My guest hunk dishes on kissing styles...slurp

Photos by Kymm on etsy.com

[Mystery guest blogger 'X' debuts on Scrollwork today with a weighty dialectic on an intriguing aspect of human behavior.]


Kissing is a beautiful thing. It is a connection of two individuals in an intimate way. It indicates trust, affection, and passion at the same time. It can be as casual as a passing greeting, or it can be a precursor to so much more.


I’ve dedicated my own time to extensive research and concluded there are three types of kisses: Peaches, Prunes, and Alfalfa.

Peaches are casual kisses. Think of what your mouth does during the first syllable of the word. I know you’re doing it right now and I hope you checked to make sure that no one is watching. Peaches are the type of kisses given to a long-term friend, a family member, or by one Latin person to another. Within many families, this quick, tight-lipped, low-sounding peck has just a little bit more to it than a quick hug. 

CottonTimes on etsy.com

Sometimes the lips don’t actually touch the cheek, but instead float just above the face. It’s important that this kiss have a slight kissing sound so the recipient knows that there was the intention of affection. These kisses are often done with the eyes open so as to not indicate too much intimacy. Most commonly these are given to friends (with no benefits) and family.

You didn't really expect a prune pic, did you?

Prunes are slightly more sensual and intimate. For those of you keeping track, they are called prunes because of the way your mouth puckers when you say the word (go ahead and try it, I’ll wait). Now these types of kisses are reserved for times when you want to linger a bit on the cheek or lips of the recipient. They might be categorized as a little juicier than the peaches, and it always works better when the other person reciprocates with a prune of their own. Prunes are very enjoyable and often occur as a precursor to more intimate kissing.
Prunes are great to give when you are testing the water and trying to determine if there is more on the way. Prunes are often accompanied by an embrace before and after the kiss. Warmth is the key. The kiss should be natural and not forced, which will avoid giving a creepy feeling if you move in for a prune too soon. These kisses are most often given to people with whom you want to share a brief intimate moment and to those with whom you might share an attraction. Creepy example — Richard Dawson on the ‘70s Family Feud, and also the weird older uncle who is just a little too affectionate.

My personal favorite kiss is Alfalfa. By now I’m sure you’ve figured out the pattern. Alfalfa (named after how your tongue moves when you say it) is more commonly referred to as French kissing (Merci, my French friends). Alfalfa is the type of kissing reserved for only those times when you feel such passion that you can’t help but open your mouth and touch tongues. Okay, I know that said this way, it loses a little of the romance, but alfalfa isn’t really all that romantic. Think of that movie scene where two characters are intimately sharing prunes. The moment you see the tongue of either character, I’m reminded of the iguana that is slowly preparing to strike the praying mantis, which is eight inches away. Not cute, people. Especially in the movie when they slowly part and there’s a thread of saliva connected from lip to lip. 

Alfalfa is not for public viewing (Do you hear me, movie daters? Save it for the car ride home). Passion must be controlled with any of the kissing types. And each person might do well to test the waters a bit; otherwise strange things can happen. If you go in too fast, you risk clicking teeth. If you decide you want to add a little nibble and pull, you might want to check with the other person to see if they are open to having their lips tested for elasticity. Too much tongue is up to you two (re: the "happy puppy"), and too little tongue is just not fun (in my opinion).

I look forward to my next Peaches, Prunes, and especially Alfalfas. So if it happens to be one of you, dear readers, please, spit out your gum, regulate your suction, and get ready for me (we saxophone players are supposed to be great kissers).

Emily Peacock Tapestry on etsy.com

"It's Over, Barbara" by The Frantic Meerkat on etsy.com

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My name is X and I have a problem. I think of weird stuff. It comes to me at all hours. I think of the weirdest things at the most random times. Scrollwork told me that my musings on the absurd would be interesting fodder for a blog. I never thought about sharing the weirdness that is ME with the world, but I decided that would be a great way to let others know the real me. Think about it: Your close friends are better understood when you find out what makes them unique and different. I hope you learned a thing or two about me (anonymous as I am).

Do chickens deserve diapers? and other deep thoughts

I've had feathered friends on the brain lately. Last week, the raven; this week, the chicken. (Perhaps a peacock post next week to round out the series?)

Three things have occurred to me about chickens, specifically:

1. Their bum rap, or how I had pegged them wrong all these years;
2. Chicken nuggets—of wisdom and serene philanthropy, that is;
3. Chicken couture, encompassing accessories and—praise be rapscallion ingenuity!—chicken diapers. A bum wrap of a different sort.

I am gratified you know me well enough to know I have not been thinking of chickens as an app most common to humankind: drumsticks. I've said it before, I'll say it again. I do not blog about food.

Back when my dwelling was in a 7,000-island republic in the Far East, animal rights was an alien concept. If humans lived in cardboard boxes along the freeway and galvanized tin ramshackle huts by a stagnant river, how could anyone expect animal shelters? Dogs were underfed gadabouts, expertly dodging traffic. Cockfights were an afternoon pastime. (I speak in the past tense, although these conditions still exist.)

My childhood impression of chickens, consequently, is heavily shaded by scenes of violence and survival strategy. My childhood friend John B sent me this picture of a rooster bred to fight to the death. (It was not Born to be Alive.) It illustrates a series of verses—let's not insult poets by calling it poetry—scribbled on a vexing afternoon when I was 16.

Chicken's Lament 

by Scrollwork

Something set me off, careening
And I didn't know when to stop
Screeching, scratching and insisting
My opinion was on top.
Oh! good grief, Mother Hen
It's my neck upon the block
For I've done it once again—
dared defy the dreaded flock.
I'll be cubed into a bouillon
Chopped and locked into a freezer
Challenging the crowd's opinion
Only made me lose my temper.

Poultry squabbles make me weary
Wish I had my eggshell back

Now my feeling's kinda eerie
Am I sure I'm not a duck?

(John B also sent this picture.)

I lived a somewhat tormented life between 16 and 46. Being opinionated and outspoken earns big honking demerits when you're a) young  b) the youngest, and c) a woman in male-dominated domestic and corporate cockpits.

Savage Chickens by Doug Savage

At 47 I crossed the road (with a swift kick to my booty), began building my own roost, and finally made peace with my quirkiness. I went from "Am I sure I'm not a duck?" to "I am my own chicken. Peck on that."

Not surprisingly, my view of chickens is now comfy-cozy-warm-and-fuzzy. I apologize to the chicken collective for my earlier wrongheaded stereotyping (which all stereotyping is). Mine is now a mindset that leans toward goodwill toward global cohabitants.

In perfect serendipity, artist Kristin Love's Namaste Yoga Birdie Dish positioned itself in my line of sight.

"This "Namaste" dish is one of the pieces I have established for Charity Donations in conjunction with The Etsy Mud Team. We are working together to raise support and donations for our fellow potters in Japan, specifically in the historic pottery village of Mashiko, which was hard hit by the recent earthquake..."

In addition to my expanded vision, I have developed a capacity for appreciating details beneath the surface made apparent only from the scratch and peck that chickens engage in. And sometimes I find solutions right under my nose.

I'd been frustrated in my search for the right-sized S-hooks to rig a thread spool holder from an expandable garden trellis. I'd bought and returned S-hooks that were too thick for spools to perch on. A few minutes ago, I clicked on a post titled Chicken Socks on Scratch and Peck, illustrator Lauren Scheuer's blog. The title caught my eye because I was researching chicken couture, the third bullet for this post.

Lauren wrote about fashioning S-hooks from the tops of wire hangers to hang up treats for her girls. How many times had I stood in my laundry room and looked right through those wire hangers? My spools are gonna love their new roost.

BTW, I love how in chicken sub-culture they call them "the girls." They also have creative individual names. Blogger Josh Elliot of The Occasional Chicken calls his girls Noodle Soup, Salad Sandwich, and Pot Pie. What would you call yours if you had one?

One can never take oneself too seriously around chickens. A misstep? The key is to recover gracefully. An excellent example of mishap makeover is this  Sunny Side (or Which Came First) brooch from etsy seller An Embellished Life. She made it from a damaged vintage egg cover. I am charmed beyond measure. People from the Vintage Ages liked to have covers for everything, and they were quaint as well as elegant. A far cry from the broomstick handle and toilet paper roll covers of my childhood.

On the subject of mishaps, I must quit pussyfooting around the chicken diaper issue. It is of course only an issue if you keep indoor chickens.

The best exposition on the concept is the following excerpt from "We Aint' Chicken with our Chicken Any More" on The Chicken Whisperer:

A nappie that a chicken wears when outside of its coop.
A proper little catch-all to collect the chicken's poop
We got this rooster that we've raised from an egg.
It's hard fer us to shut him out when that rooster starts to beg.

He likes to be inside with us, but we've found it' ain't no joke
We ain't got him trained yet.  He ain't reliably housebroke.
So we bought this chicken diaper with instructions how to use
The little garment on our bird to cover its caboose. 

— Dr. Kenneth Gardner, Cowboy Poet

I really just wanted an excuse to post my verses, Chicken's Lament. But look what lovely finds emerged! From the sublime to the absurd, as they say. In bloggy world, they also say that content curation is the new black. How I resisted! My blog looks good in black.

Now I'm hoping my favorite author, Samantha Sotto, pops in and posts in the comment section that soon-to-be-famous chicken-related quote from the hero in her upcoming novel, Before Ever After.

Happy clucks to you.

What the crow missed by dying today

Coming back from his regular pre-dawn walk the day after Easter, the hubby spied a sidewalk spectacle: a moribund crow with an equally dead crayfish still firmly clamped in its beak. Hubby tried to get me to go with him to photograph the sorry sight, but I convinced him he could do the job just as well. He came back with several shots, all good.


If you're like most people, your body goes through a predictable pattern when confronted with the unexpected sight of a dead body: recoil, look away, catch your breath, sneak another look. Then stare. The train wreck effect.


Then you try to make sense of what your senses are feeding you. Here's this being that once was and now isn't. In this case, there were two of them. 


Questions, questions. A duel to the death. Who died first, the crayfish or the crow? (Which came first, the chicken or the egg?)




How can I tell if this is a raven or a crow? Part of me hoped it was a raven so I could quote Edgar Allan Poe: "Quoth the raven: 'Nevermore.' " I had to look it up. Apparently, the bill on a crow curves downward. This must be a raven. It oozes dignity in death. And a little creepiness for good measure. 


How long could this bird have lived if it had lived its natural span? My online source records a raven that lived 40 years, although 10-15 years is more common.


This raven's eyes, shuttered now, had seen a few things in its time. For the rest of the day I took more than a passing interest in the sights still available to my eyes.


This blood-red bougainvillea clambers up a trellis outside the local Target store. Had the raven seen it, or was it always preoccupied with pursuing prey and evading predators?


I have a particular fondness for bougainvillea because my father grew them in an array of colors when we lived on an air force base in the Philippines. They're so sensitive to frost, which is why I haven't attempted to replicate Dad's garden. How does Target's landscaper manage to keep this healthy specimen alive?

In the wildflower patch that reseeded itself behind my house, the California poppies, calendula and other blooms are a riot of color. The wind was blowing full blast when I took the photos, so these were among the few without blur.

When the Mexican primroses are spent, I'll have to weedwhack the entire thatch to the ground. It seems a savage way to repay their valiant effort, but they must make way for new growth. I'm not sure this philosophy applies to the raven, though. Did the rest of the ravens benefit from his exit? (And oh! did you know the poetic term for a flock of ravens is a "murder of ravens"? Random fact.)

The johnny jump-ups had a near-death experience they lived to tell about. It seems the hubby went up on the roof to dismantle the anachronistic TV antenna. Rather than lower the entire assemblage to the ground, he flung it off the roof. It landed with a satisfying (to him) crash, barely missing their little purple and yellow heads. Here, they've settled down from asking each other "What just happened?"


I had no idea TV antennas could be so salvageable. Those aluminum rods are pliable enough to refashion into a trellis for this season's morning glories. Heaven-sent supplies! Or at least hubby-sent. I've soaked the seeds to prepare them for planting.

On our sunset stroll, the hubby and I came across the spot where the raven lay in state. It seems his passing did not go unmarked.

We ended the day as we began it: marking life, death, and everything necessary in between.