Breathe

Wheeee-whaah. Wheeee-whaah.

There's a little boy running around my apartment with a harmonica in his mouth.

Wheeee-whaah. Wheeee-whaah.

I have no idea how he got here, who his parents are, or how to make him settle down.

Wheeee-whaah. Wheeee-whaah.

I'm chasing him around the place, trying to catch him and make him cut it out. He's a fast little monster, and I'm starting to get winded.

Wheeee-whaah. Wheeee-whaah.

Got him! I put one hand on each shoulder and shout, "Stop it!"

He takes the harmonica from his mouth, looks at me with great big innocent eyes, and says:

"Meow."

Wheeee-whaah. Wheeee-whaah.

His face transforms into that of my cat's. She's sitting on the pillow next to my head, looking concerned. And that horrible noise....

Wheeee-whaah. Wheeee-whaah.

Yeah, that one. It's coming from me. Not an asthma attack, not quite, but pretty darn close. Wonderful. It looks like my allergies are demanding some attention. I rummage around in the drawer of my bedside table for my inhaler, take a couple of puffs, and spend the rest of the night trying to sleep sitting up.

--Later--

On my morning break I step outside with my cell phone and call my doctor's office:

"Hi, I need my allergy prescriptions renewed. I know she probably won't do that without a visit..."

"How long as it been since Doctor's seen you?"

"A while. Over a year." Why do nurses and receptionists use the title Doctor like it's a first name? Does that get done in other professions?

"Let me go get your file." She puts me on hold for a moment. I wonder if she could hear the outside noises on my end of the phone when I was speaking. A bus vrooms by as she comes back on the line.

"Wow, you really haven't been here for a while! Your chart wasn't even out front any more."

"Yeah, well, I'm an if-it-ain't-broke kind of girl, and it hasn't been broken for a while."

"How's tomorrow at 2:15?"

I consult the little piece of paper where I wrote all my scheduling conflicts. 2:15 will work.

"That's fine. See you then."

--Later--

The doctor's given me Nasonex samples to see whether I have any success with the drug before I start buying it. She's also refilled my Allegra-D and inhaler prescription, and prescribed a week's worth of cortisone to calm my lungs down. She said the Nasonex takes a couple of weeks before it starts to work, and if I start taking it right away it should be at full strength by the time the steroids wear off.

I'm doing my imitation of a lost soul in the pharmacy waiting area at Wal-Mart. When I handed them everything at 6:45, the woman at the window said it'd take 45 minutes to an hour to fill them. That was an hour and ten minutes ago. I've had dinner, I've gone shopping, I've wandered around aimlessly looking at stuff. I've bumped into acquaintances and gotten caught up. I've spent a good five minutes trying to get a very, very serious-looking Asian baby to give me a smile. She wasn't having any of it. She just looked at me like I was nuts. Her parents seemed to enjoy the attention, and they were trying to get her to smile too. Just as I gave up she looked straight at her Daddy and gave him a big toothless grin. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

That was twenty minutes ago. I am now just really wanting to get my meds and go home, please. At ten after 8 they finally call my name. When I get outside, it is fully dark. The sun wasn't even beginning to set when I walked in. Note to self: try not to fill a prescription on Friday evening ever again.

--Later--

From the information sheet that came with my steroids:

"Psychic derangements may appear when corticosteroids are used, ranging from euphoria, insomnia, mood swings, personality changes, and severe depression, to frank psychotic manifestations. Also, existing emotional instability or psychotic tendencies may be aggravated by corticosteroids."

FanTAStic! Which do I want more, breathing or sanity? If I go nuts, will I notice? How will I be able to tell if I'm not sleeping because of the steroids or I'm not sleeping because I'm worried about the steroids?

The steroids themselves are in this little foil-backed bubble pack with dosing instructions printed on it. I take six the first day at various times during the day, five the next, and so on until the last day when I only take one. You have to wean yourself off 'em. So apparently this stuff is just as dangerous to stop using as it is to start.

--Later--

It's a week later now, just took my last steroid dose on Thursday. Never saw any signs of craziness. The Nasonex appears to have kicked in. I have clear, dry sinuses for the first time all summer.

And, just as I feared would happen, now that the doctor has her hooks in me she wants to do "routine tests" and a general physical. Sigh. I'm going for blood work at the hospital in a week or so, after I'm sure all the steroids have left my system.

But at least I can breathe without sounding like a musical instrument. There's that silver lining.

Operatic Orange

Here's another one that I remember very well. This was very cleverly done.

Mahna-mahna

I just went to check my AOL account. I've been using the university as my ISP for a few months instead of AOL and forgot to check my email at the other account. Whoops. I had 18 messages, most of them from my two old friends from high school.

One of the messages had a link to the above YouTube posting from Sesame Street.

I remember a while back watching some sort of "History of the Muppets" show on TV with my folks. They showed this clip and had the original air date listed at the bottom. I would have been about a year old when it aired. I said to Mom, "I think I remember that, but I can't be right. Look how early that is. And besides, I remember it in black-and-white."

She looked at me for a moment and then said, "That's because we didn't have a color TV until you were three or four."

Mom said she used to sit me in front of the tube in my little rocket seat when Sesame Street came on, hoping I'd absorb some knowledge. Educational children's TV was a pretty new idea when I was an infant. I must have liked it: I spend the whole time pumping my arms and legs.

Well, back to catching up on my email.

Photoshop

I bought myself a copy of Adobe Photoshop Elements as a birthday present. I've been trying to figure out how to use it. The whole "layers" thing has me completely mystified. I think I'm going to have to go out and get one of those "For Dummies" books. I know there's probably all sorts of help available on the web, but I'm kinda old-school. I want to have a book in front of me while I try out what it's telling me to do. I don't want to bounce from window to window on my laptop, and I don't want to work from a print-out if I don't have to. I tend to lose print-outs, anyway.

Through trial and error I have managed to learn a little bit. That band-aid tool is great (Adobe calls it a Spot Healing Brush)--takes out blemishes on people's faces, scratch marks from old scanned-in pictures, probably all sorts of other things I haven't figured out yet. I'm also really partial to the filters, especially the watercolor one. Look what it did to a washed-out, bluish picture of my parents' dog:



Here's the original:



Cool, no? I think I may have to get that printed out (on fancy-schmancy paper, as if it were an actual watercolor) and present it to my Mom and Dad, framed. I suppose there is somewhere that I could do that. Kinkos, maybe?

I realize all this stuff isn't news to anyone who already uses this product, but I'm a newbie and I'm all agog.

My ditter on vacation

IMG_1445
Originally uploaded by daisy04202004

My sister just opened a Flickr account. First thing she loaded onto it were photos from her recent trip to Key West.

I love this one.

Markers

A request for a call number label just came across my desk for the following journal:

Markers: the Annual Journal of the Association for Gravestone Studies

I kid you not. Gravestone studies. I had no idea these people existed. They have a website, a conference, a newsletter, scholarships, all sorts of stuff. They list their mission as: "to foster appreciation of the cultural significance of gravestones and burial grounds through their study and preservation."

Preservation? Are people going around tearing up cemeteries? I'm assuming they mean more than just mowing the lawn once in a while, but what exactly do you preserve in a graveyard? And study? Of what? Burial practices? Styles of stone carving? I know there are people who take rubbings of headstones, but I thought that was more for the family tree. Nope, never occurred to me that a burial ground would need study. I'm intrigued.

Now, this journal is at another campus so I can't flip through it and see what's there. All I have is a filled-out form and some photocopies of the cover and title page. Hmm. I wonder if this is something our local library carries. Apparently the only campus interested in the title is all the way over in York, PA, a longish distance from here.

Now, don't worry. I'm not about to go out and hang around in graveyards. That's my sister's idea of fun, not mine. She chases ghosts.

Q & A -- meme from G

The following is a meme from G, based on the Guardian's questionnaire in the Saturday magazine:

When were you happiest?
I'm not sure I've hit my happiest moment yet. So far, it's been watching my sister get married.

Which living person do you most admire, and why?
Up until a few months ago, I would have said my friend and colleague, Mary, for putting up a 20 year (with time out for remissions) fight with cancer, never losing her sense of humor, and continuing to find joy in the world around her. She died in January. I don't have a new hero yet.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Laziness.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
I can forgive just about anything except deceit.

What was your most embarrassing moment?
You know what? I think I've blocked out all the embarrassing moments. The only one I can think of has to do with some fellow who used to live in my complex. We'd chat at the bus stop and on the bus as we made or way to and from campus. He remembered my name the very first time he heard it, and I could never remember his. He must have told me his name half a dozen times. Finally, one day he gave me both his first and last name and that made it stick. Of course he moved out two weeks later, but now I know his name -- Dan Smith.

Where would you like to live?
Stratford, Ontario.

What would your super power be?
I'd like to be able to fly.

What do you most dislike about your appearance?
I'm overweight.

Would you rather be clever and ugly, or thick and attractive?
No, thank you.

Who would play you in the film of your life?
Helena Bonham Carter. Not that she looks like me or anything, but I believe I could just about sit through watching my life flash before my eyes if she were playing me.

What is your favourite smell?
Springtime rain

What is your favourite book?
My favorite book is whatever I happen to be reading at the moment. If we're going by number of times read, it's a tie between Jane Eyre, Little Women, and Persuasion.

What is your favourite word?
Fünf. It's the German word for "five." I like its sound -- like a pillow fight in progress.

What is the worst thing anyone has said to you?
"I'm not going to marry you. It's not like I'm in love with you."--This from the guy who'd been wasting my time for three years, letting me think he was my boyfriend.

Cat or dog?
I like both, and for the same reason: attitude. Cats because they have so much, and dogs because they don't have any.

What do you owe your parents?
Life, love, my values.

To whom would you most like to say sorry, and why?
To my great-uncle Bill, for not returning what would be the very last phone call he ever made to me.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Managing to make it through last April without spilling blood on the brand-new carpet at work. Kidding! (sort of.) Haven't quite gotten to my greatest achievement yet. I'll keep you posted.

Whom would you invite to your dream dinner party?
Good lord. Would I have to cook, or may I have it catered? I'm assuming the guests can be anyone at all, living or dead: Anne Boleyn, J.K. Rowling, Robin Williams, Oscar Wilde, Zora Neale Hurston, and my mom.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Haven't met him yet.

What does love feel like?
When it's returned: a calm, sure warmth. When it's not: a stomach ulcer.

What was the best kiss of your life?
My very first one. I was fourteen, he was sixteen, we were sitting on a rock in the woods behind the high school. One minute we were talking, and then we weren't. It was as easy as breathing.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
"Actually" -- that's the big one. I'm constantly deleting that from my emails and blog posts.

What has been your biggest disappointment?
Finding out that "aging" and "growing up" are not synonyms. I'm often surprised how much of the politics of adults resembles the politics of the playground.

When did you last cry, and why?
About 3 hours ago, I got choked up by some song I heard on the radio. Don't even know which one now. My guess as to why? Hormones.

How do you relax?
Embroidery or knitting.

How often do you have sex?
Sorry, the only person not involved in my sex-life who may ask that question is my physician.

What is the closest you've come to death?
February 1989, I was going to a conference in Pittsburgh over Spring Break with some friends. We got lost, the driver got a little rattled, she made for an exit to take us back the way we came....and hit a tow truck that had been hiding in her blind spot. We bounced off the truck, skidded across a four-lane highway without hitting anyone else, and smacked into a cement wall. We all survived, but no one is sure how. The car was a mangled mess. The driver was hospitalized for a bit -- she was having chest pains that turned out to be a mild heart attack. The fellow in the back seat had been asleep. He'd hit his head, but after a scan or two was deemed okay. Me? I lost my glasses, and had a seatbelt-inflicted bruise from right shoulder to left hip like a beauty pageant sash. Other than that, I was fine.

What single thing would improve the quality of your life?
Maid service.

What keeps you awake at night?
The cricket who's taken up residence somewhere in my apartment. I can't find him, but I sure can hear him. They say it's good luck to have a cricket in the house. It will be extremely bad luck for him if I find him.

What song would you like played at your funeral?
"So Long, Farewell" from the Sound of Music. No? Why not? As long as it's not some soppy sorrowful thing, I really don't care what it is. At my Grandma's grave someone whipped out a tape recorder and played "Live Like You Were Dying." Ugh.

I suppose it really doesn't matter. I won't be there anyway.

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
It's not the destination that matters, it's the journey. Enjoy the ride. And take lots if pictures!

Where would you most like to be right now?
Pretty happy where I am at the moment.

Spam subject line poetry

Round
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It just keeps
Gold
Posh watches at tiny prices.
Report
Beware of fake pills.
Crazy defoliator
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Hello, my dear
algorithmic more fiend!
You've received a greeting ecard from a Worshipper!
Kittens, kittens & more kittens!
What's your opinion?

For every silver lining, there is a gray cloud

Here's a funny little side-effect of enjoying one's job: vacation is no longer the get-out-of-jail-free card it was this time last year.

Don't get me wrong, I still like vacations. Love 'em, in fact. I especially enjoy vacations like this one, the kind where I stay in town and just loaf. But when 5pm Friday rolled around last week I didn't feel like skipping to the exit, and I know I'm not going to be at the bus stop on Monday wailing like a little kid, "I don't WANNA go to work. Waaaah!" (On the inside, of course. Don't want to scare the students.)

Huh. Odd.

My birthweek

Vacation time again. My birthday is coming up, and I decided to take the whole week off. "Calling in old," that's what an ex-coworker of mine used to call it.

Most of the week is a blank slate. Today I have a Loons event to attend. My official role is as Event Photographer. Here's hoping that a) it doesn't rain (it's threatening to. Very gray at the moment), b) people show up, and c) they enjoy themselves. I'll post pictures, if I have any.

Wednesday evening I'm going to dinner with a friend of mine. Saturday (my birthday) is Games Night with the Loon(s). Other than that, I have no idea what to do with myself this week. Love it.

On a related note, the Chief Loon has set up a website for our organization. She's asked me what I want my title to be (you know, since she's Chief Loon, we all need titles along those lines). I toyed briefly with "head cook and bottle-washer," but I think that means I have to cook. I dunno. Maybe an idea will present itself today. Right now the only thing on it is the notice for today's event, Mutts Gone Mad, with pictures from previous years and a link to my flick'r set for MGM 2006.

We had a costume contest the first year we did this. One little girl came dressed as a princess. We were worried at first that she hadn't understood it was an event for dogs. Then right before judging started her family put the costume one their mastiff --butterfly wings and halo. Perfect. Princess being guarded by a gargoyle. There were two other contestants: one dog dressed as a ballerina and one little terrier in a bathing suit. We judged by rounds of applause from the audience. Of course, they applauded for all three with equal enthusiasm. We shrugged and said it was a three-way tie for first place.

We were planning to have a costume contest last year as well, but it was so hot nobody wanted to torture their dogs with clothes. This year we've changed it to a costume/dog-owner look-alike contest. That way you can dress like your dog if you want to. Own a Dalmatian? Come in a white dress with black polka dots. Own a shih-tzu? Do your hair the same way. Things like that.

I sure do hope people come to this. We weren't as good with the advertising this year as we were last year. Chief said to me last night that what we really need is an Advertising Loon -- someone who's good with deadlines. Was that some sort of hint about what my title is going to be?

Street painting

The Central Pa. Festival of the Arts was last week. One thing I had forgotten about last year was the Italian Street Painting Festival that is held over on Heister Street, away from most of the foot-traffic. I wouldn't have remembered it this year, either, except that I went over there to go see "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" Thursday evening, just as things were getting started. Lucky I remembered to pack my camera in my bag that morning.

I went back Sunday evening to see how things turned out, and just finished posting a whole mess of pictures on Flickr.

Accidental eavesdropping

I couldn't help it. I was the only other person on the bus (except for the driver, of course). These four teenage or twenty-something girls were behind me, playing what appeared to be one of their favorite games: Character Assassination. They were loudly, viciously, gleefully gossiping about some absent friend, tearing her apart flaw by flaw, calling her lazy, selfish, and rude. Given the examples they were citing, to me it sounded more like she had other priorities, didn't unthinkingly give them what they wanted, and told the truth. This is someone who no doubt they will greet with smiles and hugs when they next run into her. I tried to block it out, but this one sentence floated in my left ear and has lodged itself in my brain:

"When I first met her I hated her, but I wanted her to like me. Do you know what I mean?"

No, I don't.

And sadly, on some level yes, I do.

Mom's birthday present

Here's the thing I made for my Mom's birthday. It's my first attempt at découpage, and it might be my last. It was time consuming, frustrating, sticky work, and I can't believe it took as long as it did to complete. Mom likes the box though, so it has that going for it.

This was a landmark birthday for my mother--one of those ending with a zero or a five. When my dad turned this age, we gave him a ride in a race car (I believe I've mentioned he's a huge NASCAR fan), so the bar was set kind of high for Mom. We had no idea what to do there for a while, and then in May the perfect gift presented itself: Cirque du Soleil is coming here at the end of September. Mom loves them. Whenever Bravo airs one of CdS's shows, Mom is right there for it, camped out in front of the TV. It doesn't matter if she's already seen it or not.

I thought we should do more than just hand her a few tickets, so I went to a local craft store and bought an unfinished wooden box, along with glue, paint, sealer, rubber stamps, ink pads, and assorted equipment to turn it all into the box you see above. I also wound up buying a little fold-up patio table to working outside with the the paints and sealer. Not really interested in knocking myself out with paint fumes. The cut-outs are from greeting cards by an artist named Patience Brewster. I liked the whimsical feel of them. A lot of them looked to me like costumes you'd see in Cirque du Soleil, though my favorite one doesn't really. I put that one on the inside top of the box.

I wasn't able to be there on her birthday, so I went up on the 4th of July and stayed until the following Sunday. I was going to make her birthday dinner on Saturday, but my parents' reflexologist called and asked if she could reschedule their Friday afternoon appointments for Saturday. Small family emergency. Her grandson was visiting and he was horribly homesick. She'd decided to take him back home. That's a six hour drive. So we flipped Friday and Saturday's activities.

I made dinner--chili, though it's more like a goulash than what everyone else thinks of as chili. It's what I grew up knowing chili to be. When I ordered it in a restaurant and there were no egg noodles in it, I was disappointed. This is some sort of Depression-era recipe of Grandmom's. I think the noodles are thrown in to make it feed more people. I got what I consider to be a great compliment on that from mom: "It tastes just like my mother's did." Then there was a devil's food cake I made from a Weight Watcher's recipe, topped with strawberries and a low-fat Cool Whip. She and Dad went out onto the porch while I did the dishes, then I called my sister on my cell phone, handed the phone to Mom, and we sang happy birthday to her on the porch and over the phone as I gave her the box.

First she was just excited that it was Cirque du Soleil. Then she got a good look at the tickets: "Floor seating ?!? Row eleven!! Oooooh, I have to call your aunt."

She told me later on that weekend that more she thought about the present, the more excited she was getting. And she's relieved that she doesn't have to go ride in a race car.

Trying out Pictobrowser

This is a nifty little widget. Thought I'd try it out and see if I can get it to work on my blog. Apparently I can. If you want to do something similar, just click the "INFO" link and you'll get instructions.

Signs you're approaching Harry Potter overload...

1. While explaining the layout of her garden, your mother points out that the romaine has been placed within a small circle of snap peas so it won't get too much sun and bolt. Your immediate mental image is of lettuces lifting themselves out of the ground and running full-tilt for the edge of the forest. Warning.
2. Because the weather is absolutely gorgeous today, you decide to take stroll through campus over your lunch break. In your travels, you notice one particular area where it seems to be raining quite heavily. You look up for the teeny raincloud that must be making this happen instead of down for the half-hidden sprinkler in the ivy that actually is causing it. Danger.
3. You knock a plate off a table. It breaks in two. You have to fight the urge to grab a pencil, tap the pieces, and say, "Reparo!" Seek help now.

Just in time

A few weeks ago I decided to bite the bullet and call the Circuit City protection plan folks about my poor blind camera. I was all set for another couple of rounds of "Chase the FedEx Guy," but it seems their policy has changed. They no longer repair cameras under $25o (mine was $249). What they do instead is get you to send the camera back to them, and they send you a gift card for its full purchase price. You can use that card to replace the one that broke, or for anything else you want.

So I did that, and last Wednesday I bought a new camera. Same brand, but a little bit of an upgrade. I have a 12x optical zoom now. I think the last one was 6x. This one also has the option of focusing manually, which eliminates a problem I used to have with the old one--sometimes the camera would focus on the background instead of what I wanted to be the foreground.

Got it just in time, too, because my friend's birthday party was Friday. I took a ton of pictures, some of which I put on Flickr. The set isn't complete yet, mostly because dial-up takes forever. I did bring the laptop onto campus yesterday for a wireless connection, but only got done about half of what I wanted.

I've been up to my neck in a project for my Mom's birthday. That's where I've been lately, by the way. There was a fair amount of hand-dirtying work, and no matter how many times I washed up I still felt sticky. I really didn't want to accidentally prime/paint/glue/varnish myself to the computer, so I just stayed away from it. As soon as Mom's birthday has passed, I'll show you what I did.

P.S. If you were here earlier, this photo was smaller and darker. I've been editing 'em and replacing 'em. The pictures looked fine on the camera's monitor, but a lot of them seem a little too dark everywhere else.

Librarian-free zone

The American Library Association is holding its annual conference in Washington D.C., from today through June 27th. It was noticeably quieter around here this morning. Like a ghost town, almost. I expect to see tumbleweeds blow by my cubicle entrance. [Sound cues: wind, and the occasional wolf howling in the distance]

Games night

"Did I tell you," Chief Loon asks as I tally up our scores, "that we received another $25 donation for the Wasp? That brings our total to $844."

"Awesome!"

"Yeah. I have half a mind to go down to the library with a check for six dollars, just to make it an even $850."

"You're still winning, by the way." I deal the cards. "By an embarrassing amount."

"I think I kinda like this game." It's a card game called Five Crowns. I bought it last winter from one of those games-and-calendars stands that pop up in malls all over the country right around November and vanish by the end of January.

"Me too. It's like a kinder form of gin, except with five suits and really nice artwork."

"I don't play gin." She picks up her cards and starts to rearrange them.

"No, me neither. Not with people, anyway. Gin makes me swear."

"What does vermouth do?"

"Don't know yet."

"Ah. Working your way through them alphabetically, are you."

I nod, concentrating on my cards.

Games night is something the Chief came up with last fall. At 7 pm on the first Saturday of every month, we (the Loons) open up the teeny little ex-train station that serves as Bellefonte's Chamber of Commerce building, hang out a sign that says, "GAMES NIGHT!" and play board and/or card games for three hours. The idea is that people can drop in and play with us, bring their own games, whatever. It gets announced in a couple of the local papers, and the Chief puts out a come-one-come-all message over the libraries' email the day before (did I mention we're coworkers? We are. Different departments, same building). So far, the only time anyone who wasn't a Loon (or a Loon's spouse) showed up was accidental. People asking directions, looking for info on Bellefonte, etc. Nobody stops in to play with us.

Here's the thing: I don't like playing games. Chief knows this, and thinks that I'm either extremely kind, I'm slightly masochistic, or she's a lot better with the guilt than she thought she was. I keep showing up because I have this image in my head of her playing solitaire for three hours or (as she put it jokingly at the last games night, when this subject came up) playing rock-paper-scissors by herself all night and losing.

It's not really accurate to say that I don't like playing games. I do play them, see. I even own a few. I don't like competitive people. I want to play just to play. My childhood friend Suzanne and I used to drive her mother crazy with the way we played badminton. She'd sit on the porch and watch us bat the birdie back and forth, back and forth.

"You do know that you're never going to score if you keep hitting it to each other," she'd point out.

"Are you keeping score?" Suz and I would ask each other in unison. Our unspoken common goal was to keep the birdie aloft as long as possible.

My family is full of poor losers and worse winners, and I still bear scars from a Monopoly game where my father swore at my mother. If I run into someone who must win, I get put off. At first. Then I feel the Beast rise within me and I need to win. I need to crush this person who presumes to think they can beat me. I want to send them home crying. That disturbs me.

And so, I play games online at Pogo against a computer whose feelings won't get hurt. Or I play with the few members of my family who are gracious winners and losers. I try to model my playing after my Grandma Ruth, who died a year ago this past April. She was an excellent game player -- anything you wanted to play she'd try, but she really liked cards, scrabble, and yahtzee best. She taught all of her grandchildren how to play some of the games she liked, and now the whole clan (and there are hordes of us. We could populate a town, these descendants of Grandma Ruth's) plays canasta, at least. Most of us play shanghai rummy, backgammon, and hearts as well.

She was cutthroat. If she saw an opening she'd take it, and she'd expect you to do the same. But when she won (which was most of the time) she didn't rub your nose in it. She'd just reshuffle the cards, or collect the dice, or slide the tiles back into the box, and say, "Again?" And whether she was winning or not, she always complimented the good moves you made, marveled with you over your stroke of luck if you rolled 5 6's as a double yahtzee, applauded your seven-letter word.

I try to be like that, and most of the time I can silence the Beast and be a gracious winner or a good loser.

As long as I don't play gin.

How I amuse myself at work

The following title just passed across my desk on its way to the Earth and Mineral Sciences Library:

Memoirs of the Faculty of Sciences, Kyushu University. Series D, Earth and Planetary Sciences*

I couldn't help it. An imaginary conversation popped up in my head and had me giggling. The only way to get rid of this is to share, and so now I inflict my hallucination on you:

"Hiro, remember that time when Dr. Kurosawa came to lunch wearing that 'Stop Plate Tectonics' T-shirt?"
"Do I? I'd just taken a sip of tea before I turned around to look at him, and I shot it out my nose!"

I feel better already.

*It's a very, very slim volume.

The Lovely Stephen Fry

And, not slight Mr. Fry, here's another bit of Fry and Laurie.

Hugh Laurie - I'm in Love with Steffi Graf

I don't have much to say today. But I thought I'd share this. It had me laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. Partly the song, but mostly the mannerisms. I flashed back to my twenties, which was full of watching music videos by guys who looked and sounded like this.

Green bowl

I found my way out of the ordering chicken and broccoli rut.

The place I go to now is called The Green Bowl. They have no menu. Yes, really. What they offer instead is an all-you-can eat stir fry that you put together yourself.

When you are seated, you're given a wooden stick with two numbers written on it: the first is your table number, the second is your seat at the table. You take this stick with you up to a largish cold table -- like a salad bar -- where you pick up a bowl and start piling on what you want in your stir fry. There are vegetables, fruit, noodles, tofu, eggs, all kinds of seasonings, oils, and sauces. Once you've built your dinner, you pick up one of the colored plastic sticks at the end of the bar (they denote which meat you want added to your dinner, or whether you'd like it to be done as a soup or a wrap sandwich), put that and your wooden stick in your bowl. You then leave it on the counter and go sit down.

The whole glorious mess gets cooked up on this huge griddle in the middle of the establishment. When it's done, the wooden stick goes back in. This stick is how the wait staff identifies whose dinner belongs to whom when they bring it back to your table, along with rice. You can have white rice or brown, whichever you prefer.

I'm usually stuffed after the first time through, but you can go back as often as you like.

What I like best? I never have the same dinner twice. They rotate ingredients in and out of the cold table (depending upon what's in season, I suppose), and even if I get all the same ingredients as I did the time before, the sauce I used may not be there. Or (and this is more likely) I forget what I did last time, or I don't get the proportions the same.

I suppose if I got nostalgic for chicken and broccoli, I could always put a whole lot of broccoli in a bowl, dump some brown sauce on it, and put in a chicken stick.

And yes, the bowls are green. Originally they used white ones, but they finally bought some green ones a year or so ago. I guess they got tired of people asking them why The Green Bowl didn't have green bowls.

Maggie Mason wrote a book...

...eeyieeyioh.

Ahem. Anywho, sometime before Christmas 2006, Maggie Mason of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods put out a book about blogging called Nobody Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog. I bought a signed copy straight from her site. Once it got here, I set it aside to read later and promptly got swept up in Christmas preparations. I just found it this past Friday while I was cleaning my desk. I've been reading it ever since. There are a lot of good ideas in there. Looking at my own blog, I see that I'm already doing some of the things she suggests. There are a few others that I'm going to attempt to employ. Like posting more often, for example (she writes, after leaving things silent for four days).

How about this, for instance:

Show some skin.

How did you get those scars? The one on your thumb is from when you were three and you wondered whether scissors could cut skin. The one on your stomach is from your emergency appendectomy. Your boss figured you had to be in the hospital, because it was the only reason you'd ever be late for work without calling.

Your scars indicate what type of life you've lived. Whether you're athletic, fighting for your health, or just occasionally clumsy, let each scar remind you of the story behind it.

When I first read that I thought, "Scars? I don't have any...wait. There's that one. And that one. And the one from...hmm." So here we go, starting with the head:

On the left side of my forehead, a very small thin scar right at my hairline. I got this when I was around ten years old, from Brian, the five-year-old brother of my playmate Janet. Brian used to have some sort of crush on me and this was how he announced he was over it, by smacking me in the head with a small spade. I ran home screaming, more from fear than pain--it bled a frightening amount. Headwounds do, I'm told. After I was cleaned up, Mom showed me how very tiny it was. She said I didn't need stitches, probably just a butterfly bandage. And I didn't need a tetanus shot because I'd had one the previous summer before I went to that horrible Girl Scout camp. Ugh. But that's a story for another post.

At the right eye, following (and mostly hidden by) the brow bone, a scar from an operation I had when I was just a few months old. It was to remove a cyst, a large one. If it hadn't been removed pronto I might be blind in that eye right now. Mom said the doctors didn't tell them that until after the operation was over. Didn't want them to "worry unnecessarily."

On my midsection, a trio of scars: a small one in my bellybutton, another small one on my right side, and one about two inches long on the right side of my belly. They are souvenirs of a laparoscopic surgery to remove my gall bladder. My gall bladder attacked me one spring, during a long-planned visit to my great uncle Bill at the Soldiers' and Airmen's Home down in D.C. It finally got taken out that July.

On my left knee, a faded scar from my falling on the gravel driveway of my grandparents' home in Iowa. I was seven, I think. On my right knee, a much larger, newer scar from the gravel in the parking lot of a local supermarket. They throw down gravel on top of the snow and ice around here in the winter time. It helps with traction. That is, until the ice and snow leaves. Then it's a hazard in its own right, at least to me. I skidded, landed on my right knee and cut it up, ruining my favorite pair of pants in the process. I went into the grocery store, asked for a band-aid at the customer service desk, and told them that the lot was dangerous. They gave me some song and dance about how the parking lot wasn't theirs, it belonged to the landlord. They almost wouldn't give me a band-aid until I asked them if they'd rather I bled on their floor. "Biohazard," it's a magic word.

On my left heel, an almost circular scar from a broken piece of china. I was washing dishes in my bare feet and dropped a bowl. The cat came to investigate (of course) and while I was trying to simultaneously clean up and chase her away, I stepped back onto a very large shard. Took a taxi to the emergency room, sure that I'd need stitches. Nope. They used superglue, and gave me a tetanus shot. This happened a week before Christmas 2005. I had to spend a few weeks in thermal socks and backless shoes, hoping there wouldn't be any more snow. I could just see myself losing a shoe in a snow drift.

And that's it, at least for now. Here's hoping I don't get any more.

Call me Cleo for short

Reading posts from my first month of blogging I came across this:

Juggling Scarves: I'm Not Management Material

Goodness gracious me. Did I really write that? It seems that as late as January 2006 I really enjoyed my job and thought I worked for some good people. Looking at it now, I realize that the third paragraph from the bottom describes my old department.

Wow.

[Extends hand] How do you do? My name is Cleopatra, Queen of Denial.

Can't get there from here

Anyone from Pennsylvania probably already knows this joke.

Pennsylvania has four seasons: early winter, mid-winter, late winter, and construction.

A large chunk of road running right through the center of campus is going to be under construction all summer. A very large chunk. Of a very important road. It connects one end of campus to the other, and divides one half of campus from the other. And now there is practically no way to get across it.

My library is on one side of that road, and my (temporary) bus stop is on the other. For the past week and a half I have felt like a character in a video game, trying to avoid hazards and blind alleys in an attempt to get from my bus stop to work. I swear, this morning I heard the theme music from "Mission: Impossible," as I stepped off the bus.

You see, it's not just the road that's under construction. They're also redoing the landscape around the road to make it more accessible to people with disabilities, and they're doing a major revamp to the bus stop I normally use. It'll be nice when it's done. Right now, though, it's a nightmare.

Last week wasn't so bad, mainly because they hadn't really started fencing things off. Monday was a little tricky, but I managed to avoid the tree-ripper-outer (me and my high-tech language) and not trip over fleeing rabbits and chipmunks (who apparently had disregarded their eviction notices. Poor bunnies. Poor chippies. I sure hope everyone got out okay). I saw men with hard hats wandering around, pointing, consulting plans, and I knew that Tuesday wasn't going to be nearly as easy.

And I was right. They'd blocked off a section of the road, parked a truck right in the middle of a crosswalk (nice), and pretty much made all foot traffic impossible to the part of campus where I needed to be by 8am. I found a way across by cutting through one of the courtyards of the dormitories and coming out in the parking lot right across from the library.

This morning I found that they had fenced off part of yesterday's route, as well as a large section of the side street that stands between the lot and the library. I don't know why. It doesn't look they're doing any work in that area. Spite, maybe? Some sort of psychological study? I got through anyway by going through the lower courtyard of this same dorm complex and coming out at the other end of the parking lot.

Let's see if someone saw how I did that and fenced it off, too. I'm beginning to think that the only way to get from my bus stop to my place of employment is to get air-lifted and dropped off on the roof. That, or sprout wings.

P.S. : Post #101! Woohoo!

Spelling wasp

The Bellefonte Loons hosted a spelling wasp a week ago Saturday evening, in the annex to the Bellefonte court house.

What's a spelling wasp, you ask? It's like a spelling bee, but meaner. The entrants must not only spell words, but be able to spell them backwards, rearrange the letters in alphabetical order, replace vowels with sound effects, pantomime the letters (a la the dance done to "YMCA"), and any other thing we could think of to get them to do.

It's a team competition rather than individual, and no one gets eliminated. Instead, teams earn points for correct answers, and these points determine who wins first, second, and third place. The word list was taken from the book "Bee Season," by Myla Goldberg, and it was important that the contestants read the book, because some of the bonus round questions dealt specifically with plot points and characters. One of the bonus rounds consisted of mispelled words from the various spelling bees that take place throughout the book.

The main difference between a spelling wasp and a spelling bee, though, is that a wasp is done as a fund-raiser. There is an entry fee that is paid upon registration. Teams are encouraged to find sponsors -- either straight donations, or people who pledge a sum for every correctly spelled word, every incorrectly spelled word, every time a word begins with a vowel, things like that. And during the event if a contestant misspells a word, they have to opportunity to buy a "do-over," giving them a second chance to spell the word. They can either buy it themselves or solicit donations from the audience.

This whole wasp thing was the brainchild of the Chief Loon. She acted as pronouncer, and got a friend from work and an actual sitting Judge for Centre County to be judges for the event. For the event, the Chief dressed herself up as a caricature of a WASP, in a pink tweed suit, high heels, with her hair done up in a beehive. She looked impressive and more than a little scary. Gave me flashbacks to kindergarten, actually.

She was hoping that this event would make perhaps $200 for the Historical Library in Bellefonte. When the final tally came in, we had $819 to give them. You could have knocked her over with a feather.

Best of all, everyone enjoyed themselves. The contestants were laughing at themselves and each other all night. The audience, though small (it consisted mainly of friends and families of the contestants), was lively and very generous when it came to the buying of do-overs. Judge Brown said he thought the whole thing was quite clever, and gave us all sorts of useful suggestions for next time. We already have the offer of a local opera house-turned-movie theater as next year's venue. It should be perfect. There's a stage, and I think there are even spotlights.

And the fact that we hosted something that raised over $800 for Bellefonte might just make us look legitimate to some of the businesses and societies there who don't quite know what to think of us.

Confessions of a Pioneer Woman

I don't know if you noticed, but I added another blog link under my "Good Reading" links a little while ago. I wanted to point it out and explain a little bit about her, but my old high school chum Amy B. already did a very good job of that in the email she sent me introducing me to the site. Below is our exchange, reprinted with her permission and with names deleted to protect the innocent:

Subject: Okay, I'm weird.

Date: 5/6/2007 1:34:17 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time

I really love this website. It’s a ranch wife’s blog with her photography. I get a kick out of her stories and love her photography, and [Amy B.'s husband] thinks I’m a weirdo stalker because of it.
www.thepioneerwoman.com

The only reason I stumbled upon it was someone posted a link to her site on a message board I belong to (Cooks Illustrated, if you care).

When I poked around in her archives and read the story about Tanner, Barbie’s dog, I nearly peed myself and was instantly hooked. http://www.thepioneerwoman.com/confessions_of_a_pioneer_/2006/12/post_3.html If that link doesn’t work, I see it was posted 12/27. Her archives are set up by month as well as subject (Children in this case).

She picked up a camera for the first time and started this site a year ago, and she just had her first gallery showing of her photographs. If you decide to take a look, see the entry for May 5. In there is a link to the gallery photos, just in case this link doesn’t work. http://www.flickr.com/photos/pioneerwoman/sets/72157600174820890/show/ My favorite is the horses’ manes, I think, and the one that
looks like rocks on the beach (they’re not) is another.

Why am I up so late? Deadline.

Back to work.

My response:

Subject: Re: Okay, I'm weird.

Date: 5/6/2007 6:52:26 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time

I can see why you like it. I only read the latest entry and decided to bookmark it. Might even link to it from my own blog.

Reading someone's blog doesn't make you a stalker. Reading someone's blog, figuring out where they live, driving cross-country to their home (with or without astronaut diapers) and camping in their front yard -- that makes you a stalker.

What was I doing up so early? Pushy cat who wanted attention, food, and my pillow. In that order.

Her blog really is excellent, and so is her photography. She copyrights her work, so I can't embed an image here, but please to go take a at her photos on Flickr. They are wonderful.

Down the rabbit-hole, and back out again.

Is it the middle of May already? Good grief. The month's gone by on wheels. I guess time flies when you enjoy your job.

The job I just left was the first (only) full-time one I've had. I've been with them for almost 16 years (a year and a half of that was as a part-timer), and the bulk of it was in the position I had until recently. At least 12 of those years were under the same supervisor. Now that I'm out of there, I can look back and see how bad things were.

Oh. My. God.

It had never occurred to me that there was any other way to work than to have someone at you all the time, interrupting what you do, giving you projects without complete instructions, changing things when you're halfway done, and then treating you like an idiot for not giving them exactly what they wanted but never articulated. I mean, who am I, Kreskin?

Every single thing I said and did at work was monitored and criticized. I caught crap (privately, after the fact, behind her office door) for speaking up at meetings, for not speaking up at meetings, for taking matters into my own hands without consulting my supervisor, for consulting my supervisor instead of acting independently (favorite quote: "Well, what do you think the answer is?" Can you hear the bomb ticking in the background? I always could. If I gave her the right answer, the next thing she'd ask was, "So why are you asking me?"). We had to tell her everywhere we were going and when we'd be back. She suspected us all of goofing off when she wasn't around. She had (well, has. She's still here) a tone when speaking to us that took me a while to pinpoint, but I have it now. She speaks to one she sees as an inferior as if she were the lady of the house upbraiding a servant who has just broken a plate.

She and her boss (head of the department) have said quite a few times that the rest of the library sees them as "difficult." They're sort of proud of it, really. Now that I'm away from them, I'm seeing the other side of the story. Difficult? No. They are seen as mean and crazy.

This job is wonderful. They give me something to do and then leave me alone to do it, secure in the knowledge that: a) I know what I'm doing, b) if I have questions, I'll ask, and c) when I'm done, I'll ask for more work. I've seen my new supervisor maybe 5 times this month. Twice of those were from a distance and one was in a team meeting. It's a whole new world.

I think I was teetering on the edge of a depression there for a while. I'd stopped doing everything I enjoyed -- jewelry-making, singing, embroidery, dancing...yep, even that, the activity I took up with a mind towards cheering myself up. Couldn't tell you the last book I read. I couldn't even make it through a whole episode of my favorite television show without wanting to turn it off and go to bed.

I did make myself go to that pottery class once a week. I joined, I think, because on some level I could feel myself slipping and wanted to do something about it. Fling myself out there with people, learn a new skill. I didn't really like it (too messy, to much hurry-up-and-wait) and I only kept up with it because I'd paid for it in advance. Even then, I skipped the last class, accidentally on purpose. I didn't remember that I had one more class to go to until I got home from work, and even though I could have probably have made it back to town in time for it, I decided to just skip it.

Blogging was starting to be a chore, even. I'd sit here and look at a blank "create post" window with its little blinking cursor, trying to think of something, anything to say. Usually I just gave up and closed the window.

I'm a whole lot better now. Shortly before moving, I noticed myself looking at things and thinking, "I should blog that." Right before Easter, I started a new embroidery project. I'm also working on a little bracelet made out of black and silver seed beads done in something called a zulu stitch. Bought a copy of Edna Ferber's Giant from the used bookstore downtown last week and devoured it. And last Saturday I attended a workshop for bellydance, where I was taught a choreography to a song by Tarkan (he's Turkey's answer to Justin Timberlake) called Şimarik -- here's a video for the song, put out in the 90s, I think.

Heck, I think I may even get my camera fixed instead of just talking about it. Though I saw another one in Circuit City a week back that I really, really want. It has an optical zoom of 10x, as opposed to the one I have now, which is 6. Mind you, 6 is very good, but 10? I might get a picture of the moon that I won't have to blow up until it's almost pixellated.

And what are the odds that this old one will go kaflooey yet again with the same problem that's already taken it out twice? I think there's a design flaw somewhere.

Yeah, that's it. Design flaw. Need new camera.

Ah, since when did need ever enter into it?

Up next (probably tomorrow): the Spelling Wasp.

That just about sums me up

As I leave work for the evening and head downtown, it starts to rain. Pour. Like someone is on the roof of a nearby building with a firehose. Most of those who don't have umbrellas (and that would be all of us) are shouting and sprinting for cover wherever they can find it.

Not me. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, which is pointless. The thing doesn't so much repel the rain as it does collect it. The reason I'm still outside? The sun is peeking out from a cloud directly behind me, and that means there might be a rainbow out here somewhere.

Cold, uncomfortable, sopping wet, with shoes that are going squelch with rainwater all night, and ignoring it all to look for rainbows. Yep. That's me all over.

Musical nostalgia

Tomorrow is move out day. I don't know when exactly. It depends upon when the Computer Guys come to move my terminal. I came in to the office today to do the last little bit of cleaning and packing -- I can't seem to get anything like that done during the week. The only time I'd be able to do it is my lunch break or if I stay after work, and by five o'clock the needle on the bull[ahem] meter is well into the red zone. It's all I can do to not run screaming from the building.

So, anyway. I get my desk cleaned off, pack all my files, and put everything on the cart I use to schlepp things around the building. On my way out I stop at the little café in the basement and buy myself a bottle of water. As I'm paying for it, the radio starts playing "Isn't She Lovely," by Stevie Wonder.

"Oh!" says one of the young ladies behind the counter. "I love this song! At my junior prom, this is the song they played as I was coming down the steps."

"Aw." This in chorus, from women on both sides of the counter.

"I am such a ham," she confesses. "I started down the steps, and this came on, and I was all..." She turns to one side and does a coy look to the floor and then up through fluttering lashes. "It was a great night. Also, the guy I went with was hot..."

"Well, that doesn't hurt," I reply.

"Mmm. I made him wear pink, and he looked sexy in it."

At this point my water is paid for, and someone behind me wants a bagel, so I take my leave.

It's funny what songs will do to you. I can't keep a straight face while listening to John Denver's "Sunshine on my Shoulders."

My sister and I used to amuse ourselves on long car trips a number of ways. This was before backseat drop-down DVD players, iPods, Walkmen, even. We were captives to whatever our father had on the radio. Sadly, twenty-five years later, this is still true. Driving back from my cousin's wedding in Virginia, I was held hostage by NASCAR radio. *Sob* An entire afternoon of:

nnnnnnNYOWMNnnnnn

I'm not sure what kept me from hanging my head out of the open window and howling like a wild thing.

On these endless car rides, we either read, slept, bickered until the Hand of Justice clamped down on us from the front seat, or played games like "Billboard Alphabet." Sometimes in a spirit of Making Fun Where You Can, we'd start playing around with lyrics of some old radio chestnut we'd heard a hundred times already, et voilà! A new song is born. So now whenever I hear "Sunshine on my Shoulders,"instead of the actual words here's what I hear:

"Sunshine on my shoulders gives me sunburn.
Sunshine in my eyes can make me blind.
Sunshine on the water makes it boil.
Sunshine almost always is unkind."

(or "makes me cry." We've done it both ways, and I forget now which came first.)

Sorry Mr. Denver. Nothing personal. Just two bored kids in the back of a station wagon with three hours to go before they hit the Massachusetts state line.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I think I've touched briefly upon all the flapdoodle at work. Yes? It's been going on in some form or another for almost 17 months now, and an end (at least for one of my colleagues and me) is finally in sight. The dean stepped in last month and decided that as of May 1, my colleague and I will be part of another department.

Initially I was a bit upset, but upon reflection I think that was just vocational Stockholm Syndrome. A few weeks back, we had a very good meeting with our (soon to be) new supervisor and her department head. They seem to be reasonable people, with a management style that seems to be pretty hands-off (hurray!). They're thrilled we'll be joining them, and everyone else we've talked to in the new place is just as happy about it -- though they very sweetly tried not to appear so at first, in case it looked like gloating.

The morning after this meeting with The New Boss, I woke up an hour before the alarm, was showered, dressed, breakfasted, and sitting by the radio embroidering before 6:30. I took the early bus in, had a nice leisurely cup of coffee before heading to work, and just marvelled at how I felt: good. Really, really good. Better than I've felt in over a year. Optimistic, happy, cheerful, hopeful, insert your favorite positive adjective here. It was like I've been living in a fog and didn't notice it until it cleared away. I'm sure the meeting and the mood are related because it's been almost a month now, and I still feel good.

My current supervisor and department head are both doing their best to subtly poison us against the people we will be working with and for. It's not working, though. I wish I'd recognized sooner that I was being used as a weapon, but at least I've figured it out now. All of the trying-to-push-my-buttons is having exactly the opposite effect, in fact. I wish I could switch departments right now, instead of in May.

I was informed this morning that my new cubicle is ready for me. I started moving my tschotchkes into the new space on my afternoon break. M'colleague (any Fry and Laurie fans out there?) came with me, mainly to see what the new space looked like. We were there maybe ten minutes before the welcome wagon came 'round. And 'round. And 'round. At least four people stopped by to say howdy and (probably) to get some juicy gossip about life in Purgatory.

That's going to take a little getting used to. I'm accustomed to a work room that has at most six people in it at one time. This place has probably around one hundred, in various teams. Classic cube farm, complete with prairie dogging co-workers.

The only thing I'm really going to miss in my new job is the reference desk. I won't be doing any, at least for a while. Instead, I will be cataloging serials all day. Though they did say that if I wanted to I could be part of the job enrichment program, and work on a reference desk for two hours a week. For someone who's used to ten hours a week, two seems a bit small.

I'm sure I'll have plenty to keep me busy though.

And now I'm off to dinner, and to go see some actors from Juliard perform a stage adaptation of Jane Eyre.

Things you see when you don't have a (working) camera...

I went to my parents' house for Easter weekend. Came back home last night. On the way home, riding through some teeny tiny town whose name I can't remember/not sure I ever knew, we zipped past something that made me dearly wish I had a working camera with me.

Some family had decorated their yard for Easter using little blow-up plastic bunnies everywhere. They were tied to stakes to keep the wind from making off with them. I don't know if you heard, but we had some horrible weather this weekend over much of the northern USA. More snow this Easter than there was this past Christmas. The bunnies were a bit wind-blown and deflated, most of them very close to lying flat on the ground. It looked like someone had not so much tied them in place as staked each one through the heart. A bit gruesome. I sure hope it wasn't the original intent.

And then this morning, when I got off the bus at my usual stop and made my way over to the place where I get coffee before work, I passed a wooded area marked off in yellow "CRIME SCENE -- DO NOT CROSS" tape. My goodness. I go away for a long weekend and the whole place goes to hell. The fellow who sold me my coffee said it's an assignment for some forensics class on campus. He said they used the same area last year, but I don't remember it. But then, I think I was getting a ride to work this time last year, and we didn't come onto campus from the same direction.

My Visual DNA

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

What am I doing, making up for lost time by posting two a day? Apparently. Nifty little website.

I'm in the basement of that bagel shop again, listening to a group of students converse (or try to) in German. I love living in a college town, have I mentioned that lately?

Medieval Helpdesk

A coworker sent me this sometime last week. Finally got a chance to see it today, as it seems the cold I had a few weeks ago was in reality an advance scout for the stomach flu I had from Wednesday evening on through to Sunday. I found a new crash diet! 10 pounds in 4 days! And you don't even feel hungry. Seriously. Food frightens me right now.

But I digress. This has been floating around on YouTube for a week or so now. It's from a Norwegian sketch comedy show. Some kind soul has given it English subtitles.

Flotsam and jetsam

For the laundry impaired: Saw a man in a T-shirt that read, "Same shirt, different day."

Talking to one of the bus drivers a couple of weeks back:

Driver: So did you have a nice Valentine's Day?
Vee: Yeah, it was pretty good.
D: How'd you spend it?
V: Throwing pots.
D: At...whom?
V: No, no, no. Not lobbing kitchenware. Throwing pots. Clay. On a wheel?
D: Aaahhhh.

Little novelties:

I got my eyes checked a few weeks ago. I was test-driving a pair of contact lenses there for a while (I did eventually decide to buy contacts, but not that brand. Boy, were they uncomfortable!). After I put them in the first time I wandered around the store, shopping for frames for the new glasses. It was a new experience to put the frames on and not have to put my nose almost to the mirror to see what I look like in 'em.

And then a few days later, while walking along the sidewalk squinting in the sunlight it hit me: I can wear sunglasses now! Woo-hoo!

Pretty silly, isn't it, to spend close to $100 on your eyes just for the ability to wear a $10 pair of sunglasses.

Fevers make the best dreams

I've caught some sort of cold. Well, considering I work with the public and take mass transit to and from work, what were the odds that one of the sniffling multitude around me was going to breathe on me and give me something yucky?

This is my second day off work, and the first time in about 24 hours that I can string together coherent thoughts. Yesterday I managed to call my supervisor and croak out, "Sick. Fever. Not coming in." before I lost all track of time. Pretty sure I'll be back on Monday.

Favorite symptom: bizarre dreams. It's like watching some sort of arthouse movie, heavy on symbolism and subtext, light on actual sense. The one that I woke up to this morning featured a walk in the woods with someone I knew at the time (but of course is a stranger to me now) and encountering a little bear cub with a bright red streak on its muzzle. Not blood red, more like fruit punch red -- like something a punker would do to his hair. My companion wanted to stop and pet the bear (come to think of it, the cub looked a lot like my parents' little black dog Pippin), while all I could think was, "Mama bear's around here somewhere, we better get away from her cub or she'll tear us apart."

And then suddenly we were at the shore, this person and I, running some sort of hotel on a beached ocean liner, where we'd call the room numbers "wave 72" instead of "room 72." There was some sort of mystery involving the theft of jewelry that turned out to be (when I finally got to see it) silly souvenir-type stuff -- paua shells and turquoise chips and coral pieces.

Interesting what the mind will do when the body's a little warmer than normal.

Clay tribute

They've put together a memorial service for my friend Mary. It's today. I'm not going. It sounds like some large, long, intricate thing. Not like Mary at all.

The course I'm taking in wheel-thrown pottery includes 15 hours of time to use the facility outside of class. I've decided that instead of going to a funeral where everyone will be all long-faced and sniffling, I'm going to go throw pots. It will be a more fitting tribute to a woman who was a potter, a teacher, and a life-long learner.

Finally!

I know the date says Wednesday. I've been writing this in bits and pieces all week. It's Friday, March 2 now, and I'm finally ready to post this.

Around 5 pm Monday I finished the Underground Newspapers project I've been whining about since last May. I was so happy, I almost whipped of my shirt and ran around the office, a la Brandi Chastain.

Almost.

Now that I’m done, I can look back and pick out some of the highlights and oddities. Well, no, face it Vee, the whole collection is one big oddity. But I digress:

Favorite titles (Based solely on the title of the publication. I didn't stop to read most of these):

The Anemic Traveler: the newsletter with poor circulation; Bandersnatch; Bi-Weekly Blah-Blah; Borrowed Times; Come Unity (which sounds like "community" if spoken aloud); The Buddhist 3rd Class Junk Mail Oracle (also known as The Barking Rabbit) -- which later changed its name to: Great Swamp Erie Da Da Boom; The Distant Drummer; Fertilizer; A Four-Year Bummer; Good Morning Teaspoon; Great Speckled Bird; High Times; In Arcane Logos; Kompost; Kudzu; Lux Verite; Mile High Underground; Oscar's Underground Ghetto Press; Protean Radish; River Courant; The Son of Jabberwock; Twentieth Century Anonymous; Witzend

Something in the water?

California likes oracles: From 1966-1968, groups in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Larkspur, California all decided to produce newspapers called "The Oracle."

And the midwest likes kaleidoscopes: During the seventies, groups in Omaha, NE, Madison, WI, Milwaukee, WI, Oshkosh, WI, and Chicago, IL were all publishing papers called Kaleidoscope.

Proof that "anarchy" and "chaos" aren't necessarily synonyms:

Freedom: the anarchist weekly -- published weekly from 1947-1960, had a little bobble from 1961-1963 where they went to three times a month, and then weekly again until 1975. Wow. And I can't remember to call my Mom once a week.

Probleem vooruit:

Any title in this set that was in a foreign language (be it Spanish, Greek, Hawaiian, Navajo, Finnish, Dutch…) was destined to have incorrect index entries.

The moment when I knew this thing had taken over my life and warped my thinking:

The title was "Broken Barriers," out of New Orleans. The index listed the issues thusly:

Volume 1 in 1975, vol. 7 in 1976, vol. 11 in 1977, vol. 3 in 1978? What? I stared at the entry for a little while, and a scene played out in my head.

First, let me explain. This collection was organized by year, then alphabetically by title, and then photographed. What's that mean? Well, look at the entry. Issues for this one title are scattered throughout the collection. The whole index is like this, all 1000+ titles in it. I think there were two reasons things were done like this: 1) newspaper degrades fast; and 2) these were publications of independent presses, and might not be printed with any regularity. They could (and did) sometimes go years between publishing issues. Waiting for a "complete" volume was not a good idea.

Since the issues were filmed in different years, I think it's safe to assume that filming wasn't always done by the same person. I also suspect that the photographer filled out a chart as he/she went along, reporting titles, volume and issue information, and dates. This chart was then transcribed into the index by a typist somewhere else in the building. The typist had no contact with the photographers whatsoever, and had to believe that what was on the chart was correct. With me so far?

Okay, now here's how I saw it happening:

My guess was that volume numbers for this title uses roman numerals, and the issue numbers are regular ones. Photographers for reels 178 and 200 recognize this, and write "1" and "2" in whatever place on the chart they need to. Unfortunately, the photographer for #2 has crappy handwriting, and his/her "2" looks like a "7" to the typist. Photographer for reel 229 either needs glasses or doesn't know roman numerals, and he/she records II as "11," so that's what gets transcribed into the index. Photographer for reel 261 recognizes "III" as "3," writes that. Typist sees that on chart, shakes head at the vagaries of independent/alternative presses (1,7,11,3?), and dutifully enters "3" into the index.

I go to the film reels, sure that each issue for volumes "7" and "11" are going to be "Volume II." I am right. I am momentarily triumphant; and then very, very frightened of myself.

The Parting Shot:

All the way at the end of the title portion of the index (three pages from the end, to be exact), there's an entry for Xex Graphix:

This looked like trouble, so I saved it ‘til last. It turns out the Xex Graphix is a publisher of comic books, and these entries were each titles in their own right. I needed to make 12 records just for this entry.

Cataloging microfilmed versions of comic books. Never thought I'd be doing that.

But now I’m done. I have yet to decide how to celebrate. I think I’m going to bring in some baked goodies as a thank-you to my coworkers for putting up with the muttering, weeping, and shouts of outrage that leaked out over my cubicle walls. Not to mention the occasional conversational bludgeoning they’d take as I’d corner one of 'em and jabber on and on about my horrible project until their eyes glazed over.

I wonder what I'm going to be given next. There is a project around here somewhere with my name on it, I'm sure of that. As it was pointed out to me yesterday, the reward for a job well done is usually more work. I hope they come up with something soon. I've been wandering around since Tuesday morning, time hanging heavy on my hands. It's weird not having "that #@$! microfilm project" around, driving me crazy. It's been the bane of my existence for ten months. Now I almost miss it.

Almost.

Snow day!

This whole section of the country got socked with snow. We have about six inches already, and it's still snowing. The university I work for cancelled all classes or activities before 5pm, and non-essential personnel need not report to work.

It's good to be non-essential. Off I go to make snow angels. Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

(Picture taken from just outside my door, with the laptop's camera).

Camera woes

I guess that last picture was just too much for the camera. Maybe its lens started to have sympathy pains or something. In any event, I have to send it away to be fixed again. Same problem as last time -- everything works, except that it won't take pictures. I can playback, crop, and adjust to my little heart's content, but when I switch over to a picture-taking mode, all I get is a black screen no matter where I point the camera. It has become, in essence, a very expensive electronic paperweight. Grrr.

So now I get to dig out my receipt and call the 1-800 number, tell the guy on the other end that no, I didn't drop it and no, I didn't get it wet, and yes, the battery is fully charged. Then I'll get a box FedExed to me (which I will of course have to go sign for at the main terminal, as they never come when I'm home) that I'm to put my sick camera into and send off to Wherever They Fix Cameras (last time it was somewhere in Connecticut).

But at least I can play with the pictures I already have:



Or how about:

Still life with myopia

Still life with myopia
Originally uploaded by JugglingScarves.

So what's wrong with this picture? I done broke mah glasses, that's what wrong! The other pair (the big black frames, remnants of the 1980s) are not so much my back-up pair as they are the only other set I have to hand. The white tape (which makes them look like a prop from Revenge of the Nerds) aren't holding the frame together -- they're acting as little wedges to keep the lens from popping out. Fun huh?

The little wire-rimmed ones have been fixed since this picture was taken. Snapped 'em in two Sunday afternoon (doh! A little too strenuous with the cleaning there), got 'em soldered back together Monday lunchtime.

And now I have an appointment to get my eyes checked, since these just-fixed glasses are a rather old prescription too.

Love for sale

Standing in the checkout line of a local grocery store, bored, I decide to read the back of the packet of cat treats I'm buying (product name deleted so I don't get sued):

A [product name] treat is special the moment you give it, and even more so the moment after. Because that's the moment, in the wake of that deliciously satisfying taste, when your cat shows how much she loves you--with purrs and smiles just for you. And if you don't have that loving moment often enough...you're not giving your cat enough [product name] treats.

Interesting. I thought a pet's love was unconditional. Silly me.

And how did they know my cat was a she?

Words & language

I was trawling the Internet over my lunch break and ran across this. I'm very proud to say I already knew aglet, harp, minimus, nef, peen, rowel, and hemidemisemiquaver.

Does anyone else out there think that Jarns, Nittles, Grawlix, and Quimp sounds like a law firm?

While I'm thinking about it, Matt over at Defective Yeti has started something he's calling the Cliché Rotation Project that sounds like fun. I've been browsing the clichés at the places he suggested we look first, and at the moment I can't come up with any good replacements.

So this is what today is going to be like, huh?

I'm working on a project that involves cataloging microfilm versions of underground newspapers. Been working on it since May. I'm in the T's now. I just ran across a title from Berkeley, CA called Trashman, and for reasons that elude me this popped into my head and won't leave:

"NanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNanaNana Trashman!" (a la the Batman theme song)

Whimper.

Happy birthday, li'l blog...

Wow. A whole year blogging. Frankly, I didn't think I'd make it past a few months.

(update 12/10/07: There used to be a .gif of a cake here, but the link broke. Next year I'll buy a cupcake and some candles and make my own picture. --V)

Mary

A friend of mine died over the weekend. She'd been battling breast cancer for quite some time. She was in remission when we met, but the cancer came back about ten years ago. She's been fighting ever since.

Mary was an amazing woman -- interested in everything, loved the arts, loved nature. She used to travel a lot, back when she was healthier. She was always trying to do new things. I think it was that interest in everything that kept her alive so long, even when she was so horribly sick -- she wasn't done looking around yet.

I've found myself trying to be more like her in recent years. I don't think I ever told her that. No, I'm sure I haven't, because I don't think I even realized that's what I was doing until I typed it a moment ago. The cynic in me tends to roll her eyes skyward when anyone talks about someone being "inspiring," but really I guess that's what she was. The determination with which she held onto life, the way she refused to allow illness to get in the way of her enjoyment of things, the enthusiasm with which she embraced a new idea or activity -- I want to be like that. She's part of the reason I took a drawing course a few years back (just to see if I could draw), and there's a little bit of be-like-Mary in my decisions to blog, to bellydance, to get out there and do something instead of hanging back and dithering. She used to ask for dancing updates. And demand demonstrations. When I visited her in the hospital last week, I mentioned I'd enrolled in an intro to wheel-thrown pottery class that starts the end of this month. That made her perk up a bit (she was a potter, among other things). We made jokes about dancing and throwing at the same time: the wheel going one way and my hips going the other.

She became a potter after her cancer went into remission the first time, back in the 80s (I think). Long before I met her, she'd switched from making regular-sized pottery to miniatures. I have some pictures of her work on my Flick'r account.

I think that Mary wrote her own obituary. It sounds like her voice. I'm not sure how long it will stay up on the newspaper's site, so I'm saving a copy of it on my computer. If the link breaks, I'll work something else out.

Is it 2007 already?

Yawn, stretch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

I feel like a bear that's come out of hibernation. Kinda disappeared there for a while over the holidays, didn't I? It's not like I had anything better to do, either. I just hung around town most of the time, doing next to nothing.

I did go to my sister's for Christmas though. Enjoyed that. There were seven of us -- me, my parents, Ditter, Ditter's hubby, and Ditter's in-laws (called hereafter Mr. and Mrs. S). I think I mentioned before that she and her husband bought a house with his parents, didn't I? It all seems to be going well, except that the cats don't get along. Hops is very territorial, always has been. Schotzi tends to stay in Mr. & Mrs. S's bedroom most of the time.

The living room looked like some sort of monument to excess. There were presents everywhere. Here, let me show you:

We ran out of room under the tree and started to build outward. There are more added after this picture was taken. Mr. S said it looked like a department store display.

Christmas itself is a blur. Only a few things stand out:

1) Double warning -- Handwritten in large letters on the hot drinks vending machine of the Greyhound bus terminal:

Caution! Very hot liquid!

And under this, very small, in different handwriting:

When it gives you anything at all!

2) Good night kisses -- I slept in the downstairs guest room. The door to my room stayed open all night, as it had the cats' litter box and food dishes in it. Daisy (my sister's yellow lab) does a bed-check at some time every night (no one else knew this until I told them. Probably because all their doors are shut). She took the opportunity of an open door to come and give my face a quick wash. By the third night the kisses didn't completely wake me -- I incorporated them into my dream.

3) Christmas dinner -- My brother-in-law had done a turkey last year, and though we all liked it, he was a little disappointed. He'd used some recipe from the food network and thought it would taste different. So this year he decided to do prime rib. Very tasty, and very large. It looked like a quarter of a cow, and he hadn't used the whole standing rib roast. I remember him asking my sister whether she wanted him to make steaks out what he wasn't going to use that night, or whether to just leave it as a roast.

4) First Night prep -- fast forward about a week. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. They'd fenced off a block downtown in preparation for some alcohol-free, family-oriented New Year's Eve festivities called "First Night." A large part of the event has to do with ice sculptures. The ice was brought in a few days in advance, wrapped in silver thermal blankets to keep it cold. New Year's Eve Day, the sculptors start carving. I have a few pictures over at Flickr, if you'd like to see them. I didn't make it to the actual event. I don't think the buses run that late, and besides, I'm usually yawning by 11:30.

The rest of the two weeks went something like this: sleep late, play on the computer, watch TV and knit, go out for a walk, maybe go downtown for a little bit, read, watch TV with cat in lap, go to bed. One day I skipped the walk/downtown part, and just hung around the apartment all day in my PJs. Aaaah. Sloth. I enjoy a little of that every once in a while.

I'm going to have to start using the alarm clock again, starting tonight. I go back to work on Monday, and I should probably get back into the habit of getting up at the crack of dawn.

Hope your holiday was a good one. Happy New Year all!