The Best Royal Baby Names

kateandwillApparently the next Royal is on its way into the world as I write this blog post, and we’re suppose to care. I know this only because the toolbar at the top of my browser keeps showing things like Royal Baby and Kate Middleton as trending searches. It’s nice to have a toolbar that tells me what to care about otherwise I might be in danger of not caring about anything at all.

With the trend in unusual celebrity baby names in full swing, I wonder if William and Kate will follow suit. Naming your child after ordinary household objects is all well and good. No one can resist names like Chandelier, Stereo System, or Sugar Basin, but the best names are completely made up. When coming up with a name nothing beats throwing a few syllables together. Here are a few names we’ve come up with:

Shemple
Commatary
Melonbepple
Harigoten
Brunta (only if it’s a girl)

If they prefer short one syllable names that are direct and to the point, I think they should go with Shab or Frunk.

These are only suggestions, but since everyone knows that the Queen reads this blog they could very well end up being used. I, of course, would like some sort of recognition if they are. Is is possible for a woman to be knighted? Would I get to wear a suit of armor? Could I bring it home with me? I could wear it as protection from the wasps while tending to the plants out front. Just a thought, and we all love thoughts, don’t we?

Photo by tsaiproject

Hurricane Season with a Twist

The thing about not having a television is that I don’t know when to panic. We have now entered hurricane season here in Florida and normally I’d be glued to The Weather Channel tracking the various approaching storms. This time of year is all about trying to figure out the latest spaghetti model from the National Hurricane Center and hoping that the piece of spaghetti that goes nowhere near my home is the most accurate one.

A few days ago we got an enormous amount of rain in this area and a ton of thunderstorms. I spent most of the day wondering if I should be worried. My husband saying that it feels like a hurricane is coming didn’t help matters. I’d look out the windows at the dark clouds hovering in the sky and listen to the rain pounding down on the roof and wonder if I should be scared.

Without any television news people warning me about my impending doom, I don’t know whether to stock up on bottled water and hunker down, or go out and skip through mud puddles whilst singing Anchors Away. Instead, I’m left in limbo spending my time looking at the multicolored maps on weather websites and wondering which color should scare me. Blue could mean, “Oh no a ton of water will sweep you away.” Red could mean, “Danger, Will Robinson, danger!” Are all those lines and circles supposed to mean something to someone who hasn’t gone to meteorology school?

I’m not planning on getting a television any time ever. I’m just hoping that if a category five million hurricane were headed straight for my home someone would call and tell me.

Water Spouts, Funnel Clouds, and Cameras

I’ve determined that my husband doesn’t seem to have the same survival instincts that I have. This month we’ve seen four funnel clouds and while my natural tendency is to run away from them, he always seems to want to get closer.

We saw the first one whilst driving. People were pulling over in their cars, but my husband started driving faster. “Maybe we can get to it before it dissipates,” he said.

“Other people are pulling over. Maybe we should do that,” I said.

“It’s a water spout. It will disappear before it hits land. We’re safe.”

Safe? I’ve seen Twister, and I knew we were not safe.

The other three funnel clouds occurred in the same storm yesterday. It’s funny how so many people in the park with us kept trying to get closer to them.

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That little band of white is the first funnel cloud forming over the water.

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That’s the same cloud stretching down to the water. At this point I was saying, “Maybe we should get in the car and head home.” My husband was walking closer the to water’s edge talking about how amazing it was.

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This is the second one forming.

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Here is the third one forming. At this point I overheard a conversation that went something like this.

Person One: You don’t have to worry. The tornadoes here in Florida will pick up a tree or tear the roof off a house, but they are rarely strong even to pick up a whole house.

Person Two: That’s good to know because that one is looking pretty close.

How does that make you feel any better when you’re standing in a field looking at this coming across the water at you?

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That’s the point were the first funnel cloud is hitting the water and coming right toward the crowd on-lookers. This is also the point where I said, “That’s coming straight for us. I heading to the car.”

I wasn’t the only one heading to the parking lot, because just then a massive bolt of lightning struck the ground accompanied by thunder so loud the earth rumbled beneath our feet. That got everybody moving. I sprinting to the car, and I wasn’t the only one.


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I No Longer Go To the Library

library-shelfI went to the library a few weeks ago. Shocking I know, but sometimes I actually have to go to the library live and in person not just online. Anyway, when I got to the counter to check out my stack of books, the librarian told me that she needed some information to update my library card.

I gave her my address and phone number and then she sat for a minute scanning the other information on the computer screen while I waited patiently. Handing my library card back to me, she cheerily announced, “We were both born in 74.”

“Really?” I said smiling back at her, but I was sinking inside. Here was a woman that I would’ve assumed was older than me, a woman that I might have referred to as ma’am, telling me that we are the same age. I’m a ma’am too. When did this happen?

She must be older than me. She must’ve have been born in January, I thought. “When’s your birthday?” I asked.

When she told me it was in September I almost fainted. She was younger than me. It’s true, I thought, I am a ma’am.

Overwhelmed by the knowledge that I wasn’t 21 anymore, I drove home in a daze. As soon as I walked through the door I asked my husband, “I don’t look as old as you, do I?”

That question isn’t as bad as it seems. You see, my husband is 9 years my senior even though some people don’t believe it. I don’t know if those people are complimenting him or insulting me.

“I should hope not since you are younger,” he said.

“You didn’t answer my question. Do I look like I’m as old as you?” I pressed knowing what he would say if he wanted me to cook dinner that evening.

“Of course not. You look the same as you always have.”

Satisfied, I smiled and refrained from examining the wrinkles around my eyes in the bathroom mirror. That wouldn’t solve anything anyway. Memorizing the lines on my face will not make me look any younger. The only possible way to keep my head buried in the sands of eternal youth is to avoid going to the library. I’m not sure how I’m going to return this stack of library books though.

Photo by twechy

The Zombie Apocalypse

With the much anticipated movie World War Z in the theaters and the recent sightings of two zombies in Miami nightclub, I’ve been wondering how I’d do when the zombie apocalypse finally does come around.

I’m not a particularly fast runner, but when it comes to zombies that usually doesn’t matter. I can’t shoot a gun and every time I’ve swung a bat I’ve missed my target. So far the odds aren’t looking very good for me, but I’m thinking that if I hurl my family and friends toward the zombie horde as I try to escape my odds of survival go way up. A distraction always makes escape easier.

You’re probably thinking, “How selfish! This woman has no heart!” I got an EKG of my heart before we moved back to Florida, so I can assure you that it’s in there beating away. It might be made of potato chips instead of smooth muscle tissue, but that’s unimportant. The important thing is that it’s in there.

I have a strong sense of self-preservation, and I may have a slightly skewed moral compass. Besides I’ve seen plenty of movies where someone sacrifices his or her life for the survival of everyone else. In the movies that person usually volunteers, but is volunteering really that necessary? I don’t think so. I guess the lesson from this post is don’t stand next to me during the zombie apocalypse because when the zombies are deciding whose brains to devour, let’s just say they won’t be choosing mine.

Note: You may be wondering why I’m suddenly writing about the zombie apocalypse. Truth is it’s not so sudden. I’ve been secretly working away at a series of funny books about just that. I’ve published them under a pen name. You can check them out here.

If you’re not really that into silly books with lots of gore you might want to read my serious book, Flying Lessons, if you haven’t already.

Another Note: I started a Facebook page for Nebulous Mooch. You should like it. Yes, you can get stay up to date with the Mooch on Facebook too. Life really is that good. Check it out here.

Just one more thing: I’m starting a newsletter. It will most probably be delivered to your inbox once weekly and include something funny. I’ve put together some of the best posts from The Mooch in one convenient PDF file that you can have in exchange for signing up. That’s right, you can have all the funny in one place. Here’s the sign up form.

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Humor Me

I have pronunciation issues. I’ve had them all of my life. There are certain words that I just don’t say correctly. Since my husband speaks that Queen’s English he loves to point out my mispronunciations. As soon as he asks me to repeat myself with a sly grin on his face, I know I’ve just mispronounced something.

For someone who writes a humor blog this can be a bit of a problem. You see, I’ve never pronounced humor correctly. I opt to skip the H. It just gets all stuck in my mouth and feels icky. Instead of humor, I say yumor. Some people don’t seem to notice at all. They don’t make a big deal of it and we all move on, but some people have a problem. They don’t understand what the heck I’m talking about.

The other day I got a pedicure (I know that’s so unlike me, but my mother had a Groupon thing) and the pedicurist asked me what I do. One of the things I mentioned was that I write a humor blog. I’m always trying to find new readers for the Mooch.

Me: I also write a yumor blog.
Pedicurist: Yumor, yumor. I don’t know what that is. What’s yumor?
Me: You know yumor, like if something is funny.
Pedicurist: I don’t know what that is.

“Are you kidding me? You know what that is. You’re just being a pain about the H.” That’s what I was thinking. That, of course, is not what I said.

Now I’m rethinking this whole humor thing. Maybe I should start a new blog about something I can pronounce. I’ve never had difficulty pronouncing the word cheese. There are lots of things you can write about cheese. My husband wrote a whole song about the subject. In case you don’t remember click this link for a little reminder.

The New F Word

Because I want to be the best at everything I do, recently I decided to study humor. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a humor blog and to make sure I keep you laughing I have to up my game by studying the best.

So I went to You Tube, the best place to go when you’re trying to study something, and watched a lot of comedians. The only real standout thing that I learned was that apparently you have to use the f-word a whole heck of a lot to be funny. This puts a damper on my plans to up the funny. You see I don’t use the f-word, and I’m not going to start just to get a few extra chuckles out of you.

I’ve been trying to figure out a way around it, and I think I’ve come up with a plan. I’ll just make up my own swear word that starts with an F. After a ton of thinking and random combining of syllables, I’ve come up with the perfect one. How does flappentrop sound to you? I think it’s perfect.

The Rasberry Crazy Ants Are Coming

Nylanderia_pubens_workerJust when I thought I had absolutely everything I could possibly worry about covered, I find out about Rasberry Crazy Ants. Have you heard of these things?

Apparently they’re making their way through the state of Florida leaving ruin and destruction in their path. Their name makes it sound like they are the life of the ant party. They’re the crazy guy in the corner with the lampshade on his head who had one too many shots of tequila. They’re not that kind of crazy.

They are the wipe-out-other-ant-species-and-reek-havoc-on-the-ecosystem kind of crazy. They are normal-ant-pesticides-have-no-effect-on-them kind of crazy. They’re like the antibiotic resistant gonorrhea of the insect world, except they infest your home instead of your genitals. Wait there’s more … apparently they are attracted to electricity and short out all kinds of electronics. They even short circuit entire buildings.

I’m so concerned because I tend to have an ongoing problem no matter where I live. My husband has heard me utter this question many times during our marriage. “Why do the ants always want to make my house their house?” This is usually said in a fit of frustration as I angrily squash the line of ants marching across the floor. I’m a neat person. It’s not like I leave cookie crumbs lying about, but still ants seem to take up residence wherever live.

It probably won’t take long before I have a raging case of Rasberry Crazy Ants in this place. I don’t know what I’ll do when that happens. I’ll probably just have to give up and lay on the floor waiting for the ants to short circuit me.

Believe in the Power of the Green Thumb

A few months ago I decided that whatever I believe must be true. When you think about it that makes perfect sense … or not.

You see, I used to always tell people that I had a brown thumb. Okay, I literally do have a brown thumb and brown fingers too, but in this case I was just referring to my ability to care for plants. At one time plants that I cared for always died, but not anymore.

I changed that a few months ago when I decided to think of myself as having a green thumb, not literally of course. I’m not the Incredible Hulk, but wouldn’t it be cool if I were? Since I’ve changed my mind, I’ve been successfully caring for plants. I’ve had one out of nine plants in my care die. That’s pretty good odds, especially considering that the dead plant wasn’t my fault.

The dying lychee tree in my front yard is making me doubt the power of my mind though. Maybe my thumb isn’t so green after all. Maybe it’s more of a yellowish color. Maybe unicorns don’t exist, and there is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I guess I should just stop believing in trolls too. I don’t mind giving up the trolls because the thought of one living under my bed keeps me up at night.

Stir It Up

I like to think of myself as a relaxed, laid back kind of person. I can go with the flow, as they say. I’m great at chilaxing, as long as I have total control over what’s happening. I’m not a control freak or anything like that. I just like things done a certain way, at a certain time, preferably by me.

For example, my husband cooked breakfast this morning. While sitting in the living room, I could hear the oatmeal bubbling away in the pot. He didn’t seem to be stirring it at all, so I kept going into the kitchen to check on it. I didn’t want to interfere, so I didn’t touch the pot the oatmeal was in. Instead, I wandered into the kitchen and looked at him sitting at the bar checking emails for a while. When he didn’t get the telepathic message to go stir the oatmeal that I was trying to convey with my stare, I finally said, “That oatmeal sure is bubbling a lot.”

My husbanded nodded and continued his extremely important email checking.

“Maybe I should stir it,” I said.

“Nah, I got it,” he said, but still he didn’t move. “Go back to what you were doing. I’m making the oatmeal.”

I went back to the living room, but the sound of the oatmeal bubbling and possibly burning to the bottom of the pot nearly made me a crazy person. I know I’m already crazy, but this was making me straitjacket and padded cell crazy. When I returned to the kitchen to check on the oatmeal, he was still checking emails.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to make the oatmeal?” I asked.

“I’m just letting the extra water boil off,” he said.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I gave it a stir. It was just going to be a quick turn of the spoon, but once you start you can’t stop. I was stirring away like a mad woman when my husband kicked me out of the kitchen again. That didn’t matter much though because I had accomplished my mission. The oatmeal was well stirred and was fit for eating.