Some things are too scary to talk about. At those times a scream will do. Join me over at An Army of Ermas to see what's worse than peeking in to the teenager's room.
Laugh
Showing posts with label Mind Over Mullis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mind Over Mullis. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The Ghost of the White Masque
Some things are too scary to talk about. At those times a scream will do. Join me over at An Army of Ermas to see what's worse than peeking in to the teenager's room.
Monday, August 29, 2011
BOOM!
What happens when you let the Captain loose on the Ermas blog? Join us at An Army of Ermas for a great, big earth-shattering KA-BOOM!
Monday, July 11, 2011
A Pirate's Life for Me
I’m under attack! Turns out that just when my ship was coming in, it was hijacked by pirates. So in spite of my best intentions to sail this blog straight and true through the summer, I find myself swept out to sea by a band of hearty brigands.
I’ve been promising this particular pirate captain that I would take some time off and devote whatever spare brain cells I have left to a longer project. I’m not promising anything, mind you, but when the Captain says he wants to see a book, I’m pretty sure he’s not thinking “Green Eggs and Ham.” And “Mutiny on the Bounty” seems kind of self defeating in this case.
So I’m going to let Mind Over Mullis drift for a month or so, while I take off on a brand new voyage. Feel free to drop by every now and then and hoist up a word of encouragement.
THANK YOU to every one of you who stop by to share life’s little “Don’t Let This Happen to You” moments.” It seems like somebody always seems to drop in just when I’ll be needing an alibi.
I expect I’ll round up a lifeboat and be back by the end of August. If not I’ll stick a note—or a lime--in a bottle, so you’ll know what I’m up to.
Until then. . .I’m gone fishin’. Lord only knows what I’ll catch.
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY HONEY! LET THE ADVENTURES BEGIN!
Monday, March 31, 2008
No Holes Left Behind
Holey Sand Castles!
Fill ’er up? We may not hear that question at the gas station any more, but that might be the question of the day on the South Carolina coast before long, proving a day at the beach is no day at the beach.
From the state that brought you possible leash laws for cats, comes talk of a new law designed to protect your pursuit of happiness and ruin your vacation.
Apparently flagrant and widespread sand castle building is endangering the health and well being of the good people of South Carolina and the visitors to her sparkling shores. Couples walking on the beach at night are sometimes hurt when they come across holes in the sand left by unscrupulent castle-builders.
At least they don’t have a problem with crabs.
The Isle of Palms City Council is not just going to sit and watch. No! In the spirit that made this country great even at the expense of a load of Earl Gray in the Boston Harbor, the last time it was acceptable to serve unsweetened tea, they’re going to do something about it.
Normally I try to avoid the news whenever possible and stick to factual stories like they have in celebrity gossip magazines. But some stories are so compelling that they demand attention, and I mean besides the age old question, “Why is Heather Mills going to judge the Miss USA Pageant?” You can bet your Rodham that Hillary’s not the only one dodging bullets.
It has come to my attention due to diligent research when I dropped jelly on the funnies and had to take the newspaper apart, that a proposal is under consideration that would result in fines for evildoers (Mom, Dad, and the pail pushing shovelers they call children) who do not fill in the holes they create while building sand castles. Before they leave the beach, all divots, moats, and shallow graves must be returned to their normal state or Junior is going to be spending his allowance trying to buy Get Out of Jail Free cards from the locals.
God only knows the penalties clams will incur.
They say the No Holes rule will be difficult to enforce, since the police must watch the alleged instigators build the alleged sandcastle and then leave the alleged hole unfilled, and then serve the warrant before the tide fills the hole back in.
Considering the time between low and high tides and the amount of time the family remains on the shoreline, the average policeman would be required to spend hours at a time on the beach.
The entire population of the Isle of Palms, Charleston, and Summerville has volunteered to serve on the police force.
Personally, I’m willing to do my part. On my next trip to the beach, I plan to return all the shell fragments, sand dollars, and shark’s teeth I’ve taken over the years. Vast numbers of seagulls have undoubtedly spent their lives with sprained ankles from tripping over the tiny holes I left behind. I’ll feel better knowing that I’ve made retribution.
But what do I do about the sand in my swimsuit?
Fill ’er up? We may not hear that question at the gas station any more, but that might be the question of the day on the South Carolina coast before long, proving a day at the beach is no day at the beach.
From the state that brought you possible leash laws for cats, comes talk of a new law designed to protect your pursuit of happiness and ruin your vacation.
Apparently flagrant and widespread sand castle building is endangering the health and well being of the good people of South Carolina and the visitors to her sparkling shores. Couples walking on the beach at night are sometimes hurt when they come across holes in the sand left by unscrupulent castle-builders.
At least they don’t have a problem with crabs.
The Isle of Palms City Council is not just going to sit and watch. No! In the spirit that made this country great even at the expense of a load of Earl Gray in the Boston Harbor, the last time it was acceptable to serve unsweetened tea, they’re going to do something about it.
Normally I try to avoid the news whenever possible and stick to factual stories like they have in celebrity gossip magazines. But some stories are so compelling that they demand attention, and I mean besides the age old question, “Why is Heather Mills going to judge the Miss USA Pageant?” You can bet your Rodham that Hillary’s not the only one dodging bullets.
It has come to my attention due to diligent research when I dropped jelly on the funnies and had to take the newspaper apart, that a proposal is under consideration that would result in fines for evildoers (Mom, Dad, and the pail pushing shovelers they call children) who do not fill in the holes they create while building sand castles. Before they leave the beach, all divots, moats, and shallow graves must be returned to their normal state or Junior is going to be spending his allowance trying to buy Get Out of Jail Free cards from the locals.
God only knows the penalties clams will incur.
They say the No Holes rule will be difficult to enforce, since the police must watch the alleged instigators build the alleged sandcastle and then leave the alleged hole unfilled, and then serve the warrant before the tide fills the hole back in.
Considering the time between low and high tides and the amount of time the family remains on the shoreline, the average policeman would be required to spend hours at a time on the beach.
The entire population of the Isle of Palms, Charleston, and Summerville has volunteered to serve on the police force.
Personally, I’m willing to do my part. On my next trip to the beach, I plan to return all the shell fragments, sand dollars, and shark’s teeth I’ve taken over the years. Vast numbers of seagulls have undoubtedly spent their lives with sprained ankles from tripping over the tiny holes I left behind. I’ll feel better knowing that I’ve made retribution.
But what do I do about the sand in my swimsuit?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Cannonball Run
I’m perched atop a Revolutionary War cannon in a position I will delicately describe as “not sidesaddle.” Behind me the water ripples out toward Fort Sumter, a major piece in the puzzle of how we managed to win independence from a country that, compared to the America of the time, is relatively the size a flyswatter looks to a targeted fly. I’ve been smiling into the sun for so long that I’ve managed to flash “Help Me” in Morse code to eighteen passers by using my front teeth, each of which is covered in grit and feels approximately the size of a sailboat.
So far, either nobody understands Morse code or they don’t want to risk having their picture taken in their vacation clothes. Just as I’m beginning to realize there’s a fine line between smiling and gritting your teeth, I hear the camera click and start to slide to safety down the back of the statue. Halfway down the cannon, my pants get hung on, to use a technical term, the "back." Two and a quarter centuries ago a soldier would stand here to light the fuse. My fuse is currently too short to light.
“Hold it! That’s a better shot!” shouts Bill, clicking away like he’s head photographer for America’s Top Model. A little more experience and he could stalk Britney with the Hollywood paparazzi.
I hang in mid air having a closer relationship with heavy artillery than is appropriate on a family outing. We are celebrating my husband’s birthday with a day trip to Charleston, the Holy City, and I’m thinking ungodly thoughts.
Ever since Bill turned the big 5-0 and got his membership packet from the American Association of Undeniably Old People, he’s been moping around like a kid who’s just found out where drumsticks come from. So for his birthday, I joined the Electronics Age and got him a fancy digital camera. Nothing like a new toy to cheer up an old birthday boy.
I don’t know much about the make and model of this baby, but the logo emblazoned down the side says Canon, and there’s enough alphanumeric characters trailing along behind it to drive the price up past what I’d normally pay for a spa weekend. With Brad Pitt.
What hubby doesn’t know is that, using my highly developed Google-Fu, I found the camera on the Internet for a fraction of what you’d pay in the store. Since money can’t buy love, I’ll use what I saved for batteries.
There are two kinds of people in this world. Those that photograph like Cindy Crawford and those whose picture always looks like a self portrait by a blindfolded six-year-old. Needless to say I’m more six than Cindy. I don’t want to say pictures of me generally look like chewed gum stuck on the bottom of a picnic table, but one look at my glamour shots and you know it’s body by Super Bubble, face by Bazooka.
As I’m dangling over the viewfinder end of the cannon, I notice that I have the attention of most of the tourists in the park. For a second, I’m a bigger attraction than the nude statue on the point. With shutters clicking all around me, I finally manage to secure a foothold on a pile of display cannonballs painted black and cemented solidly in place to withstand years of assault by squirrels, toddlers, and other evildoers. I balance on the pyramid of ammo long enough to release the hold of the big gun on my pants.
Just as hubby realizes my distress and rushes to my aid, I climb down looking as if I’d been straddling a missile made of black chalk. After checking me over for injuries and a better camera angle, he proudly displays the photographs he got while I was astride the big gun. As I squint at the display in the glare of the sunshine I suddenly realize that, new technology or old, no matter which cannon I get shot by, the results are the same.
But this time I was saved by the balls.
So far, either nobody understands Morse code or they don’t want to risk having their picture taken in their vacation clothes. Just as I’m beginning to realize there’s a fine line between smiling and gritting your teeth, I hear the camera click and start to slide to safety down the back of the statue. Halfway down the cannon, my pants get hung on, to use a technical term, the "back." Two and a quarter centuries ago a soldier would stand here to light the fuse. My fuse is currently too short to light.
“Hold it! That’s a better shot!” shouts Bill, clicking away like he’s head photographer for America’s Top Model. A little more experience and he could stalk Britney with the Hollywood paparazzi.
I hang in mid air having a closer relationship with heavy artillery than is appropriate on a family outing. We are celebrating my husband’s birthday with a day trip to Charleston, the Holy City, and I’m thinking ungodly thoughts.
Ever since Bill turned the big 5-0 and got his membership packet from the American Association of Undeniably Old People, he’s been moping around like a kid who’s just found out where drumsticks come from. So for his birthday, I joined the Electronics Age and got him a fancy digital camera. Nothing like a new toy to cheer up an old birthday boy.
I don’t know much about the make and model of this baby, but the logo emblazoned down the side says Canon, and there’s enough alphanumeric characters trailing along behind it to drive the price up past what I’d normally pay for a spa weekend. With Brad Pitt.
What hubby doesn’t know is that, using my highly developed Google-Fu, I found the camera on the Internet for a fraction of what you’d pay in the store. Since money can’t buy love, I’ll use what I saved for batteries.
There are two kinds of people in this world. Those that photograph like Cindy Crawford and those whose picture always looks like a self portrait by a blindfolded six-year-old. Needless to say I’m more six than Cindy. I don’t want to say pictures of me generally look like chewed gum stuck on the bottom of a picnic table, but one look at my glamour shots and you know it’s body by Super Bubble, face by Bazooka.
As I’m dangling over the viewfinder end of the cannon, I notice that I have the attention of most of the tourists in the park. For a second, I’m a bigger attraction than the nude statue on the point. With shutters clicking all around me, I finally manage to secure a foothold on a pile of display cannonballs painted black and cemented solidly in place to withstand years of assault by squirrels, toddlers, and other evildoers. I balance on the pyramid of ammo long enough to release the hold of the big gun on my pants.
Just as hubby realizes my distress and rushes to my aid, I climb down looking as if I’d been straddling a missile made of black chalk. After checking me over for injuries and a better camera angle, he proudly displays the photographs he got while I was astride the big gun. As I squint at the display in the glare of the sunshine I suddenly realize that, new technology or old, no matter which cannon I get shot by, the results are the same.
But this time I was saved by the balls.
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