The World According To Me

Manolo Blahnik has sole

2008-11-24T05:15:00.000-08:00

For my own reasons:

the soles of a pair of lovely Manolo Blahnik shoes:

Short post

2006-05-27T06:35:00.000-07:00

Just a short post to say, not abandoned. Will be back.

Blogging for Books: Relationship with a Song

2005-10-10T04:04:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Joshilyn Jackson for hosting this month's Blogging for Books (credit The Zero Boss for creating this writing challenge).

This month's Blogging for Books topic is about your close personal relationship, real or imagined, with a song.

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Is it possible to have a relationship with just one song? Which is to say, if I am the sort to have close personal relationships with songs, wouldn’t different ones work their way into my heart or echo through a piece of my life every so often? Thinking about this challenge, several of the usual suspects popped into my mind:

Peter Gabriel’s San Jacinto, which I played loudly in the dark as a teenager.
The Who’s Cache Cache, which is beautiful side B poetry.
AC/DC’s Hells Bells, which my brother and I played over and over as we tried to parse out the lyrics from a cassette recording off the radio.
Modern English (Melt With You), Paul Simon (Call Me Al, Me & Julio Down By the Schoolyard), everything by The Kinks, and the entire soundtrack to The Big Chill – these would cure me from my college roommate’s insistence on playing Cat Stevens until my ears bled.
Stray Cats (Stray Cat Strut), who I saw at SUNY Stonybrook when they were just starting out. That same year I saw REM get booed off the stage, misinterpret it, and return for an encore.
Billy Joel – can anyone grow up on Long Island and not adore Billy Joel? My neighbor went to high school with him. We trick-or-treated his house one year. I saw him once at my local pizza place with Christy Brinkley and a cast on his wrist from a recent motorcycle accident.

As my mental list grew, I reconnected with Billy Joel’s It’s Still Rock N Roll:
Hot funk, cool punk, even if it's old junk
It's still rock and roll to me

To me too, Billy, I thought. It’s all so good, so soul deep. How can I pick just one? Then, suddenly, I knew. There is one song that comes to me when I am at my lowest. When I am hurting so much there is no separation between physical and emotional pain, I will hear it in my mind. If I am able, I will hum or sing along. The worst part is, this is a pop hit. I *hate* happy shiny pop hits. I hate the bands that record happy shiny pop hits and I continue to hate happy shiny pop artists, fans, and music. As embarrassing as it is, there is no running from my deep personal relationship with Wilson-Phillips’ Hold On For One More Day.

There. I said it.

The strange thing is that the song reads so relationship-y, but that is not how it feels to me. When I hear this song in my mind, I am fighting for my life – and I mean that literally, not dramatically. I hear it when I fight for the everydayness that so many people take for granted, when I am in too much pain to get past my front door, when all I can do is breathe and wait for things to get better. This is my song of strength:

I know this pain
Why do lock yourself up in these chains?
No one can change your life except for you
Don't ever let anyone step all over you
Just open your heart and your mind, mmm
Is it really fair to feel this way inside?

Ooh some day somebody's gonna make you want to
Turn around and say goodbye
Until then baby are you going to let them
Hold you down and make you cry
Don't you know?
Don't you know things can change
Things'll go your way
If you hold on for one more day
Can you hold on for one more day
Things'll go your way
Hold on for one more day

You could sustain
Mmm or are you comfortable with the pain?
You've got no one to blame for your unhappiness
You got yourself into your own mess
Lettin' your worries pass you by
Baby don't you think it's worth your time
To change your mind?

Noo noo, some day somebody's gonna make you want to
Turn around and say goodbye
Until then baby are you going to let them
Hold you down and make you cry
Don't you know?
Don't you know things can change
Things'll go your way
If you hold on for one more day
Can you hold on for one more day
Things'll go your way
Hold on for one more day

I know that there is pain
But you hold on for one more day
And you break free from the chains
Yeah I know that there is pain
But you hold for one more day
And you break free right from the chains

Some day somebody's gonna make you want to
Turn around and say goodbye
Until then baby are you going to let them
Hold you down and make you cry
Don't you know?
Don't you know things can change
Things'll go your way
If you hold on for one more day, yeah
Can you hold on
Don't you know things can change
Things'll go your way
If you hold on for one more day
Can you hold on Can you hold on
Mmm... Can you hold on baby
Won't you tell me now
Hold on for one more day
Cause It's gonna go your way...

My Fellow Americans

2005-08-31T10:54:00.000-07:00

Since I refuse to be one of those people who complains about the way things are without offering to do anything about it, I am now entered in the succession for President of the United States. Should anything untoward happen to the 3508 people ahead of me, I will be El Presidente.

Get your position here

Hmm. Suddenly, you look sorta scared.

Expansion & Mayhem

2005-08-31T02:32:00.000-07:00

Too long between posts, I know. Truth is it was one of those times when one day blends into the next and I felt I had nothing much to say (or risk blogging endlessly about being pregnant, which I did not want to do), so I have just been coasting along.

That is until I realized with the dramatic and incredible footage of hurricane Katrina, smaller but important news items could get lost in the shuffle. I simply cannot let that happen.

First, in personal news, I had a few hours of Braxton-Hicks contractions. Scared the last bejeeber out of me, as it was just too soon (30 weeks). Turned out to be dehydration. Say it with me now - pregnancy + summer = bleahhh! All seems well now and we go for an ultrasound Friday to get a peek in there. I also noticed that at some point I moved from the approachable-run-up-and-touch-the-preggy-belly stage to the Scary Pregnant Lady stage. People give me the double raised eyebrows and leap out of my way. Tonight at Safeway, one woman who was at least three feet away jerked her cart back and apologized to me. For what? Then a long line of people parted with not a word from me to let me pass through on my way to the ice cream isle. Listening carefully, you could almost hear their thoughts, "For the love of G-d, step aside before that large waddler runs us all down! She is heading for the ice cream people! STEP ASIDE!!"

Next, in regional animal news, this story was on today:

Ostrich runs loose on Golden Gate Bridge

Why do the best stories never have the all-important video footage? Admittedly, if any city is going to have an ostrich running around the toll booths during rush hour traffic, I think San Fransisco is the city most likely to appreciate the Fellini-esque quality.

Next up, by way of Dave Barry's blog:

Local Names Make Rude Britain

If nothing else, read the list at the end of the article. Hard to believe these folks have not long since changed their town names, then again no one not from Long Island believes us when we say we lived near Hicksville, USA.

Last up, I am proud to say I have not seen or heard this story anywhere else but one news show on MSNBC. It was very hard to even find a link to it, and my brother David wins the Web Reference Obscura Award for this. The story demonstrates two of my basic philosophies -
1. That real news makes "the news" less and less often
and
2. That many people really need to consult me before they act or speak. This will be the subject of its own blog post, but I could save the whole world from so many instances of bad writing, poor judgement, and general stupidity - and I am willing to do so at no charge because the world can be a better place without moments like this:

Faithful Furious Over Tactic

The key point here is that the Archbishop of Portland (from 1994) and lawyers for the Church have argued against paying child support to a woman the not-so-good bishop impregnated, saying that she should have used birth control. Ooh yeah, I'll have a big steaming cup of hypocrisy with that order, please. Not being Catholic, I may not have all the facts, but isn't the Church rabidly against birth control? And if they are suddenly in favor of it, what about the Archbishop's failure to use it? If they had bothered to ask me, I could have suggested something more along the Church party line, such as, "Extramarital sex is a sin and we can not support it in any way" or "Once the Archbishop had sex with this woman, in effect he was a lapsed Catholic and no longer operating under Church authority or responsibility." There are probably 5 to 10 better arguments I can come up with off the top of my head and again, I am not even Catholic. What was the Church thinking? At the very least, they are fools if they don't fire that lawyer right away. I am so proud to join the legions of bloggers who break important news stories first on their blogs. Remember, you heard it here first!

And lastly, just to leave you with something to do until I post again, please enjoy this fun collection of real road and business signs. You can bet, they did not ask me first either, but in this case it turned out very well indeed.

Magical Monkey Butts and Other Important Research

2005-07-30T01:19:00.000-07:00

Well, hello my little bloggitiboos! No, I have not forgotten you. It's just that being on semi-bedrest for this pregnancy does not tend to lead to much to write about.

In an effort to update you on the highlights of late-

* I have discovered that, yes, just as the pregnancy books promised, complete strangers will walk right up and touch my belly. That was a truly bizarre experience! My doctor today told me that it later translates to total strangers rushing up to touch the baby. Yick! Maybe I'll hand paint some lettering on a onesie that says "ebola baby" or some other discouraging words.

* At today's doctor's appointment, I have gained 12 pounds, which is on target, and she is very happy with how I am doing overall. I have also discovered this baby has some strong opinions - hates my office chair (KICK! KICK!) and dances happily for ice cream (kickkickkick woohoo).

* At the beginning of a classically awful cable movie called "Dragonstorm," the introduction set the scene in 1785. As the film rolled through the first scene, my husband said, "Now that horse cart is clearly so 1790! The set designer was so sloppy." How I love this man :)

So, there I am, sitting in bed, web surfing and minding my own business, when I ran across a link to a fun-filled site chock full o' scientific research. Personally, I hate the distilled factoids most news shows deliver. I tend to believe there is far more to the story, and as often as not, that the missing facts change the essential nature of the story. Yes, these articles are still condensed versions of the actual research, but they seem a lot more detailed and on target, and there were several sstories covering a favorite topic of mine - animal behavior. Case in point, the recent report of an African Grey parrot who may have a zero concept. I remember another African Grey, also owned by a linguistics professor, who could name many toys and hand them to you on verbal request, etc. When he was tired of dealing with us silly bald monkeys, he would simply turn his back and stop playing. I knew right there that this species is probably at least as smart as we are, possibly smarter (although that opinion may have had something to do with running freshman psych subjects who agreed to be paid in oreos). So when African Greys make the news, I pay attention, and like many news stories, good details were absent - such as that this parrot spontaneously uttered "none" - that he was not taught to say it, as hubby speculated "none" could have been a name for the tray itself (i.e., tray without named toys). Also of interest is that this parrot, Alex, starts to purposely give wrong answers to entertain himself when he gets bored of our silly monkey games. Hah! Loving this species more and more every day.

I then moved on to an article about a study of monkeys who like to look at "celebrity" monkeys rather than regular or low ranking monkeys. You see how far back these things go evolutionarily? So, ok, these rhesus monkeys would pay to look at high ranking monkeys with fruit juice, but the researcher had to pay them in fruit juice to look at low ranking monkeys. Um hum, very interesting... then, at the end of the article, was this tidbit:

"On a more crude note, some of the findings might also shed light on humans’ taste for pornography: male monkeys in the study also willingly “paid” to see females’ rear ends."

Note that nowhere in the article did it say *why* the researchers had photos of female monkey butts, but I digress. I can also tell you, from personal experience in the Florida everglades, that rhesus monkeys are capable of staging a fake, yet convincing, intertribal skirmish on the shore in order to get the humans to run over to one side of the boat while scouts monkeys swim out, silently climb aboard, and steal our boxes of apple slices and bread. Holding their prizes above their heads to keep the food dry on the swim back to shore, the monkeys then divided up their lunch among themselves and all but waved cheerfully as the humans sailed slack-jawed into the sunset.

Last, but not least, was the article about our local black-capped chickadees, who are cute little guys with an incredibly complex vocal system. Their predator warning call can carry information about location, size, and perceived degree of threat. We have a nesting pair at our feeder and several neighborhood cats that make the rounds - ranging from the local *nerd* cat to the scary white mouser that causes backyard mayhem. Now I will be listening to the chickadee calls to see if I hear a difference depending on which cat is hanging around.

Blogging for Books 13: Trying Times

2005-07-12T00:14:00.000-07:00

Blogging for Books #13: The Parent Trap (Guest Judge: Ann Douglas)
Parents. Most of us have them. Some of us are them. Most of us have had "moments" with our parents that either marked a greater understanding in the parent-child relationship, or signified the beginning of the end of our interaction. Similarly, those of us with kids have often experienced turning points where, in a blinding flash of reality, we truly "got" what it meant to be a parent.

For this month's Blogging for Books, write about a pivotal point in your life as a parent, OR write about a pivotal point in your relationship with one of your parents.

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"But can you?" they each said, leaning close, eyes filled with genuine concern. "I mean, can you?"

This was the nearly universal response when we told the few people closest to us we were trying to have a baby. On the outside, I tried for a mix of philosophy and confidence, that my body knew if it could do this and like everyone else, we would have to wait and see if a baby was in our future. On the inside, I tried to quiet my fear by focusing on each step. Exercise. Stop taking meds. Start taking prenatal vitamins. Read about conception and pregnancy. In quiet moments, the rheumatologist from the pain clinic years ago would whisper in my mind, "The ligaments in your spine suffered some sort of trauma, a virus perhaps, that has gone but left damage. This is why your vertebrae sublux. As each one is freshly injured, it scars over, and becomes stronger but less flexible. Be careful if you ever get pregnant - there is a hormone that causes the spine to relax and that could be dangerous for you."

Hush, please, Doctor. That is just one theory and I need to be calm and focused now. I do not want to arrive at the end of my life without even trying to do one of the few things that really matters to me.

At three months of trying to conceive, the little home test displayed two pink lines. I ran up the stairs and leapt onto my sleeping husband, waving the white stick in his dazed, sleepy face. "We did it!" I sang. And then I slept. I slept anywhere, anytime - waking with my head on my arms, on my keyboard, waking in bed without any memory of how I got there. My back ached. My migraines continued. I scooped all the little pill bottles from my nightstand and put them away where I would not be tempted to seek relief. My right hip burned with pain until the leg went numb. I could not walk or sit well, could not eat or drink.

At eight weeks pregnant I entered the hospital. It is such a strange assortment of medications that they are willing to give a pregnant person. Muscle relaxants, pills for pain and for sleep, anti-nausea, anti-anxiety, antihistamines. Some made me numb from the neck down. Some gave me nightmares. But the pill I really needed was labeled "Category D" which is known to be unsafe for pregnancy. Damn. Every day I struggled to eat and drink as my weight slipped down.

"If you can't eat, we are going to have to run a central line and give you TPN."
No!
"We may have to move you to a nursing home. Your insurance is getting antsy about the length of your hospital stay."
No! No, I can do this!

Finally, my doctor researched exactly why the drug I needed was put in that category. At ten weeks my baby was beyond the problem it was known to cause. I was cleared to take the medicine. Within a day I was eating. I went home, hurting and miserable, but hopeful. Friends and family pitched in to help us. We are now at 23 weeks and all our tests show a healthy baby. I hurt, but I am managing and the day I can hold this baby beckons with the strength of the first star in the night sky.

New bird sighting!

2005-07-11T01:16:00.000-07:00

Some of you may recall the saga of the Squirrel-B-Gone TM birdfeeder in our yard. It can be viewed from the bathroom window and back deck, so we both check out the happenings at the feeder a few times a day. In June we had a large group of baby chickadees and finches fledge and start to eat at the feeder. Now they are all - well - somewhat chubby. We fill the feeder every day or two, which is actually an impressive amount of seed. Birds fill every perch and more birds swoop in and shove them off to get a turn. Birds on the ground. Birds on top of the shepherd's hook. Happy well-fed birds and they were all black-capped chickadees, brown chickadees, rosy-headed finches, and one red-breasted robin. And of course, Mr. & Mrs. Squirrel. Until today.

When I peeked out at the feeder today, this is who was looking back:

Blackheaded Grosbeak
(thanks to teacher Mr. Slichter for the photo, used without permission but with credit and many thanks!)

This is either a female or a first-year male, due to the fashionable stripe of white over the eye. My guess at this time of year is a young male out looking for a territory. He is a sizable bird with a beautiful red chest and black striped head and wings. I hope he comes back and sings for us!

Sometimes a banana is just a banana

2005-07-05T21:53:00.000-07:00

Oh sure, many of my ongoing life goals are no secret.

1. hug a koala bear and have him/her hug me back.
2. have a sign language conversation with a chimp at the primate center in Ellensburg.
3. kiss an alpaca on the nose (accomplished 2003 at Alpacapalooza!)
4. visit Idaho's Potato Museum ("Free Taters for Out-of-Staters")

Sure there is more, but you can see the direction my mind works. So how did I not know about this Seattle wonder?

The Washington Banana Museum

If you follow the link, you can see many heretofore unknown banana wonders and historical artifacts plus there is a link to a web ring for Unusual Museums on the Internet. Ooohh baby! Everything from glass buttons to toilet paper. My favorite from that list has to be the Weird Fortune Cookie Collection. I grew up with a specific method for handling the vagaries of fortune cookie predictions, thanks to a mother who does not believe in blindly accepting whatever fate happens to throw your way. First, crack open the cookie. Then read the fortune and decide if you find it personally appealing. If you want the fortune to apply, eat the cookie; if you reject the fortune, you must reject the cookie. Fortunes may also be shared by sharing the cookie. Tonight's sweet & sour chicken combo plate #1 ended with the fortune:

"Your love life will be happy and harmonious."

Stephan got: "You are open and honest in your philosophy of love."

Wow! Two different love cookies. Double happiness! I'm definitely keeping these.

Asking the correct chicken question

2005-06-24T00:35:00.000-07:00

Seems that all these years, the question, "Why did the chicken cross the road?" really should have been, "Why should the chicken not cross the road?" - or - "What are the legal and financial consequences poultry-wise for unscheduled road crossings?"

This tale comes by way of Ananova, always a good source for deep thoughts.

Since it is a short story, here it is in its entirety:

Chicken fined for crossing road

A chicken fined for crossing the road has walked free from court in the US after a judge threw out the charge.
Ophelia, a black Polish hen, earned her owners a £30 fine for illegally walking across the street in California.
California state law bans livestock from highways but not domestic pets.

But lawyers for Ophelia's owners Linc and Helena Moore successfully argued that Ophelia was domesticated and could not be charged as livestock - and the case was dismissed.

The Moores had been fined after their chicken wandered onto a road in the small rural mining town of Johannesburg in Kern county.

Blogging for Books #12: On The Road

2005-06-12T23:04:00.000-07:00

*** This blog entry is written for this month's Blogging for Books. What?? You don't know about this marvelous contest? Check it out at The Zero Boss***

Blogging for Books #12: Hit the Road, Jack (Guest Judge: Jennifer Leo)
For this month's contest celebrating a full year of Blogging for Books, we're looking to guest judge Jennifer Leo for inspiration.
For this month's Blogging for Books, write a blog entry about one of three things:
1. A memorable trip or "mini-vacation" (with "memorable" covering everything from "best time of my life" to "unmitigated disaster");
2. A time you did something spontaneously, in order to shake up your life;
3. A time you metaphorically took "the road less traveled", and made an unpopular or uncommon decision.

(In truth, this entry is all three: A memorable cross-country trip, a move to a new city just to shake up my life, and the decision to leave New York for Seattle which was regarded by fellow New Yorkers as akin to dropping off the end of the Earth.)
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When I was born, in the late 60's in the Berkeley, California area, a "trip" meant something considerably more surreal than it does these days. Even the more descriptive, "taking a road trip" no longer evokes images of Jack Kerouac thumbing a ride at the side of a lonely highway. That said, reality can get a little... shall we say, flexible, on the road.

In October, 1992, my boyfriend, Stephan, and I drove across the country from New York to Seattle. We were well provisioned in my little Honda, with suitcases, maps, snacks, tapes, and one guinea pig whose cage was seatbelted securely across the backseats. We started out at a good pace, just shy of speed trap velocity as we zoomed through New Jersey. At some point after dark, the radio ate our cassette. You really got me going... You really got me... You reawww...rrr....kshhhhh.... With the tape stuck inside, there was no way to listen to the radio. When we stopped to fill the gas tank, we tried to buy needle nose pliers to pull the tape out, which is not a simple project in the middle of the night. We also discovered that Bailey, the guinea pig, did not like riding in the car. She expressed this by draining her entire water bottle onto the floor of her cage and calling out to us - more loudly than a creature of that size has any right to yell. We had to calm her down in the motel parking lot so no one would witness us smuggling a damp, angry pet into the room.

On day two, we crossed Pennsylvania to the sounds of random FM radio. We learned that much of Western Pennsylvania has that rural phenomenon of the same radio stations repeating in several locations down the dial, to say nothing of what odd mix of radio exists in Pennsylvania Dutch country. Bailey again drained her water bottle into a small flood and randomly called out to us in what could only be interpreted as, "Stop this thing right this minute!" By day three, the radio had completely died.

Silence. And over 2700 miles to go.

On day four, we tried singing. After all, we both listen to music all the time. It turns out that singing along with the radio and singing in a mobile cone of silence are two very different things. We both knew a lot of pieces of songs, a lot of choruses, but very few songs all the way through. By day's end, we had degenerated into Christmas carols. Bailey hated the Christmas carols so much that side orders of lettuce at roadside burger stands failed to soothe her. She had taken to muttering to herself and I feared the humans were soon to follow.

On day five, we found ourselves in Salina, Kansas. I had been there once before and had been surprised by how much I loved it. Normally, I am the sort who feels landlocked if the ocean is more than a couple of hours away. But Salina, Kansas had something, a sort of easy friendliness and quiet pace that had charmed me three years earlier. The years that had passed had not been kind to Salina. My town of charming smiles had been replaced by an edge of wariness. The buildings looked run down, the people, weary. We decided to wait to take a day's break from the road, but determined not to leave town without buying a radio, we found ourselves at the biggest K-Mart I have ever seen. Rather than a radio, we left with a book, "Red Dwarf: Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers" by Rob Grant and Doug Naylor. We sped out of town with the windows rolled down, the scent of fresh cut fields of hay mesmerizing the guinea pig.

Over the next two days as Stephan drove, I read the entire book aloud, which if you are familiar with Red Dwarf, was not easy due to laughing too hard to get the words out. We took our day off in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Stephan wanted to buy a pair of western boots, and it was hard not to find shops filled with cowboy gear every way you turned. In fact, every person seemed to be decked out in full cowboy outfits, from their ten gallon hats to their roper boots. We gave each other looks - is this the real Wild West or are we hallucinating? Something about it was just too over the top, too Little House on the Prairie meets The Magnificent Seven, but it was hard to pin down. Shrugging it off, we set out for the local mall where there were several boot and western wear stores. Malls often have a "could be anywhere in America" sensibility, but not this mall. The Wild West theme reached new heights here, with adults sometimes wearing bandanas around their necks, ropes coiled at their belts, and plastic cowboy hats, but it was the children that stopped us cold in our tracks. The people of Cheyenne had dressed their children as cows. Children in full body cow outfits wandered the mall at their parents' sides and in their arms. Little cows raced up and down the length of the mall. Sure, we doubted ourselves and what we were seeing. Sure, we questioned the mushrooms that had decorated our burgers at lunch. Why would a city full of cowboys and cowgirls dress their offspring as cows? Then we saw the familiar plastic pumpkin buckets on several little cow arms. Ah hah! Halloween! We ran back to our hotel and ransacked our bags for something - anything - that might pass for a costume. All I could come up with was an all black outfit and silver cat necklace, to try and pass for an appropriately festive witch. Stephan managed to pull together an outfit we called "Samurai Bob," which included his white Aikido gi, cowboy hat, red bandana, and brand new wildebeest boots. We were laughing too hard to leave the room to go to dinner.

In an Elko, Nevada supermarket, I won $8 by playing my change in the handy one-armed bandit placed at the end of the checkout line. I figure that if I never gamble again, I will die ahead of the game. In Reno, we visited my Aunt, Uncle, and cousin who was four years old and fascinated with the guinea pig.

By the time we pulled into San Francisco, I could see the road every time I closed my eyes. We spent a week there with Stephan's family and my roommate from California. Eight years later at Stephan's sister's wedding, I would shock one of the cousins by telling her I was the same girl whose hair she braided over and over in her Aunt's living room. She would shock me that same day by telling me that Stephan and I would be engaged soon. She was right.

As we drove north on I-5, Seattle revealed itself through the gray November drizzle in a sudden burst of tall buildings and light. "Look, Dorothy, the Emerald City!" I said laughing. All the excitement, the fear, and the hope of starting out in a new city washed over me. We had made it to the end of the road at last.

Squirrel-palooza

2005-06-09T18:14:00.000-07:00

By way of Dave Bary's blog:
"Russian City Invaded By Squirrels"

Read the full story here:

http://english.pravda.ru/main/18/90/361/15593_squirrel.html

This story comes on the heels of our own discovery that our primary birdfeeder - the surprisingly effective Squirrel-B-Gone TM birdfeeder - had been jumped and pounced upon so often that the springs that shut the feeding stations when a squirrel lands on them have been pulled hugely out of shape. I, like the Russian town in the story, chose to feed rather than fight our squirrel. Mostly it works, and we see him all the time in his post under the birdfeeder picking up fallen seed. I also have dried corn on the cob from my bargain with the fuzzy guy last year, and he still politely leaves the empty cobs on my deck stairs. I just wanted to tell the folks in Russia that I really like their punk rock squirrels:

Russian Squirrel
(Photo used with thanks but without permission, from Pravda)

Dude! Ease up on the hair products! :)

I also want to tell the Russian people that although their squirrels may have become brazen in their borderline criminal behavior, that at least they are behaving in a sane, rational, hungry way. In other words, we still win the prize for total squirrel insanity. Have I blogged about this before? When we bought this place, we asked the tenants if there were any little quirks, as one might expect in a house over a hundred years old. They said, "Well. There is this insane squirrel."

Oh ho! Ha ha ha! Funny, we said.

"No," they said. "Really."

When I first spotted him, I opened the window and told him he was our squirrel now. He looked unimpressed, but he came to learn that establishing his territory in the yard of people who love fuzzy critters seriously upped his standard of living.

Mr. Squirrel on Deck

That first summer we put out a birdfeeder. Just a classic black oil sunflower seed dispenser. Mr. Squirrel had not read the label and knew it to be a squirrel feeder. He could climb the thin shepherd's crook to hang on the feeder and gulp down seed. Stephan went out back and sprayed the pole with pam cooking spray. OK, *that* was funny, complete with a three stooges whoop! whoop! whoop! sliding down the pole visual. Nevermind something was wrong with the pole, Mr. Squirrel could leap great distances - despite not actually being of the flying squirrel variety - and land on the feeder from nearby trees.

Mr. Squirrel's secret identity (credit: hamncheez.com)

He shopped it around to all the lady squirrels, the best restaurant in town! We often saw him with his date sitting on the edge of the birdbath (squirrel drinking fountain) at sunset. Tres romantic! But his seed jones was breaking these monkey's backs. We were filling the feeder every couple of days. So back to the store to pick out - you guessed it - the Squirrel-B-Gone TM birdfeeder.

Within minutes of the new feeder being filled and placed on the shepherd's crook, the squirrel leapt to it like a flying Walenza. The spring action surprised him, but he held on - boing! boing! - until it calmed down. He then found that although it looked full, none of the feed bays had more than a couple of seeds. His weight shut off the main chamber. He tried different tactics, different approaches, but it was no use. He was getting a distinctly unwelcome feeling. By afternoon, I was walking through the apartment, trying to pin down a weird noise. eee... eeee...eeeeeeeee.... At the bathroom window, I saw it. Mr. Squirrel lay flat on his stomach in the dry birdbath, his nose pointing over the edge at the uncooperative feeder. It was the saddest squirrel I ever hope to see. I ran out then and bought him dried corn. I know, I'm a sucker, but you were not there to hear the deep sorrow echoing across the yard.

Mr. Squirrel learned that the best spot was to sit right under the feeder, that the bird brains who dine there drop plenty of seed for him. He hooked up with Mrs. Squirrel, and last year had three baby squirrels. His wild & crazy Squirrel-about-town days may be behind him,

Squirrel Hold 'Em

but he is fed & happy with his family. He continues to do things we have never seen another squirrel do - like nap on the back deck, belly up, eyes closed. Sometimes he sleeps with his head hanging over the edge. The first time, he scared the heck out of us. We were convinced he was dead, so Stephan went out back with gloves and a shovel.

Squirrel Nap 1

Hard to say who was more surprised when the squirrel popped up from his nap.

Squirrel Nap 2

Mr. Squirrel, you are truly nuts, but we love you. It is good to know, as Billy Joel would say, that the Russians love their squirrels too.

A blog, a gameshow, and a vacant apartment walk into a bar...

2005-06-07T12:41:00.000-07:00

(*Punchline: gee that must've hurt. b'dum dum.*)

Three news tidbits to share!

First, I received an email from Steve, a newcomer to this blog. He found me because our blogs have the same title: "The World According To Me." Thinking about it, all blogs are the world according to someone, it's just not everyone's choice of title. You can now find Steve blogrolled in the right margin - do pay his World a visit!

Next, my brother David tells me that my most favorite ever game show - Kenny Vs. Spenny - is running new episodes in Canada! I can only hope that means they will run them here in the US soon. Being close to Canada, we do get a couple of Canadian tv stations, but so far I do not see it listed. Don't fret your fuzzy heads about me, I have my Tivo wishlist set and can burn them to DVD once I snag them. But you - you need to see tis show. It is hilarious & unique, which as you know with a bajillion channels and nothing to watch, is a rare rare thing.

Last tidbit du jour, we rented our vacant duplex apartment! Weeks ago when I was in the hospital, our tenant gave notice. Great new job for him in Colorado; bad timing for us. Since he had been living there from before we bought the place, we never had an in-depth assessment of the apartment's condition. Mostly it was in great condition, but there is some water damage we are repairing now. We decided not to wait until that repair was all done to show the place - just kept the tools and torn up section of floor very minimal and everything else was perfect to show. This is where the world gets divided into two groups: the first group who knows about repairs like this and realizes it only takes a few days, may even be happy to see a landlord who keeps up with repairs depending on who they have rented from before; and the second group who sees hole-in-floor, tools, scary! scary! run away! What we did not expect was the huge response to our apartment listing. It kept reminding me of the mid-1990's, when the little 1-bedroom at my Mom's place came vacant during the height of the dot boom. If you were not in Seattle during that time, let me tell you, there were no apartments to be had, anywhere, for any price. The vacancy rate was a record low one-half of a percent. People moved here for high tech jobs and lived for months in expensive hotels. The day the ad came out for Mom's 1-bedroom, the phone rang so much I finally changed the message with directions to an open house and unplugged it. People showed up 3 hours early, throwing hundred dollar bills under my nose like I was a NYC doorman at a rent control building. Desperation was in the air. Last week with our cute 2-bedroom duplex was not in that category, but it had elements of it. I posted the ad at 11 PM Thursday night. When I checked my email on the way to bed at 1AM I had 5 emails. 5! In the middle of the night! Oooohkay. Next morning there were 9 plus the phone started ringing. It never stopped ringing, all day, all evening. Call waiting beeped while talking with someone. More email poured in. I gave tours of the place all day long, which for me was the longest physical day I have had in months. I realized too late that after I shampooed the carpets, none of the windows had screens - so I did not want to open them, as even one flying insect in the house makes people think "Eeew bugs!" The rugs looked great, but there was a slight musty smell from all that evaporation indoors. So I baked cookies in the oven - viola! - instant home comfort smell, plus handy snack. When my body finally said, no more!, my brother gave the last few tours. At day's end we had two credit checks! The first folks passed and signed the lease yesterday.

As a bonus on giving the tours of the apartment starting to early in the morning, we learned we have baby birds in the backyard. (*Everybody: Awwww! Cuuuuuute!*) At first I thought they were black capped chickadees because we kept seeing the proud parents. Then we realized there are more baby birds than two little bird parents can produce, so we think there are also brown chickadee babies. Friday they forayed out of the nest onto nearby tree branches and the neighbor's roof, where they sat flapping their fuzzy wings and practicing the idea of flying. Saturday, they testing short range flying, to other trees in the yard, the birdbath, and bird feeder. Today they sat on different branches in trees all over the yard and posted themselves at the feeder until it was filled to capacity - one bird on every perch, plus two or so on the shepherd's hook waiting their turn. They are eating 3 inches of sunflower seeds every day! They must drop a lot of seed, because Mr. Squirrel looks so happy in his spot under the feeder.

That's all the news for the moment. More soon!

The Massive Suckage of AOL

2005-06-02T01:57:00.000-07:00

Big doings today.

A letter went out to everyone who volunteers their time and energy in the Community Leader program on AOL. The essence of this rare communication was "We don't need you anymore. We are ending the program. F-you and thanks for all the fish." The letter went out on May 27. The program will be completely shut down on June 8. That means tonight was Marcy's & my last night hosting our support group for people with chronic disabilities.

This is the first real-time online support group for people with disabilities. I started it thanks to encouragement in the original disAbilities Area on AOL on January 1, 1991. Fourteen years. I wrote the host training and helped launch other groups, for everything from cancer survivors to post-polio syndrome. Our group survived changing area ownership, through several private companies, then a move off AOL to ivillage and back to AOL. We have helped people whose friends and families abandoned them, who were so overwhelmed by what was happening to them that they could not bring themselves to get help, who had virtually no contact with the world outside their homes or hospital rooms. Fourteen years. And AOL killed it in 11 days.

Marcy & I are going to try and keep going anyway. Our group was never about hosts needing a title or any other support from outside anyway. It will be harder for newbies to find us if AOL takes down our promotional link or chat room, but I don't see letting stupidity rule the day. Not if we can help it.

You may be wondering, what the f---?

My theory is that this motivated by a lawsuit that has been brewing for some time. You can read older stuff about it here:

Forbes: AOL Ruins a Great Cooperative

Salon: Must AOL Pay Community Leaders?

Just my opinion. It ain't like AOL has been forthcoming with any information of any kind (which only makes me suspect more strongly that this is lawsuit related).

Here is my other opinion, AOL: You have never been appreciative of the thousands of volunteers that made you successful in the first place. As the net grows, you will be less and less unique in terms of ease of live chat, and now you are dismantling the community that is your bread and butter. The sad part is that we don't need your appreciation - we just need you to get out of our way. If you don't, you deserve to have your business fail, and on that day I will wear a red dress and dance.

A Time To Romp

2005-06-02T01:05:00.000-07:00

What? I hear you say, More pictures?

Yes, more pictures. For weeks, every time I opened Hello to upload pics to blogger, it crashed. Not just plain, ordinary crash, either - it would log me out and restart, count down from 30 seconds and relaunch itself, then crash again and count down from 30 seconds, and on and on. I wrote to their support. *Nada.* Finally, I uninstalled and tried a fresh install. So far, so operational. This also means I have a backlog of pics to share.

I took this series in honor of my blog pal Pratt's *Blog of Pratt* Monday Bunday tradition of sharing pics of his very photogenic bunnies every Monday. This is Max, giving me his patented LOOK.

TheLook

Usually The Look is reserved for when the Slave Monkeys are walking toward the kitchen, or out of the kitchen, or chewing on things that might be tasty. Here, Max was uncharacteristically giving The Look even while guarding a cardboard tube stuffed with tempting timothy hay. What could drive Max to give The Look instead of happily shredding the tube to itty bitty bits?

Pigrun1

Ah hah! Tigger was bogarting the food dish and the water bottle. Oh no, Max! What are you gonna do about that?

PigRun2

No problem, says Max. I'll just rumble strut my handsome self, purrrr purrrrrrrrr, bump Tigger on the butt, and scoot away. She will have to come running over and see what the fuss is about. And then the food dish wll be mine mine mine!

Good thinking, Max. Tigger can't resist a rousing round of Follow the Leader. Really, she loves any excuse to run, romp, or jump. She loves running laps so much, we think she may be a NASCAR fan.

Hope you enjoyed today's Romp Time!

David - Do Not Read This Post!

2005-06-02T00:35:00.000-07:00

This is a fair warning to my brother, David.

DO NOT READ THIS POST. Yes, the other posts are safe. There are things you do not want to know right now and I am about to write about them. If you keep reading, well, you can't say you weren't warned.

*Everyone else go ahead and scroll down.*

Friday, we went for a big sonogram and amnio for the baby. Everything looked great! The amnio results come in a couple of weeks. The sonogram detail was just incredible! If I get a chance, I will post an image from it. You can see toes, fingers, features of the face. And we found out, we are having a girl!

Yayyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!

We have a few names in the works. The top contender right now is Isabella. The only thing I have against it is that it is so popular right now - it's the #7 girl's name last year! Sheesh. For me, it blends the names of two people who I love and admire and miss very much, my Uncle Iz and my Grandmother, Adele.

Iz + Adele = Isabella!

What do you think? Should we drop it because it's too popular? Will she always be one of many Isabellas? I was almost always the only Lilly and I really liked that. That name came back in popularity too. Was your name popular or unusual? How did you feel about it?

What's that, Max?

2005-06-01T00:47:00.000-07:00

Among the many unknown talents of guinea pigs is the ability to predict the weather. When Max tunnels into the paper like a giant burrito, it reminds me of the weatherman in Buffalo, NY who quit because he just couldn't tell people watching the news from homes buried in snow to the chimneys that more snow was coming.

What's up, Max?

What are you trying to tell me?

Moments after this photo, the sky opened up and poured for hours. It was one of those storms where sometimes it is coming down in sheets in the front yard, and not raining at all in the backyard. My observant friend, Craig, pointed out that while we had rain, the sky over Lake Washington was sunny. Can you guess what we saw?

Rainbow050531

So that's what Max was trying to tell us!

Aliens! Ooh... Ahhh...

2005-05-30T01:13:00.000-07:00

Set your tivos for later tonight (Monday, May 30) to National Geographic Channel, 9PM PT/ET! They are running a cool looking special called "Extraterrestrials." See the pics here:

http://www.nationalgeographic.com/channel/extraterrestrial/index.html

It's good to know that the big brain guys are earning their money. Is it too much to hope that they justify the appearance of the plants and critters they had fun generating on their computers with *actual science*? Personally, I had imagined that alien life, and very possibly some life here on earth, was simply too far outside the limited range of our senses to realize it was there. One of the first stories I wrote as a kid was about people walking right through these other creatures as they walked right through us. We lived in different dimensions and could not see each other even though we were both looking. Anyone wanna buy the movie rights? National Geographic, maybe..?

Return of the Blog

2005-05-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

So sorry for leaving you hanging, my little bloggityboos. I am very happy to tell you I am back! The big news is that I am pregnant! This is a very exciting thing for us and our friends & family.

Doing the Happy Dance

Seems it was a bit too exciting for my back, so there was a stay in the hospital with no computers or anything. I would not have been coherent, but it might have been interesting - somewhere between four year olds hitting the keys and abstract art, I think. So, it is too early for a lot of info yet. I'll have some next month - health, gender.

What I have to share today is a glimpse into the exciting world of drug-induced nightmares. Oooooh..... Ahhhhh.... Mind you, I am no stranger to drug-induced weirdness in dreams. I took pamelor for several years and many folks will tell you it messes with your dream cycle. All night REM is suppressed, so that when it wears off in the morning -- Wham! -- REM kicks in with wild, colorful, vivid dreams. The recent unconscious adventure was with Remeron. It did what it was supposed to do, helped me fall asleep, stimulated hunger, calmed some of the anxiety. You know, except when it was completely freaking me out. Hmm... and in that light, isn't helping me fall asleep playing right into its agenda?

The worst of them was actually the last one. I was in bed awake and heard the front door, then someone coming up the stairs. I called, "Stephan!" then thought the footsteps didn't sound like Stephan's. Then the person turned the corner and it was some stranger that broke in. I woke up as I was sitting up gasping, and it took a long time to stop listening for footsteps. As a story, though, its not that compelling.

My brother, David, told me today that the first nightmare could be a movie. Stephan & I were in Ireland and in need of some money so we took a job sinking some caskets in a bog. Note that neither of us has been to Ireland or been a gravedigger/sinker and I can think of a lot of other jobs I would sooner take, say, dog grooming or parking cars. Someone was paying us to do this at night and in the middle of nowhere because the city where they lived did not like these people. We peeked in a few coffins once we were alone and saw these were Black people, wearing many necklaces with chicken feathers and bones and one had on a blue enamel cross that I can still see clearly. The bog was incredibly green, with solid sections to stand on and goopy sections where we sunk the coffins. Later, a private investigator (whose outfit I coveted) broke the story that these people had been practicing Santeria, and they never did find out who buried them. There were police and news reporters all over the bog and we slipped away like confused tourists.

Before you ask, I was not reading anything remotely like this. It's not like I sit around and give Santeria and its unlikely practice in Ireland a lot of thought. This was a Remeron DreamTM, with incredible detail that made even this improbable plotline realistic. I can still see the weave of the dead man's shirt who was wearing the blue cross, still remember the reporter calling the sink spots in the bog, "Jesus Holes," still recall the cool boots the PI was wearing.

So, yeah, no more remeron.

My waking life is becoming less of a nightmare. I still hurt, am still incapacitated beyond what I feel I can deal well with, but it seems to be s-l-o-w-l-y improving. I am using every pillow in the house, except one "guilt" pillow for Stephan to sleep on. I am so grateful to my husband & brother, my mother-in-law & mother & friend Gary for tons of help they are giving me, that all I can think is how glad I am this is my family and this is our baby-to-be's family.

And on a final note, remeron bad, ambien good. ;)

More soon!

My last 2 cents on Shiavo

2005-03-23T02:41:00.000-08:00

After my first post, I received a welcome comment from a nice person. I had a response & reaction to it, but in the end do not feel I expressed myself clearly. This will represent my last intended post on that topic - your comments are welcome, of course - I would just like to think this definitively states my thoughts about it.

I believe the government should not be trying to mind-read what someone might want or might have wanted. In the situations where that seems to arise, I see a failure in the law to be clear as to a default position. If there were a clear default position, this would be the go-to position in all cases lacking clear, even legally written, expression on the part of the person in question.

I believe in the absence of a clear, preferably written directive from Shiavo herself, the court should have no choice but to rely on the standard:
Re Browning:
In making this difficult decision, a surrogate decisionmaker should err on the side of life… In cases of doubt, we must assume that a patient would choose to defend life in exercising his or her right of privacy.

I believe that a feeding tube is not extraordinary means of staying alive. It is not the same as a full-on heart & lung life support machine. I do not believe denial of food & water is on par with switching off life support.

I believe that speculation on what can not be known about her wishes, what her family or husband want, what she might want in light of new therapies, what state of consciousness she may or may not be in, how long she has lived this way, what her medical reports say, what any expert says, what the judge thinks, what religious folk think, what political folk think, what the media chooses to report, is all irrelevant. Without a clear directive from the individual, I do not believe anyone should be able to violate her presumed wish to live.

I believe without legal enforcement of that presumption, many people with disabilities' lives will be in greater danger than they already are.

I believe that the court system has already behaved cruelly toward Shiavo, by the action of removing and reinserting her feeding tube. That is reprehensible. Get to the final decision, exhaust every single avenue, and then act one way or the other.

Well, that's all. I am not a religious fanatic or a political conservative, so I imagine my voice will be lost on this issue. Too many people are screaming. I am not screaming. I am thinking, and I am worried. To honor this woman, I am going to get my own living will in order.

Not A Light & Funny Post - My 2 cents on Shiavo

2005-03-20T23:41:00.000-08:00

I admit, I am not much of a news watcher these days. Overall, I find it too sad & stressful, but there are some things I find I just can't ignore.

Terri Shiavo, for fellow news avoiders, is a woman at the center of a battle that has me very worried. Her husband wants her to die; her parents want her to live. Sounds like a lot of cases so far, right? The catch here is that this woman is NOT in a coma (or persistent vegitative state). Her only form of medical support is a feeding tube, and her estranged husband who already has a new family and life apart from all this - wants to remove her feeding tube so that she starves to death. Does anyone else remember a landmark case in the mid-1980's that came down as "No, you really can't starve people to death. It is inhumane, cruel, and illegal." Yet, the state of Florida in its quest to be the biggest embarrassment we've got, said, "Oh, sure, pull the tube. Starve her, kill her."

Heh?

So the whole thing is getting kicked to the federal level and Congress is meeting to have a giant freak out, as well they should. Maybe Congress will decide to cut Florida free already. Here is what congress is thinking of passing:

"Under the House legislation, a federal judge would decide whether withholding or withdrawing food, fluids or medical treatment from an incapacitated person violates the Constitution or U.S. law.

It would apply only to incapacitated people who had not left directives dealing with being kept alive artificially and for whom a state judge had authorized the withholding of food or medical treatment." - cnn, March 17 2005

Why do we need a law that says it is illegal to tarve people to death? Isn't it illegal NOW to starve people to death? Let's try a few test cases.

Case #1. Your Grandmother is getting up in years, has developed senility and can't dress, bathe, or feed herself anymore. Are you allowed to deny her her medication so that her bloodpressure spins out of control and she dies? Can you stop bringing her meals so she starves to death?

Case #2. Your teenager is being a royal pain in the butt. Can you lock him in the closet and deny food & water until he is dead?

Case #3. You have a sudden stroke that robs you pf a lot of function and your ability to communicate. You are not dead or in a coma, and over the years you do manage to communicate with facial expressions with people you know and care about. Your parents want to get you the help of one of the many doctors who sees greater recovery is possible, but your estranged husband wants to deny you food & water until you die.

Hmm. Admittedly, the line between who is alive & who is dead has a gray area. But this woman is not in that gray area, so honestly, I don't see how her right to live her life has been completely circumvented. It is #1 on the American hit parade.

Watch your right, folks. All of them. The sandy bank is eroding from under our feet and I am very worried we won't realize how bad it is until we are sliding down the cliffside.

Today's Million Dollar Idea

2005-03-04T21:16:00.000-08:00

Every day has a million dollar idea.

Today's idea came out of today's adventure in waiting for a no-show to see an apartment while watching The Apprentice with my brother. This episode's challenge broke the contestants into teams that each had to build a miniture golf course. They had a budget and were going to be judged by how much money they brought in.

Team #1 went with a safari theme, which was really cute. They had the golf course set up under a big tent with potted trees and big stuffed animals. It was cozy without being too cutesy and the kids seemed to like it.

Team #2 went with the ever nightmarish clown theme. The dippy woman in charge, dubbed by me as 'Great Leader,' could not lead and refused to take responsibility for her lack of leadership. One man on her team, who I refer to as Klassy the Klown, was visibly chewing tobacco while in clown garb and taking tickets from the little tykes. Another man was completely uncooperative, refusing to put on the theme clown outfit and promote the golf course. If it were my team, I would have made it clear to Mr. No that his choices are teamwork or hit the pavement. Great Leader just whined at him.

I don't watch the show, but it seemed some history between her and the other contestants was also coming back to bite her in her self-described "beautiful" rump. (Everything that went wrong, Great Leader blamed on being beautiful and thereby not getting any respect. She did this in all 3 conversations on the show. Note to G. L. - There are beautiful women in this world who are also respected for their minds and what they can accomplish. You will never be one of these women until you a) Can manage a conversation in which you never utter the phrase, "But I'm so beautiful..." and b) Stop whining, take responsibility, and roll up your sleeves and do the work.)

No surprise, but Team #1 won. So Team #2 was going to have The Donald fire somebody. My brother asked me, "Which guy would you fire?"

"Well," I considered, "the leader sucked or maybe Mr. No. Now that guy is just plain obnoxious! Sure, I'd like to fire the idiot who didn't stop chewing tobacco even when dressed as a clown & dealing with little kids. But his problem can be fixed. He could go on the patch or something. The other guy is screwed. There's no patch for obnoxiousness."

And there it is.

Today's million dollar idea, The Obnoxiousness Patch, perhaps marketed as Obnoxipatch TM. I can see people buying them by the caseload, slapping them on the backs of people's necks and arms every single day. No one would buy them for themselves - rarely do the truly obnoxious regard themselves as anything other than easygoing, carefree folk. No, these patches would be for the sufferers to slap the patch upon others. I'm envisioning something along the lines of a Xanax-THC-theobromine time-release cocktail. It would sell like frozen milkyways on a hot summer beach. Normally, I might think twice before shoving such a valuable concept out into the bright lights of public scrutiny, but it would be worth it if some drug company picked this up and ran with it. It's a gimme, you guys, I just want a few cases to do with as I wish.

Now, honestly, who would you have slapped an Obnoxipatch TM on today?

ET, rent my home!

2005-03-03T20:59:00.000-08:00

Thank goodness someone has finally done something about all those billions of extraterrestrials who need a free couch. Finally I am a blogger with a breaking story! Tell them you heard it here first -- craigslist has gone intersteller:

WHAT: craigslist CEO Jim Buckmaster won an eBay auction for the first private communication transmission light years into deep space, with the idea of offering this opportunity to craigslist users.

HOW: The friendly folks at Deep Space Communications Network (DSCN) will beam the postings trillions of miles into space using redundant klystron transmitters and a satellite dish.

HOW MUCH: The winning bid was $1225, but craigslist is negotiating with DSCN for extra capacity to accomodate the anticipated volume of craigslist postings to be transmitted - 10,000 ads were designated by users for transmission during the first 24 hours!

WHEN: The transmission is currently scheduled for May 15th, 2005, directly following the launch of the space shuttle Discovery.

WHERE: Cape Canaveral, FL

WHY: It seemed fitting for craigslist users to be the first to beam internet postings and classified ads into deep space.

But... wait a sec. Craigslist? In Space? This can't be real! But check the FAQ:

Q: Is this a hoax. A: No.

This is good news. I have had very high interest in my Queen Anne rental, but low commitment. So I have been showing it virtually every day, week after week. Now when I see an unusally bright light flicker in the sky, I will know that ETs are coming to rent my apartment. So what if they don't have a credit history? Neither do the college kids that want to cram two or three people in every bedroom. No social security number? No problem! I have rented to folks from outside the US before. Maybe not that far outside, but hey, I don't judge. If ET wants the place I'll consider it. Great sky views - they're going to love it.

Do not stare directly at broken tablets

2005-03-02T00:44:00.000-08:00

Just so you know where I stand, I am not against the drug companies making a billion gagillion dollars, not at all. In fact, I think they probably need at least half a gagillion just to do the R & D necessary to developing new items of possible live-saving and/or weekend-enhancement quality. In a just world, the bulk of their profits would go toward paying exorbitant rent to the people of the Amazon to caretake and catalog that most precious of natural medicinal resources. In our world, though, I do not think it unreasonable to expect drug companies to be honest. Woo hoo, that's funny! No, no, not fiscally honest or who keeps burning popcorn in the breakroom microwave honest. I just mean legally enforced honesty, full disclosure of all studies done on any given drug. They should also be made to track all incoming reports of incidents after release to market - but hold on now, little Miss Sassypants, one thing at a time!

My father-in-law, a man of remarkable wit & wisdom, sent this to me. It is a cute little animated song mocking tv drug ads. Sure, you might think they are virtually un-mockable, what with the warnings about side effects ranging from sleepiness (in a sleeping pill, so wouldn't that be the main effect?) to coma & death. Ah yes, servin' up a little side dish of DEATH. Not to worry, just a niggly higgly pesky little side effect. My favorite ad is for propecia, which I have not seen on tv in a while, but if memory serves, specifically warns women to stand back 50 feet from it and not handle or stare directly at broken tablets. All that danger is worth it though because it might help balding men grow an ounce of peach fuzz, so how can you argue with that? As if the rockin' animation and jaunty tune were not enough, you will find a link on the page to how you can support legislation for full public drug study disclosure, the Fair Access to Clinical Trials Act (FACT Act). No spam here, folks - this is from Consumer's Union (publisher of Consumer Reports), so go ahead and click without fear.

What!?! Singing and dancing pills? And I can see them without waking up in a strange city with unexplained tattoos and no shoes? Count me in!

The icy cold hand of death

2005-02-27T22:14:00.000-08:00

Yes, it is that time of year once again, when the icy cold hand of death reaches out and snatches another year away from our friend, John. It is his birthday. John is well-known in our little circle for not taking the appearance of his birthday well. Two or three years ago, his infamous birthday dinner invitation spoke about "the icy cold hand of death" coming one year closer, and so forth. Every one of us showed up in appropriate all black mourning attire and somewhere is a funny picture of us all gathered around looking extra sad.

Today's birthday brunch invitation went like this:

It's that time of year again: time to reflect on the previous year's triumphs and failures, joys and sorrows, thrills and intrigues, special effects and show-stopping musical numbers. Yes, it's time for the goddamn Academy Awards, and this year they're squatting on MY BIRTHDAY. Rather than attempt to compete directly with the decadent entertainment industry, I've decided to make this year's memorial to my waning youth a daytime affair. Come to Cafe Flora's sun-washed atrium at noon this Sunday, the twenty-seventh, to see me emerge, eyes blinking and nose twitching, from the hole of overwork, illness, despair, and international political agitation that has consumed me since last summer. Legend has it that, if I see my own shadow, spring has arrived, and if I don't, I am a vampire.

Afterward, I propose that we engage in the vernal tradition of hiding gaily colored "eggs" (represented by billiard balls in some cultures) among pockets in green "fields" by thrusting at them with fertility symbols known as "cues," to be found by "children" at the Garage on Broadway, where we can also go bowling if you prefer. All festivities will end in time for you to return to your lives of error and sin, as you indulge in the bourgeois fantasies stoked by the Academy Awards broadcast. I'll need to reserve a table, so please respond with an aye or a nay as soon as you can, and if you do intend to bear witness to this harbinger of spring, include with your response the number of guests you'll bring.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him,
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

Our friend, Karen had an excellent idea for this year's festivities:

A couple of months ago a certain They Might Be Giants song was stuck in my head all day, when suddenly it occurred to me, Mon dieu! That's the perfect John Franco birthday song! The song is called "Older," and it goes something like this:

You're older than you've ever been
and now you're even older
and now you're even older
and now you're even older
You're older than you've ever been
and now you're even older
and now you're older still

Time - is marching on
and time...(long pause)
is still marching on.
This day will soon be at an end
and now it's even sooner
and now it's even sooner
and now it's even sooner
this day will soon be at an end
and now it's even sooner
and now it's sooner still

You're older than you've ever been
and now you're even older
and now you're even older
and now you're even older
You're older than you've ever been
and now you're even older
and now you're older still

So I've been plotting to perform this song for him as a birthday surprise, and if y'all are game, I could use your help. I'm envisioning a chorus of kazoos. If anybody happens to play the bassoon or bass sax, that would be fabulous, but kazoos will do. The melody is very simple and catchy, as evidenced by the fact that I got it stuck in my head two years after hearing it only once.

Rarely does an idea achieve this level of perfection. Now, picture it if you will -

A table full of friends gathered around, suddenly burst into song with kazoo accompaniment and well-timed percussive body slaps. We received some applause and a pair of little older ladies asked us what the song was because they felt it was perfect for their younger friend's upcoming 60th birthday. I agree - let's replace the tired ol' happy Birthday song with Older.

It's out there now! Watch for it. A new meme is on the rise.

Blogging for Books #8: Winner!!

2005-02-25T03:18:00.000-08:00

Great news!

A Shot of Courage is one of the three winners of this month's Blogging for Books over at The Zero Boss. Wow wow wow! There were some terrific essays in this group. If you haven't read them yet, head over there pronto.

Oh sure, I was all cool in the comments section, "Hey thanks! This is great..." Truth is I am expecting the cops to shoot me with a tranq gun any second because I can't stop jumping up & down on the furniture over here.

To quote this month's author & contest judge, Faulkner Fox:

"The use of dialogue in "A Shot of Courage" by The World According to Me is fantastic. It keeps the story moving, and it allows the reader toparticipate in what is going on--the roommate's squeamishness, the boyfriend's freakish interest, and the clinic's lack of support. The sharp dialogue, coupled with the rich and wise interior thoughts that we get from the narrator's point of view, make this piece a very satisfying read. Bravo! And good for you that you value doing the shots yourself, now."

Of course, the cherry on the sundae would be if that particular ex-boyfriend stumbled across Faulkner's apt description. Ooh. I just got chills.

The Second Sign of the Apocalypse*

2005-02-24T03:35:00.000-08:00

[*Apocalypse, not to be confused with Alpaca Lips, which only threaten to kiss very special guests at Alpacapalooza April 2-3. Woohooo! Can't wait!]

As much as I hate to rush right into the end of days, I feel the burden of information that, while it must be shared is also bound to disorient, even frighten the people who know me.

Hold on to your kishkas, now-

I have a job.

It's ok! Really, it is. It all began with the simple removal of a shrub.

It was a Russian olive, destined for great heights, but unfortunately planted underneath power lines and overhanging several walkways. It crouched on the front corner of our yard, inner thicker branches long since hacked to bits as it struggled to become the enormous plant that every person who ever lived here tried to stop it from becoming. One good friend, one chainsaw, a few beers later, *poof* no more shrub. Then it was clear that the huge leyland cypresses stuffed into the narrow space between our place and the neighbors' had to go. (I was all set to put a link here - but perhaps did not blog it? - to my tale of the neighbor, whose first ever words to me were, "Your treeeeees are killlllllllllllling my rooooooooooooooooooof." Yet, mysteriously, when I spoke with her about the great estimate we got on removing the trees she had $0 to kick in toward it. Huh. Weird.) So, we got the lovely but hazardous trees taken down and while the guy was here we had him prune some things and take out some things. All this work served a purpose unknown to any of us at the time.

It exposed the ugliest rockery in Seattle.

For those of you not living in Seattle, a rockery is a no-mortar rock wall that is a very common sight in Seattle. Rocks, usually dark gray, and stacked anywhere from just a foot or two to four feet, sometimes more, in such a way that they retain your front yard from sliding out to the street. People add cute little alpine flowers, cascading vines, and all manner of plants to little soil pockets set among the stones. Our rockery sports some of the more popular local weeds (not that weed - I'm talking blackberry here!), chunks of roots and bricks, and a single struggling shoot of vinca. I called a rockery guy to come take a look and give me an estimate on making things right. I warned him on the phone, "Oh, you can't miss it. It's the ugliest rockery in Seattle!" I met him at the front door and we walked to the front of the rockery together.

"Oh man!" said the man who does rockeries for a living.

"Pretty serious, huh?"

"Oh yeah," he laughed, dollar signs dancing in his pupils. He reached out to one of the rocks and it crumbled as his fingers grazed it. "There was some contractor, maybe 15 years ago," the rockery guy says, "used to work in this area on the city. Must have been the cheapest guy around. Kept prices low by using whatever materials were handy." We both look at the rockery, its incorporated chunks of broken concrete jutting out at strange angles, giant decomposing roots where solid rock should be, and we realize we would not be surprised to find a kitchen sink in there because everything else is in there. He tells me, "I'm very familiar with this guy's work. I owe half my business to him."

Great. So I head over to craigslist to see if I can go talk about eggs for a few dozen hours for the quick $$. I check all the weird, random jobs to see what I might stetch to be vaguely qualified to do. I send out many writing resumes and samples, I respond to who knows how many ads that could, if the planets line up just so, turn into something. Then I get a call for an interview. Then a second interview. Then they want me. ME!! So I have a nice, cozy part time gig doing customer service for a real estate start up. I like it a lot.

If you don't know me that well, you must be wondering why you are clinging tenaciously to your kishkas? What is the big deal?

The big deal is that I haven't worked in 15 years. Oh, well, you know, not really. Aside from the very occasional writing job, I manage some family-owned rentals. I spackle & paint, advertise & show vacancies, shoot the tenants when they act up and bury them in the flower bed, shop & cook & clean & run errands. But until last week, I didn't work. Hah! Three full hours every weekday, baby. I'm swimming in the deep end now!

Don't egg me on

2005-02-24T03:28:00.000-08:00

Where have I been? What on Earth is up?

Oh, my little bloggityboos, I have some tale to tell.

I was kidnapped - kidnapped! - by eggstraterrestrials. Yes!

I answered a seemingly innocuous craigslist ad... now that I think about it, perhaps it was suspicious right from the start. It included such red flag terms as "a few quick questions," "easy money," and "would you be able to come next Thursday at 6 PM?" I answered their questions-

"Sure!"
"Yes, I do most of the food shopping."
"I buy one or two cartons of eggs per month."
"OK, I'll be there."
& eggcetera.

Hindsight is too easy. In my eggcitement, I pencilled in my day planner and mapped the location of the "focus group." We met in the lobby over drinks and snacks designed to lull us into a sense of security. We discovered that we were six women and one man, all the primary food shoppers of our households, all had noticed a certain theme to the screener questions. They herded us into some sort of alien lab with a big oval table and sturdy chairs and video monitor, made us introduce ourselves to the group, and unveiled their eggstraordinarily evil plan. They want to take over the world and they want US to help them do it.

They made us talk about eggs for two hours.

Apparently, we of the focus group/alien abduction were deemed substandard egg eaters. What on long lost Earth, I thought? I buy a couple dozen eggs a month and we are only two people. That's below average? How many eggs is everyone else eating? What are they doing with all those eggs?! I was reeling from that little revelation when they explained. Some sort of egg farmers or eggracultural organization wants to get the good word out about our ovoid friends, the way the "got milk?" campaign did for milk. OK, sure. Everyone deserves a piece of the pie (quiche?), go ahead, try out your campaign ideas on me:

Did you know eggs are only 75 calories?
Eggcellent!

Did you know eggs are a perfect protein and that your body absorbs it almost entirely, leaving no waste?
Good point, but you might not want to go into it to that eggstent.

30 minutes later...

Did you know eggs are an amazing super food?
Yeah, but that's just PR from the FDA, and after they counted ketchup in my school lunch as a vegetable, I can't get eggcited about their labels.

Did you know that all that hoo ha about eggs and cholesterol is a myth? Really. Really. They are just handy dandy to eat and likely won't kill you.
Hmph. I find that rather eggregious.

30 minutes later...

Did you know an egg white has just 10 calories?
Kill me please. I no longer wish to eggsist.

Did you know eggs make a great meal any time of day?
Please... just... show me... my last precious staggering braincells... the eggsit...

My memory is hazy after that until suddenly I became conscious, alone in my car, with nothing to prove my eggsperuence by an envelope of cash and a tiny oval-shaped scar right where my fingernail lines up with my palm where they may have inserted an implant because every time I drive by IHOP I feel a meggnetic pull.

A Shot of Courage

2005-02-14T03:27:00.000-08:00

Blogging for Books #8: Risk (Guest Author: Faulker Fox)

Risk is an inherent part of life. We take our lives in our hands each day just by getting out of bed. Risk is responsible for much of our pain in this world, but it's also the source of all of our pleasures.

For this Blogging for Books, write a blog entry (2,000 words or less, please) about a time when you took a risk in your life on someone or something - a new romance, a new career, a new home, etc. Were you successful beyond your wildest dreams - or did you crash and burn?
***************************************************************************************

A Shot of Courage

I am not a big risk taker. I learned this back in junior high school as I was crossing an icy parking lot and my friend Lisa, laughing and cupping her hands around her mouth, shouted out to me, "Lilly, you are such a careful stepper!" And I am, for the most part. Some of my friends are wild risk takers, and when they tell me about the time the parachute failed to open correctly or the time hitchhiking along a lonely highway in Kansas, I listen to every detail. I try to imagine the sounds, the scents, the thoughts that raced through their heads, the rapid beating of their hearts, because to the core of my self I know that will never be me.

Except for the one time when it was me, poised at the doorway of the plane, faulty parachute strapped to my back. All I knew was that there was no way on this green Earth that I was leaving school. No way I would let the illness-invader best me, force me out of an Ivy League school just so I would be close enough to my doctor's office to go for my shots twice a week. The problem was that I had no medical support in the one-cow upstate town. I talked to the school's health clinic (motto: We're Dying to Help You), and they let me know that my prescription did not impress them.

"But I'm a student here and I have a prescription."

"Sorry, we only dispense insulin injections."

"What difference does it make what's in it? I just need a nurse to give me my shot."

"But it's not for insulin."

"We could pretend...?"

Next, I tried to hire a nurse from town. No nurse, no doctor, no candy striper would help me because I was a student and the school clinic had turned me down. I was strongly considering trying the veterinary school when I hatched my plan.

"You can't be serious," my doctor told me.

"As a heart attack… ha ha! O.K., you're not amused, no, really, I am very serious," I assured her.

She quirked one eyebrow in her quintessentially European way, all at once questioning my statement, my intent, and my sad American sense of humor. "It is too large a volume to self-administer. You get dizzy and disoriented after your shot here in this office. It is not safe for you to do yourself."

"I have to do this!" I urged. "I have to stay in school!"

"Why?" she asked. "Your health... perhaps you should take some time off."

"If I don't do this, I will always feel like I am behind and that it's because of fear."

We looked at each other while she considered. "All right," she breathed. "The nurse will teach you."

The nurse brought in a large tray loaded down with everything I never wanted to know about shots. Little bottles of differently colored fluids, rubber tubing, syringes and alcohol swabs. And needles. I felt myself fight to focus on the lesson on how one needle gets dull piercing the soft rubber tops of the bottles so a fresh needle goes on before you inject yourself. Just a little science experiment, I told myself as I floated above the surreal scene. La dee dah, mix in a cc of this, a cc of that, no big deal at all. Easy as pie. Soon, 10 cc's of terror sat glinting in the bright medical office lights.

"Ok," she said, "You're ready."

I didn't feel ready. As a child, I helpfully volunteered my brother at the pediatrician each year to be first for getting any vaccinations. My first question before a trip outside the country was always, 'Will I need a shot?' because that might be a deal-breaker. I had come so far in the past months in handling my fear of needles. I had to. I had had so many blood tests that the lady at the lab and I knew each other by name. Once during a particularly long draw, she looked confused for a moment and muttered, "It's stopped."

"What do you mean, 'It's stopped?'" Blood doesn't stop! It can't just stop, can it? Can it?"

"Hey, stay calm, you're starting to hyperventilate," she said as she bent my arm around some cotton gauze.

"I would say that's the least of my problems right now! My blood has STOPPED!"

Pushing my head down between my knees, she explained that all my blood hadn't stopped, just this one vein had collapsed. "We drew too much blood."

Unbelievable! I thought, both impressed and appalled. The Queen of Needle Avoidance had come to this.

I stared at the 10 cc syringe. It was the size of a roll of quarters and I would have to inject that into my own body twice a week. It would hurt and make me feel sick and dizzy and I would have to do it alone in my dorm room with no help from anyone. I would have to reach into myself and dredge up the strength to take this chance or give up my dream school.

A bubble of nervous laughter escaped my lips as I raised the syringe over my thigh, and I froze in mid-air. Suddenly, I realized that my old stand-by strategy for dealing with needles was not going to work. There would be no looking around the room, pretending nothing unusual was happening, distracting myself, Ooh, bright shiny objects... then - OW! - it was over. When giving myself a shot, I could not look away. I had to choose a spot on my body and focus very hard, my eyes burning warmth and expectation into it until the skin began to tingle, sending the lizard part of my brain into a frenzy, What are you doing to yourself??

OW!

Then long, long moments of slowly pushing a liquid roll of quarters into my flesh.

My freshman year roommate had spent the first week of school clueing me in to the fact that boarding school had made her very worldly and mature. My request that she help me with my shot by being in the room at the same time every Tuesday and Friday set her maturity level back a good ten years.

"Oh gawd! Oh GAWWWDD!!" Tracey squealed.

"Jesus," I muttered, "I'm not asking you to do it. I just need you to be in the room."

"No!"

"You have to be here for safety, in case I pass out. Just stay this time and by the next time I will find someone else to babysit me." I told her not to look, and she buried her face in her pillow moaning in misery just imagining what was going on in the room. My hands were shaking as I followed the recipe, moving from vial to vial, accidentally dropping the fresh needle on the floor and fumbling in the box for a replacement. When I told her it was over, the pale, sick look on her face left me wondering which one of us was more likely to pass out.

By the next week, I had a new boyfriend. Bob's flaws were many and varied, but whatever else could be said about him, he was there for every last one of my shots. He found out about them when I asked for help bringing my bed down from its loft position over my desk. I had discovered that my upper glutes were my best injection site, but after my shot placed what felt like a golf ball in the back pocket of very tight jeans, I could not climb the ladder to my lofted bed. I was never sure how to regard Bob's fascination with the shots. At first it seemed to be an engineer's interest in the mechanics of how it all worked - the careful angling of each vial to avoid air bubbles, the rolling of the syringe between my palms to warm it, the slight pull back on the injection to check for blood in case a vein had been hit.

Later on, Bob invited whoever was around to come see me give myself the shot. "Oh, is it six o'clock already? Wait a sec - Hey, Les, man, you gotta come see this!" Since most of his friends were ROTC, I found it funny how many of them lost their tough-guy cool the instant a needle made its appearance. If they seemed to take it in stride, my cheerful offer, "You want one?" would elicit the squealing and head shaking my boyfriend found so funny. Only the gung ho Marine ROTC down the hall stood his ground without a flicker of emotion. "That's some damn fine work, soldier," he said to me. I never knew if he meant the shot or the ass, but I guessed I'd take it as a compliment either way.

After six months or so, Bob asked if he could give me my shot. He had seen me do it fifty times, I considered, why not? I watched as he carefully mixed the recipe from each little vial. He replaced the mix needle with a fresh one and tore open an alcohol swab packet. "O.K.," he said, "drop ‘em."

I turned and unzipped my jeans, lowering them a few inches. I waited for the OW! I waited what seemed like a long time. I turned to look at him and saw his hand shaking slightly. "Just aim for an old bruise," I told him. "Those are the best spots." Waiting… waiting…

OW!

"Hey," Bob said with surprised relief, "that wasn’t so bad."

"Sure, for you. I was the one getting stabbed," I laughed.

"I could give you your shot every time if you want."

It should have been music to my ears. Six months earlier that offer would have been a miracle, but I was shocked to discover I hated not being in control of my shot. The days of finding relief in games and distractions were long gone. I knew too well what my reality was and I needed to be in charge of it.

The Alchera Project: Dan's Departure

2005-02-03T04:43:00.000-08:00

This month's entry in The Alchera Project has the following guidelines:

"Write a scene from the point of view of a character being left by another character. If possible, avoid all clichés of soap operas and televisions and bad books and movies. Unfortunately, that doesn't give you much room to work. It seems everything on this topic has been said to death. You'll need to reach down into your characters to find something fresh, something particular to them. If you want, keep dialogue to a minimum. Work with action and gesture." --The Writer's Idea Book, Jack Heffron

Follow the above guidelines, using the scene in a piece of fiction.
*********************************************************************

Dan's Departure

Carrie’s first thought as she awoke, as it was every morning, was to silence the awful bleating. She never intended to actually wake up when the alarm sounded and many mornings she succeeded, triumphantly rolling over and slipping back to sleep in blissful silence. This morning the memory that Dan had an early meeting bubbled into consciousness and sent her eyelids sliding to half-mast.

"Dan… " she mumbled into her pillow. "Dan," she said more insistently, pushing at his shoulder, "you’ve got that thing today, that thing with those guys for the funding."

"Mmmph."

"You have to get up, get dressed, shave, make your presentation."

"Mmmph. Five minutes."

Carrie knew after two years together that five minutes would lead to five more minutes and then five more. Finally, with only twenty minutes to go from zero to out the door, Dan would get himself up. Today was too important for that.

"Oh, no!" she laughed, rolling over and straddling him in one fluid motion. "You," she punctuated each syllable with kisses landing on a different part of his face, "need… to… get… rea… dy."

Carrie sighed. Dan really did need to get up and start his day but he was so warm and sleepy and snuggly and fit so well underneath her… Shaking herself mentally, Carrie eased off the bed, marched over to the window, and threw the curtains open.

Sunlight flowed from the window, drenching the bed and engulfing Dan as he squinted into the brightness. Scratching his head and looking none to steady on his feet, Dan wandered to the bathroom and soon Carrie heard the toilet flush followed by the concentrated rain of the shower. She fell back against the pillows and smiled at the sparkling slice of blue sky captured in the window. For no reason she could quite pin down, the day seemed full of promise. Maybe she would get up early for a change and enjoy some time to herself before all the errands clamoring for her attention on her day off.

Deciding to get up was one thing, but getting space at the sink and mirror were another. Carrie ducked under Dan’s arm as he traced his razor up his neck, grabbed the little bag she kept stocked with travel sized shampoo and conditioner, and darted into the shower. When she emerged from the bathroom, towel wrapped securely around her, she found Dan half-dressed, filling his briefcase with files from his desk. Looking down at the pale skinny legs sticking out from beneath his shirttails like two toothpicks stuck into pimento-red socks, she advised, "You might need some pants before you head out into the big, bad, breezy world."

Grinning his patented hint-of-wolf grin, his eyes raked over her wet skin. "Really?" he asked, "‘Cause I’m starting to see good points about an entirely pantsless day."

Laughing and holding her towel with one hand, she reached out and hugged him with her free arm. She breathed in the mingled scents of soap, shaving cream, and Dan. Her eyes drifted closed as her head tipped back, but the kiss never arrived.

Carrie’s confused eyes met Dan’s for the first time that morning and she felt herself go cold.

She stepped back from him instinctively, scanning his face, his posture for the thing that was different. The elements of him looked the same as she watched him return his attention to his files, from the vein that snaked a blue line up the back of his knee to the cowlick that never quite lay flat at the back of his head. The pieces of Dan were all there, but they no longer added up to her Dan. It was, Carrie decided, the air itself that had transformed someone she knew into someone she once knew. She held the towel tightly to her breastbone, walked back to the bathroom, and closed the door with a soft click. Wave after wave of questions buffeted her as she braced herself on the edge of the tub. When had he been planning to tell her it was over? Had he been her Dan yesterday at the restaurant? Last night when they returned to his place? Not that it mattered, she knew from long experience. He had already left her and clearing her few things out of his place today would leave no trace that she had ever been there.

A Warm Welcome to...

2005-01-30T23:39:00.000-08:00

Tigger!!!

Max Welcomes Tigger

Big doings today at Cavy Companions. Max spiffed up, practiced his best rumble strut, and went on speed piggie dating with the three girls I introduced you to the other day. Tigger was first and she and Max went nose to nose right away, as if to say, "Who's in there?" He met Thelma next, and it did not go badly but Thelma just did not take to Max the way Tigger did. Holly and Max just did not get on well. Guinea pigs will sort these things out eventually, but for Max the choice was clearly Tigger.

Tigger is a real sweetheart who purrs when her back is scritched at a magic spot. Max and Tiggs seem very comfortable with each other. Tiggs is also pretty happy with us already, letting us pet her and enjoying a carrot and some web surfing during lap time.

I miss Ashleigh a lot today. We monkeys have a slower healing time. Tigger is good for Max, though, I can see it already. Welcome home, Tigger! We are all very happy to have you in the family.

The Yin and the Yang of it

2005-01-27T04:28:00.000-08:00

As so many, many stories of my life begin, there I was minding my own business, when...

...when I stumbled across an old folder of photos on my old hard drive. There it was, the picture I was so sad I never took. Two of them, actually. The famous Max & Ashleigh yin-yang pose.

yinyang1

They relaxed and napped snuggled together this way so often, with Max in the Big Pig Spot facing me in bed and Ashleigh keeping an eye on the world outside.

yinyang2

The dreaded note

2005-01-26T19:28:00.000-08:00

On my way out the door, rushing to get to the vacant rental to show it, and I get to my car and what do you suppose is on the windshield? A note. Folded and tucked into a plastic bag (this is rainy Seattle, after all). Aww, I thought as cartoon-style sparkles and hearts danced around my head. S. left me a note! I open it and-

I watched a person driving a dark minivan pull out of the house on the east side of the street and dent your car. The windows were up and the driver didn't stop.

What's tha-? Dent? My CAR?!?! I ran around and yep, there was a new dent. Paint scraped just to be sure I can't put off the repair.

Now I am on the hunt for a dark minivan driving guiltily on my block. Admittedly, my block is a parking disaster. Narrow, fairly steep hill, often parked up and competitive, cars on both sides of the street with driveways cut in at points that make us all, at times, very *close* to our neighbors. Do I take up one of the valuable street spaces? No, I do not. I block our own driveway where S. leaves his truck. We take two spaces no one else can take to ease the pressure out there just a little bit. My thanks for this act of neighborliness - one neighbor plows into my car and dashes away, and another better neighbor at least tells me about it, but leaves no contact info. That info would be very helpful now because there is no dark minivan out there, but there is a dark station wagon with storage thing on top and two dark SUVs. Could it have been one of these? And was it actually coming out of that driveway, or just parked on that part of the street?

I may never know.

Guinea pig match-dot-com

2005-01-25T02:24:00.000-08:00

So, you may be asking, what about Max?

Max Looks Out On The World

We lost Ashleigh last Sunday, and as you know, Max & Ashleigh were a bonded pair. Guinea pigs can actually grieve themselves to death when their mate passes away. They just stop eating, drinking, and lay down and wait. So we watched Max carefully for the next few days. I think he thinks the monkeys around here have gone nuts because we constantly pick him up, pet him, talk to him. He did have some stomach upset, the rescuer and vet think it was emotional, but it led to a small imbalance in his gut that we are treating now. He is really doing very well and we are proud of the little guy. He sits and breathes these deep piggie sighs.

I talked with the rescuer and we agree that Max is lonely, he misses Ashleigh but also he has never lived by himself. We decided to try and introduce Max to a few females in his age group and see if a pairing looks promising. She mentioned some of the girl guinea pigs up for adoption are on her website. I sat down with Max on my lap and we checked out the pix.

Max seemed to study each picture so intently. He is a 21st Century Pigster, down with the technology, loving the web dating on piggiematch.com. See what you think. Will Max find friendship? Romance?

Holly

Thelma

Tigger

We meet the girls on Sunday & we'll tell you how it goes!

One sad day

2005-01-25T01:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, I have been away from the blog for a while. Sorry about that. We had a very sad day here last Sunday and it took a little while before I could write about it, and its presence in my life was such that I knew I could not write about anything else until I did write about it.

Early Sunday morning, we suddenly lost our guinea pig Ashleigh. I know not everyone knows first hand how sad it can be to lose a pet, but love and loss are not hard to understand.

Ashleigh became part of our happy little group when we adopted Max. We wanted a companion for Max because guinea pigs are highly social and they are happiest in bonded pairs. You can read the story of how Max & Ashleigh met here:
http://accordingtometheworld.blogspot.com/2004/11/famous-pigs.html

Ashleigh was smart, funny, inquisitive, and brave. We are all going to miss her so much.

Max & Ashleigh in their house

Blogging For Books #7: The Ghost of Queen Anne

2005-01-12T03:03:00.000-08:00

This is my entry in January's Blogging for Books (#7): Life is as Strange as Fiction
For this month's Blogging for Books, choose which genre of fiction best represents your life - whether it be literary, mystery, romance, horror, sci-fi, fantasy, magical realism, etc. - and write a fictionalized account of some incident in your life based in that genre.

Apparently, my life has just a touch of horror, as this is a true story.

******************************************************************************

The Ghost of Queen Anne

"Where is that draft coming from?" I asked, holding my hands out to feel the air brushing over my skin.

Having eluded us since we took possession of the old Victorian home a month before, the draft seemed to have settled at long last in the dining room. Every licked fingertip and every lit match pointed to a different source. Finally, we had to admit, we just didn't know.

"That's just the way it is with old houses," Stephan said. "Crown mouldings, high ceilings, and ghosts."

Shivering slightly, I stepped away from the draft and grabbed my favorite phillips head out of the toolbox. "Package deal, I guess. I'm going to start prepping the upstairs bathroom for paint."

"O.K. Holler if you need me. I'll take a shot at roughing up the dining room walls."

Even a whole floor away, the power sander was loud, its vibration creeping up through the floor and climbing the aluminum ladder as I reached overhead to unscrew the fan cover. The subtle shaking had me feeling less than steady on my feet and I was just considering switching to taping off the border of the floor when the vibration and noise suddenly stopped.

"Lil..! Lil..!!"

Racing downstairs, I saw the blurred image of my boyfriend floating behind the thick plastic tarps we had hung to prevent sawdust from drifting out of the room. "Steph? Where are you..?" I swatted at the plastic, looking for the opening. His hand shot out of the plastic and pulled me through the makeshift doorway.

"Oh my G-" I squeaked and burst into giggles.

"Yeah, yeah, O.K.," he said in that aggreived tone that always makes me laugh harder.

"It's just so..." I gasped. I had no word to describe the sight of Stephan coated from head to toe in sawdust. From the hair sticking up randomly on his head to the tips of his workboots, my boyfriend had become the carpentry equivalent of a tar and feather incident. "It's so..."

"Manly?" he offered.

When we both stopped laughing, I helped him out of his protective gear and he headed off to shower. Over lunch we decided to let the air in the dining room settle down and spend the afternoon on easier jobs.

"Do you see it now?" I asked from my perch at the top of the ladder.

"Nope," Stephan answered from his position on the floor.

"How about now?"

"Mmm...no."

I wriggled the fishtape in the wall again and again as Stephan tried to hook it with his fishtape. Running cable in the wall of an old house is always a challenge and the cable company just throws the cable jack anywhere they like. They don't care where you might want it inside the house. We had gotten away with running it around the room on top of the picture frame moulding, but now that we had reached the right spot, we had to run it inside the wall down to the correct height for a television. Stephan drilled the holes, so all we had to do was feed one fishtape into each hole, "fish" around in the wall until their hooks connected, then pull it through so that we could use it to pull the cable through. Usually, this is not a hard task, but it had been taking a long time. My feet on the ladder had started to ache and I turned to watch the dust behind the thick plastic that sealed off the dining room as it churned and boiled through the air, slowly, slowly settling down.

"Hey, Lilly, can you feel that? Am I tapping your wire?"

"No, nothing."

"Hmm. Maybe there's something in the wall blocking us. Hang on." Stephan marched across the room to rummage in the toolbox and came back with a flashlight and a small mirror. He pulled his fishtape out of the wall and began looking in the hole. "Hmmm... No, nothing there... Nope, noth- WHAT THE-!"

My head snapped to Stephan as he raced backwards across the carpet until he was stopped by the far wall. His calm, relaxed manner was shattered. His huge eyes flicked between me and the wall, me and the wall, me and the wall, and the sound of his rapid breathing filled the quiet. I was halfway across the room to him before I realized I was in motion. "What?!" I demanded. "What is it?"

Folding my hands around the flashlight and mirror, he gestured toward the wall with his chin and said, "Go look in there."

I approached the wall slowly and sat down by the hole. Crouching close to the carpet, I clicked on the flashlight and looked back at Stephan. He was wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. I mentally shrugged and leaned in until my face was inches from the hole. Directing the beam of light into the hole, I tilted the mirror this way and that, trying to see beyond my limits.

Suddenly, I saw someone inside the wall looking back at me. I blinked. The other eye was still there, and it looked very human.

My heart slammed against my ribcage as I flew across the room. Breathing hard I looked up at Stephan as my mind raced in a thousand directions. Who was in my wall? Was it the same soul as the ghost in the dining room? I thought about my friend who owned the only house in Seattle I had ever been in that was older than this one, and when he opened the walls he found a book on witchcraft. And I thought that was scary! Now we will have to sell the house because there is no way in hell I am living here with some person in the wall. No way, no chance, not happening, no no no...

Stephan's voice intruded on my adrenalin rush, but I could not make sense of it."H-h-huh?" I breathed.

"What color was the eye you saw?" he asked me.

Knowing that image will be with me until the day I die, I said, "Brown."

Thoughtfully, Stephan said, "O.K. Mine was blue. It's a mirror."

As we came to learn, homes built in the 1900's commonly had pocket doors that slid neatly into the wall to separate the parlor from the dining room. When Prohibition began in the 1920's, many people took out the pocket doors and used the space in the wall as a hiding spot for alcohol. After Prohibition ended, some people put the pocket doors back in, others sealed the space up. And, apparently, some used the space to store things, like say, a large dusty mirror and some old wallpaper.

I have never opened a wall since without holding my breath. You just never know what old ghosts you are going to stir up.

Tsunami Relief - Help You Can Offer

2005-01-03T02:52:00.000-08:00

Often, when large scale disasters strike, I think a lot of people feel the situation is just so big that it is beyond them to help. But when everything that you have has been swept away, receiving a small thing suddenly becomes a very big deal. Never underestimate the power in reaching out.

At first I thought I would not blog about the Tsunami in Asia because there was so much out there already. Then, two things happened. First, I was asked by two different people where I thought they should send a donation. Secondly, by way of BuzzMachine, I came across Anders Jacobsen:

"Whether you give money, time or whether you decide to share your link-power; if you create a post on your weblog front page or create permanent links in your blogroll and link to the below organizations, then link to my blog and this posting, I will pay US$ 1 to the British Red Cross."

Yes I will, Anders. And thank you!

*(I favor Oxfam, by the way, due to high percentage of the money going for relief as opposed to administrative, but a list of good reputable organizations appears below and now on the right sidebar under "Tsunami Relief").

International aid organizations:
UNICEF (United Nations Children's Fund)
United Nations' World Food Programme
Medecins Sans Frontieres / Doctors without Borders (donate!)
CARE International
The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies

UK/Europe:
Disasters Emergency Comittee (DEC) - comprises a raft of aid agencies, including the below and others
British Red Cross
Save the Children UK

North America:
American Red Cross
Canadian Red Cross
Save The Children

Anders Jacobsen: Webloggers: Give to tsunami victims and I'll give too!

You Can Take the Girl Out of New York...

2005-01-03T01:49:00.000-08:00

With less than two days left on our annual holiday trip to NY, I feel the same deep seated longings that I do every year:

I love seeing everybody here, but I miss Mom & my brother. I miss my friends. I miss my house and my ongoing, neverending projects. I have had the requisite stressed out dream because all my inner alarm systems are aware I have not taken care of my guinea pigs in weeks.* And, for the love of G-d, cram that suitcase full of black & white cookies, because no matter how they want to believe they are offering black & white cookies at various Seattle locations, they are not real black & white cookies (and worse, because the look-alikes make me want one sooo much).

I have to say that I love Seattle. I have to say it because truly, it is a city in need of culinary help. Great for fish, of course, from salmon to sushi. Great for Japanese, Thai, Indian. Not bad for Italian and steakhouse, and phenomenal for organic foods. It is fine for chain restaurants - got your Wendy's, your Outback Steakhouse, etc. - although WTF is going on with Burger King? Every time I leave town, when I get back something major has happened. Major to me, that is. Time before last it was the disappearance of the Queen Anne Thriftway (best produce in the whole city), and through my sobbing and avowals never to leave town again, I was told it was really the same, management had just gone independent so the new Metropolitan Market was born. Of course, to me, it will always be, "Let's stop at the former Thriftway for cameo apples." Last time I had the nerve to leave town for a few days, I returned to find every single Burger King closed. Poof! Some were gone for good. One underwent renovations, and a few weeks later they gently eased me off the glass doors to open for business.

Seattle's food scene has its strong points, but every trip to NY starts with S & I turning to each other with sly grins, "So what do you wanna eat first?"

Listen up, Seattle. There are a lot of us expatriate east coasters living in your area now, and we NEED the following:

1. Deli. Get some Boar's Head cold cuts. Get some real deli case offerings. Get some knishes and some fricking black & white cookies. Not just cake cookies you disguise with some brown and some white frosting. No! I have tried every last one of those and they are wrong wrong hearbreakingly wrong. I will handcarry a few on the plane to any deli or bakery in Seattle willing to try and duplicate an authentic b&w cookie. Furthermore, once you offer it, I will sing your praises to every single person I know. In the meantime, if you are on safari to bag authentic deli, the best delis I have found in Seattle so far are the Other Coast Cafe, Buffalo Deli, Roxy's [pastrami!], and Leah's for knishes.

2. Chinese. I know, I know. You would think, being on the Pacific Rim and all, that Seattle would have amazing Chinese food. You, kind sir or gracious madam, are sadly mistaken. Vancouver, BC has great Chinese food. San Fransisco has great Chinese food. Notice anything? They have Chinatowns! Ah hah, you think, but Seattle has the ID (International District, for you outta-towners). Yes, there are some better-than-elsewhere Chinese restaurants in the ID. No parking, but good dim sum. Problem is it is still west coast Chinese. For those who have not lived on both coasts, let me explain. See that eggroll you are holding? Imagine it has a Granddaddy. On steroids. It fills the whole plate. You order one eggroll and split it with someone or else you won't have room for dinner. It was actually made there in the restaurant's kitchen, not deep fried from a bag of frozen little eggrolls. Sure the menus look similar, but read your menu. It should be filled with Engrish, and asking the waiter what is in the "chicken with vegetables" should elicit as much gesturing and unintelligible mutterings as asking for directions to the interstate. Why? Because this is your only hope at eating the real deal. But it still might be white-bread west coast American Chinese food, because the situation is actually far more subtle and complicated. The menus may look identical. Every person down to the busboy might be Chinese. And yet, the food is as different as a McDonalds burger and a steakhouse burger. If you have not tasted it, you will have to believe me, that the east coast fried rice is not the same as the west coast fried rice. The chicken with broccoli at Sam's or Sun Ming is not not not the chicken with broccoli at any restaurant anywhere on the west coast (possible exceptions in small areas of Vancouver BC and San Fransisco, although these too are being corrupted by the Pan Asian homogenization of good Chinese food). I honestly do not know why this is.

I do have a half-baked crackpot theory. At some mysterious, but mandatory, school, every Chinese person thinking about starting a restaurant in the US is told, Here is your Official American Chinese Menu. Mu shu pork, wonton soup, fried rice... never ever deviate from these choices. The east coast "rebel" Chinese restaurants offer those choices in addition to things like shark fin soup, braised eel in garlic sauce, etc. Maybe this attracts the better Chinese chefs? Want to take it up a notch? Go try a Chinese restaurant with someone who is actually from China. See your menu? See that telephone book your dinner companion is holding? Yes, that is his menu. Page after page after ever lovin' page of yummy dishes they won't list on your menu because it deviates from the Official American Chinese Menu. Much of it does not translate, so be brave and let your friend order for you. Have your friend write down anything you love so you have any hope of ordering it again.

If you want to try the closest thing I have found so far to east coast Chinese food in Seattle, go to Mandarin Chef, 5022 University Way NE, (206) 528-7596.

3. Friendly's. I grew up with their dinners that end with mint ice cream sundaes, Friendly fribbles, and the watermelon slice ice cream you can only get in summer with the chocolate chip "watermelon seeds." Ithaca, NY, recently grown from the one cow town of my memory to a full blown two cow town, now has TWO Friendly's. (Or is that Friendly'ses?) Two! Two! Seattle? Zero. I am so ashamed Seattle. Deeply, deeply ashamed.

4. Carvel. Yes, I worked there. Yes, Tom Carvel was an obnoxious bastard. Yes, I can still make a perfect soft-serve swirled ice cream cone dipped in sprinkles. But you are never going to beat that chocolate crunch Carvel puts in every ice cream cake. I even know how to make it and I can't duplicate it. Ohhh, I have tried. But one of the ingredients is proprietary, resulting in sad approximations and wishful thinking and, frankly, I must stop. Carvel cakes and flying saucers are popping up in supermarket freezers now, surely we can at least get these?

I know I am not in this alone. Elswhere wrote about the coastal food phenomenon and I think if we start to band together, we can bring about a change in the Seattle culinary landscape. We can go from "Seattle: Afraid to Admit We Are a Real City" to "Seattle: West Coast Hub for East Coast Cuisine."

Oh yes we can.

(*The Wonder Pigs are boarding with Mary, who has them burrowed in a huge mound of tinothy hay. When they see me they will hand me a small scroll listing their [mainly food related] demands before agreeing to come back home.)

Best of Blogs Awards - Go Vote!

2004-12-31T14:05:00.000-08:00

We here at The World According To Me never rest. Not ever. Never. Even on vacation all this past week, we have worked long hours into the night to bring you the list of finalists at the Best of Blog Awards, Snarkiest Blog Category.

Hmm... wonder why they picked me to be Snarkiest Blog Judge? I mean, is that "she who judges snarkiest blogs" or could it be "snarkiest judge who also judges blogs"
:::::::::puzzled look while halo pops into view::::::::::::::

Voting starts January 1, so dust off that confetti, sober up (or not), and head over to the BoB Award site and check out the finalists in categories that interest you. Besides geting to vote and getting the blogs you love some nifty prizes, you will surely find some terrific blogs you never heard of before. (In Ronco voice) But wait, there's more! You might actually win a door prize just for going over there.

Are you still here?

Happy New Year's to you, then. Take a look at some ridiculous holiday light displays. Now get thee to the BoB Awards!

Flying to the snowwww in a one-horse open plaaaaaaaaaaaane

2004-12-21T22:49:00.000-08:00

So, how was your day?

So, did you try to go through airport security at SeaTac, only to have Security Scanner Lady stop the scan and hand your Hubby's bag to an Official Bag Inspector who brought the bag in question over to Hubby, put on gloves, started swabbing said bag with a Mysterious Substance, and asked, "Do you have a knife in this bag?" Puzzled, and possibly feeling a bit vulnerable without his shoes or suspenders, Hubby said, "No? I don't think so." Official Bag Inspector told him, "I have to inspect this bag and you can't touch it while I do." Oooh kay. Then as Hubby & you looked on, the inspector pulled a bright, shiny knife out of the bag in time honored magician-rabbit-top hat fashion. Flustered, Hubby blurted, "Oh! Well, you can just throw that out." To which you had to respond, "No! That's our steak knife! From our SET of steak knives! We can't have 5 steak knives? What kind of set only has 5 steak knives?" Then, as the helpful-if-amused Bag Inspector was directing you to the Send It Home kiosk where people go to mail themselves their nail clippers, manicure scissors, home brewed explosives, and apparently, steak knives, the Bag Inspector dropped the knife on the floor so that the loud, clanging echo ensured that every person in the airport could turn and memorize your faces as That Couple Who Tried to Board With a Deadly Weapon.

So, did you, upon boarding your airplane late last night realize simultaneously that:
1. the plane was completely full
2. some woman sitting within a few seats of you had bathed in noxious perfume before setting off on her trip tonight
and
3. if you did not get either her or yourself a change of seats, you were going to toss your cookies in a most embarrassing and probably audible manner before the plane even took off?

Did you walk to the rear of the plane to determine that, yes, the poisonous fumes were contained to the first few rows, and ask the Helpful Steward of the Back Rows if anyone there might switch with you? Did he then direct you to Unhappy Passenger #1, who did not like his back row seat and was very glad to switch with you, so happy that his Intrepid Companion, who liked her seat just fine, was even willing to switch with Dear Hubby so that everyone can stay together? And did your Hubby then tell you that when Helpful Steward told Snarky Stewardess of the Front Rows about the change, she had whined into her walkie-talkie, "What?? Perfume? We caaaaaan't switch seats, no no no!" (Too late, Ms. Whiny Ass, and by the way, good attitude for promotion there. Did you notice those "Tell Us Your Comments" cards? I did. And also know if your can't do it attitude had caused me to stew in that perfume cloud, I would have made it a point, when the time came, to throw up all over your nifty stewardess suit.) Did you realize once you were settled again that the back row had less leg room, did not have seats that tilted back, and was right next to the bathrooms? Did you smile because this was a vast improvement over the perfume sewer of the front rows?

So, did you spend last night sitting on an airplane for so long that in an alternate universe, you are *still there*? Every two minutes the pilot swaggered out to tell the passengers, "We should hear in another two minutes." And you knew in the pit of your stomach what that meant. Yessir, over two freakin hours on the freakin plane while the freakin computers in freakin NYC were down and therefore could not give the pilot a freakin flight plan, and you all had to sit with your hands folded neatly in your laps like good little monkeys while freakin New York re-booted up the old system. The most bone chilling moment came when the pilot told us, "The computer system is down and they think they can boot up the old system. They're calling IT. IT should be there in 10 minutes..." All the hours of your life wasted on hold flashed before your eyes and you groaned inwardly thinking, "We're never getting off the ground."

So, did you fall asleep right after take off and wake up to a bright, cold morning, with just a hint of snow on the ground? So beautiful, you smiled as your father-in-law rolled your bags to his car. Just beautiful.

Growing up in the 70's

2004-12-20T15:27:00.000-08:00

Overall, I find the 1970's to be one long fashion don't, but sometimes in the midst of locating and destroying pictures of myself, the good things about growing up during that decade wash over me like a freshly baked easy oven cake.

My friend K, by way of our friend S, sent this list that sent me hurtling back to days of poly blend tweed and braids that ended in ribbons. If you grew up during the 70's, enjoy:

YOU WERE A LITTLE GIRL IN THE 70'S IF...

You wore a rainbow shirt that was half-sleeves, and the rainbowwent up one sleeve, across your chest, and down the other.
(*Not exactly, but I did have a rainbow sweater that had the stripes going all the way straight
aross both sleeves. I wore it when I played the planet Saturn in a school play in second grade, you know, because of the rings.)

You made baby chocolate cakes in your Easy Bake Oven and washedthem down with snow cones from your Snoopy Snow Cone Machine.
(*Check, although these kinds of things tended to belong to friends or kids on my block. I had a snoopy electic toothbrush though!)

You had that Fisher Price Doctor's Kit with a stethoscope that actuallyworked.
(*No need. I had a real stethoscope, courtesy of my Grandpa.)

You owned a bicycle with a banana seat and a plastic basket with flowers on it.
(*OK, now we're talking! That bike was the best bike EVER. Ribbons in the ends of each handle too.)

You learned to skate with actual skates (not roller blades) that had metal wheels.
(*I even spent two whole weeks completely on my skates during the day. Walking around after that seemed unbearably slow.)

You thought Gopher from Love Boat was cute (admit it!)
(*Uh, no. Sorry! I did think Chachi from Happy Days was cute. And Almanzo Wilder from Little House on the Prairie.)

You had nightmares after watching Fantasy Island.
(*Of course. And one very scary episode of Candid Camera, where they had a wanna-be actress do a scene from a movie and walk up behind an old lady in a rocking chair. But when she tapped her shoulder to get her to turn around, her face ws just a skeleton! AAAUUUUUUUUUGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

You had rubber boots for rainy days and Moon boots for snowy days.
(*No moon boots. And I tended to wear sneakers for rain, and for snow unless it was serious. As some of you may know, I used to not want to wear bad weather boots.)

You had either a "bowl cut" or "pixie," not to mention the "Dorothy Hamil" because your Mom was sick of braiding your hair. People sometimes thought you were a boy.
(*Nope! Even during one unmentionable hair crisis, it was only as short as my shoulders. I have never had it shorter than that.)

Your Holly Hobbie sleeping bag was your most prized possession.
(*My Snoopy Sleeping bag was awesome! My brother had a matching one in a different color and we camped out in the living room.)

You wore a poncho, gauchos, and knickers.
(*No, no, and... um... a side order of no with that.)

You begged Santa for the electronic game, Simon.
(*Simon surely started my obsession with computer games. Simon was good, oh, very very good. Then I made a clean break and played cards with actual people in college. I know, how weird, right? Then I started hitting the hard stuff... Tetris. Pipe Dream. Shanghai. Word Whomp. Pyramids. But don't you worry, I know I am not addicted to these games because when I close my eyes at night, I can still see every detail about the game. I have even been known to design game enhancements while I sleep. So, you see, perfectly under control.)

You had the Donnie and Marie dolls with those pink and purple satiny shredded outfits.
(*No.)

You spent hours in your backyard on your metal swing set with the trapeze. The swing set tipped over at least once.
(*Hahaha! So many of my friends had those and they rocked (literally)! We had a geodesic jungle gym dome which was so cool. Amazing we survived our helmet-free childhoods.)

You had homemade ribbon barrettes in every imaginable color.
(*No, my ribbons and my barettes were separate. I had a lot of those ponytail holders with the figure-8 shaped elastic and the beads on each end.)

You had a pair of Doctor Scholl's sandals (the ones with hard sole& the buckle). You also had a pair of salt-water sandals.
(*I tried so hard to be comfortable in those Dr. Scholl's sandals. Never was.)

You wanted to be Laura Ingalls-Wilder really bad; you wore that Little House on the Prairie-inspired plaid, ruffle shirt with the highneck in at least one school picture; and you despised Nellie Olson!
(*I only wanted to be Laura after I discovered she was a writer and after she discovered Almonzo ;) And who didn't despise Nellie Olson? That girl needed the whole town to open an old fashioned barrel of whoop ass.)

You wanted your first kiss to be at a roller rink.
(*Was anyone's first kiss like what they wanted or imagined in any way at all?)

Your hairstyle was described as having "wings" or "feathers" and you kept it "pretty" with the comb you kept in your back pocket.
(*I just bought a flat iron for my hair, the iron-y being that it took all of the 70's and half the 80's to stop trying everything to straighten my hair and just let it be curly the way it wants. But curly hair will not feather, trust me! At it's most serious, my hair took me 45 minutes every single morning. Gah!)

You know who Strawberry Shortcake is, as well as her friends, Blueberry Muffin and Huckleberry Pie.
(*I know Strawberry Shortcake, but not the rest of 'em.)

You carried a Muppets lunch box to school and it was metal, not plastic.
(*Again, snoopy. Got to love the Snoopmeister!)

You and your girlfriends would fight over which of the Dukes ofHazzard was your boyfriend. Every now and then "It's a Hard Knock Life" from the movie, "Annie"will pop into your brain and you can't stop singing it the whole day. Damn you! YOU had Star Wars action figures, too!
(*No, no, no. Charlies Angels trading cards? Yes.)

It was a big event in your household each year when the "Wizard of Oz" would come on TV. Your mom would break out the popcorn and sleeping bags!
(*And we had a picnic in the living room for dinner when Herbie the Lovebug was on.)

You often asked your Magic-8 ball the question: "Who will I marry? Shaun Cassidy, Leif Garrett, or Rick Springfield?"
(*Magic-8 ball knows and sees all, but rarely gives good advice.)

You completely wore out your Grease, Saturday Night Fever, and Famesoundtrack record album.
(*Nope. My first album - we are talking vinyl here, people - was Billy Joel's Glass Houses. The only soundtracks I have everhad are The Big Chill and Pump Up The Volume.)

You tried to do lots of arts and crafts, like yarn and Popsicle-stick God's eyes, decoupage, or those weird potholders made on a plastic loom. Pot holders - I believe they were called "loom loopers"
(*OK. Act calm. Whoever made up this list must have followed me around since the 70's. I must now decode the rest of the list for hidden messages.)

You made Shrinky-Dinks and put iron-on kittens on your t-shirts!
(*Shrinky Dinks! Shrinky Dinks!! Do they still make them?)

You used to tape record songs off the radio by holding yourportable tape player up to the speaker.
(*Nope, because my tech-savvy Dad got me a tape recorder-radio combo, so I taped songs right off the radio!)

You couldn't wait to get the free animal poster that came when you ordered books from the Weekly Reader book club. Double score if it was a teddy bear dressed in clothing.
(*Eh?)

You learned everything you needed to know about girl issues from Judy Blume books.
(*Oh, like you didn't.)

You thought Olivia Newton John's song "Physical" was about aerobics.
(*It wasn't???)

You wore friendship pins on your tennis shoes, or shoelaces withheart or rainbow designs.You wanted to be a Solid Gold dancer.You had a Big Wheel with a brake on the side, and a Sit-n-Spin.You had subscriptions to Dynamite and Tiger Beat.You spent all your allowance on smurfs and stickers for your sticker album!
(*Neighbor kids had a Sit-N-Spin, and that may help explain why even today I walk a little bit off kilter. I stayed away from the Smurfs... living in brightly colored 'shrooms? No thanks, man, I was dizzy enough from the Sit-N-Spin.)

Best & Worst Holidays Gifts

2004-12-15T01:10:00.000-08:00

The Challenge, of course, is to figure out whether each gift idea is a "best" or a "worst"

Found at Blair:

BendOver® Skirt
Flatters every figure. Flat waistband has hidden elastic. Back shaping darts, walking slit. Petites 27” L; Average & Women’s 28” L. Wrinkle-resistant superstretch woven polyester stretches up to 22% in both directions. Machine wash/dry. Made in USA or imported.

Paging Mr. Dover... Mr. Ben Dover... Since the skirt appears pretty normal, I have to guess this is either evidence that Bart Simpson is working at Blair or it's just a marketing ploy/blunder.

Found at Elseware:

Squish - flexible rubber sink
The Squish rubber sink is made from a silicone rubber allowing the sides to be flexible. They can be 'rolled' up or down to change the depth of the basin. This sink not only brings more fun and interactivity into the bathroom but it provides for a safer environment for kids and adults alike by not having any hard edges or corners. It is easily cleaned as silicone is virtually inert and very little sticks to it.

Squish in Mid-Squish

Squish in Full-Squish

Is it just me, or can you also see the image of a full sink brimming with ice cold water being inverted with glee by a toddler. Over and over. Yep, I am loving that fun & interactivity!

Found at Archie McPhee:

Dashboard Jesus

(sing along now)
I don't care if it rains of freezes
'Long as I got my Plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car

But I think he'll have to go
His magnet ruins my radio
And if we have a wreck he'll leave a scar

And finally, for the art lover/reader on your gift list:

The Museum of Bad Art, Art Too Bad To Be Ignored by Tom Stankowicz and Marie Jackson, 103 pages, paperbound. This definitive work by Marie Jackson, MOBA's Director Of Aesthetic Interpretation, and Tom Stankowicz, MOBA's Director of Imaging and Reproduction, features a stunning selection of 40 works from MOBA's Permanent Collection as well as a history of the institution and its many programs.

The Best of Blogs Awards!

2004-12-12T02:13:00.000-08:00

This ain't yer granddaddy's blog awards.

The Best of Blogs (or "BoB") Award is a brand new award with a simple goal I absolutely love:
"celebrating community and exposing other bloggers to "the best blogs they ought to be reading."

This award is all about the little guy. You know, that blog you bookmarked and wander over to every so often because that guy just plain cracks you up. Or that sarcastic one. Or the one that burns up your screen (in a good way). Or that wonderfully open person you read because they have a knack for drawing you right into their life.

This is their award.

Go nominate the blogs you love to read. There are a bunch of categories (most humorous blog, best new blog, snarkiest blog, best knitting/craft blog, best fitness/weight loss blog, etc.), so don't be shy! There are even door prizes for the folks who send in nominations. What more could anyone ask?

Did I mention there will be a conga line of penguins at the awards ceremony?

**P.S. Don't go nominating me. I'm already drunk with power (and ineligible for the BoB Award) because I am a panelist.

The Alchera Project: December - The Land of Nog

2004-12-05T09:18:00.000-08:00

\ /

-- * --

/ \

All

I want for

Xmas is love

and health and

happiness. And uh

maybe a pair of comfy

warm socks but not wool.

And maybe a whole day with

my family, retelling the old stories

we love so much. And chocolate. Got

to have the chocolate. And a trip. Italy or

Scotland. Someplace I've never been before.

And a monkey who wears a fez and makes cute

sounds and cleans and makes great grilled cheeses.

Oh! And a bioport so I can plug into the net right from

my hypothalamus.

Why, yes.

I did try

the nog.

Why do

you ask?

This month's submission to The Alchera Project, a "concrete poem" in the shape of a Christmas tree.

200 things meme

2004-12-05T06:42:00.000-08:00

(A La the boss in Office Space)

Umm... yeah...

So you might have noticed I don't have a "100 things" post. I have part of one done, but mainly when I sit down to blog (awkward and ugly sounding, "to blog" is surely a verb these days just as it was in Shakespearean times, "To blog, perchance to offend."), it is to relate something about the world. Sure that world is seen through me-colored lenses, but somehow directly discussing "me" is much harder. Plus there is the whole meme thing, about which I am perpetually on the fence - to join in or to stand apart... must..... resist.......... socialll presssssssssssssssssure................. unnngggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....................
<*whump!* and she caves in>

Sooooooooooooooooooooooooo...

Here is a different take on the 100 things meme. A 200 things meme! Haha! Now we're cooking with gas! New & Improved. It's different though, in that this list is already formed. All ya do is bold the things you have done. Okey dokey, then.

200 Things

The ones I have done are bold.

01. Bought everyone in the pub a drink
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain (*real ones only in cars, and metaphorical ones probably don't count)
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive (*Ferrari, no. Porshe, yes. Porsche. There is no substitute.)
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula. (Never. Never ever ever. Not ever. Never never never ever never ever never.)
07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone
08. Said ‘I love you’ and meant it
09. Hugged a tree
10. Done a striptease
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea (*counting Long Island Sound as "the sea")
14. Stayed up all night long, and watch the sun rise
15. Seen the Northern Lights
16. Gone to a huge sports game
17. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
18. Grown and eaten your own vegetables (*Grown right there in the bad patch of lawn Mom was trying to grow. Fifth grade seed project ended up producing two ears of corn, tiny radishes, carrots, and more zucchini than we could force on the neighbors.)
19. Touched an iceberg
20. Slept under the stars
21. Changed a baby’s diaper
22. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
23. Watched a meteor shower
24. Gotten drunk on champagne
25. Given more than you can afford to charity
26. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
27. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment (*Like you haven't?)
28. Had a food fight
29. Bet on a winning horse
30. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
31. Asked out a stranger
32. Had a snowball fight
33. Photocopied your bottom on the office photocopier
34. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
35. Held a lamb
36. Enacted a favorite fantasy
37. Taken a midnight skinny dip
38. Taken an ice cold bath
39. Had a meaningful conversation with a beggar
40. Seen a total eclipse
41. Ridden a roller coaster
42. Hit a home run
43. Fit three weeks miraculously into three days
44. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
45. Adopted an accent for an entire day (*briefly for kicks, but not a whole day)
46. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors (*Not counting New Jersey)
47. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment (*I am hoping this is not so rare as the original list writer seems to feel)
48. Had two hard drives for your computer (*I do right now.)
49. Visited all 50 states
50. Loved your job for all accounts
51. Taken care of someone who was shit faced (*Hello? College anyone?)
52. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
53. Had amazing friends (*And I do now.)
54. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
55. Watched wild whales (*Tried to, but the whales were on coffee break. We'll catch 'em net season!)
56. Stolen a sign (*It said "STOP" and had one telltale scuff where I figured I earned it. And the Wolf Hill Road sign, although I didn't steal it, I merely accepted it as a gift.)
57. Backpacked in Europe
58. Taken a road-trip
59. Rock climbing
60. Lied to foreign government’s official in that country to avoid notice
61. Midnight walk on the beach
62. Sky diving
63. Visited Ireland
64. Been heartbroken longer then you were actually in love
65. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them
66. Visited Japan
67. Benchpressed your own weight (*No one will believe me on this, but I did it and won a bet.)
68. Milked a cow
69. Alphabetized your records (*Ahhhh hahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaa!)
70. Pretended to be a superhero (*Can't count this if I actually am a superhero, I guess)
71. Sung karaoke
72. Lounged around in bed all day
73. Posed nude in front of strangers
74. Scuba diving
75. Got it on to “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye
76. Kissed in the rain
77. Played in the mud
78. Played in the rain
79. Gone to a drive-in theater (*"The snack bar will be closing in five minutes.")
80. Done something you should regret, but don’t regret it
81. Visited the Great Wall of China
82. Discovered that someone who’s not supposed to have known about your blog has discovered your blog
83. Dropped Windows in favor of something better
84. Started a business
85. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken (*Never. Isn't that a part of love?)
86. Toured ancient sites
87. Taken a martial arts class
88. Swordfought for the honor of a woman (*Why yes, I... err... no.)
89. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight
90. Gotten married
91. Been in a movie
92. Crashed a party
93. Loved someone you shouldn’t have
94. Kissed someone so passionately it made them dizzy (*You'd have to ask them.)
95. Gotten divorced
96. Had sex at the office work
97. Gone without food for 5 days (*I do NOT recommend.)
98. Made cookies from scratch (*I do recommend!)
99. Won first prize in a costume contest (*No, but at a Halloween party back before the Tomb Raider movies were out, a group of guys arrived late and drunk and pointed to me, dressed as Lara Croft. "Hey! You're that video game chick!")
100. Ridden a gondola in Venice
101. Gotten a tattoo
102. Found that the texture of some materials can turn you on
103. Rafted the Snake River
104. Been on television news programs as an “expert”
105. Got flowers for no reason (*Isn't there always a reason? Even if it's because I like them, or because someone felt they would cheer me up?)
106. Masturbated in a public place
107. Got so drunk you don’t remember anything
108. Been addicted to some form of illegal drug
109. Performed on stage (*And then? This one time? At all-county band?)
110. Been to Las Vegas
111. Recorded music
112. Eaten shark
113. Had a one-night stand
114. Gone to Thailand
115. Seen Siouxsie live
116. Bought a house
117. Been in a combat zone (*Not really, but I've been at the border of two warring countries, the accidentally ironic "Good Fence.")
118. Buried one/both of your parents
119. Shaved or waxed your pubic hair off (*Hello? Bikini season?)
120. Been on a cruise ship
121. Spoken more than one language fluently
122. Gotten into a fight while attempting to defend someone (*Screaming match, yes. Fists, no.)
123. Bounced a check (*Oh, like you haven't? Puh leez.)
124. Performed in Rocky Horror (*"He shooka me up, he took me by surprise. He had a pick up truck, and the devil's eyes. He stared at me and I stared at him. Time meant nuthin, never would again.")
125. Read - and understood - your credit report
126. Raised children
127. Recently bought and played with a favorite childhood toy
128. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
129. Created and named your own constellation of stars
130. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
131. Found out something significant that your ancestors did
132. Called or written your Congress person (*I usually just ask if their refridgerators are running.)
133. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
134. …more than once? - More than thrice?
135. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
136. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking
137. Had an abortion or your female partner did
138. Had plastic surgery
139. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived.
140. Wrote articles for a large publication
141. Lost over 100 pounds
142. Held someone while they were having a flashback
143. Piloted an airplane (*No, but I drove the monorail once at Disney World.)
144. Petted a stingray
145. Broken someone’s heart (*Who can say? You'd have to ask them.)
146. Helped an animal give birth
147. Been fired or laid off from a job
148. Won money on a T.V. game show
149. Broken a bone (*Arm near the shoulder as a kid, and cheekbone as a teen)
150. Killed a human being
151. Gone on an African photo safari
152. Ridden a motorcycle
153. Driven any land vehicle at a speed of greater than 100mph
154. Had a body part of yours below the neck pierced
155. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
156. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild (*Hey! Which one of you wants to know? The purple with the pink polkadots, or the green with the yellow fur?)
157. Ridden a horse
158. Had major surgery
159. Had sex on a moving train
160. Had a snake as a pet
161. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
162. Slept through an entire flight: takeoff, flight, and landing (*My brother tried to check me as luggage.)
163. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours (*Who hasn't?)
164. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
165. Visited all 7 continents
166. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
167. Eaten kangaroo meat
168. Fallen in love at an ancient Mayan burial ground (*You wish you thought of that one!)
169. Been a sperm or egg donor
170. Eaten sushi
171. Had your picture in the newspaper
172. Had 2 (or more) healthy romantic relationships for over a year in your lifetime
173. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about
174. Gotten someone fired for their actions
175. Gone back to school
176. Parasailed
177. Changed your name
178. Petted a cockroach
179. Eaten fried green tomatoes
180. Read The Iliad
181. Selected one “important” author who you missed in school, and read
182. Dined in a restaurant and stolen silverware, plates, cups because your apartment needed them (*Only if you count the college dining hall, which IMHO does not qualify as a "restaurant" as that would require, you know, edible food like objects.)
183. …and gotten 86'ed from the restaurant because you did it so many times, they figured out it was you
184. Taught yourself an art from scratch
185. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
186. Apologized to someone years after inflicting the hurt
187. Skipped all your school reunions
188. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language (*Could be reworded as "Taken a cab in New York City")
189. Been elected to public office
190. Written your own computer language
191. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream
192. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
193. Built your own PC from parts
194. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you
195. Had a booth at a street fair
196: Dyed your hair (*Dark wine in college. It didn't look that different.)
197: Been a DJ
198: Found out someone was going to dump you via LiveJournal (***Hahaha! OMG does this happen?)
199: Written your own role playing game
200: Been arrested (*Little innocent me? I admit nothing.)

(thank you credit to Anna Banana for being my unwitting source of this meme)

Shopping For Meaning

2004-12-05T04:06:00.000-08:00

The holidays, according to me, serve a few key purposes:

1. To reconnect with our spiritual/religious inner life
2. To spend time and give & receive gifts with those we love
3. To remember those less fortunate than ourselves

Seems simple, right? Yet the "gift" part seems to have taken over for so many people. The shopping crowds in Seattle this year are impressive, especially as seen from my car and especially when combined with the local pedestrians' obliviousness of traffic, inability to follow the rules of the road, and belief that having the right of way means that no car will ever hit them out of fear of the avalanche of paperwork that would follow. (My new personal favorite pedestrian way of saying, "Hi, how are you doing? I clearly have no will to live!" is the new trend of waiting until I start backing out of a parking space to cross diagonally behind my car so that they suddenly "appear" inches from my bumper. Hoo boy! Good times, good times.)

So where was I? Oh yes, shopping. Now I am not what you would call a professional shopper, but I am an amateur at a level where if there were a Shopping Olympics, the Romanian coach would be calling me up. Given my expertise, I have an important message to share:

You can fulfill Key Purpose #3 while shopping for Key Purpose #2. That's right! No need to feel sullied by commercialism or stressed out by gift giving. In one of those rare win-win situations offered to us in this life, you can help the charity of your choice just by buying the gifts you are already planning to purchase by first going to iGive. (I input my referrer link, so the mere act of clicking there and registering sends one dollar to The Best Little Rabbit Rodent and Ferret House, a fantastic small animal rescue here in Seattle). At no cost (and no spam) to you, for everything you buy online at over 500 stores, a percentage will be donated to the charity of your choice. Just shop through your igive portal (or shop whatever way, but when you decide what to buy, use the igive portal). You can even install a cute little window that will appear automatically on the websites of participating stores so you don't forget.

But what about meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, you ask? Sure all this huggy-wuggy business is great for the spirit, but what about my material needs?

As my gift to you, here is my favorite coupon code website. Need free shipping? Want 10% off?Check here before you buy: Flamingo World. Raise your computer mouse and chant... As G-d is my witness, I'll never pay full retail again...

Are you feeling the quasi-spiritual shopper's nirvana? Key Purpose #1 - check! Feeling it while taking care of your gifting needs? Key Purpose #2 - check! Feeling it while getting the big bad corporations to squeeze out a few pennies for the charity of your choice? Key Purpose #3 - check!

You're welcome.

Spot a White Squirrel

2004-12-02T22:18:00.000-08:00

OK, those of you who know my ongoing list of personal goals know that the things I want to do are not the standard "wine country of France" sorts of things. I have hugged and fed a wide variety of animals. I have ridden on horses and one camel. I had tiny birds hop into my hands to eat food at a Buddhist Temple on Oahu. I once petted an orca whale on the tongue, which the handler told me the whale likes a lot. A year ago I was able to kiss an alpaca and she kissed me back. This year I went on a whale watching cruise that found no whales (so we cruise for free next year), but did see Dalls porpoises and birds that dive and "swim" 800 feet underwater.

My current to do list includes:

* Visit Central Washington University that has a colony of sign language chimps and have a conversation with one of them
* Hug a koala bear and have him/her hug me back
* Shake hands with a kangaroo
* See wild guinea pigs in their natural habitat (Peru)

and, as of today,
* Spot a white squirrel

How did I not know about this?

I may have to forgo my long awaited trip to the Potato Museum in Idaho ("Free Taters for Out-of-Staters!") to go to one of the towns that claims to be the home of the white squirrel. I have developed quite a relationship with our resident squirrel, Mr. Squirrel, and I think he would make the pilgrimmage himself if he could drive. A white squirrel must be like a white elephant or rhino, a sign of goodness and hope. Just look at their sweet beady eyes and you can't help but feel a sense of... peace (or in Stephan's case, a sense that a long drive is imminent).

It's not always about Jesus on a fishstick

2004-12-02T21:20:00.000-08:00

By now you have all heard about the British woman who sold her grilled cheese sandwich with the image of Mother Mary on eBay for $28,000. A casino bought it, which I'm thinking is perfect. People will want to come see the sandwich & stay to lose their paychecks.

But what about the rest of us non-gaming lactose intolerant, yet spiritual people? What inspirational food products are available for us?

Thanks to Buck Wolf at ABC News, we have a good starter list of religious food icons that have made recent appearances around the world.

You've got your miracle tortilla of New Mexico with an image of Jesus.

You've got your Jesus on a fishstick in Ontario, Canada.

You've got your NunBun, a famous likeness of Mother Theresa in a cinnamon bun in Nashville, TN.

But it doesn't stop there. No, siree Bob.

Not to be left out, India chimes in with the Holy Eggplant, which has Allah spelled out in Urdu script in the seeds (not to be confused with the Eggplant of 1990, that spelled Allah in Arabic.). as well as a potato ship shaped like Ganesha.

Notice anything about these icons? Christian (mostly), some Muslim and Hindu. Nothing Jewish is appearing to anyone, apparently. It has long been my calling to accumulate many many cookies. Now I am stepping it up and I will eat cookies until I find a Star of David in chocolate chips. A Chai on a pop tart would be good too.

The slippery slope of embarrassment

2004-11-26T03:16:00.000-08:00

From the folks at diarist:

What's the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to you? You know... the story your "friends" just love to tell at parties to make your face turn red. A case of mistaken identity? A slip of the tongue? A public display of insanity? Set the scene and tell the tale the way everyone except you loves to hear it told.

What I discovered is, I am either sadly lacking in quality stories of embarrassment or I have so deeply repressed them that it is as if they never happened. I read Stephan the prompt.

"What about the time you got fired from the ice cream place?" he asked.

Yeah, but I love that story. Not embarrassed.

"OK. What about those speeches you had to make in junior high? You were embarrassed by those."

Well, yeah. Except it was just me being really bad at it, but it wasn't funny. It's not a story anyone asks to hear. How boring is my life? C'mon, now! We've known each other since we were 17! I did spring break in Daytona, I've had bad relationships, bad jobs, bad haircuts - where are my stories?

"What about that time on the ice?"

Paydirt! Knew I was right to marry that man.

I went to college at Cornell University, a beautiful school of deep gorges and steep hills that for nine months of the year is hidden under several feet of ice and snow. For reasons that no longer make sense to me, I refused to buy snow boots my freshman year. I had gotten by for years without them, so why start now? Each morning, my very long walk to class started by crossing a footbridge that led from my dorm to a corner of the Engineering Quad. It was my favorite part of the walk because of the little waterfall cascading down the far side of the gorge. In the warm weeks it sparkled; in the long cold months, it was frozen. At just the right time of morning, it captured a rainbow perfectly inside it and to this day I have rarely found any better motivation to get myself up and moving.

One bright morning the weather seemed innocent enough, but was in fact about to make the students hurrying to class pay for its shenanigans the night before. Like the Eskimos with snow, people who live in upstate New York have many words for weather. Weather discussions often open with, "What's it doing outside?" which lets any unwary downstater know that there is a shared understanding that it will be doing *something* outside. Rain, sleet, snow, freezing rain, slush, hail, powder. Something is forever falling from the sky or sitting on the ground. The bright morning in question had followed a night of alternating rain and freezing rain, which eventually turned to snow. All night long the ground had been coated in layer after layer of water, freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing, until everything turned into one continuous sheet of ice which was then disguised under a thin coating of pristine fluffy snow.

I had my morning routine down to a science, rolling out of bed and out the door in 20 minutes. "What's it doing outside?" I asked my roommate.

"Not much," she said, peering out our tiny window. "Sunny, snow on the ground."

With my thick wool peacoat, soft plaid scarf, leather gloves, I was ready for the cold. The snow was fresh and crunched lightly under my sneakers as I made my morning pilgrimmage to the frozen waterfall. I took two steps onto the bridge before I realized that something was terribly wrong. I stopped, but the scenery kept moving as my whole body slid to the left. The wind always blowing along the gorge had pushed the water as it froze so by this point it was sloped a good twenty degrees. As I arrived at the edge of the bridge, I grabbed the railing, which was also frozen under a solid sheet of ice so that I had to wrap my arms around it like a long lost friend. Students trudged past me in their snow boots, their eyes downcast and their pace slowed. I watched the measured steps they took, the way they out their feet down flat instead of rolling heel-to-toe. Lesson learned, I regained my balance, released my friend the railing, and tried to take a step. My right foot flew out behind me in a move Bob Fosse would envy as my arms windmilled in the time honored tradition of falling on one's ass as gracelessly as possible. I crawled to the railing and hauled my cold, partially wet self back to a standing, rail hugging position. People steamed by me, neither seeing nor caring. Clearly I was going to die there.

Think! I urged myself. This is the way the dinosaurs died, my mind mocked me. I had visions of my skeleton being unearthed generations in the future, still clutching that railing. Just then, a large sure-footed man and small sure-footed woman turned onto the bridge. They walked close together, talking and laughing, stryfoam cups steaming in their hands. Without allowing myself to think about it, I reached out and grabbed a handful of backpack with each hand. As far as half-baked plans go, this went surprisingly well. My grip-of-death, normally reserved for boyfriends' arms during scary movie scenes, distributed the drag factor of my useless weight between my two unwitting human zambonis and I skated happily along the rest of the bridge. When the bridge ended, I thought, why let go now? The entire world was one big skating rink, my sneakers may as well have been greased glass, and I had a long way to go. With a puzzled expression, the sure-footed woman turned to smile at the student who seemed to be walking awfully close behind her. As her eyes flicked down to my hand, my guilt instantly let go of the fistful of her backpack.

For one perfect moment all was silent and still.

Then physics roared back to life, kicking my legs out from under me with enough force that I yanked yank the man's packpack hard enough to spin him around. Sure-footed enough not to land on top of me, he could only watch as I fell, pulling his backpack off and landing on the ground like an entry in a clumsiest thief contest. In the end, it was fortunate that the earth was too frozen to heed my pleas to open and swallow me up. The sure-footed couple hauled me to my feet and walk-dragged me to my first class. They even had the grace to make me feel as though they were laughing with me, even while they also laughed at me. Not an icy morning has gone by since that I don't smile and think of them while putting on my snow boots.

Paging Ms. Bardot... Ms. Bardot to the courtesy phone, please...

2004-11-24T04:48:00.000-08:00

Yep, I love a good silly quiz.

You're Brigitte Bardot!

What Classic Pin-Up Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Hmmph. Well, if an online quiz says I am Brigitte Bardot, then... it must be a brilliantly insightful quiz! By all means take this quiz at once. I'd help you, but there is a lot of pouting and making boys cry to be done around here.

It's all about image

2004-11-24T03:07:00.000-08:00

I lived for a year in a part of the country now known as "The O.C." The experience was mixed - awesome roommates, good beaches, the heavenly scent of orange groves in bloom. Some of my students were cool too, but most grew up locally and seemed terribly plastic to me. They went with the place though, where sprinklers watered the pavement every night and strip malls made of staples & balsa wood grew while we slept. Coming from four years of school in the snow belt of upstate NY, all I wanted was palm trees and beach. I got that, and more - a planned community that had not been completely built, where roads on the map did not necessarily exist and every corner had exactly five palm trees. Much about the place felt contrived and fake, and it was the only place I ever lived where I could not write.

All this is to say I live in my head, probably more than I should. What about the "exterior" me? Two requests for me to add a pic to my profile had me wondering... what picture do I have? Do I want a picture of me *out there*? What would a picture tell you that my writing wouldn't?

And so, a compromise. Here we are, as interpreted by South Park:

South Park Lilly

South Park Stephan

Thanks to Tanya for sending the Create Your Own South Park Character Game!

How good are you at judging appearances? Here are two fun quizzes to test your abilities (*note: not work safe!).

Gay or Eurotrash?

Real or Fake? Take the Silicon Challenge!

Post & let me know how you did!*

[*If you lived in "The O.C." apply a -3 handicap to your score due to all the real world practice you had spotting Eurotrash/American Gay Guys/Fake Boobs.]

Help a fellow blogger - vital bath towel poll

2004-11-21T23:16:00.000-08:00

Tonight's post has musical accompaniment while you contemplate your role in the advancement of knowledge.

Baby I got the love Baby I got the power Come on, girl and rock my world And my funky towel...

Fellow blogger ccjellybeans has asked for our help. As we all plunge into the deep end of the holiday pool, she found herself at a recent family gathering when a conversation that was minding its own business suddenly took an alarming turn. A random comment became fodder for conversation, then argument, then heated debate. She needs our input, needs scientific research in order to craft a way out of the endless loop of "No, my way!" "No!! My way!!" that is threatening her family's every gathering.

This research is vital.

See the poll in the right sidebar "Bath Towel Poll."

Thank you for your help in making the world a better place.

Wait-

What? You want the results of the 80's movie poll that used to be on the right sidebar? Here ya go. The favorite 80's movie of my *vast* readership is:

Heathers!

Damn I love you guys.

Our love is G-d, let's go get a slushie. How very!

The Twirp Effect

2004-11-21T06:21:00.000-08:00

There is a part of chaos theory that says a butterfly flapping its wings on one side of the world can result in a tornado on the other side. The way many things seem to be going in the world right now, I feel compelled to remind the world that a tornado is not supposed to result every single time. If every flappin' butterfly resulted in a tornado... well, that's much close to chaos than I personally like my chaos theory.

This popped up on the news here in Seattle (full article):

Tuesday, November 16, 2004 · Last updated 4:57 p.m. PT
Texas schools scrap 'cross-dressing' day
By BOBBY ROSS JR. ASSOCIATED PRESS WRITER

A homecoming tradition in which boys dress like girls and vice versa in a tiny Texas school district won't be held Wednesday after a parent complained about what she regarded as the event's homosexual overtones.

As a substitute for "TWIRP Day," the schools ranging from elementary to senior high decided to hold "Camo Day" - with black boots and Army camouflage to be worn by everyone who wants to participate.

TWIRP, which stands for "The Woman Is Requested to Pay," was hosted by Spurger schools for years during Homecoming Week - to give boys and girls a chance to reverse social roles and let older girls invite boys on dates, open doors and pay for sodas.

Plano-based Liberty Legal Institute issued a news release Tuesday reporting that it "came to the aid of a concerned parent" over an "official cross-dressing day" in the school district 150 miles northeast of Houston.

"It is outrageous that a school in a small town in east Texas would encourage their 4-year-olds to be cross-dressers," Liberty Legal Institute attorney Hiram Sasser said in the release
Tanner T. Hunt Jr., the school district's attorney, called Sasser's statement "inflammatory and misleading." He said the district never planned or conducted a "cross-dressing day."

"They are a tiny little East Texas school district," Hunt said. "It never occurred to them that anyone could find anything morally reprehensible about TWIRP Day. I mean, they've been having it for years, probably for generations, and it's the first time anybody has complained."
Delana Davies, 33, said she complained after reading a school notice about "TWIRP Day." Davies, whose 9-year-old son and 4-year-old daughter attend Spurger Elementary, said she viewed the day not as a silly Homecoming Week activity, but rather something related to homosexuality.

"It's like experimenting with drugs," Davies said. "You just keep playing with it and it becomes customary. ... If it's OK to dress like a girl today, then why is it not OK in the future?"

So very many things wrong with this, it's hard to know where to start.

#1: Cross-dressing does not equal homosexuality. In fact, if memory from psych classes serves, most cross-dressers are straight.

#1, subsection a: Cross-dressing as part of an overall costumed occasion is not really cross-dressing. Real cross-dressing is when little Billy goes through Mom's laundry basket and tries on her bra. Not-real cross-dressing includes such things as Halloween, some kinds of rock concerts, raves, Burning Man. The difference? Appearance vs. identity.

#2: A school tradition-type holiday, where kids dress up because it is fun & silly is not at all like "experimenting with drugs." OK, Lady, on "Earth," where the rest of us live, these two things are as different as a teddy bear and a loaded shotgun.

#3: One parent - no, let's make that one parent who bathed in a rainbarrel of crazy - complains in a completely misguided and irrrational way about a school tradition and the school responds by killing the tradition. Nevermind that the tradition has apparently been around awhile. I mean, reversing social roles by having the girls open doors presumes that normally the boys are opening doors for the girls. Oh, how quaint those days of yore! Clearly this tradition didn't start just 10 or 20 or probably 30 years ago. Then you add, "it's the first time anybody has complained." ONE complaint, chock full o' nutty goodness, in generations of this school tradition and - wham! - bye bye tradition. Way to go, school. Life lesson: hear squeaky twirp, cave in.

#4: Just in case this point was lost in the rest of this ridiculous story, the role-swap theme of TWIRP day has been replaced by army camouflage and black boots. Er..., ex-squeeze me? OK, people, pay attention here, this is the education system trying to learn ya somethin'
Cross-dressing baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.
Violence goooooooooooooooooooooooood.

Class dismissed.

Another Tricky Day

2004-11-21T01:57:00.000-08:00

I have been berated - twice, now - for not updating the blog with more details of what's going on in my life. I suppose I just feel that mainly that's not stuff that would interest anyone, but rather than risk a third berating, I will give it a shot.

Excerpt from today:

S likes him some seriously cheesy movies. Got a low budget, badly conceived scifi epic? A derivative slasher flick with pretentiously artsy camera work and stilted dialogue? We are so there. He is looking forward a bit too eagerly to the Thanksgiving Sci Fi Channel creature feature marathon- Boa, Centipede, Skeeter. (What? No giant turkeys??)

Earlier today he was typing away on his laptop, a mindless film flickering in the background, like a modern replacement for the fireplace, warming the room with noise and light. After some time had passed I asked him, "Is this the cheesy snowman-is-alive movie or the horror snowman movie?"
"The sappy one."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I thought it was the horror one. That's why it's been on so long."

Heheheh! I love that man!

I am in Week Two of the bad cold. I will say that at least this year I did not have it while visiting family back east, which last year caused much patheticness in front of my awesome in-laws and also had me flying while I still had it. Yech. This year's cold was not of the subtle sneak-up-on-ya type. No. This was a steamroller driven by the Mad Bomber What Bombs At Midnight (a la The Tick), who ran over me, cackling, then backed up and ran over me again. Week One I was begging S to "Run, save yourself." Fortunately I had no voice so he could not understand me. Weel Two has evolved from the brutal to the merely annoying, so I am trying to catch up on everything I let slide last week.

One of the things I did not let slide was my timetable for getting off my last med, effexor. Even though I have heard of women who have pregnancies while on it, I wanted to clean all the chemicals out of my system beforehand. Too many unknowns. Effexor has been great, the best drug by far for my panic disorder and chronic pain. It is, however, one serious bitch to get out of my system. A little internet search turned up many other people's stories about effexor and the withdrawl can be anywhere from easy to nasty. I guess mine is somewhere in the middle, in part because I've been easing off it, and in part because I was run over by one steamroller anyway, I figured I would lay down on the asphalt for another. Bring it on!

Now here is where life got tricky. S & I have an agreement. A pact, if you will. We are not both allowed to be incapacitated at the same time. Of course, we blew it. S was dealing with his own stuff the last few weeks, and I will leave the details for him to share, but a fair summary can be shown by the following Real Life MomentTM. The grocery situation was becoming urgent, so we decided to brave a trip out to the store. Just a few key things, then back to the house. As we walk through the market, we come to realize that S can not walk quickly, so our errand is going to take longer than we thought. We further realize that my cold has stolen my voice and stuffed my ears so much that I am nearly deaf, so the usual fast decisions such as, "The chicken soup with the curly noodles or the straight?" are going to take longer than we thought. My trains of thought are derailing left & right with the effexor withdrawl. We are slow, loud, confused, and deaf. We have aged 50 years.

On the lighter side, since I have been sick, S has taken over the care & feeding of the guinea pigs. Max & Ashleigh have been very interested in this change in the routine, and they watched him very carefully as he did everything. I saw their faces when they figured out that Monkey-Dad also knows where the Great G-d Refridgerator is and how to get yummy green things out of it. If they had eyebrows, their eyebrows would have shot up, mini lightbulbs clicking on over their heads. S does not yet realize that his life has changed.

More soon. In the meantime, just be glad I'm not breathing on you ;)

Quest for the Cache

2004-11-19T03:57:00.000-08:00

"Good Lord, I believe I have found the Chamber of the Sun!" cried Lady Rosemont. "Quick, help me! There must be a hidden entrance in this wall... somewhere..." For the first time in months, she cursed her calloused fingers. Having long since lost the softness her fingers had always enjoyed back in England, she willed herself to feel every detail no matter how small along the smooth stone.

"Milady, I beg of you to leave it be," Akbar said, the smoky light from his torch flickering over his worried expression. "The risks, they are too great. The ancient ones told of a terrible curse that would befall any who dare to disturb the treasure."

"The ancient ones are long gone, Akbar, and we have come too far. This treasure shall be mine. All mine!"

Now, imagine this scene taking place earlier tonight. Make the following changes and you will get a pretty good idea of how it went:

Change 19th Century Egypt to 21st Century American Northwest
Change the British accents to New York
Change Chamber of the Sun to a small tupperware lock box, cleverly disguised with faux greenery and hidden in a local park
Change far to a couple of blocks away
Change flickering torch to brand new GPS
Change ancient ones to geocacher
Change terrible curse to logbook to sign

Of course, the treasure was real and so was the quest. In our first foray into geocaching, we had to solve several puzzles in order to locate the treasure box. When we found it, we signed the log, took something from the treasure box (a small figure of The Brain from Pinky & The Brain) and added something to the collection of treasure for the next person.

Adventure! Treasure! Ancient curses! I am soooooo hooked.

Great Leaping Dolphins

2004-11-19T03:56:00.000-08:00

One of my good friends who also worked in disability advocacy and support groups had a goal to swim with the dolphins before she passed away. She did it, as she did just about everything she set her mind to do. She felt dolphins have healing powers, not in a mystical way, but more in an empathetic way.

With that in mind, this popped up in today's news:

Disabled dolphin jumping again with world's first artificial fin

TOKYO (AFP) - Fuji, a mother dolphin that lost 75 percent of her tail due to a mysterious disease, is jumping once again with the help of what is believed to be the world's first artificial fin.

The 34-year-old dolphin held at Japan's largest aquarium in the southern island of Okinawa wears the rubber fin for about 20 minutes a day allowing her to jump and to swim at the same speed of other dolphins.

"We are very grateful. Although she can swim without the artificial fin, the speed is very slow and she certainly cannot jump without it," said Masaya Kowami, a breeder at Okinawa Churaumi Aquarium.

"Visitors have told us she looks happy," he said.

Fantastic, Fuji. Leap once for Glenna for me.

The metaphors were funny, like his mate Phil

2004-11-12T14:55:00.000-08:00

I came in 2nd at Blogging for Books #5! Oh yeah. Who's your Writer, baby. Who's your Writer!
Congrats to Kris for her winning entry!

Since it is a whole month before the next Blogging for Books, here is a bit to tide over your literary hunger from J.K. Jager:

Some Metaphors Written By Students

My favorite:
Ooh... I can't pick, so it's a tie:

10. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

and

17. The plan was simple, like my mate Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

Stephan's favorite:

32. It hurt, the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

(click on the title to read them all)

The Inner Me

2004-11-12T04:45:00.000-08:00

Since everyone knows online quizzes are so accurate that soon traditional therapy will be a thing of the past, I dashed over to QuickKwiz for a hint of insight before bedtime. Which Random Image Are You? Which indeed! I typed in my honest info and got this:

Woah. They so know me.

OK, off to the rave... erm... I mean *bed*

Famous Pigs

2004-11-11T13:10:00.000-08:00

Because the world can not deny a pretty face, Max & Ashleigh, a.k.a The Wonder Pigs, have gotten their fuzzy faces a bit of fame at The Best Little Rabbit Rodent & Ferret House.

That's them in the middle, surveying their new digs from the safety of their newspaper tunnel, on day one home from the small animal rescue shelter.

Actually, Max is my only successful online love story. I fell in love with the photo of him posted by the other fantastic local guinea pig rescue, Cavy Companions, and meeting Max in person was just perfect. None of those letdowns you hear so much about in online love affairs, our love was mutual. The only thing left was to find a roommate for Max, which should be easy as guinea pigs are very social and most pairings, especially male-female pairings are A-OK with them (and yes, both are fixed, I just can't see creating piggie babies when so many fuzzy faces give me that takemehome look at the rescue).

The folks at the BLRRFH know their stuff. They have a neutral play pen all set up for the testing of possible cage-mates, to see how they get along. Makes me wish my college had done that before pairing me with one roommate worse than the last. Max was placed into the pen and we decided to try him with Hope. Hope was a sweet golden speckled girl from the same rescue situation as Max, so I am thinking, well maybe they know each other already. Max spied the cute girl piggie and started his rumble strut.

Purrr...purrr... he rumbled as he walked by her. Look at me, I'm so handsome!

Hope lifted her leg and peed right in his face. The rescue folks explained this indicates she doesn't like him. Really, I did not need a translation on that.

Max got a quick cleaning as I looked over the other little girl piggies and I spied... hold on... a gorgeous little silver agouti! I had a silver agouti once before and she was so smart and so opinionated and so snarky. I wanted to try the little silver girl.

"Oh, well..." the rescue lady said, "She may be unadoptable."

How's that?

It turns out Hope is her Mom, and coming from the bad situation they did (a guy had a bunch in his dark clammy basement, where he was trying to breed them to sell to petstores. They were half starved and all the girls had been pregnant without regard to genetics or age or health.), Hope had only been 3 months old when she got pregnant and she was so small she only had a litter of one, born at the rescuer's house. It seems that not having siblings does bad things to guinea pig psyches. They get all Mom's attention, get spoiled and nasty. Litters of one have trouble getting along with other pigs. But I like animals with attitude, always have. I worried I might have been underestimating the problem though, as the experts were looking dubious. We decided to try the silver girl with Max.

Max bucked himself up for another try. Purrrr... purrr.... look at me, I am one handsome pig!

The silver girl cocked her head and looked at Max.

Purrrrrrrrrrrrrr, he said, nearly nose to nose with her, purrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

Purrrrrrrrrrrr, she answered, and rubbed past him in a move I think of as "Two Pigs Pass in the Night."

The rescue folks couldn't believe it. I adopted them both and they are best friends to this day. Ashleigh tells Max what to do, with much detail and muttering, and he listens carefully. Max, timid from old memories of neglect, is sparked by Ashleigh's brave and curious nature. They explore and construct complex systems of paper tunnels. They drag their food dish into the tunnels when it rains outside. Max purrs like a motorboat. Ashleigh purrs for my husband more than anyone. Max has one rule - I am the Big Pig and I get the Best Spot in the cage. Ashleigh has spent the last three years competitively eating in order to become the Big Pig for this reason. If Max eats, Ashleigh runs over and also eats. If Max is eating a carrot, Ashleigh will also eat a carrot, otherwise she turns her nose up at carrots. It has worked, she weighs 0.3 pounds more than Max now, but apparently being Big Pig is based on more than mere science. In recent months, they have moved from the bedroom to the living room. It took less than 24 hours to figure out that Great God Refridgerator was right over there - woohoo! Or, as they put it, wheek! wheek! wheek!

The moral of the story?

You can't predict love. Or carrots.

Location, location, location

2004-11-09T05:09:00.000-08:00

Excerpted from today's news:

"Unbelievable... NEW YORK (Reuters) - A National Guard F-16 fighter plane mistakenly fired off 25 rounds of ammunition at the Little Egg Harbor Intermediate School in South New Jersey on Wednesday night.

The pilot was meant to fire the rounds some 3 1/2 miles away at a military target range, Lt. Col. Roberta Niedt of the New Jersey Department of Military and Veterans Affairs told reporters in the Jersey shore township's police headquarters...

An investigation is being conducted into how the pilot mistook the school, located on Frog Pond Road, for a target range. "

OK, just my opinion, but they may want to start this investigation by discussing *why* a military target range is only 3 and a half miles from a middle school? Case solved. Next!

In other news:

"(excerpt) HELSINKI (Reuters) - A police dog let out into an empty field to answer the call of nature ended up finding an underground drugs stash.

Alerted by their German shepherd, police in a Helsinki suburb late last week found two glass jars wrapped in plastic and containing over half a kg (1.1 pounds) of amphetamines.
"This finding shows that hiding drugs in nature has become common and anyone can stumble upon a cache," said Espoo police inspector Jukka Paasio."

To think, just a few hours earlier, Stephan & I were discussing trying our hand at geocaching. This is a potentially muddy, sloggy, and addictive hobby where you tromp out into the wilds and use a GPS to locate something someone else has left there, like a logbook to sign or a canister with a bottle of wine. You add something of yours (signature, a replacement bottle of wine, etc.) and go on to find the next one. Seems you never know what you might find!

Blogging for Books #5: Choose Your Own Adventure

2004-11-08T02:44:00.000-08:00

My entry in this month's Bloging for Books contest held by The Zero Boss:

Blogging for Books #5: Choose Your Own Adventure (Guest Author: Debbie Farmer.)
For this month’s Blogging for Books, choose one of the three "starter sentences" listed below, and use it as the beginning of a blog post totaling no more than 2000 words:
1. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any crazier…
2. Before I had kids, I thought…
3. I enjoy reading the stories in your magazine each month, but I never thought something like that could happen to me until a few nights ago, when…

************************************************************************************

Flight of the Tuna Can

Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any crazier, Stephan and I realized that if we had any hope of going back east for the holidays, we had better buy our tickets right away. We make this trip a couple of times a year since we both have a lot of family and friends there, so we have our routine down. We fly on our favorite airline, which has all direct flights, keeps prices down partly by not serving food, and has cable TV instead of a movie. The seats are a bit wider and offer more legroom than most other airlines too, which is crucial for Stephan and gives me just enough space to curl up and get comfortable. I change into my yoga clothes, which I am convinced are actually pajamas in disguise, we break open our own snacks and drinks and settle in. I once watched a marathon of Crocodile Hunter as the entire country zipped by 30,000 feet below us. Smiling, I typed our travel information into the airline’s website.

"But that’s over a thousand dollars!" I squeaked.

Stephan fiddled with the departure and arrival dates, but soon learned anything even vaguely near the holidays was going to cost too much to make the trip.

"Wait," I said, "I have some offers in my email. Maybe we can find something there."

Every direct flight was booked. Most flights with a single stopover were either booked or prohibitively expensive. Train? Car? That takes too long, we decided, we would have to find a flight. Finally, a search using very loose parameters turned up something that, while not wonderful, was at least possible. We grabbed it, plunking down the credit card with the speed that only the holidays can bring.

"OK," Stephan said with one hand across his eyes, "break it to me gently. How many stopovers do we have?"

"Just two," I offered hopefully. "Chicago and Pittsburgh." See there, I thought, that’s not so bad. So we stop here and there, as long as we get where we’re going, does it really matter?

"How long?" he asked.

"How long what?"

"How long are we sitting there for?"

"Umm… four hours in Chicago," I saw Stephan wince and hurried onward, "but less than two hours in Pittsburgh. Aww, honey, it won’t be that bad! We’ll bring crosswords and books, snacks and stuff."

I love the phrases that describe groups of animals – a murder of crows, a crash of rhinos, a charm of finches. The airport two days before Christmas was a crush of people. A seething, jostling, jangled mass of clashing sounds, smells, and bodies. I remembered pieces of lectures in social psychology, how rats living in crowded conditions start to display behaviors not seen under less stressful conditions. Bloody fights. Trampling. Insanity. I clutched Stephan’s hand as he blazed a trail from one long line to the next. I looked into one glazed over face after another, people stripped of their usual barriers of walls and personal space resorting to hastily built inner walls to hold themselves apart from the crowd. At long last, our bags checked and my sneakers x-rayed for the safety of all Americans, we arrived at the terminal. We double-checked – yes, that’s our flight number, yes, that’s going to Chicago, no, that’s not our flight time.

"It’s been delayed," chirped the airline hostess with a toothy smile. She was vague, purposely vague I thought, about the length of the delay. After a few rounds of nearing the new flight time only to have them delay it further, our plane arrived at the gate.

The second delay was courtesy of a woman determined to pack everything she owned into one bag and then drag it onto the plane with her. An airline employee explained her bag was too big for a carry-on and that she would have to check it. She actually hissed at the man. The back of my neck prickled in response to the emotions bubbling up from the woman’s reptilian brain, Thisssss isssss mine! Effective, too, as the man backed away from her.

"OK," Stephan whispered, "I’m taking bets. Will she get on the plane, and if so, will she still have that gargantuan bag, and if so, is it really the body of her husband she killed this morning because he suggested she pack lightly?"

I bet yes and no and yes, respectively, and lost. From our seats we watched her repeatedly try to cram her bag into an overhead bin that was clearly too small in every dimension. A steward approached her and told her she had to check it. She turned her angry crowded-rat eyes on him and he left her to it for a while longer. I exchanged looks with some of the other passengers. We all knew we were already delayed, and no one could understand why the airline was letting this one person hold us hostage. For one giddy moment, I wondered if she were an actress hired by the airline to put on this show so that we felt we were making progress when really we were still sitting on the tarmac.

Finally, an airline employee made his way down the aisle toward the woman. His expression was carefully neutral, the way I had seen an emergency room nurse greet a man who wandered in late one night. His entire left side had been torn and bloody, a motorcycle helmet dangling from his good arm. "May I help you?" the nurse had asked him, as though he had walked into a cheerful ice cream parlor.

"May I help you?" the airline employee asked the woman. She snorted at him and continued shoving at her bag, now wedged halfway into the overhead bin. "Here, let me try it," he said. She seemed stunned that someone was offering to help instead of opposing her and quietly stepped aside. After a few fruitless pushes, he stepped back, shook his head and said, "Looks like we need to check it. But don’t worry, you can sit down and relax, I’ll get that done for you."
Three full rows of passengers held their breath as we waited for the woman to respond. "Oh. OK," she said and sat down calmly in her seat.

"Whatever they’re paying that guy, it’s not enough," Stephan whispered in my ear.

A few hours later, as we started our descent into Chicago, the pilot came on the speakers with a long list of connecting flights and gate information ending with, "Be sure to check in at your gates right away, folks. O’Hare is experiencing delays." A collective groan filled the passenger cabin.

Chicago’s O’Hare airport made SeaTac airport seem deserted by contrast. People stood, sat, and slept on every available surface. Long lines snaked toward airline employees, who were hiding behind tiny desks and big plastic smiles. Fog had socked us all in.

The first time our flight was cancelled, we grimaced. So much for the four hour stopover. At least the airline gave us seats on a flight leaving just three hours later. When that flight was cancelled with no more flights until morning, we laughed. Neither of us was sure if we were finding humor in the ridiculous or if we were really starting to lose it. By the time we left Chicago, we had to disassemble our comfy nest of coats, bags, snacks, and books.

"Not to worry," the gate attendant had told us, "Pittsburgh to JFK is a commuter run. No matter when you get there, there should be a flight soon."

Pittsburgh was bright and cold and the breath steamed from our lips and noses as if we were dragons. The other six passengers looked as numb as we felt, our bleary red eyes scanning each other in that polite semi-acknowledgement reserved for strangers thrown together by circumstance. We were passed from airline employee to employee as we made our way along the terminal, down a hall, through a door, and onto the tarmac, where we were loaded like cattle onto a bus. We zipped across the tarmac. The long terminal building gave way to row after row of planes gleaming in the sun. At first, the planes were mid-sized, teenager versions of the grown-up plane we flew in on. Next came the grade school size, then the toddler size. At the end of the field came the itty-bitty baby planes. Their shiny black surfaces gleamed as we drove closer, then passed them. Our bus stopped at the last plane in the field, a lone white pile of scrap metal held loosely together by what appeared to be duct tape.

"They don’t expect us to fly in that?" a man muttered in disbelief.

All eight of us started murmuring at once.

"That tuna can?"

"Do you think it’s safe?"

"I am NOT getting on that heap!"

"How much do you think the bus driver would charge to just drive us to New York?" Stephan wondered out loud.

A brief consideration of this plan was followed by the bus driver explaining that being fired for driving the bus off airport property was worth more than we probably had on us. Clearly, our fate had been sealed by the airline. We boarded the plane, ushered inside by a flight attendant who looked as battle weary as the plane itself. Inside, each row was made up of a seat pressed against the window, a tiny aisle, and another seat pressed against the opposite window. The ceiling was low enough that even I, at five-foot-six, had to crouch to reach my seat in the front row. As the flight attendant moved from one passenger to the next, pulling the seatbelts just a touch past ‘snug,’ Stephan leaned across the aisle and whispered, "I could probably touch both wings at once."

Our ascent was sharp. Even my special anti-ear-pain earplugs barely made a dent in quieting the noisy cabin. My mind ran old news footage of astronauts experiencing high g-force, their lips and cheeks rippling back over grimaces. I tried to let fatigue spill me over into unconsciousness, when we suddenly leveled out. The flight attendant scribbled each passenger’s drink order on a piece of paper, then ducked behind a curtain at the rear of the plane. Our choices were: coffee, tea, water, or milk. Small plane, small choices.

"Do you think there’s a little room back there, or is she standing outside on the tail of the plane?" I said, leaning across the aisle to speak directly into Stephan’s ear.

He laughed, "Maybe she’s back there fixing the tail with some wire and chewing gum." He loves McGuyver.

When the flight attendant re-appeared, she had the world’s thinnest drink service cart. With the precision of an elite military squad, she halted the cart at each row and handed one drink to her left and one to her right. The hot tea felt like a tiny oasis of calm. My palms warmed against the soft styrofoam as tendrils of Lipton steam curled under my nose. We banked to the right, and I tipped the cup slightly to keep its full contents from sloshing over the side. Smiling, I thought, after nearly a full day of travel, I am in tune with the motion of planes. Nothing they do can surprise me now. I leaned in for my first comforting sip when a hand appeared and took the cup from me. The flight attendant poured the tea out and threw the cup into the cart’s garbage bin.

"We’re heading into our descent for JFK. Margie, prepare for landing," the captain said over the speakers.

Later, as my father-in-law loaded us into the van he asked, "Are you two hungry? Did you want to stop for lunch?"

"Don’t stop for anything," Stephan said, "We just want to get to the house."

"As long as there’s tea," I added. "I really want a cup of tea."

Note the yellow relective tape on the wing.

Knew he looked familiar...

2004-11-06T19:04:00.000-08:00

I have to agree with John at What Comes To Pass:

I’m more interested in why no one’s talking about how much he looks like the ‘Swedish Chef’ from The Muppet Show.

Separated at birth?

Good call, John. Yumpin' Yiminny!

Mars Needs Guitars

2004-11-06T08:52:00.000-08:00

Apparently, Martians also will squee-gee your vehicle's windows in hopes of a buck:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/3987031.stm
Rover gets mystery power boost
Scientists have been baffled by a mysterious boost in power to one of its two robotic rovers which are exploring the surface of the Red Planet.

Maybe things will get interesting on the ol' Red Planet, now that they've stopped dismantling our rovers the instant they land. If they figure out those cars have cameras, I, for one, look forward to Martian graffiti, Martian teens mooning us, and Martian infomercials late at Martian night.

I am a slimy mollusc

2004-10-20T06:50:00.000-07:00

Item #3672 on the list of "Things I Never Thought I Would Say"

I am a Slimy Mollusc.

I registered a few weeks ago at Truth Laid Bear, who tracks a huge ecosystem of blogs. I saved the link and decided to wait a while and check back to see if I could announce that I was an Insignificant Microbe. I had a little speech prepared about typing with cilia, fun with pseudopods, the cruelty of water filters, and the proud ancient heritage of microbes. So, I thought, with surprising response to my Theory of Arguments and having just won Blogging For Books, it was time to check the ecosystem.

I am a Slimy Mollusc.

Four very nice people linked to my blog. I am a slimy mollusc! A blip on the radar! A footprint in the blogsand! Say it with me now, I am a slimy mollusc!

::::::::::::Tucking into my shell now and scampering away:::::::::::::

I won!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2004-10-20T05:39:00.000-07:00

Thank you Jay & Jennifer! Blogging For Books is a fantastic idea (next one starts November 1, mark your calendars).

Of course, this sort of encouragement is dangerous, as it will surely lead to more & more writing, which in turn will lead to late night rambling, massive consumption of snack foods, and computer-related eye strain. I am looking forward to it!

In answer to some of the comments & email I received, I am much better now. I live with some disabilities, but these days they are mostly in the "annoying" category instead of the "how can she live like that" category. I also have a doctor I trust, who respects my experience and my goals. In an ironic twist, about a week after the incident in the story, my insurance company pulled the financial plug on my inpatient stay, having determined without meeting or evaluating me, that I had no health problem. Um... yeah. If people had told me at the time that this experience would be something to look back on & learn from, I would have drawn an anatomically detailed diagram showing them where to stick it. Since I love where I am now, I suppose I can't fault the road that brought me here.

Blogging For Books #4: Insanity

2004-10-11T05:27:00.000-07:00

My entry in this month's Bloging for Books contest held by The Zero Boss:

Blogging for Books #4: Insanity (Guest Author: Jennifer Margulis PhD.)
We all encounter adversity in our lives. Once in a while, however, a crisis comes along that tests our ability to bounce back; we wonder whether this will be "it", the apocalyptic event that shatters our dreams and leaves us battered and broken. In most cases, however, we manage to dig deep enough to pull ourselves back up and emerge, if not better people, than at least less neurotic than we used to be.
For this Blogging for Books, write about a time you were pushed to the brink of insanity (figuratively or literally), and how you lived to tell the tale.
**********************************************************************************

Perhaps it was a bad sign that he never made eye contact. I suppose I should have noticed, and it is the sort of thing I take extra care to notice now. I was too young, in too much pain, and too grateful to be admitted to the pain clinic to find fault.

"Let’s try dolobid," Dr. B said to my patient file.
"Does that mix OK with pamelor?" I asked.

Dr. B raised an eyebrow and flipped through pages. "Pamelor…? Pamelor… a tricylcic? Yes, yes, that’s fine. Hmm. I don’t see depression listed on your intake sheet."

"No, I don’t take it for depression. It’s for panic disorder."

"Hmm. Yes. Well…" Clearing his throat, he left the room.

I smiled. Dr. B’s social awkwardness was endearing, conjuring images of him in college staying in and studying while his roommate went out to parties. I had met a lot of doctors in the past five years, some were charmers and some were scientists. Dr. B was the doctor I knew I needed, a scientist bookworm with an interest in pain management.

Looking down at my breakfast tray, I winced. Cereal and milk, whole wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and herbal tea. It looked good and that was going to be a half-hour struggle at least. Holding my head in both hands I sat up carefully and leaned both elbows on the tray. Letting go of my head with my right hand, I could see the jitters in my vision before I felt the involuntary nodding and shaking. Steadying my chin in my left hand, I cut a small piece of egg with my fork. After a week in the pain clinic, going to physical therapy twice a day, I could open my mouth wide enough for this fluffy piece of egg on a fork to fit between my teeth. On my list of things I will never take for granted again, I added, ‘deliver a forkful of food to my tongue.’ I found myself relaxed and happy. The last time I went through this, the pain was just as severe, but not knowing what was happening to me was the worst part. This time Dr. B and I had a handle on it.

"It’s an idiopathic injury, an A. A. subluxation," Dr. B told me.

"Subluxation? Vertebrae are out of place?" I asked.

"Yes. In your history I see you subluxed at C4-C5, but that is your cervical spine. This is located at your topmost vertebra."

"So, that’s why my head feels like it’s falling off."

"In part. Then there is the associated myofascial pain…"

"What’s ‘idiopathic?’"

"…attendant nerve inflammation… Hmm? Ah, ‘idiopathic’ means ‘without known cause.’"

"But if you don’t know what caused it, how can you treat it? I mean, what if all these muscle spasms are trying to protect something?"

Dr. B reached down and patted my leg twice. I pictured him learning this exact gesture in a class on bedside manner. "You just focus on the program."

With that, he left me to my day of physical therapy, biofeedback training, nutrition counseling, and blood tests. My pain had become a full time job. Exhausted, I crawled into bed and fell asleep. The nurse woke me with my dinner tray and a tiny white cup with a single pill.

"What’s this?" I asked.

"Dolobid," she said. "It’s an anti-inflammatory."

I took the pill and ate half my dinner before falling into a dreamless sleep.

One of the first classes at the clinic teaches how to rank our pain. A "1" is barely there, more of an annoyance. A "4" is livable, but hurtful, like an average headache. A "7" is where people trying their best not to take medication finally give in and take something. A "10" is the worst pain we can imagine. The woman with no knees gave her pain a 6. She told me in physical therapy that they were shattered in a car accident and she had to strengthen her leg muscles before she could get artificial knees. I was amazed to watch her get around very well with two crutches. The other patient I saw regularly was a woman with very short hair and an orange tint to her skin. While it was obvious she hated physical therapy, she came in every day. She was an outpatient, having put in a full eight weeks as an inpatient after a vitamin A overdose. She nearly died and lost all of her hair and eyelashes. She ranked her pain a 9, but I wondered if some of that was ego, her belief that other people would not handle what she had gone through as well as she believed she had. I found it hard to rate my pain. Sometimes, sitting quietly with my head braced, it was like a 4 or even a 3. Other times, it hit 8 or 9, during physical therapy when they insisted I turn my head to the side, or in unguarded moments if I moved to look at something with my head instead of just with my eyes. Even throwing up at physical therapy I refused to rate my pain a 10. I always believed it could be worse.

With my eyes still closed, my mind fighting to return to sleep, my first impression was pure white pain. I openned my eyes to the dimly lit room. I struggled to sit up, soaked strands of hair clinging to my face like seaweed at low tide. My hands shook as I raised them to brace my head. Oh my G-d, I moan to myself. Then, No! I think, don’t give in. OK, I thought. OK. This sucks, but I’m in the hospital, and if evil bad pain is going to happen, this is the best place to be. Using my biofeedback lessons, I tried to lengthen my shallow breaths. Was that weird raspy sound there before? Soaked and dehydrated, I eased my way to the bathroom to splash water on my face. My mirror image startled me. I looked sunburned, the pain drawing little white lines from the corners of my squinted eyes. Without moving my head an inch, I brought a cupped hand of water to my lips and discovered that my jaw had clamped shut. Nooooooooo! My mind wailed. I struggled not to sob, mostly out of fear of clogging up my nose. I climbed back into bed and rang for the nurse.

Time took on an elastic quality, as it does for me in a crisis. When I remember breaking my arm as a child, I see it in slow motion. This night in the pain clinic crept forward like a drunken snail. Muscles cramped and spasmed throughout my body. "Picture your safe place," the biofeedback teacher said in my mind, "and go there." Mine was the little house I built on the bank of the Jordan River. I had stood on that spot once and dipped my toes in. The river was cold. In my hospital bed, I shivered. Where was the nurse?

The hallway was deserted. Even the nurses’ station at one end was empty. A few hours ago I had stood there joking with the nurses on shift. Now the station seemed so far away, the hall impossibly long. My best plan, I decided, was to sit in my doorway, so I could flag down the first person I see. That person turned out to be a kewpie doll of a nurse, with huge blue eyes and blond ringlets. She looked about eighteen.

"I need… you… to call… the doctor," I said carefully through my clenched teeth.

"Oh. They don’t like us to do that unless it’s an emergency," she said, her expression dripping with sympathy.

Pain and frustration squeezed out of my tear ducts. "This… is… an… emergency!"

She pulled a tissue from her pocket and blotted my face. "The doctor really can’t help you with a spiritual crisis."

Spiritual crisis? What the hell was she talking about? "What?" I asked, trying to will away the urge to swat her hand off my face.

"Doctor made it clear you have an anxiety disorder." She shook her head sadly, tsk tsk, poor patient.

"I want you… to listen," I said. "This… is not anxiety. This... is a… drug reaction. Call the doctor. Now."

The nurse sighed and cocked her head. "OK, but he won’t like it."

An hour later when Doctor B came, it was nearly time for breakfast rounds. "I see you had a bad night," he said, reading the night nurse’s chart notes.

My whole body hummed with ache and fatigue. "Bad reaction," I said.

"Hmm…" he said, "I don’t see anything here that would cause a reaction like you describe. Have you been experiencing any stress lately?"

"Other than the bad drug reaction? No."

"I see here you had a lot of pain with muscle spasms last night."

"Yes."

"That’s what the dolobid is for, you know. It helps with muscle spasms."

Mustering up as much determination as I could I said, "I won’t take any more dolobid."

Tapping the chart with his pen, Dr. B frowned at me, then left the room.

At dinner that night, there was a small white cup with a single pill in it.

"What’s this?" I asked the nurse.

Reading from my chart, she said, "Diflunisal."

"What’s it do?" I asked.

"It takes down swelling, helps with muscles spasms."

"Sounds about right," I said and grinned at her. She grinned back and left the room.

When the pain woke me this time it was familiar. "Oh G-d." I groaned to myself, "not again!" I looked at my hands. They were shaking. I touched my face. Wet and warm. No! No! No no no no no! Sitting up I discovered the pain was worse than the previous night. Muscles not yet recovered from yesterday’s strain were being forced to dance and twitch and cramp again. I rang for the nurse. Remembering last night’s empty hallway, I imagined no one would come. What if Dr. B was right? What if this wasn’t a drug reaction? What if this was some horrible new problem I would have to live with?

A nurse poked her head in the door. "You rang?"

"I need… the doctor…" I rasped between sobs, "and… something… for pain. Please… knock me out… I can’t…" A muscle in the back of my neck twisted, jerking my head back and pulling my loose vertebra sharply to one side.

The next thing I knew, the nurse was standing over me with her fingers pressed against my wrist. "Hang in there, honey. The doctor’s on his way."

I visited my little mental house on the Jordan River. I rocked in the chair on the porch to a slow, steady beat, hoping my body would slow and calm. Sometimes all anyone can do is breathe in and breathe out and wait for things to get better.

Dr. B arrived looking rumpled and concerned. His head moved up and down and he read the nurse’s notes in my chart.

"I think this drug must be related to dolobid," I said. "The whole group of them maybe doesn’t agree with me."

Dr. B frowned. "There’s no documentation for a reaction like this to dolobid."

"Well I had one. Plus another one to this new drug."

"That was also dolobid."

"What?"

"There isn’t a single instance listed…" he stammered. "You seem to be the first."

"And the second, " I said. I looked at his face. He looked nervous. "You didn’t believe me," I said, thunderstruck. "You decided I was having a panic attack, so you re-prescribed me the same drug?"

He winced. "I wanted you to realize that it wasn’t the drug."

"Except it was."

We looked at each other for a long moment. It was the only time he ever looked me in the face.

"I don’t think I can work with you anymore," I told him and ended our relationship.

Theory of Arguments

2004-09-30T05:13:00.000-07:00

There is always someone trying to convince us of something. Buy this, watch this, vote this way, stop at red lights, and on and on. Other than the 1% of the time, where there is some meat on the intellectual bone, I find a need to entertain myself while the blowhard winds rush by. To fill this need in part, I developed my Theory of Arguments. Just listen for the following phrases as a helpful guide to who is winning an argument.

1. "This is America"
Long used by politicians, this stance has broadened so much that it can now be used in virtually any situation. Witness my interaction at the U-Haul when I returned a pickup truck. I walked past a long line of people waiting to rent a truck, and realizing that my truck had to be processed very likely for one of the people waiting, and not wanting to be seen as cutting the line, I was as obvious as I could be about handing the keys to the attendant and then standing to the side. One tall wiry mulletted man of indeterminate age toward the back of the line decided to "call me on it" right then & there.

"Some people think they're entitled!" he said.

I ignored him.

"Some people think they are better than everyone!" He was really warming up now.

"Y'know, this is America and in AMERICA we wait in line!"

Oooh! He did it, right there in the U-Haul. By not waiting in line I had become a Commie bastard.

2. "Think of the children"
"Think of the children" supercedes "this is America." Every country in the world has children. Even people who dislike America probably like at least some children, plus of course, we were each a child once. As good social monkeys, aren't we all supposed to "think of the children?" Remember the song how children are our future? Remember all the late night infomercials pleading for just pennies a day to give some kid with nothing but low grade mud to eat some rice or something. Cue the violins.

Politician #1: You can't keep that in the budget! These cutbacks were voted in and this is America!

Politician #2: But this money funds a shelter for homeless one-eyed kids with bowl haircuts. Think of the children!

You see my point.

3. "For the love of G-d"
Lately, "for the love of G-d" seems to trump "think of the children" and "this is America." It may just be part of the weird religiosity that seems to pervade everything these days. It might be fear of upsetting an omnipotent being. Even atheists like to hedge their bets.

Returning to the U-Haul in example #1, if I had had this Theory of Arguments in place at that time, I could have decimated Mr. Mullet.

"This is America, and in AMERICA, we wait in line!" he said.

This time, I turn to face him and say, "Hey, you know, there are kids in here!"

Mr. Mullet looks up & down the line, embarrassed to be caught setting a bad example for the youth of today. If he were a smarter guy than he looked, he might have tried to co-opt my argument:

"Those kids need to learn that we take turns in America!" he says, cleverly incorporating "think of the children" right into his "this is America" position. Since we have both stated we are, in fact, thinking of the children, he is winning based on the remaining strength of "this is America." It's time for me to pull out the big guns.

"For the love of G-d!" I sigh, combining the world-weary eye roll with the small apologetic smile to the others on line. G-d is bigger than America, bigger than all the children lumped together, and may even be watching this very argument to see who sides with Him and who is a devil worshipping fashion faux pas. Victory is mine.

Finally, if you are using my Theory of Arguments to enhance your enjoyment of the political debates, remember to give extra points if the phrases themselves are used. Most often the arguments are hinted at or skirted around, but now that you know them I am sure you will recognize them. And remember to vote (#1). You are shaping the future of our country (#2). There is no more sacred mission (#3)!

Mt. St. Helens Cam

2004-09-29T14:31:00.000-07:00

http://www.fs.fed.us/gpnf/volcanocams/msh/

Having watched the news reports over the last few days, hearing about the steam, the bits of ash, the rumblings, the grumblings, at first I was alarmed that there seemed to be no image whatsoever on the famed Mount St. Helens live cam.

It's night.

Heh heh heh. Oh-wa Tagoo Siam. :)

Rare and strange portents

2004-09-20T01:42:00.000-07:00

Hear me, my little grasshoppers, we must all be on the alert, day and night, because something strange is coming down the pike. Perhaps I should stop by Edge of the Circle Books and cast some runes, or stop by UW and gaze at the stars through the big telescope, I don't know. Here is the evidence so far:

Portent #1: As I ran around town doing my errands and avoiding the drunken Oktoberfest masses, which were awkwardly positioned on my route to pretty much everywhere, I looked down and right there was a twenty dollar bill! Not only does this sort of thing virtually never happen to me, but a very similar moment earned a place in family lore. My grandmother, born on a Friday the 13th, was a very lucky person. One day as she was walking with my Mom in autumn and the leaves were kicking up in the wind, and swirling around their legs, Grandma looked down to find a $20 bill had blown up against her leg. Coincidence?

Best of all was when I got home and S asked how much the dinner I picked up had cost. I told him, all things considered we were $7 ahead!

Portent #2: Going on an urgently needed late night munchy run to the supermarket is usually a relaxing thing. It's quiet, crowd-free, and the night shift music kicks the butt of the daytime muzak. Heck, I even had S with me, and he graciously carried the plastic basket filled with milk, yogurts, muffins, ham, and (obviously, if you know me) cookies. No waiting in the checkout line, another boon of the night owl life, as the checker swept our goodies one by one over the menacing red laser eye. Then suddenly,

"Tsk, tsk! Oh, dear!"

The checker had reached the bottom of the basket and found the small pot of pansies I impulsively grabbed from the outdoor display on our way into the store. I had placed it carefully in one corner and the first few groceries went into the basket oh-so-carefully. Then more & more stuff, light stuff on top shifted around, and suddenly, we can serve ham with a side order of mashed pansies. Although the pansies looked ok, so I reached for them to take a closer look, at which point the checker said,

"You can't be trusted. Hang your head in shame!"

and handed the pansies to S. Upon inspection, the pansies were indeed ok and will take the place of honor in the planter. But it was too late for me - I had been publicly berated at the QFC!

So... put it all in a mixing bowl, stir it up, and bake at 350 for an hour, and what do we get? Late night pansy-mashers may find hidden riches? The world had an opening for pansy-mashing, grocery clerk target, and the salary was $20 for a job well done? I am open to interpretations.

A good idea for peace

2004-09-14T14:41:00.000-07:00

Wow.

I don't intend to post much about politics. I laugh along with the rodeo clown show that is our upcoming election, watch The Daily Show, read Molly Ivans, etc. I just don't usually venture beyond my mind and my vote. Today though I read a piece that was such a different and fresh voice, topped with a good idea for helping to promote peace in Israel.

As a Jewish person, I have wondered what my responsibility is toward Israel. I traveled to Israel as a child, fell in love with the roses in Haifa, crawled through under-city catacombs, and dipped my toes in the Jordan River. Every time some asshole with a swastika tattoo makes the news for a hate crime, every time the Aryan Nation holds a parade, every time I look at the photos of family members none of us even know who never made it out of Europe, I am grateful there is another country I could run to, if that ever became necessary. As an American, I am certain my information on all topics is so warped by the time it reaches me that I have generally felt trapped, unable to do or say much on the subject for fear of doing harm through misinformation. Part of the elegance of this idea is that it only enables people to escape from harm, and in so doing reduces the tension in a conflicted region. Hard to see a downside.

This piece of writing has the ring of truth. The facts & figures check out, as do the references to other articles. I am re-posting only part of it here (without permission, but with respect), the "what you can do" portion, but the entire article is worth your time (written in 2002 but may as well have been written yesterday). I would add that this need not be Jews helping Jews, it could be any organization who wishes to promote peace:

So Here Is What You Can Do

Jews in America and world-wide should therefore use their money to support settlers who wish to leave the occupied territories and return to Israel. This should not even be a "political" issue: the settlers (and their children) are held hostage by the Israeli government, exposed to deadly violence. You do not have to be a dove to support people's right not to live in the middle of a battle-field (unless they want to). Sums and conditions can be negotiated, using as guidelines the compensations paid by Israel to the settlers evacuated from Sinai when it was returned to Egypt.

The advantages of such an initiative are numerous.
* On a human level, it respects the free and legitimate will of settlers who wish to leave.
* On a moral level, it does justice to innocent Israeli citizens who conformed to Israeli law and policy, moved to the occupied territories, and now feel abandoned, cheated and betrayed.
* On a national level, it respects the overwhelming majority in Israel that supports evacuation of settlements (without even harming the minority of settlement-supporters).
* On a regional level, it can show Arabs that Jews world-wide are supportive of peace, not of the disputed settlements. Empty settlements can then be sold to house Palestinian refugees.
* On an international level, it conforms to the international as well as American position that the settlements are illegal and form an obstacle to peace.

Now, dear United Jewish Communities of North America: you have collected $265 million in your recent "Israel Emergency Campaign". 65% of the Israelis support evacuating the settlements. Will you take 65% of the sum – $172 million – and offer it to settlers wishing to leave? Or will any other Jewish institution take up the glove? You'll find an overwhelming majority of Israelis and Palestinians behind you, and you will enter History as the initiator of a quantum leap towards Peace in the Middle East.

Vampyra! Bwah ha haaaaa....

2004-09-13T20:48:00.000-07:00

You are Form 9, Vampire: The Undying.
"And The Vampire was all that remained on the blood drowned creation. She attempted to regrow life from the dead. But as she was about to give the breath of life, she was consumed in the flame of The Phoenix and the cycle began again."
Some examples of the Vampire Form are Hades (Greek) and Isis (Egyptian). The Vampire is associated with the concept of death, the number 9, and the element of fire. Her sign is the eclipsed moon.
As a member of Form 9, you are a very realistic individual. You may be a little idealistic, but you are very grounded and down to earth. You realize that not everything lasts, but you savor every minute of the good times. While you may sometimes find yourself lonely, you have strong ties with people that will never be broken. Vampires are the best friends to have because they are sensible.

Which Mythological Form Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Mmm... yeah. Sensibility is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of vampires. You know, and fangs.

Supermarket 2AM

2004-09-13T02:11:00.000-07:00

4 yogurts ...........................................................$2.40

Pepperidge Farm chocolate chunk cookies ..................... $2.00

Fridge box of coke ..................................................$4.19

Wondering what the guy in front of you has
planned with the purchase of a six pack of toilet
paper, huge bottle of hand lotion, box of
Trojen-ENZTM condoms, and a fresh pack of
camel cigarettes ................................................$Priceless

Smart animals, stupid people

2004-09-12T03:37:00.000-07:00

Stupid people

Smart animal

Stupid people

Smart animal

Stupid people

And the final smart animal (unable to link directly, so here goes...)

"Most Competent Animals
Koko, the famous gorilla that was taught about a thousand words in American Sign Language, had recently been telling her handlers at her apartment at the Gorilla Foundation in Woodside, Calif., that her mouth hurt. It was only a toothache, but treatment would require her to be anesthetized, and the foundation decided to take advantage and give her a complete physical, with specialists volunteering to work on a "star." (Said Dr. David Liang of Stanford's medical school, "Koko is less demanding" than other celebrities.) Afterward, according to an Associated Press reporter, Koko met with her doctors and motioned one woman to come closer. The woman, awed by this brilliant animal, playfully handed Koko her business card, which Koko promptly ate. [ABC News-AP, 8-8-04]"
ref: http://www.newsoftheweird.com/archive/index.html

The World, According to Others

2004-09-10T02:12:00.000-07:00

And now, on The World According To Me, a brief peek at the world according to others.

In case that failed to alarm you sufficiently, here is the Sixth Sign of the Apocalypse. As a friend says about green jello, this is just sick and wrong.

Lastly, to honor the back to school atmosphere, here is a quiz to test your film spoiler knowledge. I found I knew both more and less than I thought I did. Don't try to make sense of that, it will only give you a pain behind your right eye.

Twinkies everywhere

2004-09-03T07:03:00.000-07:00

OK, this is an emergency! Twinkies going bankrupt?! Does no one recall the scientific advances made during the great twinkie experiments (my favorite being the gravitational test)? For the love of snackfood, people, go buy yourselves some twinkies! It might be your last chance. I just had my first Hostess cupcake in probably 12 years. I'll try not to let the sugar buzz take over the keyboard, but I make no promises.

Perhaps due to this unexpected snackfood stress, a random woman caused Stephan to win this week's Weird Moment of the Week. He was waiting at the corner for me to catch up to him. Out of my sight from farther down the street, I overheard a woman growl at him, "Move!" Stephan looked this way and that, clearly not understanding why she growled at him and where exactly she expected him to go. He said something like, "Well, just go around me," in that tone I recognize as Stephan trying to de-escalate someone who is dangerously close to learning he has had some martial arts training. She again snapped at him, "Move!" At this point I had reached the corner and could see that this was not any of the following scenarios:

*A meth addict who with only one word left in her mental lexicon
*A mother trying to herd many small children in the same direction
* A jogger trying to coax her muscles to go just one more mile

Nope. She was a well outfitted bicyclist, walking her bike along the sidewalk, and just felt that she wanted to go straight and Stephan's presence would have meant she had to veer a whole two feet over. I bet she is a lot of fun for whoever has to deal with her on a daily basis. Great karma there, ya freakin' twinkie!

Speaking of karma points, I am hoping I racked up a few by helping find a hamster a new home. A week or so ago, I was browsing craigslist, and stumbled across an ad looking for a home for "one righteous hamster." The switchboard operator in my head said, "Ah hah!" and connected me with the fact that my friend M has a daughter H, who I heard was interested in adopting a small furry pet but was not sure what kind. Email was sent & no more was thought about it. Then a couple of days ago I got a call that the righteous hamster is now residing with H, who is thrilled and is, herself, righteous. I can't wait to meet this hamster. You know how sometimes there is that sense of being buffeted around life by the unseen hand of fate? Well, this time I am the unseen hand of fate. I know what I would cash those karma points in for, but I don't think we get to choose.

Ugh... sugar crash... must sleep now. More twinkie induced hallucinations tomorrow.

I Am The World

2004-08-29T05:24:00.000-07:00

Them's big words for someone who feels like there's an acorn in her gums. I stumbled across this What tarot card are you? thingee and that's what it had to say. Just remember, if you try it and it also says You Are The World, I will not sing "We Are The World" with you. Not even at drunken karaoke. Not more than two verses, definitely not.

I am The World

The World represents the moments when we feel fulfilled and blessed and all that goes into them. It is a very positive sign that you are in a position to realize your heart's desire. What that is for you depends on the situation, but it will always feel great. Remember, though, that Card 21 is a symbol of active contribution and service. To hold the World in our hands, we must give of ourselves to it. That is the source of true happiness.

For a full description of your card and other goodies, please visit LearnTarot.com

What tarot card are you? Enter your birthdate.

Notably, this blog was named The World According To Me well before this tarot came up as The World. So, if I = The World, then The World According To Me = Me According to Me. Or, The World According To The World. Ack. My brain hurts now. Psychologically, I don't know if I am ready to be the world. Sounds like a lot of responsibility and bagillions of annoying i-dottings & t-crossings. True happiness sounds good though.

Otherwise, my debriefing session at the CIA went smoothly. After endlessly sitting under hot lights, with sharp evil looking instruments hovering menacingly over my face, I cracked and told them everything I know about the department of homeland security.

"Eeesh schtoopid."

I vaugely recall being told (in ghostly voice)

"Don't go into the light"

or it might have been,

"Let the nurse have the suction straw"

Afterwards my memory was wiped of the event with nanonic tooth implants.

Hmm. Maybe I really was at the dentist as S says I was? Chalk up one more lost day to halcion, dental wonder drug. A fun time was had by all, or so I have had to be told. Hmph! Or maybe... that's what they want me to believe. I woke up at home, 2PM Friday, and asked S if I had overslept and missed my dental appt? Nope, he said, we went. Indeed I have a shiny new crown tooth where the little chicklet looking temporary had been. I would like to tell you more, but apparently, that's classified.

Breathe

2004-08-26T22:15:00.000-07:00

The universe was trying to send me a message today. I found myself in traffic, feeling as though I would never get done all I needed and wanted to get done, amplified by the knowledge that tomorrow will be a total loss (more on that later). The little white car in front of me had a vanity license plate that said...

BREATHE

I was impressed. Impressed that I really needed to hear that right then. Impressed that someone plunked down the $50 for a custom plate and chose to put out such a positive message for others. BREATHE. And so I did.

Surreal moment #2 happened on the return trip as a bus passed by in the opposing lane. It had a billboard along its side that said, "You have the right to be you." Or something like that. It was selling identity theft insurance. You know how they say goatees are the new mullets? Well, I say "identity theft insurance" is the new bomb shelter. Scare tactics can make some buy it, but when the chips are down, will it really help? In any case, apparently I have the right to be me. BREATHE.

But the weird moment of the day award goes to Stephan, who makes me laugh often to where I can't breathe. Last weekend he made a pilgrimage with Craig to the newly discovered hardware store nearby. And yea, they cast awed gazes upon the many wares upon display and proclaimed their joy at such a find, and fear that the wives would change the locks if they purchased all that they wished. Verily, it was so. Stephan made a single, reserved purchase of a small vernier caliper, used to make precise measurements. Unbeknownst to me, the new caliper held the place of honor, bedside, so as to be last gazed upon at night and first in the morning. I know this now because I was typing away on my computer, long after all decent folk are asleep (and after some are awake again), when Stephan's alarm clock went off. He shut it off and I heard him "mumph!" and turn over. OK. I give it 10 minutes, then go check to see if he really needs to be up yet. I see him, sitting up, carefully measuring the tip of a mechanical pencil with the shiny new vernier caliper.

"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Just checking if the lead is really .7 millimeters."
"What?"
"You know, they say it's .7, but I thought I would..."
"First thing in the morning?"
"Well, I just want to measure and see."
"If it really is .7, as advertised?"
"Yeah."
"Before you have even gotten out of bed?"
"Uhh... yeah."
Silence, only broken by my snorting laughter.
"So, is it?"
"Is it what?"
".7?"
"Oh, yeah. It is."
I tried to say something like, well, that's good then, but I found I could not talk and laugh uncontrollably at the same time.

Tomorrow will be interesting, if my last dental appointment is any indication. For those of you who have not heard this yet, I have had to see a specialist because of this one tooth that won't go numb. So this dentist is a specialist in "problem cases" (always an apt description of yours truly) and can administer serious anesthesia. He decides to give me halcion. He also gives me a brief and colorful history of halcion along with the usual warnings about operating heavy machinery. Halcion came out as the new wonder sleeping pill to replace those pesky addictive drugs, like valium. I am sure there was the usual extensive testing - 3 college freshmen (all male) and six hamsters - and then the beta test of wide release to the public. And it was great! People slept! Or, thought they did. Until one day a guy went berzerk and shot a bunch of coworkers. Turns out halcion is the source of the phrase "go postal." Halcion creates temporary amnesia. So if you are sleepy already, yep, you go to sleep. But if you are not sleepy, you walk around, do the laundry, regrout the tile, and eventually pass out. In the morning you have no memory of anything, are probably confused by the fresh clean grout, and you assume you slept all night. After a few nights of not actually sleeping, you go insane (legally, and in truth). So, the dentist gave me halcion because a big part of experiencing pain is the memory of having been in pain a moment ago and anticipating pain to come. Halcion wipes the slate clean. Very very clean. Last time I had no memory after sitting in the waiting room until that night. On our way home, somewhere on the 520, our truck's accelerator pedal fell off. Oh yes. FELL. OFF. Stephan pulled out of traffic and called a tow truck. We rode in the tow truck to the dealer. Memorable, right? The only memory I have of any of this is the doughnut Stephan brought me at the dealership. It was plain with chocolate frosting on top and I was soooo happy to see it. Then, nothing until I woke up that evening at home.

Tomorrow I go back to this dentist. More halcion. No Friday for me! I will try to remember to BREATHE.

Just when I thought...

2004-08-23T20:28:00.000-07:00

... nothing was going to happen today worth blog space, Stephan says,

"Get the magnifying glass so I can take a look at your ass."

So, naturally I said, "My ass is not *that* small."

:)

Does it matter that he meant he would look for the mystery splinter that is really at the top of my thigh (not in downtown ass proper)? I say, no it does not, because I had the rare opportunity to say that my hiney bumper was not, in fact, microscopic.

2004-08-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

Squirrels up to no good

Historic First Post ;pppPPPPppppp

2004-08-22T20:07:00.000-07:00

Helloooooooo vast unknown audience! This is a test post to see that my uncensored mental shenanigans really will corrupt the innocent minds of today's youth.

Check... check....
Check 1, check 2....

*ah hem*