Every lactose disaster has its silver lining.

This week in Yick

Someone asked if I was the mother of the groom.

Flat feet informed me that shoes without arch support will no longer be tolerated. If I fail to comply, they will walk out on me.

I turned thirty-one. Sir Paul turned sixty-five on the same day, thus outliving his song both age-wise and happy-marriage-wise. We knocked back a few cold ones at the corner pub and sang of yesterday.

Due to said birthday, I am about to be booted from my beloved singles' ward and left to the mercy of predatory 50-year-old divorced men and migratory bands of terminal commitmentphobes.




This week in Yippee

Adorable little brother got married but.......see above.

Nasturtium seeds finally sprouted.

A bunch of new people wandered onto my blog on my birthday and told me I was funny.

Family gave me the most fantastic rose bouquet in the history of rose bouquets. I'm not a fan of hybrid tea roses, but these made me a believer: orange, red, and pink -- Cinco de Mayo in a vase.

Night out in the canyon with the hi-larious girls. Acquired useful new phrase, "gettin' your Gucci."

Loot: Funky Regina Spektor import. Gorgeous new astronomy book.

Sprang for the pricey sour cream and got free relationship advice. I win!

Triumph of the godless killing machines.

Bear World, distant land teeming with the cruelest beasts in all creation. It requires a trek too arduous to contemplate, deep into the Idaho wilderness. Few return alive, and those who do return alive pray for death.

And yet we embarked. We were afraid, but as Anonymous once said,

"Daring deeds are not done by fearless hearts, but by ordinary hearts who've had a few too many."

So drunk on Dasani, loud music, and excessive quantities of salt-and-vinegar chips, we finally rolled through the Gates of Doom.

First ring of the Inferno: the gift shop. Brilliant strategy. Make the bears look plush and cuddly and we will enter their trap without a struggle. It is curious to note, however, that despite their best efforts, the capitalist vampires were unable to serve up much in the way of non-creepy bait. Witness:








Zombie bear wants squirrel for lunch. But you are dinner.










Hangover bear offers you all the booze you can drink. After the third beer, your head turns up missing.














Severed, floating bear head keeps on a-smiling. You think you're safe because he has no stomach? Think again.



















Friendly toilet paper dispenser bear waits until you're at your most vulnerable before attacking. Yes, the t.p. rod doubles as a light saber.














Of course they have to brainwash the kiddies, too.


















And the lowest of the low: a bear posing as the Son of God. Sick, sick, sick.













Also in the bear-tivity: a bear in sheep's clothing. Need I say more?







Not to be outdone, the moose-tivity offers up a moose in sheep's clothing.







And the barnyard-tivity contributed a sheep in shepherd's clothing. Will the perversity never end??






But I digress.


Dosed on warm fuzzies, we stumbled out of the gift shop a little poorer and a lot giddier. But there was something in the air.... a hazy foreboding? The stale stench of death?

Next stop: the baby bear enclosure. Tumble, wrestle, prance -- sweet teddy bears come to life! There is nothing amiss, Dear Visitor. Behold the cuddly cubs! They love you! You love them! Love will conquer bloodlust! LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED!

Devious hippie bears.










And then the amusement park rides, where all bears are jolly roly-polies.




"If you are shorter than this, you'll only make the appetizer plate."


















"Ho, ho, ho! Jump into my tummy and I'll take you for a spin!"










"Don't cry, little child! Bears aren't scary at all -- what's scary is alien grapes falling from trees!"























"And what bear could compete with the raw horror of living-dead clowns?"















"Or the bladder-emptying terror of a deranged clown coaster?"
























"No, really, Silly! The bears don't want to eat you! See? You get to eat the bears! Yummy, yummy bear fries! Show those bears who's boss!"







Next they lure you on the so-called Curator Tour. "Feed The Wildlife," says the sign (in gratuitous quotation marks), suggesting that you are in control. They herd you into a truck, lock you in, and haul you away.


















On the way they point out the frolicking mountain goats. They introduce you to Buffalo Bill the jolly buffalo and Jane Doe the gentle doe. They show you the majestic and rare white elk and her white elk baby, as lovely and serene as unicorns. While you are craning your neck toward these wonders, they drive you into The Bear Enclosure....










First they park you at the grizzly compound. Nine hundred pounds of hairy evil pacing up and down like the Devil himself. You shudder in terror, but they are quick to comfort you. "Silly tourists! These bears eat Twinkies and little powdered donuts! They're as fat and harmless as Homer Simpson! Throw them Twinkies, folks!"












Next, the black bears. "Look how they sit up and clap for the donuts, folks! Aren't they adorable? Don't you just want to hug and snoodle them? They love you, too!"
















At this point, we were quite charmed. Maybe I've been wrong about bears, I thought. And maybe Stephen Colbert is wrong, too. Maybe they aren't really godless killing machines. Maybe they just get a bad rap.

I was holding a treat absentmindedly as I watched the black bears clap for their food. "Cutie pies!" I exclaimed. When I looked down, a mean-looking sucker was standing below me, drooling. "He really wants that bread!" laughed the tour guide.

Or was it my hand that he wanted?




Miraculously no one got mauled on the Curator Tour, and they unloaded us at the baby bear pen. "That wasn't so bad!" we told each other. "Let's drive through again, but this time in our car, so we can see them up super close. We were silly to be afraid -- they just want to be our fuzzy-wuzzy buddies!"

So off we went for another visit. We saw a bear bound up a tree like a deranged super-villain. "Awwww, how cute!" we cooed. We saw four angry bears fighting. "What a fun game!" we exclaimed. We bopped along, brainwashed, until a big bear ambled out in front of the car. He bent down and sniffed the front bumper. "Tee hee," we said. "Mister Bear likes Hondas!" But before we knew what hit us.....















....he hopped up on the hood of the car! He turned his massive head and eyed the squealing Sharon over the steering wheel. Drool dripped from his lower fang as he paused a moment to savor our distress and then....


















....he sat down on the windshield, as if to say, "kiss my fuzzy brown butt, feeble humans!" I swear I saw him smile as he peeked over his shoulder at our flailing and wailing. "A tank full of tasty lobsters -- which should I choose first?"











Sharon honked for the ranger and we waited, breathless, for help to come. Meanwhile, the monster scrambled up on the roof of the car to sharpen his teeth and ponder life at the top of the food chain.









Finally, we spotted the white ranger truck coming through the trees. "Hooray for the ranger! We're saved!"

But then he stopped.

He pulled out a camera and took a picture.

Before we could holler obscenities at him, a massive paw crashed through the front passenger window, and scooped Jen out of her seat. The sounds grew louder on the roof of the car. The screams, the crunching, the suck-suck-suck of juices. The stuff of nightmares. We heard her yell, "Drive! Drive! Save yourselves!" Sharon slammed on the accelerator, but she was too late -- the bear was done with his appetizer and ready for the main course. As we sped away, the bear slipped through the broken window like a pudgy Duke of Hazzard and started pouring ketchup on Sharon's head. Doubly cruel when you consider how much Sharon hates ketchup.

This was the moment of truth. Would I pause to snatch my friend from the jaws of death? Would I confront the hairy tyrants of this earth with a fearless eye and a swift uppercut?

I opened the rear door and ran for the back gate, blubbering like a fool.

The gate attendant greeted me with a bright smile. "Did you enjoy your drive through the bear habitat?"

I gasped and gestured toward the car, my clothes drenched in blood and ketchup.

"Lucky you -- you've been selected for a special candid shot! Be sure to stop at the Photo Den on your way out -- and have a great day at Bear World! Buh-bye, now!"

Still dazed, I stumbled obediently toward the Photo Den.

Another grinning blonde greeted me. "Ohhh....you're the one from the blue Civic! Aren't you the lucky one -- a real Bear Encounter! Won't your friends be impressed!"

I whimpered something about an ambulance.

"Oh, that won't be necessary -- it's all over now. But there's no need to be upset -- it's just the Circle of Life, and they went quickly. Plus we've got a special offer for you! Our ranger got a photo of the bear on your car! What price can you put on a picture of your friends' final moments? Well, here at Bear World we only charge ten dollars!"

"Sick blood sucker!" I protested. "Trying to cash in on my despair! Plus, I bought the Super Fun Pass, and I get 10% off ALL PHOTOS!"

"Hmph," she sniffed. "Okay -- nine dollars. So do you want one, or not?"

"Well, yeah -- of course. Otherwise people will say I made the whole thing up. Oh, and do you have anything to remove blood stains?"

"Pick up a stain stick in the gift shop on your way out. Show them this Death and Dismemberment Discount Card for an extra 5% off. Thanks for visiting Bear World, and come again soon!"

Funny by association?

Check out this commercial. You've probably seen it before. It's in high (and loud) rotation on Fox.

The Elaine-and-Jerry Dude is in my ward (church congregation, for you no-Mos). His name is Ryan Hamilton. He's got a great stand up comedy act. I've never had a conversation with him, but we were at the same dinner a few weeks ago and, curiously, he was one of the very quietest people in the room. I kept expecting him to switch on at any moment, but like the limp Looney Tunes singing frog he remained stubbornly silent (except for one little joke about lycra leggings). Maybe he was in mourning for his newly flattened car tire. Or maybe -- more likely -- silently harvesting our quirks for his new act.

If he wins the competition with a new bit about a flabby chick committing social suicide by poking fun at a muscular, attractive young Ironman champion, I'm hitting him up for royalties.

So vote for Ryan! It's a vote for clean humor, missionary hair, and achy tummy muscles (no Pilates required!)

I'm an octovark -- what are you?

What kind of cross-bred critter are you?

You are an octovark. Elusive, quiet, and sensitive, you prefer to glide through life thinking deeply about everything. And as you ponder life's biggest questions (like where you can find some tasty termites on the bottom of the ocean) BEWARE to anyone who invades your personal space! They may get piddled on with ink. (The pen is mightier than the sword, you know.)
Take this quiz!

What would Miss Manners do?

What should I do, guys?

I was recently e-vited to a get-together by someone I barely knew. However, this was a person I rather admired, so I was jazzed by the invite. Flattered. Jumped right on board. I thought I detected a bit of surprise when I appeared, but I had a great time and they seemed to enjoy my presence, too.

However, a couple days later I figured out that I'd been invited by mistake -- a simple slip of the mouse. Marie felt very silly, and a little sad.

Now there's another get-together being planned by this same person, and they have invited me to this as well, probably out of politeness as much as anything. On one hand, I enjoyed the company, but on the other, both my ego and my sense of propriety are in turmoil. Should I have enough pride to only go where I'm really wanted? Is it wrong to play an innocent mistake to your advantage? Should I let this kind person off the hook?

Social Dufus needs your advice.

I beheld the great and spacious tower of tuna. And it fell. And great was the fall thereof.

My grandfather invented the stackable tuna can.

Sort of.

I'll spare you the long story on that, but the fact remains that but for him, your towers of tuna and cat food and what have you might still be tipping onto your head, pounding you into an early grave. I'm sure we've all lost a loved one to a fatal tuna avalanche.

So I've had a special pride in the technological marvel that is the modern tuna can. Until today.

I've been planting my veggie garden this week. As I'm an apartment-dweller, I reserved a plot in the local community garden, which is strictly all-organic. Now, I consider myself a fairly decent gardener, but the thought of facing nature without my killer sprays and space-age fertilizers was a bit unnerving, so I've been consulting a book written by a longtime organic gardener. She shares all her homey remedies for what ails yer veggies and I've been poring over her sage advice, hoping to save myself the heartache of holey tomatoes. She informs me that it is quite easy to deter a common ground-dwelling sweet pepper pest simply by removing both ends of a tuna fish can, lowering it around the pepper plant, and pushing it a little way into the soil. How simply elegant and elegantly simple! How wise and with-it I will look, putting little metal collars around my peppers! How abundant will be my crop!

Except there is no removing the bottom of a modern tuna can. Try it, and you'll see what I mean. In our effort to increase the ease of can stacking we have decreased the ease of providing essential pepper armor.

You call this progress, Grandpa? Forcing your favorite granddaughter to saw at the bottom of a tuna can with sundry cutting devices, all in vain? And what if I slipped and stabbed myself on the jagged edge of one of your newfangled cans? Bled myself dry and joined the martyred dolphins? How would you feel then, hmmmm?

No worse than I'll feel when my naked little sweet peppers are mowed down by creepy-crawlies. Oh, the humanity.

When a young lady's fancy turns to thoughts of pork liver.

More evidence of global warming: my annual braunschweiger craving has kicked in TWO MONTHS early. This is so messed up. The end of the world! Dogs and cats, living together!

Also in the news: I finally changed the irritating profile photo of the bucktoothed 9-year-old me making a face in a photo booth. You can see that I replaced it with a current shot of me from my very best angle, wearing flawless lippy. Don't worry -- I don't plan to blog on anything important just because my blog now appears to be the blog of a grownup.

Gadabout 3: Fun with Wet Cement.

Remember: the game of Balderdash is still very much on and you must keep playing with me, or I will cry. To get to it easily, click on the rainbow-colored Balderdash link in the sidebar. Oooh -- pretty rainbow -- you know you wanna click on it!



My neighborhood is such a wealth of weird -- I've got more photos.



Moral of the story: be sure you're not drunk or functionally illiterate before you start writing things in wet cement.
















On a first glance I thought a baby dinosaur had escaped from a dinosaur egg. On second glance I realized that a baby dinosaur had escaped from a dried-out gourd. Either way, baby dinosaur on the loose! Lock up your little yappy dogs!


On second thought....don't.













My dearsweet grandmother would always put random words in quotes. As in:

Happy Birthday! "We love you" dear Marie.

I come from a cynical generation and rather than lending the sincerity and emphasis that she intended, these gratuitous quotation marks always looked vaguely sarcastic to me, as if Grandma were doing air quotes when she said she loved me. By the same token, this address plaque seemed a little nudge-nudge wink-wink: "Now, dear visitor, what do you suppose 'F' could stand for? Hmmmm?"









Flag-flying yard artists have a flag for every season of the year. Apparently spring is now represented by flowers and BBQ. But mainly BBQ.

















This cat didn't move a muscle all the time I was shooting pictures of it. I think it was paralyzed with embarrassment, poor miserable critter. Or mourning the loss of its gonads. Or could this be a new low in bad yard art?












My sweet poochie friend with the spiked collar. If you'd met him, you'd realize how hilarious the spiked collar is. Picture the Easter Bunny with a mohawk and you've got the idea.






















Strange...the Jolly Roger and the Union Jack, side by side. Patriotic British pirates? THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE ARE LIVING IN NUMBER 318??













Sweet little tulips, sweet little yard, sweet little decorative fence that barely comes up to hip level, massive snarling Rottweilers running in the yard. Can anyone say "lawsuit"?






















Someone loves me! (Oh, wait -- this is dated March 1985, when I was nine years old. My admirer was a pedophile. Rats.)












Three charmingly cryptic headstones were standing side by side in this yard. I especially liked this one. Forget the "beloved sister, daughter, blah blah." If I'm spending thousands on a block of granite, I want people to pay attention.

Perhaps, "Step not upon my head, dear friend, or you will meet a gruesome end."


What do you want on YOUR tombstone?









To be continued....