Fairy hordes, in fact.
J. M. Barrie once wrote”when a new baby laughs for the first time a new fairy is born.” I always leave out the “new” part, because I prefer to think of it as “when a baby laughs, a fairy is born.”
On the other hand, today’s bit of fun would lead to serious fairy overpopulation if that were the case, so I may have to give up that idea. But I defy you to watch this and not smile.
And I suggest we all try to get back to a place where we can enjoy simple things this much.
According to children.
This has been bouncing around the internet for a while, so it’s entirely possible you may have seen it. I always like to revisit it, however, and it is an entirely perfect candidate for Silly Saturdays.
I think the following are among my favorites—because they seem to be true as well as funny:
He [Saint Paul] preached holy acrimony,
Queen Elizabeth was the Virgin Queen. As a queen she was a success.
Romeo and Juliet are an example of a heroic couplet.
and
Soon the Constitution of the United States was adopted to secure domestic hostility.
But there is a lot more inventive history there, so click on that link and enjoy!
They’re not what you think.
The MotH* and I have been married for 23 years. That’s a long time. A loo-ooo-ooong time.
Any of you who are married, have been married or have read any of the articles about marriage published in various magazines know that it is a widely accepted fact that marriage is difficult.
It is fraught with hazards. The articles give advice on how to talk to your spouse about money, how to present a united front as parents, how to cope with in-laws and infidelity. There are caveats and suggestions aplenty for those planning a walk down the aisle as well as those who have made it through the ceremony and are stumbling through the adjustment period (which, by the way, is the entire length of the marriage, as far as I can see).
None of them really address some of the more ridiculous things that happen.
Like Christmas Eve over here at Casa Lagarto.
My mom spends Christmas with us. Fortunately, the MotH doesn’t seem to have an in-law problem. He and my mother get along pretty well. So…good.
This year, Mom and I were watching a movie, and he wasn’t interested. He went off to bed. After the credits rolled and Mom went to bed, I read for a bit until I got sleepy. I crept into the bedroom and slipped oh-so-silently in and out of the bathroom and into bed. I drifted into a dreamless sleep.
And then….
The MotH turned onto his side and sighed.
I surfaced briefly and went back to sleep.
He tossed onto his other side and coughed.
I grasped the shreds of sleep around me and pulled them over my head.
He rolled over. Toss, cough, sigh. Pause. Bigger sigh.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“No. I’m stuck.”
My foggy mind begins to grapple with this problem. He’s stuck. Stuck? I start to review how he could possibly be stuck lying in bed. He’s been rolling around. Clearly, he can move. I am aware that I can get out of the bed if I want to do so. What could be preventing him from doing the same? Am I going to be making a trip to the emergency room on Christmas Eve? And why? What in the world could be the problem?!
Before I can rule out a giant squid under the bed with grasping tentacles (because I am half asleep, remember?), he says, “I can’t think of that song.”
“Song?”
“Do you remember the words to that song in Les Miz with the people in the hotel?”
I am wide awake now.
Through clenched teeth, I say, “No. I don’t. I will google it for you in the morning.”
He sighs.
“Do you need to know now?” I demand.
“No. I guess not.”
“Go to sleep!” I say.
And he does.
And I am awake for an hour or two wondering how it is I haven’t knocked him on the head before now.
And those, my children, are the hazards of married life about which no one ever warns you. Because, really, who would ever believe it?
Southern and Otherwise.
I don’t know if you can really call Jeanne Robertson’s style something suitable for Saturday Silliness, being as it’s not really that silly. Hilarious, but not silly. However, there’s a lot of fun to be had, so we’re going to go ahead with it for today’s post.
Just a little background: Ms. Robertson is a former Miss North Carolina. And she’s 6′ 2″.
It’s not entirely clear whether it’s her height or her obvious intelligence that shatters all my stereotypical notions about beauty queens, but she is not what I expect when I think of pageant participants.
She’s made a living for quite some time as an event speaker. Meetings, conventions, clubs, I guess. I suspect she made quite a decent living because she is very good at what she does. In recent years, however, I think she has found herself more in demand than ever, thanks to YouTube.
Since I am always thrilled to see smart women succeeding beyond their ingenue years, I totally love Jeanne Robertson’s story.
And since I can relate to many of the incidents she relates in her appearances, I totally love Jeanne Robertson’s stories.
All of them.
If I absolutely had to pick a favorite, I couldn’t do it. I’d be torn between “Never send a man to the grocery store” and “Men don’t know the style in New York City.” So, I’ve linked to both of them here. You can see for yourself.
And then you can go on over to YouTube and listen to whatever else you can find because she has no bad material. It’s all good!
was walk out the door.
Honestly! The uproar in my driveway yesterday!
I just wanted to get the mail.
I walked out the side door and before I left the shelter of the carport, two rather large-sized doves took off from the driveway with much fluttering and flapping of wings and cheeps and squawks of panic such that you’d have thought I’d flung a cat into their midst. At the same time, one of the dang squirrels came around the corner, pulled a cartoon skid to a stop (hard to do on a bed of river rocks) and reversed course in a mad rush to escape that startled me just as much as I’d startled him.
(The squirrels, by the way, are no longer to be known in this blog as “the squirrels.” From here on out, they are always to be referred to as “the dang squirrels”—and, when especially irritating, as “those dang squirrels.”)
It seemed like a lot of unnecessary commotion for a simple trip to the mailbox.
Life is like that sometimes.
You set out in all innocence to achieve something of no great moment only to find everyone around you inexplicably horrified and upset by your (to you) harmless actions.
It’s worth remembering, I guess, that there are probably always doves and dang squirrels along the way—whatever you’re trying to do. And their reaction may seem silly to you, but it seems life and death to them.
And it’s also worth remembering—if you happen to be the one squeaking and squawking when the monster is coming up behind you—that maybe she just wants to get the mail.
of the time I took piano lessons!
I did actually learn to play a little better than Tucker here, but I’m not sure my singing measures up.
On a Saturday.
I’m instituting Silly Saturdays. I do not promise, however, to find enough silliness to manage a Silly Saturday every Saturday. Sometimes, this new feature of the blog will alternate with a Serious Saturday. Or—you know—just a Same Old Saturday.
Today, however, thanks to the folks over at Ohgizmo.com, where I originally found these things, I can safely say that this is a Silly Saturday.
First up, check out the USB Toast Hand Warmers.
Now, this product strikes me as being a good idea. Speaking as a person who has nearly perpetually cold hands, I like the idea of a USB-powered hand warmer that leaves my fingers free to type. But. . .they look too silly to use. I don’t think I’m going to be rushing out to buy them. On the other hand, let the temperature drop far enough, and then, we’ll see. Along about January, anything could happen. (I wonder if they heat up too much to allow for quick disconnect and stashing in a drawer—without setting the house on fire? If you’re ever in my office in the winter and you smell smoke, you’ll know what happened.)
Secondly, there’s a bit of brilliant silliness to show you. The only thing that stops me from putting in my order for the Baby Mop is the fact that I don’t actually have a baby. I could borrow one, I suppose, but I’m not sure the parents of any available babies would approve. Also, I suspect it might be a grey area under current child labor law—although, really, you’re just leveraging a baby’s natural activities, aren’t you? The Baby Mop is a onesie (those one-piece jumpsuits that look far more stylish on Catwoman or Mrs. Peel than on the average baby), with mop-like fringe along the forearms and the shins. Baby crawls. Hardwood floor gets dry-mopped. It’s one of those things where you think, Oh, no! And then you think, Hmmmm.
Pesky child labor laws. Those dang unions! Always getting in the way.
