They just seem to get so EXCITED at the slightest prospect of bad weather!

Especially this one television meteorologist here in Baltimore whom I have decided to nickname Storm Thunderman. He has bleached-for-T.V. teeth, and well, you already know about the hair, and he gets this demonic look in his eye whenever he senses a storm might be brewing somewhere in the world, but preferrably near or heading straight for Baltimore.

Now, I know it probably helps them in their careers (might even be a requirement) to show some enthusiasm for backing winds, cirrus and cumulus clouds, El Nino... and I'm afraid that's about the extent of my meteorology jargon. But man, Storm's passion goes above and beyond. He especially thrives when he gets to have extra air time. Like, when he interrupts regular programming (which, much to my irritation, seems to always be The Oprah Winfrey Show) to tell us that "By George! There's a cloud in the sky! Watch out, 'cause it might rain!"

You should've seen him during Hurricane Isabel last year! He was on the air for almost three days straight. It was definitely the highlight of his career.

During the late news broadcast, Storm said something that just confirmed all my feelings about him.

His hair was in place, his smile was as frozen as the water in Baltimore's Inner Harbour in January and he was stretching his air time to the max by showing us footage of seriously flooded areas around Houston.

Quite cheerfully, he said: "Just LOOK at all the FLOODING going on in Houston right now!" And then, the demonic glow began to surround him as he continued: "And it's not bound to STOP any time SOON. So, Baltimore, we have Houston to thank for these cloud covers we have, because it's brought on by the heavy rains they're having down there, and it's keeping us a few degrees warmer than usual."

So, Houston, as you are drowning over the next few weeks (and I really hope that you won't!), please be consoled by the fact that Baltimore and Storm would like to thank you and you and you and you and you and you and... wow, I know a lot of bloggers in Houston! And, if you live in Houston and I've omitted to thank you for so unselfishly being rained on so that I can be warmish in November and Storm can have extra air time during November sweeps, please accept my apologies!

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My mistress’ eyes are nothing like da sun / Coral is far mo' red than her lips’ red: / If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; / If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her heezee… / And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare / As any brizzle belied wit false compare, know what I'm sayin'? —Sonnet CXXX, with my personal apologies to the late Mr. William Shakespeare.

*Thanks to my girl Carmen who found it via someone else.

And um... no Snoop, half the time, unfortunately, I DON'T know wha'tch y'all iz sayin'.

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Since I hurt my pendulum
My life is all erratic.
My parrot, who was cordial,
Is now transmitting static.
The carpet died, a palm collapsed,
The cat keeps doing poo.
The only thing that keeps me sane
Is talking to my shoe.
-- My Shoe

Of course, I'd like to think that it was my writing that inspired them to soar to such new and literary heights... (Feel free to wipe them smirks of yer faces and instead nod in sincere agreement.)

So since I've set such high spamdards - especially over these last few days - I feel it my Civic Duty as Blogger to continue this tradition of imparting inspirational facts such as the following, which I read somewhere (possibly on another blog, but I can't remember where, so if I've nabbed this from one of you, please feel free to claim credit immediately): If you were to... um... expel gas (okay, okay: FART, if you were to fart) almost non-stop for about six years and nine months, you would generate enough gas to create the energy of an atomic bomb.*

Well, you certainly can't say that I never teach you anything!

*So Emily, in future, I'd lay off those beans if I were you!

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Happy International Toilet Day!

According to several sources, Thomas Crapper (I said Thomas again, hahaha!) is widely credited for inventing the modern toilet. However, according to the BBC, this isn't true: "He simply improved on the original design developed by Sir John Harington who installed one for Queen Elizabeth 1.

It took almost 200 years for his invention to be taken seriously with valve toilets in the 1730s.

In the 1820s the first flush toilet was invented by Albert Giblin, acting as a forerunner to today's modern loo."

So whether you worship at the porcelain throne, or have a commode at your abode; whether you have an inhouse, or an outhouse, or a hole in the ground; and whether yours is tucked away in the smallest room in the house, or a very regal and stylish affair that's part of a lovely and large bathroom; whether the seat on yours is hard or soft, cold and uncovered or covered, cozy and warm; and whether you powder your nose, or go to the little girl's room... whatever your choice of euphemism for the toilet and what you do there, pop a laxative, give thanks to the toilet-trio of Giblin, Harington and Crapper, and celebrate your lavatory!

(Dedicated to one of my favourite potty-mouths.)

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Apparently, doctors are employing maggots to speed up the healing process in some seriously infected wounds.

This is how it all goes down: They unleash a couple of maggots in the wound to munch on the rotten flesh, and, once the first batch of critters have had their fill, the doctors unleash a new, hungry bunch until the job is done and the wound is clean.

Talk about killing (feeding?) two flie... maggots... with one sto... wound!

When asked whether or not the grossness factor isn't a bit much for some patients to stomach, one doctor was quoted as saying: "Well, I assure you, when a patient is left with the choice of amputation or having maggots and thus saving their endangered limb, they always choose the maggots."

Yes, that doc probably has an equally gentle bedside manner. Imagine him with circular saw in the one hand and a group of mushy worms dangling from the fingers of his other hand, leaning over a petrified patient and saying cheerfully: "Come now, Mr. Brown. Don't be such a baby. It's time to make a decision here!"

Anyway, after we quietly watched the segment, the boy turned to me and said in his best imitation doctor-voice: "Miss Red, I'd like you to take four maggots and call me in the morning!"

Now THERE's a propper bedside manner!

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Indeed: why me?

Truth is, I've NO IDEA why.

Because it's certainly NOT as if I'm an authority figure on the matter.

Maybe he asked me because he thinks that the internet is the only place where I can meet people and form lasting relationships with them, since I'm not nearly as scary on here as I am in real life - remember, I DID say "NEARLY" - even though, in real life, I really AM a Nicole Kidman lookalike, I swear, complete with the svelte six-foot frame and cheekbones and peaches and cream complexion. No, HONESTLY!

Or maybe he asked me - and this theory is more likely the most accurate so far - because he wanted (and I quote) "something not too deep," and he KNEW that I'd at least manage to meet THAT requirement with low-flying colours.

But whatever his reasons were for asking me, he DID ask and therefore I shall gladly venture into the most shallow reaches of my mind and respond.

Okay, I'm back (the reaches are shallow, so the journey there and back is a quick one), and here's my response to "Hey, Red, what do you think of Internet Romance?"

I think (and thank you for asking what I think, it makes me feel Important), as with all forms of dating, Internet Romance also has perks, potential pitfalls and -for lack of an appropriate synonym that starts with a "p", hereby abruptly ending the alliteration - cons.

But if you think I'm going to spell them all out for you, you've come to the wrong place.

Instead, I'd just like to say to all Internet Romancers out there: Be careful of contracting viruses from your cyber sweetie, so be safe and use protection. (I hear Norton's is a pretty reliable brand.)

And mind your lipstick when leaning in to kiss the screen. (And we KNOW that this applies to some of the boys too!)

And speaking of kissing... Remember, it's best not to kiss and tell, so show restraint and don't print out copies of your make-out sessions and post them online for all the world-with-internet-access to see.

But most importantly, whatever you do, do NOT disconnect prematurely!

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Okay, so if you don't know what I'm talking about (as usual?) and you're too lazy busy to click on the above link or to scroll down to the previous post and read all about the e-mail account that has been taunting me with the existence of a phantom post, well, then I suppose I'll just have to tell you all over again how I have this e-mail account that has been taunting me by telling me that I have one new e-mail in my inbox when there really isn't any new e-mail in my inbox.

Got it? Good.

This has been going on for THREE TERRIBLE DAYS.

And I'm a Virgo. So these types of things annoy me ever so slightly, you know? (Plus, I'm way too curious to give it a rest, just in case someone really DID send me an e-mail and I'm too dumb to find it, thereby missing out on a potential ego boost. Oh, come on, just allow me to fantasize a little, won't you?)

Anyway... so yesterday, I warily opened up said possessed e-mail account.

I saw: Inbox: 4.

So I knew that, unless the cyber demons had decided to go soft on me and take their demonizing business elsewhere, I actually only had three new e-mails.

(Believe me, calculating that was an extraordinary feat considering my absolute lack of mathematical skills.)

And, by George, there it was: three e-mails boldly proclaiming their purity of being unread.

Eagerly I opened up the first one. And the second one! Oh, the indescribable joy of having real, unread messages!

I optimistically proceeded to the third e-mail. It was a message from Germany (but luckily it wasn't more exotic German spam) and from her.

I read it. And here I just have to admit that it took place before I had the chance to drink my morning coffee, so I was obviously a bit confused.

Even so, my decaffeinated confused self was suddenly a bit more puzzled than usual, and wondering if perhaps the serious withdrawal symptoms caused by her not having seen her man in such a long time had begun to take a toll on her memory or something, because the message I was reading seemed awfully familiar to me.

In fact, it seemed to be a verbatim copy of a comment that she had sent me just a few days earlier. (Not that I particularly mind copies, you know? I mean, even replicas of old messages are better than having no new messages at all. And it's DEFINITELY better than having a stubborn, sticky phantom mail!)

So I checked my blog, just to make sure that she had indeed decided to resend her previous comment.

And guess what? It wasn't on the blog!

I immediately logged back into the e-mail account. What did I find there?

That's right. Inbox: 2.

Cue the Psycho soundtrack, because:

There was still no sign of any new e-mails...

It took a while for the harsh reality to penetrate the layer of fog and shock in my mind and bring home the fact that my phantom, demonic e-mail has spontaneously (and overnight) spawned another. And Kim, I'm afraid it used that previous message from you to procreate.

(Don't worry, I'm not blaming you! Perhaps I'm just a little afraid of you now... JUST kidding.)

Anyway, I've checked and rechecked to see that there really isn't any mail that's simply been overlooked. And really, REALLY, there isn't.

And still, every single time I log on, it continues to taunt me: Inbox 2.

Thus I'm left emotionally scarred (so much so that I nearly wrote e-motionally... damn e-mail!) and almost longing for the good ol'e days (not so long ago, mind you) when I often logged in to find this: Inbox: 0.

Almost... but not quite though.

And I've finally reached the following conclusion:

THIS must be why mail is a homonym for MALE!

(Update: The delicious owner of Big Pink Cookie and blogger extraordinaire Christine - who also happens to be redsaid's gracious hostess - has offered an expert and helping hand to exterminate the phantom mails AND to help me with a whole array of other things that I didn't even know was possible. Yes, it is really that evident that I am in dire need of an "eedjukasion". Oh, girl, you are SO on! And thank you in advance for the saintly patience that my general dunceness is going to require of you.)

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So along with giving me this beautiful blog, she also included an e-mail account, called, very appropriately, Horde.

It's appropriate because I'm sentimental about my e-mail, so I never delete anything. Yes, really. (My quest at putting G-Mail's initial promise that you'll "never have to delete another e-mail for as long as we both shall live" to the test is already well underway.) Well, spam gets ruthlessly zapped of course, but other than that, I proudly live up to the Horde account name.

Anyway, so you know how one sometimes skip over some e-mails, like say, Stat reports, in order to get to the good stuff written by those unfathomable beings who not only waste their precious time by reading this blog, but then also take even more of their precious minutes to write comments about the nonsense they read here?

Well, this amazing e-mail that allows me to Horde mail until the End of Time, also sends me an e-mail whenever someone lowers themselves to leave a comment on my blog. So, sometimes, I skip over the Stat reports and Viagra mails in my eagerness to lap up the witticisms you guys leave here, before then hording those witticisms for all eternity.

Anyway, so until I get back to reading the Stat reports and the touching pleas from Viagra, my inbox will show that I have some unread messages until I, well, read them! (The logic behind this is simply astounding, isn't it?)

Thing is, I've been procrastinating the reading of the Viagra mails for a few days now. So finally, last night, in a remarkable and highly unusual display of discipline, I got down to business and waded through all the mail until I got to delete all the spam.

Now, let it be known that I GOT ALL OF IT. I'm SURE of it.

Thing is, every single time I logged on after that, I saw this:

Inbox: 1.

Also, I need to mention here that Horde is very user friendly. In fact, until you read an older message, they'll continue to send you right back to that page where the unread message is clearly displayed in bold.

Well, I went through a good twenty pages. There were no bold, and therefore unread, messages.

So I decided to refresh the page.

And what do you know?

Inbox: 1.

So I decided to deal with it in the same way that I deal with all of my problems: ignore it and go to sleep.

This morning I run to the computer, log on optimistic that the amount of mails in my inbox will actually be the amount of NEW mails that I got.

It said: Inbox: 3.

Nice change, right? Thing is, I only saw TWO messages in bold.

So I read the two messages. And logged out. And logged in again.

That's right. Inbox: 1.

And now, hours later, I'm sitting here with red eyes, shot nerves and with bold patches on my head where only days ago, when I still lived in innocence and the bliss of sometimes (okay, who am I kidding? Mostly) having an Inbox: 0, I also still had hair. Lots of hair.

And still, it reads... no it TAUNTS: Inbox: 1.

H...e...l...p...M...e...................................

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It's MAGIC, of course!

Okay... I'll admit: I have no clue how the fly regains consciousness after apparently drowning.

My guess is that we, having been blessed with a healthy dose of typical youthful impatience, didn't hold it under the water long enough for it to really drown, and so when it was put in the salt immediately after "drowning", the dehydration process caused by the salt happened quickly enough to bring the fly back from its unconscious state almost instantly, therefore causing witnesses to gasp out loud and be highly impressed.

Makes sense? If not... well, it's just after 4 a.m. and I really have no business still being awake, let alone trying to explain anything to anybody!

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... my freckles.

AND, ye dirty minded beasts, a floral flannel granny-like get-up dating from the Victorian era and graciously loaned to me by my hostess.

Anyway, so happy eight-year (and one day) anniversary to me! Even though I am a day late and a few dollars short, as per usual.

You see, I was just so overcome with emotion yesterday that I couldn't write a word or even speak... of course, on the bright side, that latter affliction had the boy believing he was right in the middle of Heaven, or wherever else peace and quiet reign supreme.

So, dear United States and Americans: Over these past eight years you’ve all been incredibly kind to me – even if you were also at times slightly puzzled by me – and for that I would like to thank you sincerely, from the bottom of my bleedin’ heart.

Now, how ‘bout that Green Card we’ve been so patiently waiting for these past four years? (Please?)

When you give it to me, I promise I’ll be a good, obedient citizen, and even stop barking at passers-by.

* You can take the girl out of Africa, but I’m afraid you can’t take the spelling – leftover from British Colonialism – out of the girl, even though I know that typing ‘color’ instead of “colour” could shave a good 10 wpm from my typing speed!

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The Musca Domestica, more widely known in plain English as your common, germ-infested, house fly.

Before you call PETA on me, allow me to blame someone else explain: It was all my one sister's fault.

One weekend, when she was home from boarding school, she told me that she had learned a magic trick, and that she was going to teach it to me too.

I was immediately suspicious. Such generosity to share something with me, especially something as powerful and valuable as knowledge of magic tricks... well, that was as unheard of and as uncharacteristic of my sister as snow in a South African December.

I mean, after all, this was the same sister who had threatened to slowly, painfully torture me in ways that hadn't even been invented yet if I had dared to come anywhere near her "Doctor's Kit," a case filled with all sorts of fascinating, irresistible treasures like a toy stethoscope, a white plastic apron with a red cross on the front, and a thermometer.

If I had been allowed near her prized Doctor's Kit, and if I had any nerve to boot, I would've used that same toy thermometer to check her fever right there.

Instead, and without launching into the usual questions ("Will I get hurt?" "Could I get into trouble?" "Will you swear not to tell Mom and Dad?"), I responded without hestitation and said: "Okay!"

She smiled. "Well, of course I'd have to show it to you first, before I can teach it to you."

I suddenly regretted that I didn't take the time to ask the check-list personal safety and security questions before agreeing to anything. Because after having a few extra moments to think about it - AND taking my sister's unusual eagerness to show me ANYTHING of value into consideration, and for believing that it would be free of charge or consequence - I suddenly remembered some of the magic shows I had seen on television. And, lurking just beneath those pleasant memories of an endless stream of colourful hankerchiefs being pulled from a sleeve and fluffy rabbits being pulled from top hats, I suddenly also remembered scary things, like vanishing maidens and smoke and fire...

Since I knew that I couldn't possibly outrun my sister, I wanted to get that all-important verbal agreement that she wasn't going to hurt me. But instead of asking her, I resigned myself to my inevitable fate and mumbled: "As long as you promise that you're not going to saw me in half or anything."

She laughed, a little too loudly: "No man. Don't be daft."

And as I was still busy breathing my sigh of relief, things took a turn for the worst when she said: "Now, I just need you to get me a few things. A glass filled with water, a saucer with salt on it. And a fly."

"Only salt on the sau..? Wait a minute. Did you just say 'a fly'?"

"Yes. A fly." I could see that her patience was wearing a bit thin. "Oh, and the fly needs to be alive, so when you swat it, do it just hard enough to temporarily disable it so that you're able to catch it."

I went over the list of things in my mind: glass of water, plate with salt on it, a fly, alive but unconscious for the most part... and it's around then that something occurred to me and I started wailing at the top of my lungs: "WHAAAAAAAA! YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME EAT A FLYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

At first she was amused, then, realising that my parents were probably going to come and investigate the commotion I was making, she hissed: "Look, now you ARE being daft, and if you don't stop screaming soon I'm not going to show you ANY tricks."

When that wasn't enough to calm me down, she added: "If you don't stop screaming with your mouth wide open like that, you might soon enough find out for yourself just what fly meat tastes like."

THAT shut me up.

After I had cooled off a bit, I ran to the kitchen to grab the salt, the saucer, the glass of water and the fly swatter.

In another unexpected benevolent act, my sister decided it would speed the operation up considerably if she took the fly hunting part of it upon herself. She was right, because I had barely poured the salt into the saucer when she was back with a dazed-looking fly trapped in a jar.

What I learned next kept me entertained for the rest of that year and made me highly respected and feared at school... Well, at least until the novelty had worn off and everyone else knew how to perform the "magic" trick themselves.

My sister dropped the dizzy fly into the glass and pushed it under the water with her fingers where she held it for a few seconds.

"You have to make sure that it has drowned and that it is dead. See? Like this," she said as she scooped the fly, indeed looking very lifeless and bedraggled with its drenched wings, from the water.

She opened my uncertain hand, dropped the fly into my palm, folded my hand shut around it and told me to shake it as vigorously as I could. I was SO afraid that she was still going to push the dead fly into my mouth and down my throat at any moment, that I decided it was in my best interest to do as she said, even though I very much wanted to know why I was doing it and whether all the shaking wouldn't be enough to wake it up. Instead, though, I remained quiet and proceeded to shake that fly around with all of my might.

"Now for the true magic," my sister said as she, with theatrical flourish, took the still motionless fly from me and dropped it into the saucer of salt.

"Watch," she said, as if I hadn't been paying close enough attention all along.

She gently rolled the fly through the salt with her finger. "Ladies and Gentleman," she said very solemnly in her pretend grown-up voice. "Earlier today you all witnessed the certain death of this fly."

She looked at me, her captive audience member, searching my face for confirmation.

I confirmed with a vigourous nod.

"Well, then, ladies and gentlemen. Now I need you all to remain very quiet because what I am about to do is going to demand the greatest concentration."

Still unsure about my own well-being and afraid to attract any more attention to myself, I was only too happy to oblige.

"You see, ladies and gents. Today, for your viewing pleasure, I'm going to..." here she gave a dramatic pause: "I'm going to REVIVE THIS FLY! Yes, indeed. I'm going to resurrect this dead fly!"

Almost right at that moment, the salt took effect and the fly got up and began to move on wobbly legs, stumbling through the salt for a few moments before taking off and flying!

"And look, ladies and gentlemen! Because my assistant shook it," (I was ecstatic about my unexpected promotion) she said, "You'll now witness that the fly is dizzy and flying a bit erratically."

And so it did! There was this fly, flying about like a regular drunk, well on its way towards freedom and, I firmly believed, the beginning of its second life...

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3) Even though the buffet is cooked up by NASA employees, space cakes* are, sadly, not on the menu.

* Space cakes, better known in the United States as hash brownies.

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You see, she seems to have temporarily lost her mind, because she's asked me to guest blog on her site while she is on mental unhealth leave hiatus from the internet.

Get back and get well soon, Stacy! I'll try my best not to drag your blogging reputation through the mud, but it may already be too late for that...

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Now parents with inarticulate children of seemingly average intelligence can continue to say to their kids: "You can be anything you want to be in life, even President" and actually be telling the truth for once.

And, I promise you, starting tomorrow, 2008 will be one whole day closer.

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"Up south."

Like, I have these friends who always talk about going "Up to South Africa." Which would be fine if you are travelling from your outpost in Antarctica, but no... they are travelling from the Northern Hemisphere.

And we all KNOW that every place further south is downhill from here!

Because if it wasn't, Australia would've been nicknamed Land Up Above instead of Land Down Under.

* Thanks to her for the reminder in one of her recent posts that wordsthatruntogetherlikethis**-can-make-a-very-cool-special-effect-in-writing-even-if-it-is-sometimes-difficult-to-read-and-annoying-but-I-assure-you-not-nearly-as-annoying-as-telling-me-that-you-are-going-up-south.

** Wanted to write all those words runtogetherlikethis but it appeared all wonky on the blog, so I had to insert the ever-handy-hyphen.

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