My husband surprised me with a bread maker a couple of months ago. Actually, I pointed and fretted and lay in the aisle at Sears kicking and screaming until he gave in and bought it for me.

About 50% of the time the Breadman machine will make really good bread. The other half of the time it makes, well, something rectangular and flat that you could use for a door-stop.

It seems to work best when I use my own ingredients – as opposed to stealing the stuff. Seriously, though, I’m pretty sure it just doesn’t work when I use those boxed Fleischmann’s mixes. I’m suspecting now that the yeast they include with those boxed mixes is left over from the Civil War.

I figured out my bread problem several ruined loaves ago. I’m still somewhat in denial about it. I just love the idea that everything is included in the box and that it’s all nicely measured for me.

I am crazy as a loon, I realize. Sure it’s no trouble to use the box mix. But, no trouble results in no bread. I guess I’m going to have to face this fact and measure my own flour. In the mean time, anyone need a door-stop? I have lots.

Apparently, I have to write this down, so that I can finally stop saying it. The new Tomb Raider movie is all about Laura Croft protecting her “box” from the bad guys.

It seems to me that back in the good old days when young ladies wore chastity belts, they didn’t have to run around willy nilly in tight fitting clothes worrying that some bad guys were going to gain unwanted access to their goodies. Those were the days – good old medieval times when a person’s only worry was maybe bubonic plague or being stretched on the rack.

Anyway, I just had to use my Laura Croft innuendo somewhere. Thanks for letting me vent. I’ll sleep better tonight.

We had Thanksgiving dinner yesterday or what we vegetarians consider it to be. I made a Tofurkey with all the fixin’s. So, tonight it’s Tofurkey leftovers. Yum.

I have been thinking of the things for which I am most thankful or, if you will, all the things I love.

Remember that Tom T. Hall song, “Old Dogs and Children and Watermelon Wine“? Or, that other Tom T. Hall song, “I Love“? They are pretty much the same song, so if you’ve heard either, you’ll know what I mean. I started sounding way too much like that while I was writing this post, so I had to delete the whole thing and start over.

So, rather than use this time to write some abstract list of things I love, I’m going to do one of the things I truly love – and that is mocking other people who love to write lists of things they love. Whew, did you get lost in that run-on sentence?

Don’t get me wrong here. I will sing along with both of those songs when I hear them. I am a sap. But, I realize even while singing right along that Mr. Hall’s lists are very subjective. I’ll start with “Old Dogs and Children and Watermelon Wine”.

It’s all relative, you see. Sure “Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes.” That’s great. But, old dogs fart a lot too.

Children. What can I say here? I love my daughter. Your kid might be nice, too. But, if your child ever has a sleepover and invites twelve of her closest friends, you too will come to realize that some children are, well, challenging. That was a diplomatic choice of words, wasn’t it? (See how sweet I can be? My first instinct was to say that other people’s children are acceptable to me only when they are sleeping or doped up on cough medicine.)

Watermelon wine sounds good, doesn’t it? I mean, it really does. But, have you tried it? I have. I can sum it up in one word. Ewwww!

Now onto Tom’s “I Love” lyrics. He says he loves pictures of his friends. I’ll assume that since he is a country music artist that some of his friends are country music artists as well. How many of those people are good looking in any traditional sense of the word? He might as well sing,

“I love giant beer guts,
saggy, flabby butts…
Greasy, prickly beards
and scars…”

He also says he loves Sunday school in May. I never went to Sunday school, but I did some time in Catholic school. I’m guessing Tom T. Hall likes to be spanked. Each to his own, I always say.

Here’s my own song. It should be sung to the tune of “I Love”:

I love wearing Converse chucks
Swearing when it’s fu¢k
A Corona with a lime
And Spider-man.

I love chipmunks in my yard
Beaver’s Dad was Ward
Cotton in my sheets
And feets.

I love movies that don’t suck
Rhyming when I’m stuck
Farting when I’m gassy
And Lassie.

I love my husband’s stinky pits
My web site getting hits
Having a rhyming dictionary
And penguins.

I think you get the gist of it now. Like Tom’s, my lyrics are very subjective. So, of course, your own version of this song would be different from ours. But, by all means, write it. It really is great fun. I got started and couldn’t stop. If you do write your own “I Love” song, please do me the honor of posting it here.

I think laughter is a way in which as people we can come together as one. Say you are in a large crowd of people of different ethnicities or nationalities. Maybe none of you even speak the same language.

Let’s say you are all there together when Carrot Top is making a long distance commercial. Something goes horribly awry and he is strangled by a phone cord. Laughter ensues. During that brief moment all of your individual differences fade away and you are all one entity rejoicing over the untimely death of a hack comic.

But – even if Carrot Top survives the accident – it’s alright, because you all became aware of that part of yourselves that makes you most human.

Our humanity is not hinged on how our cells differ from the cells of a centipede. It is hinged on the fact that centipedes lack the ability to laugh at themselves. Think about it.

Here’s a joke I had to write for them, because the centipedes I recruited for this task only seemed interested in crawling on the pencil:

There’s this centipede who loses all his legs in a tragic biking accident. To add to his misery, none of the other centipedes will believe his story, because he hasn’t got a leg to stand on. (Anyone else hear crickets?)

Yes, that’s right, I had to write that myself. Since there’s no way I could go any lower than that shameful pun, you may rest assured that you are safe now. Don’t worry – I’ll do the honorable thing and commit hara-kiri.

I do silly things like that Ghyslain boy did all the time. I think we need more people in this world who aren’t afraid to get in touch with their silly side. We need to try to remember to laugh at ourselves when we inevitably do dumb things. (Hey, I even voted for Reagan once of my own free will. What a hoot! Republicans are still trying that trickle down economics on us. Heads up, folks. That trickle looks yellow!)

Who, after all, is better qualified to laugh at you than you yourself? Be joyous that you have your life to screw up how you may and pass that joy on to others.

Think of it this way. If you laugh first, no one can ever laugh at you; they’ll always be laughing with you.

Yep, I got it. I don’t think you can get it from just reading my site, though. I might just go ahead and write a nice eulogy for myself so that no one else will have to go to the trouble of doing it. I’ll start by saying, “Dearly beloved, I told you I was sick. Now look what’s become of me.”

I am open minded enough to consider the possibility that this is only stomach flu. So, however unlikely it may be, if I do survive this trial, I shall make a sincere effort to post something interesting here.

Men aren’t usually keen on the subtle nuances of female communication. For example Alice might say to her casual acquaintance Susan, “You picked a lovely day for this get together. The food was delicious, and your children are charming.” This could very well just mean what was said.

Or, depending on intonation and emphasis on certain syllables or words, Susan might interpret this statement to mean, “Well, I guess you couldn’t have picked a more sweltering afternoon for a picnic. The food was barely edible. Your children prove Darwin’s Theory of Evolution for me beyond any reasonable doubt, for surely your little brats are the missing link he spoke of.”

If Susan chooses to share with her husband the reason she is crying uncontrollably, and she simply repeats Alice’s statement verbatim, her husband will never understand why she is so upset. However, if Susan gives her husband her interpretation of the words Alice spoke, then he is left to wonder why someone they invited into their home would choose to be so rude to his wife.

I’m rambling up to a point here, so please bear with me. When a woman is being catty, another female will catch on to it much more quickly than a man will.

I think it is a noble trait in men that they are able to tune out such pettiness.
Yet, for this very reason, men miss out on a whole other realm where bitchiness is queen, and she who can make you feel like dirt in one sentence or less gets to wear the tiara that day.

I don’t play cat myself. I think it’s much more polite to say what you actually think than to hint at someone else’s inadequacies all the while pretending to be her friend. For instance, if I was the parent of that missing link kid, I’d rather you just say, “He’s not the brightest light-bulb is he? I’m guessing him at about 25 watts.”

I don’t think that’s a polite statement, but it beats you telling me every time you see me that your son is in the advanced classes again this year and asking if my kid is still struggling with the basics.

Anyway, what got me started on all of this is Miss Manners advice column. She is almost always rude to the people who write to her with questions. I read her column for laughs. I can’t take her seriously as any kind of authority on good manners, because she is, shall we say, meaner than a gutter snipe.

But, in her column yesterday, she was so out of line that I have to share it with you, Gentle Reader. So, I have copied here both the letter in question and her response to it.

Be afraid. Be very afraid:

Dear Miss Manners: I’m a college student about to enter the business world, and I was wondering if you could tell me what is appropriate attire for cocktail parties before I make a faux pas.

I thought a cocktail dress fell above the knee, but my roommate insists it can be any length, as long as it is sans sequins or other decoration. Could you please advise?

Gentle Reader: Miss Manners doesn’t suppose she could advise you to embark on a career in which the first thing you need to know is something other than how to dress for drinks.

All right, then. In any decent line of work, people wear their business clothes to office parties, ladies adding whatever festive touches they can add in the ladies’ room. You might want to be less decent when you go out socially, when cocktail dresses can be any length except floor length.

This response startled me. I literally almost jumped back from the newspaper. After regaining my composure, I read the column to Michael and asked him, “Is it just me, or did Miss Manners call this woman a whore?” He said, “Yes. Yes, she did.”

He didn’t even have to consult his Bitch-English Dictionary. He knew what was meant. Therefore, “Dear Bitchy” has outdone herself this time.

In defense of Miss Manners latest victim who now lies bloody on the floor, I must say this. The girl is in college, apparently learning something relating to her chosen field of work, so it is absurd to infer that the “first thing” she needed to know was “how to dress for drinks.”

Why does Miss Manners treat people so atrociously? More importantly, why do these poor women throw themselves to this lion, expecting her to do anything other than eat them up? If you write to her, the old biddy will almost always imply that you are:

A. Cheap

B. Ignorant

C. A slut

If suggesting that someone must be turning tricks to earn her living is a mannerly way to behave, then please allow me to slum with the rude folks. They might not always choose the proper silverware, but they won’t generally call someone a whore unless she offends them directly.

As a wise man by the name of Randy Travis once said, “A better class of losers suits me fine.”