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While my normal reader numbers have taken a serious nosedive recently, the amount of spam accounts willing to receive my drivel filled missives expands exponentially. Every day I zap more and more of these annoying non existent bloggers.
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And while I give them an A for persistence, ( I zap two? Three come back. ) their lack of original site names is quite pathetic.
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If you’re going to clutter my follower list, at least put a little effort in to it. Geesh.
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Because weirdness needs to be celebrated.
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This seems a rather cold and loveless way to grow up. But then again, if you’re a teenage chameleon not having parents around to enforce curfew has it’s appeal.
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Resemblance of cartoon to actual creature?
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A little bland, but the general outline is there. I give it a 7.
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Yes, someone just paid half a million dollars for a few specks of dust. And while the bunnies under my bed may not be nearly as exotic, for quantity… they can’t be beaten.
Here’s the gist of the moon dust saga : In 1969 Neil Armstrong gathered moon dust in a bag, which was put in another bag for transport to earth. Apparently the government is very greedy about their dust and forbids private citizens from owning it ….so instead of handing it out as party favors, the dust bag was loaned to a space museum in Kansas.
Problem. Museum directory Max Ary was a crook who was convicted of auctioning off space artifacts in 2005. The Marshall Service seized and then auctioned some of his items much to NASA’s dismay. The woman who bought the bag of dust… for $995… figured it might be worth a bit more and shipped it to NASA for verification.
NASA refused to give it back. She took them to court and won her dust, as well as $1.8 million. But NASA had used carbon tape to pick up a few grains of the dust to test, and these were not returned… so she sued again. It’s these tiny flecks that just brought half a million.
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So please, if you have extra cash lying around and are interested in purchasing some dust? Let me know. Mine may not come from outer space but collection is not an issue.
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Have you seen this duck?
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I really hope Crystal wanders by our house at some point because seeing a woman chase after her with a net is positively screaming blog fodder.
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We ducked into a favorite pub last week for a toddy and a nosh. The pot stickers were less than spectacular, but the cranberry ginger crush was yummy.
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Sitting at the bar I saw this…
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And while the thought of peanut butter whiskey disgusts me, the delivery system has merit.
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I don’t recommend running into a moose . Our friend did years ago… his bike was totaled and he spent a month in the hospital . The moose? He sauntered off like he’d been tapped by a fly swatter.
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I try to be a good human. I reuse, I recycle and I dispose of things the legal, environmentally friendly way.
Maine is a beautiful state and we do all we can to keep it that way, including picking up trash on the side of the road. It disgusts me the amount of crap people will throw in the woods or a ditch. Tires, construction debris, carpet, bicycles, small appliances… it’s ridiculous.
So being the good global citizens we are, we recently picked up a small window unit air conditioner, loaded it in the truck and drove to a waste management site.
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Where we discovered the reason people throw things on the side of the road. If you want to encourage the public to do the right thing? I suggest making it a little more affordable.
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When you’re searching for a new home, there are no perfect houses. Some don’t have enough closets. Some have hot pink bathtubs. Some are in Alabama. ( A joke. No hate mail necessary. Roll Tide! )
Here’s one in a very nice section of Virginia. Homes of this size in that area go for a million plus… but it just sold for $200,000 less. And the reason wasn’t a lack of a wood burning fireplace.
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Small garage? You can enlarge it.
Out of date kitchen? You can remodel it.
But people living in the basement? That’s got to be a hard spin for even the most talented of realtors.
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Someone is living in your basement for three years, brings a friend… and you couldn’t be bothered to kick them out?
I can’t even imagine this scenario.
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It’s been a while since I checked my spam folder and man, was it ever full. It never ceases to amaze me why people waste their time leaving these comments. What’s the end game? None of the companies exist and no one pays the least bit of attention, so what do they hope to gain.
Along with an alarmingly large number of extremely crude sexual content filled missives that would have made Hugh Hefner blush, I received this:
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Motorhome Collision Repair Near Me
Spam
Hello there! This post could not be written any better! Going through this post reminds me of my previous roommate! He continually kept talking about this. I am going to send this post to him. Fairly certain he’ll have a great read. Thanks for sharing!
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How nice. An appreciative fan. Though why this man’s roommate would continually talk about my fat woodchuck post is anyone’s guess.
Right after that, I found this:
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Motorhome Collision Repair Near Me
Spam
Next time I read a blog, Hopefully it does not disappoint me just as much as this one. I mean, I know it was my choice to read, but I truly believed you would have something helpful to say. All I hear is a bunch of whining about something that you could possibly fix if you were not too busy searching for attention.
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I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but the speed at which my new motorhome collision repair fan turned on me was shocking.
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Because I like to keep my readers well informed. .
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This is good news. Next time the husband ignores me while watching some ludicrous old western on tv? I’m going outside to talk to the ‘shrooms.
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For the love of God, why? Who would buy such a thing…
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You heard it folks, move fast.
Like you have to after each and every time you eat at McDonalds.
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I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say if you have a 36 foot yacht? You’re probably not that worried about work in the first place.
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Yes, from the people who brought you How To Bake A Potato … the sequel.
Wash sweet potato.
Pierce sweet potato.
Bake sweet potato.
Riveting stuff… no?
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Being in my fifties and happily married for 38 years, I admit there are days when my normal beauty routine takes a back seat to comfort, convenience and a why bother attitude. My pedicure is in need of a touch up and no, it wouldn’t hurt to retire those comfy yoga pants that are wearing a bit thin in places.
Our house is a no judgement zone but clearly my news feed is not. They’re constantly bombarding me with ridiculous articles and ads pushing the idea that I’ll never be pretty, thin or young enough.
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I have special conditioners for my hair, my face, my hands and my feet… for the love of God, I do not need one for my eyebrows.
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I fear for this generation. I really do.
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Did they really say mature women with a straight face? No one wants to see mature women in a pair of Daisy Dukes and a sleeveless top cut down to there. Don’t believe me? Go shopping at Wal Mart on a warm summer afternoon.
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It’s long been a dream of mine to see … no, not Istanbul or Rome, I’m a simple girl. I only want to see the cellar floor again.
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When we moved into this house 20 years ago we had a gloriously empty 2,000 square foot basement… and I had visions of carefully organized storage shelves so our closets would never burst open again. Sadly this never came to fruition because my husband filled it to the brim with crap, clutter, things he didn’t need and will never use stuff in no time flat. And when I say filled, I mean up to the rafters with barely a path from front to rear. I haven’t seen the floor in years.
So when the husband retired a few months ago and had lots of spare time on his hands, I did what any thoughtful wife would do and subtly suggested now would be a good time to go through his mess, useless junk, rubble treasure once and for all.
But as my title says, I should have been careful what I wished for. Because as I suggested, my husband started sifting though his massive piles of detritus below ground.
The problem is…. it all began to float upstairs.
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Now? There’s a World War II poster/map on my den reading chair.
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There are railroad cars on my kitchen counter.
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There are boxes, bags and assorted dreck on my office floor.
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As well as stamps and a broken clock on my auxiliary desk. So basically, it’s everywhere… and I fear for the future of our living space.
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Because if all that makes it’s way upstairs? I may end up sleeping on that newly cleared cellar floor.
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River's world..... 