Worst. Headline. Ever.

I don't usually do this, but while I'm waiting for something interesting to happen to me, I'm going to re-post something I saw on Dave Barry's blog.

The headline, culled from Australia's Daily Telegraph, reads:

"Giant Child-Eating Snake Seized"

Fine. It's a big snake. It has eaten a child. Who wouldn't want to catch such a beast?

Well, the sub-header tells all. (emphasis mine): "A giant python capable of eating a small child when it grows to full size has been seized by Victorian authorities."

Sooooo... right now it's pretty much a small snake that's never hurt anyone. Damn you, Victorian authorities, for publishing such a non-story.

Bad Copy of the Day Award -- Illustration Edition

I sent this to a few of you in an email, but it's too good not to share with the world. From a big, bloated, self-important fertility clinic website, come the following "drawings." I couldn't believe it myself, but here they are, needing no explanation. I would, however, like to know why the doctor couldn't splurge on more than 16 colors of felt tip pen. You can get 'em at the dollar store for like really cheap. And you don't even have to dress up all fancy like you do when you go to Wal-Mart.


The above picture is called "washing hands." Based on the header in the picture, this is apparently some strange ritual that the doctor undertakes before he administers admenotropins. Crazy. Thank god for the drawing, or else we never would have gotten this rare insight into the mysterious world of healthcare.

This is just... no. I'm realizing that the colors are somehow slightly different from those on the website, but I don't think it matters as I assure you that they were just as bizarre in the original. This piece speaks to me on so many levels: the moon boots, the pink clown hair, the Random Science Tool Panel on the wall. For me, the focal point is the Mono-Boob.

The only bad thing about it is that I find the subject's positioning slightly derivative of Michelangelo's Pietà.



This one, and I swear to you that I am not making this up, is called "Cervical Incompetence." The jokes write themselves, folks. Personally I think this fetus is expressing the intense shame of appearing in this website, crudely rendered in Magic Marker.

Update: It has been pointed out to me that "Cervical Incompetence" would make an excellent name for a rock band.

Hola, amigos.

My mom was visiting over the weekend, and although we did stuff, none of it made it into the blog. I'm back now. You can stop worrying.

It's just me and Stinky today.

I don't get out much on the weekdays. Hell, most days I don't even have to put on shoes. I live in a quiet neighborhood and once I've checked that the Batmobile is still safely parked across the street, the view is pretty regular.

Enter Stinky.

Stinky is the squirrel that runs along the top of our fence and that of our neighbors. I think he lives across the street (near the daycare) because I've seen him running around over there too. Now that I've moved downstairs and away from the mountain view, Stinky's comings and goings have become more notable to me. I'm not proud.

Botanical update

Spring is here. Kind of. Our grass is starting to turn green, which is more noticeable when it's not covered in snow, and we've got a couple of plants in the backyard that seem to be coming to life.

It will be interesting to see whether the brown sticks and dirt in our backyard are transformed by the passing of time, or whether the Klotzes were just really terrible gardeners.

Okay, fine.

It has been pointed out to me that Photojournalist Chris went to a great deal of trouble to capture my heroic but ill-fated journey while we were snowshoeing. There was this skinny overhanging branch just off the trail that had at least two feet of snow piled on top of it. I thought it would be great for me to walk up there so Chris could get a picture of me standing beneath it. My shoes were made to walk across packed snow, not four feet of powder.







I flung myself as far as possible under the branch, but that's as far as I got. Stupid snow.

We are the coolest people in the whole world.

We have gone snowshoeing. I remember a time when Craig and I sat and listened to a crazy Canadian (shoutout to April) talk about how fun snowshoeing was. We thought she was from Mars. Since moving to Mars, we thought it would be a great idea to get out and do all the snow-related stuff, but we need to work up to snowboarding.

So we borrowed some snowshoes from Chris' boss and bought a ton of winter gear at the sporting goods store's tent sale. (Note to the rest of the world: you are getting ripped off for snow gear.) Then we headed up to Winter Park, one of the several world-class ski resorts that are within an hour's drive of our house.

In a couple weeks, we're going to move up to tubing. Then--snowboarding. We are so close.

I am a picture of grace. (I was trying to get "out there" off the trail for a better picture.)

The rare Pointy-Head species of Sasquatch.



I see two asses in this picture.

We are Colorado People now. Welcome.

Bad Copy of the Day Award

I'm writing a site for an infertility clinic -- this doctor tends to go into WAY too much detail about each type of problem, treatment, cause and surgery. Below are some brilliant examples of what's not going to be making the final cut on the new site. Keep in mind I've actually rewritten this copy to reduce it to a readable amount of text, as well as to avoid professional death by Google; however, I've retained the disgusting details and word choice. Enjoy.

1. Among the surgical tools that destroy or remove tissue, the knife is ideal for cutting skin. Scissors and knives come in a variety of blade shapes and sizes.

2. Electrosurgical devices can be adjusted to provide different levels of cutting and coagulation. When a device is calibrated only to cut, it creates very little char, which acts to coagulate. [CHAR? OH MY GOD]

3. Thermocoagulation devices deliver energy via heat, directly delivered via a hot metal tip which the doctor applies to the tissue. In general, the affected tissue turns white due to desiccation and coagulation. Use of this device is limited, due to extensive damage of surrounding tissues.


So there you have it. My advice to lonely infertile couples out there who are longing to have a baby: get a dog.

Best warning sticker ever

When we went to buy bins at Wal-Mart last weekend, I was expecting the standard experience. I was expecting the old man greeter (on oxygen!) to stand in front of the carts and make us feel uncomfortable. I was expecting the dizzying array of big band-aid colored bins. What I was not expecting was a bin lid with the best. Warning label. Ever.


You can fit a WHOLE TODDLER in one of these bins! I think that should be a selling point rather than a warning. What I love, and what's true in the case of most dumb warning labels, is that enough toddlers suffocated inside these bins for the warning to be necessary.

It reminds me of the old refrigerator paranoia that I grew up with. All of you who grew up in the 80s, you remember these PSAs -- "When you're playing with your friends in the dump, don't hide in an old refrigerator because you will DIE." All I wanted to know was where these magical dumps were -- they sounded like fun. Must have been the same urban playground that was constantly being pushed on Sesame Street. That show always made me yearn for the Bronx, or wherever it was that they showed the kids playing in the open fire hydrant. Break me off a piece of THAT, I tell you.

Wal-Mart dress code.

This one's actually kind of a twofer, but I think they dovetail quite nicely. First up is this news clipping thoughtfully sent to me by Nathan. By the look of it, Jay Leno published it first:


I'm not sure if Debra Jackson happens to shop at the Wal-Mart in my neighborhood; it's obviously heaps classier than the average Wal-Mart. I'm confident in this statement, buoyed by the following overheard statement that I swear I am not making up:

"MOM! Here's the belly rings! Did you want one?"

Neighbor hilarity averted.

There's this guy who lives across the street. We call him Batman, on account of the Batmobile that's parked in the driveway all the time. I'm not sure what kind of car it is really, because it's had a lot of work. It's like, a low flat kind of sportscar looking thing, but I'm willing to bet it's one of the cheap ones. It's got a "I lowered my car, really really" body kit on it, a spoiler, and a yellow and purple paint job -- it's not like flames, but close. Hence the Batmobile moniker.

And now it appears as though Batman is moving. I was looking forward to his being a regular feature on Funundrum, along the lines of "Batman Takes out Trash" or "Batman Spends Saturday on Router Project" but that possibility has been rudely taken away from me.

'Sokay, though, the car looked really trashy and I'm glad to see it gone.

Update: I've come through for you with a picture. The moving vans left by about 11:30, which his hardly long enough to move someone out of a house. This is going to be like the time I thought Jeff and Heidi were moving out, then it was just Heidi, and she really did move out but she was still hanging around all the time. Whatever. Enjoy the Batmobile while it lasts, people.


P.S. Those of you who are looking closely might also notice the Batmower right behind the car.

Update update: I have been informed that the Batmobile is a Camaro. Whatever.

Outrageous weather report.

It's windy. How windy, you ask?

This morning, while I was in the shower, I heard a loud scraping noise that sounded as though it was coming from outside. It reminded me of.... nah. Can't be, I thought.

After I was all dressed and looking like the pretty pretty princess I am, I went to look out the back door to try to find the source of the noise. Sho' nuff, our plastic adirondack chairs had been scooted over by about a foot and a half, stopped only by our new outdoor fireplace thingy.

The last time that happened to me was during a hurricane. I expect I'll be able to take the next two days off and do nothing but eat Oreos and play Scrabble.

Hello... House of Phones?

I'm not sure whether doing a blog post based on a comment based on a different blog post is on the wrong side of navel-gazing self-importance, but here goes.

After reading about my run-in with Ms. Nahasapeemapetilan, my dad left a comment about how it reminded him of one of the All-Time Top Five Funniest Things That Has Ever Happened to the Rhein Family. Our cordless phone's battery had died; since it was a special battery, Dad figured that he should call this place called House of Phones as they would probably carry all the spare parts. Since we were all going to go out together and make a four-hour errand of it, we were gathered round the phone to wait for the results from House of Phones. Dad's end of the conversation was priceless:

Hello... House of Phones? Yes, I need a battery for my cordless phone.
....mmm?...
....You don't carry batteries for cordless phones...Who should I call?
...Uh Huh...
...House of Batteries...Uh, thanks.

The story has since become a staple in my own household, and Chris and I chuckle whenever we pass a store called House of Something.

Mead: It's the new wassail.

Now that we're finally starting to feel like we live in this house, we're somewhat at liberty to go out and do things that don't involve the insides of stores.

Yesterday, we acted on the advice of the internet and went up to Boulder to tour the Redstone Meadery. It's where they make mead. For more information on mead, please refer to the following report written by my 6-year-old alter ego:

Mead is a kind of wine made from honey. Mead is not always made from just
honey. Sometimes they add fruit, spices, or malt to make different kinds of
mead. The lady at the tour was very nice and let us taste all the different
kinds of mead. I liked all of them except the kind made with juniper berries,
because I do not like gin. When I grow up I would like to work at a meadery because you get to talk to people all day and you get to drink on the job.

They even make a few flavors that are carbonated and have a lighter taste, so you can drink more of it without getting stupid. I *heart* mead.



The rest of Boulder was lovely as well. It's still got lots of dirty hippies and such, enough to give it some real character. Since Chris will be going to business school out here, we'll probably be back. I'll be having him pick up bottles of mead on the way home.

An artist's heartbreak

I've been unpacking a lot of old stuff from high school and college, mostly so it can be repacked into nice tidy plastic bins. I had found a beautiful stained glass box -- it was the neatest thing I made in that class besides the jumping frog window that's now at my parents' house, and I was excited to be able to take it out and actually display it. It's been in storage since I made it, on account of my gypsy lifestyle.

Then I threw something else on top of it by accident and broke it. Way to go. Alert O. Henry, I'm just one big sad story today.

Update: Dad very kindly sent me a picture of the frog window, to help me cope with my loss. Thanks, Dad.

Just a little bit different.

When Chris and I moved to Laguna Circle, we figured we had struck it pretty lucky. After all, we had looked at some other houses that were on streets with names much harder to spell and pronounce.

Turns out this is yet another case of us being dumb, naive Californians.

Everyone in California is completely comfortable with the word "Laguna." It's a Spanish word. It's phonetic. There's a city called Laguna Beach. Hell, there's even an MTV show called Laguna Beach.

Here in Colorado, if you're not in the small-and-dumb demographic of people watching the MTV show, there is apparently no other frame of reference for the word "Laguna." The guy at Jiffy Lube entered it into the computer as "Lagoona," which, although it somehow plays into my bizarre love of 60s faux-Polynesian words, isn't quite right.

Then, today, the Sears washing machine repair guy called to confirm his appointment. "And you live at 6174.... Laguana.." I gently corrected him, but I love the fact that he tried to rhyme it with "iguana."

Bring it on, O Brave Peoples of the Plains. You guys are funny.

Thank you, IRS!

Yes, I mean you, Internal Revenue Service. Without your yearly demands for scraps of paper from each of my employers, I might never get to have conversations such as the following one. I called up the HR department of a travel agency to which I gave five days of my life last year. Five days. One work week. Thanks again, IRS. Eventually I got through to Radheeka Nahasapeemapetilan (name changed only slightly to protect the stupid) and explained my situation. Here's my true-as-possible-to-life reconstitution of the conversation:

Me: Hi, I'm a former employee and I'd like you to send me a new W-2 as I've moved since working there.

Radheeka Nahasapeemapetilan: [note to readers -- it's only funny if you read her parts in an over-the-top Indian accent] Okay, let me pull out my records.... here we are. We sent you one already.

Me: Yes, I know, but it went to my old address. I didn't supply you with my new one. So I need a fresh W-2 sent out.

RN: We sent it to 2580 Northside Drive.

Me: Yes, I know, I don't live there anymore.

RN: Oh! You moved!

Me: [urge to kill rising]

RN: Okay, let me get your address. What is it?

Me: It's 6174...

RN: Do you have an email?

Me: What? Yes.

RN: Okay, why don't you email me your address, and if I don't get it I will have someone call you. My email is R-A-D-H-E-E-K-A dot N-A-H-A-S-A-P-E-E-M....

You can tell where this is going, people. It was like a bad Abbott and Costello bit, done over the phone as a Bob Newhart bit. But not as funny. I had actually been in the middle of giving her my address when she stopped me to give me her ridiculously long email address. I played along because I want my tax refund, but I'm just laying my money out now that Radheeka is going to be the weak link in this year's tax process.