Today, I went to the insurance place for work; and on my way out, they gave me a free pencil. I like a free pencil. With a nice, new, sharpened pencil there are several things I can do that I like to do:
a. Part my hair
b. Color in the sections of the cross-stitch pattern that I’ve already finished stitching
c. Write down appointments in my appointment book that I intend to cancel later
d. Jab holes in the covers of paperback books – oh, wait, I’m not Anna at nine.
Unfortunately I can’t do any of these things because MY FAMILY BROKE MY PENCIL SHARPENER.
Yes, I said my pencil sharpener. That really excellent electronic pencil sharpener that we had in the kitchen for years and years, next to the basket with the Q-tips, that pencil sharpener that eventually broke because too many people were using it? That was mine. I got it for Christmas one year and I loved it.
When the pencil sharpener broke, everyone was like, Oh no! Now the family doesn’t have a pencil sharpener! This is terrible! and I tried to explain that this was a personal tragedy for me because it was my personal pencil sharpener, and nobody listened to me. Everyone just kept saying how sad it was that the family pencil sharpener was broken. Which was really mine all along. Just like that stapler of Robyn’s that she finally reclaimed (I think she did anyway) after over a decade of everyone pretending it was a family stapler.
My family is a stealer. And a murderer. I bet that pencil sharpener would still be alive and kicking today if I had not out of the GOODNESS AND GENEROSITY OF MY HEART consented to allow the family to use it, rather than keeping it all to myself.
P.S. This week my mom got me a flu shot and gave me cookies as a prize for allowing her to buy me a flu shot. So I guess, on balance, I am not still mad about my pencil sharpener. It’s just, I could really use it right now. Am I supposed to part my hair with a comb?
Showing posts with label Regular posts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Regular posts. Show all posts
Friday, October 16, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Oh heaven
I am capitalizing on my sisters' absence to go crazy with incense. I have always wanted incense, but I never burned any, because I don't know, I lived with my parents, and no incense there, and then I lived at the dorms, and no incense there, and then I had an apartment with carpets, and I had this vision of ashes falling on the carpet and IGNITING EVERYTHING...
Anyway, I now have an apartment with hardwood floors, and my sisters with asthma aren't going to come visit any time soon, and I have taken this opportunity to buy incense. I tried sandalwood incense first, and that was a little too much sandalwood. I like sandalwood but it is like vampires - too much can make you gag and swear it off forever. And I didn't want to swear off sandalwood forever, or even for-temporary-ever, like I have vampires, because in fact, sandalwood smells lovely.
I went to Whole Foods to get chocolate cream pie (mmmmmmmm) and coffee (they suggest using the ENTIRE CANISTER within seven days of opening it, which I think means they're insane), and I popped by the incense aisle just to see. I figured, if they didn't have something else thrilling, I could just get more sandalwood and learn to be okay with lots of sandalwood.
So these are the kinds I investigated:
1. Jasmine. I like the way jasmine smells, but I have jasmine perfume. I don't want to be like - the jasmine girl. With jasmine-scented sheets and jasmine shampoo and jasmine perfume and jasmine incense.
2. Sandalwood and musk. It was the only other one of the brand I bought before with sandalwood in (besides sandalwood), so I thought maybe? But no. Way awful. Cannot have my apartment smelling like this.
3. Myrrh. The Wise Men were assholes.
4. Frankincense. Seriously, the Wise Men were assholes. I bet they would have sold the baby out to Herod totally if the Gold guy hadn't been like, "Look, guys, I know you want to make the baby suffer, but I feel like your gifts are enough to manage that handily."
5. Cinnamon. Just like sandalwood (my feelings, not the smell). Again, I love the way cinnamon smells, but you don't want all cinnamon all the time.
And then that was all the ones in little bags for $1.99, and I thought, well, damn, total failure on the incense front, I will have to look elsewhere. But then something GLORIOUS happened. I happened to glance down at the little boxes, and I picked one up to see what it was and dude. It was cloves and sandalwood and cinnamon.
My apartment smells so good right now. And I am about to go eat taco soup. And chocolate cream pie. And Pam and Jim are getting married.
Anyway, I now have an apartment with hardwood floors, and my sisters with asthma aren't going to come visit any time soon, and I have taken this opportunity to buy incense. I tried sandalwood incense first, and that was a little too much sandalwood. I like sandalwood but it is like vampires - too much can make you gag and swear it off forever. And I didn't want to swear off sandalwood forever, or even for-temporary-ever, like I have vampires, because in fact, sandalwood smells lovely.
I went to Whole Foods to get chocolate cream pie (mmmmmmmm) and coffee (they suggest using the ENTIRE CANISTER within seven days of opening it, which I think means they're insane), and I popped by the incense aisle just to see. I figured, if they didn't have something else thrilling, I could just get more sandalwood and learn to be okay with lots of sandalwood.
So these are the kinds I investigated:
1. Jasmine. I like the way jasmine smells, but I have jasmine perfume. I don't want to be like - the jasmine girl. With jasmine-scented sheets and jasmine shampoo and jasmine perfume and jasmine incense.
2. Sandalwood and musk. It was the only other one of the brand I bought before with sandalwood in (besides sandalwood), so I thought maybe? But no. Way awful. Cannot have my apartment smelling like this.
3. Myrrh. The Wise Men were assholes.
4. Frankincense. Seriously, the Wise Men were assholes. I bet they would have sold the baby out to Herod totally if the Gold guy hadn't been like, "Look, guys, I know you want to make the baby suffer, but I feel like your gifts are enough to manage that handily."
5. Cinnamon. Just like sandalwood (my feelings, not the smell). Again, I love the way cinnamon smells, but you don't want all cinnamon all the time.
And then that was all the ones in little bags for $1.99, and I thought, well, damn, total failure on the incense front, I will have to look elsewhere. But then something GLORIOUS happened. I happened to glance down at the little boxes, and I picked one up to see what it was and dude. It was cloves and sandalwood and cinnamon.
My apartment smells so good right now. And I am about to go eat taco soup. And chocolate cream pie. And Pam and Jim are getting married.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Pigs
I really want a pet pig. I have wanted a pet pig for a while. Pigs are smart and clean and they have sweet snuffly noses, but eventually they grow to an untenable size. I did not want a pig that would grow to weigh three hundred pounds, and I knew even small pigs got to be enormously one hundred and fifty pounds, so I gave up on my pet pig dream.
UNTIL NOW.
Seriously follow that link and look at the little pig babies. They are the sweetest little baby animals. They snuffle at the camera with their snuffly little baby snouts, and they wander all over the place on their little baby feet, and they are so cuddly and adorable.
I want one. Or two. Or ten. I shall buy them, and make them all comfortable at my home, and eventually I will breed them and spread happiness to the masses in the form of miniature pigs, while incidentally making money for myself. Much better idea than breeding tarantulas like a crazy person, which in one litter I believe supply would far outstrip demand and you would just end up squashing them. But nobody would squash, and everyone would want, a sweet adorable darling little pig. These little bitty ones only grow up to be about a foot tall, which is not at all big.
Yup, I’ve decided. I’m buying all of those little pigs. I will get a breeding pair and I will name the boy Wilbur and I will name the girl Wilbur too. Then they can have a litter of baby piglets and I will name them Wilbur and Wilbur and Wilbur and Wilbur and - look, I WILL NAME THEM ALL WILBUR, okay? My house will be full of adorable snuffly piglets. Then I won't even run the risk of getting eaten by cats like a cat lady, or even by Alsatians, but only by sweet adorable little pigs. (And possibly a greyhound. I wonder what a greyhound would make of a pig.)
UNTIL NOW.
Seriously follow that link and look at the little pig babies. They are the sweetest little baby animals. They snuffle at the camera with their snuffly little baby snouts, and they wander all over the place on their little baby feet, and they are so cuddly and adorable.
I want one. Or two. Or ten. I shall buy them, and make them all comfortable at my home, and eventually I will breed them and spread happiness to the masses in the form of miniature pigs, while incidentally making money for myself. Much better idea than breeding tarantulas like a crazy person, which in one litter I believe supply would far outstrip demand and you would just end up squashing them. But nobody would squash, and everyone would want, a sweet adorable darling little pig. These little bitty ones only grow up to be about a foot tall, which is not at all big.
Yup, I’ve decided. I’m buying all of those little pigs. I will get a breeding pair and I will name the boy Wilbur and I will name the girl Wilbur too. Then they can have a litter of baby piglets and I will name them Wilbur and Wilbur and Wilbur and Wilbur and - look, I WILL NAME THEM ALL WILBUR, okay? My house will be full of adorable snuffly piglets. Then I won't even run the risk of getting eaten by cats like a cat lady, or even by Alsatians, but only by sweet adorable little pigs. (And possibly a greyhound. I wonder what a greyhound would make of a pig.)
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
I dreamed I was a teacher and woke up screaming
Well, not screaming. But it was a terrible nightmare. I was supposed to be teaching these third-graders, but I had no lesson plans and no idea what third-graders were supposed to learn. There were two other grown-ups in the room with me, one of whom was evaluating me, and the other was the science/math teacher. So I was all, “Yeah, well, right now it’s the science and math unit!”, and I was hoping the science and math teacher would take over, and give me time to think of a language arts lesson plan; but instead she just stood there watching me expectantly. I said, “Okay, fractions!” and all the kids waited patiently and I said, “One half plus one half equals a whole. Get it?” and drew a picture of a sliced-in-half pie on the chalkboard.
“Jenny,” said the science and math teacher. “They don’t learn fractions until eighth grade.”
“No,” I said anxiously. “Third grade. They learn fractions right now. With pie.”
“It’s 3.14159 et cetera,” said the science and math teacher to the students. “Remember that, students. You will need it to decipher the circle that Jenny drew on the board for you.”
“Wait, we aren’t doing geometry!” I said.
“You brought it up,” said the science and math teacher gently.
“Not pi,” I said. “Pie like apple pie.”
“You’re being very irrational,” said the science and math teacher.
“Is this your normal teaching method?” said the evaluator. “Why haven’t you asked the students to tell you about themselves? These students don’t even know each other’s names. How can you try to teach them Euclidean [only she pronounced it Oyclidean] geometry on the very first day when you don’t know anything about them?”
IT WAS AWFUL. I woke up shaking and couldn’t get back to sleep, but I didn’t remember what the nightmare was about until just now. I thought it must have featured horrific monsters. But no. Just teaching.
This nightmare brought to you by:
1. Several of my friends becoming teachers
2. Talking to my sister about fractions last night – she was fantastically good at them when we learned them in (she says) fourth grade (but I thought we learned fractions in third) (but she remembers it very vividly and I'm sure she is right). So I was off about the fractions by a year.
3. Explaining to tim that I am bad at teaching. Also, the Oyclidean business is tim-related because she one time told me that Euler is pronounced Oiler and it always makes her want to call Euclid Oyclid. Also if it weren’t for tim I doubt that the irrational joke and the five digits I can remember of pi would have made it into this dream.
“Jenny,” said the science and math teacher. “They don’t learn fractions until eighth grade.”
“No,” I said anxiously. “Third grade. They learn fractions right now. With pie.”
“It’s 3.14159 et cetera,” said the science and math teacher to the students. “Remember that, students. You will need it to decipher the circle that Jenny drew on the board for you.”
“Wait, we aren’t doing geometry!” I said.
“You brought it up,” said the science and math teacher gently.
“Not pi,” I said. “Pie like apple pie.”
“You’re being very irrational,” said the science and math teacher.
“Is this your normal teaching method?” said the evaluator. “Why haven’t you asked the students to tell you about themselves? These students don’t even know each other’s names. How can you try to teach them Euclidean [only she pronounced it Oyclidean] geometry on the very first day when you don’t know anything about them?”
IT WAS AWFUL. I woke up shaking and couldn’t get back to sleep, but I didn’t remember what the nightmare was about until just now. I thought it must have featured horrific monsters. But no. Just teaching.
This nightmare brought to you by:
1. Several of my friends becoming teachers
2. Talking to my sister about fractions last night – she was fantastically good at them when we learned them in (she says) fourth grade (but I thought we learned fractions in third) (but she remembers it very vividly and I'm sure she is right). So I was off about the fractions by a year.
3. Explaining to tim that I am bad at teaching. Also, the Oyclidean business is tim-related because she one time told me that Euler is pronounced Oiler and it always makes her want to call Euclid Oyclid. Also if it weren’t for tim I doubt that the irrational joke and the five digits I can remember of pi would have made it into this dream.
Friday, September 25, 2009
What I wonder
My mother and I were talking last week about Memorable Reading Experiences, and she had all these memories of where she was, and what she was doing, and what the weather was like, when she was reading certain books. Whereas my memorable reading experiences were more me thinking, Oh, you can do that in a book. Like with Rumer Godden’s books, the way she interjects brief comments from other characters in the middle of describing an event, or that dialogue thing she does where she contrasts what one character is thinking with what another character says. Like, Jenny thought that football was dull, but, “We’d love for you to stay and watch it with us,” said Aunt Becky. I love Rumer Godden.
Or when I first read Agatha Christie, and previously the only mysteries I’d really read were Nancy Drew and the Boxcar Children, and I got to the end, and it was like, bam! You weren’t expecting that, were you? I remember being so fascinated by the idea that someone could be the killer all along and everyone else didn’t even know. (Yes, as an adult, I realize this is how mystery novels work. But Nancy Drew telegraphs its punches! So it was a new sensation to me, with Agatha Christie!)
Or – hey, I know – when I first read Sorcery and Cecilia, the idea that you could have an epistolary novel, a novel that was a proper novel but at the same time it was made out of letters (I just typed “made out of win” on accident, so you see I feel strongly about this) – well, that idea filled me with almost more rejoicing than my brain could handle. It still does actually. One of these days, my friends.
Do these examples work? I mean that when I read books, I like for writers do something I hadn’t thought of before. Unless it sucks. Like the first time I ever read a stream-of-consciousness story, I expect I was all, Blech. Where is the punctuation? Punctuation, everyone! Punctu-fuckin’-ation. (To make that remark slightly less lowbrow, let me pause and mention that it is what is referred to as tmesis, a literary device of which I have always been fond. Wikipedia gives a rather sexy Latin example. The fact that five years out from my most recent Latin class, I am still excited about tmesis in Ovid suggests to me that I maybe missed my calling to be a Latin teacher.)
Anyway, when I said this to my mother, she said, “Well, you really are a writer.” But I am not sure that the above-mentioned thing is proof of that. And I am wondering now, when a book does something nifty and new, do other people have this reaction? Where they are like, OH HOORAY OH THE GLORIOUS VISTAS OF OPPORTUNITY? Or do they not notice at all? Or do they slightly notice but not pay attention because they don’t care? Or what?
Or when I first read Agatha Christie, and previously the only mysteries I’d really read were Nancy Drew and the Boxcar Children, and I got to the end, and it was like, bam! You weren’t expecting that, were you? I remember being so fascinated by the idea that someone could be the killer all along and everyone else didn’t even know. (Yes, as an adult, I realize this is how mystery novels work. But Nancy Drew telegraphs its punches! So it was a new sensation to me, with Agatha Christie!)
Or – hey, I know – when I first read Sorcery and Cecilia, the idea that you could have an epistolary novel, a novel that was a proper novel but at the same time it was made out of letters (I just typed “made out of win” on accident, so you see I feel strongly about this) – well, that idea filled me with almost more rejoicing than my brain could handle. It still does actually. One of these days, my friends.
Do these examples work? I mean that when I read books, I like for writers do something I hadn’t thought of before. Unless it sucks. Like the first time I ever read a stream-of-consciousness story, I expect I was all, Blech. Where is the punctuation? Punctuation, everyone! Punctu-fuckin’-ation. (To make that remark slightly less lowbrow, let me pause and mention that it is what is referred to as tmesis, a literary device of which I have always been fond. Wikipedia gives a rather sexy Latin example. The fact that five years out from my most recent Latin class, I am still excited about tmesis in Ovid suggests to me that I maybe missed my calling to be a Latin teacher.)
Anyway, when I said this to my mother, she said, “Well, you really are a writer.” But I am not sure that the above-mentioned thing is proof of that. And I am wondering now, when a book does something nifty and new, do other people have this reaction? Where they are like, OH HOORAY OH THE GLORIOUS VISTAS OF OPPORTUNITY? Or do they not notice at all? Or do they slightly notice but not pay attention because they don’t care? Or what?
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sad
The library hates me and breaks my heart. They are constructing some new system to catalogue the books and keep track of what patrons have what books out which THEY SAY is going to be much better and everyone will rejoice in it once they have finished setting it up TWO WEEKS FROM NOW. But I have my doubts because the last several new things that they have come up with have made me unhappy, to wit:
1. Completely getting rid of the computers where you didn't have to log in, you could just check really quickly to see if a book was in the library. Now you have to log in to the computers and get on the internet and use the online catalogue. It takes ages and I hate it. And the computers are constantly breaking which they hardly ever used to do. Or, well, maybe they did, but I liked them a lot better and have chosen to forget any negative qualities they may have possessed.
2. Bringing out these new soulless white cards. My card is blue, and I have had it for eight years, and I am not prepared to part with it for some allegedly stronger but definitely not as good white card.. Because when I first got a grown-up blue card, I kept losing it, and finally I got this one, and I was like, OKAY. THIS IS IT. I like this number and I am not ever ever ever going to lose this card, and I never did.
3. The new evil system whereby little children can only check out children's books on their card, so if they want an adult book or even a YA book, their parents have to check it out for them. This is hateful evilness and makes people's lives more trying. I can only imagine how furious I would have been if this rule had been in effect when I was small.
So I am not confident that the new library system will be better. Meanwhile I have no idea when my books are due. I check books out all the time, and I keep track of their due dates by looking online. You can't renew books using just your library card. You have to actually know which books are due when, and have them with you when you try to renew them. This sucks because my goal is to accrue less than $15 of fines on this go-round of my library card; I just renewed the card, and that lasts for three years, so I am trying to get very few fines in three years. And I know this is going to mess everything up. TOTALLY UNCOOL.
You know what would make me feel better? Football! How many more days is it until Saturday? I am nervous for the Florida game, but I am taking it as a good omen that it's happening on Ada Leverson's birthday. I shall pray that she intercedes for us - I mean what are the odds that there are any Florida fans who like her as much as I do?
1. Completely getting rid of the computers where you didn't have to log in, you could just check really quickly to see if a book was in the library. Now you have to log in to the computers and get on the internet and use the online catalogue. It takes ages and I hate it. And the computers are constantly breaking which they hardly ever used to do. Or, well, maybe they did, but I liked them a lot better and have chosen to forget any negative qualities they may have possessed.
2. Bringing out these new soulless white cards. My card is blue, and I have had it for eight years, and I am not prepared to part with it for some allegedly stronger but definitely not as good white card.. Because when I first got a grown-up blue card, I kept losing it, and finally I got this one, and I was like, OKAY. THIS IS IT. I like this number and I am not ever ever ever going to lose this card, and I never did.
3. The new evil system whereby little children can only check out children's books on their card, so if they want an adult book or even a YA book, their parents have to check it out for them. This is hateful evilness and makes people's lives more trying. I can only imagine how furious I would have been if this rule had been in effect when I was small.
So I am not confident that the new library system will be better. Meanwhile I have no idea when my books are due. I check books out all the time, and I keep track of their due dates by looking online. You can't renew books using just your library card. You have to actually know which books are due when, and have them with you when you try to renew them. This sucks because my goal is to accrue less than $15 of fines on this go-round of my library card; I just renewed the card, and that lasts for three years, so I am trying to get very few fines in three years. And I know this is going to mess everything up. TOTALLY UNCOOL.
You know what would make me feel better? Football! How many more days is it until Saturday? I am nervous for the Florida game, but I am taking it as a good omen that it's happening on Ada Leverson's birthday. I shall pray that she intercedes for us - I mean what are the odds that there are any Florida fans who like her as much as I do?
Friday, September 11, 2009
Revisiting the slaughter policy
When I was a child I thought as a child and my slaughter policy was as follows:
1. Don't kill anything cute.
2. Kill other noncute things whenever you are brave enough to do so.
3. Don't kill any spiders.
This last bit is completely Roald Dahl's fault for having James say this:
So, okay, that's fair (apart from the last line which I have bracketed off as obvious lunacy). Spiders do helpful things, and I like helpful things. I am not necessarily afraid of spiders. I mean I do not want disgusting spider babies running all over my apartment LIKE SOME PEOPLE, but I don't see a spider and start crying and hyperventilating or anything. That's why the third item on my policy was there.
And then I became an adolescent, and grew to understand nuances of good and evil, and I revised my policy thus.
1. Don't kill anything cute.
1a. If something cute is going to die anyway you may run it over with your car as I learned when my mother had to do this to a little bird my cat was playing with.
2. Kill other noncute things only if they are in your territory. I.e., if you encounter a wasp inside, it is a villainous invader of your personal space and you can kill it because it's icky. If you encounter it outside, like an ant on a picnic, you are in its space and it legitimately has the right to crawl on you or whatever.
2a. COCKROACHES KILLED BOOKS BELONGING TO YOUR GREAT-GRANDFATHER AND EVERY ONE OF THEM MUST THEREFORE ALWAYS DIE.
3. Don't kill any spiders.
3a. However, you don't have to have them in your house. If you find one, mercifully scoop it up on a Kleenex and put it outside.
Now I am a grown-up and I have had to make changes again. Things are more complicated when you are an adult. They are. Viz:
1. Don't kill anything cute.
1a. If something cute is going to die anyway you may still run it over with your car.
1b. If you do kill something cute by accident, immediately call your Hindu friends and let them make you feel better by assuring you it's going to get reincarnated as something better.
2. Kill noncute things if they are in your territory.
2a. Or if they bite you.
2b. Or get on you.
2c. Or if you just can't stand the sight of them (this includes all cockroaches everywhere).
3. Take spiders on a case-by-case basis.
3a. Don't put them outside. If they are inside they are probably house spiders, so the house is their territory too, and putting them outside will probably kill them.
3b. So if you're inside and they're inside, and you try to ignore them and they don't take the hint and keep hopping back onto your desk and ending up on your post-it notes and finally GETTING IN YOUR HAIR AND IF A SPIDER CAN DO IT THEN SO MIGHT A COCKROACH, you can feel free to kill them.
3c. And then if you slam a pack of post-its down on them really hard and they still walk away from it, feel free to scream obscenities at them. And at Roald Dahl too because it's all his fault. And then write a stroppy blog post about it.
Dear friends and family,
This blog post is a call for help. I CANNOT STOP SWEET HEAVENLY GOD.
1. Don't kill anything cute.
2. Kill other noncute things whenever you are brave enough to do so.
3. Don't kill any spiders.
This last bit is completely Roald Dahl's fault for having James say this:
Should her looks sometimes alarm you
Then I don't think it would harm you
To repeat at least a hundred times a day:
I must never kill a spider
I must only help and guide her
[and invite her in the nursery to play]
So, okay, that's fair (apart from the last line which I have bracketed off as obvious lunacy). Spiders do helpful things, and I like helpful things. I am not necessarily afraid of spiders. I mean I do not want disgusting spider babies running all over my apartment LIKE SOME PEOPLE, but I don't see a spider and start crying and hyperventilating or anything. That's why the third item on my policy was there.
And then I became an adolescent, and grew to understand nuances of good and evil, and I revised my policy thus.
1. Don't kill anything cute.
1a. If something cute is going to die anyway you may run it over with your car as I learned when my mother had to do this to a little bird my cat was playing with.
2. Kill other noncute things only if they are in your territory. I.e., if you encounter a wasp inside, it is a villainous invader of your personal space and you can kill it because it's icky. If you encounter it outside, like an ant on a picnic, you are in its space and it legitimately has the right to crawl on you or whatever.
2a. COCKROACHES KILLED BOOKS BELONGING TO YOUR GREAT-GRANDFATHER AND EVERY ONE OF THEM MUST THEREFORE ALWAYS DIE.
3. Don't kill any spiders.
3a. However, you don't have to have them in your house. If you find one, mercifully scoop it up on a Kleenex and put it outside.
Now I am a grown-up and I have had to make changes again. Things are more complicated when you are an adult. They are. Viz:
1. Don't kill anything cute.
1a. If something cute is going to die anyway you may still run it over with your car.
1b. If you do kill something cute by accident, immediately call your Hindu friends and let them make you feel better by assuring you it's going to get reincarnated as something better.
2. Kill noncute things if they are in your territory.
2a. Or if they bite you.
2b. Or get on you.
2c. Or if you just can't stand the sight of them (this includes all cockroaches everywhere).
3. Take spiders on a case-by-case basis.
3a. Don't put them outside. If they are inside they are probably house spiders, so the house is their territory too, and putting them outside will probably kill them.
3b. So if you're inside and they're inside, and you try to ignore them and they don't take the hint and keep hopping back onto your desk and ending up on your post-it notes and finally GETTING IN YOUR HAIR AND IF A SPIDER CAN DO IT THEN SO MIGHT A COCKROACH, you can feel free to kill them.
3c. And then if you slam a pack of post-its down on them really hard and they still walk away from it, feel free to scream obscenities at them. And at Roald Dahl too because it's all his fault. And then write a stroppy blog post about it.
Dear friends and family,
This blog post is a call for help. I CANNOT STOP SWEET HEAVENLY GOD.
Friday, September 4, 2009
OH HOLY SHIT
Oh my God! Look at what has happened! Look how the internet senses & responds to my every whim! Beautiful, wonderful, amazing, brilliant internet! How can it be that you care for me so much, when I have often scorned and cursed at you for running too slowly and for failing to load websites that I want? I am in a frenzy of self-reproach! Oh, internet, just tell me how to make it up to you! I will make you cakes, I will buy you jewels, I will travel to the North Pole and bring you back the head of a polar bear!
(You were doing quite well until you got to the bit about the polar bear.)
You may wonder what this is all about and DO NOT WORRY BECAUSE I WILL TELL YOU.
For a while I have had this project of trying to identify English accents. I am better at it than I used to be - obviously since going to England, but also since I've just been paying attention. Hitherto I have been getting by inspecting actor bios on IMDB when I watch British telly, which, yes, slows the progrses of my project, but not unduly, and it was the only way of managing it. I thought.
BUT LOOK AT THIS.
LOOK LOOK LOOK.
The British Library (which I have never scorned or cursed of course) (except for earlier today when I discovered that it wasn't going to let me listen to all the stuff I wanted to listen to on account of being American and not at university) has digitized their sound archives. Like including oral history. Which you can organize by county. Which means I can listen to what people sound like anywhere in Britain.
Today I listened to a dude from Cumbria who feels sad for children these days and their need for instant gratification. He actually said Bligh (is that how it's spelled?). "The dogs have nowhere to go; kiddies have nowhere to go. Bligh." He sounds a bit like the way the people in The Secret Garden talk. Except? He's not from Yorkshire. And now I can just go to the British Library website and listen to someone who IS. Whenever I feel like it.
Swear to Jesus.
I love the internet.
(You were doing quite well until you got to the bit about the polar bear.)
You may wonder what this is all about and DO NOT WORRY BECAUSE I WILL TELL YOU.
For a while I have had this project of trying to identify English accents. I am better at it than I used to be - obviously since going to England, but also since I've just been paying attention. Hitherto I have been getting by inspecting actor bios on IMDB when I watch British telly, which, yes, slows the progrses of my project, but not unduly, and it was the only way of managing it. I thought.
BUT LOOK AT THIS.
LOOK LOOK LOOK.
The British Library (which I have never scorned or cursed of course) (except for earlier today when I discovered that it wasn't going to let me listen to all the stuff I wanted to listen to on account of being American and not at university) has digitized their sound archives. Like including oral history. Which you can organize by county. Which means I can listen to what people sound like anywhere in Britain.
Today I listened to a dude from Cumbria who feels sad for children these days and their need for instant gratification. He actually said Bligh (is that how it's spelled?). "The dogs have nowhere to go; kiddies have nowhere to go. Bligh." He sounds a bit like the way the people in The Secret Garden talk. Except? He's not from Yorkshire. And now I can just go to the British Library website and listen to someone who IS. Whenever I feel like it.
Swear to Jesus.
I love the internet.
Preaching by the converted
How come I am so much more insane about preaching the goodness of books/films/TV shows that I originally didn't want to read/watch? You notice this same thing with converted religious people sometimes, that they can be madly zealous in a way that people brought up in the faith are often not.
I bring this up because I am reading The Girl in a Swing, which is a book by the same guy that wrote Watership Down, and it's making me want to tell everyone to read Watership Down. Zealously. Though I believe when my mother first brought up Watership Down to me, the conversation was like this.
Mumsy: Jenny! I got Watership Down! You have to read it while we're here [in Maine]!
Jenny: Okay! You have never steered me wrong! What's it about?
Mumsy: Well, it's about these rabbits.
Jenny: Um, yeah. That sounds sweet, but I'm too busy revisiting the oeuvres of William Steig and Maurice Sendak.
Mumsy: Really?
Jenny: NO NOT REALLY. I AM TOO OLD FOR BUNNY RABBIT STORIES.
[Note: William Steig and Maurice Sendak are both brilliant and I love them. I am in no way criticizing William Steig and Maurice Sendak.]
Mumsy: No, no, it's very exciting. It's very exciting. It's about this rabbit that is psychic-
Jenny: Mother. This is embarrassing.
See, but I was so wrong! Watership Down is amazing and thrilling and suspenseful. The rabbits have all kinds of mad adventures, like - oo, it's so creepy - when they find this warren with these fat, well-fed rabbits that just act really weird; and like when the Major Fighter Rabbit, Bigwig, befriends this crow; and when they have to infiltrate a terrifying fascist warren and fight off the terrifying army of fascist rabbits.
When I try to tell people how good Watership Down is, I can always tell from their faces that they are thinking the exact same thing that I myself was thinking when my mother first told me about it. And I don't want them to make the same judgey-face mistake that I made! Which caused me to put off reading it for a really long time! I mean, okay, for like a week, until I ran out of other stuff to read, but dude, if we hadn't been on vacation, if we had been at home surrounded by zillions of books and a public library, I might NEVER EVER HAVE READ IT.
...I am sad for the people that have never read Watership Down.
I bring this up because I am reading The Girl in a Swing, which is a book by the same guy that wrote Watership Down, and it's making me want to tell everyone to read Watership Down. Zealously. Though I believe when my mother first brought up Watership Down to me, the conversation was like this.
Mumsy: Jenny! I got Watership Down! You have to read it while we're here [in Maine]!
Jenny: Okay! You have never steered me wrong! What's it about?
Mumsy: Well, it's about these rabbits.
Jenny: Um, yeah. That sounds sweet, but I'm too busy revisiting the oeuvres of William Steig and Maurice Sendak.
Mumsy: Really?
Jenny: NO NOT REALLY. I AM TOO OLD FOR BUNNY RABBIT STORIES.
[Note: William Steig and Maurice Sendak are both brilliant and I love them. I am in no way criticizing William Steig and Maurice Sendak.]
Mumsy: No, no, it's very exciting. It's very exciting. It's about this rabbit that is psychic-
Jenny: Mother. This is embarrassing.
See, but I was so wrong! Watership Down is amazing and thrilling and suspenseful. The rabbits have all kinds of mad adventures, like - oo, it's so creepy - when they find this warren with these fat, well-fed rabbits that just act really weird; and like when the Major Fighter Rabbit, Bigwig, befriends this crow; and when they have to infiltrate a terrifying fascist warren and fight off the terrifying army of fascist rabbits.
When I try to tell people how good Watership Down is, I can always tell from their faces that they are thinking the exact same thing that I myself was thinking when my mother first told me about it. And I don't want them to make the same judgey-face mistake that I made! Which caused me to put off reading it for a really long time! I mean, okay, for like a week, until I ran out of other stuff to read, but dude, if we hadn't been on vacation, if we had been at home surrounded by zillions of books and a public library, I might NEVER EVER HAVE READ IT.
...I am sad for the people that have never read Watership Down.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Girl detective
So today I was going through pictures of my work, right, and I found a picture in this office with a fish. In a fishbowl. And at first I was just all, aw, the leetle fish. Look at the pretty colors. Isn't it nice? La la la. I carried on going through the pictures, whatever whatever, and after a while it hit me: That is a picture of a fish on my desk. My desk does not have a fish on it. WHERE IS THE FISH?
I thought maybe the fish was somewhere else around the office and I just hadn't seen it, so I went hunting. I looked all around my desk. I looked in the meeting room area. I looked in the kitchen. I looked in the stuff room & the other stuff room & my boss's office.
NO FISH.
By now I had begun to suspect that somebody, sometime, had come into this office and played a game they called UP UP UP with the fish!, and had had poorer balance than some players of this game, and the fish in question had not had the good fortune to land in a pot full of water from which it could continue to express its dismay about the turn the game had taken. There are no pots full of water in this office so it couldn't have fallen into one, and I was growing ever more worried about the fate of the fish.
When my boss came back, I said, "Those pictures of the office are very good,"and he said, "Oh, you like them?" and I, having achieved my segue with a minimum of effort, said severely, "WHERE IS THE FISH?"
"Fish?" he said.
I would make a fantastic investigative journalist. I wouldn't let people get away with anything. I did not let my boss get away with this. "THE FISH FROM THE PICTURES," I said.
"It's gone," he explained.
"BECAUSE YOU KILLED IT?" I said.
I know, I know. I missed my calling. I should have become a journalist as previously noted, or possibly an expert interrogator. I would not need to torture people sneakily, because I would get the truth out of them using only my words.
The fish didn't die. You will be relieved to hear. The fish from the pictures was someone else's fish. Not an office fish. Not somewhere dead of neglect in this office because I didn't know about it when I started working here.
Phew.
(Mumsy, don't worry - that is not really what happened. I did not go snooping through the rest of the office, or interrogate my boss. I asked politely and he explained politely. I did not really miss my calling to be an investigative journalist or witness interrogator; I know that my true calling is to be a writer of amusing fictions.)
I thought maybe the fish was somewhere else around the office and I just hadn't seen it, so I went hunting. I looked all around my desk. I looked in the meeting room area. I looked in the kitchen. I looked in the stuff room & the other stuff room & my boss's office.
NO FISH.
By now I had begun to suspect that somebody, sometime, had come into this office and played a game they called UP UP UP with the fish!, and had had poorer balance than some players of this game, and the fish in question had not had the good fortune to land in a pot full of water from which it could continue to express its dismay about the turn the game had taken. There are no pots full of water in this office so it couldn't have fallen into one, and I was growing ever more worried about the fate of the fish.
When my boss came back, I said, "Those pictures of the office are very good,"and he said, "Oh, you like them?" and I, having achieved my segue with a minimum of effort, said severely, "WHERE IS THE FISH?"
"Fish?" he said.
I would make a fantastic investigative journalist. I wouldn't let people get away with anything. I did not let my boss get away with this. "THE FISH FROM THE PICTURES," I said.
"It's gone," he explained.
"BECAUSE YOU KILLED IT?" I said.
I know, I know. I missed my calling. I should have become a journalist as previously noted, or possibly an expert interrogator. I would not need to torture people sneakily, because I would get the truth out of them using only my words.
The fish didn't die. You will be relieved to hear. The fish from the pictures was someone else's fish. Not an office fish. Not somewhere dead of neglect in this office because I didn't know about it when I started working here.
Phew.
(Mumsy, don't worry - that is not really what happened. I did not go snooping through the rest of the office, or interrogate my boss. I asked politely and he explained politely. I did not really miss my calling to be an investigative journalist or witness interrogator; I know that my true calling is to be a writer of amusing fictions.)
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Changes hurt my brain
Well, I mean, some changes. Today my father brought my sculpture over to my new apartment, and it's the first thing your eye falls on when you walk inside. It makes me completely happy. That is a change that does not hurt my brain.
However, this new apartment, despite its beautiful perfection, is not without its problems. I was pleased upon arriving here to find that the linen closet in the bathroom has one of those adorable little pull-down doors in it, do you know what I'm talking about? There is a handle, and you pull it down and chuck your dirty laundry inside the bottom half of the linen closet? You know?
I love this. I have always wanted one of these. (Do you know what I'm talking about?) I am much more motivated than I have ever been before, to put my dirty laundry in its designated place. I am even more motivated than I was when I was little and putting the laundry in the hamper meant my mother would do it for me. When I lived at the dorms and in previous apartments, I mostly just threw my dirty clothes in a corner close to where my laundry bag was, and then when the pile of dirty clothes got big enough that it made me unhappy, I did a couple of loads of laundry.
Now, I never see how big my pile of laundry is. I never see it at all. It's very weird and I'm having a hard time adjusting. This morning I got up and tried to find the shirt I wanted, and it wasn't anywhere. I searched in my closet, and then I searched through all the drawers in my chest of drawers, and then I searched in the pile of clothes I really need to hand-wash (I will soon!), and then I searched through all my unpacked boxes. And finally I sat down sadly and tried to live with the realization that the shirt was gone forever.
"How can it be missing?" I asked my cuddly Harrod's teddy bear, who is called Basil Bear. Baz had no answers for me. "HOW?" I cried. "I DO NOT EVEN HAVE ANY BIG PILES OF DIRTY LAUNDRY LIKE NORMAL. WHY AM I BEING PUNISHED FOR MY CLEANLINESS?"
Which is when I remembered about the pile of laundry tidily hidden behind the little door in my bathroom. Baz didn't really deserve to be yelled at (but I really like that shirt, and I am on the rag, so you can understand how this all went down).
However, this new apartment, despite its beautiful perfection, is not without its problems. I was pleased upon arriving here to find that the linen closet in the bathroom has one of those adorable little pull-down doors in it, do you know what I'm talking about? There is a handle, and you pull it down and chuck your dirty laundry inside the bottom half of the linen closet? You know?
I love this. I have always wanted one of these. (Do you know what I'm talking about?) I am much more motivated than I have ever been before, to put my dirty laundry in its designated place. I am even more motivated than I was when I was little and putting the laundry in the hamper meant my mother would do it for me. When I lived at the dorms and in previous apartments, I mostly just threw my dirty clothes in a corner close to where my laundry bag was, and then when the pile of dirty clothes got big enough that it made me unhappy, I did a couple of loads of laundry.
Now, I never see how big my pile of laundry is. I never see it at all. It's very weird and I'm having a hard time adjusting. This morning I got up and tried to find the shirt I wanted, and it wasn't anywhere. I searched in my closet, and then I searched through all the drawers in my chest of drawers, and then I searched in the pile of clothes I really need to hand-wash (I will soon!), and then I searched through all my unpacked boxes. And finally I sat down sadly and tried to live with the realization that the shirt was gone forever.
"How can it be missing?" I asked my cuddly Harrod's teddy bear, who is called Basil Bear. Baz had no answers for me. "HOW?" I cried. "I DO NOT EVEN HAVE ANY BIG PILES OF DIRTY LAUNDRY LIKE NORMAL. WHY AM I BEING PUNISHED FOR MY CLEANLINESS?"
Which is when I remembered about the pile of laundry tidily hidden behind the little door in my bathroom. Baz didn't really deserve to be yelled at (but I really like that shirt, and I am on the rag, so you can understand how this all went down).
Friday, August 21, 2009
One of those epiphanies it would have been better to have had sooner
I was in high school before I realized that the phrase "to jew someone down" is a reference to - you know - Jews. For years and years and years (not because I am stupid! but because I didn't hear it that often and so I didn't think about it that much), I totally thought it was an onomatopoeic approximation of the sound of a power tool. You know, JJJJJJJJJEWWWWWWWWWWWWW - like, whittling something down. I thought jewing someone down meant wearing them down until they could take it no longer and gave you the price you wanted, or possibly wearing down the price with a power tool type thing. When I hear that phrase, that's still what pops into my head.
But then this one time I was talking to one of my friends at lunch about this girl in my elementary school who used to bring Fudge Rounds to school, and she would never share. We used to offer her huge portions of our own lunches in exchange, but the only trade she would accept was two (two!) of those yummy cafeteria rolls. I was telling my friend, "One time I jewed her down to - I just realized what that meant."
Then I felt guilty.
I just wanted to tell y'all that. I have a picture of a power tool in my head right now. JJJJJJEEEEEWWWWWW. Do you understand the noise I'm making? The J is a soft J like in Arabic or French.
But then this one time I was talking to one of my friends at lunch about this girl in my elementary school who used to bring Fudge Rounds to school, and she would never share. We used to offer her huge portions of our own lunches in exchange, but the only trade she would accept was two (two!) of those yummy cafeteria rolls. I was telling my friend, "One time I jewed her down to - I just realized what that meant."
Then I felt guilty.
I just wanted to tell y'all that. I have a picture of a power tool in my head right now. JJJJJJEEEEEWWWWWW. Do you understand the noise I'm making? The J is a soft J like in Arabic or French.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Book lists
I love book lists. You know, those things where it's all "50 Books You Must Read Before You Die" and "75 Best Books Ever in the World" and "100 Classics If You Haven't Read Them You Are Stupid". I was talking about this with my mum and sister today, and Anna was saying she finds them dismaying because they make her feel like she isn't well-read. As for me, I always like them and I always go through and add up my totals even if I have somewhere else to be in the next five minutes. It's fun. Here's why.
1. I often feel like I am well-read when I add up my totals. Unless they have loads of philosophy books on them, I have normally read a lot of those books. I was an English major so I had to. I had to read Moby Dick twice, and the payoff for this and other miseries is that when there is a list like this, I have usually read a bunch of them. Though I think I should be able to give myself two points for Moby Dick since I had to read it two (2) times and it is as long as - like, it's really really long, okay?
(I was trying to think of some sort of dirty joke about Pinocchio's nose, to illustrate how long Moby Dick is. And I couldn't think of something. Oh well. I am not that clever.)
2. I come across these lists relatively often, because people love to make them, and they always remind me of books I have been meaning to read. Like Doris Lessing. I keep meaning to read Doris Lessing. One of these days I will. Or, to give a better example, Salman Rushdie. I used to see Salman Rushdie's name all over the place, and I was all, Whatever, I'll get to it, and eventually, I got to it. Which means that now when Salman Rushdie's books are on these lists, I have read them. Plus, it turns out I really like Salman Rushdie. And if he hadn't been on book lists all the time, reminding me about his existence, this would never have happened.
3. This will not stand up under scrutiny given how much I thought I was going to hate Salman Rushdie and other authors I can't think of right now, but here it is anyway: for a lot of the books I haven't read, I am pleased not to have read them. Because I know I won't like them. And because I think without having read them that they are stupid. Thus instead of feeling not-well-read, and thus not enjoying the book lists, like Anna, I feel aggravated with the list-makers for putting stupid books on their lists, and pleasingly smug with myself for knowing better. And then I have a big internal (or sometimes out-loud) rant about how racist and sexist everyone is with The Classics, and how foolish the list-makers are, putting on more than one book by Faulkner (esp. if neither of them is Light in August, which is the one I was forced to read) or whoever, and that is fun because it's fun to feel like a better person than someone else.
Yup.
1. I often feel like I am well-read when I add up my totals. Unless they have loads of philosophy books on them, I have normally read a lot of those books. I was an English major so I had to. I had to read Moby Dick twice, and the payoff for this and other miseries is that when there is a list like this, I have usually read a bunch of them. Though I think I should be able to give myself two points for Moby Dick since I had to read it two (2) times and it is as long as - like, it's really really long, okay?
(I was trying to think of some sort of dirty joke about Pinocchio's nose, to illustrate how long Moby Dick is. And I couldn't think of something. Oh well. I am not that clever.)
2. I come across these lists relatively often, because people love to make them, and they always remind me of books I have been meaning to read. Like Doris Lessing. I keep meaning to read Doris Lessing. One of these days I will. Or, to give a better example, Salman Rushdie. I used to see Salman Rushdie's name all over the place, and I was all, Whatever, I'll get to it, and eventually, I got to it. Which means that now when Salman Rushdie's books are on these lists, I have read them. Plus, it turns out I really like Salman Rushdie. And if he hadn't been on book lists all the time, reminding me about his existence, this would never have happened.
3. This will not stand up under scrutiny given how much I thought I was going to hate Salman Rushdie and other authors I can't think of right now, but here it is anyway: for a lot of the books I haven't read, I am pleased not to have read them. Because I know I won't like them. And because I think without having read them that they are stupid. Thus instead of feeling not-well-read, and thus not enjoying the book lists, like Anna, I feel aggravated with the list-makers for putting stupid books on their lists, and pleasingly smug with myself for knowing better. And then I have a big internal (or sometimes out-loud) rant about how racist and sexist everyone is with The Classics, and how foolish the list-makers are, putting on more than one book by Faulkner (esp. if neither of them is Light in August, which is the one I was forced to read) or whoever, and that is fun because it's fun to feel like a better person than someone else.
Yup.
Unless you are Robyn, I know you don't care
But Chad Michael Murray is leaving One Tree Hill. I can't tell you how much this has broken my spirit. Chad Michael Murray and his sensitive-guy-face and his better-acting-through-squinting techniques have been such a joy to me since my lovely flatmate Saz introduced me to the show in 2007. Ever since I discovered this, I have been broken-hearted. Inconsolable. Ask anyone. I have taken to my bed and refused to arise until the CW reconsiders.
However, today it came to me in a blinding flash of light, exactly what I need in order to be happy again. Nobody is planning to do this (YET!), but inventing it inside my head has made me feel much happier. Okay. I need some network to do a show about a ballet school - no, wait for it - that's a boarding school - no! no! you are still waiting for it - set before the Second World War. Ish. That's when ish I would need it to be set. I THINK IT WOULD BE GREAT.
Yes. Essentially, Thursday's Children on TV. And American.
But no, seriously, I think this would be such fun! Thursday's Children is great, and what would make it even more great would be MORE CHARACTERS AND LONGER AND IN SERIAL FORM.
Right? Am I right? Wouldn't that be fun? For me?
However, today it came to me in a blinding flash of light, exactly what I need in order to be happy again. Nobody is planning to do this (YET!), but inventing it inside my head has made me feel much happier. Okay. I need some network to do a show about a ballet school - no, wait for it - that's a boarding school - no! no! you are still waiting for it - set before the Second World War. Ish. That's when ish I would need it to be set. I THINK IT WOULD BE GREAT.
Yes. Essentially, Thursday's Children on TV. And American.
But no, seriously, I think this would be such fun! Thursday's Children is great, and what would make it even more great would be MORE CHARACTERS AND LONGER AND IN SERIAL FORM.
Right? Am I right? Wouldn't that be fun? For me?
Friday, August 7, 2009
How to cook
The key, of course, is to not cook for several months between attempts. In this way it becomes possible to forget the abject, multilayered misery that happens when you cook a new thing. Like maybe wait three months. After three months it is possible for me to tell myself that I have been exaggerating my loathing for cooking. You know, for comedic effect. So today I cooked a new chicken spaghetti thing. It looked very easy. Ho, ho, ho.
I cut up the chicken first. This went really smoothly, despite my hatred for touching raw meat, and I was feeling fantastic about myself and my cooking abilities, so I bravely went ahead and put the olive oil on to heat up. I didn't know olive oil had to heat up. I would have totally dumped the chicken into the skillet first, piece by piece as I cut it up, and worried about the olive oil when I started cooking the chicken.
Then I chopped up the garlic. I figured, since I had already cut the chicken successfully, theoretically the most traumatic part of the process, I could now give myself a prize by doing something super easy and fun. My sister has recently discovered that she owns a vegetable chopper, and all you have to do to work it, is slam it up and down repeatedly, and the garlic becomes chopped automatically. Like magic!
First problem, of course: I didn't bring over the garlic I bought. Of course. I looked and looked all over for garlic and couldn't find any, and after three terrifying - because! the olive oil was already on the skillet which meant TOO LATE to go buy/pick up garlic - minutes I found some, and I got going with the chopping. V. easy and fun. I was feeling totally great, and then I took the chopper apart to wash it and couldn't get it back together again. Every time I tried, it started making horrifying noises SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK (sorry, Robyn!), and I couldn't get it to go back together. At all. It looked all broken and tragic, and after innumerable efforts to mend it while retaining my equanimity, I started to cry because not only was I failing at cooking, but I was also failing at being a good sister. Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
I know this is stupid, but I am writing this while the chicken is simmering in the kitchen, mostly to stave off the moment when I have to cook the pasta, and it still feels v. upsetting right now - anyway, I finally sorted the stupid chopper and carried on cooking the chicken, and I put too much goddamn spice on it. I put the right amount from the recipe, but I guess I had the wrong proportions, so the basil and blackened thingy were just way too much, and my whole house smells like basil. Way too much basil. I am gagging on basil right now. I poured in the tomatoes, covered it, and disconsolately wandered over to write a complainy blog post.
There always comes a time like this, when I am cooking something. I reach a point where I hate the food I am cooking, truly hate it, probably as much as Fred Phelps hates the gays - IF NOT MORE - and I can see why, if these are truly the emotions he possesses, he chooses to send his family out picketing all over the place with his hatred of the gays, and if I could do that with my hatred of the food and not be ridiculous (a challenge Fred Phelps faces too - and does not manage to surmount), I would totally do it at this point in the process. At this point I am ready to take the whole pan and pour it into the trash and sit down and cry for a little while, and ultimately go get take-out.
No idea how the food turned out. I haven't tasted it. The house smells like basil and I don't expect great things out of the chicken spaghetti. But I am going to go make pasta anyway, because I've started and it's too late to stop now.
I cut up the chicken first. This went really smoothly, despite my hatred for touching raw meat, and I was feeling fantastic about myself and my cooking abilities, so I bravely went ahead and put the olive oil on to heat up. I didn't know olive oil had to heat up. I would have totally dumped the chicken into the skillet first, piece by piece as I cut it up, and worried about the olive oil when I started cooking the chicken.
Then I chopped up the garlic. I figured, since I had already cut the chicken successfully, theoretically the most traumatic part of the process, I could now give myself a prize by doing something super easy and fun. My sister has recently discovered that she owns a vegetable chopper, and all you have to do to work it, is slam it up and down repeatedly, and the garlic becomes chopped automatically. Like magic!
First problem, of course: I didn't bring over the garlic I bought. Of course. I looked and looked all over for garlic and couldn't find any, and after three terrifying - because! the olive oil was already on the skillet which meant TOO LATE to go buy/pick up garlic - minutes I found some, and I got going with the chopping. V. easy and fun. I was feeling totally great, and then I took the chopper apart to wash it and couldn't get it back together again. Every time I tried, it started making horrifying noises SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK (sorry, Robyn!), and I couldn't get it to go back together. At all. It looked all broken and tragic, and after innumerable efforts to mend it while retaining my equanimity, I started to cry because not only was I failing at cooking, but I was also failing at being a good sister. Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
I know this is stupid, but I am writing this while the chicken is simmering in the kitchen, mostly to stave off the moment when I have to cook the pasta, and it still feels v. upsetting right now - anyway, I finally sorted the stupid chopper and carried on cooking the chicken, and I put too much goddamn spice on it. I put the right amount from the recipe, but I guess I had the wrong proportions, so the basil and blackened thingy were just way too much, and my whole house smells like basil. Way too much basil. I am gagging on basil right now. I poured in the tomatoes, covered it, and disconsolately wandered over to write a complainy blog post.
There always comes a time like this, when I am cooking something. I reach a point where I hate the food I am cooking, truly hate it, probably as much as Fred Phelps hates the gays - IF NOT MORE - and I can see why, if these are truly the emotions he possesses, he chooses to send his family out picketing all over the place with his hatred of the gays, and if I could do that with my hatred of the food and not be ridiculous (a challenge Fred Phelps faces too - and does not manage to surmount), I would totally do it at this point in the process. At this point I am ready to take the whole pan and pour it into the trash and sit down and cry for a little while, and ultimately go get take-out.
No idea how the food turned out. I haven't tasted it. The house smells like basil and I don't expect great things out of the chicken spaghetti. But I am going to go make pasta anyway, because I've started and it's too late to stop now.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Oh I am just so excited
about this. I think it's going to be legen-
(wait for it)
-dary! LEGENDARY! There will be interviews! People will talk nice about Oscar Wilde and I WILL LOVE IT.
(wait for it)
-dary! LEGENDARY! There will be interviews! People will talk nice about Oscar Wilde and I WILL LOVE IT.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
So there are people living in this town who have leashes
FOR THEIR BUNNIES.
And in case that was too confusing, what with the sentence being split between the subject line and the post itself, I'll tell you again. Yesterday I saw a guy and a girl, and the girl was cuddling a bunny, and that was sweet, but the guy was, I swear to God, holding one end of a leash and the other end of the leash was attached to a bunny. Or, I don't know if I can even call it a leash, because it had a little harness on it, which went over the bunny's head and under its little front legs.
If you think about this, it's really great that the guy and the girl have found each other. I don't expect there are that many bunny-leash enthusiasts in this world, and really, what are the odds of finding a mate who is willing to walk outside with you while you wait for your leashed bunny to have a poo, let alone one who is willing to actually hold one end of a leash whose other end is attached to a pooping bunny? The guy and the girl both had a bunny, and both bunnies had a harness leash, and they were in public. People could SEE THEM taking their bunnies out for a poo. (Like me.)
There's this too: In order for the bunny-leash freaks to have purchased this harness leash thing for their bunnies, harness leashes for bunnies had to already exist. Think about that. Someone, somewhere, thought, Hey, you know what we need? Leashes for bunnies! So people can walk their bunnies!, and they thought that this was a pressing enough need that it would be safe to manufacture them en masse. AND THEY WERE RIGHT. Chilling.
Don't get me wrong. I am all in favor of restraining your bunny. The people across the street from where I used to live had this bunny and they let it run free, and the bunny was a great big rapist and it used to sneak up behind the neighborhood cats and start humping them. Its name was Bubbles. One time during the St. Patrick's Day parade a drunk guy saw me near my house and hollered "YOUR BUNNY'S HUMPING THE CAT." He was drunk, but not drunk enough to have forgotten that the proper place for pet bunnies is in a cage. And I think that's a useful lesson for all of us.
Seriously, bunny-leash freaks. The proper place for a pet bunny is in a cage. Just clean out the damn cage. That is what all the other pet bunny owners of this world are doing. Not letting their bunnies roam free. Not putting them on weird harness leashes. They are keeping them in cages like you do guinea pigs, and if you think this is mean to the bunny, the obvious solution is DO NOT HAVE A BUNNY AS A PET.
And in case that was too confusing, what with the sentence being split between the subject line and the post itself, I'll tell you again. Yesterday I saw a guy and a girl, and the girl was cuddling a bunny, and that was sweet, but the guy was, I swear to God, holding one end of a leash and the other end of the leash was attached to a bunny. Or, I don't know if I can even call it a leash, because it had a little harness on it, which went over the bunny's head and under its little front legs.
If you think about this, it's really great that the guy and the girl have found each other. I don't expect there are that many bunny-leash enthusiasts in this world, and really, what are the odds of finding a mate who is willing to walk outside with you while you wait for your leashed bunny to have a poo, let alone one who is willing to actually hold one end of a leash whose other end is attached to a pooping bunny? The guy and the girl both had a bunny, and both bunnies had a harness leash, and they were in public. People could SEE THEM taking their bunnies out for a poo. (Like me.)
There's this too: In order for the bunny-leash freaks to have purchased this harness leash thing for their bunnies, harness leashes for bunnies had to already exist. Think about that. Someone, somewhere, thought, Hey, you know what we need? Leashes for bunnies! So people can walk their bunnies!, and they thought that this was a pressing enough need that it would be safe to manufacture them en masse. AND THEY WERE RIGHT. Chilling.
Don't get me wrong. I am all in favor of restraining your bunny. The people across the street from where I used to live had this bunny and they let it run free, and the bunny was a great big rapist and it used to sneak up behind the neighborhood cats and start humping them. Its name was Bubbles. One time during the St. Patrick's Day parade a drunk guy saw me near my house and hollered "YOUR BUNNY'S HUMPING THE CAT." He was drunk, but not drunk enough to have forgotten that the proper place for pet bunnies is in a cage. And I think that's a useful lesson for all of us.
Seriously, bunny-leash freaks. The proper place for a pet bunny is in a cage. Just clean out the damn cage. That is what all the other pet bunny owners of this world are doing. Not letting their bunnies roam free. Not putting them on weird harness leashes. They are keeping them in cages like you do guinea pigs, and if you think this is mean to the bunny, the obvious solution is DO NOT HAVE A BUNNY AS A PET.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Babysitters' Club
I found this website where this chick is rereading all the Babysitters' Club books. I don't know about you, but I was addicted to these books when I was small. I remember one time Anna's best friend offered to give me Super Special #10, the one where they're all in Peter Pan, if I would finish making the cookies she and Anna started to make and then got tired of. This was, like, the best deal ever, and when I conducted a purge of all my BSC books (dammit, wish I still had them), I hung on to that one particular book.
I just reread it this week, and here is my question. I get it that Jessi's being super bitchy in this book, and I get it that the boss-man of the play might not want to give the part of Peter Pan to a middle-schooler. But then he goes ahead and gives it to Kristy; so it's not about her age. And frankly, nobody in this play is going to be super-talented! So why would he NOT give the part (or any part!) to Jessi, who at least can dance and is accustomed to being on stage? He doesn't even give her a speaking part! I feel like this is an example of Ston(e?)ybrook racism, as we witnessed in Jessi's first book. But nobody even brings this up! HE IS BEING A RACIST PRICK AND NOBODY CARES.
I can't remember how they deal with Jessi and racism in the BSC books, apart from the one where she first moves to town, and also that Super Special that takes place at camp, where Mallory and Jessi are supposed to be like junior counselors in training, and their fellow campers don't like them because they're being stuck-up little snots (well they are!), and to show they don't like them, they call Mallory and Jessi "Oreos", and that's where I first learned that term, and I remember being like, Speaking of that, Oreos are delicious, and I went and stole a bunch of cookies from the long thin tin where we used to keep our cookies. Stolen cookies are always sweeter. I wonder if my parents knew how many of those cookies I stole and ate at a time.
Anyway, I'm very entertained by this website. She makes fun of Claudia's clothes. Even at age ten, I thought Claudia's clothes sounded fucking stupid. Why was she always wearing oversized shirts? Does she not have any normal shirts? I feel like Claudia would grow up still wearing these wacky fashions into her mid-thirties, which would be really tragic, but here's what it would lead to, ultimately:
Mmm, this is almost as satisfying as imagining what Buffy would do if she ever met Edward Cullen.
I just reread it this week, and here is my question. I get it that Jessi's being super bitchy in this book, and I get it that the boss-man of the play might not want to give the part of Peter Pan to a middle-schooler. But then he goes ahead and gives it to Kristy; so it's not about her age. And frankly, nobody in this play is going to be super-talented! So why would he NOT give the part (or any part!) to Jessi, who at least can dance and is accustomed to being on stage? He doesn't even give her a speaking part! I feel like this is an example of Ston(e?)ybrook racism, as we witnessed in Jessi's first book. But nobody even brings this up! HE IS BEING A RACIST PRICK AND NOBODY CARES.
I can't remember how they deal with Jessi and racism in the BSC books, apart from the one where she first moves to town, and also that Super Special that takes place at camp, where Mallory and Jessi are supposed to be like junior counselors in training, and their fellow campers don't like them because they're being stuck-up little snots (well they are!), and to show they don't like them, they call Mallory and Jessi "Oreos", and that's where I first learned that term, and I remember being like, Speaking of that, Oreos are delicious, and I went and stole a bunch of cookies from the long thin tin where we used to keep our cookies. Stolen cookies are always sweeter. I wonder if my parents knew how many of those cookies I stole and ate at a time.
Anyway, I'm very entertained by this website. She makes fun of Claudia's clothes. Even at age ten, I thought Claudia's clothes sounded fucking stupid. Why was she always wearing oversized shirts? Does she not have any normal shirts? I feel like Claudia would grow up still wearing these wacky fashions into her mid-thirties, which would be really tragic, but here's what it would lead to, ultimately:
CLAUDIA
(in the 360)
Um, well, this is a great off-the-shoulder oversized blouse with a short neon green skirt and polka-dot tights and ballet shoes. I would wear this like to hang out with my friend Stacey in New York City. She's super sophisticated because she's from New York City. I just think this is a really fun outfit that really reflects my personality.
STACY
There are just so many things wrong with this.
CLINTON
My eyes are burning.
STACY
(bunches the blouse together in the back)
Look what a great figure you have!
CLAUDIA
Yes, I can eat a thousand tons of junk food and never gain weight.
STACY
Oh shut up.
CLAUDIA
Or get pimples.
CLINTON
Why would you want to hide this great figure under all this SHIRT? When you wear this outfit, it makes you look frumpy and stumpy. Let's take a look at an alternative, okay?
Cut to: Cute, elegant manikin outfit
CLAUDIA
But this is so booooring!
STACY
This is not boring, this is elegant!
CLINTON
See, Claudia, this is an outfit that's genuinely sophisticated-
STACY
Which is what we want for you!
CLINTON
Yes, we do. See this ruching below the bodice? That's the kind of lovely feminine detail we want you to look for, that's going to accentuate the narrowest part of you, and really show off that adorable little figure.
(in the 360)
Um, well, this is a great off-the-shoulder oversized blouse with a short neon green skirt and polka-dot tights and ballet shoes. I would wear this like to hang out with my friend Stacey in New York City. She's super sophisticated because she's from New York City. I just think this is a really fun outfit that really reflects my personality.
STACY
There are just so many things wrong with this.
CLINTON
My eyes are burning.
STACY
(bunches the blouse together in the back)
Look what a great figure you have!
CLAUDIA
Yes, I can eat a thousand tons of junk food and never gain weight.
STACY
Oh shut up.
CLAUDIA
Or get pimples.
CLINTON
Why would you want to hide this great figure under all this SHIRT? When you wear this outfit, it makes you look frumpy and stumpy. Let's take a look at an alternative, okay?
Cut to: Cute, elegant manikin outfit
CLAUDIA
But this is so booooring!
STACY
This is not boring, this is elegant!
CLINTON
See, Claudia, this is an outfit that's genuinely sophisticated-
STACY
Which is what we want for you!
CLINTON
Yes, we do. See this ruching below the bodice? That's the kind of lovely feminine detail we want you to look for, that's going to accentuate the narrowest part of you, and really show off that adorable little figure.
Mmm, this is almost as satisfying as imagining what Buffy would do if she ever met Edward Cullen.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Proud of my subconscious
Well, I am. My subconscious is very inventive and fun. I have all sorts of good dreams, and even when I have nightmares, they are rife with useful symbolism for me to think about. And because I am in no way responsible for its workings, I do not hesitate to praise my subconscious lavishly without feeling like a bragging bragger. I can’t help it! It’s very creative and interesting! Much more so than my waking self – which seems very unfair.
This is what my subconscious did on Wednesday morning like a genius. See, it was raining really hard on Tuesday night, and I guess the power must have clicked off for a second, because my alarm clock didn’t go off at the appointed time, which was about 5:50. I had set it early to make sure I made it to the place where I had to be at 6:35. On Wednesday morning, I woke up several times, then went back to sleep because it wasn’t time to get up yet, because my alarm clock hadn’t gone off. Ordinarily when I wake up in the morning, I check my clock to make sure I don’t need to get up, but this morning I was tired and I knew if I checked the clock it would wake me up more and I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep.
(Though really I was oversleeping.)
Anyway I had this dream that my father came over to my apartment to hang some curtains. I actually do have curtains at my apartment that I intended to put up a while ago, and my father offered to come over and hang them for me, but it seemed like too much trouble for him so I never bothered with it. But in my dream, he came over to hang up the curtains and said, “Boy, you’re hard to wake up!”
And I said, “You mean that was you waking me up, when I woke up before?”
And he said, “Yes, you’re late. You were supposed to get up a while ago and help me with the curtains.”
I said, “No. I’m getting up at 5:50 in order to go to that place by 6:35,” and he said, “No, you’re very late. Very, very late,” and suddenly there was someone else with me who agreed that I was very late. We went on discussing this for a little while – I was certain that we hadn’t made any appointment to put up curtains, but Daddy and the other person kept telling me I was late, so finally I said, “Oh, fine,” and shook myself awake and checked the clock, and lo, it proved that I had overslept by a good thirty-five minutes.
My subconscious did that cause it’s helpful and cool. So.
This is what my subconscious did on Wednesday morning like a genius. See, it was raining really hard on Tuesday night, and I guess the power must have clicked off for a second, because my alarm clock didn’t go off at the appointed time, which was about 5:50. I had set it early to make sure I made it to the place where I had to be at 6:35. On Wednesday morning, I woke up several times, then went back to sleep because it wasn’t time to get up yet, because my alarm clock hadn’t gone off. Ordinarily when I wake up in the morning, I check my clock to make sure I don’t need to get up, but this morning I was tired and I knew if I checked the clock it would wake me up more and I wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep.
(Though really I was oversleeping.)
Anyway I had this dream that my father came over to my apartment to hang some curtains. I actually do have curtains at my apartment that I intended to put up a while ago, and my father offered to come over and hang them for me, but it seemed like too much trouble for him so I never bothered with it. But in my dream, he came over to hang up the curtains and said, “Boy, you’re hard to wake up!”
And I said, “You mean that was you waking me up, when I woke up before?”
And he said, “Yes, you’re late. You were supposed to get up a while ago and help me with the curtains.”
I said, “No. I’m getting up at 5:50 in order to go to that place by 6:35,” and he said, “No, you’re very late. Very, very late,” and suddenly there was someone else with me who agreed that I was very late. We went on discussing this for a little while – I was certain that we hadn’t made any appointment to put up curtains, but Daddy and the other person kept telling me I was late, so finally I said, “Oh, fine,” and shook myself awake and checked the clock, and lo, it proved that I had overslept by a good thirty-five minutes.
My subconscious did that cause it’s helpful and cool. So.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Department of Mysteries
One of my most vivid memories of the Harry Potter series is reading the end of the fifth book at Nezabeth’s house with her and Anna, that scene in the Department of Mysteries. It was very early in the morning, because we’d been reading since the book came out at midnight, and I was shaking all over, partly from tiredness but mostly from tension, because damn, is that scene ever tense. Whenever I reread it now, I get that same shaky feeling, except now I know what’s coming, so I also burst into tears right around the time Neville tells Harry not to give it to her, and I keep on crying till the book finishes. And the same thing in the movie – during the Department of Mysteries scene, I was absolutely rigid with tension.
And then Dumbledore showed up.
I do not love Michael Gambon as Dumbledore. They should have cast Ian McKellan or, as my mother said, Bill Nighy – we feel like either of them could have conveyed the humor and presence of Dumbledore more better than Michael Gambon does. Despite that, when Dumbledore showed up in the film of Order of the Phoenix, every single muscle in my body relaxed. I hadn’t even realized how tense I was until he showed up and I completely relaxed, because everything was going to be okay, because Dumbledore was there.
That’s how I feel when I go to the eye doctor.
I can tell you this is true because I went to the eye doctor today, for the first time in a while, and I remembered how completely soothing my eye doctor is. I have been seeing her since I was a little, little girl of six or seven, and I find the eye tests so relaxing. My favorite one is the one where she clicks through the different lenses to see which one is better for my eyes, and she says, “One, or two?” and I say, Two, and she says, “Two, or three?” Oh so relaxing. It’s like when Dumbledore shows up. I just relax perfectly. How serene it is. And that nice test with the signs on the railroad tracks? Mmmmmmmm. I do not even mind that much when they puff air into my eyes or make me stare into black and white concentric circles in order to get a map of my eye. Because my eye doctor makes me feel so calm.
After giving this some thought, I’ve concluded that it’s because I spent a lot of time at the eye doctor in third and fourth grade, and third and fourth grade sucked really really hard. So I think that I view my eye doctor as my savior. It was so nice when, instead of having to go to school and get into fights with the younger version of Rachel McAdams from Mean Girls, I could go to the eye doctor and watch the entrancing display board that kept changing and changing. And then get my eyes tested, and I’d be out of school for a whole morning or a whole afternoon and it was GREAT. I think that’s why.
And then Dumbledore showed up.
I do not love Michael Gambon as Dumbledore. They should have cast Ian McKellan or, as my mother said, Bill Nighy – we feel like either of them could have conveyed the humor and presence of Dumbledore more better than Michael Gambon does. Despite that, when Dumbledore showed up in the film of Order of the Phoenix, every single muscle in my body relaxed. I hadn’t even realized how tense I was until he showed up and I completely relaxed, because everything was going to be okay, because Dumbledore was there.
That’s how I feel when I go to the eye doctor.
I can tell you this is true because I went to the eye doctor today, for the first time in a while, and I remembered how completely soothing my eye doctor is. I have been seeing her since I was a little, little girl of six or seven, and I find the eye tests so relaxing. My favorite one is the one where she clicks through the different lenses to see which one is better for my eyes, and she says, “One, or two?” and I say, Two, and she says, “Two, or three?” Oh so relaxing. It’s like when Dumbledore shows up. I just relax perfectly. How serene it is. And that nice test with the signs on the railroad tracks? Mmmmmmmm. I do not even mind that much when they puff air into my eyes or make me stare into black and white concentric circles in order to get a map of my eye. Because my eye doctor makes me feel so calm.
After giving this some thought, I’ve concluded that it’s because I spent a lot of time at the eye doctor in third and fourth grade, and third and fourth grade sucked really really hard. So I think that I view my eye doctor as my savior. It was so nice when, instead of having to go to school and get into fights with the younger version of Rachel McAdams from Mean Girls, I could go to the eye doctor and watch the entrancing display board that kept changing and changing. And then get my eyes tested, and I’d be out of school for a whole morning or a whole afternoon and it was GREAT. I think that’s why.
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