The Female Chuck Norris

My friend Paul sent this to me today (I totally used your name, Paul...consider this your very sad and pathetic 10 seconds of fame, dude). It's an article about who I believe is the female Chuck Norris. While my Vols suck donkey balls this year (they do...they really, really do), the girls basketball team still rocks, as I know it always will as long as Mrs. Summit herself is in charge.

Summitt has shoulder surgery for raccoon attack
Sep 25, 1:39 pm EDT

KNOXVILLE, Tenn. (AP)—Tennessee basketball coach Pat Summitt had offseason shoulder surgery, not for a sports injury but because of a tussle with a raccoon.

The winningest basketball coach in NCAA history has had problems with her right shoulder since dislocating it while chasing away a raccoon poised to attack her Labrador. The attack came near her home on March 5, just days before the Southeastern Conference tournament.

A month later, Summitt guided the Vols to their eighth NCAA title.

Summitt had arthroscopic surgery Thursday in Knoxville, Tenn., to repair recurring instability problems.

The coach will begin rehab in about a week. The Lady Vols begin practice on Oct. 17.

She didn't even have to use her gun. You know she has one. Total studette.

Oscar the Talking Dog: My New Obsession

I love this dog. I swear, I first saw him in the video above, but there are about 15 more videos of him on You Tube. He's Oscar, the talking boxer, and he's so adorable, I may eat his scrunchy, wrinkled, mooshy little face.

Bizarro World and My Fabulous New Gig

Yesterday was the weirdest day. First of all, my alarm was nonexistent at 5 am. It never woke me up, and my biological clock woke me up about 45 minutes past my usual waking time. So, from minute one of rising, I was in a state of panic frenzy, rushing like a crazy lunatic. I finally made it to work, everything seemed to be fine, when I realized that I am still a pre-menopausal woman and suddenly had cramps that would kill a large horse.

Fast forward to end-of-day. Because I do an 80-mile round trip to work every day, I try to get up with the roosters and get there early. Then, I feel OK with leaving by 4:30 or 5. Yesterday, I did just that, thinking I'd be home in time to hang with the stepson on our scheduled Wednesday night together. I got on the highway to realize that, SH*T, a semi had somehow lodged itself under a bridge or overpass or God only knows, so traffic was at a standstill. Thirty whole minutes later, I had driven one mile and made it to the next exit. People were irritated and driving like morons at this point. After I turned off the exit, I noticed a wreck that happened right behind me. I missed it by seconds. Then, I traveled about 3 more miles, came to a stop light and saw that it was clearly a shade of yellow. I slow to stop, while the crazy bastard next to me decided to gun it and subsequently flew through the dangerously then-pinkish light. He did, and I thought, "wow...this idiot's going to slam into someone." Which, in fact, he did. Right there. About 10 feet in front of me. Slammed into a woman that was trying to make a left turn. It's as if it was all in slow motion in a 3-D movie.

So, I wait to see if people are OK. Once I saw that everyone was up, moving, and yelling obscenities at one another with no protruding bones or bloodshed, I thought, "get me the hell OUT of here," and I drove around them. Perhaps it wasn't the nicest and most helpful thing I could've done, but at that point, I felt as though I had entered the Twilight Zone and wanted desperately to just get home. With all my parts intact.

After 2.5 hours just to get home last night, you can imagine my elation when I saw that I will be allowed to telecommute a few times a week starting next week. My collective bosses - I have two that "share" me - left the approval on my chair. This allows me to transition into how much I friggin' LOVE MY JOB. I love my job, people. I do. It rocks. I have an office with my name on the door, which would be enough for someone like me, really. After contracting for 14 years, I'm used to the corner supply closet the size of the backseat of my car as my office. I'm used to being the red-headed stepchild, of sorts. I tend to be more grateful than your average permanent employee-type who has had a 401K and this really neat thing called Vacation time for their whole career. I'm the nomad who has landed. And, after years of either crappy or nonexistent bosses, I now have two down-to-earth, respectful, appreciative, fantastic bosses. Both men, thank God...and nice, down-to-earth, normal, family-type, good-guy men. And, even though it's a gazillion miles away from my house, I love to come to work every day. This is huge. I would guess that my father has probably just fallen over in his chair upon reading this paragraph.

I get to dodge communications bullets and catch speeding ones in my mouth on a daily basis. Some hate the chaos, but I thrive in it, and so it's been a joy to be able to write a video script one hour, while editing a brochure the next and then driving to another state to actively serve as project manager on another project. I have not been bored since Day 1. I've been super-crazy-girl-busy, and I've loved every single minute of it. For once in my adult life, I don't just like my job. I friggin' LOVE my job. So there you go.

From the madness of yesterday comes the appreciation of today. That's what life is all about, right? Perspective. The kind that can change on a dime.

Carpe diem, indeed.

Friday Night Saks Bitches

My entire weekend consisted mainly of football. College and NFL. Before I blog about my football experiences (some were too painful to write about just yet), I shall tell you a quick story about my Friday night.

Another preamble to a quick story: I love to shop. It's as if I woke up at 30 and became especially obsessed with shoes and handbags. I have lived in many cities, shopped in many different stores, and while some have been more uppity than others, I've never felt as though I wasn't good enough to shop at any store I've visited. I've bought things on Newbury Street (the "Rodeo Drive" of Boston), been in several boutiques on Oak Street (Chicago), and LIVED in Atlanta, for chrissake. If anyone's going to be uppity, it'll be some sales clerk in Buckhead. Believe me.

Well, fast forward to Friday night. My friend Mockarena (www.themockdock.com - story also chronicled there, but from a different perspective, of course) and I were having a girl's dinner and cocktails night out. It started out lovely. I followed her to her house after work, met her 2.5-year old son, Mini-Mock, and hung out for while reminiscing with her husband (who happened to go to my high school in the South, of all coincidences). We then took off for our intended destination - The Cheesecake Factory - at the big fashion mall here in town. Knowing that the wait would be horrendous on a Friday night, we thought it would be nice to walk through Saks Fifth Avenue and mock all the overpriced crap. So, we did.

Upon entering the handbag and shoe department, I spotted this supple, platinum gray leather Prada bag. Price tag? $1500. It was extremely lickable. I seriously wanted to either lick the leather or put it on the floor, take my clothes off and roll around on it for a while. That's how yummy this purse was, people.

Knowing that I'm way too intelligent to ever spend $1500 on a purse, I thought it'd be funny to get my picture taken with it - much like I would have my picture taken with the Pope, should I ever get to meet him. So, Mockarena took my phone and snapped a picture. Within a second of the clicking sound, the two clerks in the department shuffled quickly over to us as if we were hardened criminals. Older-lady clerk behind the counter (who I assume was in charge of overpriced scarves) motioned for younger lady clerk (who looked just like Michelle Obama) to stop us. I thought she may confiscate the camera. She told us that pictures were not to be taken...blah blah. I sort of tuned her out when she was scolding us, instead going into an immediate daydream about what Prada prison would look like. I was livid.

Mockarena was shocked. Just astonished at the whole spectacle, and kept asking, "Why? Why?" Remember when Nancy Kerrigan was smacked in the knees with crowbars by Tonya Harding's posse? Yeah, it was like that.

Only the bitch could NOT give us an answer other than, "It's Saks policy."

Of course, Mockarena was shocked and nice, whereas I was irritated by the whole thing. If it's a stealing-ideas-to-combat-counterfeiting thing, then they clearly need to explain that to customers instead of being uppity bitches. I think they just like being uppity bitches, though, and thoroughly enjoy being condescending to customers, mainly so they can feel better about the fact that they barely made it through high school and make $9/hour.

I have four fake Pradas in my closet right now. Not to mention a Dolce and Gabbana and I've always wanted a Balenciaga knockoff (although I have yet to see one at my Marathon Gas station, state fair, or flea market - where the other knockoffs were purchased). The day I spend $1500 on a purse is the day I've officially gone insane. Certifiably nuts. Especially when I can get one at my local gas station for 30 bucks.

Now, I understand the whole counterfeiting thing...I feel really bad for people who invent something cool and then get their ideas stolen. But this is a plain, gray leather sack. It's not like it's the cure for cancer or a revolutionary solar panel, people. This is a f*cking purse. It's 2008, and if you think that you should get some sort of patent for a plain, gray purse, then you're obviously making way too much money and taking way too many drugs.

Get over yourself, Ms. Saks purse manager. And, I can't wait for the day I shall walk through your store again, wearing all four of my fakes at once.

Now THAT would be a picture.

I gotta get me one of these.

So my husband sends me a clip this morning about these goats that get scared and faint. I found this additional video, which I had to share, of course. I now want 10 fainting goats on my property. Immediately. And, I will love them like I love my dogs, but I shall also scare them approximately every 20 minutes just to pee my pants laughing. It's the little things, people.

Random Capitalist Plug

This is extremely random, but I came across this site this morning and I have fallen in love with the jewelry. Had to plug.

http://store.brevitydesign.com/

God, I love Dunkin Donuts

I just found out that there's a Dunkin Donuts right down the street from my office. This could very well be one of the happiest days of my life, people.

The Difference Between Men and Women

My husband showed me this picture, and asked what I thought. I pondered for a second, and I expressed what first came to mind: I wasn't quite sure if her shoes were Nikes or Pumas, but they're green. I mean, they don't really match what she's wearing, although I guess I could try to like them if they were part of a cute marathoning ensemble or something. I could maybe make them work in the right fashion situation, as the color could really add a pop to an otherwise drab outfit.

Then he turned to me and said, "She has shoes on?"

Yeah. This is precisely the difference between men and women.

If I did at least one of these, I'd be the coolest professor EVER.

My good pal forwarded this to me this morning. I have to say, number 15 is one of my favorites, but it's really hard to pick just one. Mr. Meiss is rather humorous.


50 Fun Things for Professors to Do on the First Day of Class
by Alan Meiss

1. Wear a hood with one eyehole. Periodically make strange gurgling noises.
2. After confirming everyone's names on the roll, thank the class for attending "Advanced Astrodynamics 690" and mention that yesterday was the last day to drop.
3. After turning on the overhead projector, clutch your chest and scream "MY PACEMAKER!"
4. Wear a pointed Kaiser helmet and a monocle and carry a riding crop.
5. Gradually speak softer and softer and then suddenly point to a student and scream "YOU! WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"
6. Deliver your lecture through a hand puppet. If a student asks you a question directly, say in a high-pitched voice, "The Professor can't hear you, you'll have to ask *me*, Winky Willy".
7. If someone asks a question, walk silently over to their seat, hand them your piece of chalk, and ask, "Would YOU like to give the lecture, Mr. Smartypants?"
8. Pick out random students, ask them questions, and time their responses with a stop watch. Record their times in your grade book while muttering "tsk, tsk".
9. Ask students to call you "Tinkerbell" or "Surfin' Bird".
10. Stop in mid-lecture, frown for a moment, and then ask the class whether your butt looks fat.
11. Play "Kumbaya" on the banjo.
12. Show a video on medieval torture implements to your calculus class. Giggle throughout it.
13. Announce "you'll need this", and write the suicide prevention hotline number on the board.
14. Wear mirrored sunglasses and speak only in Turkish. Ignore all questions.
15. Start the lecture by dancing and lip-syncing to James Brown's "Sex Machine."
16. Ask occasional questions, but mutter "as if you gibbering simps would know" and move on before anyone can answer.
17. Ask the class to read Jenkins through Johnson of the local phone book by the next lecture. Vaguely imply that there will be a quiz.
18. Have one of your graduate students sprinkle flower petals ahead of you as you pace back and forth.
19. Address students as "worm".
20. Announce to students that their entire grades will be based on a single-question oral final exam. Imply that this could happen at any moment.
21. Turn off the lights, play a tape of crickets chirping, and begin singing spirituals.
22. Ask for a volunteer for a demonstration. Ask them to fill out a waiver as you put on a lead apron and light a blowtorch.
23. Point the overhead projector at the class. Demand each student's name, rank, and serial number.
24. Begin class by smashing the neck off a bottle of vodka, and announce that the lecture's over when the bottle's done.
25. Have a band waiting in the corner of the room. When anyone asks a question, have the band start playing and sing an Elvis song.
26. Every so often, freeze in mid sentence and stare off into space for several minutes. After a long, awkward silence, resume your sentence and proceed normally.
27. Wear a "virtual reality" helmet and strange gloves. When someone asks a question, turn in their direction and make throttling motions with your hands.
28. Mention in passing that you're wearing rubber underwear.
29. Growl constantly and address students as "matey".
30. Devote your math lecture to free verse about your favorite numbers and ask students to "sit back and groove".
31. Announce that last year's students have almost finished their class projects.
32. Inform your English class that they need to know Fortran and code all their essays. Deliver a lecture on output format statements.
33. Bring a small dog to class. Tell the class he's named "Boogers McGee" and is your "mascot". Whenever someone asks a question, walk over to the dog and ask it, "What'll be, McGee?"
34. Wear a feather boa and ask students to call you "Snuggles".
35. Tell your math students that they must do all their work in a base 11 number system. Use a complicated symbol you've named after yourself in place of the number 10 and threaten to fail students who don't use it.
36. Claim to be a chicken. Squat, cluck, and produce eggs at irregular intervals.
37. Bring a CPR dummy to class and announce that it will be the teaching assistant for the semester. Assign it an office and office hours.
38. Have a grad student in a black beret pluck at a bass while you lecture.
39. Sprint from the room in a panic if you hear sirens outside.
40. Give an opening monologue. Take two minute "commercial breaks" every ten minutes.
41. Tell students that you'll fail them if they cheat on exams or "fake the funk".
42. Announce that you need to deliver two lectures that day, and deliver them in rapid-fire auctioneer style.
43. Pass out dental floss to students and devote the lecture to oral hygiene.
44. Announce that the entire 32-volume Encyclopedia Britannica will be required reading for your class. Assign a report on Volume 1, Aardvark through Armenia, for next class.
45. Ask students to list their favorite showtunes on a signup sheet. Criticize their choices and make notes in your grade book.
46. Sneeze on students in the front row and wipe your nose on your tie.
47. Warn students that they should bring a sack lunch to exams.
48. Refer frequently to students who died while taking your class.
49. Show up to lecture in a ventilated clean suit. Advise students to keep their distance for their own safety and mutter something about "that bug I picked up in the field".
50. Jog into class, rip the textbook in half, and scream, "Are you pumped? ARE YOU PUMPED? I CAN'T HEEEEEEAR YOU!"


And, of course, I shall cite this work:
http://monster-island.org/tinashumor/humor/profs.html

And Robbie Williams, also, is not gay.

First there was my Prince shout out. Not gay, people. Just has a really, very, superbly gay stylist. And then there's Robbie Williams. Now, I know I'm a bit behind the times. I don't always know who the kids are listening to these days, and I definitely don't keep up much with British pop music, but I was recently introduced to Robbie Williams - the face - beyond the lame song (I think it was called Millenium) I've actually heard on the radio one, maybe two, times. He has a splendid voice when he's not singing the poppy crap. Angelic, even. But I don't think America will ever hear it, because they're too busy listening to Heidi Montag. Please stab me in the ears.

Robbie Williams has never really made it big over here, but he's HUGE in England. I don't get why some people make it here and some people don't. I mean, look at Amy Winehouse and her popularity in the States, then you look at Robbie's and it's truly perplexing. I personally think Amy Winehouse died about 3 months ago, and they're holding her up a'la Weekend at Bernie's. No one can live through what that woman has does to herself. Honestly.

So, Robbie Williams the somewhat unknown British pop star, is not gay. There you go.

And, his hotness and the hoopla surrounding his hotness has prompted me to once again break out my long-awaited Top Five list, which includes the top five men that I, Daisywriter, should have a thumbs up from husband man should they ever come sniffing around for a smooch. The trump card notion. Don't say you don't have a list. If you do, you're a lying sack of crap.

I've told husband man that he can have a list, too, of course. I encourage the creativity. I've been very upfront and said that if Demi Moore actually came knocking on our door, I'd first ask if she was lost, then ask for proper identification, and finally would allow my husband to take her out for a night on the town. We have a truck stop nearby I think she'd enjoy, after all.

So, the top five list is forthcoming. I know you're eager. Try to contain yourselves.

Correction and Clarification.

In my latest post, I stated the following concerning said friend Mockarena:

"I believe we're friends primarily for one reason and one reason alone: we both feel that Prince is heterosexual."

This prompted one of the two comments I think I've received on my blog (two of which came from her, I believe). I would like to clarify that yes, for the Prince connection alone, Mockarena and I would've become friends. However, we are also friends for the following other 10 random reasons (and this list excludes the 10,000 OTHER reasons currently on the living list):

- We both love Victoria Beckham and Sarah Palin. Fascinating. We just can't look away, people.
- We both appreciate Robbie Williams' talents and penchant for grabbing his genitals (blog entry forthcoming). We especially like it when he sings either with his father or to his mother (usually surpassing Sinatra's prowess in a Sinatra song), as this parental affection shows that deep down, he's a good boy. A good boy who likes to grab his crotch as often as humanly possible.
- We both love men and have married two individual males who are, well, MEN. No hair products. No whining. No metrosexuality anywhere in their genetic makeups.
- We both think that kids are amusing as hell. Especially when you dress them up in chicken costumes at Halloween.
- We both love old 80s music and movies and appreciate all things from that beautiful, innocent, Reagan-infused era.
- We both loathe the young celebrity of today, especially those little bitches.
- We both laugh at things other people would not see as funny. Others may think this makes us sub-cerebral and just plain giggly; I say it shows that we know something that they don’t.
- We both think that Jessica Simpson looks painfully constipated while singing, and if he was not still living right this second, we would equally agree that she is Joe Cocker reincarnated as a blonde, bowel-challenged bimbo who peddles great shoes and handbags.
- We both believe Madeline Kahn was a comic friggin’ genius. And Mel Brooks was even more of a genius for showcasing that fact.
- We both love candy corn in its pumpkin-molded form (and I just found that out today, so it didn’t even make it to the real list yet).

10 reasons of 10,000. I needed to clarify, apparently. I apologize, my Mockarena friend, and will be more cautious of my words the next time. Even if I do sling a blog entry in between "I need it now!" deliverables. Like I tell my students, “Always read something more than five times before you turn it in, as Bill Gates can’t do everything for you, you lazy slackasses.” And, because I only have four readers, I can't afford to lose any. Regardless of what the Schoolhouse Rock song said, three really is NOT the magic number.

Now go read her blog one more time (shameless plug #14 - www.themockdock.com) so she can get on 20/20 again and let me represent her from a public relations perspective (I want to personally hijack and shave John Stossel's Magnum P.I. 'stache).

And so it goes. One of Daisywriter's first retractions on record.

Prince and Bigfoot

"Perceived Gay Prince"

One of my newest girlfriends is a woman I work with ("Mockarena" herself...shameless plug...www.themockdock.com). I believe we're friends primarily for one reason and one reason alone: we both feel that Prince is heterosexual.

Now, mind you, I believe that Prince is in touch with his feminine side. I also believe that he's dripping with sex appeal, and I just refuse to believe that all of the women he's worked with over the past 20 years didn't indeed have sexual relations with him. I'm just saying.

Of course, there are naysayers. In fact, Mockarena's sister pokes fun at us, as does about 9/10 of the general population. It is difficult to defend album covers such as the one depicted above.

I'm posting this, however, because I feel as though I'm one of two women in the world who truly believes that this man is weirdly sexy in his own, "I-break-all-gender-categories" way. It's as if Jimi Hendrix and a non-gay Little Richard had a baby and named him, aptly, Prince.

So, to all you women who love Prince. I salute you. While he wouldn't be on my top ten hottest men of all time (or at least for this week) list, he'd still be an intriguing catch if I was a fishing single woman.

Prince is not homosexual, people. He's just misunderstood.

And, I also believe in Bigfoot, so sue me already.

This guy's a quack and drives me to require a sedative.

I seriously want to yell at this man. With words. CORRECTLY F*CKING SPELLED WORDS on paper, with apostrophes and correct grammar and everything that's holy.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/education/article4698949.ece

New season, new class, and a possible new candidate for the role of a lifetime.

Today marks the end of yet another month and begins a new September. I have always loved this time of year. It's that time of year when sweaters and coats are already appearing at the mall, yet you're sweating your ass off in 90-degree weather. Fall is glorious, and I cannot wait for it to be in full force. It's number one of my two favorite seasons, really. Spring is my other. Why, do you ask? Well, for starters, I grew up without much of either. In the south, you experience a really friggin' melt-your-face-off hot or the alternative kind of cold'ish weather. Not much in between. So, when I moved semi-permanently to the Midwest (permanently in my book is 5+ years, so I'll say permanent in '09), having four seasons was a novelty.

As a kid, September marked another year of my life gone and another year of school beginning. I always had new clothes and shoes and some really snazzy notebooks and a bitchin' new Trapper Keeper. It was the little, dorky things that made me smile. I guess this is why I loved husband's birthday gift of an antique 1932 Royal typewriter last week. It's clean, the keys are immaculate, and it even works. The clicking sound of the keys is enough to make me completely geek out with utter glee. Total. Dork. Alert.

For the past four years, I've been able to relive my school days by teaching at the university. And this Fall, I have a pretty interesting class. A kid who is about to graduate at age 17 (can you say Doogie Howser?), a kid who has traveled across the United States on his bike (and it only took him 6 months, while it took Forrest Gump several YEARS on foot), and a kid who doesn't speak a lick of English. The latter is one I'd rather not talk about, as I'll surely come across as a right-wing crazy bitch who believes, well, that you should actually be able to speak English to pass enough English classes to make it to a 300-level English writing course. This is just a theory. Call me looney. Really.

And, with the newness of all these things in my world right now, I see that McCain has nominated a Mrs. Sarah Palin as his running mate. I'll have you know that my psychologist best bud ("T") called me IMMEDIATELY to let me know that Mrs. Palin is my apparent older twin. She said - and I quote - "It's like you in about 10 to 15 years!" Alrighty then...move over Uma Thurman and Cate Blanchett, we may have a new girl in the running for the role of Daisywriter's life biopic.

It's either the updo or the glasses that's forcing her to make this comparison, mind you. And I'd like to think I don't look as Heatmeiser-ish as her - I'm way blonder and perkier. However, I'll take it as a compliment, because I'd rather look like a pro-life Alaskan right-wing ex-beauty queen than say, Courtney Love. At my advancing age, I take compliments where I can get them. Even if they do come from homeless men downtown that make noises like they just ate something scrumptious when I walk by.

So far, I like Palin. And as my readers know, I'm one of those kooky moderates. Regardless of how I vote, it is nice to see a female take such a leading role in this political race. A real, somewhat fashionable, mom-like yet fierce competitor female. The chick that can give birth to a fifth child and go back to work three days later. My uterus has never been occupied, but I'll be happily compared any day to a chick that can hold her own in the boys club.

So, she's officially in the running - for the biopic of my life, of course. For the record, though, my 17-year old daughter would've been on the pill. Abstinence, my ass. And the comparison ends there, folks.