In Search Of: Answering Your Keyword Search Questions

Every now and then, I enjoy looking through the list of Google search terms that brought people to Cabbages.

It appeals to my sense of curiosity... My deep inner marketer... And, well, because I'm a big ol' loser with nothin' better to do.

But I'm also a big ol' helper. And I'd like to help my readers find the information they seek on this amazing thing we call the Web. I'm a giver that way. (snicker)

So today, I give you answers to some of Cabbages' most intriguing Google referrers.


"Gooten gleepen gloppen" ?
Yes, Sir or Madam, the bathroom in Ikea IS, in fact, located on the first floor level near the cinnamon bun store. I do hope you make it in time.

Well, okay, I'm kidding you. This person was actually looking for the faux German from the beginning of Def Leppard's "Hysteria." This also comes to me in variations of "Gooben gleepen gloppen globen," "Gruben greeben gloppen globen" and "Horace." Though those last folks clearly aren't really even trying when they listen to the song.


"What is a scround?"
I know in one of my posts, I had many a Cabbages reader befuddled by my mysterious use of the word "scround." And I apologize for that. So, to clear that up, a scround is the not-quite-round-not-quite-square packaging that ice cream now tends to come in.

And while it seems new to our lexicon, it's a little-known fact that the word "scround" has actually been around for decades. It made its debut as a part of 60s music culture, when it was first heard in the Beach Boys song, "I Get a Scround," a tune dedicated to Brian Wilson's deep love of ice cream as a cure for the munchies.


"What does ouija stand for?"
Why, truth, justice, and the Parker Brothers way, of course!

In my post about the time a friend and I tried to channel the Great Beyond, we didn't actually go into stuff like Ouija etymology. But the word is apparently a Parker Brothers trademark.

According to Wikipedia, one theory is the word was derived from the French word "oui," meaning "yes"... And the German word "ja" meaning... er... also "yes."

Because when you drag a spirit from the Other Side or, y'know, you're just sitting around talking to yourself... you want it to be polite and agreeable.

"Ouija, will I get that payraise?"

"Oh, oui... ja!"

The Ouija board's spirit guide may be Marlene Dietrich. But I can't be certain about that.


"Paintings of william shatner" ?
Er, are you looking for paintings featuring Mr. Shatner-- to flesh out your vast William Shatner Tribute Gallery (AKA, your mom's basement)? Or are you looking for paintings done by Mr. Shatner, in which case I'd kinda be keen to see those myself?

I can just imagine his work now.... A canvas done entirely in pink paint entitled, "Tribble."

I'm afraid, dear search engine visitor, I cannot give you Shatner Art here at Of Cabbages and Kings, but I can tell you about the time William Shatner almost wrecked my car. I hope that, at least, makes it worth your click.


"Why we r using form no 29 in post office" ?
Because Forms 1-28 are in the back room with that person who is terrified to come out to wait on the line that is now wrapping around the building three times and makes queues in Disney World look short and manageable?

Well, that's been my recent post office experience, anyway.

Truthfully, I don't really know y u r uzng the 4rm u r. May-b u shd ask ur boss?


"Mayometer" ?
This is the carefully-calibrated, microscopic, sensory-perceptive device, located in the tastebuds, that allows those of us with acute mayophobia to know that mayonnaise has been surreptitiously added to our foodstuffs. You either have a mayometer, or you do not.

If you've come to this site, a person suffering from mayonnaise fear and the occasional familial mayo-betrayal, I consider you my newest bestest friend and you may very well enjoy this post. If you are a mother looking to slip mayo into your family's foods-- shame on you! Shame, shame.


"Tentacle egg impregnation story" ?
Okay, I don't really have any answers for this, but maybe you-- my readers-- do. What's a "tentacle egg"? Or are the eggs impregnated in the tentacle? So many questions. No answers. I just hope this wasn't a personal health question. Because I don't think WebMD will have what they're looking for, either.


"Why there are lots of safety pins in 1980's?"
Excellent question! This is because we all felt the need to buy very expensive jeans, with designer names on them, and then slash the heck out of them with razor blades.

Then, our parents would ground us because they had paid for said very expensive designer jeans, and they wouldn't let us out of our rooms until we thought about what we'd done, and fixed them.

Of course, most of us also failed home ec.

So the safety pins were a quick fix allowing us to at least get to see the light of day sometime during our high school careers.


"Anonymous of the word captain" ?
I just have no idea on this one. "Anonymous of the Word" would be a good band name. But it doesn't seem to be. If we're looking for the anonymous posts of some dude named the "Word Captain," then, um, we're probably not going to find them due to his... er... anonymity.


So, folks-- ideas? More questions? A rousing chorus of "I Get a Scround"? Let me know.

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Yield to the Power of the Scround

I'd just published the latest post to my thrifting blog and-- beeewwwwwp!--- my computer shut down, the overhead lights winked out, and I heard my housemate in her room say, "Awwww!"

This was at 2:30 yesterday afternoon.

A summer storm had come and went, and took the power with it. I blinked at the blank computer screen a moment, willing it back to life.

Electricity doesn't work on will, in case you were wondering. If it did, Uri Gellar would stop pretending to bend spoons with his mind and would move on to generating something actually useful.

I spent five minutes wandering around my house like a lost soul as it poured down outside, thinking apparently that by pacing from room-to-room, the lights might come back on again.

They didn't.

So-- what to do? Well, I thought, I could finally clean out that one cabinet and-- er, no. I'd need to, oh, see to do that.

I could change the linens-- but no, ditto the darkness issue.

Have a cup of tea and kick back? Well, the stove is electric and so is the microwave. Kibosh the tea.

I settled down in the living room, by the bay window, with a book. The housemate seemed to have a similar idea. And after two hours or so, I began to worry.

And not about whether I'd be able to get up in the morning on time without my electric alarm clock...

Not about the fact my car was trapped in my garage because the garage door was on electric power...

Not about how I would get ready with no blow-drier, no curling iron...

Not about the fact there was a nice steak thawing in the fridge for dinner that might go to waste...

And amazingly, not how I would even know who I was without coffee in the morning.

No, I started to worry-- strangely-- about the scround of peach Breyers ice cream in the freezer. The beautiful, sweet, creamy, as-yet-untouched-by-a-scoop half-gallon of frozen fruity goodness. Fatty, fabulous Breyers ice cream which I hadn't had in years and had planned to treat myself with. And if the power didn't come back in time, well, that scround would be a goner.

Cut off in its prime.

More time passed. The black skies yielded to sun, and still, no hum of the refrigerator. No woosh of the central air. The book was entertaining, and there was at least lunch meat for sandwiches for dinner but...

The scround. What about the scround?

The sun began its decent behind the bigger houses on the street above. My book grew closer and closer to the tip of my nose, and at 8:45 it became fairly obvious that my evening's entertainment was rapidly coming to an end. I brushed my teeth in the dark, still wide awake, still thinking whether I could get away with not washing my hair for one day, and where I could pick up some java, and how I would find matching clothes and...

That poor lost scround.

I lay there in the dark, thinking what I might post today if there was time. And about emails that went unanswered, and visitors ignored and again, what about that coffee and...

Beeeeeewwwp! A huff of air, the beep of an answering machine, the click of the clock.

"Yaaaayy!" cheered the housemate from her room.

Thank goodness, I thought. The ice cream probably made it.

A scround is a terrible thing to waste.

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