Category Archives: humor

Parkour Madness

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Two cats engaged in a friendly wrestling match, paws wrapped around each other.

The Night the Zoomies Took Flight

It was a parkour moment of madness.

It started like any normal night. We had our before‑bed play session, and then Banner climbed onto the top of my dresser and refused to come down — so we skipped the bedtime grooming with the glove. Fine. I got myself settled into bed, eyes just starting to get heavy, drifting toward sleep.

And then it happened.

Little cat feet came stampeding my way. A bounce on my feet at the end of the bed — just a quick pounce and gone. Then a mad scramble on the floor, some batting, some wrestling, and then… stillness.

I let my eyes close again.

That’s when I heard something behind me, followed by a blur of orange fluff skimming my head and landing with a whump right in front of my face. Eighteen pounds of fat cat. My heart was pounding. I swear I felt claws scrape my scalp (and maybe my face), but Banner simply repositioned himself on the nightstand and stared at me like a stone gargoyle.

Then something caught his attention.
His ears perked; he stretched up. Balboa was peeking over the footboard — and that was all it took.

 

They were off again, over the bed and into the living room. The parkour moment had passed.

The 3:30 a.m. Aftermath

Around 3:30 a.m., I made my nightly trip to the bathroom. Banner followed, calm as could be, as if the earlier chaos had never happened. When I came back to bed, Balboa had made himself comfortable — totally normal. But then Banner hopped up and took my side of the bed. No room for Mom.

But it was so unusual, I couldn’t even be mad. We had a late‑night, early‑morning cuddle session until Balboa realized his brother was next to him. Then off they went again, and I finally got the bed back.

Fitbit always tells me I don’t get restful sleep.
I wonder why.

 

A Wee Mallard in the Tartan Army

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Meanwhile in the heart of the Boston Public Garden, Mrs. Mallard becomes  The Tartan Army’s newest recruit! Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack and Quack join the festivities.

 

Even Mrs. Mallard and her brood have joined the Scottish takeover of Boston. Honestly, could it be any other way?

Bronze Mrs. Mallard statue in the Public Garden wearing a traffic cone during the Scottish festivities.

In True Scottish Fashion Mrs. Mallard Donned a cone!

But don’t look now — the Tartan Army has a new recruit. Mrs. Mallard heard the bagpipes and said, ‘Aye, I’m in.’

 

Join me In my Southern Neighborhood of phrases and Slang

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A colorful, storybook-style neighborhood with bright houses, winding roads, green lawns, and distant snow‑capped mountains under a blue sky — a cheerful little town where our linguistic adventure begins.

Join me and my neighbors from the Hundred Acre Wood as we wander into the land of Southern country wisdom.

Good Morning, Neighbors

You all know I love regional phrases and slang. You’ve probably seen my earlier post, New England vs. The World – A Linguistic Nightmare. And with relatives scattered from Virginia to Florida, I’ve heard my fair share of Southern sayings. My very funny sister‑in‑law from Charleston, SC has more slang expressions than a monkey has uncles. Visiting with her is guaranteed laughter.

 

So today, I thought I’d take a little colloquial road trip. Even if I can’t get there in person, I can still travel with my ears open. Let’s see what we can find — and how different things might be from north to south.

Bless Your Heart

As a Northerner, I’ve never used this one — mostly because I don’t have the patience to insult someone politely. But Southerners? Oh, they’ve perfected it. “Bless your heart” is the Swiss Army knife of phrases: it can mean “you poor thing,” “you absolute fool,” or “I’m about to talk about you behind your back but in a Christian way.” Tone does all the heavy lifting.

Hold Your Horses

Now this one I’ve used. Loudly. Repeatedly. Usually while trying to get someone to stop doing something ill‑advised, like reaching for a hot pan or making a major life decision before coffee. No horses required — just a firm reminder that patience is a virtue and impulsiveness is… well, not.

Pretty as a Peach

A sweet little compliment that sounds like it should come with a glass of sweet tea and a porch swing. In the south it is truly  high praise, If someone calls you pretty as a peach, don’t ask questions. Just accept it gracefully and move on before they follow it with something less flattering.

 

Reckon

I reckon Sam knows what we mean

I’ve always thought of this as cowboy talk, but Southerners use it like punctuation. “I reckon” can mean I think, I guess, I’m not committing to this but I’ll say it anyway, or I’m about to lie politely. It’s flexible. It’s charming. It’s basically the duct tape of verbs.

Aren’t You Precious

This one is a trap wrapped in a smile. It sounds sweet enough to frost a cupcake, but most of the time it’s pure sarcasm delivered with perfect Southern politeness. Southerners pride themselves on hospitality, so they’d never be outright rude. But that little boy tormenting his sister? Oh, isn’t he just precious. Translation: stop acting like a little gremlin before I lose my religion.

’Til the Cows Come Home

This simply means “forever.” You’ll be waiting ’til the cows come home, and knowing cows, they’re in no hurry. They’ll wander back when they feel like it — which is exactly how long your patience will last.

Too Big for Your Britches

A classic from my childhood. And no, it never meant weight. It meant attitude. If Mom said you were getting too big for your britches, you were about two seconds away from being reminded who actually ran the house.

Happy as a Pig in Mud

Or, as my father preferred, the more colorful version. Either way, if someone says this about you, it means you’re having the time of your life — probably doing something incredibly messy, questionable, or both.

If the Creek Don’t Rise

My personal favorite. When I moved to Massachusetts and used this phrase, people looked at me like I’d just spoken in tongues. Even after Hurricane Irene turned Vermont into a water park, the phrase still didn’t click. But it’s perfect: “God willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll be there.” It’s hope, humor, and realism all in one line.

Closing Thoughts

Regional sayings are little postcards from the places they come from — tiny pieces of culture tucked into everyday speech. Whether you’re from New England, the Deep South, or somewhere in between, these phrases carry humor, history, and a whole lot of personality. And even if we don’t all use the same expressions, we can still appreciate the charm behind them. After all, language is one of the best road trips we can take without ever leaving home.

 

Confessions of a Hunt‑and‑Peck Typist

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Owl on a computer keyboard humorously admitting to hunt‑and‑peck typing, perfect visual for a post about typing mishaps.

A love story between me, my keyboard, and the typos that betray me

I Type Like I’m Defusing a Bomb

Let’s get this out of the way:
I am a hunt‑and‑peck typist.
Not a casual one.
Not an occasional one.
A lifelong, committed, two‑fingered warrior of the keyboard.

My typing style is 10% accuracy, 90% determination, and 100% “please don’t look at me while I’m doing this.”

If I keep my eyes glued to the keyboard, I can produce something that resembles English.
But the moment — the moment — I glance at the screen?

My sentence transforms into a ransom note assembled by squirrels.

My Typos Have Typos

I don’t just mistype words.
No, no.
My typos are so bold, so creative, so aggressively wrong that autocorrect just throws its hands up and walks away.

I try to type “affiliate program.”
My fingers: affilaue progeam
Which sounds less like a business opportunity and more like a medieval plague.

I try to type “invited.”
My fingers: incited
Suddenly the email isn’t welcoming me — it’s starting a riot.

I try to type “wrong answer.”
My fingers: wring answer
Which is… ironically correct.

Honestly, my keyboard should qualify for hazard pay.

The Keyboard Is My Frenemy

We have a complicated relationship.

I rely on it.
>I fear it.
>I suspect it judges me.

Every time I sit down to type, the keyboard sighs like, “Oh great, here she comes. The woman who types like she’s playing Whac‑A‑Mole.”

And yet… we continue.
Together.
In chaos.

Looking Away Is a Crime

Touch typists can look at the screen while typing.
They can even carry on a conversation.
Some of them can type without looking at all.

Meanwhile, if I look away for one second — ONE — my sentence becomes:

“Thsi si a greta idae adn I’m suer it wlil mkae snese.”

I don’t type words.
I type word scrambles.

But Here’s the Thing…

Despite all this, I still write blog posts, emails, stories, and entire volcanic rants.
>I still show up.
>I still type.
>I still create.

I’m not a bad typist.
I’m an adventure typist.

And adventure typists have the BEST stories — because half the time, we have no idea what we just typed until we scroll back and gasp.

So if you’re a fellow hunt‑and‑peck typist out there, squinting at your keyboard like it’s a treasure map…
Welcome.
You’re among friends.

 

Junk EMail, Weak Willpower, and the Daily Quiz That Owns Me

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The junk mail that has become my morning obsession

My Morning Ritual: Delete, Delete, Delete

Every morning I open my email and face the overnight avalanche of junk. Doctor appointment reminders? Keep. Greater Good reminders? Keep. Recipes I want to try someday? Keep. Everything else? Delete is my best friend.

I have no idea where half this stuff comes from. Sometimes I scroll through before deleting and hit “unsubscribe,” but honestly — how did I get subscribed in the first place?

I know the recipe emails are my own fault. Some sites make you sign up before you can print anything, and others insist on emailing the recipe like it’s a state secret. Fine. I accept responsibility for that avalanche.

Enter: The Daily Quiz I Never Asked For

But The Daily Quiz?
That one’s a mystery. I don’t remember signing up for it, and yet there it is every morning, sitting in my inbox like a stray cat I accidentally fed once.

My inbox basically screams “YOU’VE GOT MAIL!” like it’s trying to startle me into opening it.

Deleting it is always my first instinct.. Trying to delete it is my second.. But every couple of days a question catches my eye, and suddenly I’m taking the quiz again. And of course, that just encourages it to keep coming back.

The Volcano Quiz That Took Me Down

The other day the quiz was about volcanoes — one of my favorite topics, especially Kīlauea in Hawaii — so naturally I took it.

Disaster.

I started off strong, then the questions took a nosedive straight into the obscure.

For example:
Which is NOT a type of volcano? Composite or Stratic?
Or:
The name of New Zealand’s most active volcano translates to what?

Ask me the difference between lava and magma and I’m fine. But these quiz masters were digging deep — like “I have a geology degree and no social life” deep.

Then Came the Driving Quiz… and Humility

Today’s quiz was about driving. Now, I’ve been driving for… well, let’s not say how many years. I figured I’d ace it.

Wrong.
I missed the very first question.

Let me ask you:
What does a double yellow line on the road mean?
Multiple choice:

  1. Denotes two‑way traffic
  2. Allows passing on the left
  3. Separates lanes on a one‑way street
  4. Prohibits lane changes

If you picked #1, congratulations — you’re smarter than I was at 6 a.m. I confidently picked #4. I was sure it meant no passing. Wrong answer, but hey, at least it was a safe answer.

Then it asked things like the fastest speed limit in the U.S. (85 mph in Texas, in case you’re curious). By that point I realized I was in too deep.

Hooked, Annoyed, and Weirdly Invested

I may complain about this quiz, but clearly I’m hooked — and I get irrationally annoyed when I miss the basic questions.

So tell me:
Do you get tons of unsolicited emails too? And do any of them have you weirdly hooked, the way this quiz has its claws in me? Please tell me I’m not the only one with zero willpower when it comes to deleting junk.