I find it ironic that (a) I don't know for sure the meaning of "irony"; and (b) I am a perennial end user of electronics and Mr. Coffee has been around for like 24 years

I bought a Wii last Tuesday and today it stopped working.  I re-plugged in everything.  Note terms of art.  I used lots of swear words, which are not terms of art but are terms of fucking great art, and to no avail.  I berated my children for not presenting me with solutions and merely - and I am speaking of one particular child under the height of 5 feet - helicoptering around a non-Wii containing room with a down turned set of lips and a doleful look of eyeballs and a repeated utterance [sic] ("utterances"?) that "it doesn't work".
And I didn't have the receipt. But I had the credit card (score!) and I knew which day I bought it on [sic] (thank heavens that federal holidays are a point of reference for the memory-challenged but I still have to remember which holiday and whether my home state has receded from the Union.  See immigrants, gay marriage, abortion, states rights, Texas' take on textbooks.)
So I piled both kids, guilty and non-guilty but I am the judge, jury, executioner and chauffeur, into the car [sic] (true) and we went to Costco, which as far as I am concerned is apparently the cradle to grave of bulk purchases and outdoor furniture suites that require a big ass back yard, and I was able to return the Wii, get credit on my card, and purchase another Wii. Took the new Wii back home, put it together and it did not work.
It turns out that the extension cord had blown.  And the irony is that I thought all along that it was the electronics that were faulty.  And I am not sure if the word "irony" is correctly used.  And it's ironic - or is it, cause I don't know - that I don't know if it's ironic that I don't know if "ironic" is correctly applied.
I am a liberal arts major (references to the esteemed Lex Loci Lori) and incapable of remembering the correct usage of words in the English Language when I am, more precisely, an English Literature major, and I am completely reliant upon being reliant upon the infallibility of the electronic world.  It is binary, yes?  Or have we moved on from punch cards and that really really big computer at Penn?  It is intuitive, yes?  It has anticipated our human liabilities and is designed to circumvent our ineptitude and slow learning curves, yes?

And it was always the extension cord.

I think I will exchange "stupid" for "ironic".

on seeing old boyfriends

Best to have a really thick skin when you contemplate "what if" because it's really about "what can I handle and why the hell didn't I assess this earlier."

Other applicable thoughts:
1. it pays to stay in shape and barring that (which is easily barred as it is far far far easier to simply 'stay' vis. 'stay in shape', three quarter length sleeves and bermuda short are a very good and readily accessible (vis. physique from early twenties) proposition.
2. meeting your former boyfriend's child, somewhat north of six feet and yet to graduate from grade school can make you feel (a) matronly; (b) detritus on the roadway of life: (c) both a and b above; and (d) neither if you've taken away all your mirrors and self-reflection.
                                                           3.  A sense of accomplishment, whether passively attained or not.  Cause you can (read: I can) make the right decision for the wrong reason and that ends me up in the same place as if I were seasoned, wise and capable.  And I will take this alternative path if it ends me up in the good result.
4.  A good haircut (his) and an abandonment of Nike short sleeved shirts best to be worn on the mannequins at Sports Authority goes a long way when seeing someone after a long period of time.
5.  Also very strategic to bring your daughter, her boyfriend, your boyfriend and your youngest offspring (read: responsibility) when seeing your old beau again.  Real turn on.
6.  And be happy resolved where you (read: I) are (read: am).

possibly temporary posting and candidate to be removed when I get sufficiently embarassed: Guys like dogs because they don't say anything but they convey their emotions without any bullshit.

Inoffensive positioning of "I am tired, please leave me alone and I will not bite or snap at you should you wake me, but do remember I am a dog."

Old School Parenting

My friend and I were driving home from a PTO meeting (my first, her bazillionth) and we decided to go through the alphabet, listing our preferred approach to parenting.  I don't remember them all and I've added some new ones, even more extreme.  Please feel free to fill in words for letters that stump me.

Assault
Battery
Corporal
Draconian
E
Flogging
Garbage Duty
H
Incarceration
Jail
K
Manacles
No after dinner snacks
Only opinion that matters is mine
Punitive
Questions?  Didn't think so.
Restitution
Slavery
Tether
Unless you'd like  to find out
Veneration [of parent]
Whine free zone
Y
Zen-free zone


And now, excuse me, while I return to my parenting primer authored by one Charles Dickens.

I am so zen I had forgotten about this

until I hooked up my Iphone to my MacBook and my photos populated my screen.  This is the magic carpet ride that happened sometime between Angry Guy At My Door and the next morning at 7:30 a.m.

This is a shot of the house immediately West of mine, taken from my front stoop.  It's to give you an idea of the geographical (I have earlier opined of the psychological differences between me and my Staplegun neighbors, present blogger Lo excluded) distance between my house and, say, the 18 or 20 feet West of my house.

Here is a shot of my Oriental rug lain flat between the two trees on the right of way 18 to 20 feet West of my house.  Until sometime in the magic bewitching hours between what I assume to have been a solicitous call from a man hopped up on the right to bear basketball hoops and the time at which I walk my dog hopped up on the right to take his morning constitutional, I found my rug so lain.  And so soaked.  For the sprinkler systems be aqueous in Denver once Mother's Day passes.  And the date this morn was May 21.

My rug is a mysterious thing; 4 feet by 5 1/2 feet, hand knotted (and, yes, airing on my porch side railing since sometime in the late fall of 2009 and thus sufficiently aired out and, well, admittedly abused by its own owner.  Namely me.) of many muted yet brilliant colors and hand sewn on one edge to cover the loss of part of its original breadth, thus reducing its financial value (to say nothing of toll taken by a continuous October to May outdoor life in mile high Colorado).

My rug is magical.  It fell from the railing and instead of obeying the law of physics rule number 3 that all rugs go to the floor, my rug flew 18 to 20 feet West under shade of night and, even in a shallowly lit night, knew enough to unfold itself completely and submit itself fully to the earth.  To cover each square inch of the earth that could fall within the fully unfurled perimeters of its substance.  And to embrace not just the dirt, but to welcome the nourishing water so that it, too, could grow (mold) as the germinating plants submerged in the soil beneath it would.  This is what magic looks like:

I lied about the zen.  But my faulty memory sure does help keep me calm.

I am not blog worthy.

But then again something sometimes occurs that is entirely blog worthy.  Like this item found at my neighborhood grocer:

I should say "neighborhood grosser".

My daughter and I saw this box and put it in the shopping cart pretty much immediately after she had asked me that I no longer buy junky cereals.  And I had agreed.

We could not pass this up.

We will likely throw it up.

Staplegun

I live in Staplegun.  Not Stapleton.  Annie get your gun.  Emily get your Post.  Missy get your Manners.  Letitia don't balk.  (Sorry, can't do much with "Baldridge" and who the heck would know that reference where I live, that being Staplegun?)

Let me recap.

I don't have neighbors.  I have angry mobs.

Doorbell rings.

Me: hello?

Guy at door: YOU HAVA PROBLEM WITH MY BASKETBALL HOOP?

Me: what?

Guy at door: DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH MY BASKETBALL HOOP?

Me: what?

Guy at door: People said either you or your realtor called about my basketball hoop!!

Me: I didn't call [very matter of fact tone]

Guy at door:  You have a problem?  You have a problem with my hoop?

Me: No.  Where do you live?

Guy at door:  [thumbs North of my house].  Well, then I'm calling your realtor.

Me:  He used to live in [Staplegun].  He's a nice guy.  He didn't call.

Guy at door:  People TOLD me either YOU or YOUR REALTOR called!!

Me:  I didn't call.  He didn't call.  I'm telling you it's not true.

Guy at door: [quiet]

Me: What's your name?

Guy at door: I'm not TELLING!

Me: Well, where do you live?

Guy at door: I'm not TELLING!

Me: Well, I'm Melissa Kelley, I live here, and I don't have a problem with your basketball hoop.

Guy at door is no longer at door and now leaving my porch and on the sidewalk:  I am not TELLING you!

So, I have a couple suggested readings for my neighbors:

And this:

And here is the first in a flash card set I'm thinking of making and handing out:

But then again, I'm beginning to think any of this might be akin to:

So I give up.  I am not going to buy a handgun.