8 maids a-milking.
7 swans a-swimming! Synchronized, of course.
Six geese a laying (by the ocean, not laying eggs)...do geese even lay eggs? Yes I know they lay golden eggs, but normal ones?
5 gooooooolden rings! (ding dong ding dong ding)
4 calling birds. Whom...may I ask....are they calling? My best guess is probably the three french hens. Yes, it's an international call, but still. 
Why French? Why not American? I mean, the song is sung in English....not French. I'm just saying...
Okay...as Andy Bernard so aptly pointed out, it's a bit curious that the first seven days of the 12 days of Christmas is basically 30 birds. That's a lot of fowl. I wonder if the partridge shares the pear tree, or if the other birds have to continue to hover in the air until the 12th day is complete? Just think of the chaos...especially when you get the maids-a-milking, dancers dancing, and drummers drumming.
Tis been too long since I've wet my pen to not only record on the internet my life's many workings, but also to provide exceptional entertainment to all. Wait...just to Abbey. Abbey Davis that is.
, making an exodus from Santa Barbara to Northern California. Not once, but twice.Yes. It’s true. I’m attempting to become better at updating zee blog. Why? Probably because I’m really important, I have so many followers, people need to know what I’m up to...and let’s just face it--lives depend on this blog. Exempli gratia, post numero DOS en trois jours.
First things first. Shoutout to the Denver Bronco’s. 5-0. Solid performance Kyle Orton. I’m thinking the special teams needs a smidgeon of work, however (um.....can we NOT give the other team THREE CHANCES to get a first down after we’ve held them off? eesh) And I suppose, since I’m feeling spirited, I’ll give the Rockies some credit as well. Playoffs two times in the last three years? That’s somewhat impressive after their drought of, oh, about a MILLION years without so much as tasting the playoff experience. Buffs...not so hot. Although I’m faithfully wearing a jersey every Saturday.
I will now take this opportunity to comment on the sheer ridiculouslity of Santa Barbarians. The date is October 11. The temperature is 62 degrees. OBVIOUSLY this calls for full-on winter garb. I’m talking mittens, scarves, wool coats, winter hats, leggings...and I wouldn’t be surprised if people have foot warmers in their knee high boots. Ok, YES, I know you just spent 300.00 on a coat that is far to warm for this environment. By all means, get some use out of that overpriced piece of wool. While it may exemplify this season’s latest trends, you and I both know that you’re sweating like a pig in there, and just pretending that you’re still cold (as you pull on your trendy fingerless mittens that serve absolutely no purpose while you shop for yet more useless winter garb). To cut the Saint Barby’s some slack, many of them have never been exposed to environments that drop below 45 degrees. However, knowing that almost everywhere else in the world gets colder than it does in Santa Barbara, California, I can’t help but think all this winter clothing is just plain silly.
While I’m on the topic of clothing, I’d just like to point out one more fashion woops that basically drives me crazy. Belt-buckles that spell words. In my opinion, there is a lot going wrong with these babies. First of all, they usually say ridiculous things like “cutie,” or “hot.” Second, they draw attention to an area of the body that is somewhat personal. Call me crazy, but I don’t think I would want someone staring at my crotch until they figured out that my belt spelled “stop looking at my crotch.” Maybe I’m the only one this fashion trend bothers. Maybe because I’m missing the social buffer that says, “hey, someone just walked by with an ugly belt that spelled something, but don’t stare”--because I can’t let it go. You’d better believe I’m going to follow that person until I know what statement they’re trying to make with the apparatus they use to keep their pants up.
That said, I feel as if I can move on to bigger and better posts. Por ejemplo. Today I was domestic. I made (1) applesauce, AND (2) chili.
As a conclusion to my endless and pointless babble, I will say that I’m an epic fail as a member of my book club. We are reading East of Eden, by John Steinbeck. And when I say “we,” I mean everyone but myself. I successfully finished the first chapter the other night. (hooray!) I’m supposed to be on Chapter 30. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’m typically such a good reader--I need to get my tooshie in gear. I know, I should probably just stop blogging.
PSYCH.
As if I would desert all of my avid readers at the drop of a hat. I don’t think so.
ement, but that wasn't the quick response time Kapsie was looking for. Bear in mind that it's about 6:30 ante meridian. After about ten seconds I was up in a jiffy. Long story short, it was an exciting morning spent at the chiropracter's office watching the doc tweak Abbey's neck [adjustments, as the he called them] in quick movements that were unexpected and nauseating to witness. But I think they made her feel better, which was really the point of the whole situation. Turns out the silly girl flattened the discs in her neck and decided to pinch a few nerves to boot. Well, THAT should teach her to sleep on her stomach. Ska-DOOOOSH.
mustache; and I found an authentic shawarma on the menu. For those of you who don't know what this is, sad. For those of you who have experienced the joy of a Doner Kebab, you know my bliss.
Today I’m flying to Colorado to spend some quality time with the family, and to help my sister as she plans for the big day. I obviously say “the big day” to try and sound more clever when referring the to day of her marriage, her wedding day, the day she says “I Do.” As I look back on it, it’s really not clever at all. I digress.
To start the traveling process, I took the Santa Barbara airbus down to Los Angeles Airport--LAXY as I like to call it. I was checked into the airbus by one Jim Whitehead. I think Whitehead is a very unfortunate last name--no offense to Jim, because he really was quite nice; monotone, but nice. And he drove that bus like a pro, only scaring me senseless once as we careened around the curves of the PCH (why we took the PCH, I haven’t the foggiest). I’ll be the first to say that Mr. Whitehead’s bus doesn’t quite hug the curves like my little Honda. But we made it, and I believe the only appropriate word to adequately express my thankfulness is, of course, huzzah.
I would also like to make a note regarding a condition I have which I will henceforth refer to as unexplainable queasiness and potential fainting (UQ for short). My UQ comes at the strangest of times. A few examples. Once UQ struck as I was watching a video of a very flexible human, for no apparent reason, my poor self was so uncomfortable with the situation that I ended up fainting in class. UQ also gets me when I see old people with visible bruises, or if I see very, very skinny people. UQ also strikes right before I travel, usually the morning of. I get this nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about taking a bus, a long car ride, or plane flight. I once thought to blame this on motion sickness, but I’m the kind of girl who can ride roller coasters all day and feel nothing but exhilaration. There’s no explaining it...it’s an anomaly. All this to say, UQ struck once again as I was on the SB Airbus, and I had the distinct urge to either faint, or perhaps vomit. I was anticipating the sneak attack from UQ, so I was mentally prepared to handle the situation appropriately. I don't mean to brag, but I was a champ. It usually passes after a few minutes of purely unexplainable, and not very pleasant body sensations. I take particular pride in this specific success story, because not only was I fighting UQ, I was also battling against Whitehead’s death defying driving.
So here I am sitting in LAXY, just loving the people watching. This wholesome recreation is readily available at any public location, but something about airports just increases the people watching joy; specifically in L.A. Los Angeles, a city filled with ridiculous people. Something in the water here has created a menagerie of bizarre people wearing bizarre things, and obviously acting at the calibre you would expect from those who wear the word JUICY proclaimed proudly on their tooshies. Yes, these are the same people who wear sunglasses inside, stiletto’s with their sweat pants, and carry large rodents in their purse that some genius started marketing as dogs. It’s a well known fact that NYC has a huge rat population in the subway system. I see the “sm
all dog” situation here in L.A. as much worse than New York’s rat issues. Not only are the Chihuahua's here in “So-Cal” visible during the day, but they are allowed to be taken into public locations and even petted by the envious newcomers in L.A. who are seeking approval by the ludicrous standards of the self proclaimed rich and famous. Enough about other people, back to focusing on myself. I’m flying Southwest to Colorado. If you’ve ever flown Southwest before, then you’re aware of the trepidation beginning to build in my very core as I wait to be boarded. If you’ve never flown this airline, let me enlighten you. I believe it can be summed up in three well chosen and poignant words. No. Assigned. Seats. It’s pretty much a free-for-all when it comes to getting seated on the plane. I feel strongly that some people save all their pent up aggression between Southwest flights, building it up inside until the next time they can release it on Southwest newbies upon time of boarding.
I realize I might be portraying this whole situation somewhat incorrectly as there are a few loose rules about boarding time. You are given boarding group A, B, or C; and then an additional number associated with your boarding group anywhere from 1-60. Boarding group A, numbers 1-30 gets to go first, followed by A 31-60; and then so forth through C 31-60. The Southwest pro’s have perfected the ability to check in at exactly the right time to ensure themselves group A. The super pro’s, if there is such a thing, get A 1-30. I have no idea how it’s done, and am consistently stuck with group C, which is where I think the real aggression lies. By the time I get on the plane, there is heavy competition for the, gasp, ONE WINDOW SEAT IN THE BACK. After that seat vanishes in seconds, you’re left to go for the limited aisle seats. Trust me, those get snatched up faster than you can say Davey Jones Locker. As a result, and as has always been my case, you must resign yourself to the middle seat; usually located next to those with unfortunate metabolisms.
So as you can understand, I’m starting to get a little nervous about boarding the flight. I’m definitely planning to throw some elbow’s, but there’s no telling what might happen if UQ hits me in a clutch moment......
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