Moar Exciting Adventures! (Or Not)
This morning, I received a Grade-A piece of spam in my inbox from a Mrs Cindy Howard, informing me that I had won a million pounds sterling from the British Tobacco Commission. This in and of itself was hilarious, but even more so was the fact that the reply-to e-mail address was a Chinese domain name. Methinks the Lads from Lagos are at it again. They cross international borders like a criminal with a diplomatic passport!
The lolmom informed me that she heard she should have a current picture for her LinkedIn profile (yes, she has discovered social networking, in a sense--soon, the Int0rbuttz will be covered in lol), and asked if I would take one (after we explored the ethics of just using a fifteen-year-old one that is still a fairly accurate representation of what she looks like, and moreover was taken in England whilst she was standing in front of Buckingham Palace). I agreed, but think she should dress up and try not to act goofy, since the reason she's even doing LinkedIn is to try and get a job.
Also, Mom and her siblings are helping my grandmother clean and pack so that she can get moved into the assisted-living facility in Georgia and sell the house in Florida, and the million-dollar question is this: Who gets custody of Sir Walter Raleigh?
Actually, "Sir Walter Raleigh" is a misnomer, since as far as anybody knows the painting isn't actually of him, but he's always been called that in Mom's family. It's a painting of a gentleman in Elizabethan/Jacobite dress which my grandparents have had time out of mind. Sir Walter became my uncle Pete's particular archnemesis; he's one of those paintings with eyes that seem to follow you. Pete, who as a child was usually up to no good, took exception to this and took to shuffling up and down the stairs facing Sir Walter, just in case the latter tried to pull a fast one.
I am all for boxing Sir Walter up and driving him up to Pete in Chicago. That's likely a no-go, alas, but Mom asked if I wanted anything from my grandmother's house. I've already got the Caesar plaques, so I've got everything I really cared about getting, but if nobody else snaps up Sir Walter, I think we can give him a good home here. Somebody's got to keep the cat in line, after all, and I can't be around all the time.
The lolmom informed me that she heard she should have a current picture for her LinkedIn profile (yes, she has discovered social networking, in a sense--soon, the Int0rbuttz will be covered in lol), and asked if I would take one (after we explored the ethics of just using a fifteen-year-old one that is still a fairly accurate representation of what she looks like, and moreover was taken in England whilst she was standing in front of Buckingham Palace). I agreed, but think she should dress up and try not to act goofy, since the reason she's even doing LinkedIn is to try and get a job.
Also, Mom and her siblings are helping my grandmother clean and pack so that she can get moved into the assisted-living facility in Georgia and sell the house in Florida, and the million-dollar question is this: Who gets custody of Sir Walter Raleigh?
Actually, "Sir Walter Raleigh" is a misnomer, since as far as anybody knows the painting isn't actually of him, but he's always been called that in Mom's family. It's a painting of a gentleman in Elizabethan/Jacobite dress which my grandparents have had time out of mind. Sir Walter became my uncle Pete's particular archnemesis; he's one of those paintings with eyes that seem to follow you. Pete, who as a child was usually up to no good, took exception to this and took to shuffling up and down the stairs facing Sir Walter, just in case the latter tried to pull a fast one.
I am all for boxing Sir Walter up and driving him up to Pete in Chicago. That's likely a no-go, alas, but Mom asked if I wanted anything from my grandmother's house. I've already got the Caesar plaques, so I've got everything I really cared about getting, but if nobody else snaps up Sir Walter, I think we can give him a good home here. Somebody's got to keep the cat in line, after all, and I can't be around all the time.