If you find a puddle of mucous on the sidewalk next to my headless corpse, you will know:
a) that my head has finally exploded from the pressure build-up of sinus goo; and
b) that I am finally free from the pain.
What makes this condition even more of a bummer is that I am having a very difficult time feeling sorry for myself while my nephew is in Bethesda Naval Hospital with two (2) non-functioning kidneys. He was in such bad shape on Friday that he was in intensive care, in an induced coma, on a respirator and fighting for his life.
The good news is that he is now off the respirator and able to withstand his dialysis treatments. My love and prayers go out to him. He's a sweet, talented kid who does not deserve this.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Painting, Wounding with Words, and an Ode to Skorts
I am painting again. No, not the exciting, bohemian, creative type of painting, but the arm-killing, elbow-injuring, ladder-teetering, paint-the-house type of painting. I'm not complaining; the house needed it badly. Another Washington winter and the thing could have vied for haunted-house-of-the-neighborhood status. Luckily, Drew is doing most of the heavy lifting and ladder-teetering, leaving me to do some edging, door-painting, and supervising.
The color took us a long time to decide on. Everything we really wanted to use turned muddy and awful-looking up against our house. The culprit was the roof shingles, which are an odd mixture of old-brick reddish and old-wood tannish. I finally came to the conclusion that to fight the roof color was a bad idea, and we would end up with one of those houses that just look icky for some reason that you just can't put your finger on. I went to the paint store, picked out the color of the roof to work from, then found a tan color that would coordinate with it nicely, and chose a nice, dark reddish brown for an accent color.
For some reason, the choice of tan was a hard one for Dean to accept. He wanted anything but tan. Don't ask me why tan affects him like that. We all have our color issues, I suppose. So when he came home from work and saw the new, vast expanse of tan, his anger at our indifference to his tan aversion must have forced him to use his words to wound. And he chose carefully. To me, he said the house looked awfully "fleshy." As if to intimate that I, an artist, could not tell that I had chosen the color of flesh to surround my house with. That's okay. I can accept his angry words.
For Drew, he chose to use the word "pink." The word most feared by he-man fire fighters. Drew took it more to heart than I did until I explained that Dean had just used the word that would cause him the most pain, as he was feeling such pain from the tanness. We must understand and sympathize.
Drew said he will feel much better when he moves out and doesn't have to look at it any more. There is that too. And the fact that we have gotten five compliments from neighbors - some that we didn't even know. Until now, I guess.
And now a word about skorts. Skorts rock. They are so much more worthy of a new fashion fling than the awful, awful capri (especially for those of us with a few inches less leg than others).
And they are so much more useful than that other word hybrid, the spork, which is neither a functioning fork or a spoon that won't, on occasion, give you an unintentional tongue piercing.
Skorts, for someone like me whose legs are slightly less fabulous than they were a few years ago, tend to hang a little longer than your average short, which makes me feel a little safer in them. For instance, while driving or riding in the car, I don't have to look down and see things jiggling that should never, ever be jiggling. However, it is short enough that it leaves the best leg parts out, for either viewing or cooling. And I can sit cross-legged on the floor and brush my dog or work in the garden without the danger of the skirt. I have three skort and I pretty much wear them interchangeably all summer. If I had four, I would have one more.
That's what I'm thinking.
The color took us a long time to decide on. Everything we really wanted to use turned muddy and awful-looking up against our house. The culprit was the roof shingles, which are an odd mixture of old-brick reddish and old-wood tannish. I finally came to the conclusion that to fight the roof color was a bad idea, and we would end up with one of those houses that just look icky for some reason that you just can't put your finger on. I went to the paint store, picked out the color of the roof to work from, then found a tan color that would coordinate with it nicely, and chose a nice, dark reddish brown for an accent color.
For some reason, the choice of tan was a hard one for Dean to accept. He wanted anything but tan. Don't ask me why tan affects him like that. We all have our color issues, I suppose. So when he came home from work and saw the new, vast expanse of tan, his anger at our indifference to his tan aversion must have forced him to use his words to wound. And he chose carefully. To me, he said the house looked awfully "fleshy." As if to intimate that I, an artist, could not tell that I had chosen the color of flesh to surround my house with. That's okay. I can accept his angry words.
For Drew, he chose to use the word "pink." The word most feared by he-man fire fighters. Drew took it more to heart than I did until I explained that Dean had just used the word that would cause him the most pain, as he was feeling such pain from the tanness. We must understand and sympathize.
Drew said he will feel much better when he moves out and doesn't have to look at it any more. There is that too. And the fact that we have gotten five compliments from neighbors - some that we didn't even know. Until now, I guess.
And now a word about skorts. Skorts rock. They are so much more worthy of a new fashion fling than the awful, awful capri (especially for those of us with a few inches less leg than others).
And they are so much more useful than that other word hybrid, the spork, which is neither a functioning fork or a spoon that won't, on occasion, give you an unintentional tongue piercing.
Skorts, for someone like me whose legs are slightly less fabulous than they were a few years ago, tend to hang a little longer than your average short, which makes me feel a little safer in them. For instance, while driving or riding in the car, I don't have to look down and see things jiggling that should never, ever be jiggling. However, it is short enough that it leaves the best leg parts out, for either viewing or cooling. And I can sit cross-legged on the floor and brush my dog or work in the garden without the danger of the skirt. I have three skort and I pretty much wear them interchangeably all summer. If I had four, I would have one more.
That's what I'm thinking.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Handy Tips for Cyclists
Things to avoid saying to your mom over the phone while at a race:
Things to avoid leaving in the toilet:
- Where's the nearest hospital from here?
- Hey, remember that tooth I just had fixed?
- Well, my bike's okay.
Things to avoid leaving in the toilet:
- suspicious-looking floating bits of shaving cream
- bandaids
- loogies that stick to the bowl that I have to remove, ahem, manually
If you live with someone who does your laundry even when she told you she wouldn't anymore:
- Take the bags of Goo out of your jersey pockets.
- Clothing with more holes than fabric become rags.
- For God's sake, turn your bike shorts chamois-side IN.
Congrats, Dean, on a third in the kilo and a fourth in the Olympic sprint (2005 U-23 Track Cycling Nationals) from your Number One Athletic Supporter.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
News Update from LA
Dean is having fun at National Track Cycling Championships in LA this week. He didn't get into the finals in the Keirin (picture roller derby on bicycles with one gear and no brakes), but he had a good time making trouble for other racers (that's not really the point, but it's a bonus if you're a real Keirin rider).
The big news is a bronze medal in the Under-23 age category for the Kilo, the race that he hates so much he "retires" from it every time he finishes one. It's a kilometer time trial as fast as you can go. It's a too-long sprint, too-short endurance race that's like the dreaded 400 for runners. And besides, since it's a time trial, there's nobody else on the track to push around. Despite all the downsides, he's good at it any way. Unless he's retired again.
Tomorrow is the sprints, another race that he is a natural in, even though he hasn't necessarily trained for it this year.
Stay tuned.
The big news is a bronze medal in the Under-23 age category for the Kilo, the race that he hates so much he "retires" from it every time he finishes one. It's a kilometer time trial as fast as you can go. It's a too-long sprint, too-short endurance race that's like the dreaded 400 for runners. And besides, since it's a time trial, there's nobody else on the track to push around. Despite all the downsides, he's good at it any way. Unless he's retired again.
Tomorrow is the sprints, another race that he is a natural in, even though he hasn't necessarily trained for it this year.
Stay tuned.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
My Dog Loves Me With One Exception
This is Annie after a bath. She hates, hates baths.
Over the last two years, Annie the Smooth Collie has gone from fearing everything and running away at the slimmest sliver of open-door freedom to a happy, tail-wagging, toy-loving goofball.
This is sometimes the process who have to go through when adopting a pet from a rescue group like the Humane Society. Since you can't see a dog's past, and she obviously can't tell you what she's been through, all you can see at first is potential, and all you can use to coaxe it out of her is patience and kindness.
Now Annie loves the whole family. She loves to sniff the boy smells from Drew and Dean (and any male visitor), rub her face and snort along the couch after a good meal, catch her toys unaware and give them a dramatic, if slow-motion shake (wouldn't want to wrench our neck muscles, now would we?), and prance after tennis balls in the back yard. She acts very much like a teenage modelling hopeful, always seeming to be aware of how she looks (with the exception of the occasional public satisfaction a private itch), fixing her hair with a shake, picking up her feet in a hackneyed Lipizzaner-Stallionesque prance when fetching toys, and giving boys a little backwards glance when offering her booty for a booty-scratch.
The only vestiges left of a difficult few early years are the complete absence of any licking behavior (obviously forbidden in a previous life) and some anxiety at mealtime (no happy wiggling or even drawing too near the dinner-preparer).
She also loves her morning walk, although she doesn't jump and wiggle about like normal dogs (also a possible leftover from unhappy days), but waits patiently for me to get ready with a look of desperation on her face, like she is afraid that, after taking her along for the last 800 walks, I am going to decide to leave her home this time. Once safely outside with leash and poop bags, she sniffs the dog messages left by earlier walkers, carefully chooses her own message-leaving spots, and leaves her messages as daintily as possible (even though the more solid messages get deposited in the poop bag every time), and hopes for the one walk in ten where someone will see her and admire her and pet her and let her smell them. Yes!
After her walk, I leave her at the house and take off for a run. I tried running with Annie but quickly realized that she does not understand the concept. Why run when you can walk? Why walk when you can sniff? Why sniff when you can lay in this patch of shady grass?
When I get back from the house, sweet Annie is gone and Freak Dog has taken her place. It seems because every 6 weeks or so I come home from running and give the dog a bath before bathing myself, now every time I come home from running is Danger Time. Annie fears baths more than mean cats and will do anything to avoid them.
I don't know what the big deal is. I use warm water, and the tub floor is nonslip so she has a good foothold, and the shampoo gets massaged into her coat like my hair dresser does to me then charges me for it. If she only knew the cold hose treatment that old Shelby used to endure after a bad case of intestinal upset that left his long Collie fur with too many poopy Klingons (cling-ons for you non-Trekkies) to be allowed inside, she would be grateful for the upgrade. Instead she freaks out.
Usually I can just let her outside and that way she feels safe from the bath monster. This morning, Drew was working on the house, prepping it for the big painting job, and had all the fence gates open, so outside was out. This makes her even more nervous, because she figures that that means its bath-time for sure and goes sprinting down the basement stairs. Whatever. A momentary freak-out once a day is better than the former continually freaked bundle of nerves that she used to be. I'll take that.
Over the last two years, Annie the Smooth Collie has gone from fearing everything and running away at the slimmest sliver of open-door freedom to a happy, tail-wagging, toy-loving goofball.This is sometimes the process who have to go through when adopting a pet from a rescue group like the Humane Society. Since you can't see a dog's past, and she obviously can't tell you what she's been through, all you can see at first is potential, and all you can use to coaxe it out of her is patience and kindness.
Now Annie loves the whole family. She loves to sniff the boy smells from Drew and Dean (and any male visitor), rub her face and snort along the couch after a good meal, catch her toys unaware and give them a dramatic, if slow-motion shake (wouldn't want to wrench our neck muscles, now would we?), and prance after tennis balls in the back yard. She acts very much like a teenage modelling hopeful, always seeming to be aware of how she looks (with the exception of the occasional public satisfaction a private itch), fixing her hair with a shake, picking up her feet in a hackneyed Lipizzaner-Stallionesque prance when fetching toys, and giving boys a little backwards glance when offering her booty for a booty-scratch.
The only vestiges left of a difficult few early years are the complete absence of any licking behavior (obviously forbidden in a previous life) and some anxiety at mealtime (no happy wiggling or even drawing too near the dinner-preparer).
She also loves her morning walk, although she doesn't jump and wiggle about like normal dogs (also a possible leftover from unhappy days), but waits patiently for me to get ready with a look of desperation on her face, like she is afraid that, after taking her along for the last 800 walks, I am going to decide to leave her home this time. Once safely outside with leash and poop bags, she sniffs the dog messages left by earlier walkers, carefully chooses her own message-leaving spots, and leaves her messages as daintily as possible (even though the more solid messages get deposited in the poop bag every time), and hopes for the one walk in ten where someone will see her and admire her and pet her and let her smell them. Yes!
After her walk, I leave her at the house and take off for a run. I tried running with Annie but quickly realized that she does not understand the concept. Why run when you can walk? Why walk when you can sniff? Why sniff when you can lay in this patch of shady grass?
When I get back from the house, sweet Annie is gone and Freak Dog has taken her place. It seems because every 6 weeks or so I come home from running and give the dog a bath before bathing myself, now every time I come home from running is Danger Time. Annie fears baths more than mean cats and will do anything to avoid them.
I don't know what the big deal is. I use warm water, and the tub floor is nonslip so she has a good foothold, and the shampoo gets massaged into her coat like my hair dresser does to me then charges me for it. If she only knew the cold hose treatment that old Shelby used to endure after a bad case of intestinal upset that left his long Collie fur with too many poopy Klingons (cling-ons for you non-Trekkies) to be allowed inside, she would be grateful for the upgrade. Instead she freaks out.
Usually I can just let her outside and that way she feels safe from the bath monster. This morning, Drew was working on the house, prepping it for the big painting job, and had all the fence gates open, so outside was out. This makes her even more nervous, because she figures that that means its bath-time for sure and goes sprinting down the basement stairs. Whatever. A momentary freak-out once a day is better than the former continually freaked bundle of nerves that she used to be. I'll take that.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Mean People Suck
Something about competition, and I don't necessarily mean competition for money or power, it could be competition for your name at the top of a list of grown men racing around in a circle on their bikes, but something about competition makes some people mean. It's kind of like giving alcohol to certain people who become mean drunks. Some people are mean competitors.
And one mean competitor can spoil the day for a hundred happy-go-lucky competitors. In fact, it can spoil more then a day, because a mean loser can simmer for days, and then lash out at relatively innocent bystanders.
Does this sound like you? Then knock it off.
Does it sound like someone you know? Then tell them to take up coin collecting.
Today's Band Names:
Rogue Lemming
Tansy Ragwort
And one mean competitor can spoil the day for a hundred happy-go-lucky competitors. In fact, it can spoil more then a day, because a mean loser can simmer for days, and then lash out at relatively innocent bystanders.
Does this sound like you? Then knock it off.
Does it sound like someone you know? Then tell them to take up coin collecting.
Today's Band Names:
Rogue Lemming
Tansy Ragwort
Monday, August 01, 2005
Don't Bother Reading This
Having kids is mighty rewarding, I'm sure. Otherwise, who would do it? It's too painful. And not just the first few hours.
Having kids is like doubling the amount of your own skin, only you have no control over how much of it gets scraped off; doubling the number of your bones, without the ability to keep them whole; doubling your own car on the road, without being able to keep the drunks and road ragers off of them, or even know where that other car is.
The worst part is seeing that skin get scraped off, seeing that heart get thumped, seeing those bones break, I can't even imagine the worse things and won't try.
The good parts are great, I just can't recall them right now, because I'm in one of those moods. I think I'm coming down with something. So best not to come too close. And you're excused from reading this downer.
So here's a joke instead, courtesy of the Car Talk guys:
Seems a guy (lets call him Drew) goes to see a new dentist. While he waits, he checks out the obligatory diplomas on the wall and notices that the dentist graduated college about 25 years ago, about the same time he did. And come to think of it, his name did sound familiar; in fact Drew went to high school with a guy with that same name. But once he meets the dentist, he realizes that this guy is way too old to be the same age - he is balding, has a gut, and look at the wrinkles in his face! But hey, just to be sure he asks the dentist where he went to school. The dentist says Vernonia High School. So Drew says, "I think you were in my class." So the dentist says, "Really? What class did you teach?"
Ha-ha! We feel better already!
Having kids is like doubling the amount of your own skin, only you have no control over how much of it gets scraped off; doubling the number of your bones, without the ability to keep them whole; doubling your own car on the road, without being able to keep the drunks and road ragers off of them, or even know where that other car is.
The worst part is seeing that skin get scraped off, seeing that heart get thumped, seeing those bones break, I can't even imagine the worse things and won't try.
The good parts are great, I just can't recall them right now, because I'm in one of those moods. I think I'm coming down with something. So best not to come too close. And you're excused from reading this downer.
So here's a joke instead, courtesy of the Car Talk guys:
Seems a guy (lets call him Drew) goes to see a new dentist. While he waits, he checks out the obligatory diplomas on the wall and notices that the dentist graduated college about 25 years ago, about the same time he did. And come to think of it, his name did sound familiar; in fact Drew went to high school with a guy with that same name. But once he meets the dentist, he realizes that this guy is way too old to be the same age - he is balding, has a gut, and look at the wrinkles in his face! But hey, just to be sure he asks the dentist where he went to school. The dentist says Vernonia High School. So Drew says, "I think you were in my class." So the dentist says, "Really? What class did you teach?"
Ha-ha! We feel better already!
Monday, July 25, 2005
It's Not Easy Being Me
As I was heading east on SR 500 today to visit my favorite Michael's store (damn you Michael's, and your cheap, easy framing materials, and outrageously expensive art materials!) and PetSmart (damn you, Annie, and your stinky poop that I have to pick up in little baggies!), I was thinking how much extra I must pay to be me.
I'm sure it doesn't hold a candle to the facials, manicures, Nordstrom shopping adventures, and elective surgery required for some persons, but it adds up, I suppose. Well, now, after that last sentence, it seems puny, and actually ruins my whole premise for a post, but I'll just keep going, like a dork, like nothing has happened...
For instance, the closest Michael's store is probably four miles away, right across the river at the Jantzen Beach humongo-mall. It's brand new, and since it is in big-box land, it's probably three times as big as the one I go to. And the bonus is that, since it is across the river, it is in the mythical tax-free land of Oregon, saving me about 8% of everything non-food that I buy.
The Michael's that I am required to go to is about ten miles away (add gas), on this side of the river (add 8% tax) and smallish (add, well, less selection?). But it's right next to the PetSmart that I'm required to go to, so there's that.
Required? Well, for all intents and purposes, yes. This is the shyness tax. Shy people tend to develop routines that feel comfortable to them.
Developing the routines themselves takes enough out of you, believe me. Taking that first adventure out into the unknown that is Vancouver is scary enough. Now that I know that there is a good chance that nothing terrible will happen to me if I go to the Michael's store off SR 500, I will keep going there until something terrible happens to me there. Then the ordeal begins anew. Believe me when I tell you that it is best, blood-pressure-wise, to avoid ordeals.
This same tax requires me to plan my gas tank fillings around my husband's and/or my son's schedules. If I am low on gas, I make sure that they need to use my car for something, and oh, would you mind filling it up while you're at it? No, they don't buy that line, but they are sweet enough to oblige my gas-filling-phobia. If I ever find myself with an empty gas tank and no support system, then I head for the river. Because in the mystical, tax-free land of Oregon, it is illegal (but not tax free - they're not idiots) to pump your own gas. Hence, at least some (although not all) of the anxiety is avoided.
Oh, yeah, and I paid a $74-a-month tax this last year by signing up for a gym membership and then deciding that it was just too icky to work out in front of other people. I'm not sure what the difference is between spending an hour on the elliptical machine with a bunch of strangers and spending an hour running by these same strangers' houses, but it's different. Plus, I am not required to stare at the Fox News Channel for an hour this way (I know that doesn't seem shyness related, but come on! Is it fair? I certainly can't ask them to turn the channel, now, can I?).
And don't forget, if it requires a phone call, I would rather pay the difference, whatever it is. So next time you pick up a phone, or a gas nozzle, thank yourself for being so fearless and stout-hearted. Because we're not all that lucky.
I'm sure it doesn't hold a candle to the facials, manicures, Nordstrom shopping adventures, and elective surgery required for some persons, but it adds up, I suppose. Well, now, after that last sentence, it seems puny, and actually ruins my whole premise for a post, but I'll just keep going, like a dork, like nothing has happened...
For instance, the closest Michael's store is probably four miles away, right across the river at the Jantzen Beach humongo-mall. It's brand new, and since it is in big-box land, it's probably three times as big as the one I go to. And the bonus is that, since it is across the river, it is in the mythical tax-free land of Oregon, saving me about 8% of everything non-food that I buy.
The Michael's that I am required to go to is about ten miles away (add gas), on this side of the river (add 8% tax) and smallish (add, well, less selection?). But it's right next to the PetSmart that I'm required to go to, so there's that.
Required? Well, for all intents and purposes, yes. This is the shyness tax. Shy people tend to develop routines that feel comfortable to them.
Developing the routines themselves takes enough out of you, believe me. Taking that first adventure out into the unknown that is Vancouver is scary enough. Now that I know that there is a good chance that nothing terrible will happen to me if I go to the Michael's store off SR 500, I will keep going there until something terrible happens to me there. Then the ordeal begins anew. Believe me when I tell you that it is best, blood-pressure-wise, to avoid ordeals.
This same tax requires me to plan my gas tank fillings around my husband's and/or my son's schedules. If I am low on gas, I make sure that they need to use my car for something, and oh, would you mind filling it up while you're at it? No, they don't buy that line, but they are sweet enough to oblige my gas-filling-phobia. If I ever find myself with an empty gas tank and no support system, then I head for the river. Because in the mystical, tax-free land of Oregon, it is illegal (but not tax free - they're not idiots) to pump your own gas. Hence, at least some (although not all) of the anxiety is avoided.
Oh, yeah, and I paid a $74-a-month tax this last year by signing up for a gym membership and then deciding that it was just too icky to work out in front of other people. I'm not sure what the difference is between spending an hour on the elliptical machine with a bunch of strangers and spending an hour running by these same strangers' houses, but it's different. Plus, I am not required to stare at the Fox News Channel for an hour this way (I know that doesn't seem shyness related, but come on! Is it fair? I certainly can't ask them to turn the channel, now, can I?).
And don't forget, if it requires a phone call, I would rather pay the difference, whatever it is. So next time you pick up a phone, or a gas nozzle, thank yourself for being so fearless and stout-hearted. Because we're not all that lucky.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
The Days of Life-As-We-Know-It Are Numbered
Dean is planning to move out in September at the start of the new fall term.Yay! Empty Nest! Party in the playroom! Clothing Optional! Line up for the Conga!
But...who will dance for me? Who will walk around the house on oak tree trunks for legs from all the bike racing and a waist measurement that Scarlet O'Hara would die for? (See sample picture of the tree trunks in a Red Cyclocross Riding Hood Get-up, Annie and the scariest thing I could think of to carve last Halloween. For enough cash, I will post the rest of the picture...)
Yet again, who will make the basement smell like dirty socks? Who will always, always, forget his towel in his room and "borrow" one of ours?
But who will hook me up with new sweet tunes from NY, NZ, PDX and LA? Who will climb up the garrett stairs to give me an honest (and always admiring) evaluation of my latest painting?
Then again, who will eat everything in the fridge before I can get home from work to cook it into dinner? Who will leave dishes in his room until they grow new civilizations?
But who will make the cat purr by whirling her, ceiling-fan-like, across the kitchen table? Who will make the dog so excited she forgets that she's the girl (if you get my drift), and, oh yeah, she's spayed?
Who will clutter up the garage with bikes, bike parts, and tools that he "forgot" to put away? And who can we get to pressure-wash and de-con his room so that we can re-colonize it?
But then who will make MST3K-like wisecracks during movie time? Who will give me a crazy smile and know that that will be enough to make me smile, if not guffaw (depending on the state of his hair and/or Goodwill-flavored outfit)?
And who will dance for me?
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Random Thoughts Part 4
This is going to have to be short, because I am in the middle of a painting, and my left brain is limping along on partial power, kind of like the Enterprise after a Klingon encounter that ended badly.
You know what bugs me? Since my newspaper refuses to carry my favorite comic strip, I have to read it online, and then I end up reading it in reverse order because I can't remember where I left off last time I had enough time to surf over there, and then all the serial jokes are completely dulled into near-unfunnyness (what is Agnes doing hanging by her swimsuit from the end of a diving board? How did that little scamp get out there? etc.) You try. http://www.comics.com/creators/agnes/index.html (Did you notice that this is a visual issue? Then extra points for you!) I will now try a verbal-issue entry:
You know what else bugs me? I love to read good books. I don't like to read bad books. But do you have any idea what the ratio of bad books to good books is out there? Me either, but I know it's high! So I end up wasting a lot of time reading bad books, hoping that it will turn out to be a good book before I get to the end. What? You say just quit reading it when you realize it is bad? Yes, but what if I just got a bad impression at first? What if the book is good and I'm just a bad reader? Besides, my mom always told me to finish what I start. I am getting better at putting a book down when I realize I am not enjoying myself, but it takes some getting used to. Especially for someone who ends up taking most of the blame for the book-completion failure.
Band names for today:
The Levi Leipheimer Experiment
Partial Power
The Floyd and Agnes Show
Tour de Frank
That's all I got.
You know what bugs me? Since my newspaper refuses to carry my favorite comic strip, I have to read it online, and then I end up reading it in reverse order because I can't remember where I left off last time I had enough time to surf over there, and then all the serial jokes are completely dulled into near-unfunnyness (what is Agnes doing hanging by her swimsuit from the end of a diving board? How did that little scamp get out there? etc.) You try. http://www.comics.com/creators/agnes/index.html (Did you notice that this is a visual issue? Then extra points for you!) I will now try a verbal-issue entry:
You know what else bugs me? I love to read good books. I don't like to read bad books. But do you have any idea what the ratio of bad books to good books is out there? Me either, but I know it's high! So I end up wasting a lot of time reading bad books, hoping that it will turn out to be a good book before I get to the end. What? You say just quit reading it when you realize it is bad? Yes, but what if I just got a bad impression at first? What if the book is good and I'm just a bad reader? Besides, my mom always told me to finish what I start. I am getting better at putting a book down when I realize I am not enjoying myself, but it takes some getting used to. Especially for someone who ends up taking most of the blame for the book-completion failure.
Band names for today:
The Levi Leipheimer Experiment
Partial Power
The Floyd and Agnes Show
Tour de Frank
That's all I got.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Coaching the Human Becoming
Have you heard of the new career opportunity for people who can't do, but can teach? It's called a life coach. For a fee, they will come to you (or even talk over the phone - some of them are that good) and tell you what you should do with your life.
I don't even know where to begin with this concept. Have we come to the point where we are so far removed from our friends and our family that we have to pay someone to tell us what we should do? Or has life become so complicated that our friends and/or family are useless in helping us make sense of our lives and careers? I mean, how much can Old Dad tell you about the future opportunities waiting in the field of semiconductor vacuuming? Maybe tomorrow they will invent a replacement for the semiconductor vacuum - maybe a semiconductor wet-vac - or maybe they will invent a replacement for the semiconductor. Maybe they already have and I'm just too hopelessly doinky to know yet.
I know somebody who could use some life coaching. I wish I could help him, but I have just recently figured out my own life. (I think. Ask me again next week.) For what it's worth, here's my career advice:
Oprah says follow your passion. This is very good advice. However, I must caution you that it's not enough to be passionately interested in something, or to passionately want something. You must passionately like all the crap it takes to get it. Some cases in point:
I majored in psychology in college, expecting to become the next Bob Newhart (does that date me? so be it). I was passionate about psychology. I still am. What the hell makes us tick? Why does the squishy grey goo in our heads make us write poems and limited liability company agreements, make fondue, pray to God, and wear polyester leisure suits? Yet for all the curiosity I have in my own head about psychology, I was not able to talk to strangers - especially disturbed strangers - about their problems. That is too scary for A Very Small Animal such as myself. The passion did not get me through the practice.
I spent the better part of two years in nursing school. I was passionate about nursing. I still am passionate about medicine for the same reason I was passionate about psychology. What make us go? Why do some peoples' pancreases just give up the ghost one day and say "f**k it, I'm done. Find another way to get insulin. I'm pooped"? Why does my heart just keep beating, when my leg muscles get so tired after a couple of hours? How does my thumb know to replace the thumb part I cut off with more thumb cells instead of eyeball cells? ...where was I? Oh yeah, nursing. Turns out that nurses have to attend to really sick and really, really grumpy people all day. And if they make a mistake, it's curtains for the patient and lawyerland for the nurse. It freaked me out and I changed my mind about nursing. The passion did not get me through the practice.
Now, I have a job that I like. No passion, but I like it and I'm good at it. What I'm passionate about is what I do between work days: painting. And I can use everything else I'm passionate about in my art. What turns up in my paintings is rather telling - animals I like, places I remember, people that inspire me: bears, bunnies, beaches, dogs, and Dean. This passion may not get me anywhere other than surrounded by a lot of pictures, but it doesn't matter, because I love doing it. It's challenging - horrifying when things go wrong and thrilling when things go right.
The fortunate few are the ones that have found a way to make a living from something they love to do. Like Drew. He comes home from the fire station every morning with a good story, and leaves every workday hoping to score a trifecta: fire, trauma and death (well, you can't be a fire fighter without a rather dark sense of humor, now, can you?). Of course, he gripes, but it's the griping of someone who cares about doing it right, and doing right. Lucky.
The key to passion is not the end result but the day-to-day fun of it. If you are reaching for something you are passionate about, but the road to your goal is filled with stuff that you cannot make yourself get out of bed to do, then you need to re-think your goal.
If, however, you are working towards a goal, whether glamorous and lucrative or totally not, and yet you would gladly spend your day this way anyway, whether you reach your goal or not, then you are on the right road.
And please remember this: You Get What You Pay For. I say this not as a consumer, but as someone who has benefited only from her own efforts. The more I work, the better the result. See? The more I pay out, the more I get in return. Be generous with your effort and your time - not just to others, but to yourself - and you will be repaid in kind.
There. That should do it. I believe I'm empty of life coaching advice. Unless the price is right. Call me for a quote.
I don't even know where to begin with this concept. Have we come to the point where we are so far removed from our friends and our family that we have to pay someone to tell us what we should do? Or has life become so complicated that our friends and/or family are useless in helping us make sense of our lives and careers? I mean, how much can Old Dad tell you about the future opportunities waiting in the field of semiconductor vacuuming? Maybe tomorrow they will invent a replacement for the semiconductor vacuum - maybe a semiconductor wet-vac - or maybe they will invent a replacement for the semiconductor. Maybe they already have and I'm just too hopelessly doinky to know yet.
I know somebody who could use some life coaching. I wish I could help him, but I have just recently figured out my own life. (I think. Ask me again next week.) For what it's worth, here's my career advice:
Oprah says follow your passion. This is very good advice. However, I must caution you that it's not enough to be passionately interested in something, or to passionately want something. You must passionately like all the crap it takes to get it. Some cases in point:
I majored in psychology in college, expecting to become the next Bob Newhart (does that date me? so be it). I was passionate about psychology. I still am. What the hell makes us tick? Why does the squishy grey goo in our heads make us write poems and limited liability company agreements, make fondue, pray to God, and wear polyester leisure suits? Yet for all the curiosity I have in my own head about psychology, I was not able to talk to strangers - especially disturbed strangers - about their problems. That is too scary for A Very Small Animal such as myself. The passion did not get me through the practice.
I spent the better part of two years in nursing school. I was passionate about nursing. I still am passionate about medicine for the same reason I was passionate about psychology. What make us go? Why do some peoples' pancreases just give up the ghost one day and say "f**k it, I'm done. Find another way to get insulin. I'm pooped"? Why does my heart just keep beating, when my leg muscles get so tired after a couple of hours? How does my thumb know to replace the thumb part I cut off with more thumb cells instead of eyeball cells? ...where was I? Oh yeah, nursing. Turns out that nurses have to attend to really sick and really, really grumpy people all day. And if they make a mistake, it's curtains for the patient and lawyerland for the nurse. It freaked me out and I changed my mind about nursing. The passion did not get me through the practice.
Now, I have a job that I like. No passion, but I like it and I'm good at it. What I'm passionate about is what I do between work days: painting. And I can use everything else I'm passionate about in my art. What turns up in my paintings is rather telling - animals I like, places I remember, people that inspire me: bears, bunnies, beaches, dogs, and Dean. This passion may not get me anywhere other than surrounded by a lot of pictures, but it doesn't matter, because I love doing it. It's challenging - horrifying when things go wrong and thrilling when things go right.
The fortunate few are the ones that have found a way to make a living from something they love to do. Like Drew. He comes home from the fire station every morning with a good story, and leaves every workday hoping to score a trifecta: fire, trauma and death (well, you can't be a fire fighter without a rather dark sense of humor, now, can you?). Of course, he gripes, but it's the griping of someone who cares about doing it right, and doing right. Lucky.
The key to passion is not the end result but the day-to-day fun of it. If you are reaching for something you are passionate about, but the road to your goal is filled with stuff that you cannot make yourself get out of bed to do, then you need to re-think your goal.
If, however, you are working towards a goal, whether glamorous and lucrative or totally not, and yet you would gladly spend your day this way anyway, whether you reach your goal or not, then you are on the right road.
And please remember this: You Get What You Pay For. I say this not as a consumer, but as someone who has benefited only from her own efforts. The more I work, the better the result. See? The more I pay out, the more I get in return. Be generous with your effort and your time - not just to others, but to yourself - and you will be repaid in kind.
There. That should do it. I believe I'm empty of life coaching advice. Unless the price is right. Call me for a quote.
Monday, June 27, 2005
I've changed. I hope I change back.
Seeing this black eye in the mirror makes me think of a panda bear, because it is shaped like a panda's black eye patch. Thinking of a panda bear makes me think of the Southpark episode in which the kids learn about sexual harrassment from Sexual Harrassment Panda. SHP had a catchy theme song which was meant to be so bad, it's funny, and it pretty much hits that mark head on. Unfortunately, it is now pretty much on a continuous loop inside my head.
Maybe it's thinking Southpark thoughts so much, maybe it's just me (okay, it's probably just me), but this black eye thing has also made me consider seriously for the first time in my life going to one of those Glamour Shots-type photo studios where they doll you up in big hair, heavy make-up, and red carpet-type clothes and take mantel-worthy photographs designed to make every woman look like a trailer park hotty. However, I want to go now, while at my most colorful, eyewise, and tell them to do my hair, throw all the pearls and feather boas they got at me, but don't touch the face. Let the rainbow beauty of my black eye show through. Wouldn't that be awesome?
That's what I was thinking.
Maybe it's thinking Southpark thoughts so much, maybe it's just me (okay, it's probably just me), but this black eye thing has also made me consider seriously for the first time in my life going to one of those Glamour Shots-type photo studios where they doll you up in big hair, heavy make-up, and red carpet-type clothes and take mantel-worthy photographs designed to make every woman look like a trailer park hotty. However, I want to go now, while at my most colorful, eyewise, and tell them to do my hair, throw all the pearls and feather boas they got at me, but don't touch the face. Let the rainbow beauty of my black eye show through. Wouldn't that be awesome?
That's what I was thinking.
Friday, June 24, 2005
A quote from Liam McEneaney's blog that you must read
RE: white suburban kids grooving to Public Enemy: "Fight the Power! After the Power gives me my allowance!"
My Doctor Gave Me a Black Eye
I'm really not that bad of a patient. I may ask too many questions in the 30 seconds allotted, or sit cross-legged on the exam bed, but I am careful not to tell them that their hair looks silly that way, or that I hope that's not somebody else's bodily fluids on their smock.
Nevertheless, I came out of my doctor's office on Wednesday with a beaut of a shiner developing under my left eye. Now, two days later, the swelling is subsiding, but the colors are just beginning to get interesting. It travels from the outside of my left upper cheek, tiptoes around the two stitches there, and spreads itself liberally over my lower eye-bag area using a palette of yellow, indigo and red, and ends in a purple exclamation point in the corner of my eye.
It started as all my visits to the dermatologist start - with the doctor zeroing in on some bitty mole or another and pronouncing it too suspicious to allow any further leisure time on my body, and calling for the mole removal tools to be brought from the dungeon designed just for such purposes.
It's been like this since, in a surprise case of beauty mark-turns-evil, my family doctor removed a mole on my arm (what - you don't have beauty marks on your arms?) that turned out to be deadly melanoma disguised as a friendly mole. This was when I was eighteen, and ever since, it's been, "Oh, no, doctor, I haven't been out in the sun without sunscreen. Why, with my history, that would be foolish. What, these freckles? I had these already. Yeah." And every time I go to the dermatologist for a melanoma safari, they find something to remove. I've had so many moles removed, I've lost count. Some have left scars, some haven't. I just assume that dermatologists are like zombies, only they prefer to dine on skin rather than brains. I go in every year and donate skin, like some people give blood. I guess it's for a good cause. I'd hate all the dermatologists to perish from hunger.
But I digress.
The tiny, yet suspiciously self-satisfied-looking mole on my face right where a beauty mark should be - right under the left eye, Marilyn-style - attracted her attention from the start. Yes, it was tiny, and if, in somebody's cruel mind, they may be correlating the tiny-ness of the beauty mark with the tiny-ness of the beauty in the face in question, then they would be breaking the rules of fear-the-telephone land and would be banished, and then we can continue our conversation in peace.
The tiny, yet suspiciously self-blah, blah, blah, anyway, she put that Worried Dermatologist look on her face and told me that I had two choices, either she could take it out now and get it biopsied while it was small and would leave a teeny-weeny scar, or we could wait and watch it grow, and then whack it off later when she would need a ladder, a chain saw and some staples for after.
Since she put it that way, I chose option one. Now the punchline: turns out that it wasn't an evil mole after all, but a blood vessel posing as a mole! Ha, ha! Those crazy blood vessels! As soon as she drilled into my face, it was like she hit a gusher, and then it was like, "you don't have any bleeding disorders or clotting difficulties, do you?" Well, I thought, isn't it a little late to be asking? And how clod-brained would I be if, I knew I had a bleeding problem, not to say something up front when you started talking about mole-drilling?
Yep, turns out no bleeding problem, just a broken main problem. It takes longer to clot when you hit the mother lode. I get my stitches out on Tuesday. Although it's felt a little, oh, uncomfortably conspicuous, walking around with a huge, galloping black eye, I kind of hope it's still rainbow-colored on Tuesday, just so she feels a little twinge of guilt. I'm assuming dermatologists have guilt. I don't know for sure.
Nevertheless, I came out of my doctor's office on Wednesday with a beaut of a shiner developing under my left eye. Now, two days later, the swelling is subsiding, but the colors are just beginning to get interesting. It travels from the outside of my left upper cheek, tiptoes around the two stitches there, and spreads itself liberally over my lower eye-bag area using a palette of yellow, indigo and red, and ends in a purple exclamation point in the corner of my eye.
It started as all my visits to the dermatologist start - with the doctor zeroing in on some bitty mole or another and pronouncing it too suspicious to allow any further leisure time on my body, and calling for the mole removal tools to be brought from the dungeon designed just for such purposes.
It's been like this since, in a surprise case of beauty mark-turns-evil, my family doctor removed a mole on my arm (what - you don't have beauty marks on your arms?) that turned out to be deadly melanoma disguised as a friendly mole. This was when I was eighteen, and ever since, it's been, "Oh, no, doctor, I haven't been out in the sun without sunscreen. Why, with my history, that would be foolish. What, these freckles? I had these already. Yeah." And every time I go to the dermatologist for a melanoma safari, they find something to remove. I've had so many moles removed, I've lost count. Some have left scars, some haven't. I just assume that dermatologists are like zombies, only they prefer to dine on skin rather than brains. I go in every year and donate skin, like some people give blood. I guess it's for a good cause. I'd hate all the dermatologists to perish from hunger.
But I digress.
The tiny, yet suspiciously self-satisfied-looking mole on my face right where a beauty mark should be - right under the left eye, Marilyn-style - attracted her attention from the start. Yes, it was tiny, and if, in somebody's cruel mind, they may be correlating the tiny-ness of the beauty mark with the tiny-ness of the beauty in the face in question, then they would be breaking the rules of fear-the-telephone land and would be banished, and then we can continue our conversation in peace.
The tiny, yet suspiciously self-blah, blah, blah, anyway, she put that Worried Dermatologist look on her face and told me that I had two choices, either she could take it out now and get it biopsied while it was small and would leave a teeny-weeny scar, or we could wait and watch it grow, and then whack it off later when she would need a ladder, a chain saw and some staples for after.
Since she put it that way, I chose option one. Now the punchline: turns out that it wasn't an evil mole after all, but a blood vessel posing as a mole! Ha, ha! Those crazy blood vessels! As soon as she drilled into my face, it was like she hit a gusher, and then it was like, "you don't have any bleeding disorders or clotting difficulties, do you?" Well, I thought, isn't it a little late to be asking? And how clod-brained would I be if, I knew I had a bleeding problem, not to say something up front when you started talking about mole-drilling?
Yep, turns out no bleeding problem, just a broken main problem. It takes longer to clot when you hit the mother lode. I get my stitches out on Tuesday. Although it's felt a little, oh, uncomfortably conspicuous, walking around with a huge, galloping black eye, I kind of hope it's still rainbow-colored on Tuesday, just so she feels a little twinge of guilt. I'm assuming dermatologists have guilt. I don't know for sure.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Madison racing explained
I am a casual observer - no, casual is the wrong word, as when I am observing, I am usually white-knuckled and twisted stomached - let's say novice observer of velodrome cycling.
What you need to know about velodrome cycling is that it should be bigger than the NBA. It's way more exciting, has more crashes than Nascar, has the same wicked rivalries as professional wrestling, has better bodies than baseball (better everything than baseball), and is faster than crap. It's kind of like roller derby, but with bikes with one speed and no brakes, on a track with banked sides that a bike cannot stay upright on unless in motion.
I have become familiar with velodrome cycling, not by the usual means, which, I guess, would be watching the thirty seconds of coverage lovingly allotted it every four years by the wizards of Olympics television broadcasting, but through the actions of my son, who, as a bicycle racer, found himself more comfortable on the velodrome track than on roads (which tend to point up at uncomfortable angles much too often, and require one to climb up them, something he does not enjoy - no Lance Armstrong, he).
Crashes are spectacular on the track (let's quit calling it a velodrome now - it's hard to type and seems rather starchy, considering that everyone involved with the sport says "track" unless speaking to the uninformed). Racers are invariably going way fast, and crashes invariably happen on the steepest point of the bank, which allows for not only the crash, but the fall off the embankment, and the swerving and crashing of those behind the crashee. Even simple mechanical failures can be spectacular, as there are no brakes in which to stop a berserk bike. You can only hope for a skilled rider, who can take it in for a soft landing in the infield grass. When mechanical failures aren't spectacularly crashy, they are spectacular in some form or other - take the time I saw the enormous, Thor-like power of a sprinter's thighs snap the seat post and seat off his bike in the middle of a sprint race - and finish the race! That's skill for you. Mixed with a little fear of sitting down onto the splintered carbon fiber remains of a seat post with sensitive anatomy parts.
Now that I've set the scene, imagine that these crash-prone kamikaze types invent a form of tag-team racing in which one member of the team is actively racing while one member is taking it easy for a few laps and catching his/her breath. Then after a few laps, he positions himself right in the middle of the thunderous racing herd with one hand placed casually on his back. His team member then grabs this hand and uses the kinetic energy he has gained by racing like a demon with Tourette's Syndrome to fling the rested racer into the race in his place. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Not just with this one team, but with all the other teams (ten is a good number) on the track. There's racing. There's flinging. There's racers slowing down, there's racer being launched. All together. It's chaos. But this is where the angels come in: usually nobody dies. It is truly a sight you must not leave the earth without experiencing.
This is the Madison. It is named after Madison Square Garden, where it was conceived, long ago when track racing in America was as big and popular as the Garden. It's hard to imagine that a sport once so beloved could fall practically into oblivion. It's especially amazing that it has happened to this sport. It's everything Americans love: speed, cutthroat tactics, crashing, thus bloodshed, and drama. What's not to love? Europeans love it - they call it The American Race, since it was born here. And here in its birthplace, it is practically disowned. Criminal.
Here in the Portland area, the racers use a track that exists only by the grace of an amazing local dairy that lends out its suburban acres as a park for the community. There are baseball fields, a bmx track, picnic tables and lots of other stuff. It's a bit of community philanthropy that you just don't see much of anymore. Oh, I'm sure it helps ice cream sales, but who else would devote 57 acres of prime suburban hill space to fun? Here's to Alpenrose Dairy. If you want to see the track where Portlanders come to try not to crash, go here: http://www.alpenrose.com/velo.htm
There's a new track in LA. There's one in San Diego and one in the Bay Area. There's one in Redmond, north of Seattle, (it's kind of big, so there's not much bank to it - takes some of the yikes out of it). There's the big daddy in Trexlertown, PA. If there is one near you, check it out. The athletes are either unpaid or underpaid, so you won't have to pay much to get in (if anything), and they won't make you feel like a peon (like ____ fill in your least favorite professional athlete here). You won't be disappointed and you won't be bored.
And if you see my son there, pray for him. I have a feeling his angel is overworked.
What you need to know about velodrome cycling is that it should be bigger than the NBA. It's way more exciting, has more crashes than Nascar, has the same wicked rivalries as professional wrestling, has better bodies than baseball (better everything than baseball), and is faster than crap. It's kind of like roller derby, but with bikes with one speed and no brakes, on a track with banked sides that a bike cannot stay upright on unless in motion.
I have become familiar with velodrome cycling, not by the usual means, which, I guess, would be watching the thirty seconds of coverage lovingly allotted it every four years by the wizards of Olympics television broadcasting, but through the actions of my son, who, as a bicycle racer, found himself more comfortable on the velodrome track than on roads (which tend to point up at uncomfortable angles much too often, and require one to climb up them, something he does not enjoy - no Lance Armstrong, he).
Crashes are spectacular on the track (let's quit calling it a velodrome now - it's hard to type and seems rather starchy, considering that everyone involved with the sport says "track" unless speaking to the uninformed). Racers are invariably going way fast, and crashes invariably happen on the steepest point of the bank, which allows for not only the crash, but the fall off the embankment, and the swerving and crashing of those behind the crashee. Even simple mechanical failures can be spectacular, as there are no brakes in which to stop a berserk bike. You can only hope for a skilled rider, who can take it in for a soft landing in the infield grass. When mechanical failures aren't spectacularly crashy, they are spectacular in some form or other - take the time I saw the enormous, Thor-like power of a sprinter's thighs snap the seat post and seat off his bike in the middle of a sprint race - and finish the race! That's skill for you. Mixed with a little fear of sitting down onto the splintered carbon fiber remains of a seat post with sensitive anatomy parts.
Now that I've set the scene, imagine that these crash-prone kamikaze types invent a form of tag-team racing in which one member of the team is actively racing while one member is taking it easy for a few laps and catching his/her breath. Then after a few laps, he positions himself right in the middle of the thunderous racing herd with one hand placed casually on his back. His team member then grabs this hand and uses the kinetic energy he has gained by racing like a demon with Tourette's Syndrome to fling the rested racer into the race in his place. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Not just with this one team, but with all the other teams (ten is a good number) on the track. There's racing. There's flinging. There's racers slowing down, there's racer being launched. All together. It's chaos. But this is where the angels come in: usually nobody dies. It is truly a sight you must not leave the earth without experiencing.
This is the Madison. It is named after Madison Square Garden, where it was conceived, long ago when track racing in America was as big and popular as the Garden. It's hard to imagine that a sport once so beloved could fall practically into oblivion. It's especially amazing that it has happened to this sport. It's everything Americans love: speed, cutthroat tactics, crashing, thus bloodshed, and drama. What's not to love? Europeans love it - they call it The American Race, since it was born here. And here in its birthplace, it is practically disowned. Criminal.
Here in the Portland area, the racers use a track that exists only by the grace of an amazing local dairy that lends out its suburban acres as a park for the community. There are baseball fields, a bmx track, picnic tables and lots of other stuff. It's a bit of community philanthropy that you just don't see much of anymore. Oh, I'm sure it helps ice cream sales, but who else would devote 57 acres of prime suburban hill space to fun? Here's to Alpenrose Dairy. If you want to see the track where Portlanders come to try not to crash, go here: http://www.alpenrose.com/velo.htm
There's a new track in LA. There's one in San Diego and one in the Bay Area. There's one in Redmond, north of Seattle, (it's kind of big, so there's not much bank to it - takes some of the yikes out of it). There's the big daddy in Trexlertown, PA. If there is one near you, check it out. The athletes are either unpaid or underpaid, so you won't have to pay much to get in (if anything), and they won't make you feel like a peon (like ____ fill in your least favorite professional athlete here). You won't be disappointed and you won't be bored.
And if you see my son there, pray for him. I have a feeling his angel is overworked.
Friday, June 10, 2005
The start of something mediocre
I am in a computer training class today. Since training classes go at the rate of the slowest learner in the class, I am left with some extra time. At one point, during the class, we were asked to write a sentence about Simone, who we learned was a very hairy cat. This is what I've written as of 10:50. This might be all I'll ever write about this particular subject. It might not.
Simone was a very hairy cat. She was so hairy we had to vacuum at least every two hours, sometimes more often in the spring. Once, we vacuumed too close to Larry the Chihuahua and lost him in the vacuum bag. When we pulled him out, he was covered with so much cat hair that he looked like a small, unkempt version of Simone. We call him Simonette for the rest of the day, which really pissed him off.
Now, a fancy business letter for your sales use:
Harvey Spongehelmet
Supah Cool Industries
100 Main St.
Vancouver, WA 98660
Dear Harvey,
We are letting you in on the beginning of a new era in widgets! We are jumping up and down with excitement and guzzling champagne as we announce the premiere of our new, improved widget! This new widget will revolutionize the way you order, produce and sell your product, live your life, and communicate with your dog.
Our new, patented Purple Widget will increase your production efficiency by 120%, help you lose weight, and give your customers a new way to view your product – through a relaxing, purple haze.
And now, for the best part! If you order today, we are ready to give you a special, one-time only, 15% discount on your first order over 100 units. Hurry, Harvey, because this offer is only good for 30 days from the date of this offer.
We believe that this product is so superior that you will want to start with twice your normal unit order, as your sales will inevitably skyrocket as a result of the Purple Widget.
Please call us today to place your order.
Simone was a very hairy cat. She was so hairy we had to vacuum at least every two hours, sometimes more often in the spring. Once, we vacuumed too close to Larry the Chihuahua and lost him in the vacuum bag. When we pulled him out, he was covered with so much cat hair that he looked like a small, unkempt version of Simone. We call him Simonette for the rest of the day, which really pissed him off.
Now, a fancy business letter for your sales use:
Harvey Spongehelmet
Supah Cool Industries
100 Main St.
Vancouver, WA 98660
Dear Harvey,
We are letting you in on the beginning of a new era in widgets! We are jumping up and down with excitement and guzzling champagne as we announce the premiere of our new, improved widget! This new widget will revolutionize the way you order, produce and sell your product, live your life, and communicate with your dog.
Our new, patented Purple Widget will increase your production efficiency by 120%, help you lose weight, and give your customers a new way to view your product – through a relaxing, purple haze.
And now, for the best part! If you order today, we are ready to give you a special, one-time only, 15% discount on your first order over 100 units. Hurry, Harvey, because this offer is only good for 30 days from the date of this offer.
We believe that this product is so superior that you will want to start with twice your normal unit order, as your sales will inevitably skyrocket as a result of the Purple Widget.
Please call us today to place your order.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Animal Planet Owes Me $330. So Far.
I've tried to explain, or understand, my attachment to Animal Planet's series of shows about righteous cop-types saving starving, abused pets from bad guys, nurturing them back to heath and finding them new, loving, non-abusive homes so that they may live happily ever after, such as "Animal Precinct," filmed in New York and "Animal Cops," filmed in the wrecked streets of Detroit. (Detroit is my favorite, for the mangled cop-ese that the Detroit "Cops" use in describing their actions for the camera - lots of "I ascertained this," and "the perpetrator that," plus its fun to guess what the awesomely laid-back, corn-rowed dude is really thinking. He is deliciously inscrutable.)
I don't know why, I just find myself tuning it in, especially if there is no one else around to give me a hard time about it. I like watching a dog come in who is obviously down to his last calorie, ribs all showing, backbone sticking out, and then seeing him later - sometimes no more than a couple weeks later, all fattened up and shiny-eyed and frisky. The thing that really pisses me off about those poor little starving ones is that when they pick up the "perp" to take him or her down to book 'em at the station, they are always fat. Doesn't that just piss you off? It does me.
On the animal cop shows, they are always booking people for failing to get their dog or cat or iguana the veterinary care that they require. Dogs are running around with big open sores on their leg, or big ol' tumors hanging off them, or so much matted hair that it's hard to tell where the face is, or cats are going blind from poor nutrition. They was always gonna. Or their vet told them that Blacky's just fine with that tumor hanging off her. It don't hurt her none.
Now all that booking of negligent pet owners has cost me big time, and I want Animal Planet to reimburse me in full. I've become so paranoid about the animal police showing up at my house that I've taken my cat to the vet so that he can tell me that she stubbed her toe on something (cha-ching: $90), and now I've taken my dog to the vet for full hip x-rays, just to find out that she is a lazy-ass (cha-ching: $240). At least her teeth are clean now, since I had them throw that in while she was out (yes, they have to knock her out for x-rays).
I was so sure that she was suffering from the same arthritis and hip dysplasia that our last collie had (and suffered in manly silence, I might add, except for an"oy vay" groan when lying down for the night). She was really slowing down when I took her for walks, and on some longer walks, she would sometimes just find a nice grassy spot and lay down, and look at me like, "well, you can join me if you wish." You can imagine that this made me wonder if everything was okay. She seemed to be acting like a 12-year-old in a 5-year-old body. $240 later, my vet tells me her hips look great, and there's probably nothing wrong that a little Doggy Slim Fast wouldn't cure (which she took offense to, naturally).
The next time I took her for a long walk, she decided to veer off into a nice patch of grass and take a snooze, leash and owner in running shoes still attached. But this time, the Animal Cops were off my back - I had the veterinarian's receipt in my wallet as proof. I told her to get the hell up and walk. So she did. No back talk. Turns out she just thought she had the right to plop down when she saw an inviting patch of grass. Turns out I just had to let her know that she didn't.
Was it worth $240 to find this out? I guess it had to cost $240 to be able to tell her to get the hell up without feeling like an abuser of a hip-dysplasia-broken-down dog. It's not me, it's her. She's the abuser here! And I have the receipt to prove it! So get off my back, Animal Planet, and give me my money back!
I don't know why, I just find myself tuning it in, especially if there is no one else around to give me a hard time about it. I like watching a dog come in who is obviously down to his last calorie, ribs all showing, backbone sticking out, and then seeing him later - sometimes no more than a couple weeks later, all fattened up and shiny-eyed and frisky. The thing that really pisses me off about those poor little starving ones is that when they pick up the "perp" to take him or her down to book 'em at the station, they are always fat. Doesn't that just piss you off? It does me.
On the animal cop shows, they are always booking people for failing to get their dog or cat or iguana the veterinary care that they require. Dogs are running around with big open sores on their leg, or big ol' tumors hanging off them, or so much matted hair that it's hard to tell where the face is, or cats are going blind from poor nutrition. They was always gonna. Or their vet told them that Blacky's just fine with that tumor hanging off her. It don't hurt her none.
Now all that booking of negligent pet owners has cost me big time, and I want Animal Planet to reimburse me in full. I've become so paranoid about the animal police showing up at my house that I've taken my cat to the vet so that he can tell me that she stubbed her toe on something (cha-ching: $90), and now I've taken my dog to the vet for full hip x-rays, just to find out that she is a lazy-ass (cha-ching: $240). At least her teeth are clean now, since I had them throw that in while she was out (yes, they have to knock her out for x-rays).
I was so sure that she was suffering from the same arthritis and hip dysplasia that our last collie had (and suffered in manly silence, I might add, except for an"oy vay" groan when lying down for the night). She was really slowing down when I took her for walks, and on some longer walks, she would sometimes just find a nice grassy spot and lay down, and look at me like, "well, you can join me if you wish." You can imagine that this made me wonder if everything was okay. She seemed to be acting like a 12-year-old in a 5-year-old body. $240 later, my vet tells me her hips look great, and there's probably nothing wrong that a little Doggy Slim Fast wouldn't cure (which she took offense to, naturally).
The next time I took her for a long walk, she decided to veer off into a nice patch of grass and take a snooze, leash and owner in running shoes still attached. But this time, the Animal Cops were off my back - I had the veterinarian's receipt in my wallet as proof. I told her to get the hell up and walk. So she did. No back talk. Turns out she just thought she had the right to plop down when she saw an inviting patch of grass. Turns out I just had to let her know that she didn't.
Was it worth $240 to find this out? I guess it had to cost $240 to be able to tell her to get the hell up without feeling like an abuser of a hip-dysplasia-broken-down dog. It's not me, it's her. She's the abuser here! And I have the receipt to prove it! So get off my back, Animal Planet, and give me my money back!
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Random Thoughts Part 3
Good names for rock bands:
Meat Bowling Club
Future Nostalgia
I dare you to name your band Supah Cool.
Bad names for rock bands:
Future Has Beens
The Trouble with Janice
Smart Guys with Glasses
The Bloggers
The name of the protagonist in my upcoming novel:
Orin "Orange" Dunlap (this stuff is copyrighted, right?)
My new favorite quote from a cartoon:
"This is the current world of the forever now!" (Agnes)
My favorite silly motel name:
The Alpine Chalets (At Otter Rock, Oregon, on the beach, virtually at sea level) - okay, they are pointy A-frames, but still, as far away from alpine as you can possibly get. I love to stay there. They have kitchens and lofts for the kids, and I can bring my dog. And it's fun to say, "Let's go to the beach and stay at the Alpine Chalets!"
Favorite recent newspaper headline:
"In Life and Death, the Gribbles Gather" This headline appeared in the Oregonian on May 31, 2005, over a story about a family that has their own cemetery.
And sorry about those haikus.
Meat Bowling Club
Future Nostalgia
I dare you to name your band Supah Cool.
Bad names for rock bands:
Future Has Beens
The Trouble with Janice
Smart Guys with Glasses
The Bloggers
The name of the protagonist in my upcoming novel:
Orin "Orange" Dunlap (this stuff is copyrighted, right?)
My new favorite quote from a cartoon:
"This is the current world of the forever now!" (Agnes)
My favorite silly motel name:
The Alpine Chalets (At Otter Rock, Oregon, on the beach, virtually at sea level) - okay, they are pointy A-frames, but still, as far away from alpine as you can possibly get. I love to stay there. They have kitchens and lofts for the kids, and I can bring my dog. And it's fun to say, "Let's go to the beach and stay at the Alpine Chalets!"
Favorite recent newspaper headline:
"In Life and Death, the Gribbles Gather" This headline appeared in the Oregonian on May 31, 2005, over a story about a family that has their own cemetery.
And sorry about those haikus.
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