Two young women (late teens, early twenties) were alone on a large expanse of lawn on campus yesterday, taking turns falling backwards into each other's arms. I was passing at some distance, and didn't like to interrupt, but I really want to know what that was about. I recognize it as a trust exercise--my Mom used to work in a drug rehab center for teens, and I remember her describing this to me. Were these ladies Psych students? Participants in the same group therapy session? Preparing team-building exercises? Was this the result of a conversation on trust? Were they just goofing around? No idea.
Interesting to watch, though.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Fried modem
I was checking my email a little before 7 am yesterday when the power went out. I found out later that most of the people on my street lost power. The first indication I had that it wasn't just my apartment that had a problem (well, second. The first was that I didn't hear the breaker box click) was when my upstairs neighbor started scurrying around. Lighting candles, I suppose. That's what I was doing, anyway.
Candlelight is very pretty and romantic and all that, but it sure is difficult to get dressed by. The cat (very intelligently I thought) decided that the safest place to be was in her little bed, well out of the way of the frantic human fumbling around in the semidark.
According to my neighbors, the power was out until around noon. It was on when I got home at six. There were workmen digging in the front yard, though, so I figured it hadn't been truly fixed yet. They're still out there today, doing who knows what. Whatever they were doing yesterday has resulted in a very large hole, a big pile of dirt, and very thick cable with an extremely frayed and frazzled end to it. I wonder if one of the groundhogs I've been seeing all summer mistook that cable for a chew toy.
The upshot of all this for me personally is internet connection problems. Apparently there was a power surge right before eveything went *poof* that was too much for my power strip, and my modem has died.
I'm trying to decide whether to just get a new modem or to replace the whole CPU. It's an older machine. The service plan I bought for it has most definitely expired. It's probably time to get a new one. And the power goes out often enough (symptom of a town that's growing too fast and an electric company that needs to update their grid) that it's probably one surge away from following the modem into the Great Beyond.
I've been shopping around online (in a computer lab on campus, in case anyone is wondering) and I looked briefly (very briefly) at laptops. They want over $1000 for most of those. Oy. No thanks. Portability isn't that high on my list of priorities. Actually, there isn't really much on my list of priorities. Don't care much for all the bells and whistles. Whatever comes standard suits my purpose. I don't need tons of storage, either, which frustrates store employees.
Most of the machines on the site where I was looking have at least 100 gigs of storage. Mine has 60, and I thought that was a lot when I bought it. I've only used about half. When I was buying this machine, the fellow at the store tried to talk me into getting one with 80 gigs. He couldn't believe I'd be happy with "just 60."
"Look," I said, "the machine I have now has .6 gigs. Asking me whether I want a 60 or 80 gig hard drive is like asking someone living in an efficiency apartment whether they want a 60 room mansion or an 80 room one. It isn't going to matter, because everything they own is going to fit in the foyer."
I expect a similar conversation regarding the 100 or 120 gig hard drive now, if I decide to buy a new machine.
I'm going shopping a little later today. Not buying anything, of that I am sure. There's no way I'd be able to wrestle a purchase onto and off of a bus all by myself. I'm going to have to ask a friend with a car to help me with transport, when (if) I decide to buy something.
I wonder how difficult it is to replace a modem myself? I wonder how much the people at Circuit City would charge to do it for me? Something to ask while I'm there.
Candlelight is very pretty and romantic and all that, but it sure is difficult to get dressed by. The cat (very intelligently I thought) decided that the safest place to be was in her little bed, well out of the way of the frantic human fumbling around in the semidark.
According to my neighbors, the power was out until around noon. It was on when I got home at six. There were workmen digging in the front yard, though, so I figured it hadn't been truly fixed yet. They're still out there today, doing who knows what. Whatever they were doing yesterday has resulted in a very large hole, a big pile of dirt, and very thick cable with an extremely frayed and frazzled end to it. I wonder if one of the groundhogs I've been seeing all summer mistook that cable for a chew toy.
The upshot of all this for me personally is internet connection problems. Apparently there was a power surge right before eveything went *poof* that was too much for my power strip, and my modem has died.
I'm trying to decide whether to just get a new modem or to replace the whole CPU. It's an older machine. The service plan I bought for it has most definitely expired. It's probably time to get a new one. And the power goes out often enough (symptom of a town that's growing too fast and an electric company that needs to update their grid) that it's probably one surge away from following the modem into the Great Beyond.
I've been shopping around online (in a computer lab on campus, in case anyone is wondering) and I looked briefly (very briefly) at laptops. They want over $1000 for most of those. Oy. No thanks. Portability isn't that high on my list of priorities. Actually, there isn't really much on my list of priorities. Don't care much for all the bells and whistles. Whatever comes standard suits my purpose. I don't need tons of storage, either, which frustrates store employees.
Most of the machines on the site where I was looking have at least 100 gigs of storage. Mine has 60, and I thought that was a lot when I bought it. I've only used about half. When I was buying this machine, the fellow at the store tried to talk me into getting one with 80 gigs. He couldn't believe I'd be happy with "just 60."
"Look," I said, "the machine I have now has .6 gigs. Asking me whether I want a 60 or 80 gig hard drive is like asking someone living in an efficiency apartment whether they want a 60 room mansion or an 80 room one. It isn't going to matter, because everything they own is going to fit in the foyer."
I expect a similar conversation regarding the 100 or 120 gig hard drive now, if I decide to buy a new machine.
I'm going shopping a little later today. Not buying anything, of that I am sure. There's no way I'd be able to wrestle a purchase onto and off of a bus all by myself. I'm going to have to ask a friend with a car to help me with transport, when (if) I decide to buy something.
I wonder how difficult it is to replace a modem myself? I wonder how much the people at Circuit City would charge to do it for me? Something to ask while I'm there.
Monday, September 18, 2006
BookCrossing's latest acquisition
Heading out for an evening in town, first to dinner then to dance class, I grab a book I bought years ago and have been meaning to read: God-Shaped Hole. I start into it as I'm waiting for the bus. About twenty pages in, I'm getting a bad feeling. By the time I get to town, I'm sure that I'm not going to like this book.
It's a first-person story. I don't like the main character. That isn't necessarily the end of the world. Have you ever read a first-person narrative where the character sets him/herself up as the protagonist, but the author gives you some sort of signal not to believe what you're being told? A turn of phrase, a skewed point of view, a fact dropped into the story that the narrator doesn't realize the significance of--it's a literary throat-clearing, a broad wink. I keep waiting for that signal. I'm not getting it. Oh, dear Lord. The author likes this woman. I'm expected to like her as well, and by extension I'm supposed to care about this idiot she's just met and fallen in love with.
I do not want to have dinner with these people. I have no other book with me, and the public library closes at 5 on Sunday. Ten minutes ago.
Thank goodness for Webster's, our local second-hand book store! For two dollars and tax, I buy an Agatha Christie murder mystery I've never heard of before (Towards Zero) and use it to replace the bunch of pretentious, angst-ridden, pseudo-intellectual twerps I was stuck with.
Now I'm starting to feel bad. Maybe I didn't give these people enough of a chance. Maybe I wasn't in the right mood for this book. Maybe I'll pick it up again in a few weeks.
Maybe I'll enter it in BookCrossing and leave the book out somewhere in the hope that whoever stumbles upon it will appreciate it in ways that obviously I cannot.
It's a first-person story. I don't like the main character. That isn't necessarily the end of the world. Have you ever read a first-person narrative where the character sets him/herself up as the protagonist, but the author gives you some sort of signal not to believe what you're being told? A turn of phrase, a skewed point of view, a fact dropped into the story that the narrator doesn't realize the significance of--it's a literary throat-clearing, a broad wink. I keep waiting for that signal. I'm not getting it. Oh, dear Lord. The author likes this woman. I'm expected to like her as well, and by extension I'm supposed to care about this idiot she's just met and fallen in love with.
I do not want to have dinner with these people. I have no other book with me, and the public library closes at 5 on Sunday. Ten minutes ago.
Thank goodness for Webster's, our local second-hand book store! For two dollars and tax, I buy an Agatha Christie murder mystery I've never heard of before (Towards Zero) and use it to replace the bunch of pretentious, angst-ridden, pseudo-intellectual twerps I was stuck with.
Now I'm starting to feel bad. Maybe I didn't give these people enough of a chance. Maybe I wasn't in the right mood for this book. Maybe I'll pick it up again in a few weeks.
Maybe I'll enter it in BookCrossing and leave the book out somewhere in the hope that whoever stumbles upon it will appreciate it in ways that obviously I cannot.
Monday, September 04, 2006
In Pennsylvania Dutch country this weekend
I'm visiting my sister at the moment. This is the first time I've been to their new house. They live in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, deep in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country. Mennonites and Amish folk everywhere. Sunday in particular the buggies and bicycles on the road drastically outnumbered the cars.
Headed back home by bus this afternoon. Classes start tomorrow, which means town is going to be busy and full. I'm glad the students are back. I missed them. It's a little too quiet without them. Sure, I say that now. Give me two months, I'll be ready for them to leave and give us some peace.
Headed back home by bus this afternoon. Classes start tomorrow, which means town is going to be busy and full. I'm glad the students are back. I missed them. It's a little too quiet without them. Sure, I say that now. Give me two months, I'll be ready for them to leave and give us some peace.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Grange Fair
Went to Grange Fair this weekend. This fair is (I'm told) unique in the country. It's the only one left where people camp on the fairgrounds all week. A tent city pops up the day before the fair starts, and stays up into the Thursday of the following week.
Once you have been assigned a plot at the Grange Fair, it belongs to your family until someone decides to give it back. They get passed down in wills, they become a bone of contention in divorce settlements...this camping-at-the-fair thing is a great big deal. If you're locally born, that is. Outsiders (like me) just don't get the appeal. But I digress.
There's a waiting list a mile long for people who want plots. I don't think these plots can be sold, but they can be loaned out to people for one year at a time. Apparently, if you leave the tent completely unoccupied for one fair, your plot is forfeited and given to someone else. I don't think this happens often.
I spent the whole day there this past Saturday. I went with friends who have one of these tents. I can't imagine staying there for a whole week, unless I had animals to tend. That's where the tradition originated, back when long-distance transportation took a lot longer than it does now. Farmers had to stay on-site, because it wasn't feasible to ride back and forth from home to fairgrounds. It was also quite a social occasion. Again, because of transportation difficulties, it was sometimes the only week out of the year that families and friends living on opposite ends of the county got to see each other. A lot of family reunions are still held during Grange Fair.
It's not just about animals, produce, and handicrafts, either. There's a midway full of games, rides, and food stalls. There are performances in the grandstand and on the midway all week --concerts, tractor pulls, dance exhibitions, you name it.
Once you have been assigned a plot at the Grange Fair, it belongs to your family until someone decides to give it back. They get passed down in wills, they become a bone of contention in divorce settlements...this camping-at-the-fair thing is a great big deal. If you're locally born, that is. Outsiders (like me) just don't get the appeal. But I digress.
There's a waiting list a mile long for people who want plots. I don't think these plots can be sold, but they can be loaned out to people for one year at a time. Apparently, if you leave the tent completely unoccupied for one fair, your plot is forfeited and given to someone else. I don't think this happens often.
I spent the whole day there this past Saturday. I went with friends who have one of these tents. I can't imagine staying there for a whole week, unless I had animals to tend. That's where the tradition originated, back when long-distance transportation took a lot longer than it does now. Farmers had to stay on-site, because it wasn't feasible to ride back and forth from home to fairgrounds. It was also quite a social occasion. Again, because of transportation difficulties, it was sometimes the only week out of the year that families and friends living on opposite ends of the county got to see each other. A lot of family reunions are still held during Grange Fair.
It's not just about animals, produce, and handicrafts, either. There's a midway full of games, rides, and food stalls. There are performances in the grandstand and on the midway all week --concerts, tractor pulls, dance exhibitions, you name it.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Bringing the war a little too close to home
My aunt sent out an email on Friday to tell us all that my cousin, currently stationed at an air force base in Germany, is being deployed to Baghdad in November. The airman that was supposed to go got into a fist fight a few days ago. The disciplinary action that followed cost him a stripe on his rank, and now the only person with both the rank and the experience to suit their needs is my cousin.
He's coming back to the U.S. next week for training somewhere in Mississippi. His wife and two children (a three year old daughter and a newborn son) are going to live with my aunt and uncle in Virginia while he's away. It's only supposed to be a six-month deployment, but he was told that it could be extended to eight or nine months.
I was afraid something like this would happen. When he joined the air force, my cousin was trained to work with the missiles. He was stationed in Cheyenne, Wyoming and looked to be there for quite a while. Ironic, isn't it, that the safest place to be right now is tending nuclear weapons? He got restless, though. Because the job is so specialized there isn't much room for advancement. So he got retrained a few years ago and now he's in the post office for the AFB at (I think) Bitburg. My aunt says that's what he'd be doing in Iraq, handling the mail. Somehow I think it's going to be more difficult than that.
In my head, I still see the little boy I used to babysit. It's hard to think of him in a war zone.
He's coming back to the U.S. next week for training somewhere in Mississippi. His wife and two children (a three year old daughter and a newborn son) are going to live with my aunt and uncle in Virginia while he's away. It's only supposed to be a six-month deployment, but he was told that it could be extended to eight or nine months.
I was afraid something like this would happen. When he joined the air force, my cousin was trained to work with the missiles. He was stationed in Cheyenne, Wyoming and looked to be there for quite a while. Ironic, isn't it, that the safest place to be right now is tending nuclear weapons? He got restless, though. Because the job is so specialized there isn't much room for advancement. So he got retrained a few years ago and now he's in the post office for the AFB at (I think) Bitburg. My aunt says that's what he'd be doing in Iraq, handling the mail. Somehow I think it's going to be more difficult than that.
In my head, I still see the little boy I used to babysit. It's hard to think of him in a war zone.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Nothing to report, really
I've been surfing around, checking in with all the blogs I read, and I'm seeing there's as little activity elsewhere as there is right here. I think we're all doing the same thing: playing in the sunshine.
Will be back later when I've done something even remotely blogworthy.
Will be back later when I've done something even remotely blogworthy.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Last weekend and this weekend
This is Chewie. I'm not sure I've spelled his name right. He's a chocolate Labrador. He was one of about 20 dogs that came to Mutts Gone Mad last Saturday, which is about twice what we had last year.
I was running the Bobbing for Hot Dogs event for most of the day, and aiming my camera at everywhere else the rest of the time. Chewie was not interested in hot dogs at all. He flung himself into the wading pool and spun around a few times while biting at the water. Then he lay down, threw his head back, and allowed me to take this picture. It was one of the few times he was still all afternoon.
Everyone involved had a lot of fun, and we raised $42 for the local animal welfare agency. Not very much, but more than last year. They were pleased with it, though (every little bit helps), and the beagle rescue group was thrilled to get what they consider a "good" adoption application for one of their animals.
This is going to be a short post. I'm heading to my parents' house for a long weekend in about half an hour, and I'm not done packing yet. It's been a nice week off so far. I did some drawing on Sunday and Monday, thanks to a suggestion made by Anna of Self-Winding. I did a lot of reading, too, most of it indoors because it has been stinkin' hot here all week.
I think I'm going to bring my sketch pad with me to my folks' house. The first drawing I did pleased me quite a bit, but I'm not sure it wasn't a fluke. I seem to be able to do one good one, then a bunch that are very unsatisfying. Is that normal? I only ask because I don't draw much, and it bothers me when an ability seems to come and go of its own free will.
Time to go. Packing to do, taxi to call. Bye y'all!
Friday, July 28, 2006
Mutts Gone Mad & my birthweek
Howdy! My birthday is next Friday, and I've decided to take all of next week as vacation. I don't know quite what I'm going to do with myself. Well, that's a lie. I do know of two things I'll be doing. I'm visiting the parents towards the end of the week for a combination birthday/anniversary celebration. I was a 1-day early second anniversary present. And tomorrow I'm going to be in Reynolds Park in Bellefonte from 11 to 2 with my fellow Loons, hosting a fun fair for dogs.
We call it "Mutts Gone Mad," and this will be the second one we've done. Last year's was pretty well-attended, considering the very little press we got. We're hoping tomorrow's crowd is at least as large and that they have just as much fun as least year's group. There will be contests of all sorts: a rally course, an agility course, a best-dressed contest, and (new this year) doggie limbo. I have no idea how the last one works. I guess I'll know more tomorrow. There are also no-pressure sort of games to play, like an IQ test, and bobbing for hot dogs. This game involves throwing a frankfurter into a full wading pool, and then letting the dog go get it. It's fun to see how the different breeds react. Last year, the retrievers were more interested in splashing around in the water than what was in it. There was a mastiff who tried to do a Moses and push the water aside with her paws, because she didn't want to get her face wet.
The whole event is free. The only thing we sell is food (hamburgers, hot dogs, drinks) but we don't keep the proceeds. Those go to the local animal welfare organizations, some of whom will have representatives there. Beagle Rescue is even bringing a dog who's available for adoption.
This year we had a reporter from Lock Haven contact the Chief Loon, wanting to do a piece on MGM (as we've started to call it). Chief didn't get the email until after the deadline had passed, but this reporter is still interested in us, and now wants to write about the Loons in general. Wow. I wonder how she heard about us. I didn't think we were that visible, really.
Well, that's it for now. Desk is organized so people have somewhere to drop problems in my absence (I'm writing this from work). Time to get the heck outta here. I'll probably post some pictures here and/or on Flick'r when I come in for a landing. Tootles!
We call it "Mutts Gone Mad," and this will be the second one we've done. Last year's was pretty well-attended, considering the very little press we got. We're hoping tomorrow's crowd is at least as large and that they have just as much fun as least year's group. There will be contests of all sorts: a rally course, an agility course, a best-dressed contest, and (new this year) doggie limbo. I have no idea how the last one works. I guess I'll know more tomorrow. There are also no-pressure sort of games to play, like an IQ test, and bobbing for hot dogs. This game involves throwing a frankfurter into a full wading pool, and then letting the dog go get it. It's fun to see how the different breeds react. Last year, the retrievers were more interested in splashing around in the water than what was in it. There was a mastiff who tried to do a Moses and push the water aside with her paws, because she didn't want to get her face wet.
The whole event is free. The only thing we sell is food (hamburgers, hot dogs, drinks) but we don't keep the proceeds. Those go to the local animal welfare organizations, some of whom will have representatives there. Beagle Rescue is even bringing a dog who's available for adoption.
This year we had a reporter from Lock Haven contact the Chief Loon, wanting to do a piece on MGM (as we've started to call it). Chief didn't get the email until after the deadline had passed, but this reporter is still interested in us, and now wants to write about the Loons in general. Wow. I wonder how she heard about us. I didn't think we were that visible, really.
Well, that's it for now. Desk is organized so people have somewhere to drop problems in my absence (I'm writing this from work). Time to get the heck outta here. I'll probably post some pictures here and/or on Flick'r when I come in for a landing. Tootles!
Monday, July 24, 2006
Local arts festivals
There were a couple of arts & crafts festivals held in towns nearby, about a week ago. This is a yearly event, held around the middle of July. The two festivals are run by different organizations, but are scheduled so that they coincide. The one in State College was started by local artists forty years ago and it wasn't very long before it became too big for its britches. The organizers introduced some sort of jury process for artist selection, and the local talent started getting excluded in favor of out-of-town (usually out-of-state) artists with more expensive wares to sell.
In reaction, about ten or fifteen years ago the local artists started another festival in Boalsburg, the next town over. The first few years it was strictly for Pennsylvania artists. It's widened a bit in scope since then. Actually, this last time through I noticed the same artists had booths at both festivals. I wonder how long it will be before the local artists get pushed out of the Boalsburg one and have to start up a third festival in Bellefonte, Port Matilda, or Lemont.
My belly dance teacher has been trying for years to get some stage time at either festival. She's been repeatedly turned down. This year, though, she had an edge: one of her Belly Dance 2 students is married to a planner on the Boalsburg festival's committee. She got an hour of performance time. She contacted the other belly dance troupe in the area and offered them half of it, and from 3:30 to 4:30 the Saturday before last, the patrons of the People's Choice Festival got to see all sorts of belly dancing. This picture is of part of a sword dance. My teacher is one of the two women balancing swords on their heads, but unfortunately you can't see very much of her. The smiling woman on the right is my new teacher, who took over teaching the cabaret-style classes now that Barb is leaving.
I didn't take any more pictures than this one. I wasn't using a flash (didn't want to distract) and the picture came out very dark. Through the miracle of technology, though, I've managed to brighten it up considerably. If I'd known about the software before today, I would have shot lots more.
I bought my Mom's birthday present at the State College festival. This is tradition. Her birthday usually falls right after (or somewhere in the middle) of the festival. This year, though, the 4th of July being on a Tuesday pushed both festivals back a week. I can't say just yet what I bought her -- I haven't given it to her yet, and she sometimes reads this blog. I'll post a picture of it after I give it to her. I'm pretty sure she'll like it.
I also bought something for myself, which I don't usually do. There was a paper-maker and bookbinder there, selling gorgeous leather-bound books, full of thick, creamy, blank pages. The pages are hand-sewn into the binding. You just don't see that anymore. The one I bought is bound in red leather. So soft. So lovely. So intimidating to think about writing or drawing in it. But draw in it I will, just as soon as I limber up the old sketching muscle.
Now I know I saw my art supplies somewhere when I was cleaning...where did I stash them?
In reaction, about ten or fifteen years ago the local artists started another festival in Boalsburg, the next town over. The first few years it was strictly for Pennsylvania artists. It's widened a bit in scope since then. Actually, this last time through I noticed the same artists had booths at both festivals. I wonder how long it will be before the local artists get pushed out of the Boalsburg one and have to start up a third festival in Bellefonte, Port Matilda, or Lemont.
My belly dance teacher has been trying for years to get some stage time at either festival. She's been repeatedly turned down. This year, though, she had an edge: one of her Belly Dance 2 students is married to a planner on the Boalsburg festival's committee. She got an hour of performance time. She contacted the other belly dance troupe in the area and offered them half of it, and from 3:30 to 4:30 the Saturday before last, the patrons of the People's Choice Festival got to see all sorts of belly dancing. This picture is of part of a sword dance. My teacher is one of the two women balancing swords on their heads, but unfortunately you can't see very much of her. The smiling woman on the right is my new teacher, who took over teaching the cabaret-style classes now that Barb is leaving.
I didn't take any more pictures than this one. I wasn't using a flash (didn't want to distract) and the picture came out very dark. Through the miracle of technology, though, I've managed to brighten it up considerably. If I'd known about the software before today, I would have shot lots more.
I bought my Mom's birthday present at the State College festival. This is tradition. Her birthday usually falls right after (or somewhere in the middle) of the festival. This year, though, the 4th of July being on a Tuesday pushed both festivals back a week. I can't say just yet what I bought her -- I haven't given it to her yet, and she sometimes reads this blog. I'll post a picture of it after I give it to her. I'm pretty sure she'll like it.
I also bought something for myself, which I don't usually do. There was a paper-maker and bookbinder there, selling gorgeous leather-bound books, full of thick, creamy, blank pages. The pages are hand-sewn into the binding. You just don't see that anymore. The one I bought is bound in red leather. So soft. So lovely. So intimidating to think about writing or drawing in it. But draw in it I will, just as soon as I limber up the old sketching muscle.
Now I know I saw my art supplies somewhere when I was cleaning...where did I stash them?
I really need to get out more
I'm working on a project involving a set of microfilm called the Underground Newspaper Collection. I'm not going to get into how crazy it's driving me. Let's just say that my coworkers tiptoe past me and pretend not to hear to the muttering, sobbing, and cursing that leaks out over the soft walls of my cubicle.
I just want to mention this, because it just struck me today: of all the newspapers that were not trying for commercial success (in other words, the ones published by someone with a Cause, as opposed to the ones published with the intent of being a local newspaper), I've found that the anarchists were the best at being consistent. Their publications generally had numbers that went in sequential order (a rarity, trust me) and those numbers were (usually) printed somewhere on each issue, along with a date (equally as rare) . They also managed to maintain the frequency of publication, instead of publishing as a monthly for 3 issues and then letting six months go by before publishing another one. Wouldn't you think that as anarchists they'd be less concerned with organization and structure than their fellow alternative presses? Maybe to the point of being random on purpose?
I thought that was pretty funny. But then, I amuse easily.
I just want to mention this, because it just struck me today: of all the newspapers that were not trying for commercial success (in other words, the ones published by someone with a Cause, as opposed to the ones published with the intent of being a local newspaper), I've found that the anarchists were the best at being consistent. Their publications generally had numbers that went in sequential order (a rarity, trust me) and those numbers were (usually) printed somewhere on each issue, along with a date (equally as rare) . They also managed to maintain the frequency of publication, instead of publishing as a monthly for 3 issues and then letting six months go by before publishing another one. Wouldn't you think that as anarchists they'd be less concerned with organization and structure than their fellow alternative presses? Maybe to the point of being random on purpose?
I thought that was pretty funny. But then, I amuse easily.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Pictures from the Box
Whaddya think of the new look? I was getting a little tired of all the pink, myself. One of these days (not anytime soon) I may try to figure out how to design blog and make my own template. Don't be holding your breath, now. That's a vague whim. Until then, I think I can live with the lighthouse.
I visited my parents this past weekend. We spent a lot of time on the porch watching nature's floor show. There is a family of woodpeckers that walks up and down the trees calling to each other while they hammer away at tree trunks, and a gorgeous, too-fast-for-my-camera scarlet tanger (bright red with black wings) that visits once in a while. There are some juncos living in a nest under the porch (the porch is actually very high off the ground, so I'm not surprised there are birds using the underside of it), and the babies are just learning how to fly.
The real attraction though is a bunch of flying squirrels living in the eaves of the red tin roof. Mom's named them The Flying Wollendas. They leave the nest about dusk, go to the very edge of the roof and one by one they fling themselves out into the air, swooping down to land on the tree nearest the house. Then they climb to the top of that tree and fling themselves at the next one. They're about the size of chipmunks. I assumed flying squirrels were bigger, for some reason. Mom and Dad say that when it's finally time to weatherproof the house, they're going to have to seal off the roof in the evening, after the squirrels have left for the night. They don't want to hurt them, just make them move their nest to another location.
I stayed through to Monday, because it was Mom's birthday. I took her out to lunch at a 50's-style diner called Fezz's, after a morning spent going through this h-u-g-e box of photographs. She was looking for baby pictures for a family picnic my aunt is having this weekend. She wants everyone to send her baby pictures and she's going to make some sort of poster with them. I'm not going to this shin-dig. Not only is it farther away than I can manage without a longish bus trip (she lives in New Jersey), I already had other plans. And if I hadn't had any I'd have made some. My father's side of the family is large, loud, and rather...contentious? I guess that's the word. Last time we all got together (which was for my Grandma's funeral a little over a year ago), my dad and one of his brothers argued for at least 1/2 an hour about whether sugar or baking soda should be used to cut the acid in tomato sauce. I mean, really. They both work. Let's move on, okay?
So anyway as we were sorting through the pictures, I found a bunch I wanted copies of. I took twelve of them with me, but there were dozens and dozens more that I wanted. When I go back up next month, I'm going to spend a bit more time digging around in that box. There are some great ones in there. I scanned the twelve I brought back with me, and have uploaded all but three into Flickr. I'll get the other three done tonight. My connection is dial-up, so it takes a while to do.
Here's the one I used to make the new picture for my profile. It's me, at about 1 1/2.
I visited my parents this past weekend. We spent a lot of time on the porch watching nature's floor show. There is a family of woodpeckers that walks up and down the trees calling to each other while they hammer away at tree trunks, and a gorgeous, too-fast-for-my-camera scarlet tanger (bright red with black wings) that visits once in a while. There are some juncos living in a nest under the porch (the porch is actually very high off the ground, so I'm not surprised there are birds using the underside of it), and the babies are just learning how to fly.
The real attraction though is a bunch of flying squirrels living in the eaves of the red tin roof. Mom's named them The Flying Wollendas. They leave the nest about dusk, go to the very edge of the roof and one by one they fling themselves out into the air, swooping down to land on the tree nearest the house. Then they climb to the top of that tree and fling themselves at the next one. They're about the size of chipmunks. I assumed flying squirrels were bigger, for some reason. Mom and Dad say that when it's finally time to weatherproof the house, they're going to have to seal off the roof in the evening, after the squirrels have left for the night. They don't want to hurt them, just make them move their nest to another location.
I stayed through to Monday, because it was Mom's birthday. I took her out to lunch at a 50's-style diner called Fezz's, after a morning spent going through this h-u-g-e box of photographs. She was looking for baby pictures for a family picnic my aunt is having this weekend. She wants everyone to send her baby pictures and she's going to make some sort of poster with them. I'm not going to this shin-dig. Not only is it farther away than I can manage without a longish bus trip (she lives in New Jersey), I already had other plans. And if I hadn't had any I'd have made some. My father's side of the family is large, loud, and rather...contentious? I guess that's the word. Last time we all got together (which was for my Grandma's funeral a little over a year ago), my dad and one of his brothers argued for at least 1/2 an hour about whether sugar or baking soda should be used to cut the acid in tomato sauce. I mean, really. They both work. Let's move on, okay?
So anyway as we were sorting through the pictures, I found a bunch I wanted copies of. I took twelve of them with me, but there were dozens and dozens more that I wanted. When I go back up next month, I'm going to spend a bit more time digging around in that box. There are some great ones in there. I scanned the twelve I brought back with me, and have uploaded all but three into Flickr. I'll get the other three done tonight. My connection is dial-up, so it takes a while to do.
Here's the one I used to make the new picture for my profile. It's me, at about 1 1/2.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Sounds of the season
Pa-pow!
I sit bolt upright in bed. Was that a gunshot? I jam my glasses onto my face and look at the clock: 2:45 AM. That means it's really 2:18. The police will want to know when I heard the shot. I wonder if I'll have to explain why the alarm clock is set 27 minutes ahead.
I don't remember getting out of bed, but now I'm in the front room, peeking through the slats of the window blind. Can't see a thing. As I'm deciding whether to call the police or not, I hear it again. Different this time:
Zzzzzt! Pa-pow!
Oh, for pity's sake. It's been the fourth of July barely two hours, and someone's already setting off firecrackers. He (I don't know why I'm so sure it's a "he") probably bought them from that huge tent in the Wal-mart parking lot tonight, stopped there after work. Then, since tomorrow's a holiday, he went out drinking with his buddies. Bars close around two, so he probably just got home. He's not sleepy yet. A little bit bored, in fact. And then he sees his fireworks....
Screeeeeeee! Pop.
I shuffle back to bed, climb in, put a pillow over my head. Now that I know what the noise is, I can probably sleep through it. Oddly comforting to know that one's neighbors are just idiots, as opposed to being violent criminals.
As I start to drift off to sleep, I decide I'm going to have to suspend my disbelief a little more when watching TV or a movie. I never believe it when I see a character go from being sound asleep to sitting straight up in bed. Apparently it does happen.
Bang!
Moron. I hope he gets rained on at every single football game he goes to this Fall.
I sit bolt upright in bed. Was that a gunshot? I jam my glasses onto my face and look at the clock: 2:45 AM. That means it's really 2:18. The police will want to know when I heard the shot. I wonder if I'll have to explain why the alarm clock is set 27 minutes ahead.
I don't remember getting out of bed, but now I'm in the front room, peeking through the slats of the window blind. Can't see a thing. As I'm deciding whether to call the police or not, I hear it again. Different this time:
Zzzzzt! Pa-pow!
Oh, for pity's sake. It's been the fourth of July barely two hours, and someone's already setting off firecrackers. He (I don't know why I'm so sure it's a "he") probably bought them from that huge tent in the Wal-mart parking lot tonight, stopped there after work. Then, since tomorrow's a holiday, he went out drinking with his buddies. Bars close around two, so he probably just got home. He's not sleepy yet. A little bit bored, in fact. And then he sees his fireworks....
Screeeeeeee! Pop.
I shuffle back to bed, climb in, put a pillow over my head. Now that I know what the noise is, I can probably sleep through it. Oddly comforting to know that one's neighbors are just idiots, as opposed to being violent criminals.
As I start to drift off to sleep, I decide I'm going to have to suspend my disbelief a little more when watching TV or a movie. I never believe it when I see a character go from being sound asleep to sitting straight up in bed. Apparently it does happen.
Bang!
Moron. I hope he gets rained on at every single football game he goes to this Fall.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Phew
Well that's over with, thank goodness. It appears they only notify you of the results if things need to be changed at all. All I got on my door was a little note that read, "Your apartment has been inspected," so I guess I passed. I finally got the computer reconnected last night. It's amazing how much time you have for other things when goofing off online isn't an option.
One good thing came out of all of this. I like the way the apartment looks now. I wouldn't be embarrassed to let my Mom in here. It's a bit more organized, and there's a little less clutter overall. I threw out or donated to charity a lot of things that I decided I just didn't want or need any more. And I have enough space in the front room that I practice with the belly dancing DVD I bought a while back without too much furniture-shifting beforehand.
My belly dance instructor is moving away in August. Her husband lost his job, so they're moving to a little town a few hours away from us and starting a business. She says there's no one in that area teaching belly dance, so she's going to try to get some classes started there. Our classes are going to be taken over by her most advanced student--sort of her apprentice. She and my instructor have been taking turns leading class since I started going last March, so it should be a smooth transition. I'm going to miss Barb, though.
Speaking of belly dance, I took a workshop a couple weekends ago, focusing on Turkish Romany-style belly dance--the sort the gypsies dance. It was really interesting. And fun. And tiring. Dance classes are normally about an hour long. This class was one two-hour session, then an hour lunch break, then a second two-hour session. Boy, did I hurt the next day. My body clicked and clacked like a Jacob's Ladder. The music we were dancing to was in 9/8 meter: nine beats to the measure broken down into 4 beats, so you get this slight pause at the end of each measure. Here, try this, you'll see what I mean. Count this out loud and clap on the "1's":
1-2, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3...
It sounds like this:
clap, clap, clap, clap,[slight pause], clap, clap, clap, clap [slight pause]
That slight pause is just enough time for a quick hop or kick or hip movement, or any number of things. It takes a little readjustment to make oneself pause at the end of the fourth beat. I wound up rushing the steps a few times until I got it figured out. And then at class the following week, I had trouble readjusting to plain 1-2-3-4 again.
Let's see, what else is going on? The mess at work has been sorted out, kind of. I don't think anyone is particularly happy with the result (I know I'm not), but this is only supposed to be an "interim" solution to our problem. Maybe now we can stop sniping at each other and act like civilized people again. Hope springs eternal.
I'm visiting my parents next weekend, staying through to Monday for my Mom's birthday. No word yet on a diagnosis for her problem. I don't think she's been back to the doctor yet. Maybe it hasn't flared up recently. I'll make sure I ask her about it during the next "finger and toe check," which is what she calls our weekly phone conversations.
It's gorgeous outside. Finally. It's been raining off and on all week. I'm going to go play in the sunshine now. Have a good weekend everyone!
One good thing came out of all of this. I like the way the apartment looks now. I wouldn't be embarrassed to let my Mom in here. It's a bit more organized, and there's a little less clutter overall. I threw out or donated to charity a lot of things that I decided I just didn't want or need any more. And I have enough space in the front room that I practice with the belly dancing DVD I bought a while back without too much furniture-shifting beforehand.
My belly dance instructor is moving away in August. Her husband lost his job, so they're moving to a little town a few hours away from us and starting a business. She says there's no one in that area teaching belly dance, so she's going to try to get some classes started there. Our classes are going to be taken over by her most advanced student--sort of her apprentice. She and my instructor have been taking turns leading class since I started going last March, so it should be a smooth transition. I'm going to miss Barb, though.
Speaking of belly dance, I took a workshop a couple weekends ago, focusing on Turkish Romany-style belly dance--the sort the gypsies dance. It was really interesting. And fun. And tiring. Dance classes are normally about an hour long. This class was one two-hour session, then an hour lunch break, then a second two-hour session. Boy, did I hurt the next day. My body clicked and clacked like a Jacob's Ladder. The music we were dancing to was in 9/8 meter: nine beats to the measure broken down into 4 beats, so you get this slight pause at the end of each measure. Here, try this, you'll see what I mean. Count this out loud and clap on the "1's":
1-2, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2, 1-2-3...
It sounds like this:
clap, clap, clap, clap,[slight pause], clap, clap, clap, clap [slight pause]
That slight pause is just enough time for a quick hop or kick or hip movement, or any number of things. It takes a little readjustment to make oneself pause at the end of the fourth beat. I wound up rushing the steps a few times until I got it figured out. And then at class the following week, I had trouble readjusting to plain 1-2-3-4 again.
Let's see, what else is going on? The mess at work has been sorted out, kind of. I don't think anyone is particularly happy with the result (I know I'm not), but this is only supposed to be an "interim" solution to our problem. Maybe now we can stop sniping at each other and act like civilized people again. Hope springs eternal.
I'm visiting my parents next weekend, staying through to Monday for my Mom's birthday. No word yet on a diagnosis for her problem. I don't think she's been back to the doctor yet. Maybe it hasn't flared up recently. I'll make sure I ask her about it during the next "finger and toe check," which is what she calls our weekly phone conversations.
It's gorgeous outside. Finally. It's been raining off and on all week. I'm going to go play in the sunshine now. Have a good weekend everyone!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Down to the wire
It's been a while since I posted, I know. Busy with rearranging the apartment and assorted other off-line activities.
First of all, let me say that Mom got the results of her stress test, and there's nothing wrong with her heart. She had to call them to get the results, which they have had since the day after the test. They tried to call (or so the receptionist claimed), but no one was home. My parents don't own an answering machine, and the receptionist said they didn't have my Mom's work number. They do, though. It was on the same form as the home number, if anyone had bothered to look. So we still don't know what's giving her grief, but at least it isn't her heart. She thinks she has a hiatal hernia.
I came home yesterday to another note from the apartment complex office. Inspection is definitely Monday through Wednesday of next week. And now he tells us things that I'm going to have to scurry around making sure of this weekend: no power strips or extension cords are to be in evidence. This means my computer's getting unplugged. I'm also pretty sure that the space I have between my table and book case is a little too narrow to be considered a "clear path," so it's time to move furniture. Again. I wish they'd said something sooner.
To add insult to injury, the inspections are random. They might not even pick my place to look at, and all this fretting and fussing will have been for naught. The manager said he'd contact us after/if our apartments got inspected. Delilah is going to have to be crated three days next week, unless I hear otherwise. Thank goodness they only do this every 4 to 6 years. Hopefully I'll be out of there the next time inspection comes around.
I probably won't be making an entry until Wednesday night, unless the manager sounds the all-clear before then. Wish me luck.
First of all, let me say that Mom got the results of her stress test, and there's nothing wrong with her heart. She had to call them to get the results, which they have had since the day after the test. They tried to call (or so the receptionist claimed), but no one was home. My parents don't own an answering machine, and the receptionist said they didn't have my Mom's work number. They do, though. It was on the same form as the home number, if anyone had bothered to look. So we still don't know what's giving her grief, but at least it isn't her heart. She thinks she has a hiatal hernia.
I came home yesterday to another note from the apartment complex office. Inspection is definitely Monday through Wednesday of next week. And now he tells us things that I'm going to have to scurry around making sure of this weekend: no power strips or extension cords are to be in evidence. This means my computer's getting unplugged. I'm also pretty sure that the space I have between my table and book case is a little too narrow to be considered a "clear path," so it's time to move furniture. Again. I wish they'd said something sooner.
To add insult to injury, the inspections are random. They might not even pick my place to look at, and all this fretting and fussing will have been for naught. The manager said he'd contact us after/if our apartments got inspected. Delilah is going to have to be crated three days next week, unless I hear otherwise. Thank goodness they only do this every 4 to 6 years. Hopefully I'll be out of there the next time inspection comes around.
I probably won't be making an entry until Wednesday night, unless the manager sounds the all-clear before then. Wish me luck.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Today's word
For years now, I have subscribed to a listserv called "A Word a Day." Most weeks, there's a theme to the words that we receive. This week's theme was long words. I mean really, really long words. Like today's:
pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, noun
(NOO-muh-noh-UL-truh-MY-kruh-SKOP-ik-SIL-i-koh-VOL-kay-no-koh-NEE
-o-sis, nyoo-)
A lung disease caused by inhaling fine particles of silica.-o-sis, nyoo-)
[From New Latin, from Greek pneumono- (lung) + Latin ultra- (beyond, extremely) + Greek micro- (small) + -scopic (looking) + Latin silico (like sand) + volcano + Greek konis (dust) + -osis (condition).]
Yowza. It takes longer to say than it does to define.
Hey, guess what! This is my fiftieth post!
Yowza. It takes longer to say than it does to define.
Hey, guess what! This is my fiftieth post!
Back to (what passes for) normal
The kittens have been collected. Delilah is as inscrutable as ever. She looked around for them (briefly) when I moved her dishes back to the kitchen. Then she dismissed them from her mind and settled down to eat.
The woman who came to get them told me that the other kitten she'd been given was found last Friday in the middle of the road during a rain storm. His name is "Splash." She said he cried all night, and she thinks he's just lonely. I think these two will make good roommates for him. Charlie in particular is very friendly. Dexter probably will just be grateful that Charlie has someone else to jump on for a while.
I've asked for Charlie and Dexter to be adopted together if that's at all possible, and she said they try to honor requests like that. If it's been a few weeks, though, and no one wants two kittens, they will probably get split up--better one of them gets a good home than they both wind up in foster care for eternity.
Now back to reorganizing the apartment. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I hope it's not an oncoming train....
The woman who came to get them told me that the other kitten she'd been given was found last Friday in the middle of the road during a rain storm. His name is "Splash." She said he cried all night, and she thinks he's just lonely. I think these two will make good roommates for him. Charlie in particular is very friendly. Dexter probably will just be grateful that Charlie has someone else to jump on for a while.
I've asked for Charlie and Dexter to be adopted together if that's at all possible, and she said they try to honor requests like that. If it's been a few weeks, though, and no one wants two kittens, they will probably get split up--better one of them gets a good home than they both wind up in foster care for eternity.
Now back to reorganizing the apartment. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I hope it's not an oncoming train....
Monday, June 05, 2006
Nothing yet about Mom
Emailed my Mom today at lunchtime. She said they haven't gotten back to her yet about the test results. She thinks that's a good sign. If it were something serious, they'd be all over her to get in there immediately. Right?
Charlie and Dexter
It's been a very eventful weekend for the boys. Yep. Boys. The vet told me that the one I've been calling a "she" isn't one.
So here's a summary: When last we left our heroes, they were headed for the vet's to find out if they'd been exposed to the feline leukemia and /or feline AIDS viruses. They haven't. Yippee! I also found out they're about five weeks old.
Shortly after the vet told me I had two males, I decided to name them, mainly for paperwork reasons. "Kitten 1" and "Kitten 2" just seemed stupid. So the tan one with all the thin stripes is Charlie, and the little one with the big thick black stripes is Dexter. In the attached picture, that's Charlie on the bottom and Dexter on top.
I went home and called the woman from the shelter and left the test results on her voicemail. She got back to me yesterday. She's been given another 5-week-old kitten, and she's keeping that at her house until the shelter has room. She's coming by my place tonight around 7:30 to pick up these two from me. So today is their last day at Chez Vee. Delilah will be so pleased.
I'm going to get all sniffly when they leave, I can tell. Strange how quickly you can get attached to something, even when you know the situation isn't permanent.
So here's a summary: When last we left our heroes, they were headed for the vet's to find out if they'd been exposed to the feline leukemia and /or feline AIDS viruses. They haven't. Yippee! I also found out they're about five weeks old.
Shortly after the vet told me I had two males, I decided to name them, mainly for paperwork reasons. "Kitten 1" and "Kitten 2" just seemed stupid. So the tan one with all the thin stripes is Charlie, and the little one with the big thick black stripes is Dexter. In the attached picture, that's Charlie on the bottom and Dexter on top.
I went home and called the woman from the shelter and left the test results on her voicemail. She got back to me yesterday. She's been given another 5-week-old kitten, and she's keeping that at her house until the shelter has room. She's coming by my place tonight around 7:30 to pick up these two from me. So today is their last day at Chez Vee. Delilah will be so pleased.
I'm going to get all sniffly when they leave, I can tell. Strange how quickly you can get attached to something, even when you know the situation isn't permanent.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Mom's test and kitten #3
In all the excitement about furry houseguests, I forgot to mention a call I got from my Mom. She had her stress test on Tuesday. They have to analyze the results yet, so she didn't have much to tell me. They told her there were a couple of odd results, but that women her age get false positives a lot, which is why they did some sort of scan as well. I want to say it was a CAT scan, but that maybe because I have cats on the brain. As soon as they've looked at that scan, they'll call her for another appointment.
She said she looks like she had a wrestling match with an octopus. There are little "sucker" marks all over her from those sticky pads from the ends of the wires (remember the intro for The $6 Million Man?). One of them took off some skin when it was removed. Dad said (and I agree) that you'd think that they'd show just a teensy bit more care instead of just yanking the things off you when they're done.
It wasn't a long conversation, and she was off to call my sister with the same bit of news. I warned her that she'd forgotten to tell Ditter about the stress test to begin with, and she might get a bit of a tongue-lashing. She was surprised. She thought she had told her. Apparently when she talked to my sister, they got off-topic and never wandered back onto it.
In other news, I found out what happened to kitten #3. On my way through the complex yesterday evening, I passed a woman sunning herself outside of her apartment. I thought it was the woman from the pair I spoke to last Thursday, but her hair was up this time, and I didn't remember it being quite so red. Next to her was a cat carrier, just like the new one I bought for my guests. I took a peek into it, and this little striped face peeked back at me.
"I have two kittens in my kitchen that look just like you." I said to the little face.
"Oh!" said the woman. "You found the others?"
Apparently their little one made her foray into the great big world Friday evening, in the middle of a downpour. They heard her crying in the drain pipe (sticks out of the hillside, it's what has made that ditch between the lawn and the woods), and they were sure she'd drown if they didn't get her out of there. It took them the better part of an hour before she'd let them near her, and she hissed and bit at them for a day or so afterwards. She's fine now. Plays with their little Yorkie (Pebbles), who I'll bet she thinks is a large, funny-looking cat. The woman says she's not sure whether they're keeping her or giving her to a friend of theirs who happens to be a vet. She says it gets harder everyday to think of giving the kitten up. I wonder now, which one was it I saw chasing after Mama Cat that day? None of them are white and black tabby. Maybe it was the one I have that is tan with very fine black stripes.
The two I'm tending are now officially on the waiting list for the adoption center. It's purely a space consideration, and kittens get adopted quickly, so the coordinator thinks there will be room for these two in about a week. I'm supposed to ask the vet for a combo test tomorrow (to check for feline leukemia and feline AIDS--I didn't know the latter existed until yesterday) on one of them, and if that comes back OK, then it's all systems go. The center won't take them if they've been exposed to either of those viruses. I'm not going to worry about that unless I have to. She said we only need to test one of them, because the test is expensive, and 99% of the time if one is virus-free then the other one is too. Makes sense. She doesn't want me to get them started on the shots, though. They'll do that at the center.
She said she looks like she had a wrestling match with an octopus. There are little "sucker" marks all over her from those sticky pads from the ends of the wires (remember the intro for The $6 Million Man?). One of them took off some skin when it was removed. Dad said (and I agree) that you'd think that they'd show just a teensy bit more care instead of just yanking the things off you when they're done.
It wasn't a long conversation, and she was off to call my sister with the same bit of news. I warned her that she'd forgotten to tell Ditter about the stress test to begin with, and she might get a bit of a tongue-lashing. She was surprised. She thought she had told her. Apparently when she talked to my sister, they got off-topic and never wandered back onto it.
In other news, I found out what happened to kitten #3. On my way through the complex yesterday evening, I passed a woman sunning herself outside of her apartment. I thought it was the woman from the pair I spoke to last Thursday, but her hair was up this time, and I didn't remember it being quite so red. Next to her was a cat carrier, just like the new one I bought for my guests. I took a peek into it, and this little striped face peeked back at me.
"I have two kittens in my kitchen that look just like you." I said to the little face.
"Oh!" said the woman. "You found the others?"
Apparently their little one made her foray into the great big world Friday evening, in the middle of a downpour. They heard her crying in the drain pipe (sticks out of the hillside, it's what has made that ditch between the lawn and the woods), and they were sure she'd drown if they didn't get her out of there. It took them the better part of an hour before she'd let them near her, and she hissed and bit at them for a day or so afterwards. She's fine now. Plays with their little Yorkie (Pebbles), who I'll bet she thinks is a large, funny-looking cat. The woman says she's not sure whether they're keeping her or giving her to a friend of theirs who happens to be a vet. She says it gets harder everyday to think of giving the kitten up. I wonder now, which one was it I saw chasing after Mama Cat that day? None of them are white and black tabby. Maybe it was the one I have that is tan with very fine black stripes.
The two I'm tending are now officially on the waiting list for the adoption center. It's purely a space consideration, and kittens get adopted quickly, so the coordinator thinks there will be room for these two in about a week. I'm supposed to ask the vet for a combo test tomorrow (to check for feline leukemia and feline AIDS--I didn't know the latter existed until yesterday) on one of them, and if that comes back OK, then it's all systems go. The center won't take them if they've been exposed to either of those viruses. I'm not going to worry about that unless I have to. She said we only need to test one of them, because the test is expensive, and 99% of the time if one is virus-free then the other one is too. Makes sense. She doesn't want me to get them started on the shots, though. They'll do that at the center.
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