The FBI Is Tracking Us

What was I talking about?

Steve and I were chatting on the phone (me on the cell, driving home from a night of teaching, him on his home phone) when -- very oddly -- a woman's voice came on and said, "This call is being recorded."

No kidding.

It was obviously a recording, and we BOTH heard it.

So apparently, the feds are onto us.  Just when we were really getting our sinister plans moving.  Sigh.


[Steven here: When the Feds record someone, do they say, "This call is being recorded"? Also, they'll never find me in my lair under the volcano, nor you in your floating citadel on a zeppelin.]

[Steven still here: After we heard the recording, we started discussing Kate's meth lab, my marijuana farm, our underage Asian slave workforce who make political buttons we sell to the Occupy Wall Street guys at on obscene profit, or our other plans to destroy/take over the world. But we NEVER discussed anything illegal, like what we would hijack. We were just saying, "Hi, Jack!" to a friend passing by.]

Kate here again:
Maybe the "This call is being recorded" thing is like in the Princess Bride, where he builds up a resistance to Iocane Powder.  It could be a ploy to make us THINK they were recording us, and then when they DON'T announce it, we'll let the really good stuff (about the planned hijacking, perhaps?) slip.  And then?  When they announce it AGAIN, we'll be all, "But, they're just saying that to make us THINK they are recording, when in fact, the poison is in the OTHER goblet." 

Kate here again, again.
And Steven? Your argument is invalid.  We all know you have no friends named Jack.  I mean, friends who anyone else can see.

You Think YOU THINK of Stupid Things, Steve? I'll Raise You a Pickle.

Sometimes a pickle is just a pickle.

A friend of mine just told me she was desperate for a Cherry Coke, and had to rummage through her purse and find change to buy one.  She felt kind of sheepish doing this. 

I told her that sometimes, sacrifices must be made.

Not once, but several times in junior high, I found myself desperate for a dill pickle (the kind that float in a jar of brine on the countertops of fine dining establishments everywhere).  During these times of desperate craving, I would walk around the gravel parking lots near the pickle emporium*, searching for change on the ground.  I had to come up with $0.50, because one large pickle was (including tax) $0.48.  I wanted to be prepared if they happened to raise the price by two cents.

There were days where I bought a pickle, and there were days where I had to continue walking home defeated and pickle-less.

[*the pickle emporium was Cal's Roast Beef, if you are wondering]

So, Steve may ponder Molly-ness.  I ponder pickles.


[Steven here: Good grief, pickles. You were thinking of pickles when your friend needed money for Cherry Coke. Well, I try never to think of pickles at all, so I guess that kind of evens things out.]
[Oh, and the Freudian quote above is my addition to your bloggy goodness. It's kind of freaky, having my sister share her inner pickle manias where I am supposed to respond to them. Gives me the shivers.]
[And Good Grief! "I'll raise you a pickle?!" You need more therapy.]

[Kate here: Shut up.]

Stupid Things I Think About

Molly Ringwald is not necessarily stupid, I hasten to say.

Before work this morning, I meditate on the eternal question, "Is there any relationship between the name Molly and the verb, to mollify? And if so, which came first?










The Online Etymology Dictionary says this:

mollify 

late 14c., "to soften (a substance)," from O.Fr. mollifier, from L. mollificare "make soft, mollify" from mollificus "softening," from L. mollis "soft" (see melt) + root of facere "to make" (see factitious). Transferred sense of "soften in temper, appease, pacify" is recorded from early 15c. Related: Mollified; mollifying.

Hm. Pretty old word, then. Did mothers in the Middle Ages call their daughters Molly because the sweet little babies were so soft and cuddly? Not so fast.


I now look up the name, Molly, on BabyCenter.com, one of many, many blogs devoted to helping the dwindling number of English speakers who actually deign to have children, to name them properly. BabyCenter gives me the following:

#71 on BabyCenter

Gender: Girl

Origin: Hebrew 

Meaning: Form of MARY. bitter 

Yaaah! Not only does Molly not come from Old French, via Latin, carrying the meaning of, "cute, soft, cuddly little bundle of joy"; but it's Hebrew for, "Bitter old rutabaga. But also, Mother of Jesus, so there's that." To get from Mary to Molly, one would need a serious speech impediment or a hearing problem. "What's that, dear? We should call our baby 'Molly'? Seems kind of unusual, but sure. Why not?"

FOR THE RECORD, I shall not name any children or pets after Molly Ringwald, who is not-- I repeat, not-- the Mother of God. She is the mother of Mathilda and the twins, Adele and Roman, instead.

[Kate here: A newspaper editor of mine told all the writers that to invoke the dictionary definition of any word in an article meant INSTANT DISMISSAL because it was to trite and lame.  It showed a lack of creativity.  Just pointing this out. Possibly the fact that you did not literally use the phrase, "To quote Webster," will allow me to not kill you today.

Oh, and also?  Steve?  Make your comments IN the body of each blog, not in the Comments section.  Duh.  People are paying us TO SEE OUR REPARTEE.  Again, duh.]

[Steven here: And when does that sweet blogging payola come my way? I'm just asking. As for your other "point": I did not use a dictionary definition. I used an etymology source, not to define the word, but to look for its roots in ancient languages. My apologies that I am not fluent enough in Old French to be able to have figured that out on my own.  Besides, didn't you get fired from that job? Or was that when you were a waitress at Pepe's Tacos? Thwack!]

[This is Kate again. STEVEN:  you WENT there? You invoked the time I got FIRED from Pepe's?  Ouch.]


[And this is Steven. Well, Kate, I think you had it coming. Someday, you'll have to tell your story of Pepe's, and please do so in comic form.]

[Kate here ONE LAST TIME:  FYI, rutabagas are quite tasty, and not bitter in the least.] 


[Steven here: I have no idea what a rutabaga is, nor what it tastes like, nor do I care. I am a rutabaga Philistine, and I'm happy to remain so. Leave me in my impenetrable ignorance, if you don't mind.]

Back to Boring Templates, brought to you by Steve Jobs

Bleh, boring template time.

Our iPad does not allow the "dynamic view" thingie that Blogger has developed, so that means that my Apple-geek friends wouldn't be able to access the content of this blog on their iPad devices. So sad. Ah, why can't the Big Boys at Apple and Google just get along?

Sorry, all, for the lame-o template. Maybe I'll update it with something better at some point.

Instructional T-Shirt For Baby Showers

Lullaby Fail!

On my personal, fabulous blog "Some of This May Be True," I reveal to the world how ... special my lullabies have been.

Lullaby Fail!

C'mon over.

Mom and Dad, 57 Years

Today is M&D's anniversary.  FIFTY SEVEN YEARS, people.

I called them to wish them many happy returns (what does that mean, anyway?), and mentioned that I had heard about this new "Negotiable Length Marriage Contract" thing that Mexico is thinking of doing.  Basically, it's a lease.  You decide how long your marriage contract would last (let's say, two years), and at the end of the time, you can either walk away; no harm, no foul; or you can do it again.

Dad said that while they may have gotten the 57-year term contract, he plans to re-up.
What a relief.

Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!