People feed off drama. I know this, I know we need it, we crave it, when it isn't present we create it.
But Christoper Columbus people! Can't we have a place where we can escape from it? Could maybe that place be the anonymous, emotionally void land we call the blogosphere?
Nah, I didn't think so either.
I've noticed lately that there is serious unheaval in the blogosphere lately. If I were a blog psychic I'd be collapsing in my chair fanning myself from all the negative energy - could you be a dear and get me my smelling salts...and some sherry?
It feels like high school, someone disagrees with someone else and then someone talks **** and it's on my brothers, it is on. Everyone gets their army and it's a blog/comment/email flame war. Better hope the teachers don't show up after school.
AND as if that weren't enough, in order to get an army you have to show friendship by linking to one another, like pricking yourself and sharing a blood kiss, only less gross I suppose. Though I was always fond of the pink satin jackets myself.
Well my friends I'm taking a stand. I do not care about alliances and who is in whose click. You can hate me or like me, I don't care if anyone reads this stuff or not.
But in case one does happen to read this page, I linked to a bunch of blogs on the side. I linked to them because I happen to like them, something about them spoke to me and made me happy. You should read them too, they're better than this one.
AND not a single one has ever linked to my page, and I don't want them too. I link to them cause I like them, and that's it.
Now take your honeypot love elsewhere!
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
The Economist is Coming, The Economist is Coming!
My urge to blog is being overshadowed by my urge to write a play that I can turn in next month. It's still in the works and I fear needs major re-doing, but I will get there.
However, today my interest is being piqued by something else entirely.
It's no secret that I have no always made the best choice in life. I jumped off the "fast track" after high school, ignoring my acceptance letters to Yale, Vassar, Sarah Lawrence and moving straight into the working world, meaning a restaurant in the middle of Times Square in New York. And I was living the life: Pounding the pavement audition after audition, crashing here and there from apartment to apartment, busing tables and learning how to tell those crazy high society New York women "Listen lady, You don't got a reservation, you don't got a table, now sit your bony butt down!" (Okay, maybe I didn't say those words, but that was the attitude we were taught.
I'm not cut out for New York, the inhabitants there are strange and have odd customs, like eating their young and decorating their caves with bad art. Vernacular that I had hitherto only heard in bad movies is part of the norm there. Honestly I felt like the city was eating itself and slowing puking itself back up. That would explain the smell. Clearly I'm not a New York is not for me, and I am not for it. You gotta have a certain gene to live there, it's gotta be in your blood.
The words please and thank you are in my blood instead.
I know it's not nice to bust on New York, but you should hear what I think about Los Angeles.
So, my second fast track towards the big time theatre came to a halt when I turned down some bit parts in big shows and moved far away. Married a sailor, went to community college, moved all over to small parts of the country where everything closes at six and never opens on Sunday. Maybe it was a mistake, I had to walk away from a lot of opportunities because the Navy said "MOVE" but when I walk through the door of our little apartment and see my sweet husband napping on the couch with our sweet little cat - it doesn't feel like a mistake.
However, it's pretty clear the after 20+ years of studying and living theatre, I can't do theatre anymore. I have to get home, I need to make dinner. I can't stay out till 2am everyday with the kids - I have a day-job. So I need a new career.
I've been looking into computers, mostly creating and maintaining databases for businesses like the one I work for now. That's how I got started here, and I loved every minute of it. It suited me, detail oriented work that required lots of attention and organization. Making complicated things look easy to use. I liked it. I still like it.
But today something else caught my eye. We're preparing for a meeting with an "economist" in our office. It's a big deal there are hushed conversations about what the "economist" will say. There is curiosity about what he has been looking at. It's like ushering in a famous psychic...the air is tingling with - with - with ECONOMY!
And being the good girl that I am, I'm researching what he's going to talk about. I've been reading his emails about his techniques and what he teaches his students. I'm fascinated. I'm enthralled.
I can also see flaws in his analysis. He's not looking at all the factors.
Then he mentions the factors.
Hey! I could do this! I could study this stuff, I could do the research and the analysis, I could learn all these details. I could do this!
And as I sit at the end of summer, as I stare at my college catalog ready to plan the rest of my education starting from scratch over again, my eyes are wandering toward business and economy.
And I wonder....
However, today my interest is being piqued by something else entirely.
It's no secret that I have no always made the best choice in life. I jumped off the "fast track" after high school, ignoring my acceptance letters to Yale, Vassar, Sarah Lawrence and moving straight into the working world, meaning a restaurant in the middle of Times Square in New York. And I was living the life: Pounding the pavement audition after audition, crashing here and there from apartment to apartment, busing tables and learning how to tell those crazy high society New York women "Listen lady, You don't got a reservation, you don't got a table, now sit your bony butt down!" (Okay, maybe I didn't say those words, but that was the attitude we were taught.
I'm not cut out for New York, the inhabitants there are strange and have odd customs, like eating their young and decorating their caves with bad art. Vernacular that I had hitherto only heard in bad movies is part of the norm there. Honestly I felt like the city was eating itself and slowing puking itself back up. That would explain the smell. Clearly I'm not a New York is not for me, and I am not for it. You gotta have a certain gene to live there, it's gotta be in your blood.
The words please and thank you are in my blood instead.
I know it's not nice to bust on New York, but you should hear what I think about Los Angeles.
So, my second fast track towards the big time theatre came to a halt when I turned down some bit parts in big shows and moved far away. Married a sailor, went to community college, moved all over to small parts of the country where everything closes at six and never opens on Sunday. Maybe it was a mistake, I had to walk away from a lot of opportunities because the Navy said "MOVE" but when I walk through the door of our little apartment and see my sweet husband napping on the couch with our sweet little cat - it doesn't feel like a mistake.
However, it's pretty clear the after 20+ years of studying and living theatre, I can't do theatre anymore. I have to get home, I need to make dinner. I can't stay out till 2am everyday with the kids - I have a day-job. So I need a new career.
I've been looking into computers, mostly creating and maintaining databases for businesses like the one I work for now. That's how I got started here, and I loved every minute of it. It suited me, detail oriented work that required lots of attention and organization. Making complicated things look easy to use. I liked it. I still like it.
But today something else caught my eye. We're preparing for a meeting with an "economist" in our office. It's a big deal there are hushed conversations about what the "economist" will say. There is curiosity about what he has been looking at. It's like ushering in a famous psychic...the air is tingling with - with - with ECONOMY!
And being the good girl that I am, I'm researching what he's going to talk about. I've been reading his emails about his techniques and what he teaches his students. I'm fascinated. I'm enthralled.
I can also see flaws in his analysis. He's not looking at all the factors.
Then he mentions the factors.
Hey! I could do this! I could study this stuff, I could do the research and the analysis, I could learn all these details. I could do this!
And as I sit at the end of summer, as I stare at my college catalog ready to plan the rest of my education starting from scratch over again, my eyes are wandering toward business and economy.
And I wonder....
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Lessons from the Mundane
Though no gremlins have popped out to get me today and in general things are running rather smoothly it's been on of those blah days.
The highlight of the day? My friend (and co-assistant in the office) came over and whacked me on the head with a piece of paper.
"Ow! What'd I do now?" I yell out indignantly.
"Nothing. I just felt like hitting you."
"Gee, thanks."
Boss#1 chimes in from his office, "What are you girls up too?"
"She's beating me up!" I say.
"Well don't hurt her, we need her around here."
"She'll only get a little bruise" says my counterpart.
And then we were back to the daily grind.
There is a lot of grinding too. Many things are due today and in order to make sure people stay in their seats and work through the lunch hour we provided pizza.
Our company deals in food, we even have a huge scary kitchen so there is always food to eat. Besides vending machines we always have cheap or free bagels and muffins and cookies. Iced tea, coffee, soda, the whole nine yards. And then we are always ordering lunch for someone, or getting food from companies in thanks, not to mention the birthday/going-away/you're having a baby parties. Food always abounds. And now I know why it's so readily available. Food is control my friends, food is control.
Today we provided the worker ants with pizza. Because there was pizza there was no reason for anyone to leave the office to get lunch, we had plenty. Because there was no reason to get lunch, and pizza only takes a few moments to eat, everyone was essentially forced by convention to go back to their desks, sit their butt down and work on the little project no one wants to do.
I use this technique on my bosses too, and they in turn use it on me. My job is to know where these guys are at all times and to be able to find them for meetings and when stuff hits the fan. Which is why I always prefer to order lunch for them. I go around, getting orders, and then in turn bring the food to their offices - so there is never ANY need to leave. More coffee?-I'll fetch it. Not because it's my job to get them coffee but because it's easier than having them run to the kitchen and be distracted by another worker or the shiny part of the sink. My life becomes easier when they stay in their offices.
Likewise, their life is easier when I'm here all day. Ordering lunch for me...throw something in for yourself. No don't worry about it, you work hard Katy get yourself a sandwich, on the company. Why? With the presence of a sandwich I have no excuse to run out of the building for an hour and fetch something to eat. This serves two purposes, I am always within reach of each boss so whenever they need something printed it gets done right away. It also keeps me from ever seeing sunlight, which makes my spirits climb and makes me long to play outside. I loose track of time and all I see are reports and schedules. There is no day time, there is no night, there is only my desk...with the cute little white stuffed cat.
So what did I learn today?
Control. I have learned how to control. And knowledge my friend is power. Knowledge...and bread with melted cheese on top.
The highlight of the day? My friend (and co-assistant in the office) came over and whacked me on the head with a piece of paper.
"Ow! What'd I do now?" I yell out indignantly.
"Nothing. I just felt like hitting you."
"Gee, thanks."
Boss#1 chimes in from his office, "What are you girls up too?"
"She's beating me up!" I say.
"Well don't hurt her, we need her around here."
"She'll only get a little bruise" says my counterpart.
And then we were back to the daily grind.
There is a lot of grinding too. Many things are due today and in order to make sure people stay in their seats and work through the lunch hour we provided pizza.
Our company deals in food, we even have a huge scary kitchen so there is always food to eat. Besides vending machines we always have cheap or free bagels and muffins and cookies. Iced tea, coffee, soda, the whole nine yards. And then we are always ordering lunch for someone, or getting food from companies in thanks, not to mention the birthday/going-away/you're having a baby parties. Food always abounds. And now I know why it's so readily available. Food is control my friends, food is control.
Today we provided the worker ants with pizza. Because there was pizza there was no reason for anyone to leave the office to get lunch, we had plenty. Because there was no reason to get lunch, and pizza only takes a few moments to eat, everyone was essentially forced by convention to go back to their desks, sit their butt down and work on the little project no one wants to do.
I use this technique on my bosses too, and they in turn use it on me. My job is to know where these guys are at all times and to be able to find them for meetings and when stuff hits the fan. Which is why I always prefer to order lunch for them. I go around, getting orders, and then in turn bring the food to their offices - so there is never ANY need to leave. More coffee?-I'll fetch it. Not because it's my job to get them coffee but because it's easier than having them run to the kitchen and be distracted by another worker or the shiny part of the sink. My life becomes easier when they stay in their offices.
Likewise, their life is easier when I'm here all day. Ordering lunch for me...throw something in for yourself. No don't worry about it, you work hard Katy get yourself a sandwich, on the company. Why? With the presence of a sandwich I have no excuse to run out of the building for an hour and fetch something to eat. This serves two purposes, I am always within reach of each boss so whenever they need something printed it gets done right away. It also keeps me from ever seeing sunlight, which makes my spirits climb and makes me long to play outside. I loose track of time and all I see are reports and schedules. There is no day time, there is no night, there is only my desk...with the cute little white stuffed cat.
So what did I learn today?
Control. I have learned how to control. And knowledge my friend is power. Knowledge...and bread with melted cheese on top.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Conspiracy
There is a little man sitting at a little desk with a little window that gives off little light. I've mention him before. Sad, sad little man, balding head and pimply skin at the age of 40. He was in the Navy for a long time - taking comfort in the blue uniform he had to wear everyday.
He's been discharged since and has moved on to a new job.
Messing with my life in the civilian world.
He uses his many skills to convince people to chew me out for doing my job. He messes with schedules so everyone gets something out of their appointments while I sit and wait till I have to reschedule for a date a month later.
He's particularly fond of creating bureaucracy that keeps young women such as myself in the dark about being unemployed for the past two weeks...even though I worked 80+ hours.
He is also learning the art of seduction. No, not the kind that could get this little bastard a date so he'd stop batting me around. He seduces boys with thrills of Halo 2, Rome Total War, World of Warcraft, and that cute chick who does acupuncture.
Bah! Humbug! Screw you tiny man in a tiny office with a tiny window. I see you! I know you're there! I will get you little man, I will get you!
He's been discharged since and has moved on to a new job.
Messing with my life in the civilian world.
He uses his many skills to convince people to chew me out for doing my job. He messes with schedules so everyone gets something out of their appointments while I sit and wait till I have to reschedule for a date a month later.
He's particularly fond of creating bureaucracy that keeps young women such as myself in the dark about being unemployed for the past two weeks...even though I worked 80+ hours.
He is also learning the art of seduction. No, not the kind that could get this little bastard a date so he'd stop batting me around. He seduces boys with thrills of Halo 2, Rome Total War, World of Warcraft, and that cute chick who does acupuncture.
Bah! Humbug! Screw you tiny man in a tiny office with a tiny window. I see you! I know you're there! I will get you little man, I will get you!
Friday, July 22, 2005
Lightbulb
On a more humorous note I just received the following email:
We are going to reschedule this call to occur on a *blah blah blah* basis as a simple *blah blah blah frog blah* call. We are past the need for a weekly update -- yes, I got the message based on lack of attedance on the call.
The lack of attendance that this person speaks of is the fact that NO ONE has called into this call for the past two months.
Is that a lightbulb going off over their head or an anvil about to fall?
We are going to reschedule this call to occur on a *blah blah blah* basis as a simple *blah blah blah frog blah* call. We are past the need for a weekly update -- yes, I got the message based on lack of attedance on the call.
The lack of attendance that this person speaks of is the fact that NO ONE has called into this call for the past two months.
Is that a lightbulb going off over their head or an anvil about to fall?
Break out the duct tape...
Thursday is payday at my company.
Which means Thursday is the day I have to walk down to payroll and sign my name away towards a couple hundred paychecks and paystubs. I stand at a makeshift counter and wait while the gremlin behind the cubicle wall decides how many she will force me to hand out. She goes through the box and goes "I think these people are on the second floor, oooh and these are too, and actually could you just take care of the third floor while your at it...and since you're going that way, just drop these off on the first...kay? Thanks!" Then payroll slams the huge pile of envelopes on the desk and all but makes me put my hand over my heart to swear I will not let any envelope 1) Out of my sight and 2) Be touched by any person who does not go by the name on the envelope.
Because I get to hand out each envelope individually on Thursdays I also get to (read: am forced to) socialize with the rare and exotic breed of office worker: The Paranoid Corporate America Employee.
The PCAE's are the people who seem to be just a little too pale. Their cubicles are filled with humidifiers, de-humidifiers, and allergen reducers. No big deal you say, some people have allergies. Yes, but PCAE's wrap their machines in foil. They also have microwave transmitter interceptors placed strategically around their "personal space". These interceptors would normally be labelled "wave machines" and are filled with blue water.
Most paycheck envelopes are filled only with a little paycheck stub telling the person how much money was directly deposited in their bank account. Most people don't care if I miss them during hand out (and therefore mail their paystubs to them instead) because most people have direct deposit and the stub is really only for tax purposes and their files. There's a little sadness in this when it takes me two hours to track someone down, hand them the auspicious letter and have them carelessly chuck it towards some file box in an out of the way area. But what can you do?
PCAE's care however, because PCAE's don't have bank accounts. PCAE's don't trust banks. They believe a bank is an institution controlled by the government to make sure that the "people" do not get enough money and food to rise up and rebel. Banks are a form of control. PCAE's envelopes are filled with a live check. (As opposed to a dead one? I never really figured out why they were called "live checks" Do they need to be fed? Are there check vets? What type of vitamins do they require?.) The live check is a hard pet to take care of. If security got any worse I'd have to walk around with a bulletproof briefcase handcuffed to my wrists. I have a time limit for how long I can not give away the live checks. If I still can't find the living breathing PCAE by that time limit the check is put in the mail to be rushed to their home address post haste.
PCAE's are difficult to track down. They are often absent (random alerts about smog and the ebola virus keep them at home), or they leave early without warning. They like to keep their movements unpredictable - in case someone is following them - and in this case that may be a good idea. I follow them all the time on Thursday...I'm thinking of getting a bloodhound to help with the search. What I'm trying to say is it's really freaking hard to find these people at their desks. So I have to do a lot of mailing of checks.
Which is also a problem. PCAE's don't trust the mail. According to them, the mailroom has been infiltrated by the FBI and one of our very own geeky, sweet, kinda ill-adjusted mail clerks is really an agent who takes pictures of the address portion of all letters and packages and sends them to the "home office." Even worse they do this with cell phones thereby effectively tainting the mail with cell-phone cancer causing agents in order to eliminate threats to government security.
Today I got chewed out by the boss of a PCAE because I put her check in the mail yesterday (she was out sick) and she freaked out so bad she had to be sent home. She was certain the CIA knew where she lived now and was busy tapping her phones.
I was just doing my job!!!
PCAE's and their counter-parts PTFH's (People in Tin-Foil Hats) strike me as very sad. It must be an awful existence to walk around daily worried that the very air you breath is something toxic. I like breathing air, I don't want to think that something I like to do would be bad for me. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.
I had a friend in high school (actually I had a "stalker" in high school.) who had difficulty telling the difference between Anime plot lines and real life. He was in JROTC (Junior Reserves Officers' Training Corps in case you got to go to one of those nice schools that don't try and recruit you from the age of eight) for a semester and he was certain that at JROTC camp they brainwashed him to be a secret soldier. He was privy to all sorts of secrets about the military and he went around trying to convince anyone who would listen that the little blue vein in our hands was actually a transmitter chip. Religious Apocalyptic Fever was at an all time high in my town in high school and all the kids were certain that the end of days were coming because we all had the mark of the beast.
The really scary part was when my biology teacher mentioned it in class too. Obviously I went to a "public" school.
In anycase, his life was not a happy one. He kept thinking that they would drag him away to some undisclosed location because he was educated the masses (third period English class) about the evil of the military. Even if high school wasn't a torture chamber and people didn't pick on him to distraction he made his own life a hell.
Interestingly enough I think he tried to enlist after graduation and lasted all of a week before they declared him crazy and booted his butt out. I'm not sure if he was just paranoid and confused or actually diagnosable crazy. I'm kinda glad that they didn't let him carry a gun though.
In anycase, in our house, the PTFH's and the PCAE's are mocked to no end. And it does seem pretty silly that people who work in a large International company are worried they might be "on the grid" or "in the system". I mean they work in corporate America, they submit to random drug testing and use the company doctors for the many ailments they contract. They eat the company food and fill out all the forms we have listing what cars we drive, registration numbers, SSN's. It's not like we're not already in some system...any system. Why so freaked over the mail and the bank?
I might get tickled by the guy who covers his desk in foil, but I feel sad too. You might say these people have a disease or a disorder...but I think they may be simply eccentric. Which is even worse because they choose to frighten themselves, they have to lead this overly-paranoid life, and it can't be joyful. If I were to give into a fantasy world I'd much rather believe I were a cat, or a princess of some island, or a superhero. I wouldn't want to constantly try and convince myself that people were out to get me.
The really really scary part though? People are out to get us...just look at London, again. There is stuff to be afraid of...and my fellow employees wave machines won't do much to stop it. What a waste of energy.
Which means Thursday is the day I have to walk down to payroll and sign my name away towards a couple hundred paychecks and paystubs. I stand at a makeshift counter and wait while the gremlin behind the cubicle wall decides how many she will force me to hand out. She goes through the box and goes "I think these people are on the second floor, oooh and these are too, and actually could you just take care of the third floor while your at it...and since you're going that way, just drop these off on the first...kay? Thanks!" Then payroll slams the huge pile of envelopes on the desk and all but makes me put my hand over my heart to swear I will not let any envelope 1) Out of my sight and 2) Be touched by any person who does not go by the name on the envelope.
Because I get to hand out each envelope individually on Thursdays I also get to (read: am forced to) socialize with the rare and exotic breed of office worker: The Paranoid Corporate America Employee.
The PCAE's are the people who seem to be just a little too pale. Their cubicles are filled with humidifiers, de-humidifiers, and allergen reducers. No big deal you say, some people have allergies. Yes, but PCAE's wrap their machines in foil. They also have microwave transmitter interceptors placed strategically around their "personal space". These interceptors would normally be labelled "wave machines" and are filled with blue water.
Most paycheck envelopes are filled only with a little paycheck stub telling the person how much money was directly deposited in their bank account. Most people don't care if I miss them during hand out (and therefore mail their paystubs to them instead) because most people have direct deposit and the stub is really only for tax purposes and their files. There's a little sadness in this when it takes me two hours to track someone down, hand them the auspicious letter and have them carelessly chuck it towards some file box in an out of the way area. But what can you do?
PCAE's care however, because PCAE's don't have bank accounts. PCAE's don't trust banks. They believe a bank is an institution controlled by the government to make sure that the "people" do not get enough money and food to rise up and rebel. Banks are a form of control. PCAE's envelopes are filled with a live check. (As opposed to a dead one? I never really figured out why they were called "live checks" Do they need to be fed? Are there check vets? What type of vitamins do they require?.) The live check is a hard pet to take care of. If security got any worse I'd have to walk around with a bulletproof briefcase handcuffed to my wrists. I have a time limit for how long I can not give away the live checks. If I still can't find the living breathing PCAE by that time limit the check is put in the mail to be rushed to their home address post haste.
PCAE's are difficult to track down. They are often absent (random alerts about smog and the ebola virus keep them at home), or they leave early without warning. They like to keep their movements unpredictable - in case someone is following them - and in this case that may be a good idea. I follow them all the time on Thursday...I'm thinking of getting a bloodhound to help with the search. What I'm trying to say is it's really freaking hard to find these people at their desks. So I have to do a lot of mailing of checks.
Which is also a problem. PCAE's don't trust the mail. According to them, the mailroom has been infiltrated by the FBI and one of our very own geeky, sweet, kinda ill-adjusted mail clerks is really an agent who takes pictures of the address portion of all letters and packages and sends them to the "home office." Even worse they do this with cell phones thereby effectively tainting the mail with cell-phone cancer causing agents in order to eliminate threats to government security.
Today I got chewed out by the boss of a PCAE because I put her check in the mail yesterday (she was out sick) and she freaked out so bad she had to be sent home. She was certain the CIA knew where she lived now and was busy tapping her phones.
I was just doing my job!!!
PCAE's and their counter-parts PTFH's (People in Tin-Foil Hats) strike me as very sad. It must be an awful existence to walk around daily worried that the very air you breath is something toxic. I like breathing air, I don't want to think that something I like to do would be bad for me. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.
I had a friend in high school (actually I had a "stalker" in high school.) who had difficulty telling the difference between Anime plot lines and real life. He was in JROTC (Junior Reserves Officers' Training Corps in case you got to go to one of those nice schools that don't try and recruit you from the age of eight) for a semester and he was certain that at JROTC camp they brainwashed him to be a secret soldier. He was privy to all sorts of secrets about the military and he went around trying to convince anyone who would listen that the little blue vein in our hands was actually a transmitter chip. Religious Apocalyptic Fever was at an all time high in my town in high school and all the kids were certain that the end of days were coming because we all had the mark of the beast.
The really scary part was when my biology teacher mentioned it in class too. Obviously I went to a "public" school.
In anycase, his life was not a happy one. He kept thinking that they would drag him away to some undisclosed location because he was educated the masses (third period English class) about the evil of the military. Even if high school wasn't a torture chamber and people didn't pick on him to distraction he made his own life a hell.
Interestingly enough I think he tried to enlist after graduation and lasted all of a week before they declared him crazy and booted his butt out. I'm not sure if he was just paranoid and confused or actually diagnosable crazy. I'm kinda glad that they didn't let him carry a gun though.
In anycase, in our house, the PTFH's and the PCAE's are mocked to no end. And it does seem pretty silly that people who work in a large International company are worried they might be "on the grid" or "in the system". I mean they work in corporate America, they submit to random drug testing and use the company doctors for the many ailments they contract. They eat the company food and fill out all the forms we have listing what cars we drive, registration numbers, SSN's. It's not like we're not already in some system...any system. Why so freaked over the mail and the bank?
I might get tickled by the guy who covers his desk in foil, but I feel sad too. You might say these people have a disease or a disorder...but I think they may be simply eccentric. Which is even worse because they choose to frighten themselves, they have to lead this overly-paranoid life, and it can't be joyful. If I were to give into a fantasy world I'd much rather believe I were a cat, or a princess of some island, or a superhero. I wouldn't want to constantly try and convince myself that people were out to get me.
The really really scary part though? People are out to get us...just look at London, again. There is stuff to be afraid of...and my fellow employees wave machines won't do much to stop it. What a waste of energy.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
AWOL Muse
Oh the irony.
Though it seems unbelievable, I actually can and do write scripts for plays that often get performed. And sometimes they even get performed by real actors too. This past spring I was involved with a reading series for local writers. One of my plays was performed and I performed in another production on the side. It was fun and I enjoyed being able to throw out some material and get a lot of useful feedback from the audiences who saw my piece.
This fall they are reviving the series and a call has been made for more scripts. The due date is early next month.
I decided to be brave and get a script together that is a little less traditional and a lot less worked on. In fact I have not completely finished the piece. But I've been plugging away at it for the past few weeks and it was taking shape.
Until I had to go stick my nose in elsewhere. A friend recently "whined" at me that he couldn't figure out where to go with a script he was trying to continue. Considering the fact I like this friends (go figure) and I usually can think up little ideas in writing quickly (they may not always work, but I can think them up) I had him send me the piece.
It was good. I mean it was only a few pages long and it needed serious work, but it had that good potential - ya know. It was good. It was "ooooh-I-want-more" good. And that's the sign of a good play. It was also completely open and I couldn't help myself, I threw tons of ideas at him. You could do this, you could do that, you could play with this idea, or that one. He took all those ideas...and then wrote something completely different. And even that is good. But I like to think I at least kicked his butt in gear and reminded him that there is no tragedy greater than an unfinished play.
Unfortunately, I had soooooo many ideas for his play, and I shared most of them, that I think I may have used myself up. I've been fiddling with my reading submission for two weeks now and have barely been able to go anywhere with it. Somewhere, in the exchange of idea between writers, the bastard stole my muse!
This was not the plan...if anything I was supposed to be his muse. This would be acceptable, I would have even offered to wear the short little toga-type dress for him. However, at no point was he supposed to seduce my muse towards his work. It's not like my muse was supposed to be helpful to him anyway, considering the muse has dark, short hair, is very tall...and is MALE.
I'm still banging my head over this dumb play, and the deadline is fast approaching. It is imperative that my tall, dark, handsome male muse be returned to me - post haste. I'm sure he's had lots of fun hanging with the boys...and I'm prepared to offer him a chance to recuperate from the massive hang over he has earned. But he better get his butt back here soon. I mean it...soon.
(One a personal note to the muse-thief. The drop will be arranged for a minute after midnight, I'll leave my wastebasket of thrown out paper on the corner of Mulberry and Whaachachoie and you leave Frank-the-soon-to-be-in-so-much-trouble-muse on the easterside of the Wachovia Bank. The duck sings when the turkey cries.)
Though it seems unbelievable, I actually can and do write scripts for plays that often get performed. And sometimes they even get performed by real actors too. This past spring I was involved with a reading series for local writers. One of my plays was performed and I performed in another production on the side. It was fun and I enjoyed being able to throw out some material and get a lot of useful feedback from the audiences who saw my piece.
This fall they are reviving the series and a call has been made for more scripts. The due date is early next month.
I decided to be brave and get a script together that is a little less traditional and a lot less worked on. In fact I have not completely finished the piece. But I've been plugging away at it for the past few weeks and it was taking shape.
Until I had to go stick my nose in elsewhere. A friend recently "whined" at me that he couldn't figure out where to go with a script he was trying to continue. Considering the fact I like this friends (go figure) and I usually can think up little ideas in writing quickly (they may not always work, but I can think them up) I had him send me the piece.
It was good. I mean it was only a few pages long and it needed serious work, but it had that good potential - ya know. It was good. It was "ooooh-I-want-more" good. And that's the sign of a good play. It was also completely open and I couldn't help myself, I threw tons of ideas at him. You could do this, you could do that, you could play with this idea, or that one. He took all those ideas...and then wrote something completely different. And even that is good. But I like to think I at least kicked his butt in gear and reminded him that there is no tragedy greater than an unfinished play.
Unfortunately, I had soooooo many ideas for his play, and I shared most of them, that I think I may have used myself up. I've been fiddling with my reading submission for two weeks now and have barely been able to go anywhere with it. Somewhere, in the exchange of idea between writers, the bastard stole my muse!
This was not the plan...if anything I was supposed to be his muse. This would be acceptable, I would have even offered to wear the short little toga-type dress for him. However, at no point was he supposed to seduce my muse towards his work. It's not like my muse was supposed to be helpful to him anyway, considering the muse has dark, short hair, is very tall...and is MALE.
I'm still banging my head over this dumb play, and the deadline is fast approaching. It is imperative that my tall, dark, handsome male muse be returned to me - post haste. I'm sure he's had lots of fun hanging with the boys...and I'm prepared to offer him a chance to recuperate from the massive hang over he has earned. But he better get his butt back here soon. I mean it...soon.
(One a personal note to the muse-thief. The drop will be arranged for a minute after midnight, I'll leave my wastebasket of thrown out paper on the corner of Mulberry and Whaachachoie and you leave Frank-the-soon-to-be-in-so-much-trouble-muse on the easterside of the Wachovia Bank. The duck sings when the turkey cries.)
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Last night, Last year-Over there, Over here
The sun was finally down and the couple was curled up on the couch together watching t.v. She was resting her head on his chest and his arm was draped just so around her shoulders. The pretty mexican blanket was fluffed out over their laps, just their toes peeking out from underneath. She nibbled at his soft knitted shirt and snuggled up closer into his arms, enjoying the feeling of his wide warm chest pressed against her little shoulders. He tickled her stomach and grinned wide when she squealed and jumped further into his lap. They tangled their legs together while they watched the silly little show and made fun of all the characters who were clearly insane.
Commercials popped up and they nibbled at each others lips and cheeks as they fast forwarded through them, stopping to watch the one with the puppies in it, and a trailer for a new movie. She stopped it on a funny one about cats and he surprised her by flipping her over, dragging his fingers down her thighs till she kicked and giggled and then stealthily stole the remote. She punched him playfully "No tickling" and reentangled herself in his arms surrendering the control of the remote willingly.
The show started again. The night was perfect, they were warm and together. They both felt relief and joy being pressed close to one another.
Commercials started again. A producers name popped up across a background of green camouflage and patriotic music played.
"From the Producers of..."
"Fastforward" she said sweetly and wiggled against him. He didn't say anything.
"A Steven Bochco film..."
"Fastforward now" she whimpered up at him and pouted cute feeling frisky and trying to get him to do what she wanted. He didn't move a muscle.
"A story about our troops..."
She slapped his hand with hers "Hey, fastforward this!" Her voice rose an octave higher than normal. He moved his hand and the remote but didn't hit the button.
"Fastforward it! Please. Fastforward!" Her voice kept getting higher and higher and was filled with even more urgency. She had maybe three more seconds.
"Mommy's at work and she miss you real bad." Too late. The sound of a baby wailing filled the living room and then there were gunshots and explosions bursting out of the screen and right towards the couple.
"I don't want to watch this!!!" she grabbed his shirt sleeve and pulled it hard "fastforward."
"I want to see it" he said, completely unaffected by the image of a guys who face was covered in blood.
She started fighting, she moved to sit up and his arm circled her shoulders even tighter. She shrugged his hand away from her, pulling her legs out from under the covers. He toppled her and wrapped the covers around her leg, grinning at the new game he thought they were playing.
"Shhh, I'm trying to listen."
"Noo, let me go!" she tried to tune out the sound of a wife crying into her husbands shoulder in front of a helicopter ready to go, she tried to tune out the memories of doing the same thing on a pier, she was pushing against all the memories and feelings of fear and helplessness, she was struggling to keep down the bile that was rising in her throat, she started to really struggle against her own husbands hold.
"Just wait a second, wait a second...!" he said, still thinking it was a game, trying to capture her small wrists in his hands.
"Let me go, let me go, get-off-of-me!" she was yelling loudly now, the apartment neighbors were sure to hear her voice which had gone from low and urgent to a high pitched wailing filled with real panic. She kicked and got herself tangled in the blanket even more. His arm was like a vice around her waist and she was twisting and turning, kicking the glass of water off the coffee table and clawing at his arms. He had her tied up, she couldn't move, she couldn't get away, his voice was too calm and the memories flooding back into her head were too loud.
"LET ME GO!" she could still hear the stupid commercial in the background a young man saying "I don't think I have the words to describe what's happening to me." She knew, she knew what he meant, she didn't have the words either but she knew what was happening to him. He was being taken from the world, he'd never come back to it. She couldn't hold back a sob anymore and with a big push she heaved her husband off of her and fell, tangled in the stupid horrible mexican blanket that used to cover his rack only a short while ago. She kicked savagely at it, at him and finally broke free of the oppressive blanket, the oppressive couch, the oppressive room and ran to her bed.
"Come back here." He said calmly, picking up the blanket and making no move to retrieve his wife.
"I'm going to bed. It's late." she said with her last bit of reserve before slamming the door to the bedroom and once behind the wood barrier, letting the hot tears that were clouding her vision fall down her cheeks. She scooped up her cat and held the furball much tighter than it preferred, collapsing on the bed and holding her breath for as long as she could so she wouldn't cry out. Her heart was pounding straight out of her chest, her throat had tightened to the point she was certain air couldn't get in even if she wanted to breath. She couldn't get the sounds of bullets and crying babies out of her head. They mixed together while she heard her husband angrily yell at her from the living room.
"Get back in here! Katy! Come back now! KATHRYN!"
She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes and carried the cat back into the living room, using her pet as a shield. The commercial was gone and she sat on the opposite side of the couch, straight as a cornstalk, staring at the stupid show and not looking at her husband. He reached out to pat her thigh and she pulled her legs up closer to her body so he couldn't reach her. She felt like he was trying to hold her down again, it felt like bondage, it scared her.
He didn't wait to let her compose herself. "Why did that bother you."
"Why wouldn't that bother me? All those families that are broken up and all those people are dying, of course it bothers me."
"It's just a story."
"No, it's real. Those people don't come home...and that was you."
"I came back." he shrugged as if they were talking about nothing, as if the fact that he was physically in that house was enough logic to assuage her fears and her heartache. He leaned back so casually and coolly, as if he was really there, in that house, with that family.
"I'm here. I came back in one piece."
She looked at him, sitting there looking calm, cold, empty. She shook her head slowly and whispered, more to herself because she knew it was true and she hated knowing it:
"No you didn't."
Commercials popped up and they nibbled at each others lips and cheeks as they fast forwarded through them, stopping to watch the one with the puppies in it, and a trailer for a new movie. She stopped it on a funny one about cats and he surprised her by flipping her over, dragging his fingers down her thighs till she kicked and giggled and then stealthily stole the remote. She punched him playfully "No tickling" and reentangled herself in his arms surrendering the control of the remote willingly.
The show started again. The night was perfect, they were warm and together. They both felt relief and joy being pressed close to one another.
Commercials started again. A producers name popped up across a background of green camouflage and patriotic music played.
"From the Producers of..."
"Fastforward" she said sweetly and wiggled against him. He didn't say anything.
"A Steven Bochco film..."
"Fastforward now" she whimpered up at him and pouted cute feeling frisky and trying to get him to do what she wanted. He didn't move a muscle.
"A story about our troops..."
She slapped his hand with hers "Hey, fastforward this!" Her voice rose an octave higher than normal. He moved his hand and the remote but didn't hit the button.
"Fastforward it! Please. Fastforward!" Her voice kept getting higher and higher and was filled with even more urgency. She had maybe three more seconds.
"Mommy's at work and she miss you real bad." Too late. The sound of a baby wailing filled the living room and then there were gunshots and explosions bursting out of the screen and right towards the couple.
"I don't want to watch this!!!" she grabbed his shirt sleeve and pulled it hard "fastforward."
"I want to see it" he said, completely unaffected by the image of a guys who face was covered in blood.
She started fighting, she moved to sit up and his arm circled her shoulders even tighter. She shrugged his hand away from her, pulling her legs out from under the covers. He toppled her and wrapped the covers around her leg, grinning at the new game he thought they were playing.
"Shhh, I'm trying to listen."
"Noo, let me go!" she tried to tune out the sound of a wife crying into her husbands shoulder in front of a helicopter ready to go, she tried to tune out the memories of doing the same thing on a pier, she was pushing against all the memories and feelings of fear and helplessness, she was struggling to keep down the bile that was rising in her throat, she started to really struggle against her own husbands hold.
"Just wait a second, wait a second...!" he said, still thinking it was a game, trying to capture her small wrists in his hands.
"Let me go, let me go, get-off-of-me!" she was yelling loudly now, the apartment neighbors were sure to hear her voice which had gone from low and urgent to a high pitched wailing filled with real panic. She kicked and got herself tangled in the blanket even more. His arm was like a vice around her waist and she was twisting and turning, kicking the glass of water off the coffee table and clawing at his arms. He had her tied up, she couldn't move, she couldn't get away, his voice was too calm and the memories flooding back into her head were too loud.
"LET ME GO!" she could still hear the stupid commercial in the background a young man saying "I don't think I have the words to describe what's happening to me." She knew, she knew what he meant, she didn't have the words either but she knew what was happening to him. He was being taken from the world, he'd never come back to it. She couldn't hold back a sob anymore and with a big push she heaved her husband off of her and fell, tangled in the stupid horrible mexican blanket that used to cover his rack only a short while ago. She kicked savagely at it, at him and finally broke free of the oppressive blanket, the oppressive couch, the oppressive room and ran to her bed.
"Come back here." He said calmly, picking up the blanket and making no move to retrieve his wife.
"I'm going to bed. It's late." she said with her last bit of reserve before slamming the door to the bedroom and once behind the wood barrier, letting the hot tears that were clouding her vision fall down her cheeks. She scooped up her cat and held the furball much tighter than it preferred, collapsing on the bed and holding her breath for as long as she could so she wouldn't cry out. Her heart was pounding straight out of her chest, her throat had tightened to the point she was certain air couldn't get in even if she wanted to breath. She couldn't get the sounds of bullets and crying babies out of her head. They mixed together while she heard her husband angrily yell at her from the living room.
"Get back in here! Katy! Come back now! KATHRYN!"
She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes and carried the cat back into the living room, using her pet as a shield. The commercial was gone and she sat on the opposite side of the couch, straight as a cornstalk, staring at the stupid show and not looking at her husband. He reached out to pat her thigh and she pulled her legs up closer to her body so he couldn't reach her. She felt like he was trying to hold her down again, it felt like bondage, it scared her.
He didn't wait to let her compose herself. "Why did that bother you."
"Why wouldn't that bother me? All those families that are broken up and all those people are dying, of course it bothers me."
"It's just a story."
"No, it's real. Those people don't come home...and that was you."
"I came back." he shrugged as if they were talking about nothing, as if the fact that he was physically in that house was enough logic to assuage her fears and her heartache. He leaned back so casually and coolly, as if he was really there, in that house, with that family.
"I'm here. I came back in one piece."
She looked at him, sitting there looking calm, cold, empty. She shook her head slowly and whispered, more to herself because she knew it was true and she hated knowing it:
"No you didn't."
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Water, water everywhere...
I have one of my happiest dilemmas this week.
I must admit that as a teenager, even though I read a great deal, I never read The Fountainhead. My parents did have a huge collection of books, but I never once saw a copy of any of Ayn Rand's books. I never really thought about why either. There were thousands of other books to choose from, I read those.
Likewise our libraries (especially the school libraries) never had any of her novels or nonfiction. But they had other books so I didn't miss it.
But I should have. I am currently halfway through The Fountainhead and am in love. I don't want to get into a political discussion over any of it, I just like the book. It's written well, it's intriguing, the story and characters are alive. It's a damn good book and I like it. (Not that I should be surprised that it's good, everyone else for the past decade has thought it was good.) For the past few days I've been on that natural high you get when you're reading a really good book. I look forward to going home and cracking the spine again. I'm praying for rain so I have even more of an excuse to hide under the covers and languish over every word. I'm too busy wondering what will happen next to bother with silly things like food and drink and the fact that it's noon on a Saturday and I've yet to crawl out of bed.
Don't bug me, I'm reading.
And everything would be perfect if it wasn't for the fact that on the very Saturday I chose to hibernate the new Harry Potter came out.
As of Sunday I got my copy. My roommate has already finished reading the book and I have the eerie feeling that everyone else has too...and they are beginning to whisper all the secrets of the Half-Blood Prince. I'm paranoid that I will turn a normally benign corner in my office building and suddenly hear: "And then Ron dies" and my world will effectively collapse around me. (By the by, a good way to get on my bad side would be to tell me what happens in the book before I have finished it. This puts people permanently on my "hate them with a vengeance" list.)
At any given time I usually have at least three, if not more, books going. I have one that I keep in car in case I end up sitting somewhere with a few spare minutes. (Currently that book is Chasing Shakespeares not very good so far.) I have one that lives on my bedside table so I can read a little before bed, or once I wake up in the morning. Actually I have three books on my bedside table: The sleeping-kitty-book, which is a book filled with pictures of kitties sleeping and silly quotes from writers about cats. When I can't sleep it's a good diversion and makes me smile. Joined with that book is my book of prayers (wiccan and my aunt's Christian book). Those are mainstays. Currently joining that is my compilation of the Marquis de Sade.
I also have a book that lives on my computer desk (Henry IV Part Two right now), a living room book (The History of God), and a bag book (Terry Pratchett's The Color of Magic) which live, you guessed it, in my bag.
The Fountainhead is my carry with me book. It goes where I go, lives where I live. I do not leave it except when I got to work because I get a tingly, excited feeling thinking about going home and reading that book. It's like holding off an orgasm for nine hours. Cracking that book open at the end of the day is better than eating chocolate.
In any case, I have no problems reading more than one book at once. I rarely get them confused, and when I do it's kinda fun because it's like getting an extra story. A bonus if you will. However, really good quality books give me a problem.
I don't want to read two desperately good books at once. For various reasons I think that mixing two high caliber books is simply a bad idea.
When you read a really, really good book it's almost sad because you want to read it all right away to find out what happens but you know that once you have finished it you'll no longer have the really really good book to read and you won't be able to capture the "really really good book first reading" feeling again, at least not with that book. So you have to pace yourself in order to sustain that bit of book-joy for as long as you can, but not deny yourself from reading it.
Clearly this a very precise orchestration. You have to get the timing just right or you have either cheated yourself from relishing a good book, or waited so long you loose the flow of the good book. The only time when this balance can be ignored with a good book is if you are going to read it all in one sitting. I read Ender's Game (By Orson Scott Card) in one day...sitting on the sidewalk in front of The Public in New York City. It took me three hours, and was an acceptable amount of time to be overwhelmed by the book - which if you read it - you will be too. Very good book.
When you have two books that require a reading-pause balance at the same time things get far too tricky. Do you read three chapters of the Rand book, wait five hours, then three more? And during the five hours will it be too indulgent to read one chapter of the Harry Potter book? And if you read one chapter there and wait three hours, will you be spacing out enough time to really digest the more complex Fountainhead? What to do, what to do? Furthermore, how will the mixing of the other fluffier books affect the amount of time you can sustain the "I just read part of a great book" glow? The Fountainhead stays with me all day, even through a reading of Chasing Shakespeares, but if I mix it with Harry Potter than I could be overloaded with "good book" glow and it will burn too hot and too quickly.
There is only one acceptable solution to this problem. I have to read one of the books in one sitting. However, the last Harry Potter book took me a day and a half of straight reading because Harry was so grouchy in it that I was grouchy too. If rumors prove correct I may have the same problem this book. Ayn Rand is so complex and dire that it's a little too depressing to read more than a section at a time. I need a Rand-breather once in awhile. Also, on top of emotionally linking myself to fiction, I don't really have the time to sit and read undistracted for a few hours.
So, finish one book then begin the next? Well yes, I could do that. But I'm half-way through the Rand book and I don't want to stop reading that in the middle. Reading the Rowling book is pressing if I want to preserve the "spoiler free" reading experience I prefer. Waiting on either book is not an option.
There is, happily, a third option. Add a third incredibly good book to the mix that I have already read. This would mean I would have continuous reading material of good quality, with sufficient time to ponder on each between one another and sustain the "good book" glow throughout.. It'd be a reading marathon, and I would for the next week and weekend, be emotionally and mentally unavailable to the world around me. But I would be able to read both the Rand book, the Rowling book...and the third...with is a brand-spanking-new copy of The Bell-Jar. (When I was 16 my dog-eared copy mysteriously disappeared from my bedroom and never returned. I know my Mother stole it in order to make sure I would not become depressed - which backfired because the loss of the one book that gave me a sense of identifying joy made me horribly depressed. I fell back on The Virgin Suicides and The World According to Garp but it didn't make me really happy the way Sylvia did. She's a whole different story.)
So I realize that being 23 and married to a nice man and having a home to upkeep; a reading marathon is not a good idea at all. But it remains the only really good solution to my happiest dilemma:
Too many books to read; too little time to read them!
I must admit that as a teenager, even though I read a great deal, I never read The Fountainhead. My parents did have a huge collection of books, but I never once saw a copy of any of Ayn Rand's books. I never really thought about why either. There were thousands of other books to choose from, I read those.
Likewise our libraries (especially the school libraries) never had any of her novels or nonfiction. But they had other books so I didn't miss it.
But I should have. I am currently halfway through The Fountainhead and am in love. I don't want to get into a political discussion over any of it, I just like the book. It's written well, it's intriguing, the story and characters are alive. It's a damn good book and I like it. (Not that I should be surprised that it's good, everyone else for the past decade has thought it was good.) For the past few days I've been on that natural high you get when you're reading a really good book. I look forward to going home and cracking the spine again. I'm praying for rain so I have even more of an excuse to hide under the covers and languish over every word. I'm too busy wondering what will happen next to bother with silly things like food and drink and the fact that it's noon on a Saturday and I've yet to crawl out of bed.
Don't bug me, I'm reading.
And everything would be perfect if it wasn't for the fact that on the very Saturday I chose to hibernate the new Harry Potter came out.
As of Sunday I got my copy. My roommate has already finished reading the book and I have the eerie feeling that everyone else has too...and they are beginning to whisper all the secrets of the Half-Blood Prince. I'm paranoid that I will turn a normally benign corner in my office building and suddenly hear: "And then Ron dies" and my world will effectively collapse around me. (By the by, a good way to get on my bad side would be to tell me what happens in the book before I have finished it. This puts people permanently on my "hate them with a vengeance" list.)
At any given time I usually have at least three, if not more, books going. I have one that I keep in car in case I end up sitting somewhere with a few spare minutes. (Currently that book is Chasing Shakespeares not very good so far.) I have one that lives on my bedside table so I can read a little before bed, or once I wake up in the morning. Actually I have three books on my bedside table: The sleeping-kitty-book, which is a book filled with pictures of kitties sleeping and silly quotes from writers about cats. When I can't sleep it's a good diversion and makes me smile. Joined with that book is my book of prayers (wiccan and my aunt's Christian book). Those are mainstays. Currently joining that is my compilation of the Marquis de Sade.
I also have a book that lives on my computer desk (Henry IV Part Two right now), a living room book (The History of God), and a bag book (Terry Pratchett's The Color of Magic) which live, you guessed it, in my bag.
The Fountainhead is my carry with me book. It goes where I go, lives where I live. I do not leave it except when I got to work because I get a tingly, excited feeling thinking about going home and reading that book. It's like holding off an orgasm for nine hours. Cracking that book open at the end of the day is better than eating chocolate.
In any case, I have no problems reading more than one book at once. I rarely get them confused, and when I do it's kinda fun because it's like getting an extra story. A bonus if you will. However, really good quality books give me a problem.
I don't want to read two desperately good books at once. For various reasons I think that mixing two high caliber books is simply a bad idea.
When you read a really, really good book it's almost sad because you want to read it all right away to find out what happens but you know that once you have finished it you'll no longer have the really really good book to read and you won't be able to capture the "really really good book first reading" feeling again, at least not with that book. So you have to pace yourself in order to sustain that bit of book-joy for as long as you can, but not deny yourself from reading it.
Clearly this a very precise orchestration. You have to get the timing just right or you have either cheated yourself from relishing a good book, or waited so long you loose the flow of the good book. The only time when this balance can be ignored with a good book is if you are going to read it all in one sitting. I read Ender's Game (By Orson Scott Card) in one day...sitting on the sidewalk in front of The Public in New York City. It took me three hours, and was an acceptable amount of time to be overwhelmed by the book - which if you read it - you will be too. Very good book.
When you have two books that require a reading-pause balance at the same time things get far too tricky. Do you read three chapters of the Rand book, wait five hours, then three more? And during the five hours will it be too indulgent to read one chapter of the Harry Potter book? And if you read one chapter there and wait three hours, will you be spacing out enough time to really digest the more complex Fountainhead? What to do, what to do? Furthermore, how will the mixing of the other fluffier books affect the amount of time you can sustain the "I just read part of a great book" glow? The Fountainhead stays with me all day, even through a reading of Chasing Shakespeares, but if I mix it with Harry Potter than I could be overloaded with "good book" glow and it will burn too hot and too quickly.
There is only one acceptable solution to this problem. I have to read one of the books in one sitting. However, the last Harry Potter book took me a day and a half of straight reading because Harry was so grouchy in it that I was grouchy too. If rumors prove correct I may have the same problem this book. Ayn Rand is so complex and dire that it's a little too depressing to read more than a section at a time. I need a Rand-breather once in awhile. Also, on top of emotionally linking myself to fiction, I don't really have the time to sit and read undistracted for a few hours.
So, finish one book then begin the next? Well yes, I could do that. But I'm half-way through the Rand book and I don't want to stop reading that in the middle. Reading the Rowling book is pressing if I want to preserve the "spoiler free" reading experience I prefer. Waiting on either book is not an option.
There is, happily, a third option. Add a third incredibly good book to the mix that I have already read. This would mean I would have continuous reading material of good quality, with sufficient time to ponder on each between one another and sustain the "good book" glow throughout.. It'd be a reading marathon, and I would for the next week and weekend, be emotionally and mentally unavailable to the world around me. But I would be able to read both the Rand book, the Rowling book...and the third...with is a brand-spanking-new copy of The Bell-Jar. (When I was 16 my dog-eared copy mysteriously disappeared from my bedroom and never returned. I know my Mother stole it in order to make sure I would not become depressed - which backfired because the loss of the one book that gave me a sense of identifying joy made me horribly depressed. I fell back on The Virgin Suicides and The World According to Garp but it didn't make me really happy the way Sylvia did. She's a whole different story.)
So I realize that being 23 and married to a nice man and having a home to upkeep; a reading marathon is not a good idea at all. But it remains the only really good solution to my happiest dilemma:
Too many books to read; too little time to read them!
Monday, July 18, 2005
Growing Uneasiness
In less than a month we'll be moving into a new home. A big house with a huge yard.
Because we are moving into a large house we've been looking around for real furniture. Real being the key word. We have furniture, but the wood stuff is actually made of particle board and everything is fastened together with funky screws that require a hex key from Ikea. Most of the stuff we have lays on the floor, or if it does stand up, it leans. Everything leans. When you walk into our apartment you lean, just so you won't get dizzy. So our weekends are now filled with shopping for new furniture.
C. and I have had to dress up for this. He wears polo shirts (I wasn't even aware he owned that many polo shirts) and pressed khaki pants. I wear cute pressed skirts that require, of all things, slips. And button down blouses. I have worn work-type business clothes now for 4+ weeks with no casual reprieve (one exception of the denim shorts on autocross day). This isn't us. We look like we've just come from a lovely brunch at the club (rather than a precious rare breakfast at Denny's - which holds a special place in my heart because that's where we went for our first wedding anniversary). We normally wear jeans and play skirts (I wear the skirts obviously), cargo pockets and teva sandals. Sundresses and sneakers, funky t-shirts with Nirvana's "coporate-whore" mantra. We don't go to the club, we wear baseball caps and walk around the local park.
Our shopping endeavors have taken us to fancy antique malls, fancy made-to order furniture stores. It's been a whirl of Lazy-boys, Haverty's, Bombay, and then the really scary high end places. These have been the places I used to be afraid to go into because I knew that they knew that I didn't belong. I was afraid they'd catch me touching one of their fancy leather couches and toss me out into the street. I was certain everytime I entered and exited they'd search my bag to make sure I didn't make off with their overly-fancy candles made from bees who only drank the nectar of english roses or rare tulips. In short I knew they would be able to tell I was poor and therefore had no business anywhere near their doors.
Now I walk in and people greet me like they're happy I'm there. If I have a question they not only answer it, they stuff brochures and catalogs in my hand. They make me feel every swatch of microfiber and suede. They spend hours showing me the difference between ever-green and hunter-green. They ask about our families, about our jobs, they tell us amusing anecdotes about moving and the funny things their kids do to couches. The men buddy up with my husband and say:
"We have a great policy where if you don't like it after a week, you can take it back and get a new color. Great for those women who change their minds - eh *wink wink, nudge nudge*"
The women whisk me off to the tassel factory and tell me conspiratorially:
"If you get a couch in a dark color, you can have all the flowers you'd like. It was real easy to talk my husband into the lace, they never notice unless it's pink. Hehehe"
They may never touch me, but I feel like their hands are wrapping around me and my husband, patting us down to find our wallets and empty the contents of it in one fell swoop. I find myself wondering if it's bad form to bite them when they invade my personal space.
I find myself wondering even more why they think I belong there. Of course I know, it's the money, we have it, they want it. They have things to sell, we want things to buy. They create a relationship based purely on the size of my bank account, and personalize accordingly. I'm not buying my Queen Anne bedroom set from the lady at that place, I'm buying it from my friend Sue who gets her hair done at the same place I do. It scares me.
I used to buy from my friends, my real friends. I've always shopped at second hand stores where everyone knew my name and who my parents were. My Mother and I would save pennies and nickels so when school came around we could splurge on buying fashion magazines with the latest fall styles. We'd peruse each one together, picking out the things we liked, the styles that seemed the most popular, the new colors that would look nice with our complexion. Then we would raid our closets for things that were similar. If we could we'd do minor alterations to make our old things look a little fresher. We'd dye things to the new colors. And then when we'd finish with our old things we'd go to the Salvation Army or Goodwill and look for things that might be passable. My most expensive pieces were $5. Usually I got things for $0.50. My Mom and her best friend and I would go to the thrift store that raised money for the Sanitorium...they used to let you fill bags as much as you could and buy them for a dollar. I think most of the clothes were from people who had died recently. The things we outgrew we sold at garage sales and to our neighbors, who in turn sold the things their kids had outgrown. I didn't just get hand me downs from my siblings, I got them from the whole dang island.
My Mother did the same thing for furniture. Most of her stuff came from second hand stores and were restored by her own hand. Her house looks like a museum with beautiful antique pieces from Europe. She bought them at Goodwill for $50 bucks.
I started my own home that way. The few wood pieces we have are from a Salvation Army that was near our first apartment. Our china are the left over pieces from my parents wedding china, I bought a set of crystal glasses from the Goodwill, and our silver are the odds and ends of sets my great-grandparents collected. (I think they got it from odds and ends of friends' sets during the depression when everyone tried to sell anything for a little bit of food or money. Not sure though.) All the everyday stuff is from Target or the Navy Commissary. They're pretty - you can't tell that they were on sale for cheap.
I thought when we started shopping for furniture that's where we would go. I thought we'd hit flea markets and second hand shops. When my husband said "nice" (with the little pull at the end which means he wants it to be pretty) I thought maybe we'd search estate sales.
He meant brand-spanking new. So we have to dress up and make nice with the people who have to dress up and make nice with us. We've been doing this for weeks now, and I feel uncomfortable with it all. Our bank account is plush, we have the money to spend. They say it's good for the economy to spend, spend, spend. But it still feels odd hearing people tell me that, for a young couple such as ourselves, $1000 for a couch is nothing at all.
$1000 dollars still feels like four couches to me...and a few months of car insurance, the mortgage on a house. It feels like a more than a hundred meals for a man who is starving. It feels like the rent for a family who is living in their car. $1000 dollars feels wrong for one little piece of furniture. It feels wrong for two pieces. I feel wrong spending it, I feel wrong sitting in a place that expects me to spend it. I feel uncomfortable wearing my pressed skirt, with a slip, and a blouse from the mall, sitting on leather couches and microfiber chairs. Something about the way my husband fits so easily into this little cliche, the way he can easily make jokes about "the in-laws" and "the little women" bothers me. Something about the fakeness of the conversations I have to have, and the smiling I do when someone brings me an unbidden catalog makes me squirm. Something about this shopping is making me sick, and I worry that having real furniture means more than just being a grown-up, it means we're becoming a certain kind of grown-up.
And most of all I worry about the fact that what I own, what materials make up my home, what money makes up my bank account, may actually be what defines me as a person and how people will judge me.
Last week I just got a raise and a permanent position at the company I've been working in for over a year. I'm not sure I'm that happy about it.
Because we are moving into a large house we've been looking around for real furniture. Real being the key word. We have furniture, but the wood stuff is actually made of particle board and everything is fastened together with funky screws that require a hex key from Ikea. Most of the stuff we have lays on the floor, or if it does stand up, it leans. Everything leans. When you walk into our apartment you lean, just so you won't get dizzy. So our weekends are now filled with shopping for new furniture.
C. and I have had to dress up for this. He wears polo shirts (I wasn't even aware he owned that many polo shirts) and pressed khaki pants. I wear cute pressed skirts that require, of all things, slips. And button down blouses. I have worn work-type business clothes now for 4+ weeks with no casual reprieve (one exception of the denim shorts on autocross day). This isn't us. We look like we've just come from a lovely brunch at the club (rather than a precious rare breakfast at Denny's - which holds a special place in my heart because that's where we went for our first wedding anniversary). We normally wear jeans and play skirts (I wear the skirts obviously), cargo pockets and teva sandals. Sundresses and sneakers, funky t-shirts with Nirvana's "coporate-whore" mantra. We don't go to the club, we wear baseball caps and walk around the local park.
Our shopping endeavors have taken us to fancy antique malls, fancy made-to order furniture stores. It's been a whirl of Lazy-boys, Haverty's, Bombay, and then the really scary high end places. These have been the places I used to be afraid to go into because I knew that they knew that I didn't belong. I was afraid they'd catch me touching one of their fancy leather couches and toss me out into the street. I was certain everytime I entered and exited they'd search my bag to make sure I didn't make off with their overly-fancy candles made from bees who only drank the nectar of english roses or rare tulips. In short I knew they would be able to tell I was poor and therefore had no business anywhere near their doors.
Now I walk in and people greet me like they're happy I'm there. If I have a question they not only answer it, they stuff brochures and catalogs in my hand. They make me feel every swatch of microfiber and suede. They spend hours showing me the difference between ever-green and hunter-green. They ask about our families, about our jobs, they tell us amusing anecdotes about moving and the funny things their kids do to couches. The men buddy up with my husband and say:
"We have a great policy where if you don't like it after a week, you can take it back and get a new color. Great for those women who change their minds - eh *wink wink, nudge nudge*"
The women whisk me off to the tassel factory and tell me conspiratorially:
"If you get a couch in a dark color, you can have all the flowers you'd like. It was real easy to talk my husband into the lace, they never notice unless it's pink. Hehehe"
They may never touch me, but I feel like their hands are wrapping around me and my husband, patting us down to find our wallets and empty the contents of it in one fell swoop. I find myself wondering if it's bad form to bite them when they invade my personal space.
I find myself wondering even more why they think I belong there. Of course I know, it's the money, we have it, they want it. They have things to sell, we want things to buy. They create a relationship based purely on the size of my bank account, and personalize accordingly. I'm not buying my Queen Anne bedroom set from the lady at that place, I'm buying it from my friend Sue who gets her hair done at the same place I do. It scares me.
I used to buy from my friends, my real friends. I've always shopped at second hand stores where everyone knew my name and who my parents were. My Mother and I would save pennies and nickels so when school came around we could splurge on buying fashion magazines with the latest fall styles. We'd peruse each one together, picking out the things we liked, the styles that seemed the most popular, the new colors that would look nice with our complexion. Then we would raid our closets for things that were similar. If we could we'd do minor alterations to make our old things look a little fresher. We'd dye things to the new colors. And then when we'd finish with our old things we'd go to the Salvation Army or Goodwill and look for things that might be passable. My most expensive pieces were $5. Usually I got things for $0.50. My Mom and her best friend and I would go to the thrift store that raised money for the Sanitorium...they used to let you fill bags as much as you could and buy them for a dollar. I think most of the clothes were from people who had died recently. The things we outgrew we sold at garage sales and to our neighbors, who in turn sold the things their kids had outgrown. I didn't just get hand me downs from my siblings, I got them from the whole dang island.
My Mother did the same thing for furniture. Most of her stuff came from second hand stores and were restored by her own hand. Her house looks like a museum with beautiful antique pieces from Europe. She bought them at Goodwill for $50 bucks.
I started my own home that way. The few wood pieces we have are from a Salvation Army that was near our first apartment. Our china are the left over pieces from my parents wedding china, I bought a set of crystal glasses from the Goodwill, and our silver are the odds and ends of sets my great-grandparents collected. (I think they got it from odds and ends of friends' sets during the depression when everyone tried to sell anything for a little bit of food or money. Not sure though.) All the everyday stuff is from Target or the Navy Commissary. They're pretty - you can't tell that they were on sale for cheap.
I thought when we started shopping for furniture that's where we would go. I thought we'd hit flea markets and second hand shops. When my husband said "nice" (with the little pull at the end which means he wants it to be pretty) I thought maybe we'd search estate sales.
He meant brand-spanking new. So we have to dress up and make nice with the people who have to dress up and make nice with us. We've been doing this for weeks now, and I feel uncomfortable with it all. Our bank account is plush, we have the money to spend. They say it's good for the economy to spend, spend, spend. But it still feels odd hearing people tell me that, for a young couple such as ourselves, $1000 for a couch is nothing at all.
$1000 dollars still feels like four couches to me...and a few months of car insurance, the mortgage on a house. It feels like a more than a hundred meals for a man who is starving. It feels like the rent for a family who is living in their car. $1000 dollars feels wrong for one little piece of furniture. It feels wrong for two pieces. I feel wrong spending it, I feel wrong sitting in a place that expects me to spend it. I feel uncomfortable wearing my pressed skirt, with a slip, and a blouse from the mall, sitting on leather couches and microfiber chairs. Something about the way my husband fits so easily into this little cliche, the way he can easily make jokes about "the in-laws" and "the little women" bothers me. Something about the fakeness of the conversations I have to have, and the smiling I do when someone brings me an unbidden catalog makes me squirm. Something about this shopping is making me sick, and I worry that having real furniture means more than just being a grown-up, it means we're becoming a certain kind of grown-up.
And most of all I worry about the fact that what I own, what materials make up my home, what money makes up my bank account, may actually be what defines me as a person and how people will judge me.
Last week I just got a raise and a permanent position at the company I've been working in for over a year. I'm not sure I'm that happy about it.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Spiritual Rain
Today we had a huge summer storm. It was hot, all the windows were covered in condensation and it looked like the glass was crying. The air was sticky and thick and you could taste the storm on your tongue. It was like curry that was melting like ice.
And it rained hard.
I spent a good couple of hours wondering if it might be possible to walk between raindrops. Not past them so fast that you couldn't get hit by them but just sliding to the right and to the left so imperceptibly that you never disturbed them.
I think it might be, and I think that between them is a different world. I think that beyond any other "tween" place (doorways, windows, mirrors), between raindrops may just be the place I want to get to. I think between rain drops in a summer storm may just be where I will be able to hear Gods and Goddesses speaking.
I think it's possible.
And it rained hard.
I spent a good couple of hours wondering if it might be possible to walk between raindrops. Not past them so fast that you couldn't get hit by them but just sliding to the right and to the left so imperceptibly that you never disturbed them.
I think it might be, and I think that between them is a different world. I think that beyond any other "tween" place (doorways, windows, mirrors), between raindrops may just be the place I want to get to. I think between rain drops in a summer storm may just be where I will be able to hear Gods and Goddesses speaking.
I think it's possible.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Turtlenecks and Scarves
(I now have three posts in the making and have scrapped them all for one whiney, bitchy post about sex. Someone recently told me I was a nymphomaniac...who knows...he might be right.)
A lot of people who read this blog have made great fun of my post awhile back about the "Depeche Mode" thing.
What they fail to realize is that the whole Depeche Mode thing only really works when I'm by myself. If some crazy schmuck starts singing "Personal Jesus" in the middle of P.F. Changs...it won't do nothing for me besides maybe make me want to walk away.
However, there are songs that make me all giddy, and they're just as strange and depressing. My favorite, all-time, can do no wrong band is the Barenaked Ladies. I love their sarcasm, their modern-type poetry, their funky looks at normal things.
Yesterday I was listening to their Stunt album. (Doesn't it feel strange to call it an album when really these days it's just a mix of songs on an over priced disc? It doesn't really have the prestige of an album. I once read somewhere than it takes the manufacturer $0.75 to create a full cd. Each. But they sell for $15 and up. Go figure.) The songs were enough to make me feel all giggly and teenagerish so by the time the storm started here I was perfectly content to sit on the sofa and make-out with my husband.
I know why I felt all giddy, but I don't know what came over him last night. He doesn't like kissing, he used too, but after he finally got to go past first base with me he announced he was no longer interested in tongue wrestling. I also think that since he started smoking he's become self-conscious about it. I have to admit I'm not always understanding when he comes in smelling like Marlboros, usually I don't care, but I'll still wrinkle my nose when it's bad. Last night neither of us cared.
I honestly don't know what got into him. It was a pretty wild night and we both ended up uber exhausted, if not completely satisfied. It was fun, because C. was really into making out and playing and rolling all over the bed. As I've said before he's not one for foreplay, and I'm all about the teasing. But last night was almost perfect for me to actually "get there" in a spectacular way. I don't ever get to those screaming, earth-shattering orgasms when I'm by myself, it's really freaking rare when I'm with him. Last night I was maybe 20-30 seconds away from a wake-up-the-apartment-building orgasm when he decided it was over. I can't blame him, we were at it for a long time and I knew I was pushing it...but 30 seconds...come on...half a minute.
I lost it...it will never come back...I miss it.
This morning he became the husband-from-hell, demanding a different uniform be ironed for him, not getting out of bed on time, using all the hot water, taking my car without telling me, generally being a big brat. And once he finally left and I was dressing after my trip to the arctic shower I noticed two (yes two) giant, unmistakable hickies. One on either side of my neck. Last night I was fairly certain I had one little one behind my ear (didn't bother to look since this morning since it's not visible without me pulling my hair way back) - I guess I wasn't paying attention to his mouth when the other two happened.
Needless to say I'm wearing my hair down WAY over my shoulders. And Barenaked Ladies has been ejected from the car stereo cd collection for the day. Heck maybe for a week.
I don't know if I'm grouchy because my neck feels bruised, because I have to wear my hair over my face in July summer heat, because he's a big prick, or because I'm still feeling denied. But either way I have nine hours before I have to talk to him again and I'm trying to figure out how to make it ten. Isn't great sex supposed to make you happier? What the heck is wrong with me?
A lot of people who read this blog have made great fun of my post awhile back about the "Depeche Mode" thing.
What they fail to realize is that the whole Depeche Mode thing only really works when I'm by myself. If some crazy schmuck starts singing "Personal Jesus" in the middle of P.F. Changs...it won't do nothing for me besides maybe make me want to walk away.
However, there are songs that make me all giddy, and they're just as strange and depressing. My favorite, all-time, can do no wrong band is the Barenaked Ladies. I love their sarcasm, their modern-type poetry, their funky looks at normal things.
Yesterday I was listening to their Stunt album. (Doesn't it feel strange to call it an album when really these days it's just a mix of songs on an over priced disc? It doesn't really have the prestige of an album. I once read somewhere than it takes the manufacturer $0.75 to create a full cd. Each. But they sell for $15 and up. Go figure.) The songs were enough to make me feel all giggly and teenagerish so by the time the storm started here I was perfectly content to sit on the sofa and make-out with my husband.
I know why I felt all giddy, but I don't know what came over him last night. He doesn't like kissing, he used too, but after he finally got to go past first base with me he announced he was no longer interested in tongue wrestling. I also think that since he started smoking he's become self-conscious about it. I have to admit I'm not always understanding when he comes in smelling like Marlboros, usually I don't care, but I'll still wrinkle my nose when it's bad. Last night neither of us cared.
I honestly don't know what got into him. It was a pretty wild night and we both ended up uber exhausted, if not completely satisfied. It was fun, because C. was really into making out and playing and rolling all over the bed. As I've said before he's not one for foreplay, and I'm all about the teasing. But last night was almost perfect for me to actually "get there" in a spectacular way. I don't ever get to those screaming, earth-shattering orgasms when I'm by myself, it's really freaking rare when I'm with him. Last night I was maybe 20-30 seconds away from a wake-up-the-apartment-building orgasm when he decided it was over. I can't blame him, we were at it for a long time and I knew I was pushing it...but 30 seconds...come on...half a minute.
I lost it...it will never come back...I miss it.
This morning he became the husband-from-hell, demanding a different uniform be ironed for him, not getting out of bed on time, using all the hot water, taking my car without telling me, generally being a big brat. And once he finally left and I was dressing after my trip to the arctic shower I noticed two (yes two) giant, unmistakable hickies. One on either side of my neck. Last night I was fairly certain I had one little one behind my ear (didn't bother to look since this morning since it's not visible without me pulling my hair way back) - I guess I wasn't paying attention to his mouth when the other two happened.
Needless to say I'm wearing my hair down WAY over my shoulders. And Barenaked Ladies has been ejected from the car stereo cd collection for the day. Heck maybe for a week.
I don't know if I'm grouchy because my neck feels bruised, because I have to wear my hair over my face in July summer heat, because he's a big prick, or because I'm still feeling denied. But either way I have nine hours before I have to talk to him again and I'm trying to figure out how to make it ten. Isn't great sex supposed to make you happier? What the heck is wrong with me?
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Look Ma, No post!
Argh!
See, one little emotional issue crops up in my life, then the whole pile comes tumbling down. I feel like those cartoons where the hero opens the door to the closet and everything that was stacked perfectly suddenly goes PLOMP!
My fax won't work, people here are stupid, people who are not here are stupid, my husband has insisted that we go to his girlfriends house so he can fix her damn computer (but will he help with my problems...no), the post I've been working on for three days - still not done.
Grrr, I was so happy and now I'm just grouchy. I'm even more grouchy because I think this string of bad luck and minor annoyances are being cause by my confusion on other things. Is there such a thing as psychic feng shui and if you don't believe in moving plants around can you still be affected by psychic feng shui?
See, one little emotional issue crops up in my life, then the whole pile comes tumbling down. I feel like those cartoons where the hero opens the door to the closet and everything that was stacked perfectly suddenly goes PLOMP!
My fax won't work, people here are stupid, people who are not here are stupid, my husband has insisted that we go to his girlfriends house so he can fix her damn computer (but will he help with my problems...no), the post I've been working on for three days - still not done.
Grrr, I was so happy and now I'm just grouchy. I'm even more grouchy because I think this string of bad luck and minor annoyances are being cause by my confusion on other things. Is there such a thing as psychic feng shui and if you don't believe in moving plants around can you still be affected by psychic feng shui?
No question - No answer
I'm in love!
And I don't know who I'm in love with. One person, two, both, none?
This is no crush, this lasted way longer than any simple crush should have. The world is a funny place when your heart, which was comfy and cozy and fully encased in that soft 'untouchable' cushioning (like the stuff that grows around fish pellets when they don't eat them...only less gross), suddenly decides to kick it into overdrive and take over all the sensible undangerous emotions.
I didn't get seduced, oh no, I let myself fall head-over-heels-fast-and-furious in love. And I didn't know it till it was too freaking late.
I have no idea what to do. I don't know if this is a quick yet fleeting reaction or if I really feel the way I really...er...feel. All I know is after all the things I was planning to write about in my little journal I wasn't planning on the "teenage puppy love" post anytime soon. This feeling is wholly knew and different from the head-in-the-clouds feeling I had the last, and only other time, I was falling in love. It's very...grounded...and methodical...and odd...and not wholly wrong.
Boy life can get really complicated sometimes. But I suppose that's the point.
And I don't know who I'm in love with. One person, two, both, none?
This is no crush, this lasted way longer than any simple crush should have. The world is a funny place when your heart, which was comfy and cozy and fully encased in that soft 'untouchable' cushioning (like the stuff that grows around fish pellets when they don't eat them...only less gross), suddenly decides to kick it into overdrive and take over all the sensible undangerous emotions.
I didn't get seduced, oh no, I let myself fall head-over-heels-fast-and-furious in love. And I didn't know it till it was too freaking late.
I have no idea what to do. I don't know if this is a quick yet fleeting reaction or if I really feel the way I really...er...feel. All I know is after all the things I was planning to write about in my little journal I wasn't planning on the "teenage puppy love" post anytime soon. This feeling is wholly knew and different from the head-in-the-clouds feeling I had the last, and only other time, I was falling in love. It's very...grounded...and methodical...and odd...and not wholly wrong.
Boy life can get really complicated sometimes. But I suppose that's the point.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Hit the editorialist over the head with a frying pan will you?
I don't read the New York Times religiously (read "at all") but this popped up on Slashdot and I was just floored. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that some people think a few million dollars is actually worth the death of a few people...but I am. I'm surprised. And more than a little sick.
The article in it's entirety can be found at the New York Times and I had to register just to read it - blech - but I've listed some of the highlights below:
Last year a German teenager named Sven Jaschan released the Sasser worm, one of the costliest acts of sabotage in the history of the Internet. It crippled computers around the world, closing businesses, halting trains and grounding airplanes.
Which of these punishments does he deserve?...
--
I'm tempted to say that the correct answer (the death penalty), and not just because of the man-years I've spent running virus scans and reformatting hard drives. I'm almost convinced by Steven Landsburg's cost-benefit analysis showing that the spreaders of computer viruses and worms are more logical candidates for capital punishment than murderers are.
--
Professor Landsburg, an economist at the University of Rochester...figures that executing one murderer yields at most $100 million in social benefits.
Of course the article goes on to talk about how executing people would be a bad choice, not because it's you know - stupid to equate life with money - but because it's just not mean enough. (You really should read the whole thing.) It kinda bothers me that people are so worried about the money hackers waste and want to torture them or put them to death, but the people who cheat large companies and all their employees of billions are excusable? What about tax-cheats...should they be put to death too? Oh and welfare cheats? What about petty thieves?
The article in it's entirety can be found at the New York Times and I had to register just to read it - blech - but I've listed some of the highlights below:
Last year a German teenager named Sven Jaschan released the Sasser worm, one of the costliest acts of sabotage in the history of the Internet. It crippled computers around the world, closing businesses, halting trains and grounding airplanes.
Which of these punishments does he deserve?...
--
I'm tempted to say that the correct answer (the death penalty), and not just because of the man-years I've spent running virus scans and reformatting hard drives. I'm almost convinced by Steven Landsburg's cost-benefit analysis showing that the spreaders of computer viruses and worms are more logical candidates for capital punishment than murderers are.
--
Professor Landsburg, an economist at the University of Rochester...figures that executing one murderer yields at most $100 million in social benefits.
Of course the article goes on to talk about how executing people would be a bad choice, not because it's you know - stupid to equate life with money - but because it's just not mean enough. (You really should read the whole thing.) It kinda bothers me that people are so worried about the money hackers waste and want to torture them or put them to death, but the people who cheat large companies and all their employees of billions are excusable? What about tax-cheats...should they be put to death too? Oh and welfare cheats? What about petty thieves?
Monday, July 11, 2005
Why isn't there a...
My Husband forgot he has a physical therapy type appointment tonight so we're skipping the birthday celebration and I'm stuck alone to blog obsessively. Not unlike the 20 emails a day I would send to him when he was away
I read a blog post the other day (okay today) which had one of those classic lines you hear guys say when they have an unguarded moment with someone of the same sex. I posted a comment to that blog in jest saying how much I was struck by that line, but I may have started something. I guess that's the hazard of text, sometimes you just don't know the person has a twinkle in their eye.
In any case, the line is what caught my attention. Living with two sailors (and sometimes a few extras plus some marines and recently the army "dudes") and being generally quiet and shy around people I don't know I've gotten to hear my share of unguarded comments. At first they shocked me to no end, but it's been a couple of years now and I can be almost as crude as they can - which I think is a good skill since it allows them to relax - there will be no "red-light" from this girl.
However, no matter how bad it gets, there is always one comment that tops them all, and I've yet to hear anything that's even nearly as bad. Or nearly as funny.
When I read the blog comment in question (which by the by you can go read at Clublife as well as my blogosphere faux-pas. Honestly I don't know why I even bother. In any case the bog itself is one of the very few bogs I actually love like a book - which to me is a lot. It's definitely worth taking the time to read the entire archived thing.) Let me begin again: When I read the comment in question, which was sort of about a girl who looked pretty but acted like a bitch I couldn't help but giggle over the things men will pick out as important. She's crazy, but at least she's hot. I was also struck by a comment-comment about "grudge-f***in".
I mentioned the comments to my husband today (resident expert on guy-perspective) and to my roommate (resident expert on the nice-guy-perspective):
Me: So you guys really just want us to be silent and cute huh?
Husband: If that were true I wouldn't have married you.
Me: Good point. Cause I don't shut up do I?
Husband: Nope.
Roommate: That's for sure.
Husband: But you know, some girls, you just have to ask "Why isn't there a..."
And that's when all three of us dissolved into laughter. Because we all know how that question ends.
Back when I was just learning how crass men really can be we were having dinner at a pub in Coronado, California. One of the things sailors love to do is tell sea-stories, especially crazy ones that make young women blush and giggle and make the other sailors try to top it. After hearing the one about the transvestite who let my husband and my roommate take pictures of her/his boobs in Australia for the 20th time our fourth wheel piped in with his Tijuana story:
Apparently he and his boys had been partying all night as can only be done in T-J and were waiting in line to cross back over to the US sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Of course they had a few girls in tow. Our storyteller had had quite a lot of alcohol and a headache to match and his partner was dragging along some chatty chica next to his pounding temple. He couldn't remember what she was saying, but apparently she was saying it loud and in a high pitched voice with no interruption for breath.
In his drunken, unhappy, tired state he stopped mid-shuffle, lifted his head and yelled loud enough to startle the custom officers "WHY ISN'T THERE A COCK IN THAT BITCH'S MOUTH?!"
She stopped being annoying after that.
I wasn't there that night, but the effect isn't lost in the retelling. Why, oh why, isn't there a cock in that bitch's mouth? It is the funniest thing I've ever heard. Funnier still that I often think about this story when C. and I are out with some other annoying girl who just won't shut-up. I have also, in my somewhat more masochistic moments, thought it of myself. C. promises he never has, and I believe him because 1) it's nice to believe the nice things your husband says and 2) I think he actually likes that I'm talkative to him.
So in our house it's a running joke to always ask why someone has not put the annoying girl's mouth to a better use. And I'm always happy for a chance to have that kind of a laugh with my boys.
Though I fear for the day my roommate finally gets a girlfriend and she's stuck with some of the three most unpolitically correct asses in the world. Poor girl.
I read a blog post the other day (okay today) which had one of those classic lines you hear guys say when they have an unguarded moment with someone of the same sex. I posted a comment to that blog in jest saying how much I was struck by that line, but I may have started something. I guess that's the hazard of text, sometimes you just don't know the person has a twinkle in their eye.
In any case, the line is what caught my attention. Living with two sailors (and sometimes a few extras plus some marines and recently the army "dudes") and being generally quiet and shy around people I don't know I've gotten to hear my share of unguarded comments. At first they shocked me to no end, but it's been a couple of years now and I can be almost as crude as they can - which I think is a good skill since it allows them to relax - there will be no "red-light" from this girl.
However, no matter how bad it gets, there is always one comment that tops them all, and I've yet to hear anything that's even nearly as bad. Or nearly as funny.
When I read the blog comment in question (which by the by you can go read at Clublife as well as my blogosphere faux-pas. Honestly I don't know why I even bother. In any case the bog itself is one of the very few bogs I actually love like a book - which to me is a lot. It's definitely worth taking the time to read the entire archived thing.) Let me begin again: When I read the comment in question, which was sort of about a girl who looked pretty but acted like a bitch I couldn't help but giggle over the things men will pick out as important. She's crazy, but at least she's hot. I was also struck by a comment-comment about "grudge-f***in".
I mentioned the comments to my husband today (resident expert on guy-perspective) and to my roommate (resident expert on the nice-guy-perspective):
Me: So you guys really just want us to be silent and cute huh?
Husband: If that were true I wouldn't have married you.
Me: Good point. Cause I don't shut up do I?
Husband: Nope.
Roommate: That's for sure.
Husband: But you know, some girls, you just have to ask "Why isn't there a..."
And that's when all three of us dissolved into laughter. Because we all know how that question ends.
Back when I was just learning how crass men really can be we were having dinner at a pub in Coronado, California. One of the things sailors love to do is tell sea-stories, especially crazy ones that make young women blush and giggle and make the other sailors try to top it. After hearing the one about the transvestite who let my husband and my roommate take pictures of her/his boobs in Australia for the 20th time our fourth wheel piped in with his Tijuana story:
Apparently he and his boys had been partying all night as can only be done in T-J and were waiting in line to cross back over to the US sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Of course they had a few girls in tow. Our storyteller had had quite a lot of alcohol and a headache to match and his partner was dragging along some chatty chica next to his pounding temple. He couldn't remember what she was saying, but apparently she was saying it loud and in a high pitched voice with no interruption for breath.
In his drunken, unhappy, tired state he stopped mid-shuffle, lifted his head and yelled loud enough to startle the custom officers "WHY ISN'T THERE A COCK IN THAT BITCH'S MOUTH?!"
She stopped being annoying after that.
I wasn't there that night, but the effect isn't lost in the retelling. Why, oh why, isn't there a cock in that bitch's mouth? It is the funniest thing I've ever heard. Funnier still that I often think about this story when C. and I are out with some other annoying girl who just won't shut-up. I have also, in my somewhat more masochistic moments, thought it of myself. C. promises he never has, and I believe him because 1) it's nice to believe the nice things your husband says and 2) I think he actually likes that I'm talkative to him.
So in our house it's a running joke to always ask why someone has not put the annoying girl's mouth to a better use. And I'm always happy for a chance to have that kind of a laugh with my boys.
Though I fear for the day my roommate finally gets a girlfriend and she's stuck with some of the three most unpolitically correct asses in the world. Poor girl.
A bee and its stinger
So life seems very normal right now, but I'm still having a hard time shaking that feeling I got last Thursday when London was attacked. The feeling is made even worse by the fact that this attack wasn't "close to home" as it were. I wonder if this is how the rest of the world felt when the World Trade Center was attacked. It's awful, it's the most horrible thing to happen, the world is very scary - and yet life is normal.
We haven't heard from our friends who are stationed in London yet, but we have heard from our civilian friends and family, and I'm grateful to say they're fine. But angry. Everyone is so angry. After September 11 I spent a few days looking up the renewing lists of casualties finding names of people I knew and feeling that clenching, stabbing terror of "Oh jesus, I worked with that girl. I slept over at this girls apartment. She slept over at mine. This guy and I went to school together."
I spent days doing that, being just plain scared that it was never going to stop. And I was sad, and upset, and I was angry. Frighteningly angry. I was angry my family was upset, I was angry people were hurt, people were killed, I was angry that because of all this more people were being sent away from their families. And I was viciously angry at the people who did this, even though I knew the hijackers themselves had already died, and I was certain they were sent to hell, I was bloodthirsty angry at them and of course as their leaders. It frightened me because before this I had no real notion of that kind of vengeance. I'd seen a lot of evil up close, felt the same pain and anger when my friends were murdered before. And of course I knew in the abstract sense of the atrocities that have been committed all over the world...but I'd never wanted anything more than for them to rot. In jail, in history, be forgotten. This time however, I wanted the people responsible to suffer, really really suffer. I wanted them to feel the same rage and fear and sadness that I felt and everyone else around me felt, and I wanted them to be helpless about and have to feel it over and over and over again.
I don't think I was different from anyone else. It was just new to me because it's the first time I really felt something like that so powerfully. I didn't stop to wonder then where it came from. I wonder now, when it's happened all over again and there is a shadow of the same feelings over me - when people I know and love are shouting the same things I felt back then - I wonder where it comes from.
I don't know, but I think it's something inherent. I think we learn it young and I think we hold it on to it for comfort. It's easier to be angry than sad.
And I think this because of a bee.
Yesterday at the autocross I got stung by a bee. It got stuck in my hair (which is actually something that happens a lot with bees when it's windy...lucky me) and as I checked to make sure it had been shooed away it got my finger good. I went through the "bee sting dance" of flicking the damn bug, shaking my hand, blinking away tears (I am after all still a girl) and then biting my finger really really hard - and as I went through the motions of relieving the small pain the first thing that popped into my head was: "When a bee stings you, it dies right after." the second thing that popped up: "Serves him right."
I learned the bee thing from my Dad, who was certain that when his three year old daughter came running to him crying over another sting the knowledge that the bee was breathing his last would be enough to comfort her. I don't know if the fact that the bee was dead comforted me, or the fact my Dad took the time to tell me. Regardless that moment did bring me solace and ever since that's what I look for when I've been bugged by some stinging bug. Solace. I got hurt, and the thing that hurt me died. Solace and Vengeance at the same time.
I know a lot of people have that same story with their first bee sting. I've even seen it in a few movies and television shows. I think it's a common experience, at least in my world, and I wonder if that's where everyone gets that idea of vengeance. That vengeance will give us comfort. Do we link suffering with closure because we're taught too? Does the fact that revenge feels so right when we're children mean it's already a seed planted in us? And is that thing something that keeps us alive and perpetuating the species, or is it the thing that will topple our empires?
Of course I think it's more than right that the people who were touched and hurt by any of the attacks feel that anger, and they do deserve their revenge. I personally would do anything in my power to help them find it - even if it gave no solace. But I worry sometimes what will happen when those that do deserve to pay have, and our loved ones and heroes are still gone. I'm afraid that it just might not be enough to really help. And I want it to help
We haven't heard from our friends who are stationed in London yet, but we have heard from our civilian friends and family, and I'm grateful to say they're fine. But angry. Everyone is so angry. After September 11 I spent a few days looking up the renewing lists of casualties finding names of people I knew and feeling that clenching, stabbing terror of "Oh jesus, I worked with that girl. I slept over at this girls apartment. She slept over at mine. This guy and I went to school together."
I spent days doing that, being just plain scared that it was never going to stop. And I was sad, and upset, and I was angry. Frighteningly angry. I was angry my family was upset, I was angry people were hurt, people were killed, I was angry that because of all this more people were being sent away from their families. And I was viciously angry at the people who did this, even though I knew the hijackers themselves had already died, and I was certain they were sent to hell, I was bloodthirsty angry at them and of course as their leaders. It frightened me because before this I had no real notion of that kind of vengeance. I'd seen a lot of evil up close, felt the same pain and anger when my friends were murdered before. And of course I knew in the abstract sense of the atrocities that have been committed all over the world...but I'd never wanted anything more than for them to rot. In jail, in history, be forgotten. This time however, I wanted the people responsible to suffer, really really suffer. I wanted them to feel the same rage and fear and sadness that I felt and everyone else around me felt, and I wanted them to be helpless about and have to feel it over and over and over again.
I don't think I was different from anyone else. It was just new to me because it's the first time I really felt something like that so powerfully. I didn't stop to wonder then where it came from. I wonder now, when it's happened all over again and there is a shadow of the same feelings over me - when people I know and love are shouting the same things I felt back then - I wonder where it comes from.
I don't know, but I think it's something inherent. I think we learn it young and I think we hold it on to it for comfort. It's easier to be angry than sad.
And I think this because of a bee.
Yesterday at the autocross I got stung by a bee. It got stuck in my hair (which is actually something that happens a lot with bees when it's windy...lucky me) and as I checked to make sure it had been shooed away it got my finger good. I went through the "bee sting dance" of flicking the damn bug, shaking my hand, blinking away tears (I am after all still a girl) and then biting my finger really really hard - and as I went through the motions of relieving the small pain the first thing that popped into my head was: "When a bee stings you, it dies right after." the second thing that popped up: "Serves him right."
I learned the bee thing from my Dad, who was certain that when his three year old daughter came running to him crying over another sting the knowledge that the bee was breathing his last would be enough to comfort her. I don't know if the fact that the bee was dead comforted me, or the fact my Dad took the time to tell me. Regardless that moment did bring me solace and ever since that's what I look for when I've been bugged by some stinging bug. Solace. I got hurt, and the thing that hurt me died. Solace and Vengeance at the same time.
I know a lot of people have that same story with their first bee sting. I've even seen it in a few movies and television shows. I think it's a common experience, at least in my world, and I wonder if that's where everyone gets that idea of vengeance. That vengeance will give us comfort. Do we link suffering with closure because we're taught too? Does the fact that revenge feels so right when we're children mean it's already a seed planted in us? And is that thing something that keeps us alive and perpetuating the species, or is it the thing that will topple our empires?
Of course I think it's more than right that the people who were touched and hurt by any of the attacks feel that anger, and they do deserve their revenge. I personally would do anything in my power to help them find it - even if it gave no solace. But I worry sometimes what will happen when those that do deserve to pay have, and our loved ones and heroes are still gone. I'm afraid that it just might not be enough to really help. And I want it to help
Who's not 22 anymore?
Me! Me! Me!
Today is my birthday and previously I've been a little wary of letting people know that. Mostly because my husband/boyfriend/best friend has either been on deployment, on work-up or at training, in short he's been very far away. And of course when you're busy preparing for war, or actually in a war, you don't remember things like birthdays. So while he was away training and fighting I had to go through my own battery of lessons that a Navy Wife needs.
First Lesson: Don't pay attention to dates. There is a man in the Navy who has a crummy job. I believe he is little, because I just happen to picture a little man, with a comb-over, and those awful glasses everyone in the military has to wear. He sits in a small cubicle in the smallest office, with no windows, and his light flickers. It is his job to go through file after file after file and make crazy schedules for crazy things. He's very systematic in this. He goes through each name and picks them out thinking "Ah, Petty Officer and Mrs. So and So...we haven't screwed them in a month. Into the 'you're f***ed' pile you go." Because he is truly sadistic he makes it a point to write down the important dates that civilians put so much worth in and there is a little buzzer in each file that goes off when those dates come up - meaning he will never miss a Birthday/Anniversary/Due date for a newborn/Funeral/Graduation/First-childs First step to truly make life miserable for all Navy families. When you are the said 'f***ed' family you learn that any day you get to spend with your sailor is an event and that birthdays and anniversaries mean diddly.
If I don't pay attention to the fact that everyone else thinks this is a special day I don't feel so bad that my husband forgot the day. Which is why I didn't like telling other people it was my birthday...so they wouldn't wish me happy birthday and I wouldn't get that icky feeling that I hadn't heard from my sailor in a week. And thus I have trained myself to become that rare girl who is totally okay with not being told "Happy Birthday" from my guy, and there are no hurt feelings and no fights in the future.
This year however, everything is different, because we've been on shore-duty for the past year and a half, and he's finally getting a hold of it. Last year it was awful. His Chiefs were terrible, the work sucked, he felt bad because he wanted to back to the Gulf and keep doing work he knew was important. He just couldn't find his footing in the environment. This year it's much better, he's definitely found his nitch there and is doing work he believes in. And I believe in too.
And he's home.
And he remembered my birthday. Yesterday he reminded me that I can have dinner where ever I'd like (provided it's the French place) and he promised champagne.
So I don't mind letting people know it's my birthday. I don't feel sad or jealous when I see happy people. I feel happy too. Today is a good day, today we have a real special day to spend together. Today I get to turn 23 and I'm not alone.
It's nice to not be afraid of caring about the silly things for once.
Today is my birthday and previously I've been a little wary of letting people know that. Mostly because my husband/boyfriend/best friend has either been on deployment, on work-up or at training, in short he's been very far away. And of course when you're busy preparing for war, or actually in a war, you don't remember things like birthdays. So while he was away training and fighting I had to go through my own battery of lessons that a Navy Wife needs.
First Lesson: Don't pay attention to dates. There is a man in the Navy who has a crummy job. I believe he is little, because I just happen to picture a little man, with a comb-over, and those awful glasses everyone in the military has to wear. He sits in a small cubicle in the smallest office, with no windows, and his light flickers. It is his job to go through file after file after file and make crazy schedules for crazy things. He's very systematic in this. He goes through each name and picks them out thinking "Ah, Petty Officer and Mrs. So and So...we haven't screwed them in a month. Into the 'you're f***ed' pile you go." Because he is truly sadistic he makes it a point to write down the important dates that civilians put so much worth in and there is a little buzzer in each file that goes off when those dates come up - meaning he will never miss a Birthday/Anniversary/Due date for a newborn/Funeral/Graduation/First-childs First step to truly make life miserable for all Navy families. When you are the said 'f***ed' family you learn that any day you get to spend with your sailor is an event and that birthdays and anniversaries mean diddly.
If I don't pay attention to the fact that everyone else thinks this is a special day I don't feel so bad that my husband forgot the day. Which is why I didn't like telling other people it was my birthday...so they wouldn't wish me happy birthday and I wouldn't get that icky feeling that I hadn't heard from my sailor in a week. And thus I have trained myself to become that rare girl who is totally okay with not being told "Happy Birthday" from my guy, and there are no hurt feelings and no fights in the future.
This year however, everything is different, because we've been on shore-duty for the past year and a half, and he's finally getting a hold of it. Last year it was awful. His Chiefs were terrible, the work sucked, he felt bad because he wanted to back to the Gulf and keep doing work he knew was important. He just couldn't find his footing in the environment. This year it's much better, he's definitely found his nitch there and is doing work he believes in. And I believe in too.
And he's home.
And he remembered my birthday. Yesterday he reminded me that I can have dinner where ever I'd like (provided it's the French place) and he promised champagne.
So I don't mind letting people know it's my birthday. I don't feel sad or jealous when I see happy people. I feel happy too. Today is a good day, today we have a real special day to spend together. Today I get to turn 23 and I'm not alone.
It's nice to not be afraid of caring about the silly things for once.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Lobster
Earlier today I was planning to come home and write a post praising Neutrogena's Sheer-Touch Sunscreen and all the wonderful things that it provides. Especially the fact that it's portable and perfect for those days when you find your half-sleeping form unceremoniously dumped in the car and driven down to DC for some autocross thing at the track.
However, since my nickname could now be changed from "katydyd" to "Lobster-girl from the province of Lobsterville in the country of Lobtonia" without any room for debate I am formally resigning from my post as Unofficial Neutrogena Sheer-touch sunscreen spokesperson.
Since I'm scrapping the sunscreen praise I'm gonna go with the following post:
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.
Thank you.
However, since my nickname could now be changed from "katydyd" to "Lobster-girl from the province of Lobsterville in the country of Lobtonia" without any room for debate I am formally resigning from my post as Unofficial Neutrogena Sheer-touch sunscreen spokesperson.
Since I'm scrapping the sunscreen praise I'm gonna go with the following post:
Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow.
Thank you.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Some women are from Mars too...
Warning: Again, more talk about sex. I know, I'm a slut, whatever
I could have got some today.
This morning, after a long sleeping-in period, my husband woke up with his arms out and a twinkle in his eye. He was that perfect kind of cuddly frisky that always makes me gush and giggle and usually results in lots of warm, fun coupling.
Unfortunately, as is usually the case when he gets this way, he caught me at the tail end of my "time". I have my period. I'm past the whole cramping, pain, very ill part of it (which in my case is always pretty bad) and now into the "when the heck is this going to go away" part. Around this time I'm sure there is some extra new hormone coming back and others leaving, etc. that affect my mood and needs, I dunno. I do know there are some serious disconnects between what I "want" and what is physically possible. I can definitely get aroused, to the point where I'm flushed, my heart rate accelerates, my breathing is heavy and my skin gets that familiar, hot, over-sensitive tingle. However, though fore-play for me right now is great actual love-making sucks.
For some reason I don't get wet, or wet enough. Skipping the whole "blood thing" which is actually rather low...and I have that cup thing that works quite well, I just don't get wet. Sure, there's always artificial stuff but it never really works for me. I think it's an ego thing, I will either feel guilty that I need it or offended that he thinks I do. Hey, I'm a girl...no one ever said we were logical.
My actual body is a different "shape" too. My cervix won't move up (the position it's in during ovulation to provide better access for making babies) it hangs low and is horribly uncomfortable. My muscles refuse to loosen up enough for actual penetration, imagine you being a virgin again...then imagine it not getting better. Yeah - it feels like that. Likewise I feel pretty cold down there, no matter what, so I don't really feel anything at all except "ow".
In short - I can't get it up. And when I can't get it up...C. can't. Well he can, but he either can't or won't keep it that way. I'm never sure. There is always a lot of pressure for me because if I don't keep up the moaning and the screaming (something I usually have no trouble doing - I make noise) in just the right way he usually comes to half-mast and that's the end of playtime. I think it might be because he's 1) afraid he's hurting me or 2) doesn't want to finish if I can't or 3) can't stay aroused without his partner being aroused and egging him on. I figure this is pretty normal. I mean two people who live together all the time aren't always going to be in the same place at the same time.
So after convincing him that it simple was -not- going to happen this morning he rolled over and went to play on the computer.
This is going to sound selfish but here goes: I still wanted him. I felt horribly guilty pushing him off (I offered of course to help in other ways but lately he's been less enthused about alternate forms of sex. It's a phase.) but I was still in the same state he was. Hot and denied. Okay, it was my fault I was stuck there, but the fact is I was stuck there. I've heard a lo of girls say that they get horny when it's their time of the month. I'm no exception...I get flustered easily and often. And this morning I was flustered. This particular moment in the whole "woman" time frame is a perfect one for masturbation for me. I say masturbation because that is the only way I can get any useful attention paid to my clitoris. My husband for all his eagerness to please gets a little over-zealous. He has big thumbs and he presses really hard. I've often commented that I am not, in fact, an elevator and he does not have to beat the button to make it go, but it is cute that he really wants to try hard. I'm lucky, some men don't care. Still I find myself thinking of the Monty Python bit with the boys in "Sex Education" class whenever his fingers or tongue go wandering "Why don't we try something else before we go STAMPEDING FOR THE CLITORIS".
In any case...I wasn't about to try anything after I had just essentially dumped the man and so I went off myself. Hot, bothered, and really overly clingy. I get that way too. I'm not a romantic, but I do like it once in awhile. Call me girly, go on...
So, 12 hours later, I'm still a little bothered. We had to take a long drive, lots of shopping, more driving while he napped. It took the edge off, but the real problem is I spent the whole day thinking about someone else. And thinking things that didn't help me calm down.
I think I have what could be called an "abstract lover". I stole the abstract from him. But abstract or not, he seems to come into my thoughts at odd times. And he is damn sexy too. It's a different feel than being with my husband, again I'm the other girl in his company than in C.'s. He's a whole different story and I'm still a little confused about how the story goes. Expect future pondering in other posts. In any case he was pretty frisky today too, and I just couldn't reciprocate. All I wanted was to curl up and snuggle and I couldn't snuggle with anyone because I was pure sexual tease poison. I could have gotten laid twice today really, and I walked away from both times. And yes, I still can't get it up. And yes, I still want too.
See...not only men have this problem.
I could have got some today.
This morning, after a long sleeping-in period, my husband woke up with his arms out and a twinkle in his eye. He was that perfect kind of cuddly frisky that always makes me gush and giggle and usually results in lots of warm, fun coupling.
Unfortunately, as is usually the case when he gets this way, he caught me at the tail end of my "time". I have my period. I'm past the whole cramping, pain, very ill part of it (which in my case is always pretty bad) and now into the "when the heck is this going to go away" part. Around this time I'm sure there is some extra new hormone coming back and others leaving, etc. that affect my mood and needs, I dunno. I do know there are some serious disconnects between what I "want" and what is physically possible. I can definitely get aroused, to the point where I'm flushed, my heart rate accelerates, my breathing is heavy and my skin gets that familiar, hot, over-sensitive tingle. However, though fore-play for me right now is great actual love-making sucks.
For some reason I don't get wet, or wet enough. Skipping the whole "blood thing" which is actually rather low...and I have that cup thing that works quite well, I just don't get wet. Sure, there's always artificial stuff but it never really works for me. I think it's an ego thing, I will either feel guilty that I need it or offended that he thinks I do. Hey, I'm a girl...no one ever said we were logical.
My actual body is a different "shape" too. My cervix won't move up (the position it's in during ovulation to provide better access for making babies) it hangs low and is horribly uncomfortable. My muscles refuse to loosen up enough for actual penetration, imagine you being a virgin again...then imagine it not getting better. Yeah - it feels like that. Likewise I feel pretty cold down there, no matter what, so I don't really feel anything at all except "ow".
In short - I can't get it up. And when I can't get it up...C. can't. Well he can, but he either can't or won't keep it that way. I'm never sure. There is always a lot of pressure for me because if I don't keep up the moaning and the screaming (something I usually have no trouble doing - I make noise) in just the right way he usually comes to half-mast and that's the end of playtime. I think it might be because he's 1) afraid he's hurting me or 2) doesn't want to finish if I can't or 3) can't stay aroused without his partner being aroused and egging him on. I figure this is pretty normal. I mean two people who live together all the time aren't always going to be in the same place at the same time.
So after convincing him that it simple was -not- going to happen this morning he rolled over and went to play on the computer.
This is going to sound selfish but here goes: I still wanted him. I felt horribly guilty pushing him off (I offered of course to help in other ways but lately he's been less enthused about alternate forms of sex. It's a phase.) but I was still in the same state he was. Hot and denied. Okay, it was my fault I was stuck there, but the fact is I was stuck there. I've heard a lo of girls say that they get horny when it's their time of the month. I'm no exception...I get flustered easily and often. And this morning I was flustered. This particular moment in the whole "woman" time frame is a perfect one for masturbation for me. I say masturbation because that is the only way I can get any useful attention paid to my clitoris. My husband for all his eagerness to please gets a little over-zealous. He has big thumbs and he presses really hard. I've often commented that I am not, in fact, an elevator and he does not have to beat the button to make it go, but it is cute that he really wants to try hard. I'm lucky, some men don't care. Still I find myself thinking of the Monty Python bit with the boys in "Sex Education" class whenever his fingers or tongue go wandering "Why don't we try something else before we go STAMPEDING FOR THE CLITORIS".
In any case...I wasn't about to try anything after I had just essentially dumped the man and so I went off myself. Hot, bothered, and really overly clingy. I get that way too. I'm not a romantic, but I do like it once in awhile. Call me girly, go on...
So, 12 hours later, I'm still a little bothered. We had to take a long drive, lots of shopping, more driving while he napped. It took the edge off, but the real problem is I spent the whole day thinking about someone else. And thinking things that didn't help me calm down.
I think I have what could be called an "abstract lover". I stole the abstract from him. But abstract or not, he seems to come into my thoughts at odd times. And he is damn sexy too. It's a different feel than being with my husband, again I'm the other girl in his company than in C.'s. He's a whole different story and I'm still a little confused about how the story goes. Expect future pondering in other posts. In any case he was pretty frisky today too, and I just couldn't reciprocate. All I wanted was to curl up and snuggle and I couldn't snuggle with anyone because I was pure sexual tease poison. I could have gotten laid twice today really, and I walked away from both times. And yes, I still can't get it up. And yes, I still want too.
See...not only men have this problem.
Something fluffy
Sometimes, especially on quiet weekend mornings when the house is dark and everyone is snoring, I like to do silly things like personality tests. So:
You Are:
The Sonnet
Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer (DGLDf)
Romantic, hopeful, and composed. You are the Sonnet. Get it? Composed?
Sonnets want Love and have high ideals about it. They're conscientious people, caring & careful. You yourself have deep convictions, and you devote a lot of thought to romance and what it should be. This will frighten away most potential mates, but that's okay, because you're very choosy with your affections anyway. You'd absolutely refuse to date someone dumber than you, for instance.
Lovers who share your idealized perspective, or who are at least willing to totally throw themselves into a relationship, will be very, very happy with you. And you with them. You're already selfless and compassionate, and with the right partner, there's no doubt you can be sensual, even adventurously so.
You probably have lots of female friends, and they have a special soft spot for you. Babies do, too, at the tippy-top of their baby skulls.
ALWAYS AVOID: The 5-Night Stand, The False Messiah, The Hornivore, The Last Man on Earth
CONSIDER: The Loverboy
Find this at OK Cupid.
You Are:
The Sonnet
Deliberate Gentle Love Dreamer (DGLDf)
Romantic, hopeful, and composed. You are the Sonnet. Get it? Composed?
Sonnets want Love and have high ideals about it. They're conscientious people, caring & careful. You yourself have deep convictions, and you devote a lot of thought to romance and what it should be. This will frighten away most potential mates, but that's okay, because you're very choosy with your affections anyway. You'd absolutely refuse to date someone dumber than you, for instance.
Lovers who share your idealized perspective, or who are at least willing to totally throw themselves into a relationship, will be very, very happy with you. And you with them. You're already selfless and compassionate, and with the right partner, there's no doubt you can be sensual, even adventurously so.
You probably have lots of female friends, and they have a special soft spot for you. Babies do, too, at the tippy-top of their baby skulls.
ALWAYS AVOID: The 5-Night Stand, The False Messiah, The Hornivore, The Last Man on Earth
CONSIDER: The Loverboy
Find this at OK Cupid.
Friday, July 08, 2005
And now for something completely different!
Wal-Mart is a four letter word, or really a four letter word with a three letter prefix, but still.
YELM, Wash. — The town council barred residents from mentioning Wal-Mart (search) at meetings, prompting a challenge by civil libertarians who said a "free and accountable" government depends on a citizen's ability to voice concerns openly.
Found at Fox News.com.
YELM, Wash. — The town council barred residents from mentioning Wal-Mart (search) at meetings, prompting a challenge by civil libertarians who said a "free and accountable" government depends on a citizen's ability to voice concerns openly.
Found at Fox News.com.
Disjointed
When my great-grandmother was nine the mill in her small town blew up. She told the story a few times, and wrote it down once so we have a copy of it, I have a recording of her telling it. I taped it the last time I saw her before my great-grandpa died. For some reason whenever anything bad happens around me I think of this story.
She was nine and she said she was playing outside with her brothers and sisters when she saw fire over the trees and heard a really loud sound. She said her younger sibling started to cry. Her Mother said it was the mill and sent her off to get her Father. I can see her as a little girl running through the fields better than I can remember her voice telling the story. I remember how she wrote it. "I ran into the field and told Pa. He and the other men went to the mill and I went back to the house." I keep wondering how she told him, was she scared, was she out of breath, did he yell to everyone else, did he already know? Or was it just as simple as she makes it: "They need you at the mill, it blew up."
When she went back to the house her Mother and sisters were already getting ready. Blankets and water. Her story was so calm. "We put blankets down so men could lie down. Pa and the other men brought lots of them back home." Boys and men who had lost limbs, were tore in two, were burned and cut. I guess all they did was all they could. Hold peoples hands, wash what could be, give them a chance to rest. She didn't ever really say. She talked about a boy she knew who she always liked. She said he "talked soft and was shy" he "always had stuff in his pockets, like a baby bird or a kitten." My mom used to talk about him too, and she never knew him obviously. But she always cried when she talked about the boy who carried kittens in his pocket. I cry too. My great-grandma didn't cry. Not when she talked about him. But she said it was sad because he was hurting and "then he died." And then she wrote about how they spent days cleaning up, and the house was full and noisy. And they had to rebuild the mill.
And it seemed all so simple. All her stories seem so simple. This is what happened, this is what we did. They were living in California during the Depression. All their friends lived in the 'dust bowl' and were starving with no money so they moved back and hired them to make furniture. That's just what they did, because they needed too. I first heard of the Depression when I read Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath" about a family who just wanted to get to California...that's all they wanted. Then I find out that's where my family was...and they moved back...so they could be with their friends. Just because.
My great-grandfather joined the Military at 16 (he lied about his age) and went overseas to World War I because he wanted too. Just because he was needed. We were sitting in the living room talking about my sister going to Sarah Lawrence College when he piped up with his story: "I met Sarah Lawrence. When I got lost." My mother explained later that my great-grandfathers division had been killed and he was about to find another one to join when he met Sarah Lawrence and she made him drive an ambulance for the rest of the war. My mom thinks it's because she knew he was too young to be there. That's what happened during the war.
These stories to me are incredible. Everyone talked about these remarkable things as if they didn't matter. As if it was just normal and didn't require a lot of thought and worry. As if it was nothing.
And I think about it when bad stuff happens because I realize that it is normal. For the people I know, for the people I love, it's normal. When September 11 happened, my brother couldn't call his wife so he walked from Queens to Manhattan and they met near "ground zero" where she narrowly missed being under those buildings. Then they called her Mother and went to his office and had some tea. He forgot to call us, his family, but obviously we've heard from him since.
I heard about a plane crashing in New York and went to school. I was in a class full of Military girlfriends and wives. We watch the television and my teacher said "Be scared today, tomorrow we won't be." The bus home was getting full so I walked the 15 miles back to my apartment and baby-sat for one of the ladies whose husband needed to be driven to base.
My husband-then-boyfriend was on a ship headed for home from a six month deployment. He saw what happened, went down to the head to brush his teeth, then went to work. He called me later to make sure my family was alright and said "You're not scared, stay that way. Stay at home." And then we hung up.
Yesterday, I turned on the t.v. and saw what happened in London. I went over, kissed my husband then ironed his uniform and sent him off. Just because he needed to go. And we were both scared, scared for our friends who are stationed in London, scared for our family there. But it was simple. You just do what you have to.
And I'm still thinking about my great-grandma and the boy who carried kittens in his pocket and how I think she just held his hand.
And I'm thinking about how complicated everything is when you don't know to be scared or not, or worried, or optimistic, and there isn't anyone to hate or blame because the whole thing is caused by hate and blame. And it isn't really that simple when you're scared the people you love aren't okay and they might be scared too.
So I just keep thinking about my family. My friends. Our blood relatives, our military brothers and sisters, and my family and my loved ones who I'm lucky enough to have just a phone call away.
She was nine and she said she was playing outside with her brothers and sisters when she saw fire over the trees and heard a really loud sound. She said her younger sibling started to cry. Her Mother said it was the mill and sent her off to get her Father. I can see her as a little girl running through the fields better than I can remember her voice telling the story. I remember how she wrote it. "I ran into the field and told Pa. He and the other men went to the mill and I went back to the house." I keep wondering how she told him, was she scared, was she out of breath, did he yell to everyone else, did he already know? Or was it just as simple as she makes it: "They need you at the mill, it blew up."
When she went back to the house her Mother and sisters were already getting ready. Blankets and water. Her story was so calm. "We put blankets down so men could lie down. Pa and the other men brought lots of them back home." Boys and men who had lost limbs, were tore in two, were burned and cut. I guess all they did was all they could. Hold peoples hands, wash what could be, give them a chance to rest. She didn't ever really say. She talked about a boy she knew who she always liked. She said he "talked soft and was shy" he "always had stuff in his pockets, like a baby bird or a kitten." My mom used to talk about him too, and she never knew him obviously. But she always cried when she talked about the boy who carried kittens in his pocket. I cry too. My great-grandma didn't cry. Not when she talked about him. But she said it was sad because he was hurting and "then he died." And then she wrote about how they spent days cleaning up, and the house was full and noisy. And they had to rebuild the mill.
And it seemed all so simple. All her stories seem so simple. This is what happened, this is what we did. They were living in California during the Depression. All their friends lived in the 'dust bowl' and were starving with no money so they moved back and hired them to make furniture. That's just what they did, because they needed too. I first heard of the Depression when I read Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath" about a family who just wanted to get to California...that's all they wanted. Then I find out that's where my family was...and they moved back...so they could be with their friends. Just because.
My great-grandfather joined the Military at 16 (he lied about his age) and went overseas to World War I because he wanted too. Just because he was needed. We were sitting in the living room talking about my sister going to Sarah Lawrence College when he piped up with his story: "I met Sarah Lawrence. When I got lost." My mother explained later that my great-grandfathers division had been killed and he was about to find another one to join when he met Sarah Lawrence and she made him drive an ambulance for the rest of the war. My mom thinks it's because she knew he was too young to be there. That's what happened during the war.
These stories to me are incredible. Everyone talked about these remarkable things as if they didn't matter. As if it was just normal and didn't require a lot of thought and worry. As if it was nothing.
And I think about it when bad stuff happens because I realize that it is normal. For the people I know, for the people I love, it's normal. When September 11 happened, my brother couldn't call his wife so he walked from Queens to Manhattan and they met near "ground zero" where she narrowly missed being under those buildings. Then they called her Mother and went to his office and had some tea. He forgot to call us, his family, but obviously we've heard from him since.
I heard about a plane crashing in New York and went to school. I was in a class full of Military girlfriends and wives. We watch the television and my teacher said "Be scared today, tomorrow we won't be." The bus home was getting full so I walked the 15 miles back to my apartment and baby-sat for one of the ladies whose husband needed to be driven to base.
My husband-then-boyfriend was on a ship headed for home from a six month deployment. He saw what happened, went down to the head to brush his teeth, then went to work. He called me later to make sure my family was alright and said "You're not scared, stay that way. Stay at home." And then we hung up.
Yesterday, I turned on the t.v. and saw what happened in London. I went over, kissed my husband then ironed his uniform and sent him off. Just because he needed to go. And we were both scared, scared for our friends who are stationed in London, scared for our family there. But it was simple. You just do what you have to.
And I'm still thinking about my great-grandma and the boy who carried kittens in his pocket and how I think she just held his hand.
And I'm thinking about how complicated everything is when you don't know to be scared or not, or worried, or optimistic, and there isn't anyone to hate or blame because the whole thing is caused by hate and blame. And it isn't really that simple when you're scared the people you love aren't okay and they might be scared too.
So I just keep thinking about my family. My friends. Our blood relatives, our military brothers and sisters, and my family and my loved ones who I'm lucky enough to have just a phone call away.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Chain Letters
I'm against them, big time. My friends and non-friends will know that as soon as one comes my way I will research the heck out of it then send it back with all the proof that they are hoaxes and not to be trifled with. Some unlucky people have also gotten quite a tongue-lashing from me about it too.
I just read an excellent essay about them on Snopes, which has been one of my favorite sites for many years now.
Found in amongst the essay is this quote from the USPS:
Recently, high-tech chain letters have begun surfacing. They may be disseminated over the Internet, or may require the copying and mailing of computer disks rather than paper. Regardless of what technology is used to advance the scheme, if the mail is used at any step along the way, it is still illegal.
Read the whole interesting, eye-opening, essay here.
I just read an excellent essay about them on Snopes, which has been one of my favorite sites for many years now.
Found in amongst the essay is this quote from the USPS:
Recently, high-tech chain letters have begun surfacing. They may be disseminated over the Internet, or may require the copying and mailing of computer disks rather than paper. Regardless of what technology is used to advance the scheme, if the mail is used at any step along the way, it is still illegal.
Read the whole interesting, eye-opening, essay here.
Bar
The Sailor and I are sitting in a cramped bar eating mediocre Mexican food and watching poker. Between my constant and annoying poker questions and his insistence that, although he says he knows everything, he knows nothing about Texas Hold'em poker and has no idea what it means to "check" or why they keep thumping on the table two men start talking behind us.
"Hey quitters can't be choosers."
"Man, I bet he does beg."
"Huh"
"Beggers can't be choosers right."
"Yeah that's what I said. But man is she ugly."
"She's a'ight."
"No you didn't really see her. She was ugly."
"But hey if she wants to give him her digits..."
"Dude, I got a pocketful of digits that night, none of 'em looked like that."
I'm piqued, but not yet drawn. I haven't turned around yet, still fixated on torturing my poor husband with his lack of card knowledge. I am just about to bless him with my fried-chicken style poker wisdom
"Honey you need to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to..."
"Yeah she's pregnant."
*perk*
"He is so screwed."
"He's moving to Las Vegas. You can't hold us down."
My genetic predisposition toward gossip and my well-honed skill of poking my nose in where it don't belong kicks in and I have to abandon poker to listen to these two gentlemen continue on with their stories of threesomes, granting multiples to particularly deserving girls, the hot chick who danced with guy #2 last night a myriad of other salacious details in their high-rolling, pimp-style life. I still haven't turned around...but one of the guys barstools is sliding into my butt. It must be a good barstool. I feel blessed. I'm certain these men, by the stories they tell, must be hotter than hot. One of them is latin, I'm sure of it, multiple guy is latin. I know they are dressed like the guys from "Swingers" in those linen and silk swing/bowling style shirts with silhouettes of beautiful women that pale in comparison with the vixen I know they slept with last night. They are tall, dark, handsome. Chiseled chins and bulging biceps that make their sleeves just tight enough. They don't carry their money in a wallet, they have money clips, made of gold, the same color as their credit card. One of them, the multiple guy, is wearing loose fitting silk pants over his brown Italian leather shoes. His companion is doing the tight, but fitted, jean thing with a pair of oh-so-delicious black Kenneth Cole sneakers, with white stitching. They are drinking scotch, on the rocks. I can tell all this from the barstool being pushed back into me.
They are standing up.
They are walking around me, towards the door.
They are two short, skinny, white guys with beer bellies. One is wearing a button down red shirt tucked way-too-far into his way-too-tight jeans, with a brown belt and white sneakers. The other is in a black wife-beater, with a baseball cap, and shorts, with wicker shoes. Both have too much hair gel...all over their neck. They leave their budlight bottles on the bar with a fifty cent tip.
My eyes leave my two amazing potential playas dejectedly and fall on a woman who is sitting at the bar breast-feeding her very, very tiny 2 month old.
Then I remember I live in Maryland. *sigh*
I turn to my sailor and put his cigarette out for him while I point to the baby. He doesn't mind and he stands up to give me a kiss and go outside to start another one. I watch him walk out, decked out in his button-down, stripped, swinger style shirt, his biceps just big enough to make the sleeves deliciously tight. I tilt my head to watch his tight butt move in his nice khaki pants, ending in the new pair of Kenneth Cole brown leather sneakers.
Then I remember I live in Maryland because of him.
"Hey quitters can't be choosers."
"Man, I bet he does beg."
"Huh"
"Beggers can't be choosers right."
"Yeah that's what I said. But man is she ugly."
"She's a'ight."
"No you didn't really see her. She was ugly."
"But hey if she wants to give him her digits..."
"Dude, I got a pocketful of digits that night, none of 'em looked like that."
I'm piqued, but not yet drawn. I haven't turned around yet, still fixated on torturing my poor husband with his lack of card knowledge. I am just about to bless him with my fried-chicken style poker wisdom
"Honey you need to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to..."
"Yeah she's pregnant."
*perk*
"He is so screwed."
"He's moving to Las Vegas. You can't hold us down."
My genetic predisposition toward gossip and my well-honed skill of poking my nose in where it don't belong kicks in and I have to abandon poker to listen to these two gentlemen continue on with their stories of threesomes, granting multiples to particularly deserving girls, the hot chick who danced with guy #2 last night a myriad of other salacious details in their high-rolling, pimp-style life. I still haven't turned around...but one of the guys barstools is sliding into my butt. It must be a good barstool. I feel blessed. I'm certain these men, by the stories they tell, must be hotter than hot. One of them is latin, I'm sure of it, multiple guy is latin. I know they are dressed like the guys from "Swingers" in those linen and silk swing/bowling style shirts with silhouettes of beautiful women that pale in comparison with the vixen I know they slept with last night. They are tall, dark, handsome. Chiseled chins and bulging biceps that make their sleeves just tight enough. They don't carry their money in a wallet, they have money clips, made of gold, the same color as their credit card. One of them, the multiple guy, is wearing loose fitting silk pants over his brown Italian leather shoes. His companion is doing the tight, but fitted, jean thing with a pair of oh-so-delicious black Kenneth Cole sneakers, with white stitching. They are drinking scotch, on the rocks. I can tell all this from the barstool being pushed back into me.
They are standing up.
They are walking around me, towards the door.
They are two short, skinny, white guys with beer bellies. One is wearing a button down red shirt tucked way-too-far into his way-too-tight jeans, with a brown belt and white sneakers. The other is in a black wife-beater, with a baseball cap, and shorts, with wicker shoes. Both have too much hair gel...all over their neck. They leave their budlight bottles on the bar with a fifty cent tip.
My eyes leave my two amazing potential playas dejectedly and fall on a woman who is sitting at the bar breast-feeding her very, very tiny 2 month old.
Then I remember I live in Maryland. *sigh*
I turn to my sailor and put his cigarette out for him while I point to the baby. He doesn't mind and he stands up to give me a kiss and go outside to start another one. I watch him walk out, decked out in his button-down, stripped, swinger style shirt, his biceps just big enough to make the sleeves deliciously tight. I tilt my head to watch his tight butt move in his nice khaki pants, ending in the new pair of Kenneth Cole brown leather sneakers.
Then I remember I live in Maryland because of him.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Link to Die By
I don't believe I am part of the "blogosphere" (other than - you know - owning a blog). There are only three blogs I ever had the guts to comment too, and only just a little bit. I tried on a fourth...but had trouble so I just told him via IM. No bloggy friends here. Which is fine. But I am fascinated with them. And most recently fascinated with the whole blogger language. Which I suppose is chatter language...but I rarely come across that anymore. I think I may intimidate random chatters because I insist on spelling out the words "you", "are" and "four"/"for".
Still I am drawn to blogs such as the ones I've listed below like a bug is drawn to the zapper. It is engulfing me. I cannot tell what these people are talking about, which makes me believe it is very important and I must design the next "Enigma" to decode it therefore unlocking the hidden secrets of the "blog people" and saving the world from certain doom (and possible death by banana). It is my quest, it is my destiny.
Take a look:
Blog 1
Blog 2
Blog 3
Blog 4
Blog 5
I'm not picking on anyone who writes these. I just want to know what they say. What are they trying to say? What are they telling me? Why can't I get this babble out of my brain? What is it you children of yoda know that we masses must learn? Speak..speak...preferably in whole sentences with the use of conjunctions...speak!
My friend wrote about what he titled the "SMS" Culture (which I'm sure is the proper title, but how would I know?) in his blog a while back...which I'm going to steal then ask permission later (because 1. He's brilliant so of course I want people to read it and 2. At the time of my back blogging from this weekend he is not available for permission purposes and 3. I can take it off later if I want and 4. What are you gonna do about it? Huh punk? *wink wink*). I like this because I have absolutely no idea what this conversation is saying...but I think the SMS culture person (Labelled Person 1) is rather clever...I can't actually tell if he's clever, but I think he is. And it ends with a good comeback, if it is a comeback, if it was an insult. See, I don't know what this is about and I'm still enamored. Person 1 has me so hooked I'd have his lovechild...really...it's like he's speaking Italian or French or some other Romantic language, except it's nothing like it and I have no urge to swoon in joyful lust.
Also notice Person 2 (the none SMS culture person) is clever too...and brilliant...and funny. And if he's a he then I could be convinced to have his lovechild too. Maybe.
Person 1: wot u bi doin xcept singin u cnt do it 24/7
Person 2: Well, I sleep, eat, and work, too.
Person 1: u sure?
Person 2: I'm pretty sure that I sleep, eat, and work, yes.
Person 1: oh ok thn
Person 1: wot bwt drink?
Person 2: "Eat" generally refers to the imbibation of foodstuffs required to make the body function. Drink, being a foodstuff that is required to make the body function, is therefore capable of falling under the "eating" category.
Person 1: shut up wiv ur knowledge of crap
Person 1: makes u snd well posh there
Person 2: Nah, it's because I utilise the whole keyboard, and don't use it as if I were sending an SMS. Or if I were an AOL user.
Person 1: #qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm,./['=-098765432x
Person 1: all letas utilsed
Person 2 :...Your grammar sucks.
You can read the whole brilliant piece here Under "Ahh, Supportive Friends".
Still I am drawn to blogs such as the ones I've listed below like a bug is drawn to the zapper. It is engulfing me. I cannot tell what these people are talking about, which makes me believe it is very important and I must design the next "Enigma" to decode it therefore unlocking the hidden secrets of the "blog people" and saving the world from certain doom (and possible death by banana). It is my quest, it is my destiny.
Take a look:
Blog 1
Blog 2
Blog 3
Blog 4
Blog 5
I'm not picking on anyone who writes these. I just want to know what they say. What are they trying to say? What are they telling me? Why can't I get this babble out of my brain? What is it you children of yoda know that we masses must learn? Speak..speak...preferably in whole sentences with the use of conjunctions...speak!
My friend wrote about what he titled the "SMS" Culture (which I'm sure is the proper title, but how would I know?) in his blog a while back...which I'm going to steal then ask permission later (because 1. He's brilliant so of course I want people to read it and 2. At the time of my back blogging from this weekend he is not available for permission purposes and 3. I can take it off later if I want and 4. What are you gonna do about it? Huh punk? *wink wink*). I like this because I have absolutely no idea what this conversation is saying...but I think the SMS culture person (Labelled Person 1) is rather clever...I can't actually tell if he's clever, but I think he is. And it ends with a good comeback, if it is a comeback, if it was an insult. See, I don't know what this is about and I'm still enamored. Person 1 has me so hooked I'd have his lovechild...really...it's like he's speaking Italian or French or some other Romantic language, except it's nothing like it and I have no urge to swoon in joyful lust.
Also notice Person 2 (the none SMS culture person) is clever too...and brilliant...and funny. And if he's a he then I could be convinced to have his lovechild too. Maybe.
Person 1: wot u bi doin xcept singin u cnt do it 24/7
Person 2: Well, I sleep, eat, and work, too.
Person 1: u sure?
Person 2: I'm pretty sure that I sleep, eat, and work, yes.
Person 1: oh ok thn
Person 1: wot bwt drink?
Person 2: "Eat" generally refers to the imbibation of foodstuffs required to make the body function. Drink, being a foodstuff that is required to make the body function, is therefore capable of falling under the "eating" category.
Person 1: shut up wiv ur knowledge of crap
Person 1: makes u snd well posh there
Person 2: Nah, it's because I utilise the whole keyboard, and don't use it as if I were sending an SMS. Or if I were an AOL user.
Person 1: #qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm,./['=-098765432x
Person 1: all letas utilsed
Person 2 :...Your grammar sucks.
You can read the whole brilliant piece here Under "Ahh, Supportive Friends".
Links to Live By
I'd just like to point out a few good blogs that aren't on my list on the side yet.
Try Not to Panic
Doing Time
honest/(dis)honesty
I haven't read everything on all these blogs...but they strike me...or struck me...and the last one is because she stole my normal nickname which makes me oddly fascinated and partially jealous.
Also I have learned via Statcounter that I have had a few hits from Technorati under the following searches:
Depeche Mode
Pee - Standing (???)
Penis
Hmm, bet they're disappointed when they end up here. Oops.
(And I do realize that by posting these things yet again it will cause even more confusion and frustration for the little penis-pee-porn depeche mode fans out there on Technorati...which is why I did it twice. Sometimes you have to let the little demons win - ya know. *wicked-evil-grin*)
Try Not to Panic
Doing Time
honest/(dis)honesty
I haven't read everything on all these blogs...but they strike me...or struck me...and the last one is because she stole my normal nickname which makes me oddly fascinated and partially jealous.
Also I have learned via Statcounter that I have had a few hits from Technorati under the following searches:
Depeche Mode
Pee - Standing (???)
Penis
Hmm, bet they're disappointed when they end up here. Oops.
(And I do realize that by posting these things yet again it will cause even more confusion and frustration for the little penis-pee-porn depeche mode fans out there on Technorati...which is why I did it twice. Sometimes you have to let the little demons win - ya know. *wicked-evil-grin*)
Fourth of July
Okay children, today we're going to describe what we did on the Fourth of July for no reason other than I say so. This won't be graded, because I don't really care, but go down memory lane anyway...and don't forget to wear sunscreen.
I love the Fourth of July. To me it's one of the more fun holidays.
When I was a kid we would go to the Third of July party at the big hotel. Food, music, Fireworks. It was fun. Then on the real Fourth we would go see the Paniolo (that's cowboy for you non-Hawaiian types) Parade in our neighborhood. A few years I was in that one, but mostly we just watched. It was great walking through the old shops in Makawao and watching all the horses pass by and oh-ing and ah-ing over the dresses of the Hawaiian Court. The beautiful leis, the gorgeous haku's. It was a lot of fun.
Then of course there was the rodeo all weekend with the big stuff on the Fourth. I loved going to that. I was even there the day the Bull escaped from the Bull pen and slammed into the fence right where my Dad and I were sitting. You'll still see videos of that pop up here and there on t.v. It was scary, but no one was hurt and now it's an exciting story.
And of course after the parades and the rodeo and all the parties and saying hello to friends around the country there was the bar-b-que. My Dad made the best. He had a secret recipe for the Baked Beans and the sauce. His ribs were always perfect. There was plenty of slaw and cornbread. We'd make homemade ice cream in the old-style hand churn sometimes. My Mom and I would sneak sweetcorn before it got cooked. There were blueberries and watermelon. We always ate "real good" on the Fourth of July.
This year was a lot of fun even if it was Grown-up style. My husband and I were in a Parade on Capitol Hill with our Mini Cooper S. A long line of us, all decorated with flags and pinwheels. Everyone waved at everyone else and the best part was driving by the Fire Station. All the little Mini's beeped there horns "Meep meep meep meep" Until the Fire Truck answered with a "HONK HONK". It was great, everyone loved it.
This was my husbands debut in a parade. He was pretty excited about it too. The whole night before he'd perk up and say "We're gonna be in a parade. That's exciting." This was particularly cute since his previous expression of anticipation was "Are you excited we're going to see Formula 1 in person honey?" "Yeah I guess." So it was fun watching him get all his car stickers together and babble on about being in a parade. It was a short one, he didn't have to walk (which is a very, very good thing but a whole different story) and it was fun. I think we had more fun looking at all the dogs out on the town than we did driving the Mini...but it was a perfect induction to the world of Parade-ing. And my husband is soooooo cute.
It took us awhile to drive back out of DC. We drove by the Lawn so technically we did go to the Capitol on the Fourth of July...even though we drove by it fast and couldn't wait to get as far from it as we could.
We had barbecue at Famous Dave's, which is in my opinion the second best chain BBQ restaurant in the United States. The first being a small chain in Florida which I forget the name of, but I know it when I see it. Of course there's nothing better than real BBQ...but it's a good second. And Famous Dave's has really good corn bread.
Then came my favorite part of the day, we went home and took a nap. We didn't mean too, but the bed was comfy, the room was cold, the sheets were soft, our cat was purring and as soon and I snuggled up close to my guy and nestled onto his shoulder I was out. By the sounds of his snoring so was he. It was nice, it was perfect. There is nothing better on a hot afternoon than to be held close by your favorite person in the world and be able to close your eyes and really sleep without a single care in the world because you're safe - and cozy - and have everything you need in the world right there in your arms.
It was a good nap. When I was a kid I'd most surely be running around pretending to rope cattle or chase bulls, but yesterday we were two grown-ups who were just too worn out. And that was okay.
Later that evening we went to the local fair. Had a hot dog, looked at all the booths, then walked away from the crowd and saw a movie together. We got out just in time to start heading back to the fair while the fireworks started. We weren't on the lake to see all the really fancy stuff, but we snuggled under a tree and watched what went off over the trees. It was very nice. By the time we started walking again and had gotten to our car the finale was going and we were ready to go home.
I watched the Capitol version on television once we got there. Got to hear my yearly fix of Overture to the War of 1812. They set off the real cannons, which was exciting even if it was just on t.v. I hummed along and was glad to find that the song and the fireworks and the feeling of the night is the exact same as when I was little. My heart was warm, I felt proud and joyful and oh so very incredibly lucky.
And I still feel that way, incredibly lucky.
I love the Fourth of July. To me it's one of the more fun holidays.
When I was a kid we would go to the Third of July party at the big hotel. Food, music, Fireworks. It was fun. Then on the real Fourth we would go see the Paniolo (that's cowboy for you non-Hawaiian types) Parade in our neighborhood. A few years I was in that one, but mostly we just watched. It was great walking through the old shops in Makawao and watching all the horses pass by and oh-ing and ah-ing over the dresses of the Hawaiian Court. The beautiful leis, the gorgeous haku's. It was a lot of fun.
Then of course there was the rodeo all weekend with the big stuff on the Fourth. I loved going to that. I was even there the day the Bull escaped from the Bull pen and slammed into the fence right where my Dad and I were sitting. You'll still see videos of that pop up here and there on t.v. It was scary, but no one was hurt and now it's an exciting story.
And of course after the parades and the rodeo and all the parties and saying hello to friends around the country there was the bar-b-que. My Dad made the best. He had a secret recipe for the Baked Beans and the sauce. His ribs were always perfect. There was plenty of slaw and cornbread. We'd make homemade ice cream in the old-style hand churn sometimes. My Mom and I would sneak sweetcorn before it got cooked. There were blueberries and watermelon. We always ate "real good" on the Fourth of July.
This year was a lot of fun even if it was Grown-up style. My husband and I were in a Parade on Capitol Hill with our Mini Cooper S. A long line of us, all decorated with flags and pinwheels. Everyone waved at everyone else and the best part was driving by the Fire Station. All the little Mini's beeped there horns "Meep meep meep meep" Until the Fire Truck answered with a "HONK HONK". It was great, everyone loved it.
This was my husbands debut in a parade. He was pretty excited about it too. The whole night before he'd perk up and say "We're gonna be in a parade. That's exciting." This was particularly cute since his previous expression of anticipation was "Are you excited we're going to see Formula 1 in person honey?" "Yeah I guess." So it was fun watching him get all his car stickers together and babble on about being in a parade. It was a short one, he didn't have to walk (which is a very, very good thing but a whole different story) and it was fun. I think we had more fun looking at all the dogs out on the town than we did driving the Mini...but it was a perfect induction to the world of Parade-ing. And my husband is soooooo cute.
It took us awhile to drive back out of DC. We drove by the Lawn so technically we did go to the Capitol on the Fourth of July...even though we drove by it fast and couldn't wait to get as far from it as we could.
We had barbecue at Famous Dave's, which is in my opinion the second best chain BBQ restaurant in the United States. The first being a small chain in Florida which I forget the name of, but I know it when I see it. Of course there's nothing better than real BBQ...but it's a good second. And Famous Dave's has really good corn bread.
Then came my favorite part of the day, we went home and took a nap. We didn't mean too, but the bed was comfy, the room was cold, the sheets were soft, our cat was purring and as soon and I snuggled up close to my guy and nestled onto his shoulder I was out. By the sounds of his snoring so was he. It was nice, it was perfect. There is nothing better on a hot afternoon than to be held close by your favorite person in the world and be able to close your eyes and really sleep without a single care in the world because you're safe - and cozy - and have everything you need in the world right there in your arms.
It was a good nap. When I was a kid I'd most surely be running around pretending to rope cattle or chase bulls, but yesterday we were two grown-ups who were just too worn out. And that was okay.
Later that evening we went to the local fair. Had a hot dog, looked at all the booths, then walked away from the crowd and saw a movie together. We got out just in time to start heading back to the fair while the fireworks started. We weren't on the lake to see all the really fancy stuff, but we snuggled under a tree and watched what went off over the trees. It was very nice. By the time we started walking again and had gotten to our car the finale was going and we were ready to go home.
I watched the Capitol version on television once we got there. Got to hear my yearly fix of Overture to the War of 1812. They set off the real cannons, which was exciting even if it was just on t.v. I hummed along and was glad to find that the song and the fireworks and the feeling of the night is the exact same as when I was little. My heart was warm, I felt proud and joyful and oh so very incredibly lucky.
And I still feel that way, incredibly lucky.
My Home
Warning: Happy-go-lucky-US-Patriotism Follows. Don't read it if it'll make you upset. It's my blog...so there.
Excuse me while I say something unpopular:
I love my country.
I know, I know. I shouldn't love my life, I should be disenchanted with the status quo and my lot in it. As a young person I should be disgusted with the world my parents created (and I'm not saying I'm not a little ticked off at that whole Social Security mess you guys left. Thanks Pop.), but despite it all - I love this place.
I love working and living side by side with people from all over the world. I love that my neighbors to the right of me are Jewish, to the left of me are half Muslim half Buddhist, above me are Christian and that I happen to be a pagan married to an atheist. I adore that as I walk down the street, through my supermarket, in the hardware store, I will hear at least three different languages being spoken and probably have fifteen different people smile and say hello to me. And I'll smile and say hello back.
I know there is a wide disconnect between poor and rich. But this is only my second year where I have made enough income to lift me, barely, over the poverty line and I'm always amazed at what just a little stick-to-it-tiveness has wrought for myself and my husband. We worked long hours, in crummy jobs and now we're both taking another step up to having those things that fill out the little stereo-typical dream: A home of our own, the time and means to raise a family, enough money to not be worried when the bills come and a little extra to fund hobbies and the little things that make life a little more happy.
Sure I'm still a little assistant and he's just a petty officer (1st class) but when we look back to when he was wearing green bars instead of black and I was dressing in maroon cowboy shirts with not-so-matching "vests" it's really rewarding. I like the fact that I can live anywhere I want, do anything I want. I can go to school anywhere in the world even though my Mom never graduated and my Dad isn't part of some huge secret fraternity. I like that.
I like reading any book I want too from Uncle Tom's Cabin to The Turner Diaries (which actually I haven't read, but I could, if I ever wanted too).
And I'm not saying I wouldn't find that anywhere else in the world, I know I would in most countries. But I still like it here. Because it's my home and I like the special parts that make it my home. I enjoy saying the pledge of allegiance. I enjoy it with or without "God" (I personally prefer saying God because 1. That's the way I learned it when I was three and 2. I think "God" is a good all encompassing word for anything divine or wonderful.) I'll say it with the word "Duck" if you want as long as it's still the Pledge to my flag, our flag. I like our flag too. If you feel you need to burn it to express yourself...that's fine. I don't mind. As long as you don't mind if I walk away and fail to listen. It's a pretty flag and it means a lot to me. But I get how sometimes you need something big to make people pay attention. It's showmanship and that's fine.
I like our songs. I like our anthem. I like listening to it, I like singing it. I like that it was hard to learn and I'm proud that our kindergarten class worked so hard and were so proud when we finally got it right. It makes me happy to sing it and it makes me happy to think about that night when he walked out on the deck of that ship and saw that big-huge flag flying. I like thinking about the women who stayed up days sewing it, I like thinking about how brave everyone there was to stand up and say "We may lose, but at least we'll lose our way." I like knowing that's where I came from and that my children will get to hear these same stories and know that that's where they came from too. We're not alone and we can do anything if we get up and try.
Again I know I shouldn't be content. Apparently I should hate our government, hate the war, hate our president. I don't. I won't say who I voted for (Of course I voted for Inoye for Senator...duh.) but he's our President now and I respect that. I respect him. In a few years someone else will be the President and I'll respect them too. Even if I didn't vote for them. I respect our government too - sure there are things that could be changed, but I know everyone is working hard to do what they think is right, and that's what matters to me. Things can only get better that way.
What I'm saying is this, I love my home. I was born here, I was raised here, for my whole life this has been my home. The people I live with are my family, no matter where they came from. I like it here. It makes me happy. I like what my home stands for, I like what it reminds us of everyday.
I love my country.
Excuse me while I say something unpopular:
I love my country.
I know, I know. I shouldn't love my life, I should be disenchanted with the status quo and my lot in it. As a young person I should be disgusted with the world my parents created (and I'm not saying I'm not a little ticked off at that whole Social Security mess you guys left. Thanks Pop.), but despite it all - I love this place.
I love working and living side by side with people from all over the world. I love that my neighbors to the right of me are Jewish, to the left of me are half Muslim half Buddhist, above me are Christian and that I happen to be a pagan married to an atheist. I adore that as I walk down the street, through my supermarket, in the hardware store, I will hear at least three different languages being spoken and probably have fifteen different people smile and say hello to me. And I'll smile and say hello back.
I know there is a wide disconnect between poor and rich. But this is only my second year where I have made enough income to lift me, barely, over the poverty line and I'm always amazed at what just a little stick-to-it-tiveness has wrought for myself and my husband. We worked long hours, in crummy jobs and now we're both taking another step up to having those things that fill out the little stereo-typical dream: A home of our own, the time and means to raise a family, enough money to not be worried when the bills come and a little extra to fund hobbies and the little things that make life a little more happy.
Sure I'm still a little assistant and he's just a petty officer (1st class) but when we look back to when he was wearing green bars instead of black and I was dressing in maroon cowboy shirts with not-so-matching "vests" it's really rewarding. I like the fact that I can live anywhere I want, do anything I want. I can go to school anywhere in the world even though my Mom never graduated and my Dad isn't part of some huge secret fraternity. I like that.
I like reading any book I want too from Uncle Tom's Cabin to The Turner Diaries (which actually I haven't read, but I could, if I ever wanted too).
And I'm not saying I wouldn't find that anywhere else in the world, I know I would in most countries. But I still like it here. Because it's my home and I like the special parts that make it my home. I enjoy saying the pledge of allegiance. I enjoy it with or without "God" (I personally prefer saying God because 1. That's the way I learned it when I was three and 2. I think "God" is a good all encompassing word for anything divine or wonderful.) I'll say it with the word "Duck" if you want as long as it's still the Pledge to my flag, our flag. I like our flag too. If you feel you need to burn it to express yourself...that's fine. I don't mind. As long as you don't mind if I walk away and fail to listen. It's a pretty flag and it means a lot to me. But I get how sometimes you need something big to make people pay attention. It's showmanship and that's fine.
I like our songs. I like our anthem. I like listening to it, I like singing it. I like that it was hard to learn and I'm proud that our kindergarten class worked so hard and were so proud when we finally got it right. It makes me happy to sing it and it makes me happy to think about that night when he walked out on the deck of that ship and saw that big-huge flag flying. I like thinking about the women who stayed up days sewing it, I like thinking about how brave everyone there was to stand up and say "We may lose, but at least we'll lose our way." I like knowing that's where I came from and that my children will get to hear these same stories and know that that's where they came from too. We're not alone and we can do anything if we get up and try.
Again I know I shouldn't be content. Apparently I should hate our government, hate the war, hate our president. I don't. I won't say who I voted for (Of course I voted for Inoye for Senator...duh.) but he's our President now and I respect that. I respect him. In a few years someone else will be the President and I'll respect them too. Even if I didn't vote for them. I respect our government too - sure there are things that could be changed, but I know everyone is working hard to do what they think is right, and that's what matters to me. Things can only get better that way.
What I'm saying is this, I love my home. I was born here, I was raised here, for my whole life this has been my home. The people I live with are my family, no matter where they came from. I like it here. It makes me happy. I like what my home stands for, I like what it reminds us of everyday.
I love my country.
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