Friday, July 31, 2009

Very Serious Musings on a Very Serious Topic.

Have you ever stopped and thought about the remarkable amount of stunningly beautiful characters in books? If you had never been out in the world (highly unlikely,) but had read your classic literature faithfully, (the situation is doubly unlikely, but, hey, it's hypothetical) you would go out expecting half the world to be stunning, gorgeous, striking, and altogether beautiful. Ophelia, Hero, Anne Blythe, Cora and Alice Mundy, Rebekah, Rowena, Every Single Girl In Any Andrew Lang Tale, and-what-is-the-name-of-the-girl-in-the-Lady-in-White? They are all lovely.

After pondering the topic for quite a while, I have reached the conclusion that this is because it is a million time more jolly to write about a beautiful character. (Or one that grows to be beautiful) The ratio of gorgeous persons to ordinary persons is all the authors' doing. But lately I have noticed a rising of books with more realistic characters.
What do you think? I know that I tend to write about "just pretty" characters, and I do kind of enjoy it. Fellow writers, what do you usually do?
This isn't really a very serious post.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

The Dr. #2


If you have ever attempted to open a window with someone attached to it, in order to let the someone in, you will know it is a tricky business. The Doctor managed somehow, and the someone deattached himself and tumbled safely inside He stood up wearily, leaning against the wall, panting, for some moments.
Being a scientific man, and thus always making observations, the doctor used this time to gather a first impression. Fritz was immediately struck by the guest’s appearance as a model of human perfection. Classically, strikingly, dashingly, startlingly –whatever your preferred adverb may be- it must be followed by the adjective, “handsome.” However, the author is employing a double meaning in the phrase, “model of human perfection.”
The stranger was beyond what society would term, “short” and would be more accurately described as “miniature.” According to the Dr.’s highly accurate observations, he would have stood about 3 feet 4 inches in his stocking feet.
Silence had reigned in the101st floor until the stranger spoke, having recovered his breath.
“Have you got a rope?” His voice was surprisingly deep for one so small.
“Eh?” said the doctor.
“I said, ‘have you got a rope!’”
“A what?”
“A rope, man, a ROPE! Can’t you expend a few measly moments to help a man before his resolution fails?”
As the astute reader may have gathered, Dr. Batwinkler, though highly intelligent, did not possess outstanding communication skills, except when speaking of his work.
“Ahhhhg!” the stranger’s self control seemed to have broken. “Can you not see that there is no life for a man of my… stature? Jobless, friendless, there is no place in the world for me. I have made it, well almost, to the top of this building with every intent to cast my wee physique from it, if only to send my weary soul upward to great heights?” he whispered the last two words almost reverently.
“It would have been easier to take the elevator,” said the Doctor, impassively.
The dreamy eyes took on the expression of a frightened horse.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhgggg! My woes pursue me. Please Sir, speak of mountains: I’ve climbed them. Speak of wild creatures: I have wrestled them, fought them, tamed them. Speak of caverns: I have explored the deepest of them. Speak of any fearful thing: it will not faze me, but I entreat you, sir, speak not of those mechanical tombs.”
“You mean, an elevator?”
The stranger drew in a shuddering breath.
“Yes. But you must assist me. I found, even as I mounted skyward to this grand building’s roof, that my stature failed my in yet another thing: I cannot reach the top. My arms are too short to grasp on the roof. So I have changed my means of destroying myself: I shall reach my end with a rope. Have you got one? Please?”
The doctor scanned his memory.
“Ah, yes, I do. He dances to music, as a bonus. You know, like a cobra. His name is Zither.”

Aren't they awesome?



The General's:

Libby's: (Jare, where is yours? *Taps foot impatiently*)



There you have it, folks. These are all the pictures I have received for the contest. And I was thinking, if you have a picture, but don't want to email it, then post it on your blog, and comment me with the link. That would work marvelously.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

The Best of the Best

Just for your information, I have this entire song memorized.

Monday, July 27, 2009


I am thinking about posting the entries for the Weird is the new normal contest as they come. What say you? I have several already, so shall I post them?

Funny Advertisements

These made me chuckle. And giggle. And laugh.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

That Story

The story I am writing (see post below) has been interesting because I have never written a piece involving magic. For one, I don't feel any moral obligation not to write with magic, but typically, I thought it boring to plot where my characters can achieve anything with a force. However, I am finding this to be more interesting than I previously supposed.

I started it as an assignment for a book Gail Carson Levine, the author of Ella Enchanted, wrote for aspiring authors. I am enjoying doing her assignments because they are stretching! But... I am in a lazy summer mood and I haven't finished yet. More is coming!

The Dr.

Dr. Fritz Batwinkler slumped down on the desk, his hands clutching his head. His name, the author recalls, is supposed to be followed by lots of initials that mean something, but at the present moment, she cannot remember what they are. Though his name connotes an association with the medical field, Batwinkler was not the stethoscope toting, stick-out-your-tongue-and-say-aah kind of doctor. Rather, his profession was that of the field of science: particularly the development of unique forces, specifically that force of magic. The doctor’s peculiar profession was not without its trials including, well, ridicule. Other, more conventional men of science constantly referred to him with derogatory names: “Bat’s-Wings,” owing to their traditional involvement in magic, “The Old Bat,” despite the doctor’s youth, “Alchemist,” and sometimes just “Quack.”
Yet Dr. Fritz pressed on in the face of persecution, and his perseverance was rewarded bit by bit, with discoveries which he had yet to reveal.
So why was the successful doctor slumped on his desk, cradling his hands? Only that morning, his assistant (or to put it candidly, his sort of guinea pig,) had deserted him, stating that he was finished and applying many of the aforementioned derogatory names. It seems that Batwinkler’s ability to make hair grow at the rate of ten inches an hour, and then his inability to undue the potion had perturbed the assistant. Relations between the two had never been of the Ivanhoe-Gurth kind, and it was not emotion that left Fritz distraught. It was the lack of a subject on which to test his four new magical items.
Using himself was out of the question: who would record the scientific data or run the sensory monitors? New Potential candidates were scare. No one owed him money, he had no unsuspecting relatives, and placing an ad in the paper had been fruitless.
Though the spirits of Batwinkler were low, he was physically located at a high point. To be precise, his office and laboratory were the 101st floor of the Practical Science Centennial Building. The skyscraper had been supposedly built with one hundred floors in honor of the 100 birthday of Practical Science research foundation. However, the building was put in by a man who couldn’t count, and the trustees decided the best course of action was to conceal the top floor’s existence. Being money grubbing, as fiction supposes all trustees to be, they hired it out to Batwinkler, promising him to secrecy. So he lived in seclusion, like an alchemist. Besides the office and Lab, there was a bathroom and two tiny bedrooms: one for an assistant, and one for Batwinkler. The absence of a kitchen did not bother the doctor for he cooked on a Bunsen burner and kept his food in the Lab refrigerator next to the bacteria samples. Renting the whole floor was surprisingly cheap and that negated the fact that it took seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds to reach via elevator.
What was bothering the doctor? Returning to the office, we see Fritz had shifted position and was now glumly staring out the window. To him, the panes of glass were just seeming very unsympathetic, when a very curious development took place: a small but muscled, quivering hand attached to what looked to be a large suction cup appeared. A second hand latched on to Batwinkler’s window. The owner of the hands groaned. The someone heaved himself up and wearily banged his hand against the glass presumably in some kind of polite knock.
“Eh?” said Batwinkler, and he opened the window.

Saturday, July 25, 2009


I am back from camp! Hopefully I shall put together some of the (few) videos I took while there sometime (soon.)

Going away and not being able to access technology for a week has increased my enthusiasm for blogging. Absence makes the heart grow fonder!

And I know you've all been working on your Weird is the New Normal photos while I was gone, right? RIGHT? RIGHT???? I have Daddy's picture already, and I think I am going to post entries as they come. What say you?

Friday, July 17, 2009

One great scene:

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

GASP!!! A tag?

Everybody knows that tags are stratchy, and they never stay tucked in, and they are hot and uncomfortable.

Yes, this is a blog tag. Yes, Ophie is doing a tag. Yes, she now has a policy on tags. Yes, she will tell it to you.
But first, is it confusing when I talk in third person? Bracie and I do it all the time, usually unintentionally.
Alrighty, my policy on tag is that I am going to do tags, (assuming I ever get tagged,) all at once, once a month. Why? To answer that, you need to know my opinion of tags:

I think tags are neat, but in very moderate moderation. I hope that by doing tags just once a month, then I won't be drowning anybody in them.

I was tagged by Lib and Jare:

KFC, Popeyes, or Church's

Hmmmm... Hmmm... Hmmm... The only one I've ever been to is KFC, but as my dear mother would say, something about the chicken there tastes extra-dead.

Chick-fil-a or What-a-burger?

What? Never tasted either. This quiz seriously must have originated in a different region. But I'll say Chick-fil-a, because it sounds much more ridiculous.

Starbucks of McCafe?

I think we have four wonderful seasons for a reason. How could I ever decide?

Do you ever talk to yourself?

Of course, for occasionally I have a need to talk to someone at my intelligence level: Me! However, I don't think I could tell you if that is a good thing (since I am so superior in brains) or a bad thing (since I am a couple watts short of a lightbulb.)

Do you have a favorite treat you like to buy on occasion?

Always remember this: everything in moderation except for ice cream

.Do you believe the Bible is the literal word of God and is infallible?

Yes! Let's start a discussion on the Verbal Plenary Inspiration of Scripture!

What's your favorite sport?
I really don't care for watching any professional sports, but as for playing: football or soccer.
What color is your iPod?
I don't own one. My Mp3 player is one of those ten dollar ones you can buy at drugstores. I really do love music, I simply like listening to it as an activity that draws people together even more than I do just listening to it by myself.

Thank you! Thank you! Ophelia accepts the applause gratefully, glad to know that everyone really wants to know about her ipod.

I tag:

As for the other tag, I was tagged by Kei, at looking through the lense. In this tag, one must go to their photos and pick the sixth file, and then find the sixth photo. I actually prefer the number seven, so I (ahead of looking) chose to do sevens. Here we have it:

If you'll notice, Ava, Bracie, Gabby, Aubrey and I all have smudges of charcoal on our noses. I can't exactly recall why we do, and I thus conclude that it was one of those ridiculous, fun, spur of the moment impulses. Impusivity is not always a good quality, but it sure makes for fun photos!

Because this is such a fun tag, I shall tag seven people!









Inspired by Lib and Jare from Random Jotdowns, I took these quizzes:

Which Lord of the Rings race are you?

Which Star Wars race are you?

My results? I am a Hobbit and an Ewok.


I am Five-foot-eight-and-three-quarters for Pete's sake. Not that I have anything against Hobbits (they're awesome, and they have the best sense of humor) or Ewoks, (They're awesome) it is simply that I am feeling very undersized.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Thirteen is a blessed number

We can fit thirteen people in one Taco Time booth. We are also very good at convincing waitresses to take pictures for us. My family is on the right, and the H's (pronouced with a distinctive Scottish accent, especially because this picture was taken after the Highland games) are on the left. I am the one in the back with the cheesy grin.
Anywho, can you fit thirteen people in one small booth?
P.S. Bracie is being self concious of the fact that her head is blocking about half of the family. So she says sorry.

Monday, July 13, 2009

My poor pony...

How humiliating for the poor dude. In the first picture, you can see him wincing.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Vegetables of Labor

About a medium time ago, in a land that could be quite close, there dwelt a tree-chopping, seed-sowing, hard-working and altogether resourceful farmer. He was knowing in the ways of growing, and his farm was exceedingly prosperous. Consequently, his wife and two sons lived in considerable comfort, and after paying the bills and buying the dairy cow that Mrs. Farmer really wanted, Mr. Farmer had heaps of cash left. So he bought a piano. He employed a pianist to teach his sons to play. Both sons were equipped with long, spindly, gifted pianist hands, and they were wondrously talented. They became famous quickly, and neither of them visited their parents on the farm. Time passed, and Mr. Farmer got a sickness of the lungs which came from chewing tobacco and smoking his corncob pipe. Now, when Mr. Farmer had a hunch that the end was near, he got to fretting and worrying about what would become of his wife and farm since it was apparent that his sons didn’t care. He began to reflect on what treasures they were when the solution to ensure their safety and well being smacked him upside the head. When he had worked through the details, he chuckled to himself and summoned his sons with the news that he was on his death bed. They arrived and presented themselves before him.
“My sons,” he croaked in an unpleasant wheezy voice, because it’s hard to have a pleasant voice when you’re dying of a lung disease, “Let me tell you something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time; in my fields there’s a treasure, dig for it!”
With that spoken, he gasped and coughed a couple of times and then he died. Entranced, entrapped and enraptured by the gleaming prospect of treasure, the two sons donned straw hats and hefted heavy shovels out to the fields. One after the other and then the next, the fields were turned over and sifted through. Mrs. Farmer had been informed of her husband’s plan, and she sowed the fields at night. After multiple months of hard work, when every last field had been turned, the sons, weary and angry, marched home.
Errgh,” grumbled one.
Errgh-ow!” growled the other as he stubbed his toe. Looking down, he perceived a radish as big as a beet.
“Who put a radish there?” he snarled. Just then, their aged mother hobbled out.
“Did you find the treasure?” she asked mischievously.
“Nope,” they responded glumly.
“Look again!’ she snorted, “I think you stubbed your toe on it!”
Both sons looked down at the huge radish, and then out at the lush, green fields. That year, because of the excellent plowing, the land yielded an astoundingly abundant crop. The Farmer’s sons became farmers themselves, because they realized that the true treasures were the vegetables of their labor.

Hi everybody! Sorry I am foisting ancient writing assignments on you... but I've always liked this one.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Flour, Watercolor Paint, and Scarves = Star Wars?

Did you know that I am related to the late Padme Amidala? Here we see her in a Chersilk Scarf as Queen of Naboo.

Okay, maybe not. Everybody say hi to Bracie! Like I said: Flour, Watercolor Paint, and Scarves = Star Wars!

Here's an actual picture:

And here's a video:

Finally, we have Dad's reaction on camera! When first he walked into the room, Bracie asked, "What do you think?"

He replied, "What did you do to your face?"

With a smile, Bracie answered, "I am entering Ophie's Weird is the New Normal contest!"

And Dad said, "You won."

I want!

I must have a fish agility training set! And a putting billiards game! And an oilless turkey fryer! And a museum precious metals cleaning plate! I want them NOW!

Not. The weird thing is: I found everyone of those items on the same page of a catalogue.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Aesop's Fable (Re-written)

Beside the rocky shores of Greece, there stood an island of prosperity. The fields yielded bounty and the trade was rich and prosperous. Ruling over this place of abundance was a rather foolish king who was obsessed with gold. His name was Midas. Also in this wealthy kingdom resided a poor, yet compassionate camel boy, who surprisingly looked upon riches with disdain. He was obsessed with camels. Each day he drove his beloved beasts down to a sparkling stream and then rested while the camels grazed in emerald meadows.
It happened one morning, on the very morning that King Midas received his golden touch, that a ferocious lioness named Malicious, (but commonly known as Molly,) escaped from the palace menagerie because the beautiful sunshine had lulled her captors into a relaxing state of slumber. She paused outside the princess’ park in hopes of dining with the royal maiden (as the main course,) for, as Molly deduced, one with all her sweetness must surely taste delicious. The lioness’ move was well timed; the princess walked out of the palace accompanied by a gaudily clad female who was, unknown to the ravenous lioness, the princess’ cousin. Molly crouched into a clump of reeds, lying in wait for the princess to come close.
“Oh, Cyrene darling, how droll your little walk is! This sunshine sets off my new tunic just divinely, don’t you think?"
“Yes Bleeria,” Cyrene responded meekly.
“Did you chance to feast your eyes on these gorgeous earrings of mine? (Gasp) Just look at that little glade with the sunshine streaming through! Wouldn’t I look lovely standing right there in the center of it… just about where you’re standing?”
“I’m sure you would, Bleeria dear,” agreed Cyrene.
Molly, huddled in the bushes grinned a wicked, lion grin. She prepared to attack, making exactly to the center of the glade, slipping through the reeds noiselessly… almost.
“Cyrene! Someone’s coming! I can hear them walking through the reeds. Move! Move! Get out of the way, I must be seen in the best light!” gurgled Bleeria, and having shoved Cyrene out of the center of the lovely glade, closed her eyes, attempting to look peaceful and elegant.
Just then Molly sprang. It wasn’t quite as tasty as expected, Molly speculated. This was because Molly had mistakenly killed Bleeria, who was standing where her original target was positioned.
Gasping with horror but a little relieved, (glad to be rid of her obnoxious cousin,) the princess raced to her father to tell him the tale of woe.
“Oh Father!” she cried, and thrust herself into his arms. Immediately upon contact, the princess transformed from a living being into a golden statue which wore a terrible expression of horror from witnessing the spectacle in the park. Midas groaned. Unknown to most, the real reason of Midas’ grief was that expression. A nice golden statue would have been pleasant, but not one with a face twisted into a position like that. Moaning, he withdrew to his study. Back at the park, things were not progressing grandly for Molly. During her delightful snack, a sharp, gold earring had lodged itself in her thickly padded paw, causing her much anguish. The alarm had been raised about a loose lioness, and every aspiring adventurer was more or less on her trail. Molly skedaddled to the shelter of a forest. Once there, she found that she was horribly thirsty. Journeying for seven minutes led her to a crystal creek just big enough to be called a sparkling stream running through an emerald meadow. To her relief, our friend the camel boy lounged nearby. She slowly approached his sleeping form and growled softly in his ear. One look at Molly and he began to scream and recite the Greek alphabet. Finally calming down, he stopped somewhere around epsilon and realized the beast was in pain. As he was not called the compassionate camel boy for nothing, he found the source of her pain and performed the minor operation of pulling out the earring. Scarcely believing his good fortune, because that gold, jewel studded earring could buy all his camels put together, he raced home, shouting his good fortune all over the village. This commotion alerted five palace guards who were searching for the murderer of Bleeria. When they spotted the heavily ornamented earring and the camel boy, they put two and two together and arrested our camel loving friend as the murderer. Unfortunately, everyone at the palace came to the same conclusion, completely looking past the possibility that the missing lion could be the culprit, in other words claiming that two plus two equals 17. The Camel boy was sentenced to be eaten alive by lions that very afternoon. King Midas, attending the ceremony, was not in a good mood. He was hungry and thirsty, because he couldn’t eat anything before it turned to gold. He was tired, for the stiff, golden mattress offered him no comfort. Most of all, he was distressed about the problem of his statue/daughter. In the arena was the boy who had caused this problem; if he hadn’t killed Bleeria, his daughter wouldn’t of run to him in that manner. He could have had time to warn her.
Yes, Midas’ lips curled into a smile, I will enjoy this execution. The boy will not.
The camel boy trembled as he stood tied to the post.
Who could have known that assisting a lion would cause me all this trouble? he sniffed, On the other hand, who but me is dumb enough to help a lion?
Fear mounted within him while he stood. Opposite him, two gates swung open, releasing a furious lioness. Fear rose to hysteria, and he began to scream alphabetically in Greek, on through the letters, getting louder and louder.
Molly was exasperated. With fifty aspiring adventurers on her tail, it had not been long before she was recaptured. She had gone into the arena frustrated, but not hungry. From the ever approaching post there was coming an unpleasant, chanting scream that was strangely familiar.
How annoying, grumped Molly, It’s that dolt who pulled out that bothersome earring.
She briefly considered eating him, but grudgingly left him alone because he had helped her.
Besides, she reasoned, he smells like camels and will probably leave an aftertaste. Who wants to eat camels? Isn’t that why I escaped anyway?
The Camel boy stopped, finally, and opened his eyes. The lioness was staring at him, her nose wrinkled strangely. He laughed hysterically. Midas was astonished. What could he do with a boy whom lions wouldn’t strike? What could he do with a lioness who wouldn’t strike? Immediately he gave orders for the lioness to be returned to Africa. He needed time to decide the boy’s fate. He retired into his chambers for the night. There he was greeted by the little man who had bestowed upon him the golden touch. He begged his forgiveness and pleaded that the man would reverse the touch. This was granted to him. He embraced his now joyful daughter and she revealed to him the truth about her cousin’s death. The camel boy was allowed to keep the golden earring, so he was happy. Molly dined upon fresh antelope in Africa, so she was happy. The princess was a living being, so she was happy, and the king rejoiced because he had his beautiful daughter back. Because of the compassionate camel boy’s act of kindness towards the lioness, everyone was repaid in full, except maybe Bleeria.

Can you say this?

I just thought that ya'll needed to watch some Muppet's. After all, who doesn't? It is character building, and it stimulates the mind. Right. And can you say, Humpty's Lumpy Pumpernickel crumpets? And do I even have it right?

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Bright Quote:

"Most cars on our roads have only one occupant, usually the driver." - Carol Malia, BBC Anchorwoman

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Happy Independence Day!

Read this insanely awesome article.

Have a happy, patriotic Independence Day: shoot fireworks, blow your hand off, ooh and ahh.

-Ophelia, who doesn't like watermelon or potato salad.

Friday, July 3, 2009

Actual Sign:

A sign seen on a restroom dryer at O'Hare Field in Chicago: Do not activate with wet hands.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009


Here lies Johnny Yeast
Pardon me
For not rising
In Ruidoso, New Mexico