… seems to be the one about “kicky vs kinky” on Sesame Street. At the very least, it’s the post that has inspired the most comments. Definitely people are of two minds on that one! I’m wondering – are people finding my blog because they’re searching for “this is kinda kicky/kinky”?
At any rate, there’s a comment there that makes it clear, straight from Sesame Street themselves, that it’s KICKY.
*sings merrily* John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, His name is my name, too.
Whenever we go out,
The people always shout,
There’s John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt!
Have you ever had a friend who is so similar to you that it’s scary? Like the two Stephanies in your high school math class who both took drum, ate red licorice, wore size 6 shoes, both dated a guy named Robert, and were never seen without each other?
What do you do when the crazy ex of your friend thinks you’re her … or she’s you, or something like that? I’d think it was funny, except, well he scares the bloody bejesus out of me, ’scusing my French. Pierre says I’m being silly because he’ll always protect me, but still. As far as I can tell, some of this man’s strangest accusations against her came directly from direct revelation from God.
There are truly some strange coincidences out there, and just when you think “Oh, I’m quite unique, or at least semi-unique”, you run into someone who could be your not-so-evil twin. It’s like that weird feeling when a store clerk says “What’s your name so I can look you up in our system?” “Marie Beausoleil.” “What’s your middle name? We have eight Marie Beausoleils.” At that point you feel your uniqueness evaporating into the Twilight Zone.
She and I have a similar medical history. (Since my surgery, I’ve met FIVE other women who have had large, operable brain tumors!) We’ve both been married and divorced (although I think she has been divorced twice), and she met her current boyfriend around the same time Pierre and I were married. We’re both, in fact, from one of the four Maritime provinces, and we both ended up in northern Ontario. We’re both the mother of three boys, although she doesn’t get to see hers very much (and perhaps I might soon be saying I’m the mother of four? Shhhhh …). We both love books and pretty things. She collects teapots and I collect teacups (isn’t that funny?). We’ve read and owned many of the same books. Mostly, though, her life is a shambles (she’s the first one to say this!), and it’s sometimes a slightly twisted mirror of my life. But at first glance, it would seem reasonable to wonder if we’re the same person.
I shall admit, by the way, that a few of my posts have been written by her. She’s had some great information, and she wanted it published, but not under her name. And no, I won’t say which ones because she doesn’t want me to. She’s said that her days as a writer are over.
Of course, she’s now in a panic, because she’s convinced that he’s reading her email again, and I’m trying to find out if the jerk has hacked my information. I use her computer at times, when I’ve visiting, and she has helped me with this blog. As much as I’ll miss her, part of me will be happy when we move next month. I’ve dealt with my own ex-husband, working through our problems and becoming quasi-friends. He even had dinner at our house a few weeks ago, so the not-at-all-amicable divorce has morphed into something much more friendly. I don’t need to deal with my friend’s crazy ex! The whole “I know it’s really you, so don’t deny it” business is more than a little creepy!”
For that reason, I’m not giving out any information about where we’re moving. “Somewhere in eastern Canada” is the best anyone is going to get. But we’re going. Boxes are packed, notice is given, truck is reserved, down payment is down, new job is ready …
I always thought that it was a myth and that my mother was silly for insisting that we poke baked potatoes. I forgot to poke them tonight and didn’t think anything of it.
Well, I shall go on record to say that it is not a myth at all. They explode. It’s a gentle little ‘pop’ and then when you look at the oven window, all you can see is mashed potato.
I guess I’m cleaning my oven tomorrow.
