Meet Great Grandpa….

 

 

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Okay, technically he’s my 8th great grandfather.

Though I can’t say I see the resemblance.

I’ve been shaking the family tree again and found Sir Adrian Scrope…. born in 1601, matriculated at Harts Hall, Oxford. A military man, he obtained the rank of colonel before it all went bad.

 

 

Very, very bad.

 

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Scrope was one of the regicides who surrendered at the Restoration of Charles II. The House of Commons voted to pardon him under the Act of Indemnity, but the House of Lords demanded that all the regicides should be brought to trial. Scrope was condemned to death when Major-General Richard Browne testified that Scrope had justified Charles I’s execution to him even after Charles II’s return. He was hanged, drawn and quartered at Charing Cross on 17 October 1660.

 

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An account of his behaviour in prison and at the gallows describes him as “a comely ancient gentleman”, and dwells on his cheerfulness and courage.

 

Cheerful at the gallows?

Well, good for him.

I can’t say his 8th great granddaughter would have been quite so chipper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A modern fairy tale.

 

Once upon a time there was a Princess.

We shall call her….

River.

 

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(River has been called a lot of things in her day, but never a Princess.

So if you’re calling?

Make it loud.)

 

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Princess River loves her flowers. She plants them whenever and wherever she can.

And since the Princess lives in a kingdom that’s covered by snow and ice half of the year?

 

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She takes her plantings seriously.

 

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When she first moved into her castle, she toiled long and hard until she had the biggest and most beautiful garden bed in the land.

In early summer it sprouted stunning displays of Lupine….

 

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And myriads of other riotous, colorful blooms all season long.

 

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Princess River was content.

 

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This went on for many happy years until her husband, the evil Prince, started mowing in close proximity to the bed. He also mowed in the wrong direction.

Bad Prince.

Bad!

She asked him to be more careful.

She pleaded with him to go the other way.

But month after month the dastardly toad blew grass clippings in to her carefully tended flower garden.

 

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(You do.

And I shall…)

The Princess weeded, she turned the soil, she mulched….  but to no avail.

After a year or two, the grass took over.

 

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It choked all Princess River’s lovely flowers to death.

 

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Princess River was not happy.

She had to leave the castle and hump 12 bags of mulch across the moat.

 

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She had to wack down all her blooms, rake up the dead bodies, reset the brick border, lay weed block paper, re-mulch and reset the pavers that anchored the Royal Bath of Birds.

The sky darkened. The wind blew.

It started to rain.

And she ran out of mulch.

 

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(Mathematical coverage formulas were never her strong suit.)

Princess River had to abandon her project when a deluge of biblical proportion battered her royal self.

 

 

 

She will be victorious…. someday.

Until then she will slowly plot her revenge upon the evil Prince and his heinous grass cutting machines.

She will plan carefully.

The punishment must fit the crime.

 

 

 

 

Are we really doing this?

 

I saw an advertisement the other day that made me do a double take.

 

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This is one of those times.

Huh?

 

 

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Are we really doing this?

Baby Pod.

“The intravaginal device that entertains your fetus with an insertable speaker for your baby maker.”

 

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It’s basically a small  ( I hope! ) speaker that pregnant women can insert into their vaginas to play music for their uterine inhabitants.

 

Now while I’m usually down for any new tech that hits the market,

And I’ve connected my iPhone to a lot of different things over the years….

I admit this one gives me pause.

Here’s the science behind it:

 

Dr. Marisa López-Teijón from Institut Marquès said that her team studies the influence of music on embryonic and fetal development.”We’ve conducted a study showing that musical vibrations increase the chances that the sperm fertilizes the egg, i.e. that music improves IVF.”

Having found better results in in-vitro fertilization through musical vibrations for embryos, the researchers decided to apply their idea to fetuses.

López-Teijón and her team placed speakers on pregnant women’s abdomens during ultrasounds but found no fetal reaction. “In fact, gynecologists had never observed in an ultrasound a change on the fetus as a reaction to external noises or the voice of the mother,” the doctor explained.

“We decided that we had to bring closer to them the source of sound,” she continued. “We had to bring the background music into the uterus. And I had the idea of inserting a speaker in the vagina of pregnant women.”

 

 

I’m sure Apple Music and Spotify are thrilled.

 

 

 

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For three months, the team evaluated 106 expectant mothers and their unborn babies’ reactions to intravaginal music. “We were pleasantly surprised to see the excitement of parents during ultrasound sessions to see the spectacular images of face, tongue and mouth movements of their babies,”López-Teijón said, adding that most patients wanted to repeat the experience and many more parents-to-be requested to participate.

 

 

I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest seeing spectacular images of their babies faces isn’t the only reason mothers are feeling excitement.

 

 

 

 

 

Admittedly, I don’t have children…. so forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn.

But if this had been available during my child bearing years?

Junior would probably have ended up like this.

 

 

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Slutty fish and Sumo wrestlers…..

 

We tried Kume last week.

A  Japanese restaurant with an interesting…. although slightly disturbing, statue out front.

 

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A giant  (think full sized pick up truck)  red sumo wrestler.

Okaaay….

 

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Inside, the decor was modern and lit with neon colors.

 

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As were the cocktails.

Blue Hawaiian Martini? I have no earthly idea what was in it… but highly recommend two. Or three.

There was a Hibachi Room, as well as a sushi bar.

 

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And I had to laugh at the healthy purple rice announcement.

It’s coming…

We just don’t know when.

 

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(Sorry, I had to.)

And yes, I’m that annoying person in your party who has to point out all the grammatical errors on the menu.

 

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Slamon ?

Not once, but twice.

And I think tarta meant the tuna was raw, not slutty….

But I could be wrong.

 

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Google’s Slutty Fish Halloween costume proves it.

Our appetizer plate of tempura treats was tasty.

 

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Though I’m not sure how or why their shrimp looked like Italy.

 

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Every meal came with miso soup and salad.

 

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Not being a seaweed and bean curd fan, I passed on the soup…. with basically tasted like hot salt water anyway.

But can someone please explain to me why they’re serving salad at a Japanese restaurant? It was awful. Hard as a rock iceberg lettuce with a hulled out chunk of unripened tomato. Blech!

Nothing remotely Asian about that.

The chicken Yaki Soba entree was good, and plentiful enough for me to eat as lunch the next day.

 

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The grilled seafood plate was also quite nice with lobster, scallops, shrimp and assorted veggies.

 

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Too full for the fried tofu ice cream…

 

 

We exited.

And ran smack into this –

 

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A pick up truck sized red Sumo wrestler’s  *ss.

Good times.

 

Orange in da house!

 

Okay, technically…. outside the house.

 

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But I spotted a few of these beauties the other day…

 

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And realized it was time to get the Baltimore Oriole feeder out.

20 minutes later…. after tearing the utility  (read – I don’t know where else to put all this crap)  closet apart, I remembered a raccoon had broken last year’s feeder trying to drink the nectar and I never replaced it.

 

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May in Maine means Orioles.

It also means there’s not a feeder to be had within 500 miles. We northerners are starved for color after a long white winter and take our bird feeding seriously.

Jeff Bezos to the rescue.

 

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Good thing I don’t use Alexa.

 

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2 days later Amazon Prime came through with an interesting new triple threat feeder.

 

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A flat dish for nectar.

 

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Spikes for holding orange halves.

 

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And 4 reservoirs for grape jelly.

I’d never done the jelly before, but Holy Hell!  They love it.

Welch’s….

 

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Giving birds diabetes since 1923.

 

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