The future is unclear.

So, Blogger is discontinuing my preferred method of blog publishing. What this means for this journal, I'm not sure. I might switch blog software, or I might scrap the whole website altogether. I mean, I barely write here anymore -- and though I have a new project about to launch, I'm still not sure how or where I will put it on the web.

In short, my web future is unwritten. The only thing I'm sure of is how angry I am with Blogger. That's pretty much it.

Anyway, I won't leave the four of you reading this hanging. I'll figure something out by the end of the week and post accordingly.

Happy Monday. And so forth. Carry on...

My haircut broke a record.

Or rather, assisted in the breaking of a Guinness World Record. I was number 213 of 349 haircuts -- and it was actually a really nice cut. And fun, too.

Narrative required.

I have to make up a story for everything, it seems.

For instance, my partner and I drove by the house on Woodhead with the dancing bear topiaries the other night. The bears are usually decorated for whatever holiday is current: Bunny ears for Easter, flags for July 4th, masks and pumpkins for Halloween, and so on. But the bears are currently bare, and I remarked to Lennox that I hoped the kids weren't getting too old for it. I said I would miss the decorations -- and that I really looked forward to them each holiday.

Lennox agreed, but just shook his head as I went on to re-enact an imagined conversation between the mom and the two kids (who appear to be gradeschool aged, as I have seen them in the yard). My performance included the phrases "Seriously lame" and "Do you know how hard it is to be the kid from the 'Bear House,' Mom? The 'Bear House'? This is Montrose, Mom, do you know what a 'bear' is?"

So, you know. I require narrative. And where it is absent, I create it -- from shrubberies, when necessary.

Choose your own "Blade Runner" adventure.

I recently had a hankering to watch "Blade Runner" again. I always liked it, being a PKD fan and all, but I was never quite so, um, obsessed with it as people tend to be.

The problem is that whenever I want to re-watch it, I become paralyzed by the choices. Do I watch the original director's cut? The working print cut? The all-new-super-fabuloso cut? There are like seven versions of that movie, and I never know which one to choose. (Are they all even available to choose from?)

I tried to find some sort of online "choose my 'Blade Runner' adventure" website, where you could click yes or no on things like "Unicorn dream sequence?" or "Shitty opening narration?" and then it would just tell you which version to watch. Someone should go out there and create that page, just as a public service. Seriously.

Still, I guess the ultimate choice would be to eschew the movie altogether and read Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep again.

Maybe I'll just do that.

My desk, my oasis.

I have two part-time office jobs, and one of the issues I have to deal with is shared and/or inadequate work space. "Artistic temperament" aside, I am actually an organized worker -- and I adhere to some pretty minimalist standards for my workspace.

For instance, here is my desk at Job #1.
I took this photo right when I walked in the door on a Monday morning. The desk is clear and ready for work. Everything to the right of the pencil sharpener is my space.

Here's a closer look.
See how tidy everything is? Adding machine, stapler, tape, tissues, calendar, weird albino rat under the monitor. (There's also a stained glass heart hanging under the window -- it's not an inhuman workspace. I have tchotchkes.) I stopped using a pen cup years ago, because people tend to view these as public property and will take your writing utensils at whim. I keep my supplies in a drawer: one mechanical pencil, one black pen, one red pen, one click eraser, one Sharpie, and one highlighter. I absolutely don't need anything else. There are also binder clips and paper clips in my drawer, along with a legal pad and a single square of sticky notes. The second drawer is for work in progress, and the third drawer is where I keep my backpack.

Everything has a place, it's easy to access, and there's nothing extra I don't use. It's pretty close to perfect. I admit that the paper storage issue is a non-issue here -- the office is paperless, and the only paper I deal with is either scanned and shredded or returned to clients.

I have had trouble with temps using the desk during tax season, though -- but only because the desk was so reliably neat they thought no one actually used it.

So, you know, you might think that my inherent anal qualities might object to the mismatched furniture, or something like that. I don't really care about that in this case. So what's the issue?

Well, here is the other side of the room.
See that tiny bit of grey countertop to the right by the chair? That's the end of my desk.

I used to share this space with another employee. Here's where her desk used to be.
Chaos. I work in chaos. I think my intense neatness is partially a response to work environments just like this -- because this is not the messiest place I've worked. It's not even the messiest place where I currently work. I cannot post pictures of that workspace, because it sort of makes me want to cry.

And there's a little window into my workday for you...

Eavesdropping is fun.

We went out to breakfast Saturday, where we overheard two young brothers arguing as we were being seated.

As we passed their table, the younger one said, "Hey, that guy has a mustache." (Sort of random.)

"SO? I have a mustache," said his brother, who was maybe 9. (Defiant.)

"No, you don't." (Utter dismissal.)

"Well, I have the shadow of a mustache." (Very matter of fact.)

That prompted a snort and the sarcastic retort: "See ya later, SCIENTIST."

Now, I have no idea what part of their previous conversation explained both the vitriol behind "scientist" and its connection to mustaches, but it was said with such snide fervor that I have been thinking about it ever since.

In fact, I almost said "See ya later, scientist!" to the cat as I left this morning. But she probably would have bitten me, so I refrained.

Twitter, twitter, tweet, tweet.

I am starting to love Twitter in the same way that I love haiku and other counted syllable poetic forms.

It makes me pare down my message to 140 characters. I must be succinct, pithy, and entertaining...all the while conveying what I originally intended to say. Challenging, but great fun.

So, feel free to check my Twitter page, and follow me if you are so inclined. It is far more entertaining that this blog, I assure you.

And pithier.

Hugh let the dogs out.

I have been going to bed early since I got so sick in December, and though I have been getting much better the early-to-bed (and its early-to-rise sidekick) have stuck with me.

Suffice to say that I am not normally up before 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning.

Since I was up early, I decided to catch up on my e-mail. My desk at home is right by a window with a good view of the sidewalk across the street, and I am used to seeing a good number of dog walkers.

I am not, however, used to seeing so many dog walkers dressed in pajamas.

I don't mean lounge wear, or super casual knit wear. I mean pajamas. Actual pajamas. (And in one case, fuzzy slippers.)

But the icing on the cake was the Hugh Hefner look-alike in red silk patterned pajamas topped with a burgundy velour robe. He looked like he was ready for a romp at the Playboy mansion, not just up for trotting two energetic puppies around the block.

Crazy!

Tubeneck, revisited.

Recovering from the flu, yo. Dude, I am seriously going to die in the next flu pandemic. Normal respiratory illness almost does me in, let alone a contagion of truly heinous power. I think I'll go stencil a t-shirt to say "Future Captain Trips Victim."

I have a project cookin' up for the new year, just a little something to keep my mind off the doom.

It should debut on the first, so see you then...

Three points on a Myers-Briggs test be damned.

I share one of my offices with another employee (an employee of another company, oddly enough -- don't ask), but she's out of town this week. She did, however, leave behind a jar of store brand peanut butter poised proudly on a dais-like postal scale. It looks so regal there, this humble jar of low-cost protein, standing tall against all financial odds as if to say: "LO! I have come to rescue you from high-cost low-calorie nourishment!"

Except, you know, it can't rescue me. When I eat peanut butter, I get cold sores.

There's no one right answer to any question, not even dwindling grocery budgets.

Another example: Just recently I restrained myself from getting into an argument online. I'm part of a quasi-environmental discussion group (that meets online and off), and one of the members posted an article with a childfree stance. I mentioned that I had read a piece recently that industrial countries with lower than replacement rate birth rates have succeeded in making children an unacceptable burden, and how I thought that we were heading the same way. I used my own life (citing mainly financial reasons) to illustrate my point -- though I was honest about not wanting children in the first place. Another member (who never posts) immediately responded with a vehement pro-breeding post, going through my hypothetical list point by point to rebut them.

Except, you know, her rebuttal was from fantasy land -- at least as far as my life goes.

Luckily the original poster replied in a reasonable way, and I was glad that I hadn't posted the scathing missive I had written.

I mean, I know intellectually that she and I will never, ever see eye to eye. I even understand that several of her points were valid for people in other circumstances. It was simply the fact that she was trapped in her one-size-fits-all thinking that my personal example had to be refuted by her entire world view, which was correct and perfect for everyone else. I never said, "Dude, you should never, under any circumstances, breed. For it is wrong and stuff." I said, "Hey, it seems like children are a financial burden that most lower and middle class people can't easily afford, including me."

I couldn't figure out why she had pissed me off so badly, except that she was so glib, but I realized later (while reading a different online argument that I wasn't even involved in) that we weren't even point/counterpoint, we were simply living two different approaches completely. I'm pretty sure that she is mostly a "feeler" -- someone who feels a certain way about things and ignores anything outside of her particular gut instinct. And I know that I am a "thinker." Never those twain shall meet.

It's just a live and let live situation -- or a breed or don't breed, if you will.

There is no one right way to live. Not when it comes to children, not when it comes to peanut butter. The sooner we all figure that out, the better off we'll all be.

Bonus:
The main reason I did not send my reply was a particular phrase that was vile and mean, even for me. But I would like to share it, because it's something I have thought many times when dealing with Ishmaelites who declare that the solution to overpopulation is simply to stop producing food. In the unsent e-mail it went a little like this:
"Are you (or your imaginary yet-to-be-conceived children) volunteering to be the people who starve to death when we stop producing food? Nah, it'll be those other people, somewhere else. Right? Probably brown people. Foreigners for sure. Or just dirty poor people. Not you. Right?"

Told you it was mean. Maybe I'm not a feeler or a thinker. Maybe I'm just a fucker.

You shouldn't ask me for advice.

So, it's snowing in Houston right now, and a friend just called me and asked me to talk her into getting a Greyhound ticket to visit family for the holidays. Instead, I tell her about the guy who got his head cut off by a (supposedly) Wendigo-possessed madman on the bus in Canada last summer.

I am a bad friend. Possibly also a bad person.

And now I'm afraid that the Wendigo might travel south. It likes snow.

John Hodgmanation.

(Please see "Hodge-podgination" for rhyming purposes.)

I have been reading More Information Than You Require , and I have come to a strange and oddly pleasant conclusion: If he is not lying (which is the actual area of his expertise), it is possible that John Hodgman is as obsessed with Emo Philips as I am.

Although I never purchased a zeppelin from him, I did meet Emo Philips once. It was a childhood dream come true, though I probably shouldn't admit that in public. I wrote about it a good while ago on another blog, but the gist of the story was that Emo thought he had met me before (though he hadn't), and to cover his embarrassment he said that I was "everything [he found] attractive in a woman."

Come to think of it, I have been involved in the embarrassment of Emo on more than one occasion. The first time I saw him perform (which was a couple of years before I met him), I had just come back from London and was wearing a rather-too-tight "Mind the Gap" t-shirt that made my modest bust look rather less-than-modest. (I wouldn't mention that except for the abrupt segue to London that Emo made in the middle of his act.) Anyway, I was sitting front row center with Evn, and Emo began to engage us in banter -- which started out all well and good (I was referred to as a "hot mama"), but ended in Evn outing himself in the middle of a comedy club to explain why he was not my boyfriend.

(Note to self: Do not engage the front row in witty banter if I am ever a stand-up comedian.)

Anyway, during my recent preparations for Depression 2.0, I came across this lovely website which illustrates over 700 hobo names. It was (of course) inspired by John Hodgman's almanac list. (I can only hope that a similar project illustrating Molemen and their occupations will soon follow.)

I don't think we'll all be hobos, though, despite current economic calamity. I mean, we don't really have trains anymore, and that's an important part of the hobo mythos. Perhaps Obama can make revitalizing our rail system part of his first 100 days?

The Future Hobos of America would surely appreciate it.

Hodge-podgination.

Some random items:

1) There is nothing more punk rock than cutting your own hair. For realz. I did it, this method works. My hair looks better than the last time I got it cut at a salon, even. And it was free. That Instructables author should get an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Tony just for writing this thing.

2) I've got Scrabble fever, which isn't something even Dr. House could cure. Oh, he could diagnose it, sure -- but he couldn't cure it. He'd probably make 13 or Cuddy give me the bad news, though. And then he would come in just to say something incredibly rude to further the plot, then leave to torment Dr. Jimmy...um, I digress. Scrabble. Right. I hadn't played in years, but suddenly I'm making everyone I know plunk down some wooden tiles with me. I have no explanation for this, but perhaps it is related to an alien abduction experience I cannot recall? Maybe, probably not. Fun, though.

3) I used to work next door to a terrible Chinese restaurant. The food was bad enough, but the worst part was when they would clean their grease traps, and it would smell like rotting, burned onions for at least a four block radius. Being right next door, our entire office would reek for three days. That restaurant is now gone, but I've been temping at my old office and watching them gut the old restaurant to put in something new. Somehow just watching this process has awakened a new irrational fear: I am now afraid that our post-apocalyptic future will smell like the old restaurant's grease trap. It's bad enough that we face rapid climate change, overpopulation, and the continuing scourge of reality television -- but now my visions of future calamity also smell really bad. It's just not fair.

And there's your update. Good day.

I'm not Tina.

For about a week now I have been getting wrong number voicemails for a certain Tina. These are all messages from someone who knows her, and who apparently wrote her number down incorrectly. The caller is apparently redecorating or moving house, and her calls generally involve asking if Tina and Richard can come help her move the buffet, or if Tina can look at the Hobby Lobby for her bar stools, because the one near her doesn't have them.

I would love to call this woman and tell her that I am not Tina...but she knows Tina so well that she does not leave a call back number, and I'm not sure which number it is from the caller ID.

So...sorry, lady. I'm not Tina -- but good luck with the bar stools.

Hi, my name is Sarah...and I'm a workaholic.

Okay, so check it: I'm not dead. Really. As far as I know, even the newest upgrades to Blogger do not allow you to access it from The Other Side. But aside from the fact that I have a pulse (or do I? Wait, let me check again-- yes, yes I do), what has been going on?

Nothing.

Well, that's not completely true. I have been failing miserably at this year's NaNoWriMo ( as is my yearly tradition), and I did organize my craft shelves in the most cunning way the other day...but mostly I've just been working. And working. And working a little more -- nights and weekends included. After my last official full time job ended, I swore that I would never work a 50+ hour week again. But like an alcoholic in denial, I always think, "Ah, one little full week won't hurt me." Heh. And three part-time jobs later, here I am with no time to myself, no time to write, no time to even do the effing dishes.

All work and no play makes Sarah a pretty dysfunctional girl. And it's not like she was premium material to begin with.

So I'm making some changes -- dropping a client, reducing work hours, trying not to be a pushover. Money isn't everything, after all.

Sanity's pretty good, too.

Whimper? Or bang?

The Large Hadron Collider kicked off today, and I believe that I have experienced a personal side effect from this:
I finally figured out from where I knew the theme song on "House."

I know this sounds completely unconnected, but let a crazy girl finish. We'll get there in a second.

Okay, so "Mother Jones" has a music column online. (Don't ask me why, but they do.) And it was talking about some schmuck band that beat out Radiohead's "In Rainbows" for some UK award. So I went online and sampled that band, which I did not enjoy at all. However, the column mentioned another contender for the award -- "Untrue" by Burial -- so I sampled them, too. They are apparently newer wave trip-hop (and pretty darned good, in my opinion) -- which brought to mind some old Massive Attack that I liked a lot back in the day...which led to further sampling and the startling discovery that "Teardrop" was the theme to "House."

See, I've been trying to place that song for years. Really. I just couldn't figure it out without the vocals. Apparently, I am a little bit dumb, since after I crowed my new-found knowledge to the heavens, Lennox pointed out that this musical tidbit was pretty obvious on the end of the show credits. It was like living next door to the person of your dreams for four years, and then meeting them online when they move three states away. DOH! I just never have a Clue [TM].

So...long story still long...I bought two MP3 albums this afternoon, and now it will be 1998 and 2008 simultaneously on my iPod. A whimper or a bang? We've got both, baby! Right here!

And that, I believe, is a side effect of the Large Hadron Collider. Thank you.

Unsolicited business advice.

Dear Former-Business-Owner-on-Richmond Avenue,

I know this is too little, too late (as the poets say), since your designer dress shop has already gone out of business...but you just plain should have known better.

I mean, this isn't really the right economy for a fancy-schmancy dress shop, for one thing. But setting up right next door to a whorehouse? That wasn't exactly smart. What do realtors always say? Location, location, location.

And really, "next door to a whorehouse" is not the location you -- or your upscale clients -- were looking for.

Maybe you did this deliberately. Perhaps you thought that designer blouses and low-rent blow jobs went hand-in-hand -- or member-in-hand, as the case may be. I don't know, you could have been set up by an unscrupulous leasing agent -- or you could have been pioneering the new "Hand Jobs and Hand Bags District" of Houston. But hindsight is 20/20 -- and I bet you can see clearly that you needed glasses when you signed that lease.

I just saw that someone new has rented your old space, Former-Business-Owner-on-Richmond Avenue. They're remodeling, and they can remodel all they want, but there will still be a whorehouse next door. Also, the parking will still be shitty. Oh, well -- live and learn, eh?

Good luck in future endeavors...

Sincerely,
Sarah

Name that tune.

This has been stuck in my head all morning:
My bra keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'...off of my shoulder.

I've got to stop listening to the oldies station. Or, more to the point, I've got to stop making up my own lyrics to songs on the oldies station.

It's Monday. I can feel it. Sigh.

I want to believe (that I am not nuts).

So, I have had a bad case of "X-Files" fever lately. I saw the new movie, and although I found aspects of it completely shocking (no aliens? WTF? Mulder and Scully are shacked up?!?!), I did enjoy it. However, that's not where the fever originated. I have been watching the series from episode one on DVD.

Herein lies the problem, see.

Okay, I can watch 2 or 3 episodes a night, and although I am pleased to report that it really was a good TV show (and not just a fancy of my ill-spent youth), it probably was best savored once a week. And I am fully frickin' saturated at this point.

I mean, do you know how to tell you've watched way too many "X-Files" episodes in a row? First of all, you write a poem about Leonard Betts's severed head. And then...then you call Lennox "Mulder" on accident.

(At least it didn't happen during a particularly "intimate" moment, just a really sleepy one.)

That's pretty disturbing. I actually like Lennox, but I can't stand Mulder. He is, in the parlance of our English friends, a total knob. Lennox is my dearie, and not knobbish at all. So, you know, there's that. He's also more of a Scully, particularly when compared to me, as I both "want to believe" and have the poster on order to prove it.

Maybe I should watch a few episodes of "Arrested Development" or something, just to cleanse the palate. And buy Mul...um...Lennox some flowers or something.

A post in which all of life's pressing questions are answered with aplomb.

I know only too well that the internet is a series of tubes, but the thing I love most about this series of tubes is how often it surprises me with the kind of information that my entire life had been lacking -- only I hadn't known it.

Take for instance, this answer:
7 - 12 slices.

It is the answer to this question, but it might as well be the eternal why. I never asked that question before, but it seems to be the only question I would ever need to ask.

This is all we need to know. Our lives are now complete.

How many is too many?

Dear manufacturers of my pants,

Why did you put three buttons and a zipper on these things? I mean, I get one button and a zipper, sure -- but three? Okay, it's probably some sort of subconscious anti-feminist statement about needing to corral my fat from the world, but...it still seems kind of excessive.

I know that I should be grateful that I was able to find semi-fashionable ready-made pants in my size, as historically this has not always been true. But you put way too many buttons on this pair, and the buttonholes are too tight, and, as my old friend Jane Austen might have said, "quite vexatious."

I understand that not every fashionable fatty is as fond of iced tea as I am, and it was consumption of iced tea that brought these overabundant buttons to my immediate attention, but surely I am not the only one fond of having a beverage with my lunch.

Disaster was averted this time, I can say with relief (no pun intended), but that might not always be the case. Please, manufacturer of my pants, reduce the number of closures on your pants in the future -- or at least measure the buttonholes more carefully -- to ensure that emergency release of the garment is not so difficult.

Thank you.

Sincerely,
Sarah L. Crowder

P.S.
I think you are Lane Bryant, but I will have to check the label.

Beet (Early Blood Turnip).

Though I once wrote a chapbook entitled "The turnip made me do it," I just haven't talked enough about turnips (or beets) lately.

Is it true that beets were once called "blood turnips"? Because that is Totally Awesome. I imagine a clean cut family sitting down to dinner, and a teenage son dressed all in black (and wearing too much eyeliner) , saying very politely to his little sister, "Can you please pass the BLOOOOOOOOOD TUUUUUUURRRRRNIIIIPS?"

(I guess I should mention that he was a teenage version of Nathan Explosion in my mind.)

I haven't actually had any blood turnips this year, I am very sorry to say. They aren't expressly forbidden at our table (unlike artichokes, avocados, asparagus, and olives -- which Lennox reviles, sadly), but they are "frowned upon," and only eaten by me. And really, if I'm going to go to the trouble of pickling some blood turnips, I don't want to be the only one enjoying them.

MMMMMmmmm. Beets! (Or, ah, blood turnips.)

[Note: I looked it up and the "Early Blood Turnip-rooted beet" is one of the oldest varieties of beet, dating back to 1820 or so. Huh. Learn something new every day...]

Jane conquers all.

Not too long ago -- the Ides of March, to be exact -- Lennox and I adopted a cat. She was beautiful and dainty, so we named her Lady Jane Honey-Chan. With her rabbit-soft grey fur and deep green eyes, we imagined ourselves cuddling her on cold winter nights.

Unfortunately, we soon learned that her true nature was more like Calamity Jane (HBO version) than beheaded British royalty, and we have the bite marks to prove it. When these moods strike, she isn't even Jane anymore -- she's someone I have come to call Furface McGillicutty.

Furface strikes like a snake, frequently while purring, so that it is difficult to understand what human transgression preceded the violence. In a world of generally recognized patterns, Miss McGillicutty defies reason. She is swirling chaos, all affection and razor sharp claws -- sometimes in equal measure. She is pleasure, and pain -- perpetrator and pet.

Jane is de Sade's favorite kitteh.

She cannot be trusted, but she cannot be resisted. When she is calm and our bleeding has stopped, and our Neosporin is safely soaking in beneath our beige bandages, we do in fact cuddle. We are comforted.

We are conquered.

Cary Grant Enforced.

I use several different bus stops, but my favorite stop is just past the parking lot where this sign lives.

I read it as "Cary Grant Enforced."

But that means that I am seriously underdressed, and not nearly suave enough for this particular parking lot.

Accidental Prog-Rocker.

Yeah, I fell down on the job. The Blitz is busted. Dude, I wasn't thinking. I have been working almost as many hours as, well, as a normal full time worker. I am no longer accustomed to that sort of labor, and I now remember why Lennox comes home able only to stare at the TV for a while on weeknights.

You can think me a wuss, but I am just aware of my limits. (They may differ from yours, and that's fine.)

Anyway, I just wanted to announce to Teh Intarwebs that I just accidentally rocked out to Rush.

I feel so dirty.

*shiver*

April Blitz Day 1: Shoe Spam.

It is time once more for a posting blitz, I think -- no foolin'. Since it's tax season, I propose 30 days of short, easily digested posts of various flavors...mostly about me, because it is my blog.

I will begin with this: The spam generators have figured out that I not only wear shoes, I also purchase them.

Amongst the usual fake Rolex deals, cheap (possibly fake) meds ads, and the never ending barrage of penis enlargement headlines, I have noticed a sprinkling of shoe spam. Whether or not these are really for illicit designer shoe-buying or are merely keyword titles to get through filters, I don't know.

But they're still barking up the wrong tree. I don't wear a watch, I haven't been to a doctor in a decade, and I still don't have a penis. I do wear shoes -- relatively expensive ones -- but they are all comfortable shoes. My shoes tend to be sturdy, supportive, and not really out of place at a lesbian bar.

So, nice try, intarwebs. Good luck with your spam business...

Evn's meme (not Laura's Theme).

Though this is hopelessly late, I have been meme-tagged. According to Evn at Lover of Strife, I am to list ten things found in my desk drawers, which sounds easy enough on the surface, but is hopelessly complicated.

I currently have three jobs. And not only do I work three jobs, but I work at two desks that have no drawers at all, and a third desk where I am forced to lock up any pens or pencils I would like to use a second time. Suffice to say that I do not keep any personal items at any of my workplaces. However, I will break the rules and list ten things in my backpack, since I have no desk drawers of my own. I do keep the backpack underneath all three desks, so we'll pretend that I'm only breaking the rules in the vaguest possible way. To make up for the transgression, I will list a baker's dozen.

Without further ado here are ten thirteen things in "my desk" (a.k.a. my backpack):

1. Spare phone charger
   
2. Pink quartz heart
   
3. iPod with Hello Kitty skin (doesn't that sound like a horrible dermatological problem?)
4. Fortean Times magazine ("Programmed to Kill!" says one headline)
5. Red zombie postcard that says "my pet zombie hates your guts but loves your brains"
6. Broken solar calculator repaired with black electrical tape
7. Burt's Bees travel toothbrush and non-Burt's Bees toothpaste
8. A Harry Dresden paperback (White Night -- the books are 675% more awesome than the TV show)
9. Green crocheted coin purse with a big skull on it (bought on Etsy)
   
10. Clear plastic envelope filled with bus schedules
11. Red travel umbrella that only ever turned inside out once, in London
12. Bob's tax extension
13. A big glazed tile sample stolen from one of my employers that I plan to turn into a trivet
    

Sadly, these things pretty much sum up my life.

Hang tag truthiness.

Man, the time gets away from me. But I have a question for you:
Do you think "with love" is subtle code for "sweatshop labor"?

I can't decide.

Oi with the updating already...

This bliggity-blogger sounds like a friggity-frogger.

Heh. Frogger. I loved that game.

Never mind.

I have had a terrible flu this past week -- I missed four days of work, which never happens. Also, this is a particularly bad time for an illness -- January is the busiest time of the year for me. There's nothing quite like a racking cough and three hours of broken sleep a night to improve your accounting skills, let me tell you. I sound like a chorus of toads have taken up residence in my throat -- at least I do when I don't sound like the world's worst audition for the role of Mimi in La Boheme*. (Ooh, an opera reference! Looks like those six years of college with no degree paid off after all...)

I've spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night, just thinking about improbably fun things. (I think it's interesting that when I am sick, I am less likely to fret and worry than when I am well. Perhaps I have no available strength for the kind of super-worry I am prone to under normal circumstances.) I thought up new clothing designs and an idea for a fictional group blog, as well as a series of very funny bumper sticker slogans that I promptly forgot. Turns out I am chock full of interesting things.

Of course, I also watched a lot of day time television, which is unusual for me. Man, there's a lot of crap on during the day -- and some form of "Law and Order" at virtually all times. Oh, and there's this show on Discovery where former burglars break into people's houses (with their permission) to help them design security systems. While I can't really get behind the fear mongering aspect of this, I have to say that it's very entertaining when one has a fever. I mean, what could be cuter than an 8 year old with her own personal safe? Well, Hello Kitty would be cuter, of course. But I've never seen a Hello Kitty safe.

However, I suppose one could use this for one's personal security, though it might seem like overkill to the uninitiated. (Yep, it's real, not Photoshop.)

Man, oh man. I hope I get better soon...

*For the record, I always wanted to sing the role of Musetta, not Mimi. More fire! Less coughing and dying! More...slutting around with old men! And quarreling! Ah, I do miss opera sometimes. Just not, you know, often enough to do anything about it.

A shiny new year to fuck up in new ways...

Well, it's 2008. I believe the year will suck mightily, probably more than 2007 did -- and not just on a personal level, but across the board.

So, yeah.

I hope you enjoyed my flurry 0f reminiscences in December. I feel sure that there will be more of them in the future, though hopefully not all in a big glut like that.

I have no idea what I will write about here in the new year, but it will probably be the same blend of pessimism and bullshit as always -- you know, the whole "ain't broke/don't fix" thing.

So, Happy New Year. I guess.

Happy Cuttin' Christmas.

I hope you weren't naughty this year.
Because if you were,
Santa will fucking
cut you.

Happy Holidays!

The memory game.

So, I haven't really been updating this, and you know, the guilt is plentiful. But I have an idea! (Famous last words?) I think I will spend the remaining 15 days of 2007 cranking out one tiny little weird post a day, and end the year on a bang. I'm thinking weird reminiscences, or something -- those inconsequential sort of memories that aren't really much of anything, but you can't help but tell them. Sure, they're not always the best tales, or the funniest, but they're your tales...so you tell them.

Day One: "Werewolves of London."

A few years ago I went to London to visit a long distance friend.

After I arrived and spent the day throwing up at the National Gallery (sad but true), I met my friend on the steps of St. Martin-in-the-fields. He suggested Chinese for dinner, and despite my complete and insane jet lag, I thought that sounded pretty good. I had been awake for almost 36 hours, and probably would have agreed to most anything at that point, but hey -- Chinese is always good. My friend said he knew a decent place in Soho, so off we went.

When we arrived, I thought I was hallucinating, because it was Lee Ho Fook. I don't remember exactly what I said, but it was something along the lines of "Is this really Lee Ho Fook? The real Lee Ho Fook?" But my friend looked terribly confused -- it was just a restaurant near his office. I asked about the Warren Zevon song, but he had never heard of it -- he had no idea about "Werewolves of London."

So, to make a long story short, on my first night in London I ate at Lee Ho Fook, which I didn't even know was a real restaurant.

I did not have "a big dish of beef chow mein," but I had a really good stir fry with minced pork.

Gobble, gobble...

Happy Thanksgiving, kids!

Be sure to celebrate genocide with the ritual sacrifice of a turkey and some pie!

BOO!

Happy Halloween! (I almost typed "Happy Halloween, bitches!" and then I decided that it wasn't appropriate. Of course, now I've just typed it anyway. Never mind.)

My Step-Dad carved this freehand -- pretty evil looking, right? Ah, well -- makes sense. He's a truck driver and his CB handle is Evil Eye.

And now back to your regularly scheduled candy...

In fantasy land...

...this is my bus.Unfortunately, that's not the case. In real life, my bus isn't a cat. And even though some of the newer Metro buses do have fuzzy seats, they're really more disturbing than cute.

Still...I long to ride the cat bus.

"Population: Tire."

So, I was listening to an old, old Shamen album at the bus stop on my iPod, and I realized that I was having a glow stick rave.

With The Cheat.

In my mind.

Yeah, we've been watching a certain classic internet cartoon on DVD. Does it show?

Thursday hodge-podge.

Here are several quick and meaningless tidbits for your Thursday pleasure.

First of all, I have received several spam announcing that Russian women are "waiting for me." To do what exactly, I don't know. I definitely know that the whole green card marriage thing is out until those pesky same-sex marriage laws are changed, but maybe I'm reading too much into it. Maybe those Russian women are waiting for me to clean the kitchen, or get my head out of my ass, or whatever. I don't know, "waiting for me" is a vague phase. Perhaps these spammers should get more specific, like the ones who worry so terribly about my self-esteem -- via my tiny, tiny (non-existent) penis.

I never knew how tiny my (non-existent) penis was until I received spam, you know. I thought it was a (non-existent) good size...

Also, I had a few moments of interesting eavesdropping on the bus the other day. A couple of young teenage boys were actually discussing something other than girls or videogames, which I found kind of heart-warming. They were discussing science -- specifically forensic science, and how it was not really like "CSI," but very painstaking and time-consuming.

I had not heard such rational statements from anyone that age in such a long time that I was afraid I was dreaming. (That probably also proves just how "you kids, get out of yard" I am getting.)


Let's see, what else. I am looking forward to Halloween, but I have no plans -- nor am I likely to make any -- so I've decided to be true to my Goth roots and make every day a celebration of death and decay. So, you know, basically I am just wearing dark themed t-shirts to work and stuff. Today, for instance, I'm wearing a raven. And a perfume from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab called "Jack," which is supposed to invoke the essence of a jack-o-lantern. So, yeah, I am both dressing (and smelling) the part, even if I won't actually get to have my fictional ghost walk for the zillionth time. Or dress up.

At least there will still be candy, right?

OSHA is not aware of my workspace, I'm sure.

I came into work today, and a new chair had magically appeared at my desk. I didn't ask for a new chair, although I did hate the old one. (It made my back hurt.) However, I think I'm going to hate this new chair even more. It has arms, which I despise, and the seat length is designed for someone much taller than me. I can't sit with my back against the chair and bend my knees properly. So...I might as well have a rolling stool of some sort, because I have to sit on the edge of the seat.

I've also hit my elbow on the new freezer twice today, although I haven't hit my head on the server yet. Yet. (The server is bolted into the wall just above and to the right of my head. I frequently smack my head into the corner of its locked metal box, at least once a day or so. It drives me completely insane.)

Much like any gentrification in this city...any "progress" in my office is usually a setback of some sort -- a setback that causes me physical pain. Sometimes I dread coming in to the office. I can never predict what kind of terrible thing they've done in here. Hell, I haven't had a trash can in weeks -- they accidentally threw it out with the trash and no one bothered to replace it, despite my repeated pleas. I mean, I'd take a cardboard box at this point -- I am not picky about trash cans.

It's nuts.

Hmm, I'm here for four more hours, so maybe I'll just go take some preemptive Advil. Sigh.

Free-form worry, it's all the rage in Milan...

You know what I love about me? I can fret over ANYTHING. Anything at all.

I have just been sitting at my desk fretting over whether a salad spinner would be a good purchase for the kitchen or not. I mean, I've been wearing away at this question ("To salad spin or not to salad spin...?") for a good twenty minutes or so. And it's not the first time. I asked Lennox about it the other day, and he just said that he thought they were hard to store. So now the storage question has become part of the general fret. Will it really make it easier to make salads and cook greens? Would it really be hard to store? I mean, if I got rid of the non-working waffle iron, I bet it would fit there, under the cabinet...and I really like kale, particularly well-dried kale...

I'm sitting here, literally worrying over the Major Significance of Minor Kitchen Implements.

And that, folks, is what they make the crazy pill for.

Too bad I've already taken mine today...

Trade paperback smack.

I haven't been posting, mostly because I haven't had anything entertaining to say. That and you know, "the crazy."

I still don't have much going on at the moment, although I am working on a new craft blog called Harrowing Handicraft. I hope to join Wardrobe Refashion, and thought I should set up a separate space for that sort of thing. We'll see how that goes.

Other than that, I have been reading the Harry Dresden books -- and I have to say that I am in [heart] with them. I had sort of mixed feelings about the show on SciFi last season, but I can say without reservation that the books are not only better...but awesome. I haven't really been into a book series in a long time, and reading the first six as fast as I could sort of made me remember why I was so fond of such things as a teenager. I also read a lot of mysteries back then (and fell sort of madly in love with Lord Peter Wimsey, for that matter), so it's sort of nostalgic for me, this blend of old school detective novel with wizardry. Good stuff. In fact, I've been reading so much that the folks at Netflix and my local video store probably think I'm dead.

At least Amazon.com and the nice people at the library know I'm still alive...

A new fusion cuisine?

I woke up cranky this morning (what a shocker), and I really wanted a couple of breakfast tacos. I mentioned that I wished the Taco Cabana was located where the Taco Bell is, since it's two blocks away and the Taco Cabana is over a mile and a half away. In my usual overwrought manner I lamented, "That's so far away, it might as well be in Prague!"

Then I thought a little, and I asked Lennox what people actually eat in Prague.

He answered without blinking: "Czech-Mex."

Happy Tuesday!

Double Roll, Double Confusion.

Some of you probably know about my Japan problem, though I try to keep it on the down low. I just don't want to be seen as yet another clueless white person obsessed with Japanese cultural...everything.

But...I have to open that closet door just a crack, just this once. Please amaze yourself with Pizza Hut's new Double Roll, available only in Japan. This is a pizza with not just cheese in the crust, but some kind of pigs in blankets. In the crust. And miniature hamburger patties on top. And a maple leaf on the ad, which either indicates a maple sauce somewhere on this bizarre food item, or that it is wholeheartedly approved of by Canadians -- and either option is surreal and sort of damaging to the psyche.

I just don't know if this is the best or worst fast food item I have ever seen. I am just that torn. Also, for everyone appalled by the weird stuff that Pizza Hut keeps stuffing into its crusts over here -- take heart, we're just getting the tame stuff, obviously.

And while you are thinking about all of this, go check out the kids page for Pizza Hut in Japan. Are those characters squid or Simpsons colored ghosts or what? And is the squid-ghost-dog farting on the soccer ball in the ad below?

Why don't we have awesome things like this on our own Pizza Hut page?

I'll take random for $200, Alex.

After spending most of last week feeling like the last kid on the block to get on the heroin, I feel it is time for one of my trademarked Jumbled Random Updates.

Last Friday I dreamt that small dinosaurs swarmed the Brookshire Brothers grocery store in Onalaska, Texas. The velociraptors were quite taken with the cheese case, while a very small brontosaurus spent a lot of time sniffing hot dog buns. Make of that what you will. My mother's comment on the dream was that nothing, not even flesh eating dinosaurs, would keep her away from cheese.

Again, feel free to make of that what you will.

Other than that, my cheese loving mother just bought her first actual Brand New Car in approximately 20 years. She got a Kia Rio and seems happy as pie. I liked the interior; it was very Goth. Seriously, it was all black and grey with red stitching. I felt like we were driving about in a Hot Topic. (Which is not to say that I didn't like the car. It's a great car. But the interior really did look like a pair of Morbid Thread trousers -- sans bondage rings, of course.)

I am having another try at knitting a sweater. I went back to the original pattern I had chosen, but I got a different yarn. If this one sucks so badly that I have to rip it all out (again), I think that I will probably stick to hats and scarves forever.

That may be a hollow threat. But it seems feasible, given my current level of knitting frustration.

Ah, let's see. Dinosaurs, cheese, new cars, and knitting. Sadly, that probably sums it up.

Carry on!

Isn't there a Huey Lewis song about this?

So, there's a new independent video store in my neighborhood, MOViES: The Store. And...it's sort of awesome. Great selection for a smaller store, and the customer service is flawless. (Which is to be expected, because this particular venture is headed by Rob Arcos, who was the City Manager for Landmark Theatres here in Houston.) I highly recommend the place if you are in or near the Montrose.

Now for the bad part. Rentals from the television section are half price on Mondays, and since Lennox works evenings half the week, I get to watch Whatever I Want (TM) on those nights. I decided that the hoo-haw over "Lost" had died down enough that I could reasonably give it a try, so I rented the first disc of the first season.

Yeah, okay, no surprise -- it's video crack rock. Why I couldn't hold my nose and watch it when the rest of the country was brimming with excitement, I don't know. Well, yes, I do know. These are the same masses that think "American Idol" is the peak of musical expression, and that picking which hot chick's briefcase is the right one is crazily exciting.

Trusting mainstream opinion doesn't usually work for me -- it just happened to be right about "Lost." (Although I understand that it may suck now, and was only good in the beginning. But as someone who watched every episode of "Forever Knight" with breathless delight...I can say honestly that this will not scare me off. I mean, it has to be better than a show about a vampire cop -- in Canada -- no matter how bad it got as time went on. Right?)

Anyway, I'm going to go get another hit of my new TV drug on Wednesday evening when, coincidentally, all catalog titles at MOViES are rent one, get one free. (Did I pimp it too hard, there? Oh, well.)

Betrayed by biology once again.

So, I had the hiccups today. If you think that's sort of mundane and therefore not noteworthy, allow me to point out that they lasted for 45 minutes and sounded like a bullfrog -- only much louder.

Yeah, it's still not that interesting. I know. But it is noteworthy, if only for the sheer decibel level my hiccups achieve.

The last time I had hiccups like this, I startled a dog across the street. The dog was inside a house. Across the street. Getting the picture? That's how loud these stupid things get.

And, as if excessive volume wouldn't be enough, they also hurt a little.

Sigh.

Goofing off versus the grindstone.

It's weird to admit, but I don't really care for vacations. Even when they suck (and this one was not so great), they still remind me how much I dislike having a job.

I didn't do anything special last week, either. Mostly I goofed off. I did sew a dress that should have taken way less time than it did, mostly because I got really anal about finishing the seams and added a frilly little ruffle at the hemline...but that's about it. In fact, I forced myself to do nothing one day, all day long -- I didn't even cook or do dishes. I ordered pizza and watched TV, and I didn't even knit while doing so, and I wasn't even ill. It felt so weird I almost couldn't deal with it, and spent the next day fussing and fiddling around like a crazy person.

Well, I am a crazy person, but you know what I mean.

I just kind of like to be busy, but not too busy. It's a delicate balance.

The really funny thing is that other people would find my life to be that of a total slacker, if I happened to be 100% honest about how I spend my time every day. But that's because they only associate busy with paid work, and I associate busy with, um, being busy -- as in being occupied with tasks. I do a lot of tasks each day, but I only get paid for a small, specific set of them, mostly the tasks I don't like. (Except doing dishes. I really hate doing dishes, and no one pays me to do that. Although I mostly don't do the dishes, Lennox does. So I can't really complain about that.)

So...back to work then. Sigh. At least I didn't have to work while Houston flooded (again).

"One time I rocked so hard I killed a man."

Well, I haven't fallen off the face of the earth, despite my lack of posting. I have been working double time to get ready for a week off. When you're the only person who does your job at a particular place, vacations are really hard. There's no one to pick up the slack, you know?

Anyway, we went to see The Police Friday night, and despite the performance itself being amazing, I think I am permanently cured of ever wanting to attend a concert again. That's a really awkward sentence, sure -- but the sentiment is correct.

I mean, I have had bad concert experiences before. I had a terrible panic attack at a George Carlin show (bad enough that I had to leave), and I've even been punched. But Friday's show was really the last straw. I just don't enjoy live music enough to outweigh the awfulness of a concert. First of all, I had an emotional freak out as I got ready (which isn't that unusual, sadly), but once I got there, it was so crowded and stuffy that four doses of Rescue Remedy was not enough to keep my panic at bay. Some dude spilled beer down my back from the row behind and above us, and these three bitches at the end of our row (who came in about 20 minutes before the show was over, no less) refused to stand to let people pass, which resulted in two trippings (including me -- I broke a nail), and another beer spilling incident, this time on some young kid in the row in front of us. But mostly it was just the volume. I was wearing earplugs, and I still managed to blow my right ear.

Not a good night. Not at all.

Anyway, I am done with concerts, I think.

However, The Police do rock like no other band. And I completely fell in love with Stewart Copeland all over again...sigh. That man beats a mean drum. And I've never seen a 65 year old whale on a guitar like Andy Summers. But Mr. Sumner? Well, Gordon is still a bit of an asshat*.

Even if he plays a wicked bass.

(*Gordon insists that even his children call him Sting, so I never, ever do. If that man's ego could be harnessed, it could power a small city.)

"Rock your faaaaaace!"

Well, I would just like to say that my boyfriend is ace. He is also top drawer, the cat's meow, and a number of other catchy phrases that describe his awesome-ocity (which isn't a real word, but should be).

We had a little anniversary over the weekend, and decided to have a fun night out. First we had a fancy-schmancy dinner at Gravitas, which I cannot praise highly enough. The cheese plate appetizer was so good it made me HIGH. Seriously, I had a cheese high. My salad, though simple, was impeccable in every way -- and my entree almost made me weep with delight. Lennox and I shared a fresh cherry chocolate tart for dessert that could, if properly applied, bring about world peace.

I know that I am prone to bouts of hyperbole...but this dinner was sublime.

Also, the waitstaff was polished and helpful (without being snobbish), knew how to pair a wine with a vegetarian dish, and definitely made us feel at home there. Also, the decor was understated and simple, and therefore far more approachable than most restaurants of that quality.

I wholeheartedly recommend Gravitas to any local Houstonians looking for a delicious night out.

(Incidentally, it turns out that I knew one of the waiters and one of the managers from a previous job I had in the office of another restaurant -- and it was great to see both of them, too.)

After the delectable meal...we went to Doomsday and had a blast!

And, um, here's the super cool part: The restaurant was Lennox's pick of activity for the evening, and the comedy wrestling was mine. Now, don't get me wrong -- we both thoroughly enjoyed both things. But when Lennox mentioned Doomsday, he apparently got some flack about "torturing" his significant other with something like that...until he pointed out that it was my idea, and then he got super street cred for having such an awesome other half.

It's nice to know that he's not the only awesome one in the relationship.

Name Game: Appliances 6, Sarah 0

Gotta say -- and I think I've said this before -- the best thing about having a mood disorder is those days when you're absolutely happy for no reason at all.

Today is thankfully one of those days, and I am grateful. I think I was due one of these...

Anyway, the script is chugging along, just slightly over the required daily word count. Exposition is starting to suck. We're about eight minutes in, give or take, and the main character is only just now embarking for her destination. At least half of those eight minutes constitute a harrowing flashback/dream sequence. I could totally deal with that in a real horror movie.

I'm still not sure what to call the cult leader, though. Why are characters so hard to name? It's crazy. I never have any trouble naming pets or electrical devices. (My iPod is named Ludwig, for instance, and my old laptop was named Jennifer Hewlett-Packard, which -- as a curious aside -- I constantly confused with an actress's actual name...) But man, characters are the worst. I mean, I've been looking at random spam names and checking baby names sites, and name meanings sites...but nothing. I've got nothing.

And I hate the names of all of the characters I've already dubbed.

Sigh. Where did that sunny mood go?

Oh, wait. I just left it over here. Never mind!

Tales of The Nod.

Sometimes I really miss music shops with abusive clerks. You know, like Jack Black in "High Fidelity"? I want to be looked down upon when I buy something stupid -- and given my kudos when purchasing something weird enough to please.

I think I've gotten the stamp of approval exactly once, at the now sadly defunct Cactus Music on Shepherd. I special ordered a Mono Puff CD, and the clerk asked me (in an accusatory tone), "How do you know about Mono Puff?" "Oh," I said breezily, "it's a side project of John Flansburgh of They Might Be Giants. I have the first album, but it has been harder to find the second one."

The clerk gave me a hard look, and then...The Nod.

The Nod! I got The Nod! From a music store clerk! A crazy gold star day.

But now that all the independent (or independent-ish) music stores are gone, all I get are little girl clerks who have never heard of anything (let alone the shit I listen to)...but are happy to compliment your hair. Your hair! Believe me, I don't have rock 'n' roll hair. I have regular hair.

So sad.

Also, she made me spell "Rasputina." I'm sure she had no idea who Rasputin was, either -- so I could not just say "It's 'Rasputin' with an 'a' at the end." I spelled it out.

You know, one day I'm gonna be that old fart that everyone hates -- going on about how music clerks used to abuse us in the good old days. Of course, no one will know what a music store clerk is by then, anyway -- since iTunes doesn't have clerks, clueless or otherwise.

Wait, maybe someone at Apple could come up with an AI program to be bundled with iTunes. It could abuse you virtually by questioning all downloads of dubious quality. If someone tried to download some repulsive pop flavor-of-the-day -- or some easy listening, or something -- a bot would appear saying "[Insert questionable album title here]? Are you SURE?"

You would have to type in that it was a gift for your niece or something before you would be allowed to download it.

This is a million dollar idea. Damn, I'm good!

Somewhere a music nerd who happens to be a programmer just gave me The Nod, and stole my idea. Rock!

Spiritual sunburn.

I had a disconcerting (though not entirely serious) thought today. What if mediums the world over have not been sending stray spirits to the afterworld by extolling them to "go into the light," but have instead been sending them to a horrible, fiery fate at the center of the sun?

Peace, my ass. Instantaneous fission-based annihilation!

Of course, this may just be a reflection of the fact that I had nightmares all night.

And, you know, the fact that I'm kind of an asshole.

Never mind.

What is the sound of one life sucking?

So, as you may have guessed, things have been sucking -- and not only in a self-centered poor-me sort of way.

My Mom's little dog has been gravely ill (like in-the-doggie-hospital-and-maybe-dying ill), and this has sort of sent my normally dire outlook on life to a new even lower springtime low. We really love this dog, and he's very young, and he just might not make it. We don't know.

I lost my cat a few years ago, and honestly -- I am not over it, even now. People who don't know me well may label me as overly sentimental, but I'm not very sentimental at all. I was just really close to this cat -- and he was very much a member of our family.

So, pet problems are very difficult for us.

I've also been having some weird dietary difficulties, and as a long time vegetarian who finds herself suddenly unable to tolerate soy...I have been eating very strangely. I have had to bite the bullet and start adding animal protein back into my diet (although rarely), and I have some very mixed feelings about this -- but I can't argue with it, as I am feeling better after only two weeks without soy. Still, I think the unsettled eating has been affecting my mood, too.

And I desperately need some exercise. This is always the piece of the mood puzzle I tend to neglect, and try as I might, I have just been unable to be consistent. And my work schedule is really weird, so that doesn't help.

So, with no further ado, I give you this: a man killed by an owl he tried to steal.

Yes, as badly as my life sucks, there are other lives sucking far worse.

[I <3 online Russian news. Incidentally, why would you need to steal an owl?]

Bored and boring.

I just haven't had much to say lately. Still don't.

I've been making a lot of stuff -- sewing and so forth.

But really, not much to say.

I'm going to go home later and eat some Dorito's. How thrilling is that?

The cure for what ails you...

Okay, let's just say -- hypothetically now -- that you suffer from crippling depression. Let's say also that you've just spent a good sixteen hours in bed, sometimes sleeping, sometimes staring at different fixed points on the wall. Do you know what can help with this? Medication, some say -- or therapy, or exercise, or diet, or any host of other mainstream things.

But these are not the answers.

The real answer? A Hong Kong martial arts movie about cops...dubbed in Espanol.

Worked for me. Your mileage may vary.

Transportation Explanation.

Man, sometimes I hate Houston so badly I feel like my human rights are being violated just by living here.

As I have mentioned (or at least alluded to), I hate driving. I'm a little phobic in the car, and I am subject to insane fits of road rage. (I have actually broken my car horn by bashing it in twice.) However, it seems like the bus is becoming less and less useful to me. It worked very well when I worked downtown in the morning. I took one relatively reliable bus from home to Job A, then another relatively reliable bus to Job B in the evening. I had a harder time getting home (unless Lennox came and picked me up after he got off work), but still -- it wasn't that bad.

But now I am working a morning job that requires at least one transfer (depending on route), and takes at least one hour each way -- though it is only 4.5 miles away. (I'm not counting the initial wait, either.) In order to reach the afternoon job, I either have to go about four miles out of the way (to reduce transfers and time) or transfer twice -- and either way it's over an hour and a half. Even going to the afternoon job from home requires a transfer, and generally takes over 45 minutes -- even though the job is only three miles away. Three miles! I mean, that's like driving four miles an hour.

I can WALK three miles an hour, easily. I mean, that's a stroll, not a foot race.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that all of the above assumes that the bus actually COMES, which cannot be assumed in real life. (For instance, just last week I waited 50 minutes for a bus that's supposed to come every 20 minutes. It's a very good thing I set my own schedule, because I would have been fired long ago otherwise.)

So...long story short, I've been driving a lot more. (It doesn't help that the second bus I take home only runs until 7:30 p.m. -- and I work until after 8:00 p.m. most evenings.) I don't like it, it's making me crazy, and it exhausts me.

It just doesn't seem right that the only choices I have in this gigantic, supposedly "world class" city are either lose at least three hours a day commuting three to four miles by bus, or stay enraged 24/7 by driving. Is that it? Is this all we really have to offer?

This is (and pardon my non-politically correct choice of wording here) completely retarded.

And you know, I was complaining about this the other day and someone asked me why I didn't bike. Well, I have considered it -- repeatedly -- and have come to this conclusion: It doesn't make sense to commute by bike without any form of health insurance and/or disability insurance in place. I have neither (and have been repeatedly denied the former), and even a small accident could put me into lifelong debt, and possibly keep me from working. It would be like playing Russian roulette, only with my bones and brain pan instead of a gun.

Also (and this is very minor, but still) I have nowhere to lock a bike where I live.

So...I don't really think biking is a viable option at this time. I feel a lot more secure on my feet, anyway.

Well, kids -- what do I do? Which slow boat to insanity do I take? Do I go for the time-saving rage? Or waste almost as many hours per day commuting as I do working?

I'm not saying that this is a Sophie's Choice, but it is a hell of a Catch-22.

Between baking and bicep tatoos...

Okay, maybe even I have a reason to live now. Honestly, I don't know whether to weep or laugh, but I just had to share.

This is just...superb. In the worst possible way.

Secrets of the Craftonomicon.

I have been particularly ranty lately, so I must be "Fair & Balanced" and add some crafting news.

Four quick things:
I am casting on my first sweater today, so wish me luck. I chose an inexpensive (though soft) and extremely garish acrylic yarn and an easier Stefanie Japel pattern...so we'll see. At the pace I normally knit, I should be done sometime in mid-2008. You may think I'm exaggerating, but...I am really, really slow. At first I thought it just seemed slow because I've spent so much time sewing (which can be very instantly gratifying, if you know what I mean), but from what I understand I'm just really slow -- like short bus slow. Ah, well. At least it relaxes me...

Speaking of sewing, I finished a peasant skirt yesterday. I used the tutorial listed here, and besides being shocked at the amount of thread it used, I was very pleasantly surprised at how it turned out. I may be inspired to post a photo later, when the weather clears up.

Also, I taught myself how to crochet on Friday. That may seem sort of anti-climactic, considering how crafty I am, but I have been trying to learn since I was 12 -- and failing spectacularly. Something just clicked, and I got it. I know three stitches now, and may be almost ready to try reading a pattern. Seriously, I know this sounds very unimportant, but it seems like a very big deal to me. I mean, crochet! It's like a foreign land, man. It is alien and new, and it feels almost like I woke up one day and was suddenly able to speak ancient Sanskrit -- that's how crazy this feels.

And lastly, I love Craftster -- I really, really do. I was surfing around on there this morning, and I realized that all the smilies were pink bunnies for Easter. Hah!

Of course, now I must point out that this bizarre cold snap may mean that we really are going to have the Coming Global Superstorm, and we are all going to freeze like mammoths with flowers in our mouths! We're going to flash freeze, dude! We are all going to die! Forget global warming, this is global weirding!

Damn it. Sorry about that. I tried to be upbeat and crafty. It's hard for me, you know.

Trip the Light Spamtastic.

Okay, it's bad enough that the spambots want to enlarge my penis and make me look at poor crazy-ass Britney's hoo-hah, but now they have given me a nickname -- a term of endearment, if you will.

See, today I got two spams entitled "Sarahdaradoodledumpling."

I mean, that's kind of like a nasty cigar chomper calling you "sugar pants," you know? It's just wrong. Wrong!

Random. Just random.

Man, I have so many rants brewing up, I don't even know where to start. That being said, I'm going to save the ranting and just post some random things...

First off, I survived another birthday. That's something. Secondly, my Dad is coming to visit this weekend, and I'm pretty excited about that. I haven't seen him since 2003, so this is very cool. Let's see...I have herbs planted on our landing outside the door, and I have a nice big tomato plant to pot next. I'm a stairwell farmer, can you dig it? I can, obviously.

You know, I'm starting to worry that I might snap and go psycho-green, like two shades greener than Ed Begley, Jr. I'm nowhere near as green as he is at the moment, but I'm getting greener all the time. And I have these weird uber-green urges that go far, far beyond compact fluorescent lightbulbs -- more into humanure and grey water reclamation territory. I mean, I'm starting to scare myself. I don't want to be a dirty hippie. I just want to give back more than I take, and I'm still a long way away from that.

Speaking of dirty hippies, I recently came to an uncomfortable realization. I generally don't like people who are "into" the same things I am. For the most part, they make me uncomfortable. When I did a lot of volunteer work at the local super-progressive radio station, I was frequently aghast at the behavior of the people around me -- and not generally because I disagreed with them, but because they were so disagreeable. My volunteer group accidentally got into a little feud with some "womyn" who were coming in to record something for their show...by helping them carry large boxes of records. Despite the fact that two people with vaginas and only one with a penis helped them carry boxes into the building, it was somehow the Wrong Thing To Do, and our assistance really, really pissed them off. We had apparently made them feel weak and oppressed...by helping them. We thought we were being polite, but apparently we were The Man. It's stuff like that I can't wrap my head around. I mean, somebody told me to hide a turkey sandwich I had with me in case the vegans came in! The place was too crazy for even me, and my heart bleeds more profusely than most.

Also, I am not really cool with drugs. I'm not. I've got an uncle in jail for crack, and I remember when he was just a happy pothead. I'm all for legalization, and I know that a lot of people don't go on to do the hard stuff, but I don't want to be around any of it. For one thing, if I'm going to get busted for something, I want it to count, not be some trumped up useless drug charges. I'm not going to embezzle or shoplift, either -- you know? I'm going to keep my nose clean until I SNAP. And then it's on, people...

Where was I? Oh, yeah. I don't like the "progressive" folks, even when I share their agendas. Did I have a point? I don't know.

And that means it's time to do a bank reconciliation.

Don't stand, don't stand so, don't stand so close to my Police tickets.

I am totally running out of childhood dreams. Case in point: I have tickets to see The Police in June. The Police! The pivotal band of my childhood that broke up long before I was old enough to go to a concert...and I will be seeing them live.

There really aren't many left. I mean, I thought I would never meet Emo Philips -- I pretty much thought that was a lost cause. And then I did. Now I'm going to a Police concert. The only dream I have left is to be a voice in a cartoon, and it's only a matter of time on that one.

I'm sorry, I had to take a break and meditate on the deliciocity of Emo. I'm okay now. Sort of. I mean, not well enough that I am not making up nonsense words to describe a really, really sick celebrity crush, but other than that...

So, anyway, forget that whole "work hard and your dreams will come true" stuff. Pretty much, it seems to be more about dumb luck.

Anybody out there need a cartoon voice? I'm versatile. And I have a demo CD to prove it...

"I'm sorry, but your call costs too much to be completed as dialed."

Here's something weird: Sometimes going way over your mobile minutes is a good thing.

See, I checked my cell phone minutes the other day, and discovered that I was almost 200 minutes over my plan. I gasped in horror, then checked to make sure that my rollover minutes were going to cover it (they were -- 'cause otherwise, that'd be $78.00 more than I normally pay), and then...decided to mostly stop answering my phone.

One of my workplaces has gotten into the habit of calling me about four times every day before I come into work. Because my morning job has changed, they've been able to reach me more often. (My previous morning job was in a basement with no reception.) At first, I only got semi-emergency calls, but gradually I began to get "do you know where 'X' is?" calls and "write this check when you get here" calls -- both of which could be left as a note on my desk, or even spoken to me directly once I got into work. I went back and looked at the calls from work, and they were about 75% of the overage -- a little over 45 minutes more per week.

So, I stopped answering my phone this week. I checked the messages from a landline twice a day, and when something was important, I called back. Somehow the sky didn't fall, and I began to remember that this was how I used my cell phone when I first got it. For one thing, I turned it off when I was at work, both at my retail job (where it was forbidden on the floor), and at the office job I worked at the same time (where it was extremely frowned upon to hear a mobile phone ring). But somehow, gradually, the cell phone was less about my convenience and more about being "reachable" whenever someone wanted to talk to me.

Now, I'm not going to get rid of my phone. I like to have it when I drive (my car could give out at any time, and payphones are scarce these days), and I just plain like to talk. But I am not a doctor -- I'm a frickin' bookkeeper -- so I don't know why I need to be "on call" at all times.

So...I am not answering the phone. Sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I definitely feel less stressed.

Senseless Juxtoposition.

Why does this website weigh on me so?

I mean, you either write for an audience (and I have no audience), or you write for yourself (and, okay, I'm pretty sure I have a self)...but why do I write for myself on the internet? It doesn't make sense.

My last website did pretty darned well for a website with little to say and nothing to sell. It got a respectable 8000-13,000 hits a month at its peak, and probably would have done even better if it had had a point (and/or some marketing), but I just got tired of it. So I bought a new domain and started a new journal, but...I'm just not feeling it. I have no "zazz." (And we all know how important "zazz" is.)

But...I still want a website.

I think part of the problem is that I'm a dabbler. I don't have any one particular area that I want to focus on here, and that's what people have come to expect. (My last page was primarily about my poetry and a sort of humorous diary.) Blogging has become the predominant form of web writing, and that's okay -- I guess. I mean, at least it proves that many people can still construct semi-coherent sentences -- and the sheer amount of subject matter available in blog form is awe inspiring. But most blogs (that survive for any amount of time) are generally one-topic-never-ending essays. You can read blogs about conspiracies or blogs about knitting, but you rarely (if ever) find a good blog about conspiracies and knitting, and the politics of Bea Arthur, you know? I kind of think that's a shame.

I mean, I don't want to be constricted by one subject. I have no overarching topic that my entire life revolves around (besides complaining bitterly, which is less endearing than it sounds), and I don't want that sort of myopic view to prevail here.

I guess my point is that I have no point.

I find that online journaling serves the same purpose for me that old fashioned private journaling probably serves for most writers: It makes me write, and regularly.

Most of the crap I write here (and elsewhere) is less than good. But some of it is, and that's all that matters. It's brain exercise, and occasionally amusing to others. So I'm going to stick it out, for a while.

I have an ergonomic keyboard -- and no nasty hand cramps from writing with a pen -- and some free time. So feel free to read about conspiracies, knitting, and terrible references to aged actresses...all in one place.

Maybe it was just a really hairy baby?

Sometimes I can hear that announcer guy (you know, La Fontaine) in my mind saying, "In a world filled with madness...[ominous music cue]," because, well...the world is filled with madness.

Case in point: Saturday I went to Memorial Park and I saw a dog being pushing in a baby carriage. The dog didn't look elderly, and did not have a cast or anything. It was just a hairy little terrier...being pushed around in a pram. For real.

I mean, I was seriously wigged out by the entire section of Christmas cards FROM your dog at the Hallmark store in December, but that all makes sense now that I've seen a dog in a jog stroller. Sure, you're gonna purchase a card for your dog to give you...if you walk said dog around in a baby carriage. It all makes sense -- in a tragically bizarre sort of way.

Lastly, a message for the woman pushing the dog: When the guy at the breeder said that you needed to "walk your new dog regularly," he did not mean in a stroller.

Madness!

Top of My Class [Warfare].

First of all, let's just get something out of the way. I woke up with Carol Channing hair this morning, and there's just nothing I can do about it. Why the hair brought the "Hello, Dolly!" songs with it, I will never be able to tell you. Maybe they're stuck in my head because the hair is right there on top of my brain, just wheezing out all of those Broadway favorites. Curses! Carol Channing has possessed my hair!

But wait...there's more.

It's bad enough to wake up with Carol Channing hair, but when that happens on a Corporate Coffee Ritual day -- it's almost unbearable.

Perhaps you do not have a Corporate Coffee Ritual, so I will explain.

I work for a specific client once a week (he shall remain nameless, of course), and this client does not live in the same world that I live in. Unless you're pretty far up on the food chain yourself, it's pretty safe to say that anyone who pays you for a service is not in your world, whatever world that might be. My client...he's fairly well off. But he doesn't think that he is -- he, in fact, thinks that he is "poor." He also makes the assumption that we are of the same class, strangely enough -- though if he ever examined the issue, he would believe me to be a Calcutta street urchin, comparatively.

This is someone who, with his life partner, owns three city properties and a country house. He drives a nice, newer vehicle. He has been known to take European vacations on a whim. And he, dear readers, believes that he is poor.

I feel quite certain that he has never known what the "experts" call "food scarcity" or, the more recent euphemism, "food uncertainty." (That's what we used to call "hunger.") Pretty much, if you can jet off to Rome at a moment's notice, you are not worried about where your next meal is coming from -- you know?

Now, I feel poor most of the time, but even I recognize that I am not very badly off. I mean, there was a time in my childhood when we were on food stamps, but I grew up in a rural area where this was not uncommon -- and I definitely wasn't the poorest in my class. I mean, I wasn't even close. I came to school in garage sale clothes, and I had a government cheese sandwich for lunch (I really do remember government cheese, that's not an exaggeration) -- but I was clean, and I was well cared for despite the material restraints of my family. And (and I think this is important, too) I had all the library books I could carry at once.

My family was financially poor, but they were smart. Unfortunately, they were smart enough to teach me about class differences, instead of pretending that such things don't exist (which seems to be the norm in America).

Anyway, my client feels poor because of his clients. He works for people who don't think twice about spending $12,000.00 on sofa cushions -- or $30,000.00 on custom shelving. These are the people who buy the $4000.00 handbags you see in "Vogue" -- the people who cut you off on a residential street in a custom Hummer. You know, those people.

Compared to the people he works for, my client feels downright deprived.

And I, in my quintessential judgemental fashion, find that sort of depraved.

I live in a cheap apartment with moldy windowsills, and I drive a slowly dying 10 year old car (when I drive). I wear clothes that I've either made myself, or gotten from the thrift store. I made 17% less money last year than the year before. I don't usually worry about where I'm going to get my next meal, but I have no health coverage and every time I manage to squirrel away some savings, a crisis comes along to negate the gain.

I mean, I feel poor. I know intellectually that I am not that poor, but I feel it.

And these feelings come into sharp focus when I deal with my client's artificial poverty mindset. I have a large enough class-based chip on shoulder without pretending that my client's assumptions are valid. So rather than exploding, I created the Corporate Coffee Ritual to deal with my class problem.

On the day that I work at my client's office I always, always stop at Starbuck's. I don't drink coffee, and I don't normally pay $4.00 for a cup of tea, but I find that the ritual purchase of a non-essential, "trendy" item makes the day go a lot smoother. I find it easier to sympathize in a non-fake way, and I also find that the logo adorned cup acts as a sort of talisman of middle class normalcy. It soothes my proletariat rage, and quietens my terrible urge to shout truths at a man who means well, even if he is a little clueless. Silly or not, the man signs my checks -- and I like those checks.

So once a week, I perform the Corporate Coffee Ritual, and I enter a Bizarro World of wealth versus ultra-wealth, and I pretend that we are all created equal.

I pretend that I don't know my place.

And I drink the hot beverage of the masses, and dream of revolution.

Is there a DSM for ice cream?

So, the weather is warm. The weather is cold. The depression comes and goes, tra-la-la. Not exactly a pop hit, but it is the tune of my life.

And man, I am tired of being crazy.

I am glad I don't hear voices, but there are many kinds of crazy. I mean, have you ever flipped through the DSM? Trust me, you're probably crazy, too. They have a name for all flavors of crazy, and if you have a unique crazy, they'll make up a new flavor for you.

If only Ben & Jerry were as prolific.

Hey, frozen yogurt sounds good. Maybe I'm feeling better already...

Only the (groundhog's) shadow knows.

A quick shout out to all the groundhogs in house. I hear Phil did not see his shadow -- so do we blame global warming? Ah, well. Phil isn't terribly accurate.

Does anyone else remember the Grandpa Jones song "Groundhog"? It includes, if memory serves, the lyric "groundhog grease all over her chin." Dude, were they eating groundhogs? Did I totally hallucinate that? Was I the only one tortured with repeated viewing of "Hee-Haw" as a small child? They even made me wear the overalls. I think it was one of the major causes of my current twistedness. Is that a word?

Never mind.

If I ever go to Boston, I'll make sure I arrive drunk.

Boston may be the stupidest city in the entire world. Those of you who know what I'm talking about, well, you probably agree.

Not every unusual thing you see is a bomb, people -- even things with wires and lights.

Even things that are flipping you off.

Can you see me, Boston? I'm doing it as hard as I can...

Ticking for the Dethklok.

So, because I am shallow, I am going to share my resolution for the new year (a little late due to the Captain Tripps problem -- and for those of you who don't read Stephen King, that's a reference to illness):
I am not going to wear ugly clothes anymore, no matter what size I am.

No more, "this'll do" at the thrift store or "this doesn't look quite right, but I don't have anything else to wear" when laundry day is near. No more ugly or ill-fitting clothes. I'm done with them.

See, I always have this sort of intention, that one day I'll look in the closet and there will always be something to wear. But deep down, I think that I've always felt that I don't deserve to look good because I'm fat. I think in the back of my mind what I really meant was that I'll have all great clothes when I am a size 7 again. Well, I may never be a size 7 again. In fact, I may never be a size 14 again -- who knows at this point?

In the last several years, I have lost over fifty pounds, and gained thirty back. Yow! That's hard on both the skin and the ego. And I think back to my heaviest days (even bigger than this), and I remember that I didn't hate myself the same way I do now -- or at least I didn't hate myself as frequently. And I had some really, really nice clothes -- even at that size. When I was losing the weight, I hesitated to get anything really nice, because I wasn't staying any particular size long enough to invest in clothing. And then when I started gaining the weight back, I was too ashamed to get much of anything. In fact, I would just donate whatever got too small and replace as little as possible -- just enough to get by, nothing special. My closet has started looking really sparse, at least for a major clothes horse (which I have always been, regardless of size).

So, enough is enough. I know how to sew, knit, and shop thriftily. I know what looks good on me, and I don't have to settle for crappy clothes just because I am one of the 66% of the adult population of this country that shows up in the wrong place on the height/weight chart.

Incidentally, I was inspired by the fine folks at Wardrobe Refashion. Although I am not quite ready to commit to their pledge not to buy anything new for the year quite yet, I can definitely thrift shop and sew my way to a better wardrobe. Oh, wait. Underwear is exempt...I could take the pledge after all.

We'll see.

Anyway, that's my resolution. No more ugly clothes. Sure, I could have made better resolutions, but I was in bed with a fever and a growing conviction that I might die soon (having not slept in three days at that point). Really pretty clothes seemed like the way to go.

Also (and unrelated), can anyone please make the theme from "Metalocolypse" stop replaying in my head? I can't think through all the "MURDERFACE! MURDERFACE!"

Post-Holiday, Post-Modern Captain Tripps.

So, I had a nice Christmas. I got a lot of nice stuff, but there was this one gift bag...

I'll be damned if that sucker wasn't flipping me off -- as hard as he could, no less!

And then I got so sick I missed an entire week of work. I would have liked a vacation, but you know, on purpose and with waaaay less phlegm involved.

So, Happy January and stuff.