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Just Because Winnie-the-Pooh Went Commando Doesn’t Mean Your Phone Should Suffer, Too

With the unveiling of the new iPhone with fingerprint reading technology, some people have raised the fear of having their fingers cut off for the sake of unlocking a stolen iPhone.

People are so paranoid.  About the wrong things.  Of course the new iPhone should raise some security concerns.  I mean, the most vulnerable part of the phone, the Home button, is now the key to unlocking all of your sexting secrets with a single tap of your specific finger friction ridges.

Clearly, it needs protection.

I give you, my friends, the Smart Pants Smarty Pants.

No well-dressed phone should go without this foundation item.  I mean, you put a case over the back of your phone and there aren’t even any buttons there.  It’s like Winnie-the-Pooh shamelessly marching around in just a shirt.

What you need is something that insulates the front and devotes less of its valuable resources to the unnecessary defense of the rear.  And you can stick it in your pocket without the worry of visible panty lines!

A thong for your phone.

You never knew you needed one.

Smart Pants Smarty Pants - buy them here!

Smart Pants Smarty Pants – buy them here!


We Can’t All. And Some of Us Don’t.

“Good morning, Pooh Bear,” said Eeyore gloomily. “If it is a good morning,” he said. “Which I doubt,” said he.”Why, what’s the matter?””Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.””Can’t all what?” said Pooh, rubbing his nose.”Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush.”

A few years ago, one of my friends informed me that the Winnie-the-Pooh character who I most resemble is Eeyore.

There is not a really good way to react to a statement like that.  Protesting kind of proves the point, unfortunately.  And cheerfully accepting it basically makes you a nut-head.

A couple of years later, I took a Winnie-the-Pooh personality test on the web, and was temporarily gratified that the results did not brand me an Eeyore.  Instead, I am Rabbit.  After digesting that news, I decided that I did not really care for that designation either.  Rabbit is quite cranky when you think about it.  And a bit of a know-it-all.  Eeyore may be gloomy, but at least he is lovable.  So, I took the test three more times, varying my responses to the questions.  And it came up Rabbit every time.  My students joined in on this psychological test, and did not get Rabbit – not one of them.

All of this information that you really didn’t want to know is leading up to my brand new addition to my Award Shelf – the Sunshine Award – an award that, despite its supposed incongruity with my personality, has been bestowed upon me by not one, but two, separate entities.  According to my in-depth research, this award goes to “bloggers who positively and creatively inspire others in the blogosphere”.  Ah hah!  Take that “Mrs. Cap’n Firepants is an Eeyore” proponents!  I am positive, woohoo!!!!!

So, a big thanks goes out to Paws to Talk and glutenvygirl for not only completing my Award Shelf, but for realizing that, deep down, way, way, way, deep down, I am a sunshiny person.  It’s too bad the people who have known me for years haven’t figured that out yet…

Well, as is the tradition of blogging awards, I am supposed to do something in order to get my cash prize.  Something about telling you stuff about me or some such nonsense.  Why would you want to know anything about me? Uh oh, was that Eeyorish?  That was, wasn’t it?  O.K.  In that case, let’s just say that I am far too busy to spend my time listing my glorious attributes.  Oops – a little bit of Rabbit peeking out right there.  Hmm.  What would Pooh say?  Oh yes.  I am very hungry, and I must go now to find something sweet to eat…

They are Having More Fun

“Oh Tigger, where are your manners?”

“I don’t know, but I bet they’re having more fun than I am.” 

A.A. Milne

In my daily quest to increase my chances of being struck by lightning by doing things like replacing our nativity scene with Harry Potter’s Hogwarts castle, I have worked diligently on eroding the “good points” I may have obtained from years of attending Catholic school.  As part of this on-going program, I have become a little lax in the church attending department.

I won’t give you all of the standard excuses because I used to be pretty critical of the twice-a-year church attendees – and now I have become one of them.  I must say, though, that my world got a little rocked when I attended a Catholic funeral yesterday.  While I was gone – since April- they went and changed the words on me.

What’s truly embarrassing is that I can sing the words to LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It,” but I was fumbling through a recitation I’ve done hundreds of times before I even got five minutes into it.

If you are Catholic, and have been attending Mass regularly, then you obviously know what I’m talking about.  If you are Catholic and haven’t been since Easter, let me tell what to expect on Christmas day so you don’t make a fool out of yourself like I did.  And, if you are not Catholic, allow me to explain by saying, up until now (and I am 43 years old), the Mass has been something one could, conceivably, attend on auto-pilot.  Now, apparently, everyone needs to be in the cock-pit.

At least until we learn where the new buttons are for flying this thing.

If they had changed the whole darn thing, it probably would have been easier.  But they lull you into that sense of security, the predictable responses that we’ve always chanted back to the priest for all of our lives – and then they throw in what appears to be an unnecessary change.

For example, the priest used to say, “The Lord be with you,” and we would respond, quite logically, “and also with you.”  Now we are supposed to say, “and with your spirit.”

I’m trying not to be all cranky about it, like the lady in the Huffington Post, who said, “It’s ridiculous. I’ve been a Catholic for 50 years, and why would they make such stupid changes? They’re word changes. They’re semantics,” she said.

I almost could agree with her, now that I have spent an entire funeral mass loudly saying the wrong words as I stood next to a staunch every-Sunday Catholic.  But the Huffington Post lady lost me when she went on to say, “It’s confusion. All it’s doing is causing confusion,” she said. “You want to go to church and be confused?”

Lady, that’s all I’ve ever been in church – confused.  It started when I was a kid and thought God rang the bells right before the Communion, only to disappointingly observe one of the altar boys doing it one day, continued all of the way through my mother marrying a priest to the present day when I am trying to figure out how I can explain to my daughter that God will only forgive us if we regretfully confess, but we are supposed to forgive everyone – whether they are sorry or not – essentially implying that we must be more forgiving than God.  So I don’t think confusion has ever stopped the Catholic church from doing something.  That argument isn’t going to take you very far.

Plus, I kind of don’t want to go to church anyway.  And it’s not because I feel like an idiot  when I say the wrong thing.

What I would like to do – some day when I have nothing else to do and I’m feeling brazen – is to go to Mass and start chanting something completely different the whole entire time.  Like the text of Winnie-the-Pooh.  It would be even better if I could plant several co-conspirators throughout the congregation to do it all together.  Before I do that, though, I need to get my funeral all planned.  Because I’m pretty sure deliberately sabotaging the words to a Catholic mass is lightning strike-worthy even if nothing else I’ve done qualifies.

thanks to coconut wireless on Flickr

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