Flightless Bird of Chickenry

Yes, you heard right, I called you a flightless bird of chickenry.

Okay, so only two or three people out there will know what I'm talking about, but who cares. I have of late devoted myself to combining unusual strings of words into what some might call a sentence. I, of course, being a well trained student of the English language, refuse to call them sentences. Really, they are more like quips to confuse bystanders--to make ten year old girls at Staples look at me funny (Excuse me, you prebusecent mock-monger, but a pack of 12 colorful gel ink pens for only two dollars IS something to get excited about...at any age!).

Sigh.

It's been a very odd week; a very, very odd day, too.

Yesterday I accidently flicked off a guy while in the car. I was saying that the Confederate flag is like a big F**ck You (am I allowed to curse on Blogger? I don't even know. I'll play it safe by asterisking.) to the rest of the U.S. And as I said that I actually performed the gesture. And as I performed the gesture I slowly (caught in Saskatoon's excuse for "traffic") passed by another car waiting to exit a parking lot and merge into traffic. The man looked at me funny. I proceeded to mouth "I'm Sorry!" and wave my hands in what I hoped was an apologetic gesture.

What do you do when a 10 year old has looked down her nose at you for yelping with stationary pleasure? What do you do when you've sort-of accidently flicked off an inocent by-stander to make a point about the Confederate flag?

You go home, drink a bit of your sherry (because I'm a bit of a Frasierite), and make up funny combinations of words.

Flightless bird of chickenry.

Say it after a few drinks and you'll giggle. Really.

Onto other matters.

I tried to make capuccino the other day...without realizing that our milk had turned.

How many times did I attempt a capuccino? Four.

And each time the coffee tasted worse.

Finally, I exclaimed, "It's not me! It's the milk!"

L didn't quite believe me, we were well within the best before date.

I sniffed the jug and pronounced the milk rotten.

L said that you have to taste it to be sure.

I was sure confident in my estimation of the milk's non-freshness, but L still doubted.

So he took a swig.

Turning a shade of green, L spat the milk into the sink and I....I was vindicated.

Telegram for Mr. and Ms. Blogreader

L and I married 2 wks ago. (stop)
Beautiful, small ceremony. (stop)
Danced 'til 3 a.m. and saw Northern Lights. (stop)

Easing myself back in....one toe slowly sinks into the bloggery waters