Blame Patrick Henry, I guess

According to Wikipedia, the correct way to refer to the Governor of Virginia is "His Excellency." Why stop there? Why not go the whole hog and use "His Highness"? Or "His Holiness"?

UPDATE
It appears that 11 (ELEVEN!) states use this title. Thank God I've only lived in rational, sane states: Delaware and Maryland.

It's amazing I haven't needed therapy

It’s not easy being the youngest. I’m the 13^th of 13 grandchildren, and, until a new baby suddenly showed up at Christmas when I was five and a half, was the youngest of our clan. I have a cousin just a few months older than I, so you would think that we would have experienced similar hardships. You would be wrong.

Sure, we shared some disappointments. For example, every summer a good portion of our family goes to the beach together. When we were little, there was a total of eight children to entertain for two weeks. Our parents would take us to movies, amusement parks, and, one summer, to a beach half an hour away for laser tag.

Six of us played laser tag that day. Two of us watched those six play laser tag. I’m told it was the best trip we ever took. I beg to differ.

But what sticks out most in my mind, when I reminisce about those summers of my youth, is a song our aunt made up about the eight of us. It was entitled, I believe, “8 Little Cousins.” “Oh,” you say, “a nice ditty about children, based on that classic tale of the 10 little Indians!” You, sir or ma’am, have clearly never met my aunt. No, this was a cautionary tale of sorts, warning us not to jump on the beds in the apartment we shared. You see, these eight little cousins were all jumping on a bed one afternoon, when, one by one, verse by verse, they fell off. Starting with the oldest, seven children broke their legs. The eighth child, the youngest, made it to the end of the song before she fell off the bed. Did she, like the others, break her leg?

No.

She died.

The ending of this charming tale never changed, and, believe me, I heard it enough times to know. Every other kid loved this song, and my aunt would sing it for them, despite my obvious objections. My older cousins bitched about having to wash dishes; I was taunted mercilessly about my possible death. Lucky number seven, however, escaped both.

This seems like a bad idea

An exercise in my French book:

Here are a few stereotypes about the French:
The French eat a lot of cheese.
The French love food.
The French don't speak English.
Do you agree? Give examples of other stereotypes.

I need a patent lawyer!

Some coworkers and I like to break up the monotony of local restaurants with quarterly "fests" of food from other parts of the city. We've had PizzaFest, and tomorrow was supposed to be our first HoagieFest, catered by Philadelphia Cheesesteak Factory. I had high hopes for HoagieFest, with dreams of future generations marking the day with Cheez Whiz topped treats and leaving Amoroso rolls out for Hoagie Claus. Then I saw a billboard for this on 95 this past weekend. I never thought I'd say this, but damn those people at Wawa! Why'd they have to go and steal my thunder?!? And finding out the next day that they no longer have Oreo shakes did nothing to improve my mood, I'll have you know.
Whatever. Until they open a location inside the Beltway, I refuse to acknowledge their "trademarks."

Let this be a lesson

None of us were home much this weekend, so the cat took the opportunity to throw a raging party, as teenagers are wont to do. There was some destruction:


We didn't have to punish him, though, because he clearly paid for his choices later:

Did someone say eggs?!?

Always on the lookout for potential opportunities for me, Jess passed along a Craigslist ad with the subject, "ARMENIAN COUPLE IS LOOKING FOR BEAUTIFUL ARMENIAN EGG DONOR." I could just see my dark hair and dark eyes convincing this couple that 50% Armenian was good enough, and then the kid ending up with all of my blond-haired blue-eyed father's genes.

Wait, do you know cursive?

There's something unsettling about walking around a mall with an 8-year-old who's carrying an Abercrombie bag with half-naked men on it.
Perhaps I should have called off the whole thing when I realized she couldn't sign her name on the credit card slip.

Huh?

Someone please explain this picture to me:

¿Dónde Están? UPDATE

Once again, the Argentines are making their presence known in the neighborhood. They are using the sidewalks to announce their arrival to those of us in the know. At least, they're hoping we'll think they're Argentine.
Check out this picture of the sidewalk near the Chico's:

Someone has clearly carved out part of the concrete in the shape of the Argentine Republic. He must be very proud of his Argentine heritage, correct? NO, SIR, HE IS NOT.
Why?
Take a close look at the image above, compare it to this map below, and see if you can find what's missing.
That's right. Whoever did this "tribute" did not include the Malvinas. Why not just burn a few hundred Argentine flags while you're at it, buddy?
Because I hold such a strong love for this wonderful nation, I have made my own version:

I'm actually not a fan of yellow

I'm heading out of town this weekend for my cousin's 8th birthday. Instead of specific gifts, my family tends to just give money. I'm not sure when this practice started, but I'm amazed it made it past my 5th birthday.
See, I have a cousin who's just a few months older than I. She's one of my best friends now, but we had some jealousy issues when we were children. On Christmas 1987, our grandfather gave her a check for her birthday, since it falls in early January. I started crying that I wanted one too, as four-year-olds are wont to do. My grandfather refused, and, faced with the long wait until May, my tantrum only intensified. My mother was finally able to calm me down, when Little Miss Birthday Girl nonchalantly turned to me and asked, "Do you like the color yellow?". "Yes," I whimpered. "Well, that's the color of the check."
Oh yes she did.
Needless to say, the screaming commenced anew. My mother lost it and yelled at her father to just write me a check already, which he reluctantly did. Victory was mine!
I have to admit that I have no recollection of this event, and knew nothing about it until a few years ago. My mother was surprised, since I apparently remembered it for months afterward. You see, our grandfather died between our birthdays that year, and I told my mom, "It's a good thing he gave me that check."