O.H.B .- World Organisation of House Bitches. I get positively giddy thinking of how much I could accomplish in a mere 7 days with someone who could paint, sew, cook, can, shop, garden, clean, and repair.

And to get to stay at vonBloggenschtern Manor? They should be paying ME.

Now if I can just get the wording down for craiglist... Suggestions?