Maybe my blenderized finger has made me more sensitive about stuff like this, but I can’t stop cringing on behalf of the CNN anchor who left her mike on while she went to the bathroom.

As Bush spoke about improving communications between government agencies in the Katrina aftermath, Kyra Phillips’ voice interrupted with her opinion of certain men:

“… assholes.”

Phillips, responding to news about her cloakroom confidante’s latest relationship, continues on the subject of men, first lavishing praise on her husband, whom she calls a “really, passionate, compassionate, great, great human being”.

[snip]

Phillips’s view of her sister-in-law is not so enthusiastic as the one reserved for her husband. She says she has to protect her brother, because his wife is such a “control freak”.

At this point, another female voice from the CNN control room can be heard, telling Phillips to turn off her microphone.

“Who wants to listen to Bush when you can hear what Kyra thinks of her control freak sister-in-law?” by Tim Reid, Times Online

The red-faced Kyra Phillips had to go back on the air (“We apologise for a little bit of an interruption there during the President”) but I believe I would’ve handled the situation differently. I would’ve ripped the sink faucet out of the wall and committed seppuku with it.

MUCH less painful than leaving the ladies room while still breathing.

15 years ago: Got out of the van and shut and locked the door—with my hand still inside.

8 years ago: Grabbed the hedge trimmer blade—while it was on.

This morning: Put my fingers in the bottom of the Braun hand mixer—about a half second after I’d pressed the ON button.

Surprisingly enough, the Braun hand-mixer beat out the hedge trimmer for doing the most damage, but I won’t go into details, except to say that it required medical intervention and PART OF ME GOT CUT OFF.

Okay, so I’m a big baby. It was just a little, tiny part, but it hurt like heck and it sure does make it hard to type right now.

So. Now I have an excuse for not ironing but dang, it turns out procrastinating isn’t as much fun when you’ve got a doctor’s permission.

And since I’m a little frazzled, I think I need a nice, soothing procrastination toy today. With that in mind, I present: JigsawLand.com.

You can choose from Easy, Intermediate, and Advanced (although the Advanced puzzles weren’t available today) and then sort the pieces to your heart’s content. You’ll know you’ve put them in the right spot because you’ll hear a nice “thwack!” when you do it.

I broke the lens off my camera, remember? So no pics today. Sorry!

Instead, I offer my first attempt at a YouTube upload: Mojo Vs. Chuck.

Chuck belongs to Heather B. Armstrong, also known as Dooce. Dooce is such a good writer, I hate her—and I mean that in the nicest possible way.

(Direct link for the feed readers.)

A guy walked up to me and my laptop and asked me if there was wireless available in the bookstore.

A simple “yes” or “no” answer would suffice for normal people, but as anybody who knows me will tell you, I’m not normal.

I love to offer my assistance, especially in bookstores. I’m one of those busybodies who’ll see you’re holding a Charlaine Harris book and immediately take off on a comparison of the Southern Vampire mysteries vs. the Aurora Teagarden cozies.

But this guy actually asked me for information, so I smiled and launched into a little monologue about how yes, there IS internet wireless here in the bookstore—in fact, there are TWO options, AT&TWifi and TMobile, and for my money AT&TWifi is a better deal…

But then his eyes widened. He briefly stared in the general vicinity of my mouth—and then looked away.

Was there something on my teeth?

Something… visible?

By the time I’d gotten to the part about how AT&TWifi only costs two bucks a month for SBC customers, I was mumbling and he was studying the coffee stain in the carpet at our feet, so I left out the part about download speeds. I wrapped it up, he said thank you and left, and I grabbed my laptop and ran to the ladies room.

So. If you were in the Barnes & Noble in Encinitas this Saturday afternoon, and there was a woman offering perfect strangers her reasons as to why she prefers Asimov‘s magazine to Analog, and she had a big ole’ piece of blueberry on her teeth—well, that was me.

(Read the rest of “Super Sabado: the Dog Days of Summer”)

Holy cow, is this Flapjack Game addictive or what?

The object is to get three in a row of the same color of pancake. Select pancakes with the spacebar and move them around with the left and right arrow keys. When you want to drop the pancake, hit the spacebar again.

If the pancakes have syrup or chips on them you get extra points for having them in the pile. The game ends once the pile reaches the top of the box, so don’t let the piles get too big!

WHAT: Laminate flooring underlay

HOW: Hubby wanted a bulldog.

Okay, that’s the Reader’s Digest Condensed Version.

MORE DETAILED VERSION OF HOW: Hubby wanted a bulldog and I said okay, but only if we got rid of the wall-to-wall carpeting and put in a solid floor. He agreed.

I should’ve had an attorney look at our contract. How was I to know my own husband would wiggle through a loophole?

About half way through the job, Hubby decided that “putting in a floor” doesn’t include “finishing the baseboards.” So half our floors have a bit of Combi floor underlay sticking out, the part you normally trim off when you install the baseboards.

If I want finished baseboards, I’ve got to agree to a second bulldog.

Can you say “blackmail”?

Looks like yesterday’s Super Sabado is gonna be today’s Super Domingo, because Hubby and I were invited to a swanky evening out last night called the Interfaith New Gala 2006, and we didn’t get home until 1 am!

Normally I turn into a pumpkin and roll into bed at 8:30, but not last night.

Nope.

Last night I tripped the light fantastic with the Mar Dels and rubbed elbows with high society. For one exciting moment I even shared the dance floor with the mayor of Escondido! (She escaped unharmed.)

But the highlight of the evening was the arrival of three young and studlies who appeared out of nowhere and pulled two unattended ladies from our party onto the dance floor. The newcomers were all under 25, at LEAST. I mean, the Gala was a rocking party and all, but I’d say until these guys showed up, the youngest participants were the serving staff.

I gave the ladies several thumbs up but they seemed too preoccupied with their new dance partners to see. When the first husband returned to our table he didn’t notice a thing, but the second hubby showed up just as one of the newcomers started a new, sexier sort of dance with his wife. At that crucial moment the husband introduced himself to the young men.

It turns out they were Australians! They came to Rancho Bernardo for a wedding, got lost and began reception-hopping—and all I can say is, here’s to young Aussie men and their fine appreciation for older women! (Negotiations with Hubby about a trip Down Under are already underway.)

(Read the rest of “Super Sabado: Wedding Crashers, Aussie-style!”)

High School Emergency Form (as filled out by Squirt)

Name: Squirt Wren, Sweet Ninja Badass

If your parent/guardian needs an interpreter, indicate what language: Klingon

I wish I did speak Klingon. It would take the sting off of technologicaly impaired weeks like this one when:

1. The black ink nozzle on our printer clogged up for good
2. My iBook charger cord spit sparks at me before it died
3. I dropped my camera and BROKE the lens right off the front

Yes, if I spoke Klingon, I could face all this technology death properly, with a “baQa’!” or “You pathetic mak’dar!”

Since I don’t speak Klingon, I’ll just content myself with the knowledge that my Sweet Ninja Badass turned in a bunch of downloaded forms printed up in baby blue ink.

We’re supposed to be filling out the school registration packets. We got them weeks ago and—surprise! They’re due tomorrow!

In my defense, I blame this situation on our long-standing family policy regarding To Do items, namely, “If it isn’t on fire, bleeding profusely, or emptying its body cavities on the rug, it can wait.”

And yet despite our impending deadline, the boys keep getting distracted.

TIGER: Ha! Your Zombie Outbreak Survival Club is on the school’s list of student organizations!

SQUIRT: Sick.

TIGER: Are you going to be a member this year?

SQUIRT: Nah. There’s not much more you can do with it. I mean, we’ve already watched all the movies. What else is there to learn?

If it came down to choosing between fighting zombies or filling out paperwork, I’d think I’d pick the undead.

In fact, I panicked when I remembered these registration packets, but then I realized that if my kids are old enough to order a Double-Double all by themselves, then they’re certainly old enough to help me fill out school paperwork—or at the very least buy me a chocolate shake.

Besides, the way my brain’s been working lately, I need all the help I can get.

BONNIE: (waving a release form) You call this completed? Hel-LO! Name? Address? Do you even know what your address is, Squ— I mean, Hub— I mean, Moj… WHOEVER YOU ARE!

TIGER: (raises one eyebrow) “Whoever you are?” (takes paper) Just for that, dear Mother, I’m putting my address down as living across the street. At least THEY know who I am.

Theoretically, there’s no reason the boys can’t fill everything out. Theoretically, all I should have to do is sign my name in the spaces marked “Parent Signature.”

Unfortunately, the gap between theory and practical application is huge—especially when one member of your team tosses aside the “Student Code of Conduct” in order to reenact the shower scene from Psycho with his pen.

SQUIRT: WAH! WAH! WAH!

TIGER: (calmly) Mom.

BONNIE: (not so calmly) Tig— I mean, Hub— I mean, Moj— I mean… (waves at Squirt)

TIGER: (leans over and whispers) “Squirt.”

BONNIE: Squirt! Yes, thank you. Squirt! STOP IT RIGHT NOW AND FILL OUT THOSE FORMS!

Now, maybe my brain isn’t what it used to be, but even in its prime it never ran at the high production level exhibited by Squirt’s intestinal tract.

SQUIRT: (primly) I must go to the bathroom. (puts down Psycho pen and leaves)

BONNIE: Figures! Whenever there’s any work to be done! (calls after him) And don’t use my bathroom!

(Bonnie and Tiger look at each other.)

TIGER: You must forgive him, Mom. It was… his bulging colon.

BONNIE: Ugh!

TIGER: (warming up) It was controlling him.

BONNIE: Hmph.

TIGER: (intoning) It was BULGING to EXTREME limits. It was his COLON’S fault.

BONNIE: Heh! “Colon Boy.”

TIGER: That’s the spirit. And frankly, it’ll be easier to remember than “Squirt.”

Today’s procrastination joy is brought to you by my sis, who found it for me. Thanks, Sissy!

And what fun it is, too! You’ve got to hit five sheep with your tranquilizer dart, but if you shoot too soon you have to wait 3 seconds before you can shoot again.

The sheep make all sorts of fake starts, so be careful or you’ll end up like me: