I'm going to Home Depot after work. Home Depot is actually a very confusing place for a woman to venture into. Now I'm not saying anything about women not understanding pipe fittings or monkey wrenches. Au contraire. But being the last, great bastion of "Boys Only" clubs, Home Depot is a bit of an enigma in our attempt to be a unigendered and equilateral society.
Walk into any Home Depot and you can count the number of females on one finger. Count the number of females that don't secretly wish they were male, and you would have all ten fingers free to grasp onto the safety of your purse in this unfamiliar terrain.
I need a fixture that goes on my washing machine hose. I am fairly sure the item is within the walls of Home Depot. But where? With the plumbing? With the appliances? If it's with the plumbing, is it near the utilities' plumbing items or way down by the faucet items? What if it's in the faucet items area but can be used for both washing machines and work room sinks and thus really is the item I'm looking for?
What to do, what to do. It's not like I can ask someone. Oh no. Asking a store employee is admiting feminist defeat. I am female and consequently cannot find a simple plumbing fixture. I've done what any self-respecting female would do - I've googled the fixture and looked at many pictures of it, hoping I'll recognize it when I see it.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
No witnesses
Maybe it's good that I work on the weekends - two less days in the week that people are around to see me do something stupid.
I come into work this morning and unbundle, draping my parka across the back of my chair and boot up my computer. I take off my gloves, lay them beside my scanner, take my cell phone out of my pocket and set it on my desk, and set my purse on my coworker's empty desk.
I sat down to get to work. I typed in my password, and the large wallpaper picture of Susie Q, my parent's doxie, stared back at me. I moved my mouse to the program I need to open.
Nothing.
I move the mouse again. Still nothing.
What the. Just what I need. No IT people here to help, and work backing up on me already...
I tried one more time, my hand moving the mouse in broad, frustrated swipes. The mouse knocked into a stack of books next to my computer.
The obstruction made me realize that the mouse didn't feel right in my hand. I looked down.
In my hand was not my mouse, but rather my cell phone.
I come into work this morning and unbundle, draping my parka across the back of my chair and boot up my computer. I take off my gloves, lay them beside my scanner, take my cell phone out of my pocket and set it on my desk, and set my purse on my coworker's empty desk.
I sat down to get to work. I typed in my password, and the large wallpaper picture of Susie Q, my parent's doxie, stared back at me. I moved my mouse to the program I need to open.
Nothing.
I move the mouse again. Still nothing.
What the. Just what I need. No IT people here to help, and work backing up on me already...
I tried one more time, my hand moving the mouse in broad, frustrated swipes. The mouse knocked into a stack of books next to my computer.
The obstruction made me realize that the mouse didn't feel right in my hand. I looked down.
In my hand was not my mouse, but rather my cell phone.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
You just never know with some people.
I get kind of bored at my desk sometimes. I know, gasp! But there it is.
So, to help the time pass as I'm clacking away on my keyboard, I ask questions of my coworkers.
"What was your favorite halloween costume as a kid?"
"What was your worst memory of high school?"
"If you were in the witness protection program, what would you reinvent about yourself?"
"Have you ever gotten a foreign object stuck up your nose?"
"Actually, I have," answered my coworker, Annette. Annette is way old, like my mom, and she's so skinny her bones would probably break if a bird landed on her. And she's Catholic. Regardless, we're good friends.
"No way, you have to tell me this," I said, spinning in my chair away from my computer screen.
She picked up a new file to process. "When I was little I got the eraser from a pencil stuck up my nose."
The people within earshot burst out laughing. "How long was it in there?" someone asked.
"Several months," Annette said.
"Several months?"
We were incredulous. How could you go through life with an eraser shoved up your schnoz?
"I didn't actually know it was up there. It had come off the pencil, and it wasn't until it started to interfere with my hearing that I was taken to the doctor."
More unbelieving laughter. "Seriously? And then what?"
Annette stopped typing and turned to face us. "It was a quick outpatient surgery and they took it out."
"When you go to the doctor today and they ask about prior surgeries, do you fess up to that one?" I asked.
"Nooooo, it was just a small thing," she answered. What a dumb question. I'm sure her doctor wishes she'd tell him, if not for the free laugh and the "You'll never guess what my patient did" story that he could take to his next raquetball game. "They put me to sleep, I woke up, and there was the bloody little eraser."
"Oh my gosh, they showed it to you?" I said. This story keeps getting better and better.
"Well yeah. I wanted to see it."
Of course. I would want to see something that had been living inside my nose for several months. I started to make fun of her...and abruptly shut my mouth. I recalled coming out of anesthesia after getting my wisdom teeth removed.
"Here you go," the nurse said. She handed me something and bundled me into my dad's car. When I awoke from a nap later, I got out of bed to see what was in the cup sitting on my dresser.
Three bloody wisdom teeth. I dropped the cup in horror.
"Oh my gosh, why did they give me my teeth?" I shrieked to my dad. "That is so gross!"
"You wanted to see them," he said. "You made a big deal after they woke you up that you wanted your teeth back. I think the nurse said you wanted to make earrings out of them."
I guess it takes a weirdo to know a weirdo.
So, to help the time pass as I'm clacking away on my keyboard, I ask questions of my coworkers.
"What was your favorite halloween costume as a kid?"
"What was your worst memory of high school?"
"If you were in the witness protection program, what would you reinvent about yourself?"
"Have you ever gotten a foreign object stuck up your nose?"
"Actually, I have," answered my coworker, Annette. Annette is way old, like my mom, and she's so skinny her bones would probably break if a bird landed on her. And she's Catholic. Regardless, we're good friends.
"No way, you have to tell me this," I said, spinning in my chair away from my computer screen.
She picked up a new file to process. "When I was little I got the eraser from a pencil stuck up my nose."
The people within earshot burst out laughing. "How long was it in there?" someone asked.
"Several months," Annette said.
"Several months?"
We were incredulous. How could you go through life with an eraser shoved up your schnoz?
"I didn't actually know it was up there. It had come off the pencil, and it wasn't until it started to interfere with my hearing that I was taken to the doctor."
More unbelieving laughter. "Seriously? And then what?"
Annette stopped typing and turned to face us. "It was a quick outpatient surgery and they took it out."
"When you go to the doctor today and they ask about prior surgeries, do you fess up to that one?" I asked.
"Nooooo, it was just a small thing," she answered. What a dumb question. I'm sure her doctor wishes she'd tell him, if not for the free laugh and the "You'll never guess what my patient did" story that he could take to his next raquetball game. "They put me to sleep, I woke up, and there was the bloody little eraser."
"Oh my gosh, they showed it to you?" I said. This story keeps getting better and better.
"Well yeah. I wanted to see it."
Of course. I would want to see something that had been living inside my nose for several months. I started to make fun of her...and abruptly shut my mouth. I recalled coming out of anesthesia after getting my wisdom teeth removed.
"Here you go," the nurse said. She handed me something and bundled me into my dad's car. When I awoke from a nap later, I got out of bed to see what was in the cup sitting on my dresser.
Three bloody wisdom teeth. I dropped the cup in horror.
"Oh my gosh, why did they give me my teeth?" I shrieked to my dad. "That is so gross!"
"You wanted to see them," he said. "You made a big deal after they woke you up that you wanted your teeth back. I think the nurse said you wanted to make earrings out of them."
I guess it takes a weirdo to know a weirdo.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The gift that keeps on giving
I made my first payment on $17,000 worth of student loans today. Slipping the envelope into the mailbox gave me a sense of accomplishment. Not only did I make it through school, but I am paying for it all by myself, too. I inhaled the beautiful scent of self-reliance.
I stopped mid-sniff: I will be paying for this self-reliance for the next ten years.
For ten years, until I am thirty-seven, this monthly mailing out of my hard-earned money will become a familiar ritual. I will watch my nest egg dwindle as I tarry away at a job that was below my intellect before I got the masters degree.
Actually, student loans aren't completely unlike herpes. You do something stupid like continue your education, or sleep with a sleazy guy, and you're exactly where you would have been anyway (in a boring job or painfully single), minus the extra few hundred dollars a month. In return, you get saddled with the gift that keeps on giving. Assuming the herpes doesn't manifest as facial canker sores, no one can see your affliction. Just like they can't see your masters degree.
So, next time you think about doing something to better yourself or to increase your station in life, remember this: herpes don't cost $17,000.
I stopped mid-sniff: I will be paying for this self-reliance for the next ten years.
For ten years, until I am thirty-seven, this monthly mailing out of my hard-earned money will become a familiar ritual. I will watch my nest egg dwindle as I tarry away at a job that was below my intellect before I got the masters degree.
Actually, student loans aren't completely unlike herpes. You do something stupid like continue your education, or sleep with a sleazy guy, and you're exactly where you would have been anyway (in a boring job or painfully single), minus the extra few hundred dollars a month. In return, you get saddled with the gift that keeps on giving. Assuming the herpes doesn't manifest as facial canker sores, no one can see your affliction. Just like they can't see your masters degree.
So, next time you think about doing something to better yourself or to increase your station in life, remember this: herpes don't cost $17,000.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Detecting a Dummy...beep beep beep.
I find myself in need of a metal detector. I've always thought the people who scoured beaches wearing a headset, waving the stick with a disc on the end of it back and forth, back and forth, over the sand, were dorks at best. What do you think you'll find? An old bottle cap? Not exactly adequate payment for hours of scavenging work. And what do you hope to find? Some poor woman's lost engagement ring? I find that crass, the same way I find crassness in engagement rings on display in pawnshop windows. Somewhere out there is a woman who has a naked finger in order to feed her family. She hopes to rebuy her ring someday, but noooo, some cheapskate goes and buys it out from under her. A pawnshop engagement ring is not a good foundation on which to build a marriage.
Anyway, back to my need of a metal detector. In a supreme display of self-reliance, I put up my own outdoor Christmas display. My dad offered some advice.
"You know the large metal Snoopys? Don't just shove the stakes into the ground. They'll snap. Poke a hole in the ground first with a screwdriver or something."
At least I think he said screwdriver. I found the screwdriver in the toolbox that I didn't even know I had. (Disclaimer: I really shouldn't be writing about this. My dad is a faithful reader of my blog and when he reads this, he'll wonder yet again how it was I managed to get a masters degree.)
So I take the screwdriver out to the front yard. The screwdriver is a really nice one, with interchangeable screw tip thingies.
I plot where I want my hole, and I poke.
I withdraw the screwdriver, and admire my hole. I insert one of the metal Snoopy legs, and go to poke the next hole. There's nothing but dirt on the end of the screwdriver. I must've pushed the tip up into the handle. I pulled off the base of the screw driver and flipped it around, reattaching it. There's the tip.
I poke a new hole, and insert the other Snoopy leg. I tie rope around the back of the yard display, and attach it to a cinderblock. How cool is that. I officially have a cinderblock in my yard.
I go to poke a hole for the next Snoopy display. Again, no screwdriver tip, only caked dirt. 'Well, shit. I must've pushed both ends up into the base of the screwdriver.' I set it aside and planned to take it in later and rinse out the dirt. I got out my yard digger-awl thing and used that to finish my decorating.
Back inside, I let the warm water run over my hands as I picked the dirt from inside the screwdriver shaft. I held the shaft up to the light.
Water dripped onto my face. I wiped that away.
Why can I see the light through the shaft?
The screwdriver attachments were gone. Where'd they...?
I visualized my yard. The Snoopy stakes, and below them lie two poor, unsuspecting screwdriver tips, shivering and freezing in abandoned cold.
I briefly contemplated searching Craigslist for a metal detector, but that's a site where child predators frequent, so I decided against it.
So, if you know of anyone who has a metal detector collecting dust in their attic, I would like to borrow it for five minutes. Thank you.
Anyway, back to my need of a metal detector. In a supreme display of self-reliance, I put up my own outdoor Christmas display. My dad offered some advice.
"You know the large metal Snoopys? Don't just shove the stakes into the ground. They'll snap. Poke a hole in the ground first with a screwdriver or something."
At least I think he said screwdriver. I found the screwdriver in the toolbox that I didn't even know I had. (Disclaimer: I really shouldn't be writing about this. My dad is a faithful reader of my blog and when he reads this, he'll wonder yet again how it was I managed to get a masters degree.)
So I take the screwdriver out to the front yard. The screwdriver is a really nice one, with interchangeable screw tip thingies.
I plot where I want my hole, and I poke.
I withdraw the screwdriver, and admire my hole. I insert one of the metal Snoopy legs, and go to poke the next hole. There's nothing but dirt on the end of the screwdriver. I must've pushed the tip up into the handle. I pulled off the base of the screw driver and flipped it around, reattaching it. There's the tip.
I poke a new hole, and insert the other Snoopy leg. I tie rope around the back of the yard display, and attach it to a cinderblock. How cool is that. I officially have a cinderblock in my yard.
I go to poke a hole for the next Snoopy display. Again, no screwdriver tip, only caked dirt. 'Well, shit. I must've pushed both ends up into the base of the screwdriver.' I set it aside and planned to take it in later and rinse out the dirt. I got out my yard digger-awl thing and used that to finish my decorating.
Back inside, I let the warm water run over my hands as I picked the dirt from inside the screwdriver shaft. I held the shaft up to the light.
Water dripped onto my face. I wiped that away.
Why can I see the light through the shaft?
The screwdriver attachments were gone. Where'd they...?
I visualized my yard. The Snoopy stakes, and below them lie two poor, unsuspecting screwdriver tips, shivering and freezing in abandoned cold.
I briefly contemplated searching Craigslist for a metal detector, but that's a site where child predators frequent, so I decided against it.
So, if you know of anyone who has a metal detector collecting dust in their attic, I would like to borrow it for five minutes. Thank you.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Unforseen expenditures
I didn't expect to need a new water tank. My house is five years old. I have friends with children older than my house. They haven't needed a new liver yet, so why is the gut of my house in need of a transplant?
Oh well, I'm not too upset about it, as the water tank still has three months on its six-year warranty. I cut it close, but I dodged a bullet. I'll still need to pay installation costs, but that's a pittance compared to a new tank, which is piped into my radiant floor heating system. Cha-ching.
I'm annoyed about having to buy a new Christmas tree. I was blessed with the hand-me-down Family Tree that Mom has had since dinosaurs roamed the Earth. It was rickety and threatened to smoosh anyone who walked too closely, but it did the job.
So why did I buy a new one and add the old one to our nation's landfills? Because of Ellie Bean.
Yes, Miss Bean strikes again. After the tree was up, we plugged it in (having left the lights on it from last year). A string was out. I went on the hunt for a broken clear bulb on a green string against the backdrop of a green tree. Good thing my eyes are relatively young still.
I ran my hand along the length of the string. My fingers came into contact with something sharp. I looked closer. The bulb wasn't broken...but the string was.
The string was completely severed in two, wires protruding with several millimeters of exposed copper.
"What do you think would happen if I plugged it in?" Mom asked my dad.
"You, um, probably don't want to do that."
"Why? What'll happen?"
Dad sighed. "I don't really want to find out, Marji." He turned to me. "Kate, I think it's time for a new tree."
He was right. I needed a tree that could withstand the weight of my cats' gnawing on the wires without falling over. I like my ornaments being intact, not to mention my kitties.
I brought home a beautiful, pre-lit tree from Home Depot. On the receipt was a promo code to enter a drawing worth $5000. I have entered, full of hope that I'll win and be able to replace my kitchen counter tops that look like they're covered in dried vomit. Merry Christmas to me!
The cats have made their home underneath the new tree. But the moment I hear the ring of the oversized jingle bells hanging from the lower branches, the pump-action squirt gun gets busted out and the kitties get a spray of their own medicine. Sure, I get a drop of water or two on the floor, but it's kind of a nice parallel - water on the living room floor, and a flood in the laundry room while I wait for a new tank.
Oh well, I'm not too upset about it, as the water tank still has three months on its six-year warranty. I cut it close, but I dodged a bullet. I'll still need to pay installation costs, but that's a pittance compared to a new tank, which is piped into my radiant floor heating system. Cha-ching.
I'm annoyed about having to buy a new Christmas tree. I was blessed with the hand-me-down Family Tree that Mom has had since dinosaurs roamed the Earth. It was rickety and threatened to smoosh anyone who walked too closely, but it did the job.
So why did I buy a new one and add the old one to our nation's landfills? Because of Ellie Bean.
Yes, Miss Bean strikes again. After the tree was up, we plugged it in (having left the lights on it from last year). A string was out. I went on the hunt for a broken clear bulb on a green string against the backdrop of a green tree. Good thing my eyes are relatively young still.
I ran my hand along the length of the string. My fingers came into contact with something sharp. I looked closer. The bulb wasn't broken...but the string was.
The string was completely severed in two, wires protruding with several millimeters of exposed copper.
"What do you think would happen if I plugged it in?" Mom asked my dad.
"You, um, probably don't want to do that."
"Why? What'll happen?"
Dad sighed. "I don't really want to find out, Marji." He turned to me. "Kate, I think it's time for a new tree."
He was right. I needed a tree that could withstand the weight of my cats' gnawing on the wires without falling over. I like my ornaments being intact, not to mention my kitties.
I brought home a beautiful, pre-lit tree from Home Depot. On the receipt was a promo code to enter a drawing worth $5000. I have entered, full of hope that I'll win and be able to replace my kitchen counter tops that look like they're covered in dried vomit. Merry Christmas to me!
The cats have made their home underneath the new tree. But the moment I hear the ring of the oversized jingle bells hanging from the lower branches, the pump-action squirt gun gets busted out and the kitties get a spray of their own medicine. Sure, I get a drop of water or two on the floor, but it's kind of a nice parallel - water on the living room floor, and a flood in the laundry room while I wait for a new tank.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Geneaology, schmeaneology.
I've never cared much about where I came from. I'm a lot more interested in where I'm going, right? Right?
I seem to be alone in this mindset. My mom's family is very "relation-oriented." On a trip to England with my cousin several years ago, we just had to stop at the Isle of Man for a couple of days to do some geneaological research. Not to mention it was January, on an Isle, and therefore "freezing cold" doesn't do the weather justice. At one point, I ducked into a library to warm up for a moment. While I sat, vigorously rubbing warmth back into my hands, a patron came into the library and was greeted by the man behind the counter.
"Hello there! I haven't seen you in awhile!"
"No, no, been busy and whatnot. Thought I'd pop in for a moment, let me eyeballs thaw a bit."
I couldn't have said it better myself.
All in all, the trip to the Isle of Man was worth a couple of days' sojourn from the mainland. It is an adorable place, seemingly untouched by technology. Did I learn anything of interest about my family? No. But I enjoyed myself.
I was talking on the phone with my paternal uncle the other night. He asked if I was done with school.
"Yep, I've got my master's in hand, all is good. Now comes the fun part of paying off the loans."
Uncle Ronnie launched into a very long story about a cousin of his, who I remind him so much of. "My cousin was really smart, like you, and loved education. In fact, I saw a picture the other day, and said, 'Wow, he looks just like little Katie!'"
He?
"His name was Ernie. He'd be your uncle, I think. Uncle Ernie. Boy, you are just a spittin' image of your great Uncle Ernie."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Well....wonderful!" I said, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. I was sincerely hoping Uncle Ernie was very feminine-looking. It would be somewhat of a salve to my ego.
I relayed this story to Mom. She regarded me.
"You really do, you know. I saw a picture of him once."
I sighed. Oh well, something to add to the Match.com profile - "has close-knit ties to her extended family."
I seem to be alone in this mindset. My mom's family is very "relation-oriented." On a trip to England with my cousin several years ago, we just had to stop at the Isle of Man for a couple of days to do some geneaological research. Not to mention it was January, on an Isle, and therefore "freezing cold" doesn't do the weather justice. At one point, I ducked into a library to warm up for a moment. While I sat, vigorously rubbing warmth back into my hands, a patron came into the library and was greeted by the man behind the counter.
"Hello there! I haven't seen you in awhile!"
"No, no, been busy and whatnot. Thought I'd pop in for a moment, let me eyeballs thaw a bit."
I couldn't have said it better myself.
All in all, the trip to the Isle of Man was worth a couple of days' sojourn from the mainland. It is an adorable place, seemingly untouched by technology. Did I learn anything of interest about my family? No. But I enjoyed myself.
I was talking on the phone with my paternal uncle the other night. He asked if I was done with school.
"Yep, I've got my master's in hand, all is good. Now comes the fun part of paying off the loans."
Uncle Ronnie launched into a very long story about a cousin of his, who I remind him so much of. "My cousin was really smart, like you, and loved education. In fact, I saw a picture the other day, and said, 'Wow, he looks just like little Katie!'"
He?
"His name was Ernie. He'd be your uncle, I think. Uncle Ernie. Boy, you are just a spittin' image of your great Uncle Ernie."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Well....wonderful!" I said, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. I was sincerely hoping Uncle Ernie was very feminine-looking. It would be somewhat of a salve to my ego.
I relayed this story to Mom. She regarded me.
"You really do, you know. I saw a picture of him once."
I sighed. Oh well, something to add to the Match.com profile - "has close-knit ties to her extended family."
Saturday, November 14, 2009
The weight of empty pockets
I have found a new inspiration for losing weight.
Being broke.
Yes, ladies and gentleman. I have reached the point where I really don't look all that hot in my clothes, and I don't have the money to buy bigger clothes. I've got some dang cute clothes in boxes in my shed that I haven't been able to wear in years, and it would be like winning a free shopping spree if I were able to wear them. And, I'm guaranteed to lose a few pounds when I open the boxes after a brown recluse comes scuttling out and bites me and I land in the hospital for a few weeks while I'm being detoxified.
This needing to lose a few is a really great thing to happen to me. I needed a fire lit under my rear, and not having clothes to wear to work is a blazing inferno underneath my flat cheeks, misshapen from hours and hours of being planted in a desk chair.
Plus, working out is a great stress reliever. I realized I needed to do something after I threw a hissy fit at one of my coworkers, delivered in a style of passive-agressive silent slamming papers on counters that I think I really should patent.
This is a GREAT time in my life to jump back on the "my body is a temple" bandwagon. I can hear my mom groaning - Mom, I promise not to turn back into workout Nazi. But the holiday season is here again, and this year, I can't eat jack crap anyway thanks to my wheat allergy. What better time to not want to eat jack crap?
So, I'm posting my starting point here - 162. (For the record, 10lbs of that is metal from my hip replacements. But, it's weight that is on my knees and ankles and feet, so I'm counting it.)
Stay tuned! 140, here I come!
Being broke.
Yes, ladies and gentleman. I have reached the point where I really don't look all that hot in my clothes, and I don't have the money to buy bigger clothes. I've got some dang cute clothes in boxes in my shed that I haven't been able to wear in years, and it would be like winning a free shopping spree if I were able to wear them. And, I'm guaranteed to lose a few pounds when I open the boxes after a brown recluse comes scuttling out and bites me and I land in the hospital for a few weeks while I'm being detoxified.
This needing to lose a few is a really great thing to happen to me. I needed a fire lit under my rear, and not having clothes to wear to work is a blazing inferno underneath my flat cheeks, misshapen from hours and hours of being planted in a desk chair.
Plus, working out is a great stress reliever. I realized I needed to do something after I threw a hissy fit at one of my coworkers, delivered in a style of passive-agressive silent slamming papers on counters that I think I really should patent.
This is a GREAT time in my life to jump back on the "my body is a temple" bandwagon. I can hear my mom groaning - Mom, I promise not to turn back into workout Nazi. But the holiday season is here again, and this year, I can't eat jack crap anyway thanks to my wheat allergy. What better time to not want to eat jack crap?
So, I'm posting my starting point here - 162. (For the record, 10lbs of that is metal from my hip replacements. But, it's weight that is on my knees and ankles and feet, so I'm counting it.)
Stay tuned! 140, here I come!
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Halloween Horrors
Last night was Hairy S Truman's first Halloween with me. I don't know how he spent Halloween last year - being chased by crazy owners trying to get him to mate with a girl doggie so that they could sell the puppies for hundreds of dollars? Being chased by twenty other orphaned weiners in the backyard of the dachshund rescue?
This year, Trumie spent one hour and fourteen minutes locked in my guest room. The kitties were locked in the craft room. I sat in the living room, bags of candy ready.
Truman barked. And barked. And barked. Continuously. For an hour and fourteen minutes. Between trick-or-treaters, I dashed down the hall to check in on him.
My guest bed had dog poop, dog pee, and dog vomit on it.
Truman cowered underneath the bed, shaking.
"Oh, Stinky man, come here," I said, reaching for the dog. He darted back underneath the bed, as scared as he was the first day I brought him home from the rescue place.
This isn't good. I worked for a year to get him to settle in and trust me. I'm not going to undo it for a night of giving away $50 of candy that my stupid gluten intolerance won't let me even sneak a piece here and there.
I was finally able to pick up the dog and I brought him out to the living room. I put him in his bag (a pink shoulder bag a 'la Paris Hilton) and let him hang out on my shoulder for the next hour.
"What a cute puppy!" the children squealed after I opened the door. I bent to put candy in their sacks. They were more interested in petting the dog. For the love of Pete. You mean to tell me I could have saved $50 on candy and just let kids pet my dog?
Between door bell rings, I cleaned up the poop, stripped the sheets off the bed (and forgot to wash them, I'm remembering as I write this. At least I remembered to toss the poop before answering the door).
At about 8:15, Truman had had enough. He was wiggly and wanted to run around. I still had a fair amount of candy left, but "42nd Street" was starting on PBS and I was getting hungry for dinner.
I turned off my porch lights and let Trumie out of his bag. He squirmed around, licked the freed kitties' rears for them, and ran up his stairs onto the sofa to see what I was having for dinner. I curled up and counted my night's visitors. 80. Not so bad. But what to do about the leftover candy?
I briefly considered unloading it on the office Monday morning, but I hated to see that much money go to expanding my coworker's waistlines.
The Time Machine! I jumped off the sofa and dumped the candy into a plastic sack. I tied it real tight and stuck it into the back corner of my freezer. I'm already three bags of candy up for next year! Come to think of it, I might have found a new investment model - buy Halloween candy for next year at this year's prices, and just stick it in the freezer.
But, as mom says, what if the candy is nasty by next year? Well, then people won't come to my house anymore, thereby obviating the need to by any candy at all.
On second thought, $50 is a small price to pay for seeing cute little kids dressed up in ridiculous costumes. Entertaining for me, character-building for them: Halloween is a win-win situation.
This year, Trumie spent one hour and fourteen minutes locked in my guest room. The kitties were locked in the craft room. I sat in the living room, bags of candy ready.
Truman barked. And barked. And barked. Continuously. For an hour and fourteen minutes. Between trick-or-treaters, I dashed down the hall to check in on him.
My guest bed had dog poop, dog pee, and dog vomit on it.
Truman cowered underneath the bed, shaking.
"Oh, Stinky man, come here," I said, reaching for the dog. He darted back underneath the bed, as scared as he was the first day I brought him home from the rescue place.
This isn't good. I worked for a year to get him to settle in and trust me. I'm not going to undo it for a night of giving away $50 of candy that my stupid gluten intolerance won't let me even sneak a piece here and there.
I was finally able to pick up the dog and I brought him out to the living room. I put him in his bag (a pink shoulder bag a 'la Paris Hilton) and let him hang out on my shoulder for the next hour.
"What a cute puppy!" the children squealed after I opened the door. I bent to put candy in their sacks. They were more interested in petting the dog. For the love of Pete. You mean to tell me I could have saved $50 on candy and just let kids pet my dog?
Between door bell rings, I cleaned up the poop, stripped the sheets off the bed (and forgot to wash them, I'm remembering as I write this. At least I remembered to toss the poop before answering the door).
At about 8:15, Truman had had enough. He was wiggly and wanted to run around. I still had a fair amount of candy left, but "42nd Street" was starting on PBS and I was getting hungry for dinner.
I turned off my porch lights and let Trumie out of his bag. He squirmed around, licked the freed kitties' rears for them, and ran up his stairs onto the sofa to see what I was having for dinner. I curled up and counted my night's visitors. 80. Not so bad. But what to do about the leftover candy?
I briefly considered unloading it on the office Monday morning, but I hated to see that much money go to expanding my coworker's waistlines.
The Time Machine! I jumped off the sofa and dumped the candy into a plastic sack. I tied it real tight and stuck it into the back corner of my freezer. I'm already three bags of candy up for next year! Come to think of it, I might have found a new investment model - buy Halloween candy for next year at this year's prices, and just stick it in the freezer.
But, as mom says, what if the candy is nasty by next year? Well, then people won't come to my house anymore, thereby obviating the need to by any candy at all.
On second thought, $50 is a small price to pay for seeing cute little kids dressed up in ridiculous costumes. Entertaining for me, character-building for them: Halloween is a win-win situation.
My skin, it's too thin.
So now I've gotten two rejections on my spy-thriller novel. One would have thought I'd have racked up a lot more than that by now. Since these rejections were based on the first 3 chapters (or my whole book) they take a lot longer to get the "no" back than if I was pitching to agents who only wanted a query letter. Those agents guarantee you a "no" before you're completely sure if your email actually sent or not.
Nothing stops me in my tracks faster than a "no." This is my mother's fault on two levels:
1) She trained me so well as a child that to me, "no" means "no." I don't ask someone else, I just stop the behavior. And
2) Mom always told me (and still tells me on a daily basis) what a wonderful, perfect person I am, and that everything I do is perfection. Imagine my surprise when grumpy agents deprived of oxygen in their Manhattan skyscraper offices say my stuff is "not for them."
So, I've been conveniently losing myself in craft-show season, telling myself to knit more kitchen towels. They're heinously ugly, those crocheted-top things that women over sixty hang from the doors of their ovens, but they sell well, so, what's one to do. Not like my stack of papers/novel is going anyplace any time soon. Woe is me LOL.
Nothing stops me in my tracks faster than a "no." This is my mother's fault on two levels:
1) She trained me so well as a child that to me, "no" means "no." I don't ask someone else, I just stop the behavior. And
2) Mom always told me (and still tells me on a daily basis) what a wonderful, perfect person I am, and that everything I do is perfection. Imagine my surprise when grumpy agents deprived of oxygen in their Manhattan skyscraper offices say my stuff is "not for them."
So, I've been conveniently losing myself in craft-show season, telling myself to knit more kitchen towels. They're heinously ugly, those crocheted-top things that women over sixty hang from the doors of their ovens, but they sell well, so, what's one to do. Not like my stack of papers/novel is going anyplace any time soon. Woe is me LOL.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
It's official.
I am giving up on men. No, I'm not becoming a lesbian. Although sometimes I think that would make life easier. But you can't make a quiche out of a bowl of cereal, and my middle name is Froot Loop. (Well, it was, before I went Gluten Free. Now it's Chex. But Froot Loop sounds better, so we'll go with that.)
What caused the Great Giveup of 2009? We'll call him Spike. See, Spike and I dated about a year and a half ago for a few months. Things were going great! And then I got the best dump line I've ever gotten: "Now that my confidence is up, I'd like to see what else is out there."
Fast forward a year. He and I are getting along again. He calls me a couple of times, and asks if I want to go see a movie. Great! I repeat the mantra to myself - "this is only friends hanging out...this is only friends hanging out..."
Midway through the movie, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. It's his hand, creeping closer to mine, the way we did in seventh grade. You know, the ol' brush up against the other person's pinky and "Oh well, we're here, might as well hold hands."
It was weird. It was holding-hands-with-my-brother weird.
Maybe there's still something there, I told myself. I did pine after this guy for awhile. So when he invited me over for dinner one evening, I accepted.
Again, the hand thing. I asked him to pause the movie and said, "Hey, what's going on here? Are we...?" He said, "You know, sometimes in life it's good to have a mulligan."
Well that's true. I can understand wanting a second chance with me. I am that awesome.
But as we're sitting there, holding hands, something wasn't right.
A few days later, he called me. I opened my cell, before realizing who called. "Oh crap," I muttered, reflexively flipping the phone shut. I spent the evening torn between hoping he hadn't heard my "oh crap", and deciding whether or not to return his call.
I finally did what any confrontation-adverse person would do - I sent him an email.
"I don't get the feeling that you actually want to be with me," I wrote. "It seems like you're bored, and I happen to be around. It's like you'd just be biding your time until something better came along."
I got back a response, which I wasn't really expecting. I wasn't expecting the exact wording, either:
"Wow, you're pretty good!"
But, this experience has been good for me. I learned my instincts on men can be trusted. I was spot on with my feelings. And, now I don't have to hang out with him or return his calls if I don't want to. Can you imagine the guilt I'd feel if he called in the middle of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown"? I mean, call him back, snoopy, call him, watch snoopy.
Eh, that's a no-brainer. Everyone knows that THIS year the Great Pumpkin will rise out of the pumpkin patch.
What caused the Great Giveup of 2009? We'll call him Spike. See, Spike and I dated about a year and a half ago for a few months. Things were going great! And then I got the best dump line I've ever gotten: "Now that my confidence is up, I'd like to see what else is out there."
Fast forward a year. He and I are getting along again. He calls me a couple of times, and asks if I want to go see a movie. Great! I repeat the mantra to myself - "this is only friends hanging out...this is only friends hanging out..."
Midway through the movie, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. It's his hand, creeping closer to mine, the way we did in seventh grade. You know, the ol' brush up against the other person's pinky and "Oh well, we're here, might as well hold hands."
It was weird. It was holding-hands-with-my-brother weird.
Maybe there's still something there, I told myself. I did pine after this guy for awhile. So when he invited me over for dinner one evening, I accepted.
Again, the hand thing. I asked him to pause the movie and said, "Hey, what's going on here? Are we...?" He said, "You know, sometimes in life it's good to have a mulligan."
Well that's true. I can understand wanting a second chance with me. I am that awesome.
But as we're sitting there, holding hands, something wasn't right.
A few days later, he called me. I opened my cell, before realizing who called. "Oh crap," I muttered, reflexively flipping the phone shut. I spent the evening torn between hoping he hadn't heard my "oh crap", and deciding whether or not to return his call.
I finally did what any confrontation-adverse person would do - I sent him an email.
"I don't get the feeling that you actually want to be with me," I wrote. "It seems like you're bored, and I happen to be around. It's like you'd just be biding your time until something better came along."
I got back a response, which I wasn't really expecting. I wasn't expecting the exact wording, either:
"Wow, you're pretty good!"
But, this experience has been good for me. I learned my instincts on men can be trusted. I was spot on with my feelings. And, now I don't have to hang out with him or return his calls if I don't want to. Can you imagine the guilt I'd feel if he called in the middle of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown"? I mean, call him back, snoopy, call him, watch snoopy.
Eh, that's a no-brainer. Everyone knows that THIS year the Great Pumpkin will rise out of the pumpkin patch.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Evolution of Entitlement
I got a major rejection this week. (No, not by a guy. Rejection from the male species has long since been relegated to the "I got a hangnail" category of disappointment.) My manuscript for my spy-thriller novel got rejected by what is arguably the biggest literary agency in America.
Damn! Double-damn. I'm bummed. I worked crazy hard on that book, and both of my parents loved it! Yeah, whatever, you say. Your parents? Not exactly unbiased sources. You would be correct in regards to my mom. She actually wore the macaroni necklaces I made her in grade school.
My father, on the other hand, calls a spade a spade. When I played the trumpet in high school, he was not my biggest fan. He knew I didn't have the chops for playing the trumpet long before I had come to terms with that, and the fact that I took my playing so ridiculously seriously added to his skeptical listening of my performances. With my writing, on the other hand, he's right there with Mom, believing in me, and supporting me by being proof-reader and holey-ideas man.
My point is this: my dad is a smart guy. If he thinks something is worthwhile, he's usually right. Besides salmon. There's really no good reason to eat fish. Two days after eating fish, you can still smell it in the shower, emanating from your pores. I think sucking on cloves of garlic produces less stink.
So I'm bummed. I'm working crazy hard on the plotting for the next book and finishing up the rewrite of my memoir. Through this, I wanted to watch TV.
Wednesday nights give me grief. Do I watch "Glee" and DVR "Criminal Minds"? Do I DVR "Glee" and watch "Criminal Minds" later with my parents? If I had a DVR that worked like the rest of the world's DVRs, I could watch one and record the other. Unfortunately, after miniature verbal warfare with DirecTV over the breakage of my last DVR (which I LEASE from them...), I consider myself lucky to have a DVR at all.
I settled on DVR-ing "Criminal Minds" and watching "Glee" in my craft room. No big deal, except my craft room is a bastion of activity. Just "sitting" in that room is akin to being adrift in the middle of the Atlantic and not paddling, despite your environment telling you that you should probably get to work. Impossible.
As I cut the materials for a series of pre-made scrapbooks I'm going to sell at mom's craft shows this year, I pouted.
Then I realized how stupid my pouting is. Ten years ago, we didn't have this problem. If we were lucky, we had a VCR which recorded programs while we were out of the house. Being out of the house, we were not taping one and watching the other. We were out of the house. Now, we want to record three shows simultaneously, watch them without commercials, all while never leaving our sofas.
Is this okay? Who are we turning into if we think we can walk into Baskin Robbins and have a sample of all 31 ice creams? We have to decide. Decisions are good. They build character. Believing I'm entitled to everything just because I'm aware of the existance of everything is pretty Kanye-West-ish of me. I need to decide what I want, and then I need to work for it.
What I want is to be a success at what I love. I'm making a choice - I choose to be a success.
I will turn off the TV and work at my writing.
After "Glee" is over.
Damn! Double-damn. I'm bummed. I worked crazy hard on that book, and both of my parents loved it! Yeah, whatever, you say. Your parents? Not exactly unbiased sources. You would be correct in regards to my mom. She actually wore the macaroni necklaces I made her in grade school.
My father, on the other hand, calls a spade a spade. When I played the trumpet in high school, he was not my biggest fan. He knew I didn't have the chops for playing the trumpet long before I had come to terms with that, and the fact that I took my playing so ridiculously seriously added to his skeptical listening of my performances. With my writing, on the other hand, he's right there with Mom, believing in me, and supporting me by being proof-reader and holey-ideas man.
My point is this: my dad is a smart guy. If he thinks something is worthwhile, he's usually right. Besides salmon. There's really no good reason to eat fish. Two days after eating fish, you can still smell it in the shower, emanating from your pores. I think sucking on cloves of garlic produces less stink.
So I'm bummed. I'm working crazy hard on the plotting for the next book and finishing up the rewrite of my memoir. Through this, I wanted to watch TV.
Wednesday nights give me grief. Do I watch "Glee" and DVR "Criminal Minds"? Do I DVR "Glee" and watch "Criminal Minds" later with my parents? If I had a DVR that worked like the rest of the world's DVRs, I could watch one and record the other. Unfortunately, after miniature verbal warfare with DirecTV over the breakage of my last DVR (which I LEASE from them...), I consider myself lucky to have a DVR at all.
I settled on DVR-ing "Criminal Minds" and watching "Glee" in my craft room. No big deal, except my craft room is a bastion of activity. Just "sitting" in that room is akin to being adrift in the middle of the Atlantic and not paddling, despite your environment telling you that you should probably get to work. Impossible.
As I cut the materials for a series of pre-made scrapbooks I'm going to sell at mom's craft shows this year, I pouted.
Then I realized how stupid my pouting is. Ten years ago, we didn't have this problem. If we were lucky, we had a VCR which recorded programs while we were out of the house. Being out of the house, we were not taping one and watching the other. We were out of the house. Now, we want to record three shows simultaneously, watch them without commercials, all while never leaving our sofas.
Is this okay? Who are we turning into if we think we can walk into Baskin Robbins and have a sample of all 31 ice creams? We have to decide. Decisions are good. They build character. Believing I'm entitled to everything just because I'm aware of the existance of everything is pretty Kanye-West-ish of me. I need to decide what I want, and then I need to work for it.
What I want is to be a success at what I love. I'm making a choice - I choose to be a success.
I will turn off the TV and work at my writing.
After "Glee" is over.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wear blue at your own risk.
Mom and I went to Walmart yesterday. Mom had something to return, so she checked the product in with the greeter by the door. I crossed the entryway and got us two carts.
I stood with the carts, wearing my navy blue windbreaker.
A moment later, a woman approached, took one of the carts out of my hand and thanked me.
I watched her walk away with my cart, unsure of what just happened. I looked over to Mom.
She saw the whole thing, and was bent double with laughter.
"What the...?"
"She thought..."she gasped for breath. "She thought you were a greeter."
I was mortified. It's bad enough that I have a masters and am employed in a position where it says plainly in the job description "high school diploma required."
Later, in the soup aisle, I hear a voice behind me.
"Excuse me. Excuse me, miss? Do you work here?"
I turned around and snapped, "No, I don't work here. Other people are allowed to wear navy blue, you know."
He looked at me funny. He pointed to the woman in front of me, wearing the blue polo shirt with the Walmart label on the chest.
Whoops. Oh well. At least no one asked me where the can openers were.
I stood with the carts, wearing my navy blue windbreaker.
A moment later, a woman approached, took one of the carts out of my hand and thanked me.
I watched her walk away with my cart, unsure of what just happened. I looked over to Mom.
She saw the whole thing, and was bent double with laughter.
"What the...?"
"She thought..."she gasped for breath. "She thought you were a greeter."
I was mortified. It's bad enough that I have a masters and am employed in a position where it says plainly in the job description "high school diploma required."
Later, in the soup aisle, I hear a voice behind me.
"Excuse me. Excuse me, miss? Do you work here?"
I turned around and snapped, "No, I don't work here. Other people are allowed to wear navy blue, you know."
He looked at me funny. He pointed to the woman in front of me, wearing the blue polo shirt with the Walmart label on the chest.
Whoops. Oh well. At least no one asked me where the can openers were.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Link and the Bean
My black cat came into the room, a white string hanging from her mouth. She looked proud.
"Ellie Bean, what's in your mouth?"
I tried to recall what I may have left laying around that was white and shreddable.
She rubbed against my legs. I reached down and picked her up around her middle. I flipped her over onto her back and cradled her like a baby. Her four paws kneaded at the air.
I put my hand to her little mouth and removed what was in her mouth.
The string was about six inches long, and quite coarse.
Wait a minute...
"Link, come here baby cat. Let mommie look at your face."
I set down Bean and hefted Link up to eye level. His pupils grew large as he stared at me.
The whiskers on the left side of his mouth fanned out in contentment. On the right side, they were content, except for one which bent to the ground like a broken antennae. Next to it was a little black hole.
Watson, I think we have a match.
"Ellie Bean, what's in your mouth?"
I tried to recall what I may have left laying around that was white and shreddable.
She rubbed against my legs. I reached down and picked her up around her middle. I flipped her over onto her back and cradled her like a baby. Her four paws kneaded at the air.
I put my hand to her little mouth and removed what was in her mouth.
The string was about six inches long, and quite coarse.
Wait a minute...
"Link, come here baby cat. Let mommie look at your face."
I set down Bean and hefted Link up to eye level. His pupils grew large as he stared at me.
The whiskers on the left side of his mouth fanned out in contentment. On the right side, they were content, except for one which bent to the ground like a broken antennae. Next to it was a little black hole.
Watson, I think we have a match.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Finding Foodister - stupid entry title for a stupid mishap
I can't eat gluten. Anything containing gluten makes me violently ill in that unique manner where my neighbors four houses down on either side can hear me. Thus, I've been forced to experiment with new recipes and cooking methods.
Normally I would find this fun. I used to experiment in the kitchen all the time, much to my father's chagrin. He hates anything odiferous - onions, garlic, puppy messes on the carpet, etc. I used to sneak onions into my recipes - "He likes them; he just doesn't know he likes them." And he'd spend the rest of the evening in the restroom paying for my experimenting. (Amazingly enough, he still speaks to me, and admits to being my father. Most of the time.)
Gluten-free experimenting is an expensive proposition. My grocery bill tripled once I had to eliminate gluten from my diet. I don't miss it much; it's hard to miss something that makes one dread each meal time.
But getting into cooler temperatures is going to prove tricky for my gluten-freeness. I subsist on stews, soups, cassaroles, etc. throughtout the cold winter months. I bake a large dish of macaroni and cream of chicken soup and eat it for the next week. Unfortunately, canned soups, cream of soups, and noodles all have gluten in them.
The noodles are easy to overcome - just buy rice or quinoa noodles (although cooking quinoa makes your kitchen smell like a barnyard for a few hours). But what to do about the soup base?
The many different flours available to the gluten-free person could, conceivably be sprinkled into gravies and soups as thickener, just as regular flour is used. However, potato starch, tapioca starch, and rice flour don't work real well. Either does soy flour. While healthy, soy flour has the texture of that powdered handsoap that used to be in the bathroom dispensers at my elementary school. Not that I ate that all that often. I might have, if it wasn't so...gritty.
Sitting at work the other day, I had a thought - beans! Like hummus! Grind up beans, and add a teensy bit of chicken broth, and that would be a great soup base!
I hurried home to bum a can of beans off of my neighbor.
"What kind of beans do you want?" she asked.
"What kind of beans do you have?"
She sighed. "What are you doing with the beans?"
"I'm mashing them up," I said. "I'm making soup."
"Soup."
"Yeah. I'm using it as a thickener. Flour doesn't work so well."
She nodded. "Good luck, my little inept cooker. Here's a can of garbanzos."
I stopped by my parents' to steal their blender. Which reminds me, I need to return it before they realize it's missing.
I opened the can of beans and drained it into the blender pitcher. The beans plinked to the bottom and settled around the blades. Oh, but you have no idea what you're in for, I told the beans.
I put the lid on (yay for me) and flicked the switch. Nothing.
Figures. My parents never use their blender. It's probably been broken for years. I started to pour out the beans so that I could mash them with a fork. Something dragged on the counter. The plug-in of the electrical cord.
Oh.
I replaced the pitcher into the base and plugged it in. I turned it on again, and it whirred to life.
The beans pureed beautifully.
"Excellent," I murmured. "Excellent."
I scooped the bean mush from the pitcher and put it into a saucepan. I added stewed vegetables and a little bit of broth. I stirred, watching the ingredients come together into happy, gastronomic harmony.
I divided the mixture into equal tupperwares and put them in the fridge for lunch.
The next morning, I pulled out the tupperware and loaded it into my lunchbox, along with a spoon. I refuse to eat off of the cutlery in the cafeteria. That's just asking for gonnorhea.
Come lunch time, I settled in with my masterpiece. I popped the lid from the tupperware.
"Hey, what do you have today?" my friend asked, looking over my shoulder. Before I could answer, she said:
"Oh. my. God. Is that vomit? Are you eating vomit?"
Yes. I spent several hours in the kitchen making vomit.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised that healthcare workers look at everything with an eye toward bodily functions. I learned a long time ago to stop drinking apple juice from clear containers with the measurements printed on the side.
Normally I would find this fun. I used to experiment in the kitchen all the time, much to my father's chagrin. He hates anything odiferous - onions, garlic, puppy messes on the carpet, etc. I used to sneak onions into my recipes - "He likes them; he just doesn't know he likes them." And he'd spend the rest of the evening in the restroom paying for my experimenting. (Amazingly enough, he still speaks to me, and admits to being my father. Most of the time.)
Gluten-free experimenting is an expensive proposition. My grocery bill tripled once I had to eliminate gluten from my diet. I don't miss it much; it's hard to miss something that makes one dread each meal time.
But getting into cooler temperatures is going to prove tricky for my gluten-freeness. I subsist on stews, soups, cassaroles, etc. throughtout the cold winter months. I bake a large dish of macaroni and cream of chicken soup and eat it for the next week. Unfortunately, canned soups, cream of soups, and noodles all have gluten in them.
The noodles are easy to overcome - just buy rice or quinoa noodles (although cooking quinoa makes your kitchen smell like a barnyard for a few hours). But what to do about the soup base?
The many different flours available to the gluten-free person could, conceivably be sprinkled into gravies and soups as thickener, just as regular flour is used. However, potato starch, tapioca starch, and rice flour don't work real well. Either does soy flour. While healthy, soy flour has the texture of that powdered handsoap that used to be in the bathroom dispensers at my elementary school. Not that I ate that all that often. I might have, if it wasn't so...gritty.
Sitting at work the other day, I had a thought - beans! Like hummus! Grind up beans, and add a teensy bit of chicken broth, and that would be a great soup base!
I hurried home to bum a can of beans off of my neighbor.
"What kind of beans do you want?" she asked.
"What kind of beans do you have?"
She sighed. "What are you doing with the beans?"
"I'm mashing them up," I said. "I'm making soup."
"Soup."
"Yeah. I'm using it as a thickener. Flour doesn't work so well."
She nodded. "Good luck, my little inept cooker. Here's a can of garbanzos."
I stopped by my parents' to steal their blender. Which reminds me, I need to return it before they realize it's missing.
I opened the can of beans and drained it into the blender pitcher. The beans plinked to the bottom and settled around the blades. Oh, but you have no idea what you're in for, I told the beans.
I put the lid on (yay for me) and flicked the switch. Nothing.
Figures. My parents never use their blender. It's probably been broken for years. I started to pour out the beans so that I could mash them with a fork. Something dragged on the counter. The plug-in of the electrical cord.
Oh.
I replaced the pitcher into the base and plugged it in. I turned it on again, and it whirred to life.
The beans pureed beautifully.
"Excellent," I murmured. "Excellent."
I scooped the bean mush from the pitcher and put it into a saucepan. I added stewed vegetables and a little bit of broth. I stirred, watching the ingredients come together into happy, gastronomic harmony.
I divided the mixture into equal tupperwares and put them in the fridge for lunch.
The next morning, I pulled out the tupperware and loaded it into my lunchbox, along with a spoon. I refuse to eat off of the cutlery in the cafeteria. That's just asking for gonnorhea.
Come lunch time, I settled in with my masterpiece. I popped the lid from the tupperware.
"Hey, what do you have today?" my friend asked, looking over my shoulder. Before I could answer, she said:
"Oh. my. God. Is that vomit? Are you eating vomit?"
Yes. I spent several hours in the kitchen making vomit.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised that healthcare workers look at everything with an eye toward bodily functions. I learned a long time ago to stop drinking apple juice from clear containers with the measurements printed on the side.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Enough is enough, James!
I just finished reading James Patterson's latest novel, "Alex Cross's Trial." One would think this book would have his Detective Alex Cross as the main character, right?
No.
James Patterson has come up with yet another way to circumvent actually writing a book, and instead market 400 pieces of bound paper.
He's been a shameless user of cowriters for many years now. I don't have a problem with that in and of itself, although I do think the mark of a true master is being able to play all positions in baseball. I don't think a designated hitter should be able to call themselves a ball player, just like how an idea man shouldn't call himself an author.
But I digress. The latest Patterson novel is not about any "trial" involving "Alex Cross." Instead, it is a period novel set in the early 1900s, ostensibly written by Alex Cross.
Oh come ON. If you and your wingman want to write a period novel, write a period novel! Don't use some cute tie-in with your previous works, hoping to dupe a mystery reader into buying your gimmicky book. If you want to throw crap out there, be honest about it. If Patterson took himself at all seriously as a writer, he would title his next book, "Crap", and let it sell on the merits of the writing and storytelling alone.
I'm just frustrated because I haven't heard from an agent yet, and I'm assuming that means my book is a "no" (to her, anyway). Patterson just signed a 3 year doeal with his publisher for 17 books. Yes, there is no typo there. Seventeen books. Over five books a year. Approximately one book every other month. He's crowding the marketplace, ensuring that start-up authors don't have any room in which to get their chance.
I have NO complaints with annual authors. Baldacci, Connelly, Nora Roberts...I buy their books faithfully (okay, you're right, I'm too cheap to do that. I rent them faithfully from the library). it's just that x-number of books get published in each genre per year, and I find it horrid that Patterson is okay with taking up such a majority of that "x" with his increasing mediocrity.
No.
James Patterson has come up with yet another way to circumvent actually writing a book, and instead market 400 pieces of bound paper.
He's been a shameless user of cowriters for many years now. I don't have a problem with that in and of itself, although I do think the mark of a true master is being able to play all positions in baseball. I don't think a designated hitter should be able to call themselves a ball player, just like how an idea man shouldn't call himself an author.
But I digress. The latest Patterson novel is not about any "trial" involving "Alex Cross." Instead, it is a period novel set in the early 1900s, ostensibly written by Alex Cross.
Oh come ON. If you and your wingman want to write a period novel, write a period novel! Don't use some cute tie-in with your previous works, hoping to dupe a mystery reader into buying your gimmicky book. If you want to throw crap out there, be honest about it. If Patterson took himself at all seriously as a writer, he would title his next book, "Crap", and let it sell on the merits of the writing and storytelling alone.
I'm just frustrated because I haven't heard from an agent yet, and I'm assuming that means my book is a "no" (to her, anyway). Patterson just signed a 3 year doeal with his publisher for 17 books. Yes, there is no typo there. Seventeen books. Over five books a year. Approximately one book every other month. He's crowding the marketplace, ensuring that start-up authors don't have any room in which to get their chance.
I have NO complaints with annual authors. Baldacci, Connelly, Nora Roberts...I buy their books faithfully (okay, you're right, I'm too cheap to do that. I rent them faithfully from the library). it's just that x-number of books get published in each genre per year, and I find it horrid that Patterson is okay with taking up such a majority of that "x" with his increasing mediocrity.
Monday, September 21, 2009
A field trip from mentality
The cops finally caught the mental patient who escaped from the Interstate Fair late last week.
What does one say to that?
I think the most galling of commentary on the situation came from the Department of Social and Health Services talking head - "I think Spokane could use this as an opportunity to better understand mental illness."
Come again?
Not one, but all 31 of the fairgoing mental patients had been declared criminally insane.
The mental hospital administration took 2 hours to report the missing criminal.
The inmate brought packaged meals and changes of clothing with him on the fair field trip in a backpack.
Yes, we should be using this as a opportunity to reflect on the injustices done to this man who brutally murdered an old woman.
The PR spin on behalf of the DSHS has been amazing. I'm sure area colleges will be teaching this in public relations classes for years to come. How do you justify the unjustifiable? Is there ever a point where a business/organization/individual can throw their hands up and say, "Okay, I messed up"?
This brings to mind a certain president and a certain ill-conceived war, made worse by years of attempts to justify the action.
I, for one, would have had a lot more respect for him had he said, "We made a mistake, now let's fix it."
Something tells me that, like last time, that ain't going to happen here.
What does one say to that?
I think the most galling of commentary on the situation came from the Department of Social and Health Services talking head - "I think Spokane could use this as an opportunity to better understand mental illness."
Come again?
Not one, but all 31 of the fairgoing mental patients had been declared criminally insane.
The mental hospital administration took 2 hours to report the missing criminal.
The inmate brought packaged meals and changes of clothing with him on the fair field trip in a backpack.
Yes, we should be using this as a opportunity to reflect on the injustices done to this man who brutally murdered an old woman.
The PR spin on behalf of the DSHS has been amazing. I'm sure area colleges will be teaching this in public relations classes for years to come. How do you justify the unjustifiable? Is there ever a point where a business/organization/individual can throw their hands up and say, "Okay, I messed up"?
This brings to mind a certain president and a certain ill-conceived war, made worse by years of attempts to justify the action.
I, for one, would have had a lot more respect for him had he said, "We made a mistake, now let's fix it."
Something tells me that, like last time, that ain't going to happen here.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
What's the purpose?
I have long wondered what, exactly, is the purpose of fingernails? Evolutionarily speaking, you've got to admit, they're an adaptation that has long outlived its purpose. We don't need our fingernails to catch the chickens that we purchase pre-cut and deboned, packaged in cellophane at the grocery store. The nails do help tearing through the cellophane, but something tells me that's not what Darwin would have in mind if asked to explain, "So, what about fingernails?"
They come in handy for personal grooming of one's nostrils. They satiate itches in hard to reach places. They could gouge out a would-be rapist's eyeballs if necessary.
But beyond that, they are a nuisance.
If I've got nails, I'll gnaw on them with a nervous, beaver-like determination to keep my fingertips clear of the obstructions. I'm a fast typer, and fingernails of any respectable length act as miniature echo chambers, causing my key strokes to reverberate around my cubicle. My coworkers to engage me in conversation just so I'll slow my pace and thus decrease the keboarding cacophany.
I find a direct correlation between my personal stress levels and the length of my fingernails. When something is going badly (usually my dating life) the pretty, pristine white tips are no where to be found. When I isolate myself and do nothing but work and write, things that make me happy, the nails are allowed to grow with reckless abandon. If I went to therapy, the doc wouldn't need to ask me how things were going - he'd just need to glance at my fingers. 'Hmmm. Fingernails bitten to the quick. Pizza sauce under the thumb nail. Chocolate under the pinky. Yep, this is going to take the whole 50 minutes.'
It's like candy. If it's not in my pantry, I won't eat it. I usually won't even know it's gone. Same with fingernails. If I didn't have them, I wouldn't chew on them disgustingly, and I doubt I'd miss them - except for when I'm about to get out of the car for another first-and-last date and notice in my rearview mirror that I've got some personal grooming that needs to be done. Eh, nothing the cap from a Bic couldn't do in a pinch.
They come in handy for personal grooming of one's nostrils. They satiate itches in hard to reach places. They could gouge out a would-be rapist's eyeballs if necessary.
But beyond that, they are a nuisance.
If I've got nails, I'll gnaw on them with a nervous, beaver-like determination to keep my fingertips clear of the obstructions. I'm a fast typer, and fingernails of any respectable length act as miniature echo chambers, causing my key strokes to reverberate around my cubicle. My coworkers to engage me in conversation just so I'll slow my pace and thus decrease the keboarding cacophany.
I find a direct correlation between my personal stress levels and the length of my fingernails. When something is going badly (usually my dating life) the pretty, pristine white tips are no where to be found. When I isolate myself and do nothing but work and write, things that make me happy, the nails are allowed to grow with reckless abandon. If I went to therapy, the doc wouldn't need to ask me how things were going - he'd just need to glance at my fingers. 'Hmmm. Fingernails bitten to the quick. Pizza sauce under the thumb nail. Chocolate under the pinky. Yep, this is going to take the whole 50 minutes.'
It's like candy. If it's not in my pantry, I won't eat it. I usually won't even know it's gone. Same with fingernails. If I didn't have them, I wouldn't chew on them disgustingly, and I doubt I'd miss them - except for when I'm about to get out of the car for another first-and-last date and notice in my rearview mirror that I've got some personal grooming that needs to be done. Eh, nothing the cap from a Bic couldn't do in a pinch.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A tough audience
I woke up this morning and stumbled into the bathroom. I turned on the radio and got the shower running. Lincoln and Ellie Bean wound their way around my ankles, and Trumie burrowed in bed, burying and discovering his rubber dinosaur.
As I dug through my closet, my favorite song came on the radio. I couldn't help myself. I sang along.
My singing is not unlike the sound of baby calves being injured. My voice finds notes that were previously unknown to mankind. Come to think of it, I could have a career as a goat caller in the mountains of Croatia. There, goat calling talent is assessed on how discordant you can make your voice in comparison to your fellow goat callers.
I led up to the chorus and then really let loose.
My cats took off running from the room, slipping onto their haunches in their haste to exit my presence.
But it was my favorite song! I wasn't going to let some hecklers spoil the fun. I sidled up to Trumie on my bed and gazed into his eyes as I sang. I held onto him good and snug, just in case he...started to slip off the bed or something.
He looked at me, desperation creeping into his big, brown eyes. Please. You say you love me. Please.
I sighed and released him to find cover with the cats.
A spider ducked out from behind my door. I still had an audience! I didn't stop to consider that perhaps it was my singing that scared the spider out of hiding. I had an audience.
I finished the song with great gusto and thanked my audience for being so loyal. It's the fans that make it all worthwhile.
Then I stepped on him.
As I dug through my closet, my favorite song came on the radio. I couldn't help myself. I sang along.
My singing is not unlike the sound of baby calves being injured. My voice finds notes that were previously unknown to mankind. Come to think of it, I could have a career as a goat caller in the mountains of Croatia. There, goat calling talent is assessed on how discordant you can make your voice in comparison to your fellow goat callers.
I led up to the chorus and then really let loose.
My cats took off running from the room, slipping onto their haunches in their haste to exit my presence.
But it was my favorite song! I wasn't going to let some hecklers spoil the fun. I sidled up to Trumie on my bed and gazed into his eyes as I sang. I held onto him good and snug, just in case he...started to slip off the bed or something.
He looked at me, desperation creeping into his big, brown eyes. Please. You say you love me. Please.
I sighed and released him to find cover with the cats.
A spider ducked out from behind my door. I still had an audience! I didn't stop to consider that perhaps it was my singing that scared the spider out of hiding. I had an audience.
I finished the song with great gusto and thanked my audience for being so loyal. It's the fans that make it all worthwhile.
Then I stepped on him.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
A case for public nudity
I was doing some yardwork this weekend. (I can hear my father's heart skip a beat - yardwork? really?!) I trimmed back a weirdo leafy tree in my yard that was growing uncontrollably. It was set to overtake my concrete patio by the year 2011.
I ducked low under the branches and trimmed back at the base. I worked my way around the tree, feeling my back begin to stiffen. Something tickled my forehead underneath my baseball cap. I wiped at my face, trying to get the sweat to stop dripping.
I finished cutting, and stepped out from under the tree. Grabbing the garbage sack, I began loading it with the trimmings.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It was really close. Like, on-my-face close. I swiped my hand at it.
A large earwig plopped to the concrete at my feet and ran off.
"Be cool, be cool..." I implored myself.
A high-pitched screech emanated from down into my toes. I tore the baseball cap from my head and flung it into the grass. I pulled at my shirt, and started to rip it off.
I spied my neighbor on the back deck across a small open field.
But they're might be bugs in my shirt! But I can't take my shirt off when there's people around!
I danced around the patio, shifting weight from one foot to the other like a kindergartner who really has to pee, pulling at my shirt so as to prevent contact with my skin.
A lightbulb went off. Take the shirt off and then run inside. Compromise!
I ran into the bathroom shirt-less and checked myself for earwigs, ticks, leeches, or termites.
Thankfully I was creepy-crawly free. But seriously, if you saw your neighbor rip their shirt off in a panic and run around the yard screaming, you'd assume they had a justifiable reason for doing so, right? Right?
Oh well. Less trick-or-treaters at the "crazy person's house" means more Halloween candy for me.
I ducked low under the branches and trimmed back at the base. I worked my way around the tree, feeling my back begin to stiffen. Something tickled my forehead underneath my baseball cap. I wiped at my face, trying to get the sweat to stop dripping.
I finished cutting, and stepped out from under the tree. Grabbing the garbage sack, I began loading it with the trimmings.
I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. It was really close. Like, on-my-face close. I swiped my hand at it.
A large earwig plopped to the concrete at my feet and ran off.
"Be cool, be cool..." I implored myself.
A high-pitched screech emanated from down into my toes. I tore the baseball cap from my head and flung it into the grass. I pulled at my shirt, and started to rip it off.
I spied my neighbor on the back deck across a small open field.
But they're might be bugs in my shirt! But I can't take my shirt off when there's people around!
I danced around the patio, shifting weight from one foot to the other like a kindergartner who really has to pee, pulling at my shirt so as to prevent contact with my skin.
A lightbulb went off. Take the shirt off and then run inside. Compromise!
I ran into the bathroom shirt-less and checked myself for earwigs, ticks, leeches, or termites.
Thankfully I was creepy-crawly free. But seriously, if you saw your neighbor rip their shirt off in a panic and run around the yard screaming, you'd assume they had a justifiable reason for doing so, right? Right?
Oh well. Less trick-or-treaters at the "crazy person's house" means more Halloween candy for me.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
A rough night for Hairy Truman
I love sleeping with my furry babies in bed with me. Even if it means I wake up with a crick in my neck from trying not to have Trumie's bottom in my face, or a sore wrist from where Ellie Beans curled up on my arm, or sleeping diagonally so as not to disturb Big Link at the foot of the bed - the company while I sleep is worth it.
Last night, Trumie didn't think sleeping with Mom in the Big Bed was so worth it.
About two a.m., I had a nightmare. A snake was slithering up my leg, about to bite me in the butt with its big, huge fangs dripping with venom. I slapped at it, because we all know the way to get rid of a snake with big huge dripping venomous fangs is to slap at it.
"ARF!"
I cracked my eyes open. I looked under my sheets, to see Hairy Truman and the snake/his tail cowering at my feet.
"Oh, come here, Mommie's sorry," I said to him. I took hold of him by his minature arm pits and brought him up next to me.
He wasn't ready to accept my apology.
He wiggled to the passenger-side of the bed and snuffled around, burrowing in my blankets. I fell back asleep.
An hour later, I awoke again, this time to Trumie's insistant whining.
"What's the matter, guy?" I said groggily. I threw my arm out to the side of the bed, patting around, trying to find the lump of quivering dogness.
I found him next to my pillow, where there is another pillow and some extra pillowcases and shams that I was too lazy to put away last laundry day.
Trumie had found the opening of the sham and weasled his way inside, creating his very own sleeping bag. Unfortunately, when he woke up, he couldn't figure out how to get out again. Still half asleep, I tried to help him out. He had somehow folded the edges of the sham into each other, completely enclosing him into the pillowcase. I finally took two edges and gave it a firm shake.
Trumie came rolling out onto my bedspread, eyes wide, as if he had just seen the face of Lucifer and would never pee on my rug again.
"Come on, I'll read you a story to help us get back to sleep." I flicked on my bedside lamp and opened the book. He snuggled alongside me.
"The fisherman cast his line into the water for the fourth time, and he wondered if anything was biting today. He felt a brush against his leg. He looked into the water. A dead body floated by, its stomach bloated with decomposing gases. The skin sagged, the body having been dumped in the lake days before..."
Last night, Trumie didn't think sleeping with Mom in the Big Bed was so worth it.
About two a.m., I had a nightmare. A snake was slithering up my leg, about to bite me in the butt with its big, huge fangs dripping with venom. I slapped at it, because we all know the way to get rid of a snake with big huge dripping venomous fangs is to slap at it.
"ARF!"
I cracked my eyes open. I looked under my sheets, to see Hairy Truman and the snake/his tail cowering at my feet.
"Oh, come here, Mommie's sorry," I said to him. I took hold of him by his minature arm pits and brought him up next to me.
He wasn't ready to accept my apology.
He wiggled to the passenger-side of the bed and snuffled around, burrowing in my blankets. I fell back asleep.
An hour later, I awoke again, this time to Trumie's insistant whining.
"What's the matter, guy?" I said groggily. I threw my arm out to the side of the bed, patting around, trying to find the lump of quivering dogness.
I found him next to my pillow, where there is another pillow and some extra pillowcases and shams that I was too lazy to put away last laundry day.
Trumie had found the opening of the sham and weasled his way inside, creating his very own sleeping bag. Unfortunately, when he woke up, he couldn't figure out how to get out again. Still half asleep, I tried to help him out. He had somehow folded the edges of the sham into each other, completely enclosing him into the pillowcase. I finally took two edges and gave it a firm shake.
Trumie came rolling out onto my bedspread, eyes wide, as if he had just seen the face of Lucifer and would never pee on my rug again.
"Come on, I'll read you a story to help us get back to sleep." I flicked on my bedside lamp and opened the book. He snuggled alongside me.
"The fisherman cast his line into the water for the fourth time, and he wondered if anything was biting today. He felt a brush against his leg. He looked into the water. A dead body floated by, its stomach bloated with decomposing gases. The skin sagged, the body having been dumped in the lake days before..."
Saturday, September 12, 2009
American Ellen
The announcement this week of Ellen DeGeneres taking over Paula Abdoul's judge's seat on American Idol was met with mixed reactions.
There was nothing mixed about my reaction.
"This is awesome! What a smart, shrewd move on the producer's part! I can't wait for the show to start this year! She's going to be great, just great."
I love Ellen. Everyone loves Ellen. She's funny, she's smart, she's not a schlub, she doesn't play a character in her comedy - she's just funny.
She's replacing Paula's warm heart on the panel. I am thankful the producers aren't leaving that spot empty: with just Simon, Randy, and Kara judging, I feared we would hear about a rash of contestant suicides. She'll have more to add than just the "nice" factor - I think Ellen will actually make sense in her critiques. At times, Paula wasn't unlike a person with Alzheimer's, grasping for words, picking many, none of them connecting to make a coherant thought.
I cannot overlook the biggest potential that Ellen brings to the table: increased acceptance of homosexuality. Ellen is a beautiful woman who is married to Portia DeRossi, a woman that could stop traffic. And she probably does, despite it being fairly well known that she's a lesbian. They are so...nonchalant about their relationship, a nonchalance that I think puts the skittish American public at ease.
No one likes "different", but none more so than Americans. We love the show "CSI," so we make a hit out of "CSI: Miami" and "CSI: New York." We love hamburgers, so we have a Wendy's, Burger King, McDonalds, and Carl's on every corner. If you're a roll of sushi, your best chances of being taken to are in the progressive Los Angeles or New York City.
Ellen does not make a federal case out of the fact that she is in love with a woman. She just is. She's a hamburger. She dresses just like the majority of Americans do, even wearing jeans and sneakers on her talk show. To be blunt, she doesn't Adam Lambert herself all over the place, a sushi roll if there ever was one.
Let me be clear: I am saying NOTHING against Adam Lambert, his guy-liner, his leather, his hair, or his sexuality. On "American Idol," he was one of the most generous and good-natured contestants I've seen. But I do understand that for a lot of people, he can be off-putting in the flamboyant and overt way he dresses and presents himself. Unfortunately, I think people look to put their finger on what, exactly, makes them uncomfortable about him. And for many people, that answer will be his sexuality, when in reality it is probably just his clothing (although the tabloid pictures of him making out porno-style with a guy, both smearing lipstick over each other, didn't help matters).
Homosexuality has somehow become synonymous with in-your-face counter-culture and anarchy. By definition, homosexuality is counter-culture: unfortunately, it is counter to what the majority of American culture accepts or believes in.
This is where the difficult debate comes in. With equal rights and marriage propositions on many states' ballots, gay people nationwide are looking to make their partnerships legal, a part of the culture.
Yes, I am saying some degree of assimilation into the majority culture is necessary for gay rights to really take hold, just like how some degree of assimilation on the part of each state is necessary to maintain our country as the United States.
Having Ellen on "American Idol" has just exploded her visibility. Seeing this average, fun, good soul will be great for Americans. Perhaps she will be generous enough to teach us to see the person instead of the sexuality. If we're smart enough to learn from her, I predict gay marriage will be legal nationwide within the next 2 seasons of "American Idol."
There was nothing mixed about my reaction.
"This is awesome! What a smart, shrewd move on the producer's part! I can't wait for the show to start this year! She's going to be great, just great."
I love Ellen. Everyone loves Ellen. She's funny, she's smart, she's not a schlub, she doesn't play a character in her comedy - she's just funny.
She's replacing Paula's warm heart on the panel. I am thankful the producers aren't leaving that spot empty: with just Simon, Randy, and Kara judging, I feared we would hear about a rash of contestant suicides. She'll have more to add than just the "nice" factor - I think Ellen will actually make sense in her critiques. At times, Paula wasn't unlike a person with Alzheimer's, grasping for words, picking many, none of them connecting to make a coherant thought.
I cannot overlook the biggest potential that Ellen brings to the table: increased acceptance of homosexuality. Ellen is a beautiful woman who is married to Portia DeRossi, a woman that could stop traffic. And she probably does, despite it being fairly well known that she's a lesbian. They are so...nonchalant about their relationship, a nonchalance that I think puts the skittish American public at ease.
No one likes "different", but none more so than Americans. We love the show "CSI," so we make a hit out of "CSI: Miami" and "CSI: New York." We love hamburgers, so we have a Wendy's, Burger King, McDonalds, and Carl's on every corner. If you're a roll of sushi, your best chances of being taken to are in the progressive Los Angeles or New York City.
Ellen does not make a federal case out of the fact that she is in love with a woman. She just is. She's a hamburger. She dresses just like the majority of Americans do, even wearing jeans and sneakers on her talk show. To be blunt, she doesn't Adam Lambert herself all over the place, a sushi roll if there ever was one.
Let me be clear: I am saying NOTHING against Adam Lambert, his guy-liner, his leather, his hair, or his sexuality. On "American Idol," he was one of the most generous and good-natured contestants I've seen. But I do understand that for a lot of people, he can be off-putting in the flamboyant and overt way he dresses and presents himself. Unfortunately, I think people look to put their finger on what, exactly, makes them uncomfortable about him. And for many people, that answer will be his sexuality, when in reality it is probably just his clothing (although the tabloid pictures of him making out porno-style with a guy, both smearing lipstick over each other, didn't help matters).
Homosexuality has somehow become synonymous with in-your-face counter-culture and anarchy. By definition, homosexuality is counter-culture: unfortunately, it is counter to what the majority of American culture accepts or believes in.
This is where the difficult debate comes in. With equal rights and marriage propositions on many states' ballots, gay people nationwide are looking to make their partnerships legal, a part of the culture.
Yes, I am saying some degree of assimilation into the majority culture is necessary for gay rights to really take hold, just like how some degree of assimilation on the part of each state is necessary to maintain our country as the United States.
Having Ellen on "American Idol" has just exploded her visibility. Seeing this average, fun, good soul will be great for Americans. Perhaps she will be generous enough to teach us to see the person instead of the sexuality. If we're smart enough to learn from her, I predict gay marriage will be legal nationwide within the next 2 seasons of "American Idol."
Friday, September 11, 2009
Fear the Tyrannosaurus Wiki Rex
At work this morning, we were debating the purpose of the Tyrannosaurus Rex's forearms.
"They're for holding their food!"
"No, they don't need to hold their food. They just chomp it down."
"Their food is probably dead already - they were scavengers, not predators."
"What? They were totally predators! Didn't you see 'Jurassic Park'?"
I was going to end the debate once and for all. I googled "What is the purpose of..." and again, before I could finish my query, Google tried to help me out by autopopulating. "What is the purpose of male nipples." No, that is not what I'm looking for (although it would be an interesting fun fact).
"What is the purpose of Tyrannosaurus Rex's forearms?"
The first site was a wikipedia entry. I have a healthy skepticism of the veracity of Wikipedia, as it is Communistic. The idea behind the content on the user-generated encyclopedia site is that as a collective, we are smarter than individuals. For example, being a Beatles-freak, I could write an entry on anything Beatles-related, and Sir Paul himself could access the entry and edit facts I might have gotten wrong (not that that would happen - I'm just saying. I used to look forward to the days when the local 7-11 had a Beatles question on their trivia board. We know what that meant - free Slurpy for Katie!)
School teachers are conflicted about whether or not to allow students to use Wikipedia as a resource in their research papers. Yes, the majority of the content is true and almost academic in nature. But if just anyone can post and edit postings, what's to stop someone from putting blatantly false information in there?
"Here it is, guys," I called out to my coworkers. I read them the article. "The T-rex has short, but strong forearms. They are used mainly to grasp the T-Rex's partner while copulating." I turned around in my chair, proud of my discovery.
Amid guffaws, one of my coworkers asked, "Where did you get that? Wikipedia?"
"They're for holding their food!"
"No, they don't need to hold their food. They just chomp it down."
"Their food is probably dead already - they were scavengers, not predators."
"What? They were totally predators! Didn't you see 'Jurassic Park'?"
I was going to end the debate once and for all. I googled "What is the purpose of..." and again, before I could finish my query, Google tried to help me out by autopopulating. "What is the purpose of male nipples." No, that is not what I'm looking for (although it would be an interesting fun fact).
"What is the purpose of Tyrannosaurus Rex's forearms?"
The first site was a wikipedia entry. I have a healthy skepticism of the veracity of Wikipedia, as it is Communistic. The idea behind the content on the user-generated encyclopedia site is that as a collective, we are smarter than individuals. For example, being a Beatles-freak, I could write an entry on anything Beatles-related, and Sir Paul himself could access the entry and edit facts I might have gotten wrong (not that that would happen - I'm just saying. I used to look forward to the days when the local 7-11 had a Beatles question on their trivia board. We know what that meant - free Slurpy for Katie!)
School teachers are conflicted about whether or not to allow students to use Wikipedia as a resource in their research papers. Yes, the majority of the content is true and almost academic in nature. But if just anyone can post and edit postings, what's to stop someone from putting blatantly false information in there?
"Here it is, guys," I called out to my coworkers. I read them the article. "The T-rex has short, but strong forearms. They are used mainly to grasp the T-Rex's partner while copulating." I turned around in my chair, proud of my discovery.
Amid guffaws, one of my coworkers asked, "Where did you get that? Wikipedia?"
Thursday, September 10, 2009
I'm a murderer.
Last evening, I snuffed out approximately 2,143 lives.
I was mowing my lawn, concentrating on overlapping my mower's path enough to not leave strips of tall grass in between. I don't want to overlap too much, as that's just unneccessary work and time with the motor going. Time is gas, and gas is money! But I kind of completely missed overlapping last time, and my poor yard looked like a high school running track. I couldn't even look into my backyard - I was blinded by memories of being passed by the most overweight person in my grade, me huffing and puffing to catch up.
Out of nowhere, I heard a dull buzz. I looked to the grass directly in front of my mower, and saw a swarm of mosquitoes begin to levitate from the ground, each mosquito the size of a fifty-cent piece.
I did what any self-respecting girl would do. I ran.
Unfortunately, the mower was still running, and the grab bar was still in my hands. I mowed directly over the swarm, catching them in the whirl of the blades. I pictured the blades taking apart the poor souls, the mosquito families bidding a desperate goodbye to each other, the blades dripping with their blood.
I stopped the mower and had a moment of silence. We're all God's creatures. Every single living thing on this planet is a servant - we coexist to help each other succeed in this world. Who the heck do I think I am, causing death for my own perceived needs?
Wait a sec...mosquito blood? That's probably my blood. Or my dog's blood. I scratched at my neck. Shrugging, I pulled my mower's cord and let Darwin take over.
I was mowing my lawn, concentrating on overlapping my mower's path enough to not leave strips of tall grass in between. I don't want to overlap too much, as that's just unneccessary work and time with the motor going. Time is gas, and gas is money! But I kind of completely missed overlapping last time, and my poor yard looked like a high school running track. I couldn't even look into my backyard - I was blinded by memories of being passed by the most overweight person in my grade, me huffing and puffing to catch up.
Out of nowhere, I heard a dull buzz. I looked to the grass directly in front of my mower, and saw a swarm of mosquitoes begin to levitate from the ground, each mosquito the size of a fifty-cent piece.
I did what any self-respecting girl would do. I ran.
Unfortunately, the mower was still running, and the grab bar was still in my hands. I mowed directly over the swarm, catching them in the whirl of the blades. I pictured the blades taking apart the poor souls, the mosquito families bidding a desperate goodbye to each other, the blades dripping with their blood.
I stopped the mower and had a moment of silence. We're all God's creatures. Every single living thing on this planet is a servant - we coexist to help each other succeed in this world. Who the heck do I think I am, causing death for my own perceived needs?
Wait a sec...mosquito blood? That's probably my blood. Or my dog's blood. I scratched at my neck. Shrugging, I pulled my mower's cord and let Darwin take over.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
When does "happy" count?
I was driving home from work today, listening to Charles Dickens's "Martin Chuzzlewit" on CD. (Hey, I've got a half-hour long commute each direction.)
It's a fun listen, except true to British fashion, they have to do things the right way. Instead of having some guy with an over-developed accent reading the book, which would have been well and good, it's got several actors playing the parts, complete with sound effects. I keep looking out my windshield, trying to see the oncoming horse and carriage.
Two characters were arguing in only the way English can argue. I'll try to paraphrase it.
"You're the most good-natured person I know. You'd be great at running the Blue Lagoon pub."
"I can't run the Blue Lagoon pub. It would be so easy to be happy there."
"Pardon?"
"No, I need to be a grave digger, or perhaps a jailer, in order for it to count that I'm happy."
The concept gave me pause. Does happiness ever not count? Take Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. They have everything - beautiful homes, children, all the money in the world, philanthropic causes that mean a lot to them. They're ostensibly happy. But does that count? What do they want for? Of course they're happy! Isn't the very definition of unhappy "wanting for something"?
Can we just be happy, regardless of where we are, what we're doing, who we're with, who we are?
I think we can be happy, and I think there is a bonafide reason why we usually aren't: we are a nation of addicts. What causes happiness on one day is not enough the next. Feeling the dewy grass between your bare toes turns into needing to feel the wind through your hair while you ride your bicycle (illegally helmet-less), which turns into needing a car for your 16th birthday, which turns into needing a job, then needing the best college, then needing a job better than the ones your parents worked their whole lives at...where does it end?
In the grass. Only this time we're not feeling it between our toes - we're lying underneath.
It's a fun listen, except true to British fashion, they have to do things the right way. Instead of having some guy with an over-developed accent reading the book, which would have been well and good, it's got several actors playing the parts, complete with sound effects. I keep looking out my windshield, trying to see the oncoming horse and carriage.
Two characters were arguing in only the way English can argue. I'll try to paraphrase it.
"You're the most good-natured person I know. You'd be great at running the Blue Lagoon pub."
"I can't run the Blue Lagoon pub. It would be so easy to be happy there."
"Pardon?"
"No, I need to be a grave digger, or perhaps a jailer, in order for it to count that I'm happy."
The concept gave me pause. Does happiness ever not count? Take Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. They have everything - beautiful homes, children, all the money in the world, philanthropic causes that mean a lot to them. They're ostensibly happy. But does that count? What do they want for? Of course they're happy! Isn't the very definition of unhappy "wanting for something"?
Can we just be happy, regardless of where we are, what we're doing, who we're with, who we are?
I think we can be happy, and I think there is a bonafide reason why we usually aren't: we are a nation of addicts. What causes happiness on one day is not enough the next. Feeling the dewy grass between your bare toes turns into needing to feel the wind through your hair while you ride your bicycle (illegally helmet-less), which turns into needing a car for your 16th birthday, which turns into needing a job, then needing the best college, then needing a job better than the ones your parents worked their whole lives at...where does it end?
In the grass. Only this time we're not feeling it between our toes - we're lying underneath.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
An ode to my printer
Today I say goodbye to an old friend;
But alas, all good things come to an end.
My printer, he was frail,
And Staples had a good sale,
So I joined the Laserjet trend.
I dislike change.
If I had my way, we'd still write on stone tablets from our home on the grange.
But time marches on,
And my printer ink was AGAIN gone,
It was time to do the thing humane.
My printer didn't know any tricks,
But he stayed with me when my thinking was thick.
He's thankful to be in a place of rest,
Where he no longer has to make sense of my writing mess,
Because, after all, this ode was really a limerick.
But alas, all good things come to an end.
My printer, he was frail,
And Staples had a good sale,
So I joined the Laserjet trend.
I dislike change.
If I had my way, we'd still write on stone tablets from our home on the grange.
But time marches on,
And my printer ink was AGAIN gone,
It was time to do the thing humane.
My printer didn't know any tricks,
But he stayed with me when my thinking was thick.
He's thankful to be in a place of rest,
Where he no longer has to make sense of my writing mess,
Because, after all, this ode was really a limerick.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Bachelorette grossness reaches a new low
This is very anti-feminism of me, and I may need to turn in my female membership card after this posting, but I must speak the truth - In the privacy of their own homes, single females are every bit as disgusting as single males.
I'm a cheapskate. I come by this genetically. I was talking with my grandmother this afternoon (under duress, I might add). Starting tomorrow, she is paying for some companionship come in a couple of times a week. This is not a euphemism for a male prostitute. The person is going to drive her places, read to her, listen to her stories, pretend like they don't want to kill her, etc. I would have been fine for the job until that last part. Anyway, Grandma is paying $20 an hour for this service, which happens to be through the company I work for. I think it's a great deal. Grandma was ticked that I never told her about the 44-cent surcharge per mile.
Thus, given my cheapness, if a dish doesn't look too dirty, I'll use it for dinner, and maybe the next morning's breakfast. Saves on the water bill and on the dishwashing liquid bill. Not like Washington's phosphate-free dishwashing soap cleans a plate better than water and my hand does.
I have to remind myself to not walk around my house in my underwear when the blinds are open. Hey, it's an easy thing to do! You live in your parents' basement long enough, you forget that there's a such a thing as "windows looking directly into your neighbor's windows."
If a girl farts in her living room and there's no one but her pets to hear it, did she really shamelessly expell herself of bodily gas?
I eat in bed. Crumbs don't bother me. Half the time, I can't tell if it's crumbs I'm sleeping on or stray cat litter that rode between my kitties' toes from the catbox to my sheets. If I'm missing one of my seven forks, I check my bed. Mom wasn't surprised that there was a fork in my bed - she was surprised that it took me two weeks to realize it was there.
Today, though, I reached a new level of disgustingness. I took a bath. (That's not the gross part.) As I'm drying myself off, I look out the bathroom door and across the hall into the scrapbooking room. My dog likes to use that room as his peepee room. It really did need a good mopping. I looked back to the bathtub, still full of gently-used water. I threw on my clothes and got my mop out of the garage.
Ten minutes later, I had cleaned my floor, saved on my water bill, and after seeing all the floor debris stuck to the ring of my tub, I decided I will never bathe again.
I'm a cheapskate. I come by this genetically. I was talking with my grandmother this afternoon (under duress, I might add). Starting tomorrow, she is paying for some companionship come in a couple of times a week. This is not a euphemism for a male prostitute. The person is going to drive her places, read to her, listen to her stories, pretend like they don't want to kill her, etc. I would have been fine for the job until that last part. Anyway, Grandma is paying $20 an hour for this service, which happens to be through the company I work for. I think it's a great deal. Grandma was ticked that I never told her about the 44-cent surcharge per mile.
Thus, given my cheapness, if a dish doesn't look too dirty, I'll use it for dinner, and maybe the next morning's breakfast. Saves on the water bill and on the dishwashing liquid bill. Not like Washington's phosphate-free dishwashing soap cleans a plate better than water and my hand does.
I have to remind myself to not walk around my house in my underwear when the blinds are open. Hey, it's an easy thing to do! You live in your parents' basement long enough, you forget that there's a such a thing as "windows looking directly into your neighbor's windows."
If a girl farts in her living room and there's no one but her pets to hear it, did she really shamelessly expell herself of bodily gas?
I eat in bed. Crumbs don't bother me. Half the time, I can't tell if it's crumbs I'm sleeping on or stray cat litter that rode between my kitties' toes from the catbox to my sheets. If I'm missing one of my seven forks, I check my bed. Mom wasn't surprised that there was a fork in my bed - she was surprised that it took me two weeks to realize it was there.
Today, though, I reached a new level of disgustingness. I took a bath. (That's not the gross part.) As I'm drying myself off, I look out the bathroom door and across the hall into the scrapbooking room. My dog likes to use that room as his peepee room. It really did need a good mopping. I looked back to the bathtub, still full of gently-used water. I threw on my clothes and got my mop out of the garage.
Ten minutes later, I had cleaned my floor, saved on my water bill, and after seeing all the floor debris stuck to the ring of my tub, I decided I will never bathe again.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Um, duh?
There's an article on MSN.com lifestyle today that is titled, "When is it okay to blog about your dates?"
Um, always...Especially when the date went particularly badly. Blogging is how people with no friends rehash and try to make sense of emotionally scarring experiences.
The article cited several concerns, such as defamation, inaccurate portrayals of events, and scaring people away with the propsect that they are dating a blogger.
First, defamation. It's only defamation if you're saying something unkind that is provably not true. If some people I knew in high school blogged about how this girl Katie used to flip off cheerleaders in the hallways behind their backs, I couldn't get upset about them defaming my character - it's ugly, but it's the truth. Plus, the burden of proof resides on the one being defamed, not the defamer. I'm working on my memoir, and no, I'm not defaming a lot of people in it, but there are two or three people I don't have a whole lot of good things to say about. As long as I change defining physical characteristics - making them tall instead of short, black hair instead of blonde, well-endowed instead of...well, you get the idea - I've done my part. I didn't name them by name or physical description, and I depicted the event true to my rememberance of it.
Which brings me to the second point - accuracy. No one can remember an event or situation perfectly, unless it occured on the set of "More to Love" and they were being followed around by video cameras. Even then, the overall story arc is subject to editing. As long as you're not making things up, that you truly perceived an event to happen the way you say it did, there's really no case against you.
Do you drive people away by the mere fact that you have a blog? I say no. Chances are, most of the people in your life aren't interesting enough to write about in the first place, thereby ensuring their own protection from the blogosphere. On dates, I can think of many, many things more important to talk about than how you spend your free time on the internet. "Oh, you're into porn? I have a blog!" I'd much rather know if there is a felony conviction for anything in my date's past, or how many children they've sired out of wedlock, or their status of gainful employment. I strongly believe it is my apparently unattainable requirements of men that keeps me single, not my blog.
Finally comes the one unassailable fact of blogging about dates: If they show up in your blog, they did something very deserving. I don't blog about the men I've just not had a connection with. But the men who ask me on our first phone call if I'm bad in bed, or if I'm into being spanked...welcome to your fifteen minutes of fame.
Um, always...Especially when the date went particularly badly. Blogging is how people with no friends rehash and try to make sense of emotionally scarring experiences.
The article cited several concerns, such as defamation, inaccurate portrayals of events, and scaring people away with the propsect that they are dating a blogger.
First, defamation. It's only defamation if you're saying something unkind that is provably not true. If some people I knew in high school blogged about how this girl Katie used to flip off cheerleaders in the hallways behind their backs, I couldn't get upset about them defaming my character - it's ugly, but it's the truth. Plus, the burden of proof resides on the one being defamed, not the defamer. I'm working on my memoir, and no, I'm not defaming a lot of people in it, but there are two or three people I don't have a whole lot of good things to say about. As long as I change defining physical characteristics - making them tall instead of short, black hair instead of blonde, well-endowed instead of...well, you get the idea - I've done my part. I didn't name them by name or physical description, and I depicted the event true to my rememberance of it.
Which brings me to the second point - accuracy. No one can remember an event or situation perfectly, unless it occured on the set of "More to Love" and they were being followed around by video cameras. Even then, the overall story arc is subject to editing. As long as you're not making things up, that you truly perceived an event to happen the way you say it did, there's really no case against you.
Do you drive people away by the mere fact that you have a blog? I say no. Chances are, most of the people in your life aren't interesting enough to write about in the first place, thereby ensuring their own protection from the blogosphere. On dates, I can think of many, many things more important to talk about than how you spend your free time on the internet. "Oh, you're into porn? I have a blog!" I'd much rather know if there is a felony conviction for anything in my date's past, or how many children they've sired out of wedlock, or their status of gainful employment. I strongly believe it is my apparently unattainable requirements of men that keeps me single, not my blog.
Finally comes the one unassailable fact of blogging about dates: If they show up in your blog, they did something very deserving. I don't blog about the men I've just not had a connection with. But the men who ask me on our first phone call if I'm bad in bed, or if I'm into being spanked...welcome to your fifteen minutes of fame.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Death by proximity
Grandma is getting old. Scratch that - Grandma was born old. But she's getting even older, to the point where her continued status of "living" defies medical explanation. The normal person's aorta is 3-4 cm in diameter. Grandma's is point-six. I rest my case.
Mom and Doug (dad) are going away on a month-long RV trip on Labor Day. I'm really excited for them. They always have a great time, despite the understandable nerves over a monthlong uprooting.
This year, I'm a bit nervous that they're leaving. Given Grandma's medical state, plus observable decline in the past month, chances are more than negligible that she'll kick it while they're gone.
Oddly enough, that possibility is not what's bothering me about them leaving. My parents are getting older, too. With them gone a whole month and Grandma with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, I'm being forced to glimpse reality:
Someday, I will have to live without my parents.
They're my emotional support, my peanut gallery, my cheering section.
I don't have many friends - none my age, for sure. And I don't have a boyfriend. If driving men away was an Olympic sport, you're looking at the Michael Phelps of Singledom.
I'm really not that lonely. I've got too many hobbies to count, and I am truly happy. But we all need a person. I'm not positive that my being alone later in life will be a problem, just like I'm not positive that I'll actually still be alone and able to park in the middle of my garage.
I guess it's just one of those things. You know it's there, you can't do a thing about it, but its true impact on your life depends on how you perceive it.
Mom and Doug (dad) are going away on a month-long RV trip on Labor Day. I'm really excited for them. They always have a great time, despite the understandable nerves over a monthlong uprooting.
This year, I'm a bit nervous that they're leaving. Given Grandma's medical state, plus observable decline in the past month, chances are more than negligible that she'll kick it while they're gone.
Oddly enough, that possibility is not what's bothering me about them leaving. My parents are getting older, too. With them gone a whole month and Grandma with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, I'm being forced to glimpse reality:
Someday, I will have to live without my parents.
They're my emotional support, my peanut gallery, my cheering section.
I don't have many friends - none my age, for sure. And I don't have a boyfriend. If driving men away was an Olympic sport, you're looking at the Michael Phelps of Singledom.
I'm really not that lonely. I've got too many hobbies to count, and I am truly happy. But we all need a person. I'm not positive that my being alone later in life will be a problem, just like I'm not positive that I'll actually still be alone and able to park in the middle of my garage.
I guess it's just one of those things. You know it's there, you can't do a thing about it, but its true impact on your life depends on how you perceive it.
I'm baaaack...
I'm sure I have no followers anymore after having taken such a long hiatus from posting. I have really great excuses though, so buckle your seatbelt, here they come:
1) The Portland Willamette Writer's Conference was the first week of August, and I took most of July to fine-tune my books and to obsess about the conference. When I'm in obsess mode, there's little room for anything else.
2) I got some great feedback on my books, and I got a request to see a full manuscript of my spy-thriller novel! How awesome. So I was taking my time with submitting the manuscript so that I could incorporate the great ideas and direction I got from my manuscript reader. I got home from Portland, thinking, "Hey, no big deal! He just suggested I fix this...and that...and that..." and one hundred pages of changes later...
3)...I had surprise neck surgery. I had this lump in my neck that was growing like the mushrooms in my front lawn. When I started having trouble swallowing, I gave in and went to the doctor. People might think that former cancer patients probably go to the doctor a lot - and that may be. But for me, I need to be bleeding out of an unusual orifice, eye, nostril, etc. before I'll make an appointment with my doctor. He's a great guy, don't get me wrong. He expressed jealousy of me once that I have the time to read things like "Anna Karenina." I wanted to bring him a Cliff Notes copy of it at my next appointment, but wasn't sure if he would think it was funny or not.
That being, I'm back, and I hope you enjoy my postings : )
Katie
1) The Portland Willamette Writer's Conference was the first week of August, and I took most of July to fine-tune my books and to obsess about the conference. When I'm in obsess mode, there's little room for anything else.
2) I got some great feedback on my books, and I got a request to see a full manuscript of my spy-thriller novel! How awesome. So I was taking my time with submitting the manuscript so that I could incorporate the great ideas and direction I got from my manuscript reader. I got home from Portland, thinking, "Hey, no big deal! He just suggested I fix this...and that...and that..." and one hundred pages of changes later...
3)...I had surprise neck surgery. I had this lump in my neck that was growing like the mushrooms in my front lawn. When I started having trouble swallowing, I gave in and went to the doctor. People might think that former cancer patients probably go to the doctor a lot - and that may be. But for me, I need to be bleeding out of an unusual orifice, eye, nostril, etc. before I'll make an appointment with my doctor. He's a great guy, don't get me wrong. He expressed jealousy of me once that I have the time to read things like "Anna Karenina." I wanted to bring him a Cliff Notes copy of it at my next appointment, but wasn't sure if he would think it was funny or not.
That being, I'm back, and I hope you enjoy my postings : )
Katie
Saturday, June 27, 2009
I love Google
Google is great. Since the pledge of allegiance no longer has "Under God" in it, I think we should put in "under Google." Everyone can agree in the search engine's supremacy, and our lives would be severely one-dimensional without it.
One of the things I love best about Google is its autopopulate feature. Type in "Michael" and Google will automatically try to guess what you're thinking. "Jordan? Jackson? McDonald? Myers?"
Sometimes, the results list is quite comical. I'm working on a book, for which I needed to know how long it normally takes for police to get a DNA test back from the lab. I know CSI time is a bit accelerated, so I turned to Google. "How long" I typed in. And the most searched question starting with "How long" autopopulated: "How long does pot stay in your system?"
Have you ever checked medical symptoms online? Perhaps that persistant scratch in between your shoulder blades is a bizarre tropical disease not yet seen this side of the equator. You type in, "Symptoms of" and you will get this for an autopopulated answer: "Symptoms of Pregnancy." I already knew the answer to that one - nine months after you start noticing something is different with your body, a baby falls out.
I googled "What is", just in case those looking for symptoms of pregnancy need to look for the definition of "baby." The first thing that came up under "What is" is "What is Twitter?" Two or three entries down the list, we have, "What is Love?"
If Google can answer "What is Love?", then maybe Google really might be an all-seeing, all-knowing supreme being.
One of the things I love best about Google is its autopopulate feature. Type in "Michael" and Google will automatically try to guess what you're thinking. "Jordan? Jackson? McDonald? Myers?"
Sometimes, the results list is quite comical. I'm working on a book, for which I needed to know how long it normally takes for police to get a DNA test back from the lab. I know CSI time is a bit accelerated, so I turned to Google. "How long" I typed in. And the most searched question starting with "How long" autopopulated: "How long does pot stay in your system?"
Have you ever checked medical symptoms online? Perhaps that persistant scratch in between your shoulder blades is a bizarre tropical disease not yet seen this side of the equator. You type in, "Symptoms of" and you will get this for an autopopulated answer: "Symptoms of Pregnancy." I already knew the answer to that one - nine months after you start noticing something is different with your body, a baby falls out.
I googled "What is", just in case those looking for symptoms of pregnancy need to look for the definition of "baby." The first thing that came up under "What is" is "What is Twitter?" Two or three entries down the list, we have, "What is Love?"
If Google can answer "What is Love?", then maybe Google really might be an all-seeing, all-knowing supreme being.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Trying to look on the bright side...
So I just had my very first annual review at my job. I got dinged a little for being kind of negative. Of course, what they saw as being negative, I saw as being truthful, but I suppose that's beside the point.
I guess I am a little negative. For example, I have already gone on two more first-and-last dates this month. For the life of me, I don't understand why acting nervously hyper, as if I'm a meth addict, is such an immediate turn-off for guys.
My appearance isn't what I would like it to be - Jennifer Garner, without taking any extra time in the mornings for makeup and whatnot.
I'm worried that my books won't do jack crap this August, and I'll be left with 400 pages of manuscript, many hours of work, and no validation to show for it.
I want cake. This weekend, being both father's day and my mom's birthday, served as a double-whammy to my inability to eat regular flours.
But here I am, turning over a new leaf:
1) It's okay that I can't get a second date! I might be expected to pay for that one. Saves time, saves money!
2) It's okay that my appearance is so-so...this red zit on the end of my nose is actually kind of nice. Reminds me that there's only 6 more months until Christmas! Yay!
3) It's okay that my books might not get sold. (I'm hesitating here, trying to think of a reason why it might be okay.) Oh! I've got one!...false alarm.
4) There's always gluten-free cookie dough. And it's so darned expensive, it acts as built-in portion control.
This positivity is tiring me out. Kind of like how lying is tiresome. The truth may be ugly, and it may seem negative, but I find I don't usually have to look for truth - when I can't find it, that usually means I'm looking around it, or right through it.
I guess I am a little negative. For example, I have already gone on two more first-and-last dates this month. For the life of me, I don't understand why acting nervously hyper, as if I'm a meth addict, is such an immediate turn-off for guys.
My appearance isn't what I would like it to be - Jennifer Garner, without taking any extra time in the mornings for makeup and whatnot.
I'm worried that my books won't do jack crap this August, and I'll be left with 400 pages of manuscript, many hours of work, and no validation to show for it.
I want cake. This weekend, being both father's day and my mom's birthday, served as a double-whammy to my inability to eat regular flours.
But here I am, turning over a new leaf:
1) It's okay that I can't get a second date! I might be expected to pay for that one. Saves time, saves money!
2) It's okay that my appearance is so-so...this red zit on the end of my nose is actually kind of nice. Reminds me that there's only 6 more months until Christmas! Yay!
3) It's okay that my books might not get sold. (I'm hesitating here, trying to think of a reason why it might be okay.) Oh! I've got one!...false alarm.
4) There's always gluten-free cookie dough. And it's so darned expensive, it acts as built-in portion control.
This positivity is tiring me out. Kind of like how lying is tiresome. The truth may be ugly, and it may seem negative, but I find I don't usually have to look for truth - when I can't find it, that usually means I'm looking around it, or right through it.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Caution - Hope Ahead
Do you ever find yourself on a precipice - Do I jump? Do I stay on the sideline, assuring safety, but denying possible exhilaration?
I find it interesting, the things we'll "jump" over, and the things that keep us on the sideline.
An ex-boyfriend of mine emailed me out of the blue yesterday, wanting to get together for a playdate with our dachshunds. I didn't really want to, as his dog is a titch aggressive.
I politely declined. I was proud of myself for being polite. After all, he did dump me by saying, "Now that my confidence is up, I'd like to see what else is out there."
He wrote back, and said, "Fine, ignore my attempts! : )"
Attempts? Does this mean he might want to start hanging out again? I felt a flutter of anticipation.
Wait a sec, my reasoning told me. This guy is the biggest commitment-phobe since David Letterman. Don't get your hopes up - it'll only lead to disappointment.
I emailed him back, and asked if Saturday or Sunday worked best for him.
Several hours passed with no communication. Then, I got an email - "I don't know what day. I have a headache and am not thinking clearly."
He has a headache. Well, I suppose everyone has to be told that at least once in their life. Hopefully this got mine over with. I knew that was going to happen! Why was I so eager to send myself tumbling over that cliff?
And yet I'm working like a crazy person, trying to finish and perfect my second book for an agent conference this August. I'm petrified, afraid to hope for the outrageous good luck of getting an agent (and subsequent book deal). I sneak a peek into that canyon once in awhile (okay, several times a day) but I won't step off the ledge into unbridled hope.
At first glance, this makes me look like a raging pessimist. But, giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I think my attempts at finding companionship, and my unwillingness to wish too hard for success, is my soul's way of protecting me - It's okay to throw caution to the wind with things, and people, I don't really need, but when it comes to a dream that makes me bite my lip with anticipation, caution is my insurance policy for being able to wake up every morning without validation of my writing talent.
I find it interesting, the things we'll "jump" over, and the things that keep us on the sideline.
An ex-boyfriend of mine emailed me out of the blue yesterday, wanting to get together for a playdate with our dachshunds. I didn't really want to, as his dog is a titch aggressive.
I politely declined. I was proud of myself for being polite. After all, he did dump me by saying, "Now that my confidence is up, I'd like to see what else is out there."
He wrote back, and said, "Fine, ignore my attempts! : )"
Attempts? Does this mean he might want to start hanging out again? I felt a flutter of anticipation.
Wait a sec, my reasoning told me. This guy is the biggest commitment-phobe since David Letterman. Don't get your hopes up - it'll only lead to disappointment.
I emailed him back, and asked if Saturday or Sunday worked best for him.
Several hours passed with no communication. Then, I got an email - "I don't know what day. I have a headache and am not thinking clearly."
He has a headache. Well, I suppose everyone has to be told that at least once in their life. Hopefully this got mine over with. I knew that was going to happen! Why was I so eager to send myself tumbling over that cliff?
And yet I'm working like a crazy person, trying to finish and perfect my second book for an agent conference this August. I'm petrified, afraid to hope for the outrageous good luck of getting an agent (and subsequent book deal). I sneak a peek into that canyon once in awhile (okay, several times a day) but I won't step off the ledge into unbridled hope.
At first glance, this makes me look like a raging pessimist. But, giving myself the benefit of the doubt, I think my attempts at finding companionship, and my unwillingness to wish too hard for success, is my soul's way of protecting me - It's okay to throw caution to the wind with things, and people, I don't really need, but when it comes to a dream that makes me bite my lip with anticipation, caution is my insurance policy for being able to wake up every morning without validation of my writing talent.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Yay for drugs.
Drugs are good. The prescribed kind. I have too much of a guilty conscience to enjoy doing drugs that I wasn't told to do. I am in a fair amount of pain at the moment from my knee surgery, but...I don't care! I don't care to the point where I have no idea how I got through my last three years of college doped up on Oxycontin.
Drugs are my favorite part of surgery. There's really not much about surgery that would qualify as "favorite," so it's kind of like an 87 year old man winning his age group in a five-kilometer road race. (You should see how annoyed my Grandpa gets when he doesn't win his age group. "Shannon? What kind of a name is "Shannon"? Do you know any old people with that name? No. I bet the person said they were older than they really were just so they could win a medal.")
But Mom raised me to see the silver lining in everything, so stay with me here.
I love the 'going to sleep' part of surgery. It's wonderful - kind of like crawling into bed, knowing that no one will expect you to get out of bed and do something silly and wasteful of your time like putting on clothes other than pajamas, for like, WEEKS. It's great. And when you wake up, sometimes you're still a little groggy, like getting to relive a dream you had starring yourself and Matt Damon.
Granted, there are exceptions to that. After my knee replacement surgery, I cracked my eyes open, and before I could even have a conscious thought, I was bawling in agony. I have an incredibly high pain tolerance, so I have to wonder if my doctor bothered to put any pain meds in the IV drip while I was out or not. I was such a mess that even the post op nurse came to my hospital room a couple of days later to make sure I was okay!
But after this teeny tiny knee surgery I just had, I was in no pain for about 24 hours. I was chit chattering away with the post op nurse - "so, how long have you been working here? Do you enjoy it?" etc. And then, for the first time in my 25 or so times of going under anesthesia, I had a reaction to the drugs. I interrupted myself and said, "I'm getting really REALLY cold..." and I proceeded to shiver and convulse for about 3 hours. The nurse put warm blanket after warm blanket on top of me, and wrapped one around my head.
"This is GREAT!" I said to her. "Now I can go to Iran and not be arrested."
I harbor no illusions that this knee surgery "did the trick", as my doctor thinks it did. I'll give it a few months, but I'm turning into a bit of a pessimist where my body is concerned. I'll never be "done", or "fixed" to where I'm not in some kind of pain. But, as long as there's enough Oxycontin to go around, I have no idea what I'm complaining about.
Drugs are my favorite part of surgery. There's really not much about surgery that would qualify as "favorite," so it's kind of like an 87 year old man winning his age group in a five-kilometer road race. (You should see how annoyed my Grandpa gets when he doesn't win his age group. "Shannon? What kind of a name is "Shannon"? Do you know any old people with that name? No. I bet the person said they were older than they really were just so they could win a medal.")
But Mom raised me to see the silver lining in everything, so stay with me here.
I love the 'going to sleep' part of surgery. It's wonderful - kind of like crawling into bed, knowing that no one will expect you to get out of bed and do something silly and wasteful of your time like putting on clothes other than pajamas, for like, WEEKS. It's great. And when you wake up, sometimes you're still a little groggy, like getting to relive a dream you had starring yourself and Matt Damon.
Granted, there are exceptions to that. After my knee replacement surgery, I cracked my eyes open, and before I could even have a conscious thought, I was bawling in agony. I have an incredibly high pain tolerance, so I have to wonder if my doctor bothered to put any pain meds in the IV drip while I was out or not. I was such a mess that even the post op nurse came to my hospital room a couple of days later to make sure I was okay!
But after this teeny tiny knee surgery I just had, I was in no pain for about 24 hours. I was chit chattering away with the post op nurse - "so, how long have you been working here? Do you enjoy it?" etc. And then, for the first time in my 25 or so times of going under anesthesia, I had a reaction to the drugs. I interrupted myself and said, "I'm getting really REALLY cold..." and I proceeded to shiver and convulse for about 3 hours. The nurse put warm blanket after warm blanket on top of me, and wrapped one around my head.
"This is GREAT!" I said to her. "Now I can go to Iran and not be arrested."
I harbor no illusions that this knee surgery "did the trick", as my doctor thinks it did. I'll give it a few months, but I'm turning into a bit of a pessimist where my body is concerned. I'll never be "done", or "fixed" to where I'm not in some kind of pain. But, as long as there's enough Oxycontin to go around, I have no idea what I'm complaining about.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Leg--o-land
Tomorrow is my left knee's third surgery. I am actually looking forward to it. My doctor is a bit...conservative to respond to the fact that my knee joint is dying and the bones are crumbling into themselves, kind of like that one time I made pizza and forgot it was in the oven and it was like those charcoal snake pellets you buy on the Fourth of July and light on fire and they expand into a snake that crushes into powder. Like that.
I'm also kind of looking forward to it because it's a week off of work, and relatively speaking, not too uncomfortable. Not like a knee replacement, which I am fairly sure will be surgery number 4. Oddly enough, what I dislike most about joint replacement surgeries is that they shave your leg or wherever WHILE YOU'RE AWAKE, and you usually wake up with a Foley catheter to drain your pee. That's all well and good, but it's not real fun when they take it out. So what would I prefer, not having one in at all? My last joint replacement, that is exactly what happened - and I was in too much pain to want to get up to go to the bathroom as often as a constant IV drip of fluids necessitated. Bedpans aren't real fun either. I'm never happy, am I!
I've got my book that I'm working on, a ton of paperbacks from friends, and my dad hooked a DVD player up to the TV in my room. I'm all stocked up on gluten-free food so mom won't have to cook anything weird for me. I shaved my OWN knee very, very well this morning, so I am good to go! I just hope that the furry fuzzybutts that I let live with me show some restraint when jumping all over me in the middle of the night.
I'm also kind of looking forward to it because it's a week off of work, and relatively speaking, not too uncomfortable. Not like a knee replacement, which I am fairly sure will be surgery number 4. Oddly enough, what I dislike most about joint replacement surgeries is that they shave your leg or wherever WHILE YOU'RE AWAKE, and you usually wake up with a Foley catheter to drain your pee. That's all well and good, but it's not real fun when they take it out. So what would I prefer, not having one in at all? My last joint replacement, that is exactly what happened - and I was in too much pain to want to get up to go to the bathroom as often as a constant IV drip of fluids necessitated. Bedpans aren't real fun either. I'm never happy, am I!
I've got my book that I'm working on, a ton of paperbacks from friends, and my dad hooked a DVD player up to the TV in my room. I'm all stocked up on gluten-free food so mom won't have to cook anything weird for me. I shaved my OWN knee very, very well this morning, so I am good to go! I just hope that the furry fuzzybutts that I let live with me show some restraint when jumping all over me in the middle of the night.
Monday, May 25, 2009
I forgot what I was supposed to remember...
Today is Memorial Day. I'm not really sure what that means. It's a day off from work. It's a day to putter around the yard. It's the beginning of summer. It's a day to remember fallen soldiers. It's a day to remember deceased loved ones.
So why is it that everyone puts flowers on graves on Memorial Day? I am beginning to find this holiday as disgusting as Valentine's Day. You shouldn't need a calendar to remind you to make sure significant people in your life feel loved. Likewise, you shouldn't need size 8 font on a calendar to remind you to miss the ones you lost. Of course we miss those we lost. Are we really that busy and that overwhelmed by daily routines?
I miss my dad. My mom misses my dad. And the more we miss my dad, the more we love Doug, my stepdad. We are so damn lucky to have him in our lives. He makes pain become bearable, he makes funny become hilarious, and he makes our family strong. I had a fleeting thought that this Memorial Day I really should go see my dad's grave. But I heard my dad's voice - he told me that the best way to remember my dad is to go BE with my dad, Doug.
I drive past a cemetery each morning on my way to work. This winter, the grassy plots were a smorgasbord for deer. Fifty would gather each evening at dusk and munch away on the tufts of grass poking through the snow. This spring, the cemetery was once again deserted, save for a car that ostensibly belongs to the caretaker.
As I passed this morning, there was not a parking space to be seen. It was as if there was a wedding going on inside the chapel. I'm sure that this reason for gathering at loved ones' graves made people feel whole, as if they were doing right by their memories. I can't help it. It feels wrong. And this wrongness will only intensify as the summer wears on and the flowers fade, then wilt, with only an empty parking lot as witness.
So why is it that everyone puts flowers on graves on Memorial Day? I am beginning to find this holiday as disgusting as Valentine's Day. You shouldn't need a calendar to remind you to make sure significant people in your life feel loved. Likewise, you shouldn't need size 8 font on a calendar to remind you to miss the ones you lost. Of course we miss those we lost. Are we really that busy and that overwhelmed by daily routines?
I miss my dad. My mom misses my dad. And the more we miss my dad, the more we love Doug, my stepdad. We are so damn lucky to have him in our lives. He makes pain become bearable, he makes funny become hilarious, and he makes our family strong. I had a fleeting thought that this Memorial Day I really should go see my dad's grave. But I heard my dad's voice - he told me that the best way to remember my dad is to go BE with my dad, Doug.
I drive past a cemetery each morning on my way to work. This winter, the grassy plots were a smorgasbord for deer. Fifty would gather each evening at dusk and munch away on the tufts of grass poking through the snow. This spring, the cemetery was once again deserted, save for a car that ostensibly belongs to the caretaker.
As I passed this morning, there was not a parking space to be seen. It was as if there was a wedding going on inside the chapel. I'm sure that this reason for gathering at loved ones' graves made people feel whole, as if they were doing right by their memories. I can't help it. It feels wrong. And this wrongness will only intensify as the summer wears on and the flowers fade, then wilt, with only an empty parking lot as witness.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The Church of Walmart
I am not a fan of wasting time. I take that back. I am a fan of wasting time when "wasting time" is the activity currently being engaged in. Not when it is a by-product of procrastination or distraction. Thus, I decided to jam my Walmart shopping into my morning before I was due at work.
I took the freeway, and wagered that I'd be able to get into the far left lane of the street I needed to be on from a right lane freeway exit. This is why I am not a world-class poker champion. I missed my turn. I pulled into a parking lot just beyond Walmart Boulevard, and made to turn around. Again, no luck - cars were streaming in after me. What the...? I had to go with the flow. The flow led me into a church parking lot. I drove through the lot, and lo and behold, was right next to Walmart! There is a God.
A trip to Walmart always takes longer than one thinks it will. I arrived at work five minutes late (for me, that's a big deal) and $100 poorer. A lot of that money was spent on produce. Produce is expensive. Produce has the shelf-life of a housefly. Why does society get all over lower-income people for eating processed foods and convenience foods? Convenience foods are convenient, yes, but they are cheap. They don't have white mold on them by the time you get them home and into your refrigerator's veggie drawer.
I propose a scientific study on the use of produce. It's not like science studies anything of more value - "Scientists find that eating four pounds of blueberries per day lowers your risk of cancer 2%." Of course it does. You'll have already died from blueberry toxicity.
I am willing to wager that it is actually MORE cost effective to eat 50% convenience/prepared/packaged foods and 50% home-made foods than it is to eat 100% home made OR 100% convenience foods. In the interim, I'll save the money I spend on hyperripe produce by collecting the mold. Grandma's getting some homemade pencillin for Christmas this year!
I took the freeway, and wagered that I'd be able to get into the far left lane of the street I needed to be on from a right lane freeway exit. This is why I am not a world-class poker champion. I missed my turn. I pulled into a parking lot just beyond Walmart Boulevard, and made to turn around. Again, no luck - cars were streaming in after me. What the...? I had to go with the flow. The flow led me into a church parking lot. I drove through the lot, and lo and behold, was right next to Walmart! There is a God.
A trip to Walmart always takes longer than one thinks it will. I arrived at work five minutes late (for me, that's a big deal) and $100 poorer. A lot of that money was spent on produce. Produce is expensive. Produce has the shelf-life of a housefly. Why does society get all over lower-income people for eating processed foods and convenience foods? Convenience foods are convenient, yes, but they are cheap. They don't have white mold on them by the time you get them home and into your refrigerator's veggie drawer.
I propose a scientific study on the use of produce. It's not like science studies anything of more value - "Scientists find that eating four pounds of blueberries per day lowers your risk of cancer 2%." Of course it does. You'll have already died from blueberry toxicity.
I am willing to wager that it is actually MORE cost effective to eat 50% convenience/prepared/packaged foods and 50% home-made foods than it is to eat 100% home made OR 100% convenience foods. In the interim, I'll save the money I spend on hyperripe produce by collecting the mold. Grandma's getting some homemade pencillin for Christmas this year!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Don't try this at home. Or at work.
I was feeling lazy this morning. Nothing new about that, only this laziness translated into "I have no idea what to pack myself for lunch so I'll grab a rice noodle bowl."
This afternoon, my stomach started growling. Lunchtime.
I go into the lunch room with my noodle bowl, peel off the top, fill with water, and stick it into the microwave for three minutes.
I'm standing there, reading a Southern Living Magazine, wondering if they could possibly put any more fat content into their recipes, when I smelled something funny. Very...seasoning like. The realization hits me.
I rush over to the microwave and slap at the door release. It swings open. 40 seconds left on the timer. I pull out my noodles, and look into the bowl.
Floating on top of my noodles is a congealed glob of tin foil, leaking seasoning into my soup. Sure enough, I forgot to take the seasoning out of the pouch.
On the bright side, I didn't start a fire by microwaving foil. Blessedly, actually, as our office manager is very...serious about her role, and would have undoubtedly made me buy a new microwave. One three times more expensive than the existing one, no doubt.
On the not-so-bright side, I am eating bland, partially cooked noodles, wondering if my coworkers will get MY hospital chart in the morning for our daily data entry: "Patient admitted to ER with gastrointestinal bleed. She was trying to cook top ramen and forgot to remove the foil packet. Bleed is due to consuming shreds of partially melted foil."
This afternoon, my stomach started growling. Lunchtime.
I go into the lunch room with my noodle bowl, peel off the top, fill with water, and stick it into the microwave for three minutes.
I'm standing there, reading a Southern Living Magazine, wondering if they could possibly put any more fat content into their recipes, when I smelled something funny. Very...seasoning like. The realization hits me.
I rush over to the microwave and slap at the door release. It swings open. 40 seconds left on the timer. I pull out my noodles, and look into the bowl.
Floating on top of my noodles is a congealed glob of tin foil, leaking seasoning into my soup. Sure enough, I forgot to take the seasoning out of the pouch.
On the bright side, I didn't start a fire by microwaving foil. Blessedly, actually, as our office manager is very...serious about her role, and would have undoubtedly made me buy a new microwave. One three times more expensive than the existing one, no doubt.
On the not-so-bright side, I am eating bland, partially cooked noodles, wondering if my coworkers will get MY hospital chart in the morning for our daily data entry: "Patient admitted to ER with gastrointestinal bleed. She was trying to cook top ramen and forgot to remove the foil packet. Bleed is due to consuming shreds of partially melted foil."
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Mother Goose, she is not.
My grandmother is 90. She thinks this is unfair, as if she is better than age. It is okay that time cripples those around her, but unspeakably awful when another prescription is added to the three medications she already takes. She has aortic stenosis (a hardening of the pipe leading into her heart - irony of ironies), and was given six months to live, six months ago. She is on borrowed time. Unfortunately, her awareness of this focuses and then dissipates, kind of like Alzheimer's. One day she's grateful for all she has been blessed with in life, and the next day, she turns back into herself.
On her "off" days, when she's not feeling especially well, she gets nicer. Mom, Doug, and I have been discussing the possibility of her needing to move soon, into an assisted living, or...perhaps in with me. She would benefit from a little extra help, tying her shoes in the morning, making her bed (which is stupid, as she gets up at 8 and takes her first nap of the day at 10), and with some meal preparation. She complains incessantly about the food at her retirement home. She complains incessantly about the other people that live there.
"I swear, she's just so lazy! She forgets everything!"
"She's not lazy," mom tries to explain. "She's ill."
"Well, whatever. Her elevator certainly doesn't go to the top floor anymore, that's for sure."
Bottom line, Grandma is afraid to die alone. Understandable. When she feels well, it is also understandable as to why that might just happen.
"I just can't stand the housekeepers where I live."
"Why not?" my mom asks, paying more attention to washing the dishes than to her griping mother.
"This girl. Ugh. She vaccuumed her way INTO my apartment. The other girl, she starts in the closet and vaccums her way OUT of the apartment."
My mom narrowed her eyes at grandma. "I don't see what difference that makes..."
Grandma sighed. "I suppose it doesn't make any difference. It's just...I like it done the other way. And the refrigerator door! She started to leave my apartment, and I said, 'Aren't you going to wipe down the door of the refrigerator?' She looked at me like it was the rudest request."
I said, "Maybe if you had asked her nicer, Grandma."
Grandma said, "I did! What do you call, 'Aren't you going to wipe down the door of the refrigerator?'"
I looked at Mom and said one word.
"No."
We'll reevaluate Grandma's living situation when and if she gets a little more consistent with her "off" days and is thus possible to be around for extended periods of time. In the interim, she wants one of those "Life Alert" things. She signed a DNR, so I have no idea why she wants one. I suggested to mom that she just rig up a necklace with a garage door opener on it - Grandma would never know the difference.
On her "off" days, when she's not feeling especially well, she gets nicer. Mom, Doug, and I have been discussing the possibility of her needing to move soon, into an assisted living, or...perhaps in with me. She would benefit from a little extra help, tying her shoes in the morning, making her bed (which is stupid, as she gets up at 8 and takes her first nap of the day at 10), and with some meal preparation. She complains incessantly about the food at her retirement home. She complains incessantly about the other people that live there.
"I swear, she's just so lazy! She forgets everything!"
"She's not lazy," mom tries to explain. "She's ill."
"Well, whatever. Her elevator certainly doesn't go to the top floor anymore, that's for sure."
Bottom line, Grandma is afraid to die alone. Understandable. When she feels well, it is also understandable as to why that might just happen.
"I just can't stand the housekeepers where I live."
"Why not?" my mom asks, paying more attention to washing the dishes than to her griping mother.
"This girl. Ugh. She vaccuumed her way INTO my apartment. The other girl, she starts in the closet and vaccums her way OUT of the apartment."
My mom narrowed her eyes at grandma. "I don't see what difference that makes..."
Grandma sighed. "I suppose it doesn't make any difference. It's just...I like it done the other way. And the refrigerator door! She started to leave my apartment, and I said, 'Aren't you going to wipe down the door of the refrigerator?' She looked at me like it was the rudest request."
I said, "Maybe if you had asked her nicer, Grandma."
Grandma said, "I did! What do you call, 'Aren't you going to wipe down the door of the refrigerator?'"
I looked at Mom and said one word.
"No."
We'll reevaluate Grandma's living situation when and if she gets a little more consistent with her "off" days and is thus possible to be around for extended periods of time. In the interim, she wants one of those "Life Alert" things. She signed a DNR, so I have no idea why she wants one. I suggested to mom that she just rig up a necklace with a garage door opener on it - Grandma would never know the difference.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Graduation Day
I have officially retired from school. I graduated today with my Masters in Communication and Leadership. Mom, Doug, Grandma, PseudoMom Sandy, WorkMom Annette, and Grandpa were all on hand to see the result of $17,000 worth of debt.
The weather was extraordinary! I don't usually get all that excited about weather. WorkMom Annette has The Weather Channel dot com "favorited" on her work computer. Um, lame. : ) But this was a day. Blue sky, temperate, hardly a cloud in the sky, and everyone happy and carefree. It was like Woodstock, only without the drugs, sex, mud, and music.
Two people I had gone to high school with also received their Masters today. It was really nice actually; it kind of felt like I had finally "caught up" with where I might have been anyway had I not gotten sick. I know the reality - I am far beyond where I would have been had that not happened, pragmatically, emotionally, and spiritually. But it's always nice having reality presented to you in unassailable fact - especially when that fact is you have done good. You have done right by your parents, right by your community, right by yourself.
I'm sure as heck not going for my doctorate, although Grandpa only seems to brave the tundra of the Northwest to see me graduate from something. I told him I would have to go to jail, so that he could come see me graduate from parole. Cue crickets chirping.
What IS next, though? I've got some huge aspirations for my writing career. I know it's a really long shot that it'll come to fruition, but, had you asked me nine years ago if I was going to have a Masters...talk about a long shot.
"If you don't dream big, what's the point of dreaming?"-David Cook
The weather was extraordinary! I don't usually get all that excited about weather. WorkMom Annette has The Weather Channel dot com "favorited" on her work computer. Um, lame. : ) But this was a day. Blue sky, temperate, hardly a cloud in the sky, and everyone happy and carefree. It was like Woodstock, only without the drugs, sex, mud, and music.
Two people I had gone to high school with also received their Masters today. It was really nice actually; it kind of felt like I had finally "caught up" with where I might have been anyway had I not gotten sick. I know the reality - I am far beyond where I would have been had that not happened, pragmatically, emotionally, and spiritually. But it's always nice having reality presented to you in unassailable fact - especially when that fact is you have done good. You have done right by your parents, right by your community, right by yourself.
I'm sure as heck not going for my doctorate, although Grandpa only seems to brave the tundra of the Northwest to see me graduate from something. I told him I would have to go to jail, so that he could come see me graduate from parole. Cue crickets chirping.
What IS next, though? I've got some huge aspirations for my writing career. I know it's a really long shot that it'll come to fruition, but, had you asked me nine years ago if I was going to have a Masters...talk about a long shot.
"If you don't dream big, what's the point of dreaming?"-David Cook
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Mishmash
1) why has there been a broom sweep in the middle of one of the major highways in Spokane for the past two weeks? It migrates nowhere, still about three feet to the right of the center line.
2) I have a friend who told me a story about being mugged in front of a meditation clinic.
3) I was talking about serial killers today, and a coworker said, "c-e-r-e-a-l killers?" I said, "yeah, like Fruit Loops," and pretended to loop a noose around my neck. It is shocking how many cereals you can create a murder weapon or motive with.
4) I really don't like the readerboard in front of a store along the highway that says, "if coconut oil comes from coconuts, where does baby oil come from?"
5) Sometimes it's kind of embarrassing what your Facebook "friends" post on their own pages.
2) I have a friend who told me a story about being mugged in front of a meditation clinic.
3) I was talking about serial killers today, and a coworker said, "c-e-r-e-a-l killers?" I said, "yeah, like Fruit Loops," and pretended to loop a noose around my neck. It is shocking how many cereals you can create a murder weapon or motive with.
4) I really don't like the readerboard in front of a store along the highway that says, "if coconut oil comes from coconuts, where does baby oil come from?"
5) Sometimes it's kind of embarrassing what your Facebook "friends" post on their own pages.
Monday, May 4, 2009
I must really hate my money
I've tried internet dating sites several times in the past few years. I don't suppose that the horror stories from internet dating are any worse than those from regular dating, but not having the (mis?)fortune to be asked out on regular dates, I wouldn't know.
The Great Give-Up of 2008 ended when a guy I had dated for several months dumped me. His breakup line? "Now that I have more confidence, I'd like to see what else is out there." Ouch. The guy before, it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize he was trying to dump me when he would end every chit-chatty conversation with, "Yeah, well, keep in touch."
Maybe things have changed Out There. Maybe living on my own, working full time, all Master-degreed makes me a more suitable mate for the guys I set my sights on (as opposed to those I acquiesce to. Oh come on, we've all had those).
I spent $101 for a 6 month match.com subscription, with the guarantee that if I don't find someone special within six months, my next six months are free. Given that and my track record, $101 for 12 months isn't a bad deal.
I've emailed with a couple of guys so far. One I sent a really nice, "It was great getting to know you but I don't think we have enough in common" email. I got back a bitchy, "I thought we had a lot in common. Guess not. Guess I'll stop emailing you." Yes, that would be the point. Thank you.
And I've spoken to two guys on the phone. One guy was probably very nice, just a little too quiet for my tastes. When people are quiet around me, I feel that I've bored them into a coma. I try to avoid feeling like that. The other guy was doing okay, coasting along in the conversation, and then he lit himself on fire and torpedoed into the depths of my dialtone.
"So why haven't you had any long term relationships?" He asked me.
"Um, I dunno. Haven't met the right person, I guess!" I was trying to be all light and fun, not serious and weird, on the first phone conversation.
"No, seriously. Why haven't you?"
"Geez. Um, I don't know. I don't care a whole lot about my physical appearance - I make sure I'm presentable and that's about it."
"That could be the problem."
wow.
"Yeah. Maybe that's it."
"Are you bad in bed?"
"Excuse me?!"
"Are you bad in bed? If you're bad in bed, that could definitely be why you haven't had any long term relationships."
I wish I could say I ended the conversation right then and there. I was searching for a polite out, which surprises me, as asking me about my bedroom prowess wasn't exactly polite in the first place. But as my mom always told me, two wrongs don't make a right. So, I politely got off the phone.
I don't know what I want. Is it so wrong to be looking anyway?
The Great Give-Up of 2008 ended when a guy I had dated for several months dumped me. His breakup line? "Now that I have more confidence, I'd like to see what else is out there." Ouch. The guy before, it took me an embarrassingly long time to realize he was trying to dump me when he would end every chit-chatty conversation with, "Yeah, well, keep in touch."
Maybe things have changed Out There. Maybe living on my own, working full time, all Master-degreed makes me a more suitable mate for the guys I set my sights on (as opposed to those I acquiesce to. Oh come on, we've all had those).
I spent $101 for a 6 month match.com subscription, with the guarantee that if I don't find someone special within six months, my next six months are free. Given that and my track record, $101 for 12 months isn't a bad deal.
I've emailed with a couple of guys so far. One I sent a really nice, "It was great getting to know you but I don't think we have enough in common" email. I got back a bitchy, "I thought we had a lot in common. Guess not. Guess I'll stop emailing you." Yes, that would be the point. Thank you.
And I've spoken to two guys on the phone. One guy was probably very nice, just a little too quiet for my tastes. When people are quiet around me, I feel that I've bored them into a coma. I try to avoid feeling like that. The other guy was doing okay, coasting along in the conversation, and then he lit himself on fire and torpedoed into the depths of my dialtone.
"So why haven't you had any long term relationships?" He asked me.
"Um, I dunno. Haven't met the right person, I guess!" I was trying to be all light and fun, not serious and weird, on the first phone conversation.
"No, seriously. Why haven't you?"
"Geez. Um, I don't know. I don't care a whole lot about my physical appearance - I make sure I'm presentable and that's about it."
"That could be the problem."
wow.
"Yeah. Maybe that's it."
"Are you bad in bed?"
"Excuse me?!"
"Are you bad in bed? If you're bad in bed, that could definitely be why you haven't had any long term relationships."
I wish I could say I ended the conversation right then and there. I was searching for a polite out, which surprises me, as asking me about my bedroom prowess wasn't exactly polite in the first place. But as my mom always told me, two wrongs don't make a right. So, I politely got off the phone.
I don't know what I want. Is it so wrong to be looking anyway?
Friday, May 1, 2009
I kneed a new knee
I had my knee replaced four years ago. With cadaver bone. Gross. I called the doctor's office to schedule my appointment, and they said, "Great news, we can schedule you for Wednesday. We just got in a new shipment of knees." A new shipment of knees. What a bizarre...Anyway. One of those knees found its way into my knee. And now THAT bone is dying and crunching and giving out on me with increasing frequency. Sigh. At least I'm well on my way to hitting my insurance max-out-of-pocket for the year. This post is boring and my insurance was not the point of it. I wonder what the point was.
Oh yes. There it is. I was in Walmart last weekend, which anyone who has ever ventured into the store knows is akin to hiking across the sahara. Or arctic tundra, depends on the time of year. I'm in the toothpaste area, and can't find my mom - a disconcerting experience, no matter how old you are. I start walking toward the cat food, am at the lipsticks, and my knee gives out. The pain was quite impressive. I lost my balance, and almost fell into the lipstick display. As my arms waved in the air, I envisioned the Walmart manager telling me I was responsible for purchasing the 372 lipsticks I knocked to the ground.
I somehow managed to pull a Kerri Strugg performance from the '96 Olympics, staying on one leg. After a few moments, I tried to put some weight on my bad leg. No luck. "Well great. I'm stranded in Walmart."
I obviously made it out alive, as I'm here telling you about it. How lame would that have been though, a girl who finds NO purpose to makeup WHATSOEVER, forced to spend the equivalent of a month's mortgage on the crap? I feel as if I pulled one over on fate - 'you may have blessed me with a bum body, but you're still stuck with trying to sell those 372 Revlon Super Sheers in this economy.'
Oh yes. There it is. I was in Walmart last weekend, which anyone who has ever ventured into the store knows is akin to hiking across the sahara. Or arctic tundra, depends on the time of year. I'm in the toothpaste area, and can't find my mom - a disconcerting experience, no matter how old you are. I start walking toward the cat food, am at the lipsticks, and my knee gives out. The pain was quite impressive. I lost my balance, and almost fell into the lipstick display. As my arms waved in the air, I envisioned the Walmart manager telling me I was responsible for purchasing the 372 lipsticks I knocked to the ground.
I somehow managed to pull a Kerri Strugg performance from the '96 Olympics, staying on one leg. After a few moments, I tried to put some weight on my bad leg. No luck. "Well great. I'm stranded in Walmart."
I obviously made it out alive, as I'm here telling you about it. How lame would that have been though, a girl who finds NO purpose to makeup WHATSOEVER, forced to spend the equivalent of a month's mortgage on the crap? I feel as if I pulled one over on fate - 'you may have blessed me with a bum body, but you're still stuck with trying to sell those 372 Revlon Super Sheers in this economy.'
Friday, April 24, 2009
When calling 911...
I'm driving home from work the other day, and am on the freeway. It's a really annoying freeway onramp, very curvy, little merge room, and you're merging into a speed limit of 70 mph. The car in front of me is going 40. In rush-hour traffic. No joke. I get around him as fast as possible, so as not end up on the evening news as the cause of a 15-car-pileup.
I watch him in my rearview mirror. He's swerving all over the place, straddling the white line, then inside the lane, then pushing into the other lane...
'He's going to hurt someone.'
I dug through my purse and pulled out my cell phone. I dialed 9-1-1.
"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"
"Well, uh, it's not really an emergency..." I realized this wasn't a good time to be self-effacing. "There's a guy driving on the freeway. I think he's having a medical emergency or something."
"Why do you think he's having a medical emergency?"
"He's driving all over the place, weaving, with very varying speeds."
'Very varying?' I thought to myself.
"Why do you think this might be a medical emergency?"
"Well, uh, there's a handicapped card hanging from his rearview mirror."
"Okay. I will patch you through to state patrol."
I explained my story again to state patrol. The officer sounded cute, and I managed to refrain from asking if he was single. "I'm heading eastbound on I-90," I told him. "I just passed the Sullivan exit."
At the end of the call, the irony of the situation hit - I was talking on a cell phone, not on a hands-free device. What if I had been pulled over? "Could you hold on a minute, Officer? I need to hang up with the other officer before I can accept your ticket."
I got home and told my parents about my "ordeal." I got to the part about telling the officer my location on the freeway, when my dad interrupted me.
"Wait, you said you were going westbound."
"No, eastbound."
"You were leaving work, heading home."
"Correct."
"Then you were traveling westbound."
I recoiled in horror. Good samaritan that I am, I had just given the police the wrong information. They probably had caller ID, too. The rest of the evening, I sat on my cell phone in a mild panic. What if they called me back? What if they said, "Ms. D, you are an idiot. Next time you ever have to call 9-1-1, we will go in the opposite direction of where you tell us to go, and will probably find you quicker that way"?
Fine. Last time I try to do the right thing. Next time a cashier gives me too much change, I am keeping it.
I watch him in my rearview mirror. He's swerving all over the place, straddling the white line, then inside the lane, then pushing into the other lane...
'He's going to hurt someone.'
I dug through my purse and pulled out my cell phone. I dialed 9-1-1.
"9-1-1, what is your emergency?"
"Well, uh, it's not really an emergency..." I realized this wasn't a good time to be self-effacing. "There's a guy driving on the freeway. I think he's having a medical emergency or something."
"Why do you think he's having a medical emergency?"
"He's driving all over the place, weaving, with very varying speeds."
'Very varying?' I thought to myself.
"Why do you think this might be a medical emergency?"
"Well, uh, there's a handicapped card hanging from his rearview mirror."
"Okay. I will patch you through to state patrol."
I explained my story again to state patrol. The officer sounded cute, and I managed to refrain from asking if he was single. "I'm heading eastbound on I-90," I told him. "I just passed the Sullivan exit."
At the end of the call, the irony of the situation hit - I was talking on a cell phone, not on a hands-free device. What if I had been pulled over? "Could you hold on a minute, Officer? I need to hang up with the other officer before I can accept your ticket."
I got home and told my parents about my "ordeal." I got to the part about telling the officer my location on the freeway, when my dad interrupted me.
"Wait, you said you were going westbound."
"No, eastbound."
"You were leaving work, heading home."
"Correct."
"Then you were traveling westbound."
I recoiled in horror. Good samaritan that I am, I had just given the police the wrong information. They probably had caller ID, too. The rest of the evening, I sat on my cell phone in a mild panic. What if they called me back? What if they said, "Ms. D, you are an idiot. Next time you ever have to call 9-1-1, we will go in the opposite direction of where you tell us to go, and will probably find you quicker that way"?
Fine. Last time I try to do the right thing. Next time a cashier gives me too much change, I am keeping it.
And then there were 6!
I am so super excited! I have six followers! And only one of them HAS to like me (my dad, Doug) : ))) How cool.
Cool, I am not. There is a (very married) physical therapist where I work. I swear he only talks to me because it's funny to see my face turn thirteen shades of red.
I did my thesis oral presentation yesterday. As I'm sitting through everyone else's theses, trying to stay awake, I notice my suit jacket does not match my pants. My suit jacket was dark brown with pink stripes. My pants were tan. Everyone had their thesis on the conference table in front of them, neatly bound by an alligator clip. Mine was in a messy pile of papers with rolled edges and scribbles everywhere. My hair is that particular length where it flips out - but only on the right side. It's like my head is perpetually caught in an eastward-blowing windstorm. Provided I am facing north. If I was facing south, then the windstorm would be...crap. I'm not going to try to figure that out. I'm almost done with school! No more thinking! Yay! : )))
Maybe that is why we hate high school so much - that is where we first really come to terms with our uncoolness, and the petrifying thought that perhaps the uncoolness is not fleeting, regardless of what our mothers tell us.
In an effort to be more cool, I cleaned the used Kleenexes off of my desk at work. I wonder if hot physical therapist guy noticed.
Cool, I am not. There is a (very married) physical therapist where I work. I swear he only talks to me because it's funny to see my face turn thirteen shades of red.
I did my thesis oral presentation yesterday. As I'm sitting through everyone else's theses, trying to stay awake, I notice my suit jacket does not match my pants. My suit jacket was dark brown with pink stripes. My pants were tan. Everyone had their thesis on the conference table in front of them, neatly bound by an alligator clip. Mine was in a messy pile of papers with rolled edges and scribbles everywhere. My hair is that particular length where it flips out - but only on the right side. It's like my head is perpetually caught in an eastward-blowing windstorm. Provided I am facing north. If I was facing south, then the windstorm would be...crap. I'm not going to try to figure that out. I'm almost done with school! No more thinking! Yay! : )))
Maybe that is why we hate high school so much - that is where we first really come to terms with our uncoolness, and the petrifying thought that perhaps the uncoolness is not fleeting, regardless of what our mothers tell us.
In an effort to be more cool, I cleaned the used Kleenexes off of my desk at work. I wonder if hot physical therapist guy noticed.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
My Powers of Observation Leave Much to be Desired
I'm sitting at work today. It's about 2 p.m. I feel something in my sweater. I reach up to my armpit.
Yep, there's definitely a foreign object in my armpit.
I discreetly remove it. Well, as discreetly as one can be, sitting in a cubicle with four other people and your arm is reaching under your shirt to retrieve something...
It was a wadded-up dryer sheet.
At first I was relieved - it wasn't a dead rodent or a coiled up snake. (I have a bizarre fear of snakes, spiders, and rodents finding their way into my clothing or bedding.)
But now I'm just worried. Who makes it almost an entire day at work with a wad of dryer sheet stuck in their armpit, not noticing it until a painful rash starts to form once the chemicals leech into their skin?
Yep, there's definitely a foreign object in my armpit.
I discreetly remove it. Well, as discreetly as one can be, sitting in a cubicle with four other people and your arm is reaching under your shirt to retrieve something...
It was a wadded-up dryer sheet.
At first I was relieved - it wasn't a dead rodent or a coiled up snake. (I have a bizarre fear of snakes, spiders, and rodents finding their way into my clothing or bedding.)
But now I'm just worried. Who makes it almost an entire day at work with a wad of dryer sheet stuck in their armpit, not noticing it until a painful rash starts to form once the chemicals leech into their skin?
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Thesis: The Mechanisms of Student Fear
I just hit the "send" button on what I hope will be the accepted draft of my master's thesis.
This thesis has felt doomed from the get-go. It was supposed to be done last semester, December of 2008. In November, I had to put my beloved dachshund, best friend of 14 years, to sleep, which brought all motivation for anything to a grinding halt. If I had trouble convincing myself to shower in the mornings, convincing myself to finish my thesis was not going to happen.
Thank goodness for foresight, right? That's precisely why I signed up to take the thesis course one semester prior to when I would really, truly, honest-to-God need to be finished with it. Our educational system is all about educating one to their own pitfalls - mine being procrastination.
I've been working full-time, keeping up my beautiful house, keeping my sanity, and plugging away at the thesis, "What Makes College Students Pay Attention?" Needless to say, I don't much care anymore what makes college students pay attention.
I gave myself a deadline - I need to have it in the professor's inbox by Monday morning, 4/13. Grades are probably due by 5/1, and I still need my thesis approved by the committee, and I need to do my oral presentation of my thesis to the committee...graduation is in three weeks! What if this draft isn't accepted?
Pushing my panic aside, I settled in this Saturday evening to finish it, once and for all. I picked my laptop cord off of the floor and plugged it in.
It popped and sparked a flourescent blue that had me blessing my house's concrete, and not carpeted, floors. Most concernedly, the blue flash didn't occur at the plug, but rather in the middle of the cord.
I carefully unplugged it. Once disconnected, it popped again. I left it on the floor for several minutes, hoping the charge would somehow drain from the cord before I handled it again.
The cord was nearly severed in several places. "What the..." I looked closer. The severing had suspicious-looking teeth marks...
"ELEANOR ROOSEVELT!!!"
Ellie poked her head from behind the sofa. I sighed, knowing it was my own fault for leaving anything inside my house that I didn't want chewed up.
I called my parents. "Do you have any electrical tape?" Doug asked. "I think so," I answered.
I taped up my cord as best as I could, and got to work. Several hours later, I had yet to catch fire, so that was a good sign.
After hitting the "send" button, I expected to feel a huge relief, perhaps even a sense of accomplishment. I just finished the requirements for a master's degree!
But what if it doesn't get accepted? My grandpa is coming up from California for this graduation, and I can sustain a lot of embarrassment - I can go through a whole day of school with a cat's hair ball stuck to my rear, I can hideously misspeak and announce to my coworkers that I'm exiting for the bathroom "because this is going to take awhile," (when I meant the patient file I was working on would take awhile, not the trip to the restroom)....but I don't think I can withstand the embarrassment Grandpa coming to see me graduate and I fail.
This thesis has felt doomed from the get-go. It was supposed to be done last semester, December of 2008. In November, I had to put my beloved dachshund, best friend of 14 years, to sleep, which brought all motivation for anything to a grinding halt. If I had trouble convincing myself to shower in the mornings, convincing myself to finish my thesis was not going to happen.
Thank goodness for foresight, right? That's precisely why I signed up to take the thesis course one semester prior to when I would really, truly, honest-to-God need to be finished with it. Our educational system is all about educating one to their own pitfalls - mine being procrastination.
I've been working full-time, keeping up my beautiful house, keeping my sanity, and plugging away at the thesis, "What Makes College Students Pay Attention?" Needless to say, I don't much care anymore what makes college students pay attention.
I gave myself a deadline - I need to have it in the professor's inbox by Monday morning, 4/13. Grades are probably due by 5/1, and I still need my thesis approved by the committee, and I need to do my oral presentation of my thesis to the committee...graduation is in three weeks! What if this draft isn't accepted?
Pushing my panic aside, I settled in this Saturday evening to finish it, once and for all. I picked my laptop cord off of the floor and plugged it in.
It popped and sparked a flourescent blue that had me blessing my house's concrete, and not carpeted, floors. Most concernedly, the blue flash didn't occur at the plug, but rather in the middle of the cord.
I carefully unplugged it. Once disconnected, it popped again. I left it on the floor for several minutes, hoping the charge would somehow drain from the cord before I handled it again.
The cord was nearly severed in several places. "What the..." I looked closer. The severing had suspicious-looking teeth marks...
"ELEANOR ROOSEVELT!!!"
Ellie poked her head from behind the sofa. I sighed, knowing it was my own fault for leaving anything inside my house that I didn't want chewed up.
I called my parents. "Do you have any electrical tape?" Doug asked. "I think so," I answered.
I taped up my cord as best as I could, and got to work. Several hours later, I had yet to catch fire, so that was a good sign.
After hitting the "send" button, I expected to feel a huge relief, perhaps even a sense of accomplishment. I just finished the requirements for a master's degree!
But what if it doesn't get accepted? My grandpa is coming up from California for this graduation, and I can sustain a lot of embarrassment - I can go through a whole day of school with a cat's hair ball stuck to my rear, I can hideously misspeak and announce to my coworkers that I'm exiting for the bathroom "because this is going to take awhile," (when I meant the patient file I was working on would take awhile, not the trip to the restroom)....but I don't think I can withstand the embarrassment Grandpa coming to see me graduate and I fail.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Optical Illusions
Funny story. So for the past year or so, every time I look in my car's rearview mirror, it looks like there's something hanging out of my nose. And of course, I look after I'm done with a first-and-last date, or work, or grocery shopping when the exceptionally good looking clerk decides to chat me up.
I load my groceries, and slide behind the wheel. I turn the ignition, and look into the rearview mirror. And I see it.
"Dang! What is with my nose!" I bark at my steering wheel.
The other day, I get in my car after work. I look into the mirror to back out. It's back. I reach up to my nostril. Nope, nothing. I look in the mirror again. Wait a sec...
I reach up to the rearview mirror. There is a scratch dead-even with where my nostril appears when I'm sitting in the driver's seat.
Oh well. I may have blamed a lot of last dates on a hanger that wasn't really there, but at least the mystery is now solved.
I load my groceries, and slide behind the wheel. I turn the ignition, and look into the rearview mirror. And I see it.
"Dang! What is with my nose!" I bark at my steering wheel.
The other day, I get in my car after work. I look into the mirror to back out. It's back. I reach up to my nostril. Nope, nothing. I look in the mirror again. Wait a sec...
I reach up to the rearview mirror. There is a scratch dead-even with where my nostril appears when I'm sitting in the driver's seat.
Oh well. I may have blamed a lot of last dates on a hanger that wasn't really there, but at least the mystery is now solved.
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