"Oh, Chick Pea was a racehorse and I wish he were mine" --with multiple apologies to Peter, Paul & Mary

Don't you love misheard lyrics? I don't need to mishear them to miss-sing them.

It takes very little to get a song in my head. Sometimes it's a turn of a phrase. Sometimes a particular word. Sometimes it's just a rhythm. Doesn't even have to be a long rhythm. I did 10 minutes on "This Train", that gospel classic that Peter Paul & Mary kicked fanny on, because I said "chick pea." That's all. Chick pea.

Chick pea don't carry no gamblers, chick pea!
Chick pea don't carry no gamblers, chick pea!
Chick pea don't carry no gamblers,
No crap shooters, no midnight ramblers
Chick pea don't carry no gamblers, chick pea!

I sold it!

Stupid? Yeah. But that's how my brain works. Stupid-like. But I can amuse myself for 10 minutes without the need for batteries, so that's something.

Does anyone else do this? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

From Lala.com a sample of the real deal

Assorted Flotsam

Boss: Your tag is out. *tucking tag back into the back of my dress*

Me, irritated: That's my signature look!


*****

Do you have a cat that looks like Hitler (a kitler)?



Or do you enjoy viewing these kitlers? Then get yourself over to www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com

So, um, this counts as an entry as far as NaBloPoMo is concerned, right?


Up high!
Aw, go on. Do it.

*grin* I knew you wouldn't leave me hanging.

Need more of a high-five fix? How about we go to the video...



PS Special thanks to whomever added yesterday's post to StumbleUpon. May your life be cupcake-rich.

"Don't you know I had a dream last night, that you were here with me" --Jim Croce

Years ago, I told a shrink that I didn't think the sessions were helping and maybe I should stop. He told me that if they weren't helping, I ought to set up more sessions, not less. Irritatingly, he was right. At some point, you start to peel enough of the onion that you get to the strange stuff. And some of that strange stuff may prove important.

Or just strange.

So it seems with NaBloPoMo. File this in the not funny but maybe strange enough to be interesting column. I'll bring the zany tomorrow. Promise.

Many years ago, I was in a Master's program and got a chance to take a class with a really effective instructor. Most of my instructors knew their stuff but weren't what I'd call dynamic. This guy was interesting from minute one. I loved the things he dug up and brought in to share with us. It was a marketing class and he was chock full of studies and theories about the brain and human behavior. Great stuff!*

Early in the semester, he shared that he had been in the military and that the military had done some experiments on him and some of the drugs they used might have affected his brain. Okaaayyyy. For what it's worth, he showed no signs of kookiness or paranoia, so, I believed him. And he was nothing short of a brilliant instructor, so maybe the drugs had done him some good.

One week, well into the semester, the night before class, I dreamed about the instructor. It wasn't a sex dream but the fact that he was in my dream, outside a classroom setting, was intimate enough. In reality, the only thing I found attractive about him was his ideas. But there he was in my dream. It was what I'd describe as a lucid dream; everything was hyper-real.

The next day, I woke up remembering the dream and thinking how strange it was that I'd dreamed about him. Quite frankly, it's a little embarrassing to have strangers in your subconscious. I, very decidedly, put the dream aside and went about my day.

That night, I got to class early and he immediately walked over to me, which was unusual.

He, looking perplexed and slightly alarmed, said: L.A., what are you doing to me?

Now, you have to admit, that's a mighty strange question coming from an instructor. I could have said the truth: "Nothing." But why miss an opportunity to mess with somebody?

I smiled sweetly and said: What do you think I'm doing to you?

He looked at me for a few seconds, shook his head, chuckled, and walked away.

I didn't mention it again and he didn't mention it again.

I got the distinct impression I wasn't the only one who had had that dream.


Questions du jour:

1) Would you let someone do experiments on you that might alter your brain? For country? For bucks? For some other reason?

2) Have you ever had the feeling that someone was messing with you on a psychic level?


* (To quote HIMYM) Have you met my friend, Ted? These days, I get a lot of mind-blowing ideas from Ted.

"By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea" --Atteridge and Caroll

[Obviously, not me. Who the heck wears pearls to snorkel? That's just inviting an oyster uprising.]


"I discovered I scream the same way whether I'm about to be devoured by a great white or if a piece of seaweed touches my foot." --Kevin James


We went snorkeling in Cozumel.

Well, mostly, I went snorkeling in short bursts and the husband pretended I wasn't about to get eaten by a great white shark. He was rather convincing in pretending not to be concerned. In fact, he looked like he dozed off there on his beach chair, but I'm sure it was just to reassure me that there was no cause for concern, despite my dramatic goodbye speeches and forlorn last hand wave. Every. Single. Time. I. Went. Out.

So, snorkeling: I go out into the sea and I look around and, well, that's it. But there's some pretty amazing things out there, even without the great white or the giant squid or that thing that offed the Crocodile Wrestler.*

So, on the last day before we were to head back, when the husband said he'd do the snorkel thing with me**, I was pleased. We both went out into the sea and looked around. And there was pointing! Yes, honest to god pointing! By both of us. And maybe by a fish or two. There was so much to see!

But, here's where we differ. Where I would get a little freaked out when I found myself in a school of fish and worry that I might accidentally flipper one of them, the husband was reaching out trying to touch the parrot fish.

Anyway, even more amazing, I'm talking with an acquaintance about snorkeling in Cozumel and the following conversation ensues:

Him: Yeah, if you don't mind them biting.

Me: What?

Him: The fish bite your nipples.

Me: Whaaaat?!?

Him: You probably kept your top on.

Me: Yeah...?

Him: Every time I go snorkeling the fish bite my nipples.

Me: You're kidding.

Him: No, I'm serious. *pause* They don't bite hard.

Which leads to the simultaneously delicate and indelicate question du jour: Ever had your nipples nibbled by a fish?



* Well, he didn't really hunt them, now, did he?

** Not a euphemism.

"Talk, talk" --Talk Talk

A very old joke...

A guy joins a monastery and takes a vow of silence: he’s allowed to say two words every seven years.

After the first seven years, the elders bring him in and ask for his two words. "Cold floors," he says. They nod and send him away.

Seven more years pass. They bring him back in and ask for his two words. He clears his throats and says, "Bad food." They nod and send him away.

Seven more years pass. They bring him in for his two words. "I quit," he says. "That's not surprising," the elders say. "You've done nothing but complain since you got here."

I think sometimes I could be pretty happy taking a vow of silence, floors and food notwithstanding. I go through periods of being social and periods of being downright anti-social, the latter especially when I am feeling crowded, overwhelmed, beaten down or compressed. And, so, completely burned out, I really enjoyed being quiet in quiet Cozumel, sans commitments, just hearing the waves gently lapping against the shore.

Truly, even at my most social, I am not a chatter. I *can* chat and, oh, it's true, I blather on here, for you, my cheeky monkeys. But IRL, I can, at least at times, lean toward the quiet side--you know, those times I'm not drilling you with questions. Doesn't mean I'm not interested. If you ask me something*, I'll answer and maybe even expound a bit. With those friends who like to debate, I'll go full bore. But I wasn't raised in a family that encouraged chatting for the sake of chatting.

The husband, on the other hand, is a chatter. He'll talk to anyone at any time anywhere. I notice this particularly when we are on vacation because we spend large blocks of time together then. It takes him no time at all to meet a variety of people. Where I am enjoying the quiet, he'll be striking up conversations. He'll offer to fetch us drinks and ten minutes will go by. I'll find him at the bar, with my watered down drink still clutched in his hand, chatting. He hasn't even realized the time has gone by. And it's not all on him. He has the kind of countenance that invites chatting. People will choose to chat with him all the time. His face says, "Why, yes, please tell me what Houston is like in July." While mine apparently says "Do you have a death wish?" I don't think I intentionally put a squinky look on my face but there it is.

So, it was with interest that I noted one of the Date Lab questions in this past Sunday's Washington Post: "Chances you'd talk to a stranger in a bar..." I have talked to strangers in bars. I've had strangers in bars talk to me. But it's not the norm for me. I'd say the chances are ~10%.

What are the chances you'd talk to a stranger in a bar?



* You could at least pretend to take an interest, fergawdssake.