Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein

Lefty and The Precious wanted to call him Vin Diesel.
I said no.
It just seemed wrong to title a fluffy, lazy, helpless, fat little furball after a celebrity studmuffin.  I wouldn't even name him Jeremy Renner.
We compromised.  Vin Diesel's real name is Mark Sinclair Vincent, and, being a little more low-key, seemed an appropriate enough way to dub the cat.
The cat, however, is convinced that he is a god, and as such is entitled to choose his own autonym which he required to be multitudinous in syllables.
Thus the house cat came to be known as Mark Sinclair Vincent St. Agnes von Lichtenschtein.  Usually we just call him Vinnie.  Hunneypunkin inexplicably refers to him as Chuck, or sometimes Frank.
Vinnie is ten years old now, and just as many pounds.  He still believes he's a god no matter how many ways we assert our own dominance.  When I try to blog he walks across the keyboard and takes a nap on my fingers, so a long time ago I gave up and let him write his own blog.  I decided to humor him and pin his blog posts.  Unexpected side effect: if you search "Mark Sinclair Vincent" on Pinterest, you'll see all kinds of photos of Vin Diesel, along with a few of our cat.

Even Worse Than Passwords

I can't get anything done online.  It's not enough to have a different username and unique password for every site on the world wide web, now you have to answer a barrage of security questions to prove you're the individual signing in with your own login information.
"What is your favorite song?"
What mood was I in when I typed in those answers?  David Meece?  Roseanne Cash?  Maroon 5?  Johann Sebastian Bach?  Third Day?  Patsy Cline?  Skillet?  ZZ Top?  MercyMe?  George Strait?  Veggie Tales?  Yanni?  Cher?
"What is your favorite movie?"
My favorite movie changes every time the trailers play at the beginning of a Blu-Ray.  (Ooh, pop that disc out and put in the video they just showed the preview for!  What do you mean we don't own that movie?  Is it on Netflix?  Oh yeah, we dropped Netflix.  Do they have it on Amazon Prime?  Never mind, I can't remember the password.)
"What is your youngest child's middle name?"
I have a lot of children.  I call them all Cuddleysnuggleybuggins.  They think it's a term of endearment but it's really because I can't remember their names.
Gonna make it easy on myself and use the same answer on all my security questions whether it makes sense or not.
"What year did you graduate high school?"
"Jeremy Renner."

Much Ado About Nothing

Don't you hate it when people just drone on and on without having an actual point?  Some people can drag a conversation out forever for no reason.  I can't stand listening to somebody prattle incessantly when they really don't have anything to say.
I've never been a person who appreciates small talk.  I'm definitely not one of those people who chatters aimlessly.  You can bet that if I'm going to spend my energy to express myself, I will absolutely have something important to tell you.  And everyone listens to me, because I never waste other people's time endlessly rattling on about nothing.
There simply is no cause to draw out a meaningless debate or a fruitless discussion, and far be it from me to engage in unproductive yammering.  If I were going to burn some time, I'd rather browse Jeremy Renner's Instagram, because ineffectual arguments and recitals of inconsequential facts are aimless.
So is this blog post.
Ight.  Imma head out.

A Right From Two Wrongs

Because I want holiday treats that look fancy but aren't difficult, I do simple things like cutting Rice Krispies treats into squares and tying Twizzlers around them so they look like little presents.  Failure number one: didn't realize how stale my marshmallows were (having been bought for making s'mores at summer bonfires) or that stale 'shmallows make shattery Krispie treats.  Frown emoji!  I shoved my pan of crumbly Krispies into a corner of the kitchen and moved on to mixing up rum balls.
Traditionally rum balls are made with Nilla wafers, but those contain eggs to which The Precious is allergic.  I substituted graham crackers, which did not contain eggs (also having been bought for making s'mores at summer bonfires).  Failure number two: graham crackers apparently have a much higher moisture content than Nilla wafers, and I ended up with rum ball batter instead of rum ball dough.  Frustration emoji!
Everybody knows that if your Christmas goodies don't turn out perfectly, the baby Jesus can't be born, and all mankind will be doomed to eternal damnation, so there was kind of a lot riding on this.
Traditionally, rum balls are made with Nilla wafers, but I remembered that historically, rum balls were made with bakers' crumbs and leftovers...or from their failures!  So I pulled out my old Hamilton Beach, crumbled up my shattery Krispie treats, food processored them into a powder, and mixed them into the rum ball batter like I was Jeremy Renner and Martha Stewart all in one.  Voila: I successfully made rum balls!
Christmas miracle?  Not exactly.  The real Christmas miracle was having a large family packed into a small house where we all enjoyed each other's company and made pleasant holiday memories.  I hope all my critics and both my fans have equally happy Christmas memories, and I wish all of you a fabulous 2020!

Putting Millennials in Their Place

First off, you realize we made Millennials, right?  If there's anything we dislike about that generation, we should own up to having architected it.
They spend time with technology because that was all there was to do when it was too dangerous to go outside or when they wanted to learn to work but safety regulations held them back.  They don't mingle outside their comfort zone because society harshes on them.  They're glued to their cellphones because those are their watches, alarm clocks, calendars, school notes, work schedules, encyclopedias, even Bibles, and because when they tried to talk to us, we told them to shut up.  Besides that, the generation gap is shrinking, and, Millennials have not just parents and siblings to keep in touch with, but step-siblings, step-parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and step-grandparents.  (And you KNOW they have that phone handy, so THEY know they're gonna catch purgatory if they don't answer you.  Right.  Now.)
Let's extend the Millennials some support.  We need them, after all.  They buy things, and that keeps the economy going.  They watch movies, so Jeremy Renner can keep acting.
Be nice to Millennials.  They'll be running your nursing home.
If you're a Millennial, don't give up.  Your good friend (or whatever) Dromiquine will show up now and then to create drama and make trouble, but don't let her get you down.  The neighborhood gossip, Lou Scannon, will always be around to twist facts and make you look ridiculous, but keep moving forward.  They didn't have much good to say about your predecessors either, but we were learning on the go, and I'm trusting you to do the same.
If you're a Millennial, be patient with the generations before and after you.  Most of us are doing the best we know how.
I'm Generation X, and I believe in you.  And whether or not you believe in God, He believes in you too.

Size Does Matter

Left-handed The Precious was concerned that his younger brother, right-handed Lefty was taller, until he read that Robert Downey, Jr. is only 5'9". I was like, "The Precious, you're bigger than Iron Man!  And EVERY BIT as handsome."  The Precious didn't really give a monkey's butt about my opinion, because what your parents think doesn't actually count, does it?  However, that was years ago, and The Precious is such a studmuffin that his size doesn't matter to him anymore, and that's not the kind of size this blog post is about, anyway.
All my fans have been commenting that I haven't posted in quite a while.  (Thanks to both of you for noticing.)  My pathetic excuse is that the house has been extra busy for quite some time.  Grown children moving out of the house, and into the house, and out of the house, and into the house, and borrowing my laptop, and just keeping my attention in general because they're all so gosh darn adorable, has prevented me from much keyboarding.  But now, the size of my household has diminished.
The Precious lives at his job, and occasionally comes home to sleep.  Lefty and Angel Doll have taken themselves to college several hours away.  My Treasure has gone to study abroad.  (Don't ask her name, we've worn that joke out and it was a lame one to begin with.)  Angel Boy finally figured out we are legitimately nuts and has gone in search of sane people to live with.  (He truly believes he's not the only sensible person in the world.  Who's crazy now?)  With My Treasure and Angel Boy gone, the Prince isn't around much.  Hunneypunkin's nose is to the grindstone as always, so he and I just sleep in the same room at night and then see each other in daylight on Saturdays or sometimes at church.
The shift in our household size, and the testosterone to estrogen balance, has been so drastic that even my life-size Jeremy Renner cardboard cutout is in shock.  Pixie and I are basically bachelorette roomies.  We make the house clean and it stays like that.  The refrigerator is no longer so crammed that bottles and jars fall out when we open it.  We cook dinner and have leftovers after.  There's only one load of laundry per day.  I've put away so many layers of people's belongings that I found my laptop AND its charger.  Weird. 

Guess Who Knows How Not to Drown

"Miss Purser was a good teacher," Rapunzel always said.
Usually my mom is right, but I had to disagree on this point.
Miss Purser, or Satan as I liked to call her, was my swimming teacher.  I was four years old and terrified of the water, so naturally I would cry.  "She knew that if one child cried, they would all cry, so she had to stop you from crying," Rapunzel would say.  "The best way to do that was to toss you into the water."
Miss Purser/Satan was a terrible teacher.  She was supposed to teach me how to swim, and here I am at forty-five years old, after all these years taking private lessons and learning how to swim.
My current swimming teacher doesn't throw me in the middle of the pool when I get scared and cry.  She says nice words and waits till I calm down and then teaches me all the things.  I can float on my back, and swim on my stomach, and put my head underwater, and jump in the deep end, and hold my breath till I resurface, and not be afraid, and prevent myself from drowning.
Rapunzel is usually right, but Miss Purser/Satan was a terrible teacher.  Mrs. Kooy is an excellent teacher.  Jeremy Renner is an excellent actor.  I hope Miss Purser gets chlorine water up her nose.