7 Quick Takes: “Glitches Galore” Edition

Oh yes!   A Seven Quick Takes that is truly miscellaneous, like it’s supposed to be.  If there’s a theme at all, it’s that I found appropriate pictures for everything.

Or, I found pictures for everything.  UPDATE:   pictures which apparently didn’t show up this morning.  There’s a theme for you:  glitchiness.  Sorry about that!  If the formatting is still all weird, then we’ll know WordPress is just being terrible again.

Don’t forget to check out Conversion Diary for everyone else’s 7 Quick Takes, and then stick with Jen for the rest of the week, too — she’s always worth reading.

7 Quick Takes



I was halfway through Madame Bovary, because reading it makes me glad to be myself, instead of anyone who personally knows anyone in that book


But then it fell behind the bed (that happens a lot).   So I picked up I Am Jackie Chan:  My Life In Action.  You will really like it, if you like that kind of thing.  I came across this passage about his birth:

“Of course, my arrival in the Year of the Horse was hardly a coincidence; actually it took an awful lot of stubbornness on my part to pull it off!  Most babies are born nine months after being conceived.  I, on the other hand, stuck around an extra three months, until my mother was forced to go to a surgeon to bring me into the world, kicking and screaming, by caesarian section.”
He seems to believe it, too, because that’s how it’s always been told in his family.  Maybe it’s just clumsiness by the ghost writer, but somehow it struck me as an extremely Chinese kind of story — he’s just going along, talking about regular stuff, and then suddenly asking you to swallow this ridiculous, fantastic lie.  And then he just carries on with the story.  So crazy!
At 35 I don’t have any gray hair.  But it is suddenly mixed with about 40% coarse, black, wiry hair (my normal hair is brown and wavy) that hovers an inch over my scalp like concertina wire.  This bothers me because it was literally only a few months ago that I finally figured out what to do with my hair.  It involves mousse, a hairdryer, and a round brush — cosmetic devices that used to be as foreign to me as these:

19th-century eyebrows, spots, cheek plumpers, and breast pads.

“Cheek plumpers?”  Anyway, now I don’t know what to do with my hair again.  Not asking for advice, just complaining.

I love our mechanic very much.  He looks a little bit like Freddie Mercury’s responsible older brother.

Fat bottom girls, you make the suspension system wear out prematurely.

He pretends not to notice the oppressive pee smell in our van, and I pretend not to notice the overpowering, um, hardworking mechanic smell when he gets through fixing it.  He even drops the van off at our house when he’s done looking at it.  Today, he dropped it off and said the entire front brake system needs to be replaced.  I still like him, though.
In case anybody missed it:  Do yourself a favor and read A Right To Be Merry: Five Things That I Don’t Know How Non-Catholics Live Without by my talented and mostly merry younger brother, Joe Prever.  Oh, really, WordPress– now I can’t add links?  Fine, here is the thing:


Definitely worth copying and pasting into your browser.  I think this article ought to be made into a pamphlet and put in the backs of churches, where sullen teenagers hang out because they think they’re wasting a precious hour every week. It will cheer you up if you’re already Catholic, and if you’re not — well, what are you waiting for?  We got the goods.
5.If machines really did want to take over the world and enslave mankind,
then causing the kind of confusion documented in Damn You, Auto Correct (sigh: http://damnyouautocorrect.com/ ) would be an excellent way to start.  I had to close it before my husband got home, because I was embarrassed to be laughing so hard.  Warning:  it’s full of dirty words and crass sexual and potty humor — but it’s the absurdity that’s so funny.Here’s one of the tame entries:6.I’ve always pooh-pooh’d the idea that children from wholesome, spiritually-grounded families will be seduced by the glamors of evil if they’re allowed to go trick-or-treating. And yet how else do you explain this?


I’ve always weaned my babies at 15 months or so because I’m generally already pregnant, and can’t deal with feeling so surrounded.  It’s like the St. Patrick breastplate:  babies with me, babies inside me, babies beneath me, babies above me, babies on my head, babies crawling around in my pant legs; etc.  And then at the end, instead of “Amen” I go “Aieeeee!” and decide it’s time to wean.


You can tell by their glazed, roving eyes that an older baby is mulling over all kinds of strange and fascinating ideas when they nurse, but it’s a revelation to have a kid old enough (mine is 18 months old) to express those ideas. The other day, she unplugged for a minute to say, “Say ‘cheese,’ Mama,” and then chomped back on again.   Later, she interrupted her snack long enough to inform me, “Vvvvvvvvvvvvvv.  Sound hamat!”  (Hamat = elephant.)  And this morning we had the following conversation:

Her:  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!

Me:       Here I am.

Her:      I wan’ noishe, Mama.

Me:       Okay, let’s nurse.

Her:     I so happy.

Ahhhhh.  Happy weekend, everyone!


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