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.

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.

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!

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.

A Wee Question

Why does music you like sound even better when it's loud?

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.

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.