The first bird of 2006 was a downy woodpecker.
Things went downhill from there. And uphill a little here the last two months of the year.
I am shredding 2006 and burning it in a coffee can in the backyard. Hopefully the first bird of 2007 will be a phoenix.
31 December 2006
29 December 2006
Surprise! I'm a Boy!
Actually I kick male ass on the spatial problems - 19 out of 20 for the "angles" quiz, whereas the average score for men is 15.1 and for women 13.3.
Overall, the results seem to be based on "Gurls are too stoopid to do engineering." There's not a great deal of disparity between the average male and female scores on many of the "feminine" traits, like verbal ability and decoding emotion from pictures of people's eyes. But if you can picture how an object will look turned in space, you must be a guy.
I've got a cold. I'm having a hot toddy and going to bed. Check out Feministe for more.
27 December 2006
I Have Returned
From the land of squishy white bread, eggs fried in Crisco, and venison burger floating in oily-sheened Velveeta. I tried to stick to the shrimp and chicken and selected the leanest portions of ham I could find, but I overdid it on the baked beans and the cookies, and I lay in bed at night listening to my tummy squeal and burble like a pet guinea pig.
Detox time. Green tea, brown rice, and steamed vegetables for a week.
Detox time. Green tea, brown rice, and steamed vegetables for a week.
21 December 2006
Yule
“It’s the first day of winter,” my coworker moaned, dragging herself around like Chopin’s funeral dirge. “Such a long way to go ‘til spring.”
Interesting, how disconnected we moderns are, flooded with fluorescent light and weather porn over every forecast of snow, that many of us don’t know that this is the day the light begins to return. I point out to my coworker that the days start to get longer after the solstice as the sun swings north in the sky. She seems to find some relief in that, or maybe the peppermint Edy’s ice cream had the comforting effect.
On the way home, I stop at the market to check out the wreaths and garlands. Balsam, pine, and fir, I love them all, but cannot justify spending money on their organically-grown, fresh-cut, trucked-in-from-the-Upper-Peninsula prices. I breathe deeply of my favorite scents and buy some beef medallions instead.
At home, cold rain blows into my eyes as I clip a bough of holly to bring inside to deck my hall. The cat pokes her head out of the door as soon as I open it. The smell of my two-foot Fraser fir Christmas tree hangs faintly in the air. I set the holly on the cabinet and spoon out some special food for Sylvie. I watch her eat her treat with the swelling in the heart that an Italian grandmother must feel when she serves her signature bolognese.
The little steaks are delicious broiled with cracked pepper and minced garlic and with a side of asparagus tips, washed down with a brown ale of the “winter warmer” variety.
I wish I had someone here to share it with. I make my own meaning for my life, but it’s damned hard to do it alone all the time.
I open the small, mailable gifts from my far-flung friends. Soft gray cashmere socks with a blue snowflake pattern. Some incredibly good-smelling Finnish sauna soap. Bars of dark chocolate, fancy paper clips twisted into the shapes of birds, a disposable fountain pen. A card from Ozzie Paul in Sydney, who writes, “Spare a thought for those of us having to bear the long summer days.” I plug in the lights and arrange the gifts at the base of the tree around the beautiful sandhill crane book from D. & B.
The gifts are nice. I wish some of the friends would let me feed them more often.
Earlier Farm Boy told me solstice celebrations are “just as silly and mythological as the rest.” I told him I rather preferred some of the pagan holidays. He asked why. I responded that solstice is an actual, observable phenomenon, something to let us humans mark the passage of time. “Until the earth’s poles move again,” he said.
I suppose I need the silly and the mythological. I don’t have the fortitude to not believe in anything.
I light a couple of spruce-scented candles. I stare out between the slats of the blinds for a while, watching the rain come down harder, wondering if I chose this loneliness or if it somehow happened when I wasn’t looking.
Interesting, how disconnected we moderns are, flooded with fluorescent light and weather porn over every forecast of snow, that many of us don’t know that this is the day the light begins to return. I point out to my coworker that the days start to get longer after the solstice as the sun swings north in the sky. She seems to find some relief in that, or maybe the peppermint Edy’s ice cream had the comforting effect.
On the way home, I stop at the market to check out the wreaths and garlands. Balsam, pine, and fir, I love them all, but cannot justify spending money on their organically-grown, fresh-cut, trucked-in-from-the-Upper-Peninsula prices. I breathe deeply of my favorite scents and buy some beef medallions instead.
At home, cold rain blows into my eyes as I clip a bough of holly to bring inside to deck my hall. The cat pokes her head out of the door as soon as I open it. The smell of my two-foot Fraser fir Christmas tree hangs faintly in the air. I set the holly on the cabinet and spoon out some special food for Sylvie. I watch her eat her treat with the swelling in the heart that an Italian grandmother must feel when she serves her signature bolognese.
The little steaks are delicious broiled with cracked pepper and minced garlic and with a side of asparagus tips, washed down with a brown ale of the “winter warmer” variety.
I wish I had someone here to share it with. I make my own meaning for my life, but it’s damned hard to do it alone all the time.
I open the small, mailable gifts from my far-flung friends. Soft gray cashmere socks with a blue snowflake pattern. Some incredibly good-smelling Finnish sauna soap. Bars of dark chocolate, fancy paper clips twisted into the shapes of birds, a disposable fountain pen. A card from Ozzie Paul in Sydney, who writes, “Spare a thought for those of us having to bear the long summer days.” I plug in the lights and arrange the gifts at the base of the tree around the beautiful sandhill crane book from D. & B.
The gifts are nice. I wish some of the friends would let me feed them more often.
Earlier Farm Boy told me solstice celebrations are “just as silly and mythological as the rest.” I told him I rather preferred some of the pagan holidays. He asked why. I responded that solstice is an actual, observable phenomenon, something to let us humans mark the passage of time. “Until the earth’s poles move again,” he said.
I suppose I need the silly and the mythological. I don’t have the fortitude to not believe in anything.
I light a couple of spruce-scented candles. I stare out between the slats of the blinds for a while, watching the rain come down harder, wondering if I chose this loneliness or if it somehow happened when I wasn’t looking.
20 December 2006
Quote of the Day
Once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, wearing stripes with plaid comes easy.
– Albert Einstein
– Albert Einstein
19 December 2006
14 December 2006
Feedback on the New Blogger?
What do you think of the labels? Are they workin' for ya? I'm trying not to be obsessive about yet another thing to organize. It's really enough that I have to turn all the labels on the canned goods outward and keep the dollar bills in my wallet facing the same way and in order (with the ones folded in the middle). The labels seem too big and white to me; perhaps I'll try to smallify or unwhiten them in the template.
The Ann Arbor School Board Has Never Been to Cincinnati
This is the first thing I thought of when I heard they named the new high school Skyline.
12 December 2006
11 December 2006
Flawless Logic
From a box of Domino® sugar:
Therefore, sugar is an important part of any balanced diet.
And the recipe for pecan sticky buns is approved by the American Diabetes Association, right?
Therefore, sugar is an important part of any balanced diet.
And the recipe for pecan sticky buns is approved by the American Diabetes Association, right?
Baking Day
After three years, I believe I have perfected the "molasses crinkle" aka the "pain-in-the-ass cookie," so called because of the unreasonably sticky dough.
- Use all butter instead of butter and shortening.
- Add 1/4 cup more flour than recipe calls for.
- Spray everything with Pam.
- Bake for 2 minutes less than recipe calls for.
On This Day, I Quote George Gordon, Lord Byron
Through life's road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three and thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing - except, thirty-three.
And a cat who's chewed out half her fur, a dad who sings to me on my voice mail, and a toaster oven with a timer that only sometimes works.
I have dragg'd to three and thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing - except, thirty-three.
And a cat who's chewed out half her fur, a dad who sings to me on my voice mail, and a toaster oven with a timer that only sometimes works.
10 December 2006
Miscellaneous
Excellent comment threads at Feministing and Feministe on the intersection of stature and gender. (Thanks Kevin.)
I hadn’t shopped at Target for a long time, so I was somewhat surprised by the expanded grocery section. “Well, I do need cheese,” I thought, but it still felt strange to walk out of Target with socks, soap, and a bag of shredded mozzarella.
Still no birds at the feeder. P. has commissioned her husband to create a special work on his Native American flute to ask the spirits for birds. They’re really all I want for Christmas.
I hadn’t shopped at Target for a long time, so I was somewhat surprised by the expanded grocery section. “Well, I do need cheese,” I thought, but it still felt strange to walk out of Target with socks, soap, and a bag of shredded mozzarella.
Still no birds at the feeder. P. has commissioned her husband to create a special work on his Native American flute to ask the spirits for birds. They’re really all I want for Christmas.
04 December 2006
Anniversary
Ten years ago this month, I left graduate studies at the Ohio State University and moved to my first solo apartment. You might think my next move would have been to find a job. It wasn’t. The next thing I did was to get a cat. “For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit,” wrote Christopher Smart, when he considered his cat, Jeoffrey.
The cat was free, and she almost wasn’t mine. When I called the ad in the paper, the woman told me someone else had beat me to her. A few hours later, she called back to say the other person hadn’t shown up. Soon I was standing in the living room of a ranch style house in the western suburbs of Columbus, where I was introduced to Sylvia.
She slipped down the stairs, a gray shadow in the corner of my eye, while the family explained that the teenaged daughter simply didn’t want the cat anymore. Plus a large dog had joined the household. The mother brusquely gathered up cans of cat food, a dish, and a plastic cargo crate. All of it was mine. Free. Just take the cat. I was there for less than five minutes. They crammed her in the carrier and suddenly I was standing on the step holding the crate, a little stunned by the lack of ceremony. No good-bye pat, no rite of handing off. Animals have never been disposable to me, and I have never let one go without a farewell of some sort. "Well, their loss. Come on, kitty," I thought-beamed to the soft, frightened creature at my side as we stepped into the cold dark together.
I didn’t even feel her silky chinchilla fur until we were home. Home was the upper apartment in a dilapidated house a few streets north of campus. It had a kitchenette and two rooms outfitted with yard-sale grade furniture. Raccoons lived in the attic and a broken window was never satisfactorily repaired. The downstairs neighbors had noisy sex on Sunday afternoons and Thursday nights after E.R. Hey, E.R. used to be good.
Gas was around $1.15 a gallon. I think my rent was $280 a month. But I digress.
Sylvie’s never been much of a lap-sitter, but she was visibly uncertain and shy at first. She warmed up to Dmitry, who had a way with cats, even if he wasn’t patient enough to help me practice my Russian phonetics. “Your kitty is пушинка” - a bit of fluff - he would say, giving her tail a gentle tug.
He wouldn’t recognize her now, with her beautiful silver fur gone from her belly and back legs. For the past five months she’s been chewing her own hair off. The vet has been unable to treat successfully the allergy or compulsion that causes her to do this. I’m not completely at a loss yet. One of my writers’ group members suggested Dr. Pitcairn’s natural diet, which helped her dog with skin problems.
The hair loss is not the worst health issue she’s ever faced. In 2001 I noticed her lapping the water bowl bone-dry on a daily basis. She was diagnosed with diabetes and prescribed insulin injections. She fought the shots every day. She slashed at me. She hissed at me. She skulked around, hid under the bed, fired furious, baleful glances at me. I cried on the phone to the vet that I couldn’t do it - that Sylvie hated me too much - and the vet assured me that I was not a bad kitty mom if the injections weren’t a viable option.
But they were the only option. After I stopped trying to administer the shots, Sylvie got sick and skinny to the point where her hindquarters quivered with the exertion of merely walking. Finally she let me start to give the injections. Even after five years, this trust does not extend to other people. If anyone else approaches her with a syringe, they will shortly need the tube of Neosporin. The only person foolhardy enough to make an attempt was my friend K. from the wildlife rehab clinic, and she had to go after my cat with padded welding gloves on and with the net used to restrain coyotes. A wild bird of prey is easier to handle than my pissed off cat.
She pretty much hates anyone who comes in when I’m not home, even if it’s someone she’s met before and seems to like. She will smack the hand that feeds her. I tell friends coming over to take care of her while I’m away to throw the food down and go.
She especially dislikes women with higher-pitched voices. After the coyote-net incident, she would rush at K. like an enraged bull elephant. She ripped open a three-inch gash on the foot of a little girl for following her into the other room. When my girly-voiced friend J. came over, I had to shut the cat in the bedroom. She seems to like men better, but she’s not a good judge of character and totally, completely adores the cads.
She is attracted to black pants as if they’re made of catnip. She hogs the body pillow at night. She demands canned food immediately upon my return to the apartment, no matter how brief my absence. She chews on the Christmas tree.
She leaves all the yarn and beads alone. She forgives me for yelling and for running the vacuum and for coming home late, even when I smell like other cats. She keeps me company while I work. She likes quality chair time, when she can press her forehead against my leg and purr like a diesel engine. She gives me kitty-kisses.
In the past ten years, we have moved four times. I have had seven different jobs. My brother and two good friends have died. My heart’s been broken a hundred times. Life has shattered, shifted, come back together with jagged Crazy Glue edges. Sylvie is always there, rasping tears off my face with her warm tongue, head-butting me to get out of bed, greeting me at the door.
For all these gifts and more, my furry purry one, Fancy Feast all month, and the feather toy every night.
The cat was free, and she almost wasn’t mine. When I called the ad in the paper, the woman told me someone else had beat me to her. A few hours later, she called back to say the other person hadn’t shown up. Soon I was standing in the living room of a ranch style house in the western suburbs of Columbus, where I was introduced to Sylvia.
She slipped down the stairs, a gray shadow in the corner of my eye, while the family explained that the teenaged daughter simply didn’t want the cat anymore. Plus a large dog had joined the household. The mother brusquely gathered up cans of cat food, a dish, and a plastic cargo crate. All of it was mine. Free. Just take the cat. I was there for less than five minutes. They crammed her in the carrier and suddenly I was standing on the step holding the crate, a little stunned by the lack of ceremony. No good-bye pat, no rite of handing off. Animals have never been disposable to me, and I have never let one go without a farewell of some sort. "Well, their loss. Come on, kitty," I thought-beamed to the soft, frightened creature at my side as we stepped into the cold dark together.
I didn’t even feel her silky chinchilla fur until we were home. Home was the upper apartment in a dilapidated house a few streets north of campus. It had a kitchenette and two rooms outfitted with yard-sale grade furniture. Raccoons lived in the attic and a broken window was never satisfactorily repaired. The downstairs neighbors had noisy sex on Sunday afternoons and Thursday nights after E.R. Hey, E.R. used to be good.
Gas was around $1.15 a gallon. I think my rent was $280 a month. But I digress.
Sylvie’s never been much of a lap-sitter, but she was visibly uncertain and shy at first. She warmed up to Dmitry, who had a way with cats, even if he wasn’t patient enough to help me practice my Russian phonetics. “Your kitty is пушинка” - a bit of fluff - he would say, giving her tail a gentle tug.
He wouldn’t recognize her now, with her beautiful silver fur gone from her belly and back legs. For the past five months she’s been chewing her own hair off. The vet has been unable to treat successfully the allergy or compulsion that causes her to do this. I’m not completely at a loss yet. One of my writers’ group members suggested Dr. Pitcairn’s natural diet, which helped her dog with skin problems.
The hair loss is not the worst health issue she’s ever faced. In 2001 I noticed her lapping the water bowl bone-dry on a daily basis. She was diagnosed with diabetes and prescribed insulin injections. She fought the shots every day. She slashed at me. She hissed at me. She skulked around, hid under the bed, fired furious, baleful glances at me. I cried on the phone to the vet that I couldn’t do it - that Sylvie hated me too much - and the vet assured me that I was not a bad kitty mom if the injections weren’t a viable option.
But they were the only option. After I stopped trying to administer the shots, Sylvie got sick and skinny to the point where her hindquarters quivered with the exertion of merely walking. Finally she let me start to give the injections. Even after five years, this trust does not extend to other people. If anyone else approaches her with a syringe, they will shortly need the tube of Neosporin. The only person foolhardy enough to make an attempt was my friend K. from the wildlife rehab clinic, and she had to go after my cat with padded welding gloves on and with the net used to restrain coyotes. A wild bird of prey is easier to handle than my pissed off cat.
She pretty much hates anyone who comes in when I’m not home, even if it’s someone she’s met before and seems to like. She will smack the hand that feeds her. I tell friends coming over to take care of her while I’m away to throw the food down and go.
She especially dislikes women with higher-pitched voices. After the coyote-net incident, she would rush at K. like an enraged bull elephant. She ripped open a three-inch gash on the foot of a little girl for following her into the other room. When my girly-voiced friend J. came over, I had to shut the cat in the bedroom. She seems to like men better, but she’s not a good judge of character and totally, completely adores the cads.
She is attracted to black pants as if they’re made of catnip. She hogs the body pillow at night. She demands canned food immediately upon my return to the apartment, no matter how brief my absence. She chews on the Christmas tree.
She leaves all the yarn and beads alone. She forgives me for yelling and for running the vacuum and for coming home late, even when I smell like other cats. She keeps me company while I work. She likes quality chair time, when she can press her forehead against my leg and purr like a diesel engine. She gives me kitty-kisses.
In the past ten years, we have moved four times. I have had seven different jobs. My brother and two good friends have died. My heart’s been broken a hundred times. Life has shattered, shifted, come back together with jagged Crazy Glue edges. Sylvie is always there, rasping tears off my face with her warm tongue, head-butting me to get out of bed, greeting me at the door.
For all these gifts and more, my furry purry one, Fancy Feast all month, and the feather toy every night.
But They Didn't Ask About "Pop" or "Chipped Ham"
| What American accent do you have? Your Result: The West Your accent is the lowest common denominator of American speech. Unless you're a SoCal surfer, no one thinks you have an accent. And really, you may not even be from the West at all, you could easily be from Florida or one of those big Southern cities like Dallas or Atlanta. | |
| The Midland | |
| Boston | |
| North Central | |
| The Inland North | |
| The Northeast | |
| Philadelphia | |
| The South | |
| What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes | |
28 November 2006
A Friendly Reminder to Discard Old Cosmetics
Sure, you'll want to see if you can still pull off wearing Maybelline's "Tart," found in the back of the closet, but it will just stick to you like a melted crayon and you'll wind up scrubbing it off your lips with a fingernail brush.
27 November 2006
Ahhh Yeah
New water heater. Maybe my gas bill will even decrease, now that I'm not keeping a barrel full of lime at 130°.
In other news, I totally forgot over the last week that I'm a student, and I have a quiz today and assignments due this week. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to go learn propositional logic now.
In other news, I totally forgot over the last week that I'm a student, and I have a quiz today and assignments due this week. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to go learn propositional logic now.
22 November 2006
20 November 2006
Why da U.P. Doesn't Make the Best Cookie
1. The Keweenaw Peninsula sticks to the cookie cutter.
2. Da U.P. burns quick, eh?
3. No one recognizes it unless it's shown in relation to the mitten.
But they're still delicious. :-P
2. Da U.P. burns quick, eh?
3. No one recognizes it unless it's shown in relation to the mitten.
But they're still delicious. :-P
19 November 2006
Prison Break
The upcoming holiday weekend has me shackled to the desk trying to Get It All Done. This not entirely unpleasant, as today I only had a bra on for just as long as it took to pick up kitty litter at K-Mart.
When I look out the window, there's one narrow scrap of a view with no visible power lines, cars, brick duplexes, or Little Caesar. Here it is, complete with snow flurries:
When I look out the window, there's one narrow scrap of a view with no visible power lines, cars, brick duplexes, or Little Caesar. Here it is, complete with snow flurries:
17 November 2006
Nine West Tote Bag: LIke a Clown Car!
When you’re stuck writing, you’re supposed to do silly exercises, like itemize everything in your purse.
November/December issue of Layers: The How-To Magazine for Everything Adobe
November/December issue of Audubon
September/October issue of Audubon
Manila folder containing assignments and hand-outs from Imaging and Illustration class
December issue of Harper’s
2006 calendar
Wallet containing:
Ticket to Friday, December 1 Detroit Pistons game
Hefty One-Zip bag containing Whole Foods organic pretzel sticks
3.5“ x 5.5” Moleskine notebook
Scünci hairbrush
Headset for cell phone
Box of 2“ x 2” origami paper
Bic mechanical pencil
Barrette
Four quarters
One nickel
Two pennies
Pen with purple ink
Set of three computer back-up tapes
Cell phone
1.0 GB USB flash drive
Badger Ginger and Lemon lip balm
iPod Nano
Straw paper
Kroger Plus shopper card
Doublemint mints
Victory Lane Quick Oil change card
BreathSavers mints
Two bobby pins
Hair band
Two paper clips
Five of my business cards
Note to get P. a crispy chicken sandwich and C. a grilled chicken sandwich and a baked potato at Wendy’s
Granola bar wrapper
Staples tax-exempt customer card
Cosmetic bag containing:
Pencil case containing:
And! Get this! Another purse! Inside my purse! With a change purse inside that...so I can stick the cash and the cell phone in something more portable and stick the big tote in the trunk before going to meet dates who never call again, but whose business cards I’ll find three months later.
But I’m not officially my mother yet - no Heinz ketchup packets.
November/December issue of Layers: The How-To Magazine for Everything Adobe
November/December issue of Audubon
September/October issue of Audubon
Manila folder containing assignments and hand-outs from Imaging and Illustration class
December issue of Harper’s
2006 calendar
Wallet containing:
- One five dollar bill
Fifteen one dollar bills
Six quarters
Five dimes
Two nickels
Six pennies
Expense reimbursement check from work
Driver’s license
Two debit cards
Two credit cards
Washtenaw Community College ID
Ann Arbor District Library card
Dad’s business card
J’s business card
D’s business card
Business card from date who never called again
20 minute long distance calling card
voter registration card
medical insurance card
Frequent buyer cards for Afternoon Delight, Cranesbill Books, Beaner’s Coffee, and Bombadill’s
Blockbuster membership card
Ticket to Friday, December 1 Detroit Pistons game
Hefty One-Zip bag containing Whole Foods organic pretzel sticks
3.5“ x 5.5” Moleskine notebook
Scünci hairbrush
Headset for cell phone
Box of 2“ x 2” origami paper
Bic mechanical pencil
Barrette
Four quarters
One nickel
Two pennies
Pen with purple ink
Set of three computer back-up tapes
Cell phone
1.0 GB USB flash drive
Badger Ginger and Lemon lip balm
iPod Nano
Straw paper
Kroger Plus shopper card
Doublemint mints
Victory Lane Quick Oil change card
BreathSavers mints
Two bobby pins
Hair band
Two paper clips
Five of my business cards
Note to get P. a crispy chicken sandwich and C. a grilled chicken sandwich and a baked potato at Wendy’s
Granola bar wrapper
Staples tax-exempt customer card
Cosmetic bag containing:
- Two panty liners
Sewing kit stolen from Crowne Plaza Hotel in Anaheim, California
Compact of four lip glosses and lip brush
Compact of face powder
Tube of Maybelline shiny•licious lip gloss, Sugar Plum
Emery board
Visine for Contacts
Contact case
One tampon
Four bobby pins
One moist towelette
Pencil case containing:
- Retractable Hi-Liter
Pencil sharpener
Kneaded eraser
Post-It Note flags (green)
Two paper clips
Black roller-ball pen
Two miniature scotch tapes
#2 pencil
2B pencil
4B pencil
6B pencil
And! Get this! Another purse! Inside my purse! With a change purse inside that...so I can stick the cash and the cell phone in something more portable and stick the big tote in the trunk before going to meet dates who never call again, but whose business cards I’ll find three months later.
But I’m not officially my mother yet - no Heinz ketchup packets.
15 November 2006
Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Girl
I need to talk to my parents about these high-waisted, satiny-shiny pink pants...
No date on the back of the Polaroid. I'm guessing circa 1975.
We still have the paneling.
No date on the back of the Polaroid. I'm guessing circa 1975.
We still have the paneling.
13 November 2006
Annual Holiday Gift Guide
The Assault of the Christmas Carols has begun, and that means one thing: It’s time for the second annual Hawk in Rain holiday gift round up.
The God Squad pajamas have already received quite a bit of blogular attention round the ‘sphere, and I am growing closer to someone who, sadly, actually already has this. But I scoured the Internets high and low, though my eyes were weary and my fingers sore, to bring you, my loyal hawklets, my top three selections for those hard-to-buy-for loved ones.
Look no further
Web special only
As original as fingerprints
The God Squad pajamas have already received quite a bit of blogular attention round the ‘sphere, and I am growing closer to someone who, sadly, actually already has this. But I scoured the Internets high and low, though my eyes were weary and my fingers sore, to bring you, my loyal hawklets, my top three selections for those hard-to-buy-for loved ones.
Look no further
Web special only
As original as fingerprints
11 November 2006
Sitting, Waiting, Wishing
The feeders have been up for nearly four weeks now, and still no birds have visited Cafe Chez Kim Deux. I see blue jays, cardinals, and flickers around. Perhaps when the snow comes they'll stop by for some seeds.
While I sit and wait and wish for the colorful anti-depressants that are the birds, I have this wet sciurid to entertain me.
While I sit and wait and wish for the colorful anti-depressants that are the birds, I have this wet sciurid to entertain me.
05 November 2006
03 November 2006
A Thousand Cranes
The colored papers fluttered about like trapped birds. The raw wind and naked trees kept the real birds from venturing out from nearby deeper woods. One of the iridescent paper cranes reflected the scudding gray clouds, the twitching branches and waving dead grass, splintered images like shattered glass. I felt like my bones were stitched to the outside of my skin.
There was no grave stone yet, just a brass marker with his names and dates on it, cold and square. We all looked at each others' shoes, chilled by a force that might tear us asunder if we looked at each others' eyes. I pushed a dowel down into the soil, careful not to loosen any of the long strands of origami cranes tied around the top.
I stepped back and watched as they strained against the twine, as tethered as souls to earthbound bodies.
There was no grave stone yet, just a brass marker with his names and dates on it, cold and square. We all looked at each others' shoes, chilled by a force that might tear us asunder if we looked at each others' eyes. I pushed a dowel down into the soil, careful not to loosen any of the long strands of origami cranes tied around the top.
I stepped back and watched as they strained against the twine, as tethered as souls to earthbound bodies.
31 October 2006
Poor Pachelbel
Reduced to his Canon
"that wedding music"
according to the girls at Borders
who called me ma'am
ugh
"that wedding music"
according to the girls at Borders
who called me ma'am
ugh
30 October 2006
Autumn
Hear our prayers for healing the
wounds of the past seasons.
Open our ears to the rutting sounds
of the elk and the moose.
Our eyes to the clouds of migrating birds,
and our hearts to stillness.
West Wind, below through us. Bring us your
blessings and your wisdom.
-- Susan Chernak McElroy, Why Buffalo Dance
wounds of the past seasons.
Open our ears to the rutting sounds
of the elk and the moose.
Our eyes to the clouds of migrating birds,
and our hearts to stillness.
West Wind, below through us. Bring us your
blessings and your wisdom.
-- Susan Chernak McElroy, Why Buffalo Dance
29 October 2006
28 October 2006
Haven't Laughed So Hard
Since I drove into the "road closed" sign with my car. Which was only Thursday.
More feline silliness here.
More feline silliness here.
24 October 2006
Information Graphic
Even after several days vacation *yay* and feeling better emotionally, mentally, and physically than I have in about three months, I'm still not writing.
To tide you loyal hawklets over until the muse drops by for tea, I'll share the work-in-progress of my Information Graphic for class. It's a visual depiction of the known species on earth, broken down into 16 large categories. If the 980 gymnosperms in the world are represented by this one gingko leaf:
Then the 950,000 species of insects look like this:
'Cuz God is inordinately fond of beetles, that's why.
To tide you loyal hawklets over until the muse drops by for tea, I'll share the work-in-progress of my Information Graphic for class. It's a visual depiction of the known species on earth, broken down into 16 large categories. If the 980 gymnosperms in the world are represented by this one gingko leaf:
Then the 950,000 species of insects look like this:
'Cuz God is inordinately fond of beetles, that's why.
15 October 2006
06 October 2006
Learning Illustration
In addition to learning to be logical (which I've found I'm actually extremely good at - I currently have earned 105.4% of the possible points in the class), I'm also learning illustration this semester.
From my earliest memory, I've always been a drawer (that's "draw-er," not like the sock drawer). Until three or four years ago, I used to draw every day - either in my electives in college (mostly art and design) or as part of my journal. Something happened those three or four years ago, and I stopped, and I'm not quite sure why.
So here I am, rusty with the pencils and struggling in my "Imaging and Illustration" class; having difficulty adjusting to the process of thumbnailing and roughing and sketching; so used to turning on the computer, whipping out the graphic stylus, and firing up Illustrator, only to be disappointed that the output on the screen doesn't match the vision in my head. The professor gave me some exercises to practice technique and to learn to see shapes and planes better and how they stack and build in the software to produce results. And the results are, I think, fantastic.
I'm going to try to do some drawing every day again. I have a whole notebook of jotted down scraps of conversations, ideas, and miscellaneous odd ends just waiting to be illustrated.
From my earliest memory, I've always been a drawer (that's "draw-er," not like the sock drawer). Until three or four years ago, I used to draw every day - either in my electives in college (mostly art and design) or as part of my journal. Something happened those three or four years ago, and I stopped, and I'm not quite sure why.
So here I am, rusty with the pencils and struggling in my "Imaging and Illustration" class; having difficulty adjusting to the process of thumbnailing and roughing and sketching; so used to turning on the computer, whipping out the graphic stylus, and firing up Illustrator, only to be disappointed that the output on the screen doesn't match the vision in my head. The professor gave me some exercises to practice technique and to learn to see shapes and planes better and how they stack and build in the software to produce results. And the results are, I think, fantastic.
I'm going to try to do some drawing every day again. I have a whole notebook of jotted down scraps of conversations, ideas, and miscellaneous odd ends just waiting to be illustrated.
02 October 2006
01 October 2006
26 September 2006
25th Anniversary
of National Banned Book Week. Major props to my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Baldacchino, who read to us two of the top 100 challenged books of 1990-2000 ("Bridge to Terebithia" and "James and the Giant Peach.") And what is up with no. 88?
Sorry, I forgot about National Punctuation Day.
Sorry, I forgot about National Punctuation Day.
24 September 2006
Why My Shower is Like Panera Bread
Pick two from the menu:
'cuz three minutes of hot water isn't enough time to perform all ablutions.
All menu selections come with a side of "shave pits."
- Wash hair
- Condition hair
- Wash body
- Shave legs
'cuz three minutes of hot water isn't enough time to perform all ablutions.
All menu selections come with a side of "shave pits."
21 September 2006
It's Just a $1500 Lunch
Okay, I shoulda known better. I should have done my homework. Even as I typed my information into the form at the It’s Just Lunch Web site, fear of the hard sell prickled at the back of my neck.
For those who may not know, It’s Just Lunch markets itself as a matchmaking and dating service for “busy professionals.” The first thing I noticed about the Ann Arbor IJL site was that the photo of the Kerrytown farmers’ market was flipped so the words on the silo were mirror-imaged. The second thing I noticed was a lack of a fee structure. But I figured I’d have the opportunity to ask soon.
Really soon. An e-mail arrived immediately and my answering machine picked up a message soon after that. I got another e-mail and another phone call the next day. Today, day three, brought another phone message. Since I had some time off in the afternoon, I called IJL.
She asked me where I heard about them. She told me a bit about their interview and matching process. Somewhere in there she intoned solemnly, “Women aren’t used to spending money for dates. But we do spend a lot of time on the wrong guys. Guys on the other hand feel like they spend a lot of money on dates, but don’t necessarily get what they want out of it.”
What kind of weird, Chick-Lit platitudinous shit is this?
She stated she was thrilled to have the opportunity to tell me about her clients: very busy doctors, “professionals,” and “educators” who don’t want to date someone from work, aren’t into the bar scene, and just don’t have time to meet someone for dating.
She was evidently looking at my info. “Ooh, you’re young,” she cooed.
My lip curled. “What’s that mean?” I asked. “Are all your clients over 50?”
“I just mean you’re younger than me,” she said.
Ah.
She continued by asking me about what I’m looking for. Straight off, I told her income is not one of my criteria. Absolutely no smokers. Integrity, curiosity, sense of humor are desirable.
“Height, weight?” she prompted.
I paused. “Doesn’t really matter,” I started to form a picture of what her clients might be like.
“Anything like race or religion?” A phone rang in the background.
“Race isn’t an issue. I’m tolerant, but not particularly religious, so if that’s important for somebody, I’m not going to be a good match for him.”
Then she prattled about how 80% of her clients have degrees, how many first dates “become” second dates, and how horrible it is to be single. “When you’re single, Saturday comes along, and there you are wondering what to do, home alone with your cat or dog.” My left eyebrow shot up as she continued, a little more hushed, like it was shameful, “I know, I used to be single. ‘Don’t you ever leave me,’ my husband says. Ha ha ha.”
Uh, yeah.
One semester I had a four-hour class on Saturday.
Saturday is for doing homework and designing ads and going to the farmers' market and scrubbing the bathtub and getting work done on my second job. Most weekends, the cat would be really happy if I had an hour to play with her.
I didn’t exactly cry alone while downing a quart of ice cream this past Saturday either - I watched Michigan’s football team wipe Notre Dame’s field with Brady Quinn’s helmet. Law School P. was on my couch. We ate a pot of vegetarian chili and drank the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale he brought over. While Law School P. is, admittedly, not my boyfriend, he is a friend I’ve known for over a year, and someone I met through a free ad on frickin’ Craigslist, of all places.
“Is anything like race or religion important to you?” IJL lady asked, repeating an earlier question. Was she not listening?
My Turtle totem took over and the plastron started to close. “No.”
She rushed through the subscription rates: $1500 for a year - this supposedly gets you 14 dates. A six-month subscription is $1100. I can buy 137 bottles of Fin du Monde for that.
I told her I worked at a non-profit and couldn’t afford it. I got the response I pretty much expected - it’s so much better than combing through Internet dating sites! And isn’t love worth any price?
She repeated the statement about women not being used to paying for dates. I sputtered something about paying for clothes and make-up and oh, like, half the check as often as not. Although Aussie Paul did have to buy his own plane tickets.
“Kim, you need come in here and let me give you some tips. Get those guys to pay up!”
Turtle's shell snapped shut.
I regret having told her as much as I did. Plus, it was a waste of 15 cell phone minutes. But if I ever decide I want to be pressured into a date with a rich sucker who has no time to spare for a relationship, I’ll know where to call.
For those who may not know, It’s Just Lunch markets itself as a matchmaking and dating service for “busy professionals.” The first thing I noticed about the Ann Arbor IJL site was that the photo of the Kerrytown farmers’ market was flipped so the words on the silo were mirror-imaged. The second thing I noticed was a lack of a fee structure. But I figured I’d have the opportunity to ask soon.
Really soon. An e-mail arrived immediately and my answering machine picked up a message soon after that. I got another e-mail and another phone call the next day. Today, day three, brought another phone message. Since I had some time off in the afternoon, I called IJL.
She asked me where I heard about them. She told me a bit about their interview and matching process. Somewhere in there she intoned solemnly, “Women aren’t used to spending money for dates. But we do spend a lot of time on the wrong guys. Guys on the other hand feel like they spend a lot of money on dates, but don’t necessarily get what they want out of it.”
What kind of weird, Chick-Lit platitudinous shit is this?
She stated she was thrilled to have the opportunity to tell me about her clients: very busy doctors, “professionals,” and “educators” who don’t want to date someone from work, aren’t into the bar scene, and just don’t have time to meet someone for dating.
She was evidently looking at my info. “Ooh, you’re young,” she cooed.
My lip curled. “What’s that mean?” I asked. “Are all your clients over 50?”
“I just mean you’re younger than me,” she said.
Ah.
She continued by asking me about what I’m looking for. Straight off, I told her income is not one of my criteria. Absolutely no smokers. Integrity, curiosity, sense of humor are desirable.
“Height, weight?” she prompted.
I paused. “Doesn’t really matter,” I started to form a picture of what her clients might be like.
“Anything like race or religion?” A phone rang in the background.
“Race isn’t an issue. I’m tolerant, but not particularly religious, so if that’s important for somebody, I’m not going to be a good match for him.”
Then she prattled about how 80% of her clients have degrees, how many first dates “become” second dates, and how horrible it is to be single. “When you’re single, Saturday comes along, and there you are wondering what to do, home alone with your cat or dog.” My left eyebrow shot up as she continued, a little more hushed, like it was shameful, “I know, I used to be single. ‘Don’t you ever leave me,’ my husband says. Ha ha ha.”
Uh, yeah.
One semester I had a four-hour class on Saturday.
Saturday is for doing homework and designing ads and going to the farmers' market and scrubbing the bathtub and getting work done on my second job. Most weekends, the cat would be really happy if I had an hour to play with her.
I didn’t exactly cry alone while downing a quart of ice cream this past Saturday either - I watched Michigan’s football team wipe Notre Dame’s field with Brady Quinn’s helmet. Law School P. was on my couch. We ate a pot of vegetarian chili and drank the Sierra Nevada Pale Ale he brought over. While Law School P. is, admittedly, not my boyfriend, he is a friend I’ve known for over a year, and someone I met through a free ad on frickin’ Craigslist, of all places.
“Is anything like race or religion important to you?” IJL lady asked, repeating an earlier question. Was she not listening?
My Turtle totem took over and the plastron started to close. “No.”
She rushed through the subscription rates: $1500 for a year - this supposedly gets you 14 dates. A six-month subscription is $1100. I can buy 137 bottles of Fin du Monde for that.
I told her I worked at a non-profit and couldn’t afford it. I got the response I pretty much expected - it’s so much better than combing through Internet dating sites! And isn’t love worth any price?
She repeated the statement about women not being used to paying for dates. I sputtered something about paying for clothes and make-up and oh, like, half the check as often as not. Although Aussie Paul did have to buy his own plane tickets.
“Kim, you need come in here and let me give you some tips. Get those guys to pay up!”
Turtle's shell snapped shut.
I regret having told her as much as I did. Plus, it was a waste of 15 cell phone minutes. But if I ever decide I want to be pressured into a date with a rich sucker who has no time to spare for a relationship, I’ll know where to call.
20 September 2006
Liner Notes
- Took new boots for a spin around the neighborhood this evening. I am almost as happy with them as I was with my previous pair of Eccos, which I wore until the leather cracked and the inner soles showed through the treads. The new ones feel heavier, and like there's more padding around my instep and ankles. They feel a bit like ice skates - from what I know of ice skates when C. and I went to Yost Arena precisely once - I'm not likely to twist an ankle in these babies.
- In 1995 I purchased a cassette in Russia. The artist - Leonid Agutin - became one of the hottest Russian stars of the late 90's with his album "Бocoнoгий Maльчиk." Everyone knew Agutin's songs - my room mate and her friends. Young relatives of the Russian women from my workplace in Columbus. My date from Vladivostock. Now, the lyrics are just about the only Russian I can easily verbalize. I've been terrified that the cassette might be eaten by my aging equipment and the bouncy, Latin-tinged pop tunes be lost to me forever, leaving Leonid to gaze voicelessly from his red liner notes as a cultural artifact of the era's particular brand of eastern European beefcake. (What is that bizarre, chest-hair revealing denim thing he's wearing?) I fear no longer! One of my periodic searches for Leonid turned up "Бocoнoгий Maльчиk" available through an Amazon partner retailer, and he arrived in CD format in my mailbox this afternoon.
- Woodchuck Amber hard cider pairs quite nicely with shrimp quesadillas.
- One thing (good or bad?) about drinking lots of 8 and 9% ABV Belgians is that soon you can down two or three Woodchuck Ambers without even noticing.
15 September 2006
Friday Photos
Mantid. Turned its head when I took its picture.
Fin du Monde. Ahhh. The creamy head, the incredible aroma, the spicy banana-clove fruity complexity. The beer you want with you at the end of the world. (No, they don't pay me.)
Fin du Monde. Ahhh. The creamy head, the incredible aroma, the spicy banana-clove fruity complexity. The beer you want with you at the end of the world. (No, they don't pay me.)
10 September 2006
What Have I Done?
Been feeling down lately, so finding this little post was a pick-me up. Look at everything I've done - and have yet to do.
Stolen from Chris Clarke at Creek Running North, who doesn't know me.
Just bold the things you have accomplished (sic - Ed.) in your life.
1. Bought everyone in the bar a drink
2. Swum with wild dolphins
3. Climbed a mountain
4. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
5. Been inside the Great Pyramid
6. Held a tarantula
7. Taken a candlelit bath with someone
8. Said “I love you” and meant it
9. Hugged a tree
10. Bungee jumped
11. Visited Paris
12. Watched a lightning storm at sea
13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise
14. Seen the Northern Lights
15. Gone to a huge sports game
16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
18. Touched an iceberg
19. Slept under the stars
20. Changed a baby’s diaper
21. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
22. Watched a meteor shower
23. Gotten drunk on champagne
24. Given more than you can afford to charity
25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment
27. Had a food fight
28. Bet on a winning horse
29. Asked out a stranger
30. Had a snowball fight
31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
32. Held a lamb
33. Seen a total eclipse
34. Ridden a roller coaster
35. Hit a home run
36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
37. Adopted an accent for an entire day
38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment
39. Had two hard drives for your computer
40. Visited all 50 states
41. Taken care of someone who was wasted
42. Had amazing friends
43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
44. Watched wild whales
45. Stolen a sign
46. Backpacked in Europe
47. Taken a road-trip
48. Gone rock climbing
49. Midnight walk on the beach
50. Gone sky diving
51. Visited Ireland
52. Been heartbroken longer than you were actually in love
53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them
54. Visited Japan
55. Milked a cow
56. Alphabetized your CDs
57. Pretended to be a superhero
58. Sung karaoke
59. Lounged around in bed all day
60. Posed nude in front of strangers
61. Gone scuba diving
62. Kissed in the rain
63. Played in the mud
64. Played in the rain
65. Gone to a drive-in theater
66. Visited the Great Wall of China
67. Started a business
68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken
69. Toured ancient sites
70. Taken a martial arts class
71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight
72. Gotten married
73. Been in a movie
74. Crashed a party
75. Gotten divorced
76. Gone without food for 5 days
77. Made cookies from scratch
78. Won first prize in a costume contest
79. Ridden a gondola in Venice
80. Gotten a tattoo
81. Rafted the Snake River - or was it the Colorado River?
82. Been on television news programs as an expert
83. Got flowers for no reason
84. Performed on stage
85. Been to Las Vegas
86. Recorded music
87. Eaten shark
88. Eaten fugu (pufferfish)
89. Had a one-night stand
90. Gone to Thailand
91. Bought a house
92. Been in a combat zone
93. Buried one/both of your parents
94. Been on a cruise ship
95. Spoken more than one language fluently
96. Performed in Rocky Horror Picture Show
97. Raised children
98. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
100. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking
103. Had plastic surgery
104. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived
105. Wrote articles for a large publication
106. Lost over 100 pounds
107. Held someone while they were having a flashback
108. Piloted an airplane
109. Petted a stingray
110. Broken someone’s heart (Don't know. No one ever said so.)
111. Helped an animal give birth
112. Won money on a T.V. game show
113. Broken a bone
114. Gone on an African photo safari
115. Had a body part of yours below the neck pierced
116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
118. Ridden a horse
119. Had major surgery
120. Had a snake as a pet
121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours
123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
124. Visited all 7 continents
125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
126. Eaten kangaroo meat
127. Eaten sushi
128. Had your picture in the newspaper
129. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about
130. Gone back to school
131. Parasailed
132. Petted a cockroach (Petted? More like flattened.)
133. Eaten fried green tomatoes
134. Read The Iliad and The Odyssey (Only abridged versions.)
135. Selected one important author who you missed in school, and read something they wrote
136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
137. Skipped all your school reunions
138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
139. Been elected to public office
140. Written your own computer language
141. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream
142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
143. Built your own PC from parts
144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you
145. Had a booth at a street fair
146. Dyed your hair
147. Been a DJ
148. Shaved your head
149. Caused a car accident
150. Saved someone’s life
Stolen from Chris Clarke at Creek Running North, who doesn't know me.
Just bold the things you have accomplished (sic - Ed.) in your life.
1. Bought everyone in the bar a drink
2. Swum with wild dolphins
3. Climbed a mountain
4. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
5. Been inside the Great Pyramid
6. Held a tarantula
7. Taken a candlelit bath with someone
8. Said “I love you” and meant it
9. Hugged a tree
10. Bungee jumped
11. Visited Paris
12. Watched a lightning storm at sea
13. Stayed up all night long and saw the sun rise
14. Seen the Northern Lights
15. Gone to a huge sports game
16. Walked the stairs to the top of the leaning Tower of Pisa
17. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
18. Touched an iceberg
19. Slept under the stars
20. Changed a baby’s diaper
21. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
22. Watched a meteor shower
23. Gotten drunk on champagne
24. Given more than you can afford to charity
25. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
26. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment
27. Had a food fight
28. Bet on a winning horse
29. Asked out a stranger
30. Had a snowball fight
31. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can
32. Held a lamb
33. Seen a total eclipse
34. Ridden a roller coaster
35. Hit a home run
36. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
37. Adopted an accent for an entire day
38. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment
39. Had two hard drives for your computer
40. Visited all 50 states
41. Taken care of someone who was wasted
42. Had amazing friends
43. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
44. Watched wild whales
45. Stolen a sign
46. Backpacked in Europe
47. Taken a road-trip
48. Gone rock climbing
49. Midnight walk on the beach
50. Gone sky diving
51. Visited Ireland
52. Been heartbroken longer than you were actually in love
53. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them
54. Visited Japan
55. Milked a cow
56. Alphabetized your CDs
57. Pretended to be a superhero
58. Sung karaoke
59. Lounged around in bed all day
60. Posed nude in front of strangers
61. Gone scuba diving
62. Kissed in the rain
63. Played in the mud
64. Played in the rain
65. Gone to a drive-in theater
66. Visited the Great Wall of China
67. Started a business
68. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken
69. Toured ancient sites
70. Taken a martial arts class
71. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight
72. Gotten married
73. Been in a movie
74. Crashed a party
75. Gotten divorced
76. Gone without food for 5 days
77. Made cookies from scratch
78. Won first prize in a costume contest
79. Ridden a gondola in Venice
80. Gotten a tattoo
81. Rafted the Snake River - or was it the Colorado River?
82. Been on television news programs as an expert
83. Got flowers for no reason
84. Performed on stage
85. Been to Las Vegas
86. Recorded music
87. Eaten shark
88. Eaten fugu (pufferfish)
89. Had a one-night stand
90. Gone to Thailand
91. Bought a house
92. Been in a combat zone
93. Buried one/both of your parents
94. Been on a cruise ship
95. Spoken more than one language fluently
96. Performed in Rocky Horror Picture Show
97. Raised children
98. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
99. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
100. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
101. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
102. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking
103. Had plastic surgery
104. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived
105. Wrote articles for a large publication
106. Lost over 100 pounds
107. Held someone while they were having a flashback
108. Piloted an airplane
109. Petted a stingray
110. Broken someone’s heart (Don't know. No one ever said so.)
111. Helped an animal give birth
112. Won money on a T.V. game show
113. Broken a bone
114. Gone on an African photo safari
115. Had a body part of yours below the neck pierced
116. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
117. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild
118. Ridden a horse
119. Had major surgery
120. Had a snake as a pet
121. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
122. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours
123. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
124. Visited all 7 continents
125. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
126. Eaten kangaroo meat
127. Eaten sushi
128. Had your picture in the newspaper
129. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about
130. Gone back to school
131. Parasailed
132. Petted a cockroach (Petted? More like flattened.)
133. Eaten fried green tomatoes
134. Read The Iliad and The Odyssey (Only abridged versions.)
135. Selected one important author who you missed in school, and read something they wrote
136. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
137. Skipped all your school reunions
138. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
139. Been elected to public office
140. Written your own computer language
141. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream
142. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
143. Built your own PC from parts
144. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you
145. Had a booth at a street fair
146. Dyed your hair
147. Been a DJ
148. Shaved your head
149. Caused a car accident
150. Saved someone’s life
08 September 2006
Friday Google Blogging
Twisty at I Blame the Patriarchy posted today on the variation in search returns for "women" and "men" on Google. Commenters in the thread reported what search results they obtained, and mine are quite different from Twisty's (safe filter off):
1) Information for Women: iVillage.com (ack.)
2) Women Mathematicians
3) Women's Biographies: Distinguished Women of Past and Present
4) Internet Women's History Sourcebook
5) WomenWatch: UN Information and Resources on Gender Equality
The "sponsored links" are for mostly "Local sex" and "Photo personals," but one in the sidebar is "Sports psychology."
My results for "men" were typical of the commenters':
1) Men's Health
2) AskMen.com (ack. thpt.)
3) Men.com Magazine
4) Men's Fitness
5) Men's Wearhouse
But the it's the sponsored links - the ads - for "men" that I find most interesting. There's "Look Sexy Naked" for a diet tea. There's "Free online dating," and "Half.com" (in case you want to buy one at a discount, I guess). There's "Cold and hot wax hair removal." And then: "See-through underwear."
Yep. See-through underwear. Mesh shorts with contasting pocket colors. Sheer jock straps. And my favorite: fishnet bikinis. Though when I clicked to enlarge, he put his hand over it.
1) Information for Women: iVillage.com (ack.)
2) Women Mathematicians
3) Women's Biographies: Distinguished Women of Past and Present
4) Internet Women's History Sourcebook
5) WomenWatch: UN Information and Resources on Gender Equality
The "sponsored links" are for mostly "Local sex" and "Photo personals," but one in the sidebar is "Sports psychology."
My results for "men" were typical of the commenters':
1) Men's Health
2) AskMen.com (ack. thpt.)
3) Men.com Magazine
4) Men's Fitness
5) Men's Wearhouse
But the it's the sponsored links - the ads - for "men" that I find most interesting. There's "Look Sexy Naked" for a diet tea. There's "Free online dating," and "Half.com" (in case you want to buy one at a discount, I guess). There's "Cold and hot wax hair removal." And then: "See-through underwear."
Yep. See-through underwear. Mesh shorts with contasting pocket colors. Sheer jock straps. And my favorite: fishnet bikinis. Though when I clicked to enlarge, he put his hand over it.
04 September 2006
Notes from the First Week of Class
- I turned the textbook for Philosophy 250: Logic over and over in my hands, looking in every logical place for a price and couldn't find one. While in line, I picked up a yellow highlighter. Total bill: $110. That's right, I bought a $108 highlighter.
- The textbook is a "Concise Introduction to Logic," coming in succinctly at just over 600 pages.
- I hope day-glo hair isn't a requirement to pass my art course. And stop glaring at us for looking at you. You dyed your hair fluorescent orange. Is it hunter safety month?
- Yes, I remember you. Feel free to critique my schedule and tell me I should have taken this prof over that one and registered for Flash instead of Logic. You know so much about my goals and interests from sitting next to me for five minutes already.
30 August 2006
From the "Learn Something New Every Day" Files
Courtesy Fellowes®: vocabulary words for how to talk about CD/DVD Binder Sheets™ in English, French, Spanish, German, Italian, Dutch, Swedish, Polish, and Russian.
Made in China.
I don't believe I have seen, with the exception of Warsaw Falcon dill pickles, a package with Polish on it that was not actually exported from Poland itself. I also enjoy the Germans. Every other language evidently uses its own phrase for "jewel case," but, somewhat surprisingly, the compound-noun-lovin' Germans seem content to merely capitalize the English words.
Made in China.
I don't believe I have seen, with the exception of Warsaw Falcon dill pickles, a package with Polish on it that was not actually exported from Poland itself. I also enjoy the Germans. Every other language evidently uses its own phrase for "jewel case," but, somewhat surprisingly, the compound-noun-lovin' Germans seem content to merely capitalize the English words.
22 August 2006
I Can't Hide My Lyin' Eyes
Only those who have kept an adult female cat as the sole pet of the household know the hissing, spitting, insane territorial fury of said queen when her turf is encroached upon by an outsider. “Turf,” in cat terms, includes any part of the yard surveyable from the window perch. After being slashed by a lightning bolt of static electricity and silver fur whilst attempting to close the blinds some years ago, I have adopted the policy of running off any outdoor malingerers post haste.
This evening I set Sylvie’s food down in the kitchen and turned to see a feline shade cast upon the living room screen. Immediately I strode purposefully across the hardwood floor. “Hey you!” I called out. “Psst! Get!”
The gray cat didn’t move. I’ve seen her around the neighborhood before, distinctive spayed-kitty belly-bag swinging back and forth as she trotted across the street. Not sure where she belongs, but she probably belongs somewhere. Not here.
I glanced back to check that Sylvie’s face was still in her dish. I carefully opened the door and swatted at the cat sitting on the ledge of the window. “You! Get off. Git.”
“Mrowr?” the cat answered.
“Get off that,” I repeated. She hopped down and looked up.
“Go. Go home,” I said. She looked up.
“Get outta here!” I hollered and waved my arms. She bent down to wash a spot at the base of her tail.
I went back into the apartment, checked that Sylvie was still unaware of the feline presence outside the door, and grabbed a half-glass of water that was sitting on the table, with the intention of throwing it on the intruder. But it’s hard to throw water on someone who starts to do the happy-happy-joy-joy rub-my-tummy roll-over just because she’s so happy you came back.
So I sat down on the step and rubbed her oddly-shaped head. She purred loudly, rolled over a few more times, and tried to knead the cement as a sign of her affection. I explained to her that I couldn’t stay, that Sylvie would be very upset if she saw - if she even suspected - that we were together.
Yeah, that's my leg she's pressing against. I feel like a total cheat.
By this time, Sylvie had finished her repast and was in the living room washing her face. “Go home,” I said one last time to my new gray friend, and stepped back into the apartment.
Sylvie sauntered towards me. I shut the door so she couldn’t see her rival. But her eyes widened when I reached down to her, and she batted at me with a hard little paw. A queen always knows.
This evening I set Sylvie’s food down in the kitchen and turned to see a feline shade cast upon the living room screen. Immediately I strode purposefully across the hardwood floor. “Hey you!” I called out. “Psst! Get!”
The gray cat didn’t move. I’ve seen her around the neighborhood before, distinctive spayed-kitty belly-bag swinging back and forth as she trotted across the street. Not sure where she belongs, but she probably belongs somewhere. Not here.
I glanced back to check that Sylvie’s face was still in her dish. I carefully opened the door and swatted at the cat sitting on the ledge of the window. “You! Get off. Git.”
“Mrowr?” the cat answered.
“Get off that,” I repeated. She hopped down and looked up.
“Go. Go home,” I said. She looked up.
“Get outta here!” I hollered and waved my arms. She bent down to wash a spot at the base of her tail.
I went back into the apartment, checked that Sylvie was still unaware of the feline presence outside the door, and grabbed a half-glass of water that was sitting on the table, with the intention of throwing it on the intruder. But it’s hard to throw water on someone who starts to do the happy-happy-joy-joy rub-my-tummy roll-over just because she’s so happy you came back.
So I sat down on the step and rubbed her oddly-shaped head. She purred loudly, rolled over a few more times, and tried to knead the cement as a sign of her affection. I explained to her that I couldn’t stay, that Sylvie would be very upset if she saw - if she even suspected - that we were together.
Yeah, that's my leg she's pressing against. I feel like a total cheat.
By this time, Sylvie had finished her repast and was in the living room washing her face. “Go home,” I said one last time to my new gray friend, and stepped back into the apartment.
Sylvie sauntered towards me. I shut the door so she couldn’t see her rival. But her eyes widened when I reached down to her, and she batted at me with a hard little paw. A queen always knows.
17 August 2006
So Good I Stayed Up Late to Link to It
Design Observer unveils an advisory system for avian flu alerts, based on artwork by John James Audubon.
Playing Hooky with the Ditty Bops
As previously reported, I took the day off work in order to attend a free performance by the Ditty Bops. I wish I had taken my digital camera so I could show you a picture of Amanda with her washboard contraption, replete with cymbal and cowbell attachments, surreal against a background of shelves of books.
The Ditty Bops played a set of five songs from their new CD, which I purchased last week for $14.99 and was on sale today for $10.99. (Isn’t that the way it always works?) I’m sure the show tonight at the Ark includes many more props than the kazoos and party-favor blow-out noisemakers. I've heard there's a pagoda involved.
And I hope the crowd at the Ark is a little more lively than the Borders attendees. The folks in the seats might as well have been watching television in their living rooms, staring ahead and applauding politely between songs. (Years ago at a Sting concert a friend and I made exactly the same observation.) C’mon people! This is awesome music! Tap a foot, wiggle a little bit. Even the kids weren’t dancing. I think I was the only person singing along. Well, maybe the enthusiastic guy on the other side of the stationery rack was singing along; I couldn’t see his face, only his hand gestures. Maybe no one knew the words because everyone else waited for the CD to be on sale?
ps. Hat-tip to D. for alerting me to the NPR interview of the Ditty Bops. The Ditty Bops are everywhere!
The Ditty Bops played a set of five songs from their new CD, which I purchased last week for $14.99 and was on sale today for $10.99. (Isn’t that the way it always works?) I’m sure the show tonight at the Ark includes many more props than the kazoos and party-favor blow-out noisemakers. I've heard there's a pagoda involved.
And I hope the crowd at the Ark is a little more lively than the Borders attendees. The folks in the seats might as well have been watching television in their living rooms, staring ahead and applauding politely between songs. (Years ago at a Sting concert a friend and I made exactly the same observation.) C’mon people! This is awesome music! Tap a foot, wiggle a little bit. Even the kids weren’t dancing. I think I was the only person singing along. Well, maybe the enthusiastic guy on the other side of the stationery rack was singing along; I couldn’t see his face, only his hand gestures. Maybe no one knew the words because everyone else waited for the CD to be on sale?
ps. Hat-tip to D. for alerting me to the NPR interview of the Ditty Bops. The Ditty Bops are everywhere!
10 August 2006
Squeal!
The Ditty Bops are coming to Ann Arbor!
In addition to the show at the Ark, they're also making a free appearance at Border's downtown over the lunch hour. I took the day off just so I can go see them. My soul needs it.
In addition to the show at the Ark, they're also making a free appearance at Border's downtown over the lunch hour. I took the day off just so I can go see them. My soul needs it.
03 August 2006
02 August 2006
An Addition to the Neighborhood Wildlife Siting List
Skunks.
After another evening endured in my sweltering cave, windows closed, drapes shut, fan blaring to little avail against the heat and humidity, I finally threw the apartment open after sundown to let the breeze in. It's finally cooler outside than inside.
To give myself a reprieve from heat and work, I shut off the computer, mixed myself a kimjito* (the Kimmijo recipe for a mojito, since I have no idea whether or not I'm making it correctly), and sat outside for a spell, watching the fireflies wink on and off and offering up my smooth white skin to the mandibles of Michigan's state bird, the mosquito.
I heard a faint squeak. I looked up to see a strip of black shag carpet undulating across the street. I saw a white dot at the trailing end. Ah, a wee skunk. It wiggled over to the shrubbery at the end of the driveway belonging to the Mexican landscapers. ("That's really stereotypical," new friend N. commented, eyeing me somewhat suspiciously. "I can't help it," I replied. "It's what they do. See, it's right there on the side of their beater pick-up truck.") Shortly thereafter, an even smaller skunk emerged from beneath the neighbor's fence and took a similar path to meet, presumably, its sibling. I smiled and issued a prayer that neither of them will be hit by a car.
* Kimijto recipe
Put one teaspoon sugar in glass. Squeeze juice of half a lime over sugar and stir to dissolve. Add five or six good-sized mint leaves and muddle with a wooden spoon until scent of mint is released. Fill glass with ice. Pour over ice 2 oz. light rum and 1 oz. sparkling water. Stir, put on Tito Puente, and enjoy.
After another evening endured in my sweltering cave, windows closed, drapes shut, fan blaring to little avail against the heat and humidity, I finally threw the apartment open after sundown to let the breeze in. It's finally cooler outside than inside.
To give myself a reprieve from heat and work, I shut off the computer, mixed myself a kimjito* (the Kimmijo recipe for a mojito, since I have no idea whether or not I'm making it correctly), and sat outside for a spell, watching the fireflies wink on and off and offering up my smooth white skin to the mandibles of Michigan's state bird, the mosquito.
I heard a faint squeak. I looked up to see a strip of black shag carpet undulating across the street. I saw a white dot at the trailing end. Ah, a wee skunk. It wiggled over to the shrubbery at the end of the driveway belonging to the Mexican landscapers. ("That's really stereotypical," new friend N. commented, eyeing me somewhat suspiciously. "I can't help it," I replied. "It's what they do. See, it's right there on the side of their beater pick-up truck.") Shortly thereafter, an even smaller skunk emerged from beneath the neighbor's fence and took a similar path to meet, presumably, its sibling. I smiled and issued a prayer that neither of them will be hit by a car.
* Kimijto recipe
Put one teaspoon sugar in glass. Squeeze juice of half a lime over sugar and stir to dissolve. Add five or six good-sized mint leaves and muddle with a wooden spoon until scent of mint is released. Fill glass with ice. Pour over ice 2 oz. light rum and 1 oz. sparkling water. Stir, put on Tito Puente, and enjoy.
01 August 2006
Dang, it’s hot tonight, like 88° at 10:30 and no air’s movin’ hot. Hot like Spanish moss in the cypress swamp hot. Hot like ripe tomatoes in the sun hot.
The night reminds me of others, when we could see Boötes and Ursa Major from one bedroom window, and Cassiopea and Cepheus from the other. When the upstairs got too stifling, we’d slip out the screen door to the glider on the porch and Daddy would ask me who the president was and I would proudly answer, “Jimmy Carter.” The swimming pool rippled under its blue cover as another June bug hit the surface. You could practically hear the zucchinis stretching their green skins in the darkness. In the morning, we’d find one, two feet long, that must have escaped our notice under a leaf for weeks. Or only a humid night or two.
The cicadas ceased their electric buzz when the wind started to stir the dust under the swing set. Distant rumbling came closer and dime-sized splatters appeared on the picnic table. They spread out, became quarter-sized, grew together. We were safe on our square of Astroturf beneath the green corrugated roof, our backs to the west, watching the thunderstorm blow by us, able to see it only when it was past us, receding into someone else’s future to our east.
The night reminds me of others, when we could see Boötes and Ursa Major from one bedroom window, and Cassiopea and Cepheus from the other. When the upstairs got too stifling, we’d slip out the screen door to the glider on the porch and Daddy would ask me who the president was and I would proudly answer, “Jimmy Carter.” The swimming pool rippled under its blue cover as another June bug hit the surface. You could practically hear the zucchinis stretching their green skins in the darkness. In the morning, we’d find one, two feet long, that must have escaped our notice under a leaf for weeks. Or only a humid night or two.
The cicadas ceased their electric buzz when the wind started to stir the dust under the swing set. Distant rumbling came closer and dime-sized splatters appeared on the picnic table. They spread out, became quarter-sized, grew together. We were safe on our square of Astroturf beneath the green corrugated roof, our backs to the west, watching the thunderstorm blow by us, able to see it only when it was past us, receding into someone else’s future to our east.
26 July 2006
I Keep Meaning to Post
Really, I do. There are a dozen things I could, need to write about, even, but it just doesn't seem to be coming. I could write about the rain today, or what Little Caesar's smells like wafting across the lawn at 9:00 in the morning, or about the guy I met who has a parrot named Bebe Rebozo. I could write about the combination vegan/Polish Easter dinner I attended in April. I could write about the family in front of me in line at Meijer stuffing their faces with pretzels they hadn't yet paid for in such a way that they left no room for doubt that humans are descended from apes. I have blog post titles already! Qooking with Quorn! Ann Arbor Crows!
So why isn't it happening?
So why isn't it happening?
19 July 2006
Hawk in the Rain: Now SBC-Free!
At last, I am back online at home. SBC/AT&T/Ma Bell/Whoever-They-Are-Now successfully lost me as a customer when they DENIED me service after Wayne, their customer service rep who handled transfer of my accounts to the new location, told me everything was going to be just hunky dory. Oh, their engineers tried digging up the wires and connecting me through another router, but blind moles move faster and the folks in billing, who had no idea what engineering was up to, were snotty about my not paying the bill for service they denied me. I wasn't snotty to them. I paid the rest of the bill without a peep of protest, just not the part for the DSL THAT WASN'T ON FOR TWO WEEKS.
*ahem*
Anyway, I am happily connected now, relieved to have real-time weather radar on demand and downloading Keane songs.
*ahem*
Anyway, I am happily connected now, relieved to have real-time weather radar on demand and downloading Keane songs.
12 July 2006
Officially an Ann Arborite
The days since my last post have been blurry. There was quite a bit of sweating and grunting over a period of three days whilst wrestling furniture down the stairs of a 100-year-old Victorian house. The matress and box springs came out the window a la Monty Python's Holy Grail. The first night in the new place I had no bed and no hot water. I made several vaguely remembered sad and lonely late-night phone calls. The following day, still hot and sticky and feeling extra-bummed about leaving Chelsea, I sat down on the only box-free surface - the toilet - and wept like a five-year-old.
But I still managed to get a date that week! After beers at Arbor Brewing, we went over to Top of the Park for the free movie, which turned out to be Monty Python's Holy Grail.
Most of my time has been spent at the apartment, making it look more like home. In my first week I have already run over and completely crushed the downspouting in the back yard with my car and put more nail holes in the walls than the landlord probably anticipated. The front of the apartment is a Gobi desert of hardened earth, with street-tough thistles clawing their way through. Pots of coneflowers and daisies await transplantation. They seem happier than they did in Chelsea, having come into full bloom in the last three days.
On my first perambulation around the neighborhood, I poked into Eberwhite Woods for a minute, and found a downy woodpecker feather. Otherwise, the inventory of wildlife around the new place is something like this: house sparrow, house sparrow, house sparrow, house sparrow, starling, starling, starling, sub-adult robin, cardinal, cardinal, house sparrow, house sparrow, juvenile Homo sapiens, house sparrow, little bunny rabbit, starling, starling, house sparrow, house sparrow, house sparrow, house sparrow.
And spiders. I have many spider friends in my new place. And earwigs who want to live in my magazines and I'm afraid I'm going to have evict them.
The cat was a little jumpy for a day or two, but she's doing well. The anti-histamines prescribed for her allergic skin have not been working, probably because they aren't particularly effective when Itchykitty Skinnybutt spits them out under the refrigerator.
And yay! for the post office. Law School P's key found its way to me. He asked what he could do for me for taking care of his cats. I told him to bring me a shrubbery.
But I still managed to get a date that week! After beers at Arbor Brewing, we went over to Top of the Park for the free movie, which turned out to be Monty Python's Holy Grail.
Most of my time has been spent at the apartment, making it look more like home. In my first week I have already run over and completely crushed the downspouting in the back yard with my car and put more nail holes in the walls than the landlord probably anticipated. The front of the apartment is a Gobi desert of hardened earth, with street-tough thistles clawing their way through. Pots of coneflowers and daisies await transplantation. They seem happier than they did in Chelsea, having come into full bloom in the last three days.
On my first perambulation around the neighborhood, I poked into Eberwhite Woods for a minute, and found a downy woodpecker feather. Otherwise, the inventory of wildlife around the new place is something like this: house sparrow, house sparrow, house sparrow, house sparrow, starling, starling, starling, sub-adult robin, cardinal, cardinal, house sparrow, house sparrow, juvenile Homo sapiens, house sparrow, little bunny rabbit, starling, starling, house sparrow, house sparrow, house sparrow, house sparrow.
And spiders. I have many spider friends in my new place. And earwigs who want to live in my magazines and I'm afraid I'm going to have evict them.
The cat was a little jumpy for a day or two, but she's doing well. The anti-histamines prescribed for her allergic skin have not been working, probably because they aren't particularly effective when Itchykitty Skinnybutt spits them out under the refrigerator.
And yay! for the post office. Law School P's key found its way to me. He asked what he could do for me for taking care of his cats. I told him to bring me a shrubbery.
01 July 2006
Last Post from Chelsea
Here it is, hawklets, my last night in Chelsea. I am sitting beside the astonishing number of boxes it took to pack up the desk. Sylvie watched the operation with whisker-quivering curiosity and couldn't wait to explore the terra nova of the empty shelf.
I believe the move will be positive. Still, it's hard to embrace a change like this when the kosmos thrusts it upon you, rather than letting you think you made a decision and that you have some control.
Jim Morrison is growling "The future's uncertain and the end is always near," somewhere in the vicinity of my right ear. I wish he'd stop.
This morning I walked up to the farmer's market and heard the train whistle blow. I almost cried. I hope the train whistle doesn't blow while I'm turning in the keys to house's new owner. I really don't want to almost cry in front of her.
I am thankful that my new swingin' pad is near enough that I can move stuff carload by carload over a few days. Gives me some time to get used to the idea. Looking at my tv and stereo and yarn in the new place, I felt a little bit at home there already this afternoon. And I'm reading up on how to care for hardwood floors, 'cuz my new ones are filthy. I Swiffered them, but walking in bare feet still turned my soles sooty.
I have dishes to pack yet tonight, so I'll be ready to roll when B & D get here tomorrow with the truck.
Let it roll, baby, roll.
I believe the move will be positive. Still, it's hard to embrace a change like this when the kosmos thrusts it upon you, rather than letting you think you made a decision and that you have some control.
Jim Morrison is growling "The future's uncertain and the end is always near," somewhere in the vicinity of my right ear. I wish he'd stop.
This morning I walked up to the farmer's market and heard the train whistle blow. I almost cried. I hope the train whistle doesn't blow while I'm turning in the keys to house's new owner. I really don't want to almost cry in front of her.
I am thankful that my new swingin' pad is near enough that I can move stuff carload by carload over a few days. Gives me some time to get used to the idea. Looking at my tv and stereo and yarn in the new place, I felt a little bit at home there already this afternoon. And I'm reading up on how to care for hardwood floors, 'cuz my new ones are filthy. I Swiffered them, but walking in bare feet still turned my soles sooty.
I have dishes to pack yet tonight, so I'll be ready to roll when B & D get here tomorrow with the truck.
Let it roll, baby, roll.
Glow
Last Wednesday night I shut down the computer, set the alarm, and tumbled into bed. A minute later, Sylvie jumped up and I opened my eyes as she nuzzled my nose in the dark, then settled down by my elbow.
Something above the curtains winked greenly. Car headlights sweep the ceiling, and the buttons on the DSL box glows all night, so I thought nothing of a small light in the room.
Until the cat made a slashing leap across my body. My eyes popped open to see the green glow six inches away from my face. *flash*flash*flash* It floated soundlessly towards the wall. *flash*flash*flash* I had a lightning bug in my bedroom.
First I tried to ignore it. I wanted to sleep, but evidently Sylvie determined to catch this blinking light, so much like a fun laser pointer game. She was going to walk all over me all night.
I shuffled out to the kitchen in search of a jar to catch the beetle in. I came up with an empty cat food can and a folded paper towel. Luckily the lightning bug was very close to the wall. Without turning the lights on, I centered the can over the ethereal glow and brushed the insect in.
I covered the can with the paper towel. *flash*flash*flash* filtered through the towel, reminding me of childhood games played with a flashlight. Humid air left over after the evening’s storms rolled into the living room as I lifted the screen and shook the bug into the thick night. *flash* then he was gone from view.
After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him. I flip-flopped out to the backyard where myriads of his kind pulsed over the knee-high weeds, dipped toward the short grass, drifted slowly heavenward. They semaphored their desire with the dust of long-imploded stars, unknowingly signaling to the same dust in me.
Something above the curtains winked greenly. Car headlights sweep the ceiling, and the buttons on the DSL box glows all night, so I thought nothing of a small light in the room.
Until the cat made a slashing leap across my body. My eyes popped open to see the green glow six inches away from my face. *flash*flash*flash* It floated soundlessly towards the wall. *flash*flash*flash* I had a lightning bug in my bedroom.
First I tried to ignore it. I wanted to sleep, but evidently Sylvie determined to catch this blinking light, so much like a fun laser pointer game. She was going to walk all over me all night.
I shuffled out to the kitchen in search of a jar to catch the beetle in. I came up with an empty cat food can and a folded paper towel. Luckily the lightning bug was very close to the wall. Without turning the lights on, I centered the can over the ethereal glow and brushed the insect in.
I covered the can with the paper towel. *flash*flash*flash* filtered through the towel, reminding me of childhood games played with a flashlight. Humid air left over after the evening’s storms rolled into the living room as I lifted the screen and shook the bug into the thick night. *flash* then he was gone from view.
After a moment’s hesitation, I followed him. I flip-flopped out to the backyard where myriads of his kind pulsed over the knee-high weeds, dipped toward the short grass, drifted slowly heavenward. They semaphored their desire with the dust of long-imploded stars, unknowingly signaling to the same dust in me.
20 June 2006
Reason #132 Why I'll Miss Chelsea
Walking up to the corner market (reason #133 why I'll miss Chelsea), I saw a ball of dark fluff dart under a fence in the yard I was passing. Then another...then another...ten fluff balls in all, herded along by momma wood duck.
*sigh* I'm gonna miss wood ducks on Park Street.
Wood duck photo from Willow Park Zoo in Logan, UT.
*sigh* I'm gonna miss wood ducks on Park Street.
Wood duck photo from Willow Park Zoo in Logan, UT.
Sonnet 34
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
-- William Shakespeare
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.
-- William Shakespeare
19 June 2006
Having Trouble with My G String
On my violin, you naughty-minded thing, you.
It's been...oh, I dunno...a year? since I've had the violin out of the case at all. It was sort of in tune with itself when I pulled it out this afternoon, but totally flat. There was a horrible cracking sound as I turned the peg for the G - it hadn't been moved for probably ten years.
I don't know what note that string makes now. Not G, I know that.
Let's just say I'm a long way from being Jeremy Kittel.
But
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
It's been...oh, I dunno...a year? since I've had the violin out of the case at all. It was sort of in tune with itself when I pulled it out this afternoon, but totally flat. There was a horrible cracking sound as I turned the peg for the G - it hadn't been moved for probably ten years.
I don't know what note that string makes now. Not G, I know that.
Let's just say I'm a long way from being Jeremy Kittel.
But
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
17 June 2006
16 June 2006
Too Absorbed Lately
To notice that the catalpa is in bloom.
I hate it when I don't notice things like that. And I'm sorry I didn't get the photo on one of the blue-sky days we've been having. Maybe tomorrow?
I hate it when I don't notice things like that. And I'm sorry I didn't get the photo on one of the blue-sky days we've been having. Maybe tomorrow?
09 June 2006
A Wee Correction
Law School P. is spending the summer in Eugene, Oregon, not Portland, as previously reported. P. says it is much like Ann Arbor, only with even more hippies.
Hawk in the Rain regrets the error. And will be looking in on P's cats as soon as the key arrives via FedEx.
Hawk in the Rain regrets the error. And will be looking in on P's cats as soon as the key arrives via FedEx.
I'm Tired
I feel the same way today.
from Hugh at Gaping Void
Move date: July 1. Will be bloggin' atcha from Ann Arbor then.
from Hugh at Gaping Void
Move date: July 1. Will be bloggin' atcha from Ann Arbor then.
05 June 2006
I Know What I Like When I See It
The usual format of the writers' group I am in is thus: author reads, critics mull and re-read and mark up, critics discuss, and finally author is allowed to speak and answer questions.
Tonight, over plates of chicken salad wraps at the aut Bar, I read the poem posted below at 18 May. I could barely hear myself over the stereo system blaring Dido into the courtyard. When I finished, the critics sat and figeted with their pens. When the discussion rolled around, they unanimously liked it. Loved it even. Every-single-line-is-beautiful, this-is-so-sensual-and-intriguing loved it.
But they didn't know what it meant.
H. put forth several interpretations. As the group talked it over, I started to wonder if even I knew what it meant.
"It must be a good poem," S. said. "I don't understand it."
"I've decided to just leave it a mystery," said L.
"You should submit this somewhere," H. said. "Like The New Yorker."
I laughed.
M., the real poet of the group, merely winked at me and pointed out some too-ordinary words.
Tonight, over plates of chicken salad wraps at the aut Bar, I read the poem posted below at 18 May. I could barely hear myself over the stereo system blaring Dido into the courtyard. When I finished, the critics sat and figeted with their pens. When the discussion rolled around, they unanimously liked it. Loved it even. Every-single-line-is-beautiful, this-is-so-sensual-and-intriguing loved it.
But they didn't know what it meant.
H. put forth several interpretations. As the group talked it over, I started to wonder if even I knew what it meant.
"It must be a good poem," S. said. "I don't understand it."
"I've decided to just leave it a mystery," said L.
"You should submit this somewhere," H. said. "Like The New Yorker."
I laughed.
M., the real poet of the group, merely winked at me and pointed out some too-ordinary words.
04 June 2006
Absence Maketh the Blog Grow Boring
Yeah, yeah, so I took some time off. In addition to gallivanting around the greater Ann Arbor area looking for an affordable new place to live and donating to the Waterloo Rec Area Anopheles Blood Bank, here's whut I been up to:
Vinology
The Penelopiad
Ethnologue
Vinology
The Penelopiad
Ethnologue
22 May 2006
While You Were Out
The viburnum happened.
And the alium.
And this unknown purple flower. Kind of silly that I don't know what it is, since I planted the bulbs.
And the alium.
And this unknown purple flower. Kind of silly that I don't know what it is, since I planted the bulbs.
18 May 2006
Pygmalia
His lips first I fashioned,
apple blossoms I bit the pink curve into;
His cheeks next,
musky clay warmed round by my palm cups,
stubbled with bur oak acorn caps.
Two river-rubbed rocks I set for his eyes,
glinting with schist like silver minnows.
His neck sinews last winter’s grapevine
I braided around the antlers of his collarbones.
For his back an acre’s ground,
each vertebrae a fossil unturned.
Two mounds of earth I kneaded into buttocks,
bound to a hickory my arms’ circumference measured,
forking down to grounded knotty roots,
forking up to a driftwood-smooth branch
from which I hung a spider’s sack
cradling a pair of dusky plums.
An armful of moss I distributed,
a little bit everywhere;
a thatch of wild vetch his crown;
fronds to point the delicate curling way
home down his belly.
Last I pressed my tongue to form
the moist interior nautilus of his mouth,
whispered into the snail shells of his ears
his secret name,
and brought my self to life.
apple blossoms I bit the pink curve into;
His cheeks next,
musky clay warmed round by my palm cups,
stubbled with bur oak acorn caps.
Two river-rubbed rocks I set for his eyes,
glinting with schist like silver minnows.
His neck sinews last winter’s grapevine
I braided around the antlers of his collarbones.
For his back an acre’s ground,
each vertebrae a fossil unturned.
Two mounds of earth I kneaded into buttocks,
bound to a hickory my arms’ circumference measured,
forking down to grounded knotty roots,
forking up to a driftwood-smooth branch
from which I hung a spider’s sack
cradling a pair of dusky plums.
An armful of moss I distributed,
a little bit everywhere;
a thatch of wild vetch his crown;
fronds to point the delicate curling way
home down his belly.
Last I pressed my tongue to form
the moist interior nautilus of his mouth,
whispered into the snail shells of his ears
his secret name,
and brought my self to life.
13 May 2006
The Da Vinci Overload
Enough! Enough already! It’s a made-up story, people! Fiction! A novel! Not even a particularly well-written one!
IT IS NOT THE BIBLE!
ps. The Bible is mostly stories too.
IT IS NOT THE BIBLE!
ps. The Bible is mostly stories too.
10 May 2006
06 May 2006
Elusive Bird
Ahh! I just clicked over to Robert Royse's bird photo pages to see what's been going on migratory-bird-wise down oHIo way, and started air-stabbing myself in the chest when I saw that his current home page photo is of the skulker that has thus far eluded me, the Kentucky warbler. Singing, no less.
Someday, little sideburned bird. *rubs hands together* Someday...I will find you...
Someday, little sideburned bird. *rubs hands together* Someday...I will find you...
Walking
Spent quite a bit of the day walking, first in town looking for rentals, then on the bog trail at Waterloo Recreation Area with Law School P., who is heading for Portland, Oregon, for the summer. P.'s a good one to walk with - just the right level of chatting and he knows when to shut it, like when the barred owl started to hoot (and then made a ghostly shadow across the green leaves off to our right). He even risked warbler neck and helped me search vainly for the black-throated green warblers zee-zoo-zoo-zeeing all around us.
Let's Try It Again
This winter, I found a real steal of a deal online for the full, premium version of Adobe Creative Suite 2, thanks to my enrollment in the college. I hemmed and hawed, and didn’t order it right away, because my nefarious plans had me sitting pretty this summer, a Ms. Muffet on her financial tuffet, and even better able to afford this big expensive software package.
Now we all know that plans have a way of going up like so much smoke at Hash Bash, and instead of being Ms. Muffet, my budget is more like a kid stuck in a well. Without a monkey and a roast beef sandwich.
But I’ve had a few freelance opportunities, with the potential for more, and while my older versions of Photoshop and Illustrator still produce useable files for the printer, I desperately need InDesign on my Mac to do the serious work I want to do. Plus, I’d be missing out on all the new features in CS2 that we went over in class. So I winced, and placed the order on a credit card, which I probably shouldn’t have done, because I’m already squeezing nickels so hard that the buffalo on the back farts, but I figure that 10-12 hours or so of freelance work will defray the cost.
I clicked the FedEx tracking link two or three times a day, imagining my little brown RFID-tagged box wending its way from Dallas to Memphis, and finally to Ann Arbor. Late one afternoon, the link provided me with the following information: “Delivery Exception.” I rushed home. I wailed when I saw the sticky door-hangy-thingy, but no little brown box.
The tag was checked “signature in person required.” Maybe I could get away with it, though. I selected my most waterproof blue pen and signed the door-hangy and left it stuck to the storm door glass the next morning.
The following evening, I returned to find the door-hangy had, like some unicellular organism, replicated itself. The second one had a genetic variance towards a more assertive personality, with “signature in person” printed quite boldly upon it. Second delivery attempt! Three strikes and no FedEx for you!
Not really wanting to drive back to Ann Arbor to pick the fool thing up that evening, I called the FedEx 800 number to see if they could hold it there so I could pick it up the following day. A recording of a woman’s voice answered and tried to get me to talk. “Say, ‘Schedule a pick up’ to schedule a pick up,” she ordered me. “Say ‘Find locations’ to find locations.”
“Speak, Sylvie, speak,” I said to the cat. Sylvie blinked slowly and sauntered into the living room.
“Say, ‘Track a package’ to track a package,” the recorded voice continued.
I said, “Screw this shit,” and pushed the zero three times.
“Sorry, I didn’t understand.” The enunciation was sharper, more pronounced, like she suddenly thought maybe I was from some other country. “Say, ‘Track a package’ to track a package.”
“I know where the damn package is,” I muttered, punching the zero again.
“Sorry, I didn’t understand.” Then, more condescending, “Let’s try it again.”
I would have held up my middle finger, but I was using it to jab the star key about fifteen times.
“I’m connecting you to a FedEx representative.”
Thank God.
The FexEd representative, Frank, was sweet as pecan pie. He transmitted a message that my little brown box should be held at the location in Ann Arbor until I could pick up the next day after my writers’ group meeting. Thank you, Frank.
The meeting was at Grizzly Peak. Feeling delightfully warm and hoppy at about 7:30, I carefully steered my way down to the FedEx location, where I handed over my two door-hangies, now stuck together like mating dragonflies, and received in return my little brown box. I set it on the passenger side seat. I patted it. When I got home, I put it on the kitchen table, then lay down and promptly fell asleep.
This evening I stopped off to see a sandhill crane chick and to do some grocery shopping. By the time I got home, I was itching with anticipation. I tore open the brown box and pulled out this gorgeous, three-inch thick glistening white distinctively Adobe package. Then I saw this:
If you heard a huge *clunk* about 10:00 p.m. EDT, that was my head hitting the desk.
I’ll call tomorrow.
Now we all know that plans have a way of going up like so much smoke at Hash Bash, and instead of being Ms. Muffet, my budget is more like a kid stuck in a well. Without a monkey and a roast beef sandwich.
But I’ve had a few freelance opportunities, with the potential for more, and while my older versions of Photoshop and Illustrator still produce useable files for the printer, I desperately need InDesign on my Mac to do the serious work I want to do. Plus, I’d be missing out on all the new features in CS2 that we went over in class. So I winced, and placed the order on a credit card, which I probably shouldn’t have done, because I’m already squeezing nickels so hard that the buffalo on the back farts, but I figure that 10-12 hours or so of freelance work will defray the cost.
I clicked the FedEx tracking link two or three times a day, imagining my little brown RFID-tagged box wending its way from Dallas to Memphis, and finally to Ann Arbor. Late one afternoon, the link provided me with the following information: “Delivery Exception.” I rushed home. I wailed when I saw the sticky door-hangy-thingy, but no little brown box.
The tag was checked “signature in person required.” Maybe I could get away with it, though. I selected my most waterproof blue pen and signed the door-hangy and left it stuck to the storm door glass the next morning.
The following evening, I returned to find the door-hangy had, like some unicellular organism, replicated itself. The second one had a genetic variance towards a more assertive personality, with “signature in person” printed quite boldly upon it. Second delivery attempt! Three strikes and no FedEx for you!
Not really wanting to drive back to Ann Arbor to pick the fool thing up that evening, I called the FedEx 800 number to see if they could hold it there so I could pick it up the following day. A recording of a woman’s voice answered and tried to get me to talk. “Say, ‘Schedule a pick up’ to schedule a pick up,” she ordered me. “Say ‘Find locations’ to find locations.”
“Speak, Sylvie, speak,” I said to the cat. Sylvie blinked slowly and sauntered into the living room.
“Say, ‘Track a package’ to track a package,” the recorded voice continued.
I said, “Screw this shit,” and pushed the zero three times.
“Sorry, I didn’t understand.” The enunciation was sharper, more pronounced, like she suddenly thought maybe I was from some other country. “Say, ‘Track a package’ to track a package.”
“I know where the damn package is,” I muttered, punching the zero again.
“Sorry, I didn’t understand.” Then, more condescending, “Let’s try it again.”
I would have held up my middle finger, but I was using it to jab the star key about fifteen times.
“I’m connecting you to a FedEx representative.”
Thank God.
The FexEd representative, Frank, was sweet as pecan pie. He transmitted a message that my little brown box should be held at the location in Ann Arbor until I could pick up the next day after my writers’ group meeting. Thank you, Frank.
The meeting was at Grizzly Peak. Feeling delightfully warm and hoppy at about 7:30, I carefully steered my way down to the FedEx location, where I handed over my two door-hangies, now stuck together like mating dragonflies, and received in return my little brown box. I set it on the passenger side seat. I patted it. When I got home, I put it on the kitchen table, then lay down and promptly fell asleep.
This evening I stopped off to see a sandhill crane chick and to do some grocery shopping. By the time I got home, I was itching with anticipation. I tore open the brown box and pulled out this gorgeous, three-inch thick glistening white distinctively Adobe package. Then I saw this:
If you heard a huge *clunk* about 10:00 p.m. EDT, that was my head hitting the desk.
I’ll call tomorrow.
04 May 2006
27 April 2006
Alien Spotted in Wooster oHIo
Actually, this is my friend's Sphynx, Sugar 'n Spice, a.k.a. "Booger, Rhymes with Sugar." Note the lack of whiskers.
The way she curls her tail up into a spiral is something I've never seen other cats do. Maybe because other cats, with their fur-laden tails, can't?
14 April 2006
Now Blooming in a Yard Near You
The irrepressible dandelion.
The irrepressible periwinkle.
Lots of sunny daffodils.
And some shy lil' bloodroot.
The irrepressible periwinkle.
Lots of sunny daffodils.
And some shy lil' bloodroot.
12 April 2006
Sometimes Those Junk E-mails are Good for a Laugh
From today's inbox:
Five tips for a woman....
1. It is important that a man helps you around the house and has a job.
2. It is important that a man makes you laugh.
3. It is important to find a man you can count on and doesn't lie to you.
4. It is important that a man loves you and spoils you.
5. It is important that these four men don't know each other.
The Farm Boy Shares His Naked Cat Pix
"You know I wouldn't get a normal cat," he said, when he told me he had sold his cigar collection to pay for the Sphynx.
"But I at least thought you would get one with fur!" I said. "It's kind of the whole point of a cat."
Still, she looks sweet. And like she could pick up Radio Free Europe with those ears.
09 April 2006
This is Evidently Me in a Relationship
Gazin' at the sky, pickin' pretty posies, and steppin' off some dang cliff.
It's not the first time.
A lesson will be repeated until learned.
At least I'm taking the yappy little white dog down with me.
Note to My Commenters: Sorry!
It was brought to my attention that comments were being made that were not making it to the blog. I found out why: they've been patiently waiting in moderation, which I didn't realize was turned on. I've let them out of detention and they're now all up.
Sorry - I've not been ignoring you. I've just been ignoring the comment moderation tab.
Sorry - I've not been ignoring you. I've just been ignoring the comment moderation tab.
Squill!
While I'm quite pleased with my progress in using the macro setting on the camera, I am less pleased with the loss of brilliant purple colors when jpg's are compressed for the web.
Violets
D. - what are these?
White crocus
Violets
D. - what are these?
White crocus
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