I'm not sure I can claim to be proud of it, but my unique claim to fame is that in junior high my P.E. teacher told me that she and the other P.E. teachers had voted me Second Most Uncoordinated Girl in School. To fully appreciate this, you have to understand that the MOST uncoordinated girl actually had some kind of handicap, such as cerebral palsy. I remain totally uncoordinated to this day and have never been any good at sports or dance (despite persevering with ballet classes for 34 years as an adult).
Think of those ballet classes this way: you must have made many classmates happy with their progress by comparison. So you performed a valuable public service. Any chance your instructor(s) gave you a discount to stay in the classes? Remember Milton's famous words: "She who bounces her chassé also serves."
It was an adult ladies' class, which morphed into ballet/stretch as we all aged together. None of us were very good but some were better than I. My claim was that it was the only activity I'd ever kept on doing despite being terrible at it. COVID put an end to it for a time; the instructor took the opportunity to retire and sell the studio. The class resumed with many of the same participants, but I can no longer afford it, so I take exercise classes at a gym that is free for me with my insurance. I have managed to prolong my humiliation by taking a step aerobics class at which I am equally terrible. But even when I do it wrong, it's still exercise.
Chuck Smith’s boast reminded me that when my wife and I were watching a police procedural and there was a scene in the morgue with a body on the table, one of us would often assume the voice of an aspiring actor calling home, “Mom, I got a part in a big show. It’s not a speaking part, but I get a fair amount of screen time!”
I learned to knit in junior high school, guided by a Coats & Clark guide and with help from a girl across the street (the older sister of one of my classmates), and one of my first projects was a pair of argyle socks, made from a kit. Dealing with the bobbins was a nuisance, and I had to resort to my tutor to get help on turning the heel. I was making them for my father, and I have no idea whether they even fit or not because, even to humor me, he would never have worn anything so flashy.
After failing again in a project in which I created a muffler for one of my brothers that grew to such a ridiculous length that he claimed he could wrap it around his whole body like a blanket (but also that he was grateful for it for early-morning WaPo deliveries), I ended up specializing in gloves and mittens, carefully measured to fit the recipient. I still have some I made for myself--the only gloves that actually fit me properly, as I have a clubbed thumb, and most gloves have thumbs too long for me.
In college, I tackled another ambitious project--a Scandinavian sweater for my current boyfriend (again with the bobbins). By the time I finished it, he was no longer my boyfriend, so I offered it to another brother, who declined it, as it had somehow become very long and skinny (even skinnier than he was) and was burdened by an excess of metal buttons. I don't think anyone ever did wear that sweater, but I had better luck with an Aran sweater for my husband (made of wool with the natural lanolin), and my children had a number of handknit sweaters, not to mention handknit Christmas stockings (where having learned to turn a heel came in handy).
Turns out, there is more behind the falling panties (pun intended) and the seeming ever presence of celery in the Frahm illustrations (because I say so). Back in the day --- that would be before Lycra or Elastane --- there was "lastex," a rubber product, both heavier and with less stretch. Now, while this certainly could have contributed to drooping drawers, fortunately they stayed (more or less) where they were supposed to be, and Frahm was indulging in then superficially acceptable sexualization disguised as an embarassing situation. Which, unaccountably, brings me to celery. Celery contains androsterone. In humans, androsterone is a pheromone, meaning it acts as a scent signal that can affect attraction between sexes. Thus, ipso facto. Or some facto. So having made the great leap of understanding about falling panties and celery, class is dismissed.
Now as to the matter of streams of (barely) consciousness: as I've noted before, the female anatomy (presuming a full bladder, or being "drunk" per the Q'er in Q&A) gives women an edge in bar distance events while males, with some training, are better at hitting targets (so long as they don't resemble toilet bowls and urinals).
I used to work on an Army base. One of the janitors once told me that some of these guys can hit a target at 1500 feet with a rifle but can't hit the damned urinals!
Re. Melanie-I think Trump had the WORST VOICE EVER. It is whiny and grates on the ears. Even if I liked him, I’d have to turn the sound off when he came on the radio or tv because his voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard, to me.
So can we assume that since (wait for it...) "poopy" figured prominently in the st"inks" because the Czar (Blessed Be His Name) was one of the two jurists, judging was half-assed? Also while we're on the subject of visiting the porcelain throne --- this time with expert analysis --- perhaps, a couple of ceremonial flushes are now in order to officially install bowel movements in the Pool Pantheon next to the timeless roo-roo.
When the college girl won the peeing contest, did the judges announce her as the winner by saying, ‘Ur”in”e like Flynn’?
Go to your room. And stay there until you're ready to apologize.
I'm not sure I can claim to be proud of it, but my unique claim to fame is that in junior high my P.E. teacher told me that she and the other P.E. teachers had voted me Second Most Uncoordinated Girl in School. To fully appreciate this, you have to understand that the MOST uncoordinated girl actually had some kind of handicap, such as cerebral palsy. I remain totally uncoordinated to this day and have never been any good at sports or dance (despite persevering with ballet classes for 34 years as an adult).
Think of those ballet classes this way: you must have made many classmates happy with their progress by comparison. So you performed a valuable public service. Any chance your instructor(s) gave you a discount to stay in the classes? Remember Milton's famous words: "She who bounces her chassé also serves."
It was an adult ladies' class, which morphed into ballet/stretch as we all aged together. None of us were very good but some were better than I. My claim was that it was the only activity I'd ever kept on doing despite being terrible at it. COVID put an end to it for a time; the instructor took the opportunity to retire and sell the studio. The class resumed with many of the same participants, but I can no longer afford it, so I take exercise classes at a gym that is free for me with my insurance. I have managed to prolong my humiliation by taking a step aerobics class at which I am equally terrible. But even when I do it wrong, it's still exercise.
I also got a kick out of "ready, fire, aim!" So apropos!
I’ll take Jeff’s “POS” as my favorite joke.
Judy Freed's cracked me up, maybe because it hit so close to home. This has been a common experience in our family thanks to my husband and son!
Chuck Smith’s boast reminded me that when my wife and I were watching a police procedural and there was a scene in the morgue with a body on the table, one of us would often assume the voice of an aspiring actor calling home, “Mom, I got a part in a big show. It’s not a speaking part, but I get a fair amount of screen time!”
Not a speaking part but also not a walk-on. :)
I always wonder how many takes were required to get the scene on film without the corpse breathing or doing anything else uncorpselike.
Well, I, for one, always wondered what Chuck Smith did in between Invitationals. That is, apart from yard work for Gene.
I learned to knit in junior high school, guided by a Coats & Clark guide and with help from a girl across the street (the older sister of one of my classmates), and one of my first projects was a pair of argyle socks, made from a kit. Dealing with the bobbins was a nuisance, and I had to resort to my tutor to get help on turning the heel. I was making them for my father, and I have no idea whether they even fit or not because, even to humor me, he would never have worn anything so flashy.
After failing again in a project in which I created a muffler for one of my brothers that grew to such a ridiculous length that he claimed he could wrap it around his whole body like a blanket (but also that he was grateful for it for early-morning WaPo deliveries), I ended up specializing in gloves and mittens, carefully measured to fit the recipient. I still have some I made for myself--the only gloves that actually fit me properly, as I have a clubbed thumb, and most gloves have thumbs too long for me.
In college, I tackled another ambitious project--a Scandinavian sweater for my current boyfriend (again with the bobbins). By the time I finished it, he was no longer my boyfriend, so I offered it to another brother, who declined it, as it had somehow become very long and skinny (even skinnier than he was) and was burdened by an excess of metal buttons. I don't think anyone ever did wear that sweater, but I had better luck with an Aran sweater for my husband (made of wool with the natural lanolin), and my children had a number of handknit sweaters, not to mention handknit Christmas stockings (where having learned to turn a heel came in handy).
Turns out, there is more behind the falling panties (pun intended) and the seeming ever presence of celery in the Frahm illustrations (because I say so). Back in the day --- that would be before Lycra or Elastane --- there was "lastex," a rubber product, both heavier and with less stretch. Now, while this certainly could have contributed to drooping drawers, fortunately they stayed (more or less) where they were supposed to be, and Frahm was indulging in then superficially acceptable sexualization disguised as an embarassing situation. Which, unaccountably, brings me to celery. Celery contains androsterone. In humans, androsterone is a pheromone, meaning it acts as a scent signal that can affect attraction between sexes. Thus, ipso facto. Or some facto. So having made the great leap of understanding about falling panties and celery, class is dismissed.
Now as to the matter of streams of (barely) consciousness: as I've noted before, the female anatomy (presuming a full bladder, or being "drunk" per the Q'er in Q&A) gives women an edge in bar distance events while males, with some training, are better at hitting targets (so long as they don't resemble toilet bowls and urinals).
In my youth, a sign frequently mounted over urinals read, "We aim to please. Your aim helps too".
Indeed. There was also the variation: "We aim to please, will you please aim."
And
"We aim to please
You aim too, please"
Please don’t throw cigarette butts in the urinal. It makes them soggy and hard to smoke.
I used to work on an Army base. One of the janitors once told me that some of these guys can hit a target at 1500 feet with a rifle but can't hit the damned urinals!
I always thought women were too smart to get involved in pissing contests.
Best comment in today's WaPo story about Chump's birthday bash:
"Anwar Sadat held a military parade that didn’t turn out so well,"
Re. Melanie-I think Trump had the WORST VOICE EVER. It is whiny and grates on the ears. Even if I liked him, I’d have to turn the sound off when he came on the radio or tv because his voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard, to me.
Being a dead body on national TV: the role that the TACO should aspire to.
So can we assume that since (wait for it...) "poopy" figured prominently in the st"inks" because the Czar (Blessed Be His Name) was one of the two jurists, judging was half-assed? Also while we're on the subject of visiting the porcelain throne --- this time with expert analysis --- perhaps, a couple of ceremonial flushes are now in order to officially install bowel movements in the Pool Pantheon next to the timeless roo-roo.
Faves included Neil's HOMI“LIES”, Chris's “NEEDLES”S, and Duncan's TRU“ST FU”ND BABIES.