I'll have to polish it, though, because it's so terribly green.

Janice got this one. The best yet, imho!

inexorably graduated cylinder

a beautiful mix of the poetic and scientific

redletterday

My hair is long enough now that for the first time ever I can wind it into a bun and ram a chopstick into it, and it'll stay up!

I've been longing to wear chopsticks on my head for years.
And now I can!

Ah, the little things that make us happy....

(On the downside, my initial experiment was completed with a pair of chopsticks I have here at work, and now that I look more closely, I think there are still little bits of rice and leftover sushi stuck to them. But it's all dried up. It's ok.)

:-)

netflix could save the world!

I really like this quote from Mr. Popescu in The Third Man - Carol Reed's movie from 1949 set in post-war Vienna:

"...but you have to break the rules sometimes. Humanity is a duty."

Having also just watched Pan's Labyrinth (which takes place just after the Spanish civil war), I've been thinking about war in general, and the amount of cruelty and torture that are allowed free rein when people silence the voice of their own morality and blindly follow orders, or succumb to their fear of an abusive authority. When human beings choose to deny their humanity, only tragedy and evil can result.

And apathy can be just as destructive.

As we approach this crossroads in human and planetary history, it's good to be reminded of that.

They just, frustratingly, don't.

Gosh these are so much fun! I should write stories based on them.

religiously molasses

Another one.

self-loathing dust bunnies

Sometimes the subject lines on spam emails are endearingly inspired. When I get a good one (like the one above), I will post it.

lotsa babies

Speaking of fashion, one thing I really don't understand is this recent obsession with empire waists. Every woman who wears one of those shirts looks like she's expecting. Soon. Even the flat-bellied 15-year-olds look pregnant! How did this style become so popular?! Creepy.

And there's something a bit Harry Potterish about all this

Ok - here's today's riddle: How is Gatorade like Puff's Plus?

Nah, there's nothing cool and clever about the answer, sorry. It's just that I've found that these are two things that are really really annoyingly gross unless you really really need them.

Gatorade tastes totally disgusting, unless you're completely dehydrated; then it's delicious!
Puff's Plus leaves oily crap all over your hands and face and gives you zits on your nose, unless you have a really bad cold; then you'd swear it was the greatest invention ever!

That's all. Have a nice day.

is it just me, er....?!

I saw this huge internally-lit poster at the Las Vegas airport. It's a photo of an indigenous woman, with these words written underneath.

It's masquerading as an I-am-woman-hear-me-roar sort of thing, but I found it offensive. It gives the impression that women are just hanging out, you know, lying around in the woods or something, a mass of potential energy, undiscovered, unused. (And by whom?!) -As if every woman I know doesn't already do more than her share of the work of Life.

It also equates us with, well, those inanimate things traditionally expoited by humans. I suppose you could say that being compared to wind and trees and rivers isn't all that bad, but what is it that humans generally do with our natural resources? We use them up and abuse them. What? The Amazon's all gone? No more petroleum? Well, hell, we've got a bunch of women here, let's see what they can do for us.

Grrr.

heavenly

For all my life, I've been increasingly amazed at the way the world and the universe are designed. I haven't bothered too much with the ultimately irresolvable questions about whether there's a Purpose or a Creator or any of that; just the fact of things' existence has seemed enough of an answer.

But today I discovered one very serious design flaw. What the hell is up with eyelashes?! After having had one irritatingly stuck in my right eye for the last 24 hours, having searched and searched and flushed with water and searched again to no avail, this morning I finally determined I was going to find the damn thing once and for all. I fished around with my finger as best I could, making my eye tear and bringing out all the unsightly red capillaries… it took me about 15 minutes but I FINALLY got it out!

At which point I thought - who the hell decided it was a good idea to position impermanent, sharp-ended tiny hairs right above our eyes?! Some crazy bastard. A genius with a peculiar vendetta. I dunno. Maybe it happened that time Satan volunteered to take over for half an hour so God could get a quick bite to eat… I'll bet he grabbed the chance to make a couple of, ummm, you know, changes to the blueprint. That would explain a lot.

something to think about (or not)

In my building at work, there is a Women's Lounge with three toilet stalls.
The first two are miniscule; it's hard to turn around; your elbows hit the walls. The air in them is somewhat stagnant, and the lighting is bad.
The last one is bright and spacious, right near the window, and it has a little shelf to put your purse on.

I always use the last stall.
Everyone else (as far as I can tell, after 3 years of close monitoring) chooses to use the first two stalls.

WHY?!

I've thought about this for a long time, and can think of only two possible answers to my query: One, I work with really bizarre people who prefer stinky claustrophobic bathroom experiences OR two, they know something I don't know about that last stall.

I'm not sure which possibility is worse.

old-school irony

I recently purchased a 1969 'Lady Remington' electric razor on ebay. My best friend had had one when we were growing up, and I liked its feminine design - light blue on white with little '60's-style stars... and those long-legged models in the owner manual... perfect!

I took it out of its elegant white-with-satin-interior box, unraveled the cord, and plugged it in.

Nothing. Dead.

I was so disappointed! I unplugged the cord, and sat staring resignedly at the razor.

But wait... was there a way to get inside it? There was!
And it was just a loose connection; easily soldered back in place.

Later, happily shaving my legs, I reflected that the manufacturers of that Lady Remington probably didn't imagine that their lady consumers would ever be pulling their product apart and playing around with wires and soldering irons to get it working again. ;-)

brilliant!

(I found this sign at the baylands - at the end of Embarcadero)

chocolate sheet cake with blue frosting

Most of the time, it tastes really disgusting.
But occasionally it really hits the spot.

I guess it's sorta like the weather in February.

the plastic proliferation of piety

Last year, my friend Janice and I discovered, in a grocery store gumball machine, the Homies Trailer Park figurines. Instantly enchanted by them (who could resist names like "Doo-Doo Dan" and "Kegger Ken" and "Catfish Clem"?!), we went on an insane quarter-spending frenzy, trying to get as many of the collection as we could. We spent all the quarters we had, then went through the checkout to change more bills and found that the cashier, too, had been infected with the Trailer Parker virus; we discussed with her which characters we'd gotten, which ones we wanted. We giggled and put more quarters into the machine. We were having a total blast!

We went back the next day with entire rolls of quarters to buy more! I kept getting 'Doo-Doo Dan'; we both did. We agreed to have a trading session the next day to even out our collections. Over lunch at the restaurant, we did the big trade. We spread our figurines all over the table, and haggled good-naturedly over which ones we were willing to give up. Her husband Mark looked on tolerantly, and tried to find enough elbow room to eat his sandwich.

It was SUCH a good time!!

Then last week, I got a letter in the mail from Janice. It contained a color printout of the Homies newest series: the Santos! I stared in rapture at the photo of the Santos; it was too good to be true! El Santo Nino de Atocha! La Virgen de Guadalupe! San Francisco! Maria Inmaculada!

When I got to New Jersey this weekend, we hightailed it to the market where she had found the Santos.

I put 50 cents in the machine, turned the knob, and pulled out the plastic globe containing my saint. Breathlessly, I opened it, and Janice craned her head over my shoulder to see which one I'd gotten.
San Juan Diego!

Then Janice put in 50 cents... San Antonio!
I put in 50 cents... San Juan Diego.
Janice got San Francisco!
I got... San Juan Diego.
Janice plopped in two more quarters. Papa Juan Pablo!
I got San Juan Diego.
Janice got San Antonio again.
The next time I turned the handle... nothing! Wah!
Janice, being the good friend that she is, generously gave me her duplicate San Antonio. I was very happy!
Then Janice got El Santo Nino!
And I got San Juan Diego.

By this time, I was beginning to feel that God was playing a mighty trick on me. We went into the store to shop.

Coming out, we did another round at the saint machine. This time Janice started. She got... someone, I forget who.

Then I got El Santo Nino!
She got the Virgen of Guadalupe.
I got El Santo Nino.
She got the angel.
I got... San Juan Diego.
She got another pope.
I got nothing! Again!
I tried again... El Santo Nino.
She got Jesus.
My turn... San Juan Diego.

7 Diegos and 3 Ninos! I was starting to feel like I was attending a football game at a local high school: Diegos ahead in the third quarter! Would the Ninos have a chance to pull ahead?

No, they wouldn't. We left.

But boy it was so much fun!!! And if anyone wants a San Juan Diego, let me know. I have plenty.

are you kidding me?!

I just received this personalized letter in a large, fluorescent orange envelope:

--WILL YOU DO US A FAVOR AND TEST TOOLS?--

Dear Kate,
Would you mind very much if I sent you a free circular saw to use? How about a free cordless drill? All I'm going to ask in return is for you to fill out a brief questionnaire on how well the handyman product I sent you performed.
Please don't delay. Return the enclosed RSVP today.
Larry Okrend
Executive Director
Handyman Club of America
______

Dear Larry Okrend,
I am flattered by your confidence in my handyman abilities; as you say, it's true that I am known among my family and friends as an 'outstanding handyman'!
I do have one concern, however. In the event that your circular saw does not perform as intended, and hacks off my right arm, I will be unable to fill out your questionnaire, and you will not receive your desired feedback. In that situation, is there a telephone number at which I can reach you to file my report?
I wish you luck in your endeavors, and look forward to receiving my free tools.
Sincerely,
Kate

some further thoughts on the negative

So, why are we all addicted to discontentment?
Well, I'll tell you.

For one, it's ground into us by our society. In fact, there's a bill before the Senate right now, proposing that our national anthem be changed to the inspirational song, "Never Be Satisfied With Anything", which adheres more closely to our country's current value system.

But I think it's also just because a crappy time makes for a better story.

Who the heck wants to hear about your idyllic Hawaii vacation? Not me.
Now, if your suitcases were lost a couple of times en route, and the shark bite on your leg got infected, I might be interested.

d'ya want yer eggs sunny-side-up, or over-hard?

More and more often, I've been experiencing moments of real contentment. Gosh, it's a great feeling! And somehow, it doesn't seem to take much, just a twist-of-the-brain, a slowing-down, an appreciation of details.

This morning, for example, has been filled with beautiful things:
-lounging in bed
-a luxurious hot shower
-a long walk in the early morning sunlight
-tasty iced coffee
-vases of gloriously-scented peonies filling my office (my co-workers bring them in every spring, from their own gardens)
-a leisurely stroll with co-workers, down to the staff coffee hour
-a poppyseed bagel with butter and cream cheese
-the anticipation of eating the last of my yummy birthday sushi for lunch
-looking forward to having lunch tomorrow with a friend
-the smell of fresh-cut grass
-the fun memory of playing with Trev and Emma last weekend
-a reminder of my upcoming trip to Oregon and California

Here's the morning seen alternatively:
-I had to get up early to take my car to the shop
-I was in a rush and didn't have long enough in the shower
-I didn't have a ride, so I had to walk over a mile back to my house
-I hadn't eaten, so I decided to stop for an iced coffee at McDonald's.
-They didn't have decaf, so I had to go to Dunkin' Donuts instead.
-My boss needed to switch lunches with me, so the lunch I had planned for today, I had to reschedule for tomorrow.
-The peonies in my office are already past their peak. And I only have tons of them myself because the scent of them is giving everyone else a headache, so they keep giving them to me.
-The coffee hour was weird, and only one person talked to me.
-I mistook the butter for cream cheese in the crappy lighting, and had to scrape it off my bagel, leaving a huge gob on the side of my plate.
-I'm in debt from having to buy the plane ticket for my upcoming trip.

-Both versions are equally true and valid, and most often, I think it's easier for me - for most people- to get stuck in the latter version. Why are we so addicted to discontentment? If anything in life is pointless, it's to spend energy on not enjoying it.

penispam & pellets

I'm sorry! ... but I get such a kick out of these! ;-)
Here's the latest:

Subj: Your weenie will thank you
-If you can't persuade ur girl that she deserves only your tiny size, so, never mind, just try out our wonderful pellet and you'll show your girlfriend a REAL SIZE!

thought of the day

Tailgating is dangerous, particularly if you're behind a tanker truck full of liquid nitrogen.

have you ever stroked your diaper genie?

If I were granted 3 wishes, I would use them thusly:
1) world peace
2) 10 million dollars
3) that actors portraying drivers would stop taking their eyes off the road in front of them and staring at their passengers for prolonged periods of time. --It's just too nerve-wracking! In fact, I find it much more suspenseful than scenes of defenseless women being creeped-up-upon by shadowy figures with gleaming knives.

Although, on second thought, I'd use wish #2 to wish for 100 wishes. (This is actually a decision I reached very early in life, after hearing countless stories of people who were granted only 3 wishes and who completely botched them up in really annoying ways, despite plenty of clear&obvious warning signs. I mean, geez!)

motherhood

I've noticed that mothers have a peculiar ability to talk, you know, just sort of on and on, randomly about stuff, and to about six different people about different stuff, at the same time, even while performing a task, like, shopping at the grocery store.

I could never figure out if it was that motherhood had somehow turned them chatty, or if only chatty people become mothers. Either way, I think I'm doomed; I just can't talk like that; it makes the muscles in my face tired. How do they do it?!

"So I was saying to her, wouldn't you prefer to... Hey, watch your fingers, honey, that's sharp... have a larger party, and we could, ...excuse me, does this come in a larger size? ...you know, bring some salads, or something, if they had the... Honey, you have GOT to stop pulling on that... if they provided the hamburgers and hotdogs... oh, thanks, they're in aisle 8? ...Hello? Yes, hon, we're just getting the last thing and we'll be home in... excuse me, the guy at the meat counter told me there were more of these in aisle 8? Thanks... home in just a few minutes, so if you could start the grill... SARAH FOR THE LAST TIME WOULD YOU PUT THAT DOWN... ok, love you hon, bye... but then... no, Sarah, we're NOT buying that today... she forgot to get the meat, and so all we had to eat was salad!"

the joys of friendship with Joel ;-)

Me: "Joel, I have something to tell you, but I can't remember right now; call me at work later!"
------
Joel: "Hey, so what did you want?"
Me: "Sorry, I have absolutely no idea."
Joel: "Still?!?! ...You know, I think it's entirely possible that when you one day do get Alzheimer's, no one will notice."

I'll take two! -more penis frenzy

"With Penis Enlarge Patch even a sleeve from your shirt will be too short to cover your penis."

WOW! Think of the possibilities! Great for outdoorsmen; doubles as a belt, AND, when stiff, makes a handy brace for breaks and sprains!

midnight madness

I saw the funniest thing while I was out walking tonight-

I was rounding a corner, and came across a group of about fifteen macho-looking guys on motorcycles, stuck en masse at an empty intersection. They had obviously been waiting for a green light for some time, and as I approached, I could see it was slowly dawning on them that in blithely sailing past the “Stop Here For Red Light” sign, they had also overshot the trip sensor for the traffic light by about 20 feet.

So now they were, all of them, performing a sort of chaotic dance in the darkness, craning their white-helmeted heads over and looking back and forth at the ground in confusion, trying to see where the lines lay buried in the black pavement. And then one by one, hesitantly, and somewhat clumsily (it had just stopped raining), they pushed their bikes backwards until they were over the grid, attempting to reach the critical mass of motorcycle metal necessary to trip the sensor, looking up hopefully from time to time at the still-red light.

I couldn’t help laughing; they were so darned cute!

such an odd thing to find oneself written down by someone else

(this is, paradoxically, the most personal thing I have posted, to date)

"Once, many years ago, there was a child of nine who loved Walter Milligan. One Saturday morning she was walking in the neighborhood of her school. She walked and thought, 'The plain fact is – as I have heard so many times—that in several years’ time I will not love Walter Milligan. I will very probably marry someone else. I will be untrue; I will forget Walter Milligan.'

Deeply, unforgettably, she thought that if what they said about Walter Milligan was true, then the rest went with it: that she would one day like her sister, and that she would be glad she had taken piano lessons. She was standing at the curb, waiting for the light to change. It was all she could do to remember not to get run over, so she would live to betray herself. For a series of connected notions presented themselves: if all these passions of mine be overturned, then what will become of me? Then what am I now?

She seemed real enough to herself, willful and conscious, but she had to consider the possibility – the likelihood, even – that she was a short-lived phenomenon, a fierce, vanishing thing like a hard shower, or a transitional form like a tadpole or winter bud – not the thing in itself, but a running start on the thing – and that she was being borne helplessly and against all her wishes to suicide; to the certain loss of self and all she held dear. Herself and all that she held dear – this particular combination of love for Walter Milligan, hatred of sister and piano lessons, etc. – would vanish, destroyed against her wishes by her own hand.

When she changed, where will that other person have gone? Could anyone keep her alive, this person here on the street, and her passions? Will the unthinkable adult that she would become remember her? Will she think she is stupid? Will she laugh at her?

She was a willful one, and she made a vow. The light changed; she crossed the street and set off up the sloping sidewalk by the school. I must be loyal, for no one else is. If this is the system, than I will buck it. I will until I die ride my bike and walk along these very streets, where I belong. I will until I die love Walter Milligan and hate my sister and read and walk in the woods. And I will never, not I, sit and drink and smoke and do nothing but talk.

Foremost in her vow was this: that she would remember the vow itself. She woke to her surroundings; it was cold. Even walking so fiercely uphill, she was cold, and illuminated by a powerful energy. To her left was the stone elementary school, deserted on Saturday. Across the street was s dark row of houses, stone and brick, with their pillared porches. The porch floors were painted red or gray or green. This was not her own neighborhood, but it was her turf. She pushed uphill to the next corner. She committed to memory the look of that block, that neighborhood: the familiar cracked sidewalk, how pale it was, how sand collected in its cracks; the sycamores; the muffled sky."

-from Teaching a Stone to Talk - Annie Dillard

grrr

There is nothing better for putting me in a really bad mood [read: dark and stewing and evil and depressive] than the following: a nap, watching tv during the day, or going to a matinee. It's a physical/chemical reaction of forcing my body to remain inert, when it should be running around and getting stuff accomplished.

Earlier today, I allowed myself to be talked into going to a matinee. I knew what the effect would be, but as I explained this to my friend, I began to feel that I was being silly and inflexible. So I went to the matinee.

Please remind me never to do that again.

Here's how it should go: If I say "I'm going to a matinee", you will say "No, you aren't."

more exciting plant trivia

In the summer, my plants drink 7 ½ gallons of water a week!
(In the winter, it’s about half that amount.)

One would assume that my upper body strength would be pretty good, after lugging all those gallons all over my apartment all year.

But one would be wrong.

safety pins, anyone?

I'm wearing a new shirt today; it buttons down the front.

Fifteen minutes after arriving at work this morning, I found out that the shirt apparently prefers to be unbuttoned down the front.

(PS - by that, I of course mean that the shirt, all-on-its-own, continually reverts to a state of unbuttonedness; I do NOT mean to intimate that I've been making out with someone in the back room.)

(Although that latter scenario would be preferable to the actual one)

and thankfully I'm still young enough to be able to see the darned things

Being a plant owner isn't all fun and games. Sometimes you have to pull cactus spines out of your arms before breakfast.

upstate NY marketing strategies

I drove by a gas station this morning that had a sandwich-board sign out front. The sign said "We Now Have GAS!" in a very awe-struck, enthusiastic lettering.

Given that I was in Oneonta, I half-expected to see a similar sign in front of the dental office; "We Now Have Dentists!"

we accept Monopoly bills and bottle caps only

I passed a house this weekend that had a bunch of stuff spread on blankets in the yard, and a large sign which proclaimed that they were having a "FREE SALE".

ummm... any chance they've got any scalpels left?

Speakinabillboards, a new one has appeared on Route 7, just outside Oneonta. I get chills up my spine every time I see it, although I assume (?!?!) it's supposed to sound comforting. It's promoting a New Cancer Treatment:

CYBERKNIFE!

...Out of all the words they could have chosen, they picked 'knife'?!

reason # 3,678 that I should stop shopping at Wal-Mart

For a number of years, I've been enamored of taking my own reusable bags with me when I go shopping, thus reducing the number of plastic grocery bags in the universe (or, in my kitchen, at least). Consequently, when Hannaford (our local supermarket chain) came out with a very cool and convenient design of reusable shopping bag, I bought a whole bunch of them.

I have been completely satisfied with the bags, their ease of handling, their capacious size, their color (purple!), and I have used them without any problem at many stores all over the east coast, with one exception: Wal-Mart. They seem to throw Wal-Mart employees for a loop.

This is how it goes:
At the Wal-Mart checkout line, I place the bag (as I do at every other store), open, face up, on top of whatever I'm purchasing, with the HANNAFORD logo set facing the cashier and displayed prominently, so that the cashier will realize that the bag is mine and that I want them to pack my stuff in it.

The Wal-Mart cashier (and by that I mean EVERY Wal-Mart cashier, to date) then picks up the bag, looks intently at the HANNAFORD logo on the front of the bag, flips the bag over, looks intently at the HANNAFORD label on the other side, squints at me, looks back at front of the bag, wrinkles up his/her forehead, squints at me again, and says "Where'd you find this? There's no price on it."

fighting & fantasy: PE in the 21st century

Athletics just asked me to credit a student $50 for returning a pair of "Under Armour Tights".

sweeter than wine

I was recently surprised to see Jesus in my hot chocolate.

hmmm...

Sometimes it seems [from my vantage point] like every loan account I delve into during my workday is inevitably delinquent. So, could I say that these loans are delinquent by default?

golden state syndrome

I'm still enough of a California girl that when I see an orange lying on the street in Oneonta, my inital assumption is that it must have come from a nearby tree.

proof, in case any was necessary, of my complete and utter insanity

I just had such an odd experience that I feel compelled to write about it. (Though I'm assuming that what people will likely find odd is not the experience itself, but the whole context of my emotional attachment to a hunk of metal.)

Regardless.

I just donated my old car to PBS [actually, WGBH Boston] [and not THE old car; NOT The Cow] - no, my second old car, the one given to me four years ago by family friends, the one that needed a new windshield before I could drive it; the one that sat in Joel's driveway for months until I stopped pretending to my insurance company that I was still living in California, and was able to register it in NY; the one I at first resented because I felt forced by its free-ness and relative newness to accept it from these people and start driving it instead of The Cow; the one I drove with Peter and Sylvie to Kurt's wedding with Helmut's five sex-tents in the back; the one I drove to Mark and Janice's wedding and the brakes failed and I had to have them put in new brake lines right there in NJ, which then failed again when I got it back to NY, but I got them fixed again, but they failed again just after I'd completed a harrowing snowy journey to Jamie and Cheryl's, but I got them fixed the next day in PA, and drove back to NY, but then they failed again, but FINALLY stayed fixed, just in time for me to decide it was really time for me to buy a new(er) car, but of course just before I did that, the car decided it really needed a tune-up as well.

Anyway, this is the car I donated to PBS.

Despite what you might imagine, over the four years of constant repair, I had developed a real affection for the car, and I was having a terrible time giving it up; I was surprised by how terrible it was. But I finally made the decision, had my dad mail in the title (I just couldn't bring myself to do it), and they scheduled pickup for... well, that's the thing. The woman called on Tuesday and said they would pick it up "in the next day or two." And I didn't have to be there. That was good; I didn't want to stress out some tow truck driver by sobbing all over him.

So yesterday morning, I said my final farewells to the car, I took some photos. I drove off to work. I specifically did not go home for lunch, for fear of meeting up with the tow truck and having to witness the horrible and tragic last scene of the car receding from sight.

When I got home from work, I was almost scared to look in the driveway, but of course the car was still there. I felt almost... let down, somehow; it was all somewhat anti-climactic, but I was glad I had a chance to see it one last time.

This morning, I said goodbye for good, since I knew it had to happen today. Again, I didn't go home for lunch.

But when I got home from work at 6pm, there it was, still in the driveway. I cursed the PBS people for putting me through so much emotional trauma. I began wondering if they had misplaced my paperwork and had forgotten about the pickup altogether. I was dreading having to call them about it. Thankfully, I had a whole list of distracting stuff to do, which I did, and then I left the house again and drove out to the train yards and went for a walk, after which I went directly to my storage unit to pick up some camping equipment for this weekend.

And so here's where the strange experience starts: I knew, rationally, that the work day was long over, and that the car would most likely be picked up tomorrow; I mean, it had been almost 7pm when I'd left for the walk, and was now heading on towards 8. But as I was leaving the storage unit, I had this sudden feeling of freeness, of lightness, somehow. And a very specific sense of being (as it were) one car less. It felt exactly like when my cat died, and I had felt her energy slowly dissipating until I knew she wasn't in her body anymore. A feeling of something being finally over, finished. With the mixed relief and sadness that always comes with that.

I felt all this very strongly, and then I told myself that I was totally nuts, because of course the car had been in my driveway 45 minutes earlier when I'd left the house, and was obviously still in my driveway, and in fact might never (at the rate things were going) be picked up by any tow company ever.

Anyway, I drove home, and turned into the driveway... and saw that the car was gone.

random thoughts

Two things I've added to myself since the age of 24:
cynicism
a sense of humor

...you know, it's, like, buying accessories for your camera. Sometimes they cost more than you expected.

But, no, no, on second thought, the cynicism has been there since the beginning.

When I was in second or third grade, my school showed two informational films to the whole student body; one on the evils of smoking; the other on pollution and the effects of overpopulation/development in natural areas. The environmental film, I remember, had some very upsetting shots of wetland nesting grounds with bulldozer tracks running through them; they first showed you the birds nesting happily among the reeds and cattails, and then the same location a week later, plowed flat, with just a few tell-tale feathers to speak to the fate of the chicks.

On the way back up to the classroom, I said to our student teacher, "now if that won't make you start smoking, I don't know what will!" She looked at me blankly; I knew she didn't get what I was saying.
I remember this experience particularly, because it was when I started noticing that things I said were often misinterpreted by grownups, and even peers. I'd get a lot of those blank looks, or (worse) weird looks.

Makes you stop talking at all, eventually.
In fact, I really believe that most shyness develops when people start to feel that anything they say or do will inevitably be misunderstood. [I just made that up, but it feels right.]

Me? I watch Medium.

Hey, I just got this link in an email from one of the myriad political/social groups that send me motivational messages all day, every day. If you're in the mood to feel totally shitty about yourself and everything you're not doing to positively change the world, this will help:

http://home.ourfuture.org/tba07/maria-leavey-vote.html

(as the suit guy says, "I guarantee it!")

d is for day

There is one thing that pushes my buttons even more than drunk college students, and that is our generally apathetic response to the climate crisis. (And by 'our' I'm talking both about government(s), and all us lucky residents of this planet earth.)

I've done pretty much everything on the little checklist some office or other sent me awhile ago; I use compact fluorescent light bulbs and I bought a more fuel-efficient car. I recycle. I've written to politicians. The only thing I avoided doing was installing energy-efficient windows in my apartment; I wasn't sure my landlord would be very happy with that. Yeah, I've mushed my life around a bit, made a few changes, but I admit I don't think about the impending crisis every day, I haven't made huge strides to ensure that it doesn't happen; I'm not on a crusade.

Maybe I should be. I think we all should be.

Al Gore told us that we still have time to avert disaster. I hope he was right. I hope he's still right. I worry, though. We don't have Gandhi anymore, to fast in protest and get us all motivated; in fact I don't see anyone fasting. On the contrary, we're all getting fatter.

[Will obesity or global warming finally put an end to our society? -New Episode airs October 22nd!]

Damn those cliffhanger season finales!

When I was in Plymouth, MA last (last) weekend (and yes, I used gas to get there), my mom and I noticed that most of the beach-front property was for sale. I commented on it; it seemed odd. She told me about someone she knows who recently sold their beachfront property as well. But not because they wanted to relocate; no, they sold it so that they don't lose money on the property, you know, when the sea level rises the projected 12 feet or so and covers it.

There was something about that whole scenario that made me want to scream and bite. The bland assumption that the rising sea level is a foregone conclusion; the money-grubbing; the I'm-looking-out-for-me-and-the-rest-of-you-can-burn-in-hell attitude. Because it's exactly that mentality that's gotten us into this mess, and perpetuating it is not going to get us out. How can people not see that?! As things are going right now, we're ALL scheduled to burn in hell.

It all reminds me of Eddie Izzard's portrayal of kids eating chocolate at Easter while their parents try to instill in them a sense of the meaning behind the observance: The parents say "Remember, kids, Jesus died for your sins." And the kids [concentrating on the chocolate] say "Yeah, I know, it's great!" The parent, shocked, says, "No, no, it's bad!" And the kid (still eating) says "Yeah, it's bad, it's terrible. Whatever you want. Just keep giving me these eggs!"

Global warming? Yeah, it's terrible. Now pass me the lasagna.

And yeah, it's human nature. Sure. But it just ain't gonna cut it this time around.

So, are we going to make real sacrifices? HelloooooooooooooooOOOOOooooo?! Helloooooo out there! Are we ready to take a stand for ourselves and our planet? Is our government going to get off its ass and help us out? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

As that famous guy once said, "We must all hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately."

driving while delusional

The trip from Oneonta to my friends' house in New Jersey always makes me feel a bit schizophrenic. I begin to imagine that maybe I'm really still in California.

The fact of visiting them puts me in the mindset, for starters, since we all lived together out there. I can legitimately yell "I'M COMIN', C-KO!!" [our original moving-west mantra; Mark and Kurt and I would periodically shout it during our cross-country journey in an effort to telepathically reassure Mark's cat (who was already there) that we were on our way.] [Yeah, the explanation took longer than the joke; I shoulda left it out. Oh well.] [Next time I will annoy you by simply saying "inside joke" and not explaining anything, I promise.]

...And then there's the thing of taking Route 17 to I-85... no, I mean I-87, of course... then driving south in the dark on an 8-lane highway with trees and hills on my right, city lights on the left; I'm on 280! ... No, no, wait, it's 287. But I think I can almost see Colma! And now I'm looking for the exit to Highway 101... oh no, I mean 202.

Then I start passing signs for Oakland. Skyline. Sand Hill Road. Fair Oaks. What the hell is going on?! And is that really, can it possibly be, the very same Interstate 80 that crosses the Bay Bridge? It is! [Dear Readers, that is one of the oddest things about our interstate highway system; I still can't get my mind around it. It's like the yellow brick road; if I take that Del Water Gap exit (apparently the most spanish-sounding name that New Jersey can muster, but, hey, at least they're trying!) onto I-80, and I drive for awhile ('just minutes!', as Jamie might say), I will eventually find myself in San Francisco! It's too weird.]

And there you have it. The NJ-CA mindgame. It's fun! You should try it sometime.

spring

I sent a donation to the National Arbor Foundation a few weeks ago. As a thank-you gift, they promised to send me ten live trees.

I wasn't sure how they were going to manage that; I imagined a large tractor-trailer pulling up in front of my house; men wearing thick canvas gloves, covered with dirt, pounding on my front door and saying "So where d'ya want 'em, lady?"

Instead, I got a thin, 2 ½ -foot-long white plastic envelope in the mail. I opened it. There were some sticks inside, with roots; just a few roots, covered in that kind of weird absorbent jelly you find inside baby diapers if you slice them open. The sticks looked totally dead.

Trying to feel hopeful, I put them in some dirt. I watered the dirt. I looked at the sticks. Nothing happened. I thought sadly about the loss of life; the last, awful, fatal trip of these tender saplings, their final surrender to the rough handling of the US postal system. I lined the pots up on the kitchen floor, and went to do some errands.

Yesterday, I glanced at the sticks again. To my amazement, there were little green leaves sprouting out of the sticks! They’re really growing, my ten little trees!

Of course, the same miracle has been going on outside my apartment for the last couple of weeks. And I still marvel at it every spring; watching the leaves come out is always an incredible experience. But I’ve also come to expect it. It’s an expected miracle.

There was something extra-astounding about the miracle going on inside my apartment. I hadn’t expected it. I thought I knew the scoop; I thought I had it all figured out. I had conceded to the inevitability of death. But life surprised me, yet again.

It’s a good thing to find that I can’t always predict how things will turn out. And to be reminded that even when things appear hopeless, there’s still a chance for a happy ending.

what the...?!?!

...in a fit of desperation, I pulled up Match.com and looked at some of the available dates in my area. And I swear to you, I swear on... whatever it is people usually swear on... that every single man on every single page of the 16 pages of men that came up; every single* man is looking for a woman who is turned on by thunderstorms! And, unbelievably, there was not one mention of romantic walks on the beach. Is it real? Is it fate? Is it possible that I have 256 perfect matches in the small city of Oneonta?!

I'm overwhelmed. I think I need some air.



(* this was not intentional, but worked out pretty well, as every single man is also, of course, single!)
(and that is the last time I'm going to use that word for at least a month.)

election blues

Not to get onto a negative roll, but I gotta say that I like this Romney guy even less than I like harp music. A lot less. In fact, I’d feel better about the whole thing if he stopped trying to run for president, and put his energies towards learning how to play an instrument. The harp, for instance.

They say the Democrats don’t like him. That makes sense. I’m a democrat. I don’t like him.

They say that the evangelical Christians don’t like him either. Interesting.

(I can hear Rob saying, as is his wont, “Evangelical Christians? Some of my best friends are evangelical Christians!”)

I’ll be fascinated to see how this all plays out. If things get serious, will we suddenly have a Liberal Democrat-Conservative Christian alliance? Will the democrats start passing out flyers about Christian salvation in an effort to help more republicans see the light? To what lengths will people go to keep Mitt Romney out of office?

…Tune in next year; you might hear Rob say, “George W. Bush? Some of my best friends are George W. Bush!”

some early morning thoughts

1) Traveling is expansive. Traveling is expensive.
2) I'm glad my toes aren't permanently contorted from wearing tight shoes.
3) Those construction workers should have moved that fire extinguisher before stacking a 9-foot-high pile of wooden pallets in front of its housing.

harping on harps

Sadly, I'm forced to conclude that I don't really like harp music very much. The instrument itself is really cool, and must be hellishly difficult to play and transport. (!) So those aspects redeem it slightly, but for the most part the sound is just too goopily sweet. Lacks backbone.

Although I'm sure it would sound better if I were getting a massage. Or if I were living the last scene of a romantic B-movie, holding hands with my lover at the front of a sailboat, looking out over the waves at our future together, the wind flowing through our hair, sunset in the distance. But I'm not getting a massage, nor am I on a sailboat. I'm at work, and I'm on the phone, holding for the next available representative. Damn.

(re)commendation

This weekend I had a chance to 'read' Miriam Engelberg's incredibly honest, right-on, eye-opening and absolutely hilarious graphic novel, Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person. I would recommend it to anyone with any interest in the subject, and/or with an interest in human nature. In fact, I'll go so far as to suggest it as a good choice even for those of us who don't plan to have cancer.

a windshield romance

I've noticed recently (and not-so-recently, come to think of it; yep, for awhile now) a number of ads and commercials that don't make much sense. I either can’t figure out what they’re selling, or their message is completely random, and seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with what they’re trying to promote. These ads leave you with a ‘...huh?!’ kind of feeling. You turn to the person next to you and raise your eyebrows, and they turn to you, looking equally puzzled. (And then, ideally, you both burst into laughter, and talk the whole thing over for the next few minutes. Ad-bonding, I call it.)

-Then there are the commercials that are just hopelessly ridiculous, or have some bizarre element; they’re simultaneously hilarious and revolting. You writhe internally at the prospect of ever having to sit through them a second time, and yet you find yourself, uncontrollably, looking forward to the next viewing, because they’re just… so… compellingly awful. I’ve noticed that commercials in this category usually have to do with 1) local car sales, 2) local law offices, or 3) local mattress and furniture outlets.

Anyway, this is all a lead-in so I can tell you about the billboard I saw today on my drive over to Massachusetts. It read:

PAYLESS AUTO GLASS
Our place… OR YOURS?

savings schmavings! I'll lend ya a 20!

Our office just received notification from our bank of a transfer of funds from a parent's New York 529 College Saving Plan to cover tuition charges on their student's account. The amount transferred was $17.00.

I presume that I will soon be asked by our receptionist to explain to this parent why their account still has a balance due, and for once it'll be easy! I can simply point out that their last payment was three zeros short.

healthy kids, healthy lawns

I just saw a TV commercial that concerned me greatly. Bayer, the trusted aspirin manufacturer, is now advertising their newest product: 24-hour Grub Killer Plus! I had to shut my eyes for a minute and look again. Yes, folks, it’s true! The Bayer graphic design team has produced a brightly-colored box for their delightful Grub Killer, complete with a prominent display of the Bayer aspirin logo to help create favorable associations in the mind of the viewer, and to ensure the continuation of our brand loyalty.

I regret to inform the Bayer graphic design team that their plan has been unsuccessful.

And I sincerely hope that the two products are not manufactured in the same facility. If factories cannot keep nut debris out of non-nut food products, to the end that they have to post warnings on their packaging alerting those with allergies that the deceptively innocent-looking canned pineapple they’re about to bite into may contain enough traces of peanut to send them into anaphylactic shock… I shudder to think about the possible cross-pollination scenario with these two products. So the next time you buy aspirin, make sure you read the fine print on the box. If there is any mention of grubs, or fire ants, or anything even remotely related to garden care, don’t think twice. Switch to Advil.

childhood

My grandmother had a round, blue flowered box labeled “Dusting Powder”. If you slowly lifted the lid, inside you would find a large puff; satin on one side, soft fur on the other, sitting lightly on top of a large amount of white powder. The powder smelled really good, and if you picked up the puff slightly and let it drop, a small, tantalizingly-scented cloud would rise and tickle your nostrils. It was a wonderful treat for the senses. What I never understood, however, was why anyone would want to use such a thing on furniture.

the upside of the downside of imagination

I came to the conclusion a number of years ago that worrywarts make the best defensive drivers (knock on wood), because we’re always imagining lots of horrible things that might occur, and trying to prepare for them. And when you’re in a car, the number of horrible situations that might occur at any moment is higher than pretty much anywhere else [except perhaps if you’re hiking that slippery rock trail to the deadly waterfall overlook in Yosemite]. But driving… driving is the ultimate high for worrywarts; just think of all the nightmarish things that can put their little grisly hands on you while you’re in a car… just think!

Good! I'm glad you're with me on that.

mi casa es su casa

Much of the time I live (as I think most people do) focused on work, or on friends, or on deciding what I need to pick up at the grocery store tonight so that I’ll have all the necessary ingredients to make that soup for dinner tomorrow.

But sometimes (and more and more often the older I get), the world seems to invert in my mind; all its assumptions and consistencies overturned. And then, for a short time, even the most mundane of daily things seems suddenly strange and wondrous.

I just experienced one of those turn-overs. I was lying on the couch, watching the cat lick his paws, watching his ears go back as he heard a car go by on the street; seeing his pupils narrow and his posture stiffen ever-so-slightly. And I thought – how bizarre that I share my life with an animal. An animal; a small thing with claws and fur and a rough tongue and a non-human brain, no ability to speak a language; a wild thing. There is a wild thing living in my apartment! Why is he here? And what does he make of it? Why is he so complacent? Doesn’t he find it strange to live high in the air, on the second floor, and have his food come in uniformly-shaped pellets? Doesn’t he think it odd to look out on houses and cars instead of jungle or forest? To hear church bells ring every hour? Has he memorized all of the Christian hymns they play?

And then… suddenly it seemed even stranger that I should be human, living in a humanly-constructed box, surrounded by humanly-constructed things. Not living outside with the trees, like all the other beings on this planet. I mean, it’s a simple thought, but doesn’t it ever strike you as odd that we live in houses? Or, maybe what I mean is, doesn’t it strike you as incredible that other animals don’t?! I was in New Jersey visiting Mark and Janice, watching these huge turkey vultures circle over their house and thinking – wow, those enormous birds just live out here! They’re not in a zoo, they don’t belong to the neighbors, they’re not on loan by the Chinese government as part of an educational exchange*; they actually live out here, in these trees! And when it rains, and snows – they’re just out there. They don’t ever go home and turn up the thermostat and take a nice hot shower and throw their sopping clothes in the dryer. They don’t pay rent, or property tax. They don’t own dishes, or clothing, or have boxes of Christmas ornaments stashed away in cupboards. They’re completely comfortable being just themselves, with no possessions but their own bodies, sitting out in the weather, all day and all night, every moment of their lives. Isn’t that the strangest and most amazing thing you’ve ever heard of?

*That (I can't refrain from pointing out) is an obscure reference to one of my all-time-favorite movies, One of Our Dinosaurs is Missing. !!!
(Who could resist a movie with the tagline "A Funky Fossil Frolic"?!)

in the obscurity

I have decided on a new rule: I am no longer allowed to post to this blog while I'm sick. My entries end up being way too dark.

psycho(logy)

There is a song written by Sting whose lyrics I often feel are very... applicable:

I've spent too many years at war with myself;
the doctor has told me it's no good for my health-
To search for perfection is all very well,
but to look for heaven is to live here in hell.

a long-winded Post-(Post)-Script

My post below (admittedly kinda over-the-top, even for me) is making me think about the nature of hatred, and fear, and intolerance, and racism, and all of the other negative -isms.

Some thoughts:

1) I can thank those generations of students for my healthy liver function and relative lack of facial wrinkles.

2) When one particular group of people has caused problems for you over the course of many years (or, as in the case of the Middle East, since the beginning of recorded time), it becomes easy to understand how hatred and misunderstanding can arise, and become cemented into a culture, or into a person's heart. And it's difficult (as that person) to not want to retaliate. I certainly retaliated against those students; in elementary school, I spent hours cleaning student-generated garbage off my street, and dumping it in piles on their porches. I felt bad about it, but I thought (in my elementary-school-aged logic) that it was what they deserved, and that it might teach them a lesson, get them to think about what they were doing. Of course, it probably just pissed them off, and made them more likely to deliberately throw their beer cans on the ground. Vengeance (as much as I love that movie) does not help anyone, and indeed only succeeds in widening the gaps between people.

3) In the same vein, I’ve found that approaching someone in anger [about a problem], or even with the self-righteous intention of ‘teaching them a lesson’ or 'helping them to be more self-aware', is much less productive than approaching them in love, and also ends up feeling pretty crappy. At first, there's a sense of exhilaration; the relief of having gotten something off your chest. But then (for me, at least) it quickly sours, often becoming a feeling of embarrassment at having exposed my own negative emotions and lack of control so publicly. And it usually makes the other person feel pretty crappy about themselves too, and often defensive or hurt (and therefore completely closed to the possibility of having any kind of personal revelation or positive learning experience).

Here endeth… today's sequence of fever-induced thoughts.

seeing red

My boss is taking a vacation day, so I'm at work, despite the fact that I feel like total crap, have a fever and chills and wish I could just be home in bed.

So, I will comfort myself by rambling randomly along on my blog….

I recently had an annual physical with a new primary care physician, and she asked me a ton of questions about my health and my history... routine fare, of course, but as I was answering 'no' to all her questions, I found myself thinking again about why it is that I've never once been tempted to try drugs or cigarettes, why I don't find stories about the antics of drunk people very funny, why I feel uncomfortable in bars. Through the years, there have been people who have concluded that I must have a prudish, puritanical conscience that won't allow me to 'let go' and 'have fun'. But really, my dislike of all things druggy stems from the fact that I was brought up in a 'drinking' college town, and that I developed, at a very early age, a hatred (and I don't use that word lightly) towards out-of-control college students and all that they stood for. And this, of course, includes all substances, legal and otherwise.

The students wander around Oneonta in packs every evening when the weather is good (every weekend when it's not), breaking off the tops of our picket fences, having loud arguments at 2am that wake up the whole street, walking through everyone’s yards, trampling flower beds in their drunken urgency to get from one party to the next. They throw down cigarette butts everywhere, leave empty plastic beer cups and bottles on your lawn, smash empty gin bottles on the sidewalk. Furthermore, they do unconscionable things like adopting kittens in September, keeping them for the academic year, and then putting them out on the street when they leave to go home in May, having no more use for them.

And the worst part, from my perspective growing up, is that they were old enough to know better. I was six, and I knew better. I could not understand why anyone 3 times my age would know less than me, and why there would be so many of them; more and more every year, and none of them ever learning from their mistakes; none of them ever maturing. (That’s the sad thing of living in a college town; you’re constantly stuck with people at the same maturity level; the students never get older; you never get to see them become mature adults; all you get is a fresh crop of headaches with every incoming class). And it was confusing, because I’d met many of them in person, and I could see that they were decent people at the core, so I concluded that their drinking and partying must have literally caused them to lose their minds, to lose all sense of who they were and what they believed in; I couldn’t think of any other explanation for what I witnessed on the streets at night.

And oh, how I hated everything they did! I hated it when they stole my Big Wheel; I hated it when they took my brother’s stroller and we found it a week later, mangled, and hanging on a street sign four blocks away. I hated it when they cornered my siblings in the park and threw snowballs at them until they were screaming and crying for help. I still hate it, even now, when they keep my father, who gave 31 years of his life to teaching and counseling them, from being able to sleep, night after night as spring creeps towards summer, because they’re standing on the street outside his window yelling and arguing with each other.

...And it made me even sadder when I met my neighbor on the sidewalk last week; she was kneeling on the ground, using a power drill to repair her fence; she gestured at the new boards, and then over at a For Sale sign on the lawn, and said "These damn students, they break my fence every weekend, and I just can't take it anymore. We're getting out!" It's just too bad.

Anyway, I vowed to myself, at the age of six, that I would never ever EVER let myself be ANYTHING like any of those students; that I would never let myself lose sight of my real, serious Self and become a rampaging, irresponsible, [drunk], lunatic 'college student'; not even for one minute. And, to date, I’ve kept that vow.

(I will leave for a subsequent entry my discourse on the irony of what I do for a living.)

second question of the week

(prompted by the first question of the week)
...and what is up with the "known as Best Foods west of the Rockies" thing on mayonnaise?

East: Hellman's / West: Best Foods
East: McCormick / West: Schilling
East: Edy's / West: Dreyer's

There must be more, too, that I've forgotten or am not aware of. But it's weird.

question of the week

why do they sell real mayonnaise in plastic jars, and fat-free miracle whip in glass jars?

Thursday afternoon

In between posting Perkins loan deferments and requesting refunds for overpaid accounts, I went to the back room to re-heat my morning coffee (yes, I drink about one cup a day... all day) and poke around for any goodies that might have been left back there by some generous officemate, for general consumption by anyone looking for a snack. (Here I must confess that I'm more likely to deplete the supplies of said goodies than to contribute to them, but... people put up with me anyway because I'm nice to work with.)

...So it was with joy that I spotted a plastic take-out container filled with cookies, sitting on top of the Accounts Payable file cabinet. The cookies were of the pseudo-shortbread variety, made cheaply with some sort of lardish shortening rather than butter, extruded through some torturous device so as to form attractive potato-chippy ridges along their lengths, and finally dipped in colorful sprinkles that (from the way they left a greasy film on the roof of my mouth) were obviously more wax than chocolate. I am, however, not above eating such disgusting things, provided they contain a certain amount of sugar; and these cookies did. In fact, they also contained a delightful filling of dehydrated, gooey raspberry saucy stuff; so stiff that when I bit down on one side of the cookie, the body of it crumbled into my mouth, leaving a sort of raspberry ledge sticking out of the other half. Yummm... a perfect gross-cookie-eating experience!

But it was the raspberry filling that caused me to pause, and realize suddenly that I have always had a love-hate relationship with raspberries: I love raspberry filling inside cheap greasy cookies, yet I dislike having raspberry sauce dribbled over my cake. I love chocolate truffles with raspberry filling, yet dislike solid chocolate with raspberry flavoring. I love fresh raspberries, but cannot bring myself to eat frozen ones. I long for fresh rolls smothered with butter and raspberry jam, but cannot stand the taste of raspberry jam on muffins. Good on peanut butter sandwiches; bad on scones.

Is it the berry that's fickle? Or is it me?

I know what he means, but... what the hell does he mean?!

In a statement released by the White House, Bush applauded the court's move as a major step toward "building a culture of life in America."

irony

Being a somewhat anxiety-prone personality, I have occasionally contemplated taking anti-anxiety medication. I have, however, hitherto rejected the idea, as the thought of being on any kind of daily medication makes me feel anxious.

pounding the pavement? -politics&pow(d)er

My cousin Sherry just mailed me a newspaper cutting of the following:

Ecuador - July 1967
"During a recent local election campaign in Ecuador, a pharmaceutical firm ran the advertising slogan: 'Vote for the candidate of your choice, but if you want well-being and hygiene, vote for Pulvapies.'
When the votes were counted, the costal town of Picoaza, population 4000, had elected Pulvapies - a foot powder - as mayor, and voters in other municipalities had marked their ballots for the deodorant as well.
The national electoral tribunal is grappling with the problem, and dozens of defeated candidates are threatening to sue the company."

rites of storage

"I used to think that it was buying a house, or having a baby, that would make me feel like an adult", my friend Janice said to me today, "but now I've decided that it's when you realize you need an extra freezer."

my congratulations to Mr. Bush

I generally cannot find anything good to say about our country's current leader. And, as I am a person who enjoys saying good things about people, this fact pains me. It creates a feeling of Lack, of Discontentment, of Perpetual Disappointment, in my daily life.

Therefore, imagine my Bliss and Utter Joy when I opened my datebook earlier this week, and discovered that Our President has finally done something Clever! He created the chance for a Moment of Miraculous Revelation, of Comic Conjunction, in all of our lives!

Which is, of course, that in the little square in my datebook labeled April 1st, I found two smaller entries in green type:

Daylight Savings Time Begins
April Fool's Day

rainy day revelation

I have yet to own a car with a properly-tensioned alternator belt.

musi(c)ngs

I have music playing in my head all the time. Non-stop. Like, almost 24/7, for my whole life. Oftentimes, I sing or hum along to it; whatever happens to be playing at the time. Unfortunately, I've found that this generally annoys people. Especially if I do it while they're trying to tell me all the details about the amazing thing that happened to them yesterday.

It sometimes annoys me too, if I get stuck on a particular song. And even more so if I don't know the whole song, so that just a piece of it loops, over and over, like a record with a skip.

But most of the time, I'm glad for the music. And quite often, it's a source of inspiration and an aid to introspection. I can usually tell that I'm supposed to pay special attention if the song in my head isn't one that I'm really familiar with, isn't one that I have in the living room on a CD, isn't one that was on the radio in the store yesterday afternoon when I was buying yogurt. When I get a song like that, randomly selected by my subconscious, I generally try to stop and listen to the lyrics. They're usually telling me something important.

This morning, and yesterday morning, my mind has been playing a B-52's song that I've only heard a couple of times. It’s repeating like a mantra:
Roam if you want to, roam around the world
Roam if you want to, without wings without wheels
Roam if you want to, roam around the world
Roam if you want to, without anything but the love we feel

on prayers and deadlines

Dear Life,

I have been a member of your organization for 35 years and 10 months. I have attended every meeting, and have always taken diligent notes. I have tried to vote positively on almost every issue, and have encouraged others to do the same.

My concern, however, is that in spite of all my efforts to be an upstanding member and representative of your organization, I still feel largely in-the-dark about the purpose of this group. I don't quite understand its goals, or my role, as a member, in ensuring the achievement of these goals. I would also like some information about my responsibilities, and the level of my own importance, as a member, and some direction on how to get the most out of my membership. Also, please tell me whether my dues are likely to increase if I become more involved in your organization, and if I allow myself to make more regular use of the Member Benefits.

I would be grateful for any assistance you can give me in these matters, and would appreciate a prompt response, as time is short. I have enclosed a self-addressed, stamped envelope for your convenience.

Sincerely,
Kate

the fourth dimension

I was just trying to upload a photo to the internet, and got a warning notice, "Uploading photos that are more than 1,000 KB may take several moments."

And I'm now wondering (while still waiting, 5 minutes later) of what use is their notice, really? Let's think about this... what exactly are they telling me? -That uploading my photo could possibly, but not certainly, take more than two, but less than eight, unspecified amounts of time. ...And what I'd really like to know is, how does one determine that one has finished with the first unspecified period of time, and is on to the next?

They might better have said, "Uploading photos of more than 1,000 KB will take so frickin' long that your mind will begin to contort; you will look up word definitions, and end up writing a blog entry. Afterwards, you will check back on the uploading process, see that nothing has changed, give up, and vow never to use our services again."

new englanders- a brilliant summation! :-)

From Jane Langton's Murder at the Gardner.

"...the rest were Anglo-Saxon Yankees with narrow faces that betrayed their inner convictions. Recognizing the tragic nature of earthly existence, they worked hard against the night that was coming, smiled with all their might, and saved leftover pieces of string."

manufacturing mystery

The question that has not let my mind rest this afternoon: Why, oh why, are there eight Sixlets to a pack?

I desperately needed to know, so I googled it. Only one website addresses this question, and their answer: "...it's rumored that Sixlets are so-named because they used to be sold in packets of 6." (that's a paraphrase, actually, not a quote, but I put it in quotes cause it looks better that way in my sentence.)

So my next question: why the heck would any company completely re-vamp its packaging scheme for a popular, historic candy, so that the name no longer matches the product? Is it some grand Republican conspiracy to finally rid the country of its lower class (those forced by financial restrictions to buy candy labeled "chocolate-flavored") by driving them completely insane? Factory workers, their minds gone wild with the illogic of it all, pulling their hair out in squalid breakrooms, eyes rolling, shouting "SIX? EIGHT? SIX? EIGHT?" in an agony of bewilderment, all their trust in the inherent order of the universe lost forever....

I think next time I'll buy a Snickers.

note to prospective employers:

Interview question that makes me not want to work for you:

"Katherine, can you tell us what is your greatest single accomplishment in life?"

the divinity of auto repair

I was talking with my dad the other night about religion.

I've pretty much decided that the key to the whole thing is in alignment. Being in alignment with the Universe, with God, with your higher self. About approaching everyone and everything with love; not in a mushy, selfish way, but an objective, courageous way. About learning how to read the signs the universe sends you, about living the Truth of each particular moment, about being adaptable and acceptant when that truth changes. About being in tune and in harmony, all the time. Or trying to be, anyway.

Seems like most religions and cultures have the same idea. (Though, in my opinion, many religious groups have largely forgotten these more holistic, spiritual roots and are still getting their feet tangled in humanly-constructed rules and regulations. ...But it’s hard _not_ to screw it up, especially when language is involved. What an inefficient medium for spiritual expression!)

Of course, most days I fail miserably at this ‘alignment’ objective. Seems impossible not to, as a human being, because we’re all insecure and fearful, and often moreso the older we get [and the more we're exposed to Republican-run governments, but that's for another discussion ;-)] It’s hard to be still enough and brave enough, internally, to be able to live in Truth. But it seems to me that one's got to at least strive for it. Don't you think?

and speakinamilk....

Ok, I'm wondering if I'm the only person who's noticed this (can't be).

If you heat milk (or maybe it works cold too; I'll check later) and pour it into a mug, and then stir it, the timbre of the sound that the spoon makes against the side of the mug changes. The more you stir, the deeper it sounds.

This doesn't work with tea, or coffee, or cider, or any other type of beverage one might be tempted to put into a mug.

Whazzup with that?!

will wonders never cease

I found this online this morning:
The Popularity Dialer:
Want to flee that meeting? Get out of lunch after an hour?
Popularity Dialer can place one of five fake calls: the boss call, the cousin-in-need call, the male-friend call, the female-friend call, or the affirmation call (reminding you that you’re wonderful). Each recording includes convenient pauses for your side of the conversation.
http://www.popularitydialer.com/.

My favorite part? The special mention of the convenient pauses. Apparently a big selling point. Puts them a step above the competition!

spamspamsausage&spam

This is both the most absurdly-worded, and the (ouch!) least convincing, sex-enhancement-product email I've gotten yet:

"Penis Patch will not only make your day but also the whole night!"

the reverse-fold path

Trying not to make mistakes is a huge mistake.

fashionable discrimination

bootstraps, coattails, lapels... I have arrived at the conclusion that men have an unfair advantage over women, when it comes to getting their shit together. "She pulled herself up by her lacy padded bra...." just doesn't pack quite the same punch.

quote of the week #3

"I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death."

quote of the week #2

"Pity!" he said, and sighed and paused. "It is always the way of events in this life," he continued presently: "no sooner have you got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose is expired."

quote of the week #1

"Because," he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you -- especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly."

upstate ny

There are different levels of cold in Oneonta; this is how I think of them:
1) first-period gym wet sneakers frosty grass in the shade melting in the sun (September)
2) wood smoke and dry fallen leaves (October)
3) slate-grey-dead/runny nose (November)
4) fresh wet stone dog kiss snow (December)
5) nose-hair-freezing (January)
6) screechy styrofoam snow eek it makes me grit my teeth (February)
7) put on shorts and go to Wilber Park; sit in the warm sun in the corner of the singles-tennis-wall (even though there's still snow on the ground), and pretend it's summer (March)
8) rainy-sunny you can smell the earth again hint of daffodils; cold fingers that smell salty like an old jacket, when you spend the day outside (April)
9) maple buds-smell in the rain run-around-without-a-sweater cool skin (May)
10) warm pavement windy first barbecue; hamburgers! (June)

society

I just received notice of a mandatory office training meeting.

As a result, my Outlook calendar now shows that I have scheduled a session of Sexual Harassment for March 29th at 2pm.

today

this post
clear as toast

as calm and clear as graham crackers in the moonlight

racy-red as a green grape dipped in chocolate

in-out put about

let
me
go!

truth and alliteration

King Cake is better cold.

nature

There should be a word (and perhaps there is) which would convey the idea of two things being simultaneously identical, and completely dichotomous. Wholly connected, and at the same time absolutely discrete. It seems to me that this paradoxical state is the constant for everything (and everyone) in the universe; the basis of all life and human experience. Pretty cool.

The Work/Study filing song:

(to the tune of Rawhide)
(written by me!)
(and inspired by true events!)
(which occurred at Hartwick College)

Filing, filing, filing,
Gotta keep on filing.
Get those students filing,
Archives!
O! Alfred, Lynn and Heather,
Doomchin and Vetter,
Watch out for floods and keep ‘em dry!
All those yellow statements
That we keep in the basement
Of Arnold Hall, in draw-ers so high.

Chorus:
Put ‘em in, take ‘em out,
Take ‘em out, put ‘em in,
Shred ‘em up, tear ‘em up!
Archives!
Stuff ‘em in, mash ‘em down,
Push ‘em in, stuff ‘em in
Pile ‘em up, throw ‘em out!
Archives!

Keep on al-pha-be-tizin’,
Although the stacks are risin’
With paper cuts a’bleedin’
Archives!
You can’t find the right file?
It's prob’ly somewhere in that pile.
Tell your friends you’ll be awhile-
Archives!

reality

When the UPS guy brings his cart down the stairs to the mailroom next door, it makes a hollow BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! , which resounds loudly through the office.

I like to imagine that it's the Mummy of Arnold Hall on his way to visit our basement office, with arms outstretched, feet pounding, trailing dirt and tattered wrappings.... I would hide behind the copier, and pelt him with day-old donut holes. People would scream and run around. It would be lots of fun!

dire

When you find yourself fantasizing about food instead of sex, it's a bad sign.

Chocolate milk chocolate milk chocolate milk

f/m-ood (status: shitty)

So, I’m trying out this 'detox' diet where you eat various stuff on various days to ‘purify’ your system. It lasts 7 days; not long enough to do any harm, right? I thought it would be fun to try, having just gotten back from eating way too much on vacation. Everyone always eats way too much on vacation, and I'm no exception. So, trying out this diet seemed like a good idea at the time. 'The time' being yesterday evening. Not that long ago, really. Fascinating how one's view of things can change so radically overnight.

They tell you you can eat as much as you want of the stuff, but only that stuff on that day. Today is vegetable soup and fruit. I’m hungry, and I want bread and chocolate and bananas, but I can't have bananas. Not today. Today is vegetable soup, and any fruit _but_ bananas. [It really says that! "...and any fruit (except bananas)."] I had vegetable soup for dinner last night, and vegetable soup for lunch today, and goddamnit, the last thing I want for dinner is the fucking vegetable soup. Tomorrow is vegetable soup and vegetables. Thrilling. Then there’s a beef and skim milk day, and a bananas and something day... THEN they let you eat the bananas. Of course, by that day I'll be craving the vegetable soup.

This is day one. We’ll see how far I get.

inevitable

when you own a cat, be prepared to eat fur.

commonplace

I am a really good photographer.

There are lots of really good photographers in the world.

I suppose that with Art, as with humanitarian efforts, one should be able to think globally, and yet still have the determination to act (as it were) locally.

"How many cans must I stack up / to wash you out of my mind, / Out of my consciousness?"

Two more things I find irritating:

-People who don't take things seriously.
-People who take things too seriously. (a sin I often commit)

But in fact, there often isn't much difference between the two. It seems that life needs to be lived in the balance; if you live as though everything were serious, you're not being serious enough about living.

This reminds me of the lyrics in that Soul Coughing song; I'm always amazed by how many people can't tell that the words are switching:

"You know but that you go on...
You know that but you go on...."

the airspeed velocity of a frozen blueberry

CHISAKI WATANABE
Associated Press
TOKYO - A Japanese food company recalled nearly 5 million cans of tuna Friday after a customer found part of a box cutter blade in a can, a company official said. There were no injuries from the blade, company official Kunimitsu Asakura said. The recall followed the disclosure earlier this week that a shotgun pellet had been found in December in a pack of frozen blueberries from Canada sold by Nichiro. Nichiro said on Wednesday that Purewal Blueberry Farm, the Canadian producer of blueberries for Nichiro, prohibits the use of shotguns at its farms to chase away birds, and the pellet may have been a stray shot from a nearby farm. Nichiro said it has no plans to recall its blueberries because there were no other complaints and it was unlikely that the problem would recur.

-Yes, I imagine it _would_ be rather difficult to complain about anything while choking on a shotgun pellet.

humility

Being (for whatever reason) a rather self-effacing sort of person, I've been trying to become better at showing off, but it's hard. Despite my best attempts, life still conspires to keep me humble.

An example:
Last week (in Ecuador) I was faced, unexpectedly, with a stuffed toilet (not of my own stuffing, I might add.) (and so I did) (add it, I mean.)

I was in a rented apartment, and, with one eye on the rising water in the bowl, I looked around wildly for a plunger. Not finding one, I thought to myself, "what is there on hand that's about the right size, and could serve to get some vacuum pressure going in there?" And my brain immediately answered: "a 2-liter soda bottle!"

I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife and an empty Dasani bottle, chopped the top off it, and was back to the bathroom within seconds. I squeezed away at the bottle and was amazed to find that my plan worked perfectly! Almost better than a real plunger!

The excitement over, I went back to the couch to read. When Erin and Victoria walked in a few minutes later, I told them about my inspired emergency action; my amazing 2-liter hack!

They looked bored, and Victoria said "oh yeah, I read about someone doing that in some magazine a couple of months ago."

Oh well. I was disappointed, but soon consoled myself with the thought that at least I wasn't wasting my allotted 15-minutes of fame on a toilet....