Daily Archives: December 8, 2015

Support Your Local* Blogger**

It broke my heart when I learned that Gibber, of Gibber Jabber, needed to work.  She needed food.  A home.  Socks.

It broke my heart to learn that because of those pedestrian needs, Gibber was reluctantly closing her blog.  She collected questions, silly and serious, and we all provided the answers!  It was great fun.  You remember it, surely!


Whoa is me, to have questions yet unanswered.  To have the question collector need to make a damn living.

Well, to make a short story long, Gibber had to make some money.  Dinero.  Big, fast bucks — Canadian so they don’t quite count up so quickly.

So our Gibber set up shop as a candle crafter.  Yes!  She started Sparking Hope Candles!  Hand-made, hand-scented, soy-based peace in a mason jar.  Her candles are really beautiful. See?


Sparking Hope Candles

And they smell good.  And they support soy farmers who aren’t bloggers as a rule, but still.  I’m sure they’re nice folks too.

Gibber’s candles can be ordered either through her Shopify page:  or through Facebook.

Go have a look.  And if you’re as behind in your holiday shopping as I am, give Sparking Hope Candles a go!  Because we need to support our local* bloggers.**

And now for the footnotes, because I am a professional writer and footnotes contain useful information that nobody reads.  But they should:


* To paraphrase Forrest Gump, Local is as local does.  Or maybe I could paraphrase former Speaker of the US House of Representatives Tipp O’Neill and say All Blogging is local.  Or maybe I should quote you directly and say “Shut UP, Elyse!  We don’t care if Gibber is local or not!”

** Perhaps I should paraphrase … no?  No paraphrasing?  OK.  Gibber hasn’t been blogging lately because she needs to make a living.  So you can buy a candle, or you can click the red “X”.

*** My apologies to Glazed.  I was going to reblog his post, Sparking Hope Cain’t Be Drunk but West Virginia is currently beating Virginia in basketball and I just couldn’t quite get my hillbilly on.

**** SHIT!  I didn’t get a fee for this advertisement!  It’s just like those ones that Word Press inserts when you’ve said, “NO!  I don’t want advertisements on my blog!”

***** Anybody who noticed that there is no footnote ***, ****, or ***** gets a prize.   A candle they can buy themselves.  From Gibber!



Filed under All The News You Need, All We Are Saying Is Give Peace A Chance, Bloggin' Buddies, Cool people, DON'T go back to your day job either, Humor, Just Do It and I'll Shut Up!, Missing Folks, Peace, Satisfaction, Taking Care of Each Other

Happy Birthday to my Partner in Crime

Today is my brother Fred’s birthday, and so I thought I’d re-post a two-fer today.  In part to celebrate Fred’s birthday.  But it’s also to re-post the actual fun Christmas party idea that my office does every year.  Because it’s great fun.

So happy birthday, Fred.  And thanks for being such a demonically fun big brother.

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A Different Toy Story

Nobody suspects I would have done anything of the sort.  I’ve fooled them all.  Well, at least I’ve fooled the folks I work with.  And that will do.

You see, we have a terrific Christmas tradition at my office.  We have a party, yes, and it’s actually fun because we like each other.  And the highlight of the party is a gift exchange.   About two weeks prior to the party, we choose the name of a co-worker, and bring a gift for that person as if he or she were 7 years old.  We open the gifts and have a great time guessing who gave it to us.  Then the toys are collected and given to a local charity.

We have a blast, it’s for a good cause, and everybody tells their funny childhood remembrances of what we would have done with a toy like they got.

But it was awkward for me this year, because I got a doll.

She was a beautiful, blue-eyed doll with rosy cheeks and curly blond hair just like mine.  Any girl would love her and gently care for her.  Any girl would treasure that pretty doll.  Any girl would have given that beautiful doll to her own daughter to love, too.

Any girl but me.  Because for the most part, I hated dolls.  And for most of my childhood did anything to avoid playing with them.  Except when I was about 7.

Well, I guess I answered honestly when I said that, uhhh, yeah, I would have played with the delicate dolly.   And, yeah, I would have played with it when I was about 7 years old.  So yeah, the gift, umm, fit me.  I didn’t elaborate, though.

I didn’t, for example, tell anyone that the dolly would not have been happy with the situation.

I blame my parents, they bought that particular house.  I blame my brother. Me, I was innocent.  I was led astray.  I was forced to do it.  The fact that it was hilarious and became one of my favorite memories is completely irrelevant.

You see, the house I grew up with was next to the railroad tracks.  And naturally, because it was strictly forbidden, my brother Fred and I used to spend lots of time playing on the tracks.  We’d put our ears to the rail to listen for trains, and, once we were sure none were coming, we’d run across the tracks.

That was fun for part of the first summer we lived there, but hey we were 6 and 9.  We needed growth opportunities.

We flattened pennies until we had enough to lay track from New York to New Haven made entirely of smushed Lincoln faces.  For a while we would wait for a train to come and then hop across the tracks, trying not to trip and die.  Fortunately we both succeeded and outgrew our interest in that particular challenge.  We tried to flip the track switch so that the train would jump the track and go down our driveway instead of on towards New Haven.  But for some reason, someone had locked the switch, and no matter what we did, we could not get the train to go down our driveway.  It was probably just as well.

One day, I got home from a friend’s house to find that my favorite stuffed animal, an orange poodle won for me by my dad, was missing.  Naturally, I accused my brother of hiding it.

“I didn’t hide it, Lease,” he said.  “I played with it.  It was just sitting on your bed,” he said in that brotherly tone that indicates I was stupid for questioning him.

He walked into my room, grabbed another stuffed toy, my stuffed Pebbles doll with the plastic head, and said. “Come on.  This is really neat.”

Out we went, down to the tracks.  We waited and waited, putting an occasional ear to the rail.  Finally, Fred placed Pebbles on the tracks.  Like Pauline, Pebbles looked skyward.  Like Pauline, as the train approached, her feet wiggled.  Unlike Pauline, however, there was no rescue.

The train whizzed by sending the most delightful plume of stuffing up and out, way over the top of the train.  It was a hit.  We rushed back for additional victims.  All my stuffed toys and each and every doll met a sorry end.

We would have let Pauline go, though. Really.

As it turned out, today at the party, my boss had picked my name, and the doll was from her.  “Would you have played with a doll like her?” she asked, no doubt envisioning me dressing her up and playing with her like other girls.

“Absolutely,” I said, weighing the doll and imagining just how high up this particular doll’s stuffing would go.

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Other stories where the birthday boy features prominently:

Generally Speaking 

Psst! Need a Christmas Tree?


Filed under Humor