Just because I don't like stuffing doesn't mean I shouldn't give Thanksgiving a chance. I will forgo the turkey and yams, but I can still spend a few minutes reflecting on my good fortunes.
First of all, I am thankful for my loving bond with a thoughtful and funny man, who not only puts up with my 'sodes but who also started reading "Pride and Prejudice" to see why it's considered a classic and one of my favorite books. (I'm thankful for good books!) I'm grateful for my kind and generous parents and parents-in-law, the people I would most like to share Thanksgiving with (and not only because both moms can cook a great meal--stuffing aside). They're the only reasons I'm glad I have a phone.
I'm thankful that I'm healthy and fit and can walk anywhere, whether up a mountain or down the street to get an ice cream or a coffee. (I'm thankful for ice cream and coffee! and tea, and chocolate, and mountains....) I'm grateful to have a safe and comfortable place to live, no matter where the location. I appreciate my two furry house-friends that make home a little more cozy. It makes me happy to watch the Wook, purring rustily, kneading a soft blanket with all four paws. He must have so much contentment that two paws just aren't enough. I enjoy watching prim and proper Sammy forget herself for a moment and chase her tail.
I'm thankful for horses rolling in the dust, goats trying to eat my clothes, squirrels craftily stealing bird food, and any wild animal sightings. I'm grateful for my old friends who keep in touch with email and postcards and visits, no matter where I go. I'm thankful for travel, because I love to explore new places. I'm glad I can move to different parts of the country and don't have to settle anywhere (or for anything).
Right now, I'm thankful for the slight drop in temperature that has made long sleeves and cold kitties in my lap possible. I am looking forward to a quiet, relaxing day at home. I'm ready for the pecan pie.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Friday, November 03, 2006
A Collaborative Effort
My man Tyrongle and I, after a lovely sunset picnic on the beach, decided to pen an entertaining short story. I think it has an important message.
Twinkle Twinkle Little Chair
All I wanted was a comfy chair--a big, squashy, cushy spot to read or do crossword puzzles or watch movies. I was looking for a chair you could really sink into, that you could spend an entire afternoon in and not get stiff or uncomfortable. What I found instead were gigantic seats for the fat-bottomed that seemed more like couches in their size or chairs of wood and plastic that looked posh and modern but offered very little in coziness.
Whenever I think I know what I’m looking for in consumer goods, I can never find it. Perhaps the lack of a unlimited bank account is part of the problem, but even when I’m willing to shell out some shekels, the items of my imagination are not to be found.
So, I had no choice but to buy one of the big-bottomed chairs and put it next to my lamp, so that I could do those crossword puzzles. Then I became interested in crocheting. And my big chair became my crocheting chair until I spilled a double latte on it. I cried, and my pet cat, Twinkles, got angry and wouldn’t let me pet him for weeks.
“It’s just espresso and steamed milk, precious cat,” I said, trying to coax him out from under the bed. He wouldn’t hear of it. He hissed at me and tried to bite my hand. After that, my comfy chair just wasn’t so comfy anymore.
I decided to move the now offensive chair to the front porch so that Twinkles would not have to smell the permanent latte stain. He is a strictly indoor cat, which, while protecting him from disease, wild animals and bad drivers, has made him very sensitive to his environment. He has developed a firm dislike of caffeinated beverages, freesia-scented candles, and crème brulee, but he is otherwise safe and healthy.
I had a bit of trouble maneuvering the wide chair out my front door by myself, but I was very pleased with the resulting affect it had on my outside décor. The blues in the chair upholstery nicely matched my artistic garden sphere, and I started to envision the porch parties that would soon be inevitable now that this luscious indoor furniture has been brought into the great outdoors.
The next morning, I discovered a family of raccoons sleeping on my comfy chair. They did not seem to mind the latte stain at all. I tried to shoo them away, but they ignored me and I didn’t want to get too close since they are wild animals. Wild animals are magnificent creatures, but they can be dangerous.
I wanted the raccoons to be as comfortable as possible, so I decided to crochet them a small blanket to keep them warm on cold nights. When I presented it, they chirped and chortled at me.
I knew better than to feed them, as everyone knows a fed wild animal is a dead one, but I thought a little homespun charm might keep them warm as the winter winds whistled through the night. It seems, however, that raccoons have an affinity for wool yarn, and my blanket was quickly ripped to tattered shreds as the raccoons ingested my masterwork. I guess some creatures will eat anything.
I didn’t see the raccoons after that, so I kind of figured that my blanket gave them gastro-intestinal upset. I hoped they were okay, but I was kind of glad to have my chair back. I had a party to plan.
I called my friend Steingord Prilo-Wantock. He was an expert party planner with an eye for interior design. I knew that I could count on him to help me put together a killer get-together and that if a nicer comfy chair was available in the greater Nampa area, he would know about it.
“Do you want to do theme?” He asked. “I suggest either a vampire theme, or possibly a dentist theme. I have this great dental hygienist outfit I have been wanting to wear for a while now. The fishnet stockings are 100% authentic.”
“What do you mean authentic?”
“They were once used to catch North Atlantic Cod. By the way, I happen to have two dozen crab cakes in my fridge now. Should I bring them over?”
“Sure, but what about my comfy chair?”
“There’s a small problem,” Gordy (as he was know to his friends) continued. “I am an expert in interior design, but you seem to want an outdoor porch party. I’m not sure how well I can handle that. If you will reconsider moving your party back inside where it’s safe, then I will help you in your comfy chair quest (provided that the chair stay indoors, too). Otherwise, I think I will just hand over my crab cakes and leave. You know that being outdoors gives me the willies.”
I had forgotten my friend’s odd fear of the outdoors. It seems that when he was a child, he’d been the recipient of many of Mother Nature’s nastiest surprises from the sky. A large lump of hail had broken his nose. He’d sustained a concussion from a stray meteorite. I think the swarm of palmetto bugs attacking his face may have been the last straw. Even now, he could barely go for a walk without getting pooped on by a bird flying overhead. A word of advice: don’t ever try to tell him that guano is lucky.
“Yeah, we can move it inside. Besides the raccoons might come back, and I can foresee trouble if that happens.”
“Raccoons! Those vicious little bastards! What do you mean ‘back’?”
“Oh, nothing, I just saw some on my front porch.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this now. If I see one raccoon, I am going to start chucking crab cakes at it.”
“To be honest, I don’t think they will be back. They ate a mini-blanket that I made for them and then disappeared.”
“Thank god for that. About your chair: I know a place in downtown Boise that has just what you are looking for. It’s an old dental supply warehouse and I think if I come with you, they will throw in one of those lights that dentists use for exams. Those things are great for reading the morning paper. I guess that means we’re going to have a dentist theme. I suggest that we keep this thing open because some people are going to want to come as orthodontists and we might even get a few gum sturgeons and we shouldn’t turn them away. We have plenty of crab cakes, you know.”
“Right.”
“I’ll be over in ten minutes. I’ll wait in my car if that’s okay. With all those beasts around your place, I’ll feel safer. I’ll honk twice and just so you don’t get scared, I’ll take my eye patch off.”
As I waited for Gordy to arrive, I started pondering how to combine his desired themes. I couldn’t understand how dentists and fish went together, but Gordy was always so much better at party-planning than me. I assumed that his mention of sturgeons must have something to do with the fish tanks that always seem to be in dental waiting rooms. I think watching fish swim is supposed to be relaxing, and we all know the anxiety of a dental visit, especially with fillings or root canals on the horizon. Hey, maybe we can serve root vegetables as party snacks!
I didn’t have a fish tank, and I didn’t think Twinkles would approve. He would either try to eat the fish or drown trying, and I would be forever guilty about whatever loss of life ensued. No, better to make fish-shaped hors d’ouerves and toothbrush-shaped decorations than to suffer Twinkles’ displeasure. I did hope he would enjoy the party.
I was actually quite worried about Twinkles. He had been standoffish since the comfy-chair incident. I knew I had to be careful when telling him about the party. “Twinkles Kitty,” I said, “don’t get upset, but I am having a party here, and I don’t want you to get alarmed if you see a bunch of dentists walking around.”
He threw up a hairball and walked away.
Then I heard a horn sound outside. It must be Gordy, I thought. I rushed outside to meet him so that we could get down to business.
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” he said.
“What’s the bad news?”
“The party is gonna have to be off for now. The x-ray machine that I was going to rent is unavailable for the next three weeks. But that’s not the worst news. My drill that I was going to use for cavities and root canals overheated right after I hung up the phone with you.”
“What’s the good news?”
“I think I may have found the perfect chair for you. And we won’t even have to go into Boise to get it.”
Gordy was right. He drove me to a store and I bought the perfect comfy-chair. It was purple velvet, quite cushiony, and just the right size for my bottom. When we got back to my place, I asked Gordy for some help bringing it inside.
“I don’t know. Can you guarantee that I won’t be attacked by wild beasts?”
“You should be safe.”
“Okay, but I’m really nervous about this.”
We each took an end of the chair and walked toward my front door. When we reached my porch, I noticed that the raccoons were back, curled up on the discarded comfy chair now on my porch. Unfortunately, Gordy saw them too, and he dropped his end of the chair, let out a high-pitch scream and ran off. I was able to drag the chair the rest of the way through my front door and put it in an appropriate spot. I sat down with my crocheting and before I knew it, Twinkles was back in my lap. His contented purrs told me he wouldn’t miss the party.
Twinkle Twinkle Little Chair
All I wanted was a comfy chair--a big, squashy, cushy spot to read or do crossword puzzles or watch movies. I was looking for a chair you could really sink into, that you could spend an entire afternoon in and not get stiff or uncomfortable. What I found instead were gigantic seats for the fat-bottomed that seemed more like couches in their size or chairs of wood and plastic that looked posh and modern but offered very little in coziness.
Whenever I think I know what I’m looking for in consumer goods, I can never find it. Perhaps the lack of a unlimited bank account is part of the problem, but even when I’m willing to shell out some shekels, the items of my imagination are not to be found.
So, I had no choice but to buy one of the big-bottomed chairs and put it next to my lamp, so that I could do those crossword puzzles. Then I became interested in crocheting. And my big chair became my crocheting chair until I spilled a double latte on it. I cried, and my pet cat, Twinkles, got angry and wouldn’t let me pet him for weeks.
“It’s just espresso and steamed milk, precious cat,” I said, trying to coax him out from under the bed. He wouldn’t hear of it. He hissed at me and tried to bite my hand. After that, my comfy chair just wasn’t so comfy anymore.
I decided to move the now offensive chair to the front porch so that Twinkles would not have to smell the permanent latte stain. He is a strictly indoor cat, which, while protecting him from disease, wild animals and bad drivers, has made him very sensitive to his environment. He has developed a firm dislike of caffeinated beverages, freesia-scented candles, and crème brulee, but he is otherwise safe and healthy.
I had a bit of trouble maneuvering the wide chair out my front door by myself, but I was very pleased with the resulting affect it had on my outside décor. The blues in the chair upholstery nicely matched my artistic garden sphere, and I started to envision the porch parties that would soon be inevitable now that this luscious indoor furniture has been brought into the great outdoors.
The next morning, I discovered a family of raccoons sleeping on my comfy chair. They did not seem to mind the latte stain at all. I tried to shoo them away, but they ignored me and I didn’t want to get too close since they are wild animals. Wild animals are magnificent creatures, but they can be dangerous.
I wanted the raccoons to be as comfortable as possible, so I decided to crochet them a small blanket to keep them warm on cold nights. When I presented it, they chirped and chortled at me.
I knew better than to feed them, as everyone knows a fed wild animal is a dead one, but I thought a little homespun charm might keep them warm as the winter winds whistled through the night. It seems, however, that raccoons have an affinity for wool yarn, and my blanket was quickly ripped to tattered shreds as the raccoons ingested my masterwork. I guess some creatures will eat anything.
I didn’t see the raccoons after that, so I kind of figured that my blanket gave them gastro-intestinal upset. I hoped they were okay, but I was kind of glad to have my chair back. I had a party to plan.
I called my friend Steingord Prilo-Wantock. He was an expert party planner with an eye for interior design. I knew that I could count on him to help me put together a killer get-together and that if a nicer comfy chair was available in the greater Nampa area, he would know about it.
“Do you want to do theme?” He asked. “I suggest either a vampire theme, or possibly a dentist theme. I have this great dental hygienist outfit I have been wanting to wear for a while now. The fishnet stockings are 100% authentic.”
“What do you mean authentic?”
“They were once used to catch North Atlantic Cod. By the way, I happen to have two dozen crab cakes in my fridge now. Should I bring them over?”
“Sure, but what about my comfy chair?”
“There’s a small problem,” Gordy (as he was know to his friends) continued. “I am an expert in interior design, but you seem to want an outdoor porch party. I’m not sure how well I can handle that. If you will reconsider moving your party back inside where it’s safe, then I will help you in your comfy chair quest (provided that the chair stay indoors, too). Otherwise, I think I will just hand over my crab cakes and leave. You know that being outdoors gives me the willies.”
I had forgotten my friend’s odd fear of the outdoors. It seems that when he was a child, he’d been the recipient of many of Mother Nature’s nastiest surprises from the sky. A large lump of hail had broken his nose. He’d sustained a concussion from a stray meteorite. I think the swarm of palmetto bugs attacking his face may have been the last straw. Even now, he could barely go for a walk without getting pooped on by a bird flying overhead. A word of advice: don’t ever try to tell him that guano is lucky.
“Yeah, we can move it inside. Besides the raccoons might come back, and I can foresee trouble if that happens.”
“Raccoons! Those vicious little bastards! What do you mean ‘back’?”
“Oh, nothing, I just saw some on my front porch.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this now. If I see one raccoon, I am going to start chucking crab cakes at it.”
“To be honest, I don’t think they will be back. They ate a mini-blanket that I made for them and then disappeared.”
“Thank god for that. About your chair: I know a place in downtown Boise that has just what you are looking for. It’s an old dental supply warehouse and I think if I come with you, they will throw in one of those lights that dentists use for exams. Those things are great for reading the morning paper. I guess that means we’re going to have a dentist theme. I suggest that we keep this thing open because some people are going to want to come as orthodontists and we might even get a few gum sturgeons and we shouldn’t turn them away. We have plenty of crab cakes, you know.”
“Right.”
“I’ll be over in ten minutes. I’ll wait in my car if that’s okay. With all those beasts around your place, I’ll feel safer. I’ll honk twice and just so you don’t get scared, I’ll take my eye patch off.”
As I waited for Gordy to arrive, I started pondering how to combine his desired themes. I couldn’t understand how dentists and fish went together, but Gordy was always so much better at party-planning than me. I assumed that his mention of sturgeons must have something to do with the fish tanks that always seem to be in dental waiting rooms. I think watching fish swim is supposed to be relaxing, and we all know the anxiety of a dental visit, especially with fillings or root canals on the horizon. Hey, maybe we can serve root vegetables as party snacks!
I didn’t have a fish tank, and I didn’t think Twinkles would approve. He would either try to eat the fish or drown trying, and I would be forever guilty about whatever loss of life ensued. No, better to make fish-shaped hors d’ouerves and toothbrush-shaped decorations than to suffer Twinkles’ displeasure. I did hope he would enjoy the party.
I was actually quite worried about Twinkles. He had been standoffish since the comfy-chair incident. I knew I had to be careful when telling him about the party. “Twinkles Kitty,” I said, “don’t get upset, but I am having a party here, and I don’t want you to get alarmed if you see a bunch of dentists walking around.”
He threw up a hairball and walked away.
Then I heard a horn sound outside. It must be Gordy, I thought. I rushed outside to meet him so that we could get down to business.
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” he said.
“What’s the bad news?”
“The party is gonna have to be off for now. The x-ray machine that I was going to rent is unavailable for the next three weeks. But that’s not the worst news. My drill that I was going to use for cavities and root canals overheated right after I hung up the phone with you.”
“What’s the good news?”
“I think I may have found the perfect chair for you. And we won’t even have to go into Boise to get it.”
Gordy was right. He drove me to a store and I bought the perfect comfy-chair. It was purple velvet, quite cushiony, and just the right size for my bottom. When we got back to my place, I asked Gordy for some help bringing it inside.
“I don’t know. Can you guarantee that I won’t be attacked by wild beasts?”
“You should be safe.”
“Okay, but I’m really nervous about this.”
We each took an end of the chair and walked toward my front door. When we reached my porch, I noticed that the raccoons were back, curled up on the discarded comfy chair now on my porch. Unfortunately, Gordy saw them too, and he dropped his end of the chair, let out a high-pitch scream and ran off. I was able to drag the chair the rest of the way through my front door and put it in an appropriate spot. I sat down with my crocheting and before I knew it, Twinkles was back in my lap. His contented purrs told me he wouldn’t miss the party.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Boo Humbug
I guess I'm just not a fan of holidays, because it seems that every time one occurs I get grumpy about it. Today is Halloween, and I'm just not interested. I really don't see the point of Halloween for adults. As a kid, I enjoyed dressing up and getting candy handed to me. Halloween was one of four times a year that involved loads of chocolate, a huge deal for any child. Santa brought some, as did the Easter Bunny and Grandmom when she came to visit, but Halloween brought the mother-load. I used to have a huge stash that I savored for months, and I don't fault any kid for wanting that.
Once you become too old for the trick-or-treating, though, I just don't see the draw. I don't like scary movies (thank you, Jack Nicholson) or haunted houses. I definitely don't seek the attention that wearing a costume to work would bring. The last time I dressed in a Halloween costume, I was eighteen and naive enough to give a Halloween dance a try. I went as Laurence of Arabia in full robes and ended up bored and overheated. I outgrew Halloween, and I don't understand why others haven't.
But maybe I'm just saying that because I've never been invited to a bitchin' Halloween party.
Next up, Thanksgiving. Stuffing: yuck. American football: yawn. Baking a turkey: yeah, right. I guess Tyler and I will just have to gather round the pecan pie.
Once you become too old for the trick-or-treating, though, I just don't see the draw. I don't like scary movies (thank you, Jack Nicholson) or haunted houses. I definitely don't seek the attention that wearing a costume to work would bring. The last time I dressed in a Halloween costume, I was eighteen and naive enough to give a Halloween dance a try. I went as Laurence of Arabia in full robes and ended up bored and overheated. I outgrew Halloween, and I don't understand why others haven't.
But maybe I'm just saying that because I've never been invited to a bitchin' Halloween party.
Next up, Thanksgiving. Stuffing: yuck. American football: yawn. Baking a turkey: yeah, right. I guess Tyler and I will just have to gather round the pecan pie.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Rompecabezas and Todi-Coltex
Upon the advice of the highly-respected Johnny-on-the-Spot Dr. Slojak-Pittman, I have decided to write a blog about some of my favorite things. Although I am a fan of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens (and numerous other things about cats--have you seen the pictures of the two precious creatures that share my home?), I thought I'd focus on slightly less cutesy joys.
I like puzzles. The word has two z's, which obviously makes a good fizzy topic, and it's even better in Spanish. Doesn't "rompecabeza" just flow enjoyably off the tongue? Crossword, logic, jigsaw--it doesn't matter, as long as there's some challenge to it. (My cats present an additional challenge to jigsaws, because they like to play with the pieces during the night and leave them scattered around on the floor. Yes, I'm talking about my cats again.) The newly-popular Sudoku games are too easy (no z there, either), and I can do word searches with my eyes closed (try it--it's a blast). I once won a word search contest in the fourth grade, so I've achieved all I can there (the prize was a Snoopy sticker album--try to top that). So far, I'm only really stumped by the odd puzzles in Harper's Magazine--they're overloaded with puns, anagrams and other weird clues. Maybe someday I'll work up to that.
As for Todi-Coltex, I don't so much like the object as much as how it sounds and what it signifies. Try saying it with umlauts and a fake German or Swedish accent, and you may understand. Anyway, Todi-Coltex is a type of tread to put on the bottom of your cross-country skis to help you go uphill without sliding back down (it's quite embarrassing to slide backwards down a hill you are trying to ski up). My cross-country skis and the aforementioned Todi-Coltex are hiding in the closet, waiting for the right opportunity to emerge.
Other words that I like: Kake. Lava bombs. Alstublieft. Medulla oblongata. Griggle and glayfer (nicknames for my cats. I can't help it). Melkesjokolade. Conundrum. Afromox.
I like puzzles. The word has two z's, which obviously makes a good fizzy topic, and it's even better in Spanish. Doesn't "rompecabeza" just flow enjoyably off the tongue? Crossword, logic, jigsaw--it doesn't matter, as long as there's some challenge to it. (My cats present an additional challenge to jigsaws, because they like to play with the pieces during the night and leave them scattered around on the floor. Yes, I'm talking about my cats again.) The newly-popular Sudoku games are too easy (no z there, either), and I can do word searches with my eyes closed (try it--it's a blast). I once won a word search contest in the fourth grade, so I've achieved all I can there (the prize was a Snoopy sticker album--try to top that). So far, I'm only really stumped by the odd puzzles in Harper's Magazine--they're overloaded with puns, anagrams and other weird clues. Maybe someday I'll work up to that.
As for Todi-Coltex, I don't so much like the object as much as how it sounds and what it signifies. Try saying it with umlauts and a fake German or Swedish accent, and you may understand. Anyway, Todi-Coltex is a type of tread to put on the bottom of your cross-country skis to help you go uphill without sliding back down (it's quite embarrassing to slide backwards down a hill you are trying to ski up). My cross-country skis and the aforementioned Todi-Coltex are hiding in the closet, waiting for the right opportunity to emerge.
Other words that I like: Kake. Lava bombs. Alstublieft. Medulla oblongata. Griggle and glayfer (nicknames for my cats. I can't help it). Melkesjokolade. Conundrum. Afromox.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
If You Must Know, Your Personality Type is "Big Jerk"
I've been reading some interesting commentary on the history of psychological testing and the large numbers of personality tests that have come in and out of fashion over the years. I admit that I think personality quizzes, like the ones I've linked on previous blogs, are entertaining to a certain degree, but I always assumed their accuracy was somewhat akin to horoscopes. I've read certain descriptions of my personality based solely on my date of birth that seem a bit true, but I've also read ones so far off the mark that they make me laugh. This variety of accuracy (stemming, no doubt, from the idea that the more descriptors someone writes, the more likely at least one will fit the person reading) seems to be the same for these personality tests, so I was surprised to learn that many companies and doctors place a good deal of trust in some of these results. Some of these tests are even used in court, affecting important life decisions.
When I worked for the government, part of my training was to take the Myers-Briggs Personality Test with other new hires. The proctors were careful to call it a team-building exercise and an ice-breaker, but I figured that they really wanted to add a label to our personnel files. For a few hours, twenty or so people answered question after question on social and recreational preferences and feelings towards specific situations. Periodically throughout the test, I couldn't help thinking, "I can't believe I'm getting paid for this!" I was paid well, too--your tax dollars at work. In the end, I was presented with a very elaborate printout of my personality type (one of 16 possibilities), and what strengths and weaknesses that entailed. I was perplexed and a little amused, and that was the end of it, as far as I knew.
Since then, I've heard and read many things about that specific test, particularly that a large percentage of people score a different personality type when they retake the test. This change could be due to being in a different mood while answering the questions or understanding the wording of some questions differently the second time. I would be happy to take the test again to see if my type (which, according to the test developers, is supposed to be immutable from birth) is different, but only if some company wants to pay me for my time. While they're at it, they can also tell me which of my humors are out of whack (I feel my bile rising) and whether the natural variations of my skull make me predisposed to liking chocolate.
I highly doubt that the government would waste so much time on administering the personality test to simply build teamwork among people who would soon be working in different branches and locations, so they must have placed some emphasis on the results. Interestingly, my placement into the niche INTJ by the proctors at the U.S. government did not seem to warn them that I would quickly become immensely dissatisfied with employment there and quit to run 3000 miles away. That should be proof enough of the limits of such testing. I've already blogged about my dislike of labels, and in that I agree with Carl Jung: "Every individual is an exception to the rule. To stick labels on people at first sight is nothing but a childish parlor game." It can be a scary prospect if those in positions of power put too much emphasis on these sort of group types; besides being rigid and inflexible, it leads closely to the type of thinking that certain races, sexes, etc, can be similarly judged and labeled.
When I worked for the government, part of my training was to take the Myers-Briggs Personality Test with other new hires. The proctors were careful to call it a team-building exercise and an ice-breaker, but I figured that they really wanted to add a label to our personnel files. For a few hours, twenty or so people answered question after question on social and recreational preferences and feelings towards specific situations. Periodically throughout the test, I couldn't help thinking, "I can't believe I'm getting paid for this!" I was paid well, too--your tax dollars at work. In the end, I was presented with a very elaborate printout of my personality type (one of 16 possibilities), and what strengths and weaknesses that entailed. I was perplexed and a little amused, and that was the end of it, as far as I knew.
Since then, I've heard and read many things about that specific test, particularly that a large percentage of people score a different personality type when they retake the test. This change could be due to being in a different mood while answering the questions or understanding the wording of some questions differently the second time. I would be happy to take the test again to see if my type (which, according to the test developers, is supposed to be immutable from birth) is different, but only if some company wants to pay me for my time. While they're at it, they can also tell me which of my humors are out of whack (I feel my bile rising) and whether the natural variations of my skull make me predisposed to liking chocolate.
I highly doubt that the government would waste so much time on administering the personality test to simply build teamwork among people who would soon be working in different branches and locations, so they must have placed some emphasis on the results. Interestingly, my placement into the niche INTJ by the proctors at the U.S. government did not seem to warn them that I would quickly become immensely dissatisfied with employment there and quit to run 3000 miles away. That should be proof enough of the limits of such testing. I've already blogged about my dislike of labels, and in that I agree with Carl Jung: "Every individual is an exception to the rule. To stick labels on people at first sight is nothing but a childish parlor game." It can be a scary prospect if those in positions of power put too much emphasis on these sort of group types; besides being rigid and inflexible, it leads closely to the type of thinking that certain races, sexes, etc, can be similarly judged and labeled.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Choose Your Own Disaster
I remember certain interactive books geared towards young adults called "Choose Your Own Adventure". They consisted of a few pages of plot with a choice at the end. The option would go something like: You pull aside the tangled vines to reveal a hidden doorway in the ancient wall. Crude symbols, etched deeply into the surface, send shivers of warning down your spine as you pull the door open to reveal a dark, musty passage. Behind you, on the wooded path that was empty just moments before, you think you hear a muffled snort as leaves crunch and twigs snap. Could the bounty hunters have found you at last? If you bravely explore the hidden passageway, turn to page 56. If you turn around to discover the cause of the noise, turn to page 78.
I never read very many of these books, because I found them unsatisfying. The plots were generally crude and quite creepy, often with endings like: You turn to leave the cave only to discover that you cannot move your legs. While you were greedily examining your treasure, you had unknowingly stepped into a quicksand booby trap. The more you struggle, the faster you sink, and no one can hear your cries for help. You spend you last moments wondering if you'd even managed to save your mother as the earth slowly swallows you whole. The end.
I don't like stories ending with starving in a pit or being eaten by giant spiders, and I like them even less when the horrible result is somehow my own fault. Not wanting to take credit for bad decisions, I would have to systematically find every possible route through the book to see all the potential results, thus defeating the purpose of the book, but easing my mind. Maybe this early exposure to stressful reading is one reason I tend to make decisions based on ruling out what I don't want, rather than deciding what I would most like.
That's always how I've made important decisions, such as choosing a college to attend. I first crossed off states that I didn't want to live in (incidentally, I think my 16-year-old self crossed off Florida....), then discarded universities that were too large, too fraternity-based or too expensive. I then ruled out places with any particularities that I found annoying and ended up with 3 colleges out of all of the U.S. Unfortunately, since I was accepted at all three, I still had to narrow it down. I discarded the most expensive one, and went to visit the closest one to my home at the time (that meant only an ocean away, rather than an ocean and a continent). I figured if I liked the feel, I would go there (in Virginia) and if not, I would go to the other one (in Washington State)--sight unseen. I ended up liking the first one, and it turned out to be a good choice, but I still don't know if my methods are healthy. I guess I don't know what I want, but I know what I DON'T want.
I don't want to end up drowning in ship wreck. I don't want to be attacked by killer bees. I don't want to be poked in the eye with a pointed stick. In my adventure, if I turned around and find out what was behind me on the path, would it be a cuddly pot-bellied pig digging up forest truffles that I could give to the old lady in the village in return for a magic charm that would heal my ailing horse who I could then ride into the mountains to save my captured friend and live happily ever after? Or would it be the enraged werewolf ready to tear me in two (I'd have already used my silver bullet on the vampire earlier that day). I definitely wouldn't choose to go into the dark passageway; that would most likely be walking into a trap.
No, I would choose plan C, the unwritten option: Using the vines to scale the wall, you get the heck out of there.
I never read very many of these books, because I found them unsatisfying. The plots were generally crude and quite creepy, often with endings like: You turn to leave the cave only to discover that you cannot move your legs. While you were greedily examining your treasure, you had unknowingly stepped into a quicksand booby trap. The more you struggle, the faster you sink, and no one can hear your cries for help. You spend you last moments wondering if you'd even managed to save your mother as the earth slowly swallows you whole. The end.
I don't like stories ending with starving in a pit or being eaten by giant spiders, and I like them even less when the horrible result is somehow my own fault. Not wanting to take credit for bad decisions, I would have to systematically find every possible route through the book to see all the potential results, thus defeating the purpose of the book, but easing my mind. Maybe this early exposure to stressful reading is one reason I tend to make decisions based on ruling out what I don't want, rather than deciding what I would most like.
That's always how I've made important decisions, such as choosing a college to attend. I first crossed off states that I didn't want to live in (incidentally, I think my 16-year-old self crossed off Florida....), then discarded universities that were too large, too fraternity-based or too expensive. I then ruled out places with any particularities that I found annoying and ended up with 3 colleges out of all of the U.S. Unfortunately, since I was accepted at all three, I still had to narrow it down. I discarded the most expensive one, and went to visit the closest one to my home at the time (that meant only an ocean away, rather than an ocean and a continent). I figured if I liked the feel, I would go there (in Virginia) and if not, I would go to the other one (in Washington State)--sight unseen. I ended up liking the first one, and it turned out to be a good choice, but I still don't know if my methods are healthy. I guess I don't know what I want, but I know what I DON'T want.
I don't want to end up drowning in ship wreck. I don't want to be attacked by killer bees. I don't want to be poked in the eye with a pointed stick. In my adventure, if I turned around and find out what was behind me on the path, would it be a cuddly pot-bellied pig digging up forest truffles that I could give to the old lady in the village in return for a magic charm that would heal my ailing horse who I could then ride into the mountains to save my captured friend and live happily ever after? Or would it be the enraged werewolf ready to tear me in two (I'd have already used my silver bullet on the vampire earlier that day). I definitely wouldn't choose to go into the dark passageway; that would most likely be walking into a trap.
No, I would choose plan C, the unwritten option: Using the vines to scale the wall, you get the heck out of there.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
More nerd than geek....
Lately, some conversations and choices of leisure activities have caused me to feel somewhat geeky. I've recently dredged up from my memory some embarrassingly specific details of science-fictiony things, I've been reading about sociology, ethology and geography for fun, I've completed a jigsaw puzzle and numerous NY Times crosswords, and I've become increasingly uninterested in clothes and fashion (hardly seems possible, I know).
These geeky behaviors, however, have not sprouted any new interest in the traditionally geeky fields of technology or computer programming. Although I'm computer literate enough to have this simple blog and watch videos of interest on You Tube, I have no idea how people achieved such funny and elaborate results with things like Stephen Colbert's Green Screen Challenge. Even if I wanted to participate, I would have absolutely no clue how to start (which is okay, though, because I'm not much of a joiner anyway). So, though I am enough of a geek to know about the Rancor Monsters and Daleks featured in some of those projects, I seem to be lacking in any real geek ability. (I admittedly even have a Rancor Monster in my closet (it's only a model) along with a Darth Vader shaped box of Star Wars people and an Ewok village. Granted, they're packed away in a moving box, so it's not like I'm staging blaster battles on a daily basis, but I just can't bring myself to give them away. I also just watched the latest Doctor Who out on DVD with Christopher Eccleston (good bit of casting) fighting a new wave of Daleks in a very entertaining update of the old series.)
I've never hacked into anything (or even tried to (or even ever thought about it really)), and I'm no good at video games (unless you count the Sims, which I did like when it came out, but you can hardly lose at that game unless you lock your person in a room with no doors and no food, which is a really cruel idea, but, of course, one that had to be tried). My method for fixing any computer problem after trying "esc" and "ctrl-alt-del" is to turn it off and on again (which, surprisingly, has been a very effective strategy for me).
So, to answer the question of my geekiness, I did the geeky thing and turned to the internet. First, I turned to a geek quiz to find my geek factor, which turns out to be surprisingly low--or not that surprising, it seems, since I don't like comic books, programming, or conventions of any kind. This low number came with a picture of Kirsten Dunst, which I guess means something good, although I'm not sure what.
________________________________
You are 29% geek 
You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator.
For The Record:
A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in Nerd, earning you the title of: Pure Nerd.
The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular,
which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendencies associated with the "dork."
No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older:
eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful.
Congratulations!
_______________________________________________________
I'm glad to now know that the skeletons (Rancor Monster) in my closet mean that I will end up a huge success. All this time spent on the internet has been totally worth it!
Incidently, the screwy font sizes on this blog should be evidence that I'm not geeky enough to fix computer glitches!
Today, in my best estimation, my cats turn 7 and 4. Sammy, born in Virginia, has been in more states than a lot of people. Wookie, once a wild Oregon kitten, is now the most spoiled of lap cats. We celebrated the day with some cloth mice and a new laser pointer. Perhaps a little catnip might be in order, although by the looks of them, they hardly need it!
_____________________
Besides enjoying cat birthdays, today I received some mail from my mom. She had enclosed a letter that I had written as a joke when I was thirteen. It was amazing; in tone, in humor, it sounded like I had written it just the other day. I thought I would have developed a little further from the mindset of a young teenager, but I suppose in essentials we remain the same as we ever were (in my case, sarcastic and difficult).
In the month since my last post, I happily left my laptop at home to visit friends and family across the country. In the green hills of western North Carolina, I could breathe deeply the freshest air since moving to Florida. The break from the monotonous flatness and humidity was overjoying. I could stare at the trees and the landscape for hours.
Then I flew to Washington State. Backpacking in the Cascades, away from crowds, drinking fresh filtered water from mountain streams, I reveled in the smell of the evergreens and the feel of the temperature dropping in the evenings. Imagine needing to wear long sleeves at times! One morning my toes were even cold! (I admit, my toes and nose have been cold in Florida, but only at the movie theatre or domed Devil Rays' game.) I patted rocks, poked squishy moss, hugged trees, listened to babbling brooks and watched wildlife (like a cute marmot, who also watched me and whistled shrilly to warn his buddies of my presence). I hiked nearly 40 miles and got pestered at times by mosquitoes and flies, but sore muscles and bugs and sleeping on the hard ground only meant that I was finally again in the alpine wilderness, where I am happiest.
North Carolina was pretty. South Carolina was restful. I'll even admit that Florida has its nice bits and interesting animals. But I only feel at home when I can climb thousands of feet, cross above the treeline and absorb the tranquility.
These geeky behaviors, however, have not sprouted any new interest in the traditionally geeky fields of technology or computer programming. Although I'm computer literate enough to have this simple blog and watch videos of interest on You Tube, I have no idea how people achieved such funny and elaborate results with things like Stephen Colbert's Green Screen Challenge. Even if I wanted to participate, I would have absolutely no clue how to start (which is okay, though, because I'm not much of a joiner anyway). So, though I am enough of a geek to know about the Rancor Monsters and Daleks featured in some of those projects, I seem to be lacking in any real geek ability. (I admittedly even have a Rancor Monster in my closet (it's only a model) along with a Darth Vader shaped box of Star Wars people and an Ewok village. Granted, they're packed away in a moving box, so it's not like I'm staging blaster battles on a daily basis, but I just can't bring myself to give them away. I also just watched the latest Doctor Who out on DVD with Christopher Eccleston (good bit of casting) fighting a new wave of Daleks in a very entertaining update of the old series.)
I've never hacked into anything (or even tried to (or even ever thought about it really)), and I'm no good at video games (unless you count the Sims, which I did like when it came out, but you can hardly lose at that game unless you lock your person in a room with no doors and no food, which is a really cruel idea, but, of course, one that had to be tried). My method for fixing any computer problem after trying "esc" and "ctrl-alt-del" is to turn it off and on again (which, surprisingly, has been a very effective strategy for me).
So, to answer the question of my geekiness, I did the geeky thing and turned to the internet. First, I turned to a geek quiz to find my geek factor, which turns out to be surprisingly low--or not that surprising, it seems, since I don't like comic books, programming, or conventions of any kind. This low number came with a picture of Kirsten Dunst, which I guess means something good, although I'm not sure what.
________________________________
Normal: Tell our geek we need him to work this weekend.
You [to Geek]: We need more than that, Scotty. You'll have to stay until you can squeeze more outta them engines!
Geek [to You]: I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain, but we need more dilithium crystals!
You [to Normal]: He wants to know if he gets overtime.
I like this assessment. I've always felt that I could communicate with a wide range of people. So, by this website, I am not geeky, but definitely not hip. My next search, then, was to find the difference between being a geek, a nerd, and a dork. Not surprisingly, I immediately found a webpage for this as well, which led me to understand that I have been feeling nerdy rather than geeky.
My results:
______________________________________________________
Pure Nerd
82 % Nerd, 30% Geek, 21% Dork
A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in Nerd, earning you the title of: Pure Nerd.
The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular,
which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendencies associated with the "dork."
No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older:
eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful.
Congratulations!
_______________________________________________________
I'm glad to now know that the skeletons (Rancor Monster) in my closet mean that I will end up a huge success. All this time spent on the internet has been totally worth it!
Incidently, the screwy font sizes on this blog should be evidence that I'm not geeky enough to fix computer glitches!
Steven Colbert's Green Screen Challenge
Take the Polygeek Quiz at Thudfactor.com
Thursday, August 24, 2006
A Very Merry Cat Birthday
Today, in my best estimation, my cats turn 7 and 4. Sammy, born in Virginia, has been in more states than a lot of people. Wookie, once a wild Oregon kitten, is now the most spoiled of lap cats. We celebrated the day with some cloth mice and a new laser pointer. Perhaps a little catnip might be in order, although by the looks of them, they hardly need it!
_____________________
Besides enjoying cat birthdays, today I received some mail from my mom. She had enclosed a letter that I had written as a joke when I was thirteen. It was amazing; in tone, in humor, it sounded like I had written it just the other day. I thought I would have developed a little further from the mindset of a young teenager, but I suppose in essentials we remain the same as we ever were (in my case, sarcastic and difficult).
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Fresh Perspective
Now that my summertime travels have ended, I've decided to improve my attitude towards my residence by changing things up a little. I like moving (on a yearly basis) and changing my environment (as often as possible), so when I live in the same dwelling for a long period of time (1 year and 2 months and counting) I become a rearranging maniac. I enjoy the challenge of finding all the possible permutations of my IKEA furniture in this one bedroom apartment. I think I've had my bed in every possible location except the living room.
Moving the furniture is not only an opportunity to tidy up a little, but it's a fascinating experiment in feline behavior. In my kitty subjects, the immediate alarm of change quickly changes to curiosity and sniffing of previously covered areas of carpet. Next comes perching on all pieces of furniture to test for new napping spots, followed by actual naps in the old napping spots' new locations. Now doesn't that sound like an interesting Saturday afternoon?
I've also found a hidden benefit to living under the harsh Florida sun. Some of the art decorating my walls has become dramatically faded. I could respond with anger to this destruction. (Well, I'll admit that was most likely my initial feeling. I am angry all the time.) Instead of lamenting (with rage) the slow disappearance of my lemur and monkey paintings from a Chinese calendar and the sad demise of an adorable tabby cat (also from an apparently poor-quality calendar), I logged on to do some on-line shopping for art prints.
There's no way I am in the market for an original piece of art. While it would be nice to have a one-of-a-kind painting, I'm just not rolling in that kind of dough (or any kind of dough, although cookie dough might be fun). I just like the reprints of captivating art that I can put in a cheap frame and stare at when I'm trying to think of the answer to a crossword clue. That said, some of the art prints I liked still soared past my budget, so I couldn't purchase everything that caught my eye.
I already have a Miro print in my living room that's mesmerizing. It's a surreal abstract of a figure playing a guitar and surrounded by funky animals. There's an attentive dog and a proper cat, a swooping bat, and even a frog all in bright blue, green, red, white and brown. I bet that's a fun place to live. To complement this wonderful Miro, I decided to buy a Picasso (well, not A Picasso, but you know what I mean). I chose one of his Cubist still lifes, a violin and guitar, which I though Miro's guitar player might like to look at from across the room.
I have Van Gogh's Irises in the bathroom. I love the way that man painted! My eye happily follows his swirls and swoops, while taking in his perfect colors. I almost bought a print of his Wheat Field and Cyprusses, which has always been one of my favorites, but I thought it might be better to branch out a bit. I already have Starry Night on a candle holder and a Van Gogh cookie tin with a different painting on each side from my Amsterdam days. I don't want to go ear-chopping nuts from overexposure.
In the bedroom I have a relaxing blue and white Georgia O'Keefe flower print and a bright, fun picture called Gatos de la Casa, which is just what is sounds like--3 cats in a sunlit room (plus a bowl with a pineapple and a bunch of grapes, presumably for the human of la casa, who is thankfully not pictured). Along with that is a Tibetan picture of the Guardian of the Himalayas (a beautiful woman in flowing robes on top of a tiger). To this mix, I decided to add a Matisse painting of a colorful room interior and another abstract (of cats, of course). I mean, what else would go?
To complete my redecoration, in an overt attempt at a cheerful second year in Florida, I bought a monkey picture. You always need some monkey art to make you smile.
Moving the furniture is not only an opportunity to tidy up a little, but it's a fascinating experiment in feline behavior. In my kitty subjects, the immediate alarm of change quickly changes to curiosity and sniffing of previously covered areas of carpet. Next comes perching on all pieces of furniture to test for new napping spots, followed by actual naps in the old napping spots' new locations. Now doesn't that sound like an interesting Saturday afternoon?
I've also found a hidden benefit to living under the harsh Florida sun. Some of the art decorating my walls has become dramatically faded. I could respond with anger to this destruction. (Well, I'll admit that was most likely my initial feeling. I am angry all the time.) Instead of lamenting (with rage) the slow disappearance of my lemur and monkey paintings from a Chinese calendar and the sad demise of an adorable tabby cat (also from an apparently poor-quality calendar), I logged on to do some on-line shopping for art prints.
There's no way I am in the market for an original piece of art. While it would be nice to have a one-of-a-kind painting, I'm just not rolling in that kind of dough (or any kind of dough, although cookie dough might be fun). I just like the reprints of captivating art that I can put in a cheap frame and stare at when I'm trying to think of the answer to a crossword clue. That said, some of the art prints I liked still soared past my budget, so I couldn't purchase everything that caught my eye.
I already have a Miro print in my living room that's mesmerizing. It's a surreal abstract of a figure playing a guitar and surrounded by funky animals. There's an attentive dog and a proper cat, a swooping bat, and even a frog all in bright blue, green, red, white and brown. I bet that's a fun place to live. To complement this wonderful Miro, I decided to buy a Picasso (well, not A Picasso, but you know what I mean). I chose one of his Cubist still lifes, a violin and guitar, which I though Miro's guitar player might like to look at from across the room.
I have Van Gogh's Irises in the bathroom. I love the way that man painted! My eye happily follows his swirls and swoops, while taking in his perfect colors. I almost bought a print of his Wheat Field and Cyprusses, which has always been one of my favorites, but I thought it might be better to branch out a bit. I already have Starry Night on a candle holder and a Van Gogh cookie tin with a different painting on each side from my Amsterdam days. I don't want to go ear-chopping nuts from overexposure.
In the bedroom I have a relaxing blue and white Georgia O'Keefe flower print and a bright, fun picture called Gatos de la Casa, which is just what is sounds like--3 cats in a sunlit room (plus a bowl with a pineapple and a bunch of grapes, presumably for the human of la casa, who is thankfully not pictured). Along with that is a Tibetan picture of the Guardian of the Himalayas (a beautiful woman in flowing robes on top of a tiger). To this mix, I decided to add a Matisse painting of a colorful room interior and another abstract (of cats, of course). I mean, what else would go?
To complete my redecoration, in an overt attempt at a cheerful second year in Florida, I bought a monkey picture. You always need some monkey art to make you smile.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Escape from Floridatraz or The Exile Returns
In the month since my last post, I happily left my laptop at home to visit friends and family across the country. In the green hills of western North Carolina, I could breathe deeply the freshest air since moving to Florida. The break from the monotonous flatness and humidity was overjoying. I could stare at the trees and the landscape for hours.
Then I flew to Washington State. Backpacking in the Cascades, away from crowds, drinking fresh filtered water from mountain streams, I reveled in the smell of the evergreens and the feel of the temperature dropping in the evenings. Imagine needing to wear long sleeves at times! One morning my toes were even cold! (I admit, my toes and nose have been cold in Florida, but only at the movie theatre or domed Devil Rays' game.) I patted rocks, poked squishy moss, hugged trees, listened to babbling brooks and watched wildlife (like a cute marmot, who also watched me and whistled shrilly to warn his buddies of my presence). I hiked nearly 40 miles and got pestered at times by mosquitoes and flies, but sore muscles and bugs and sleeping on the hard ground only meant that I was finally again in the alpine wilderness, where I am happiest.
North Carolina was pretty. South Carolina was restful. I'll even admit that Florida has its nice bits and interesting animals. But I only feel at home when I can climb thousands of feet, cross above the treeline and absorb the tranquility.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
The Fresh-mess-maker
The new fad of Diet Coke and Mentos homemade rocket fountains has been getting a lot of attention. Besides television and newspaper spots dedicated to this crazy stunt, lots of people are trying out their own versions (many which end up in videos on the web). Although I don't really have any interest in making my own soda mess, I'm amused by the whole idea. It made me laugh one evening to pass a small group of middle-aged people trying their carbonated rocket skills in a quiet parking lot.
One question has puzzled me since I first heard of this phenomenon: if this mixture is so powerful, what happens when a person drinks Diet Coke and eats Mentos at the same time? While I don't really believe that anything truly interesting or dangerous would happen in this scenario, I'm not willing to experiment. Thanks to Dee for providing the answer:
http://www.revver.com/video/31264/
I especially enjoy the woman's dance moves as she shakes up her personal mixture.
One question has puzzled me since I first heard of this phenomenon: if this mixture is so powerful, what happens when a person drinks Diet Coke and eats Mentos at the same time? While I don't really believe that anything truly interesting or dangerous would happen in this scenario, I'm not willing to experiment. Thanks to Dee for providing the answer:
http://www.revver.com/video/31264/
I especially enjoy the woman's dance moves as she shakes up her personal mixture.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Independence Day
I think it's interesting that Americans often refer to today as the 4th of July. Why call it the "4th of" when the month comes first for every other date? You could almost say it is un-American to put the day before the month. Norwegians, for example, refer to their national day as the 17th of May, but they would also write that date as 17-5. Americans would never write 4-7-06 unless they meant April seventh. It seems logical and natural to progress from smaller to larger--day, month, year--but Americans, for whatever reason (something akin to disliking the metric system for making too much sense) have chosen to record the month first. Except for today, the most American of days. Why?
Regardless of the semantics, I am enjoying having most of the day off. I had a pleasant bike ride this morning, watching people set up picnics and walk their dogs in a leisurely fashion. I expect to be suitably appreciative of the downtown firework show tonight. Unless it thunderstorms, in which case I will watch the lightning from my couch.
I've already used the holiday excuse to have some Haagen Dazs chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, and I am feeling pleasantly sated from the delightful experience. Tradition recommends partaking of at least one hot dog, but I think the ice cream was a far superior choice. So many people are barbecuing that the smell of hot dogs has pervaded my bedroom. I do not find the smell appetizing. One cat is sleeping through the holiday smell, resting up to enjoy the pyrotechnics this evening from a special viewpoint under the bed. The other cat, my man (who would probably eat a hot dog if offered one, but does not feel strongly enough about them to have bought some for today), and I have retreated to the living room, where we smell only normal apartment smell (ourselves?). Out here we can also watch some footie. What better way to celebrate U.S. Independence than to watch the Germany-Italy semi-final in Spanish on UniVision?
Happy fourth day of the seventh month.
Regardless of the semantics, I am enjoying having most of the day off. I had a pleasant bike ride this morning, watching people set up picnics and walk their dogs in a leisurely fashion. I expect to be suitably appreciative of the downtown firework show tonight. Unless it thunderstorms, in which case I will watch the lightning from my couch.
I've already used the holiday excuse to have some Haagen Dazs chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, and I am feeling pleasantly sated from the delightful experience. Tradition recommends partaking of at least one hot dog, but I think the ice cream was a far superior choice. So many people are barbecuing that the smell of hot dogs has pervaded my bedroom. I do not find the smell appetizing. One cat is sleeping through the holiday smell, resting up to enjoy the pyrotechnics this evening from a special viewpoint under the bed. The other cat, my man (who would probably eat a hot dog if offered one, but does not feel strongly enough about them to have bought some for today), and I have retreated to the living room, where we smell only normal apartment smell (ourselves?). Out here we can also watch some footie. What better way to celebrate U.S. Independence than to watch the Germany-Italy semi-final in Spanish on UniVision?
Happy fourth day of the seventh month.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
More Free Advertisement
I admit that I have become something of a beer snob since living on the West Coast. Oregon microbrews have unique flavor and lots of hops that are as far from Bud or Miller as imaginable. I enjoy the red ales and special bitters, with my all-time favorites coming from the Deschutes Brewery in Bend, OR.
Since relocating to this less cultured part of the country, I have suffered numerous disappointments in beer tastings. None of the local brews I've sampled have any real character, and I won't resort to a boring lager unless I'm trapped in a bowling alley or baseball stadium. If you search high and low (and believe me that the Mega-Beer-Snob that I live with would jump on a sidewalk grate, balance on the edge of a tall building or wrestle a gator for a good ale) you can find some decent microbrews from Colorado or, unexpectedly, Delaware in a progressive liquor store. Bottles can't quite compare with great beer on tap (Best ever: Terminal Gravity nicely chilled at Rennie's).
Surprisingly, I am thrilled to report that I have found a tasty ale on tap at a hip, local bar. "The Independent" sells no mass-market beer, only interesting microbrews, many of which are imported from England and Belgium. Last night I sampled the "Hobgoblin" ale from England and I found it quite delightful. I rag on Florida so often that I thought this positive experience deserved special mention in my blog. Not only was the beer tasty, dinner at a sushi bar afterwards was utterly enjoyable and satisfying. Well done, St. Petersburg, Florida.
**Condolences to England for their World Cup loss. So close!**
Since relocating to this less cultured part of the country, I have suffered numerous disappointments in beer tastings. None of the local brews I've sampled have any real character, and I won't resort to a boring lager unless I'm trapped in a bowling alley or baseball stadium. If you search high and low (and believe me that the Mega-Beer-Snob that I live with would jump on a sidewalk grate, balance on the edge of a tall building or wrestle a gator for a good ale) you can find some decent microbrews from Colorado or, unexpectedly, Delaware in a progressive liquor store. Bottles can't quite compare with great beer on tap (Best ever: Terminal Gravity nicely chilled at Rennie's).
Surprisingly, I am thrilled to report that I have found a tasty ale on tap at a hip, local bar. "The Independent" sells no mass-market beer, only interesting microbrews, many of which are imported from England and Belgium. Last night I sampled the "Hobgoblin" ale from England and I found it quite delightful. I rag on Florida so often that I thought this positive experience deserved special mention in my blog. Not only was the beer tasty, dinner at a sushi bar afterwards was utterly enjoyable and satisfying. Well done, St. Petersburg, Florida.
**Condolences to England for their World Cup loss. So close!**
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Just a Job
Maybe it's because I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but I really dislike being labeled by my job. I've held some very different positions, but I've never been comfortable saying "I am a [fill-in-the-blank]." I'm much more comfortable with phrasing such as "I work at . . ." instead of boxing myself in.
Not that people make it easy to distance myself from labels. Often the first questioned people ask after we're introduced is, "What do you do for a living?" To me, that is a personal question, akin to asking how much money I have or how much I weigh. A job or profession should be a topic that arises only after extensive conversation, not as an immediate label of status.
Having to wear a uniform to my current workplace doesn't help. People stop me in parking lots to comment on my outfit, or feel the need to grill me on my job simply because I'm in work clothes. Yes, I'm wearing scrubs, but that doesn't mean I want to discuss my employment with total strangers. Worse, some of my scrubs are embroidered with the name of the vet clinic that provides my paycheck. "Oh, you work in a vet hospital? How cute! That must be SO interesting." It makes me want to respond, "I see you're wearing an ugly shirt. You must be an accountant."
Maybe I'm too private, but I appreciate cultures in which jobs don't define a person. I think it's refreshing to have numerous meetings with people and realize later that I have no idea what kind of work they do. Perhaps I just feel this way because I have no job-related status in this society. Maybe I would love to brag about my career if I were a best-selling novelist or successful stockbroker. I could then show off my importance with a Lexus SUV, designer clothes and a McMansion in a lovely suburb.
See, I can be judgmental, too.
Not that people make it easy to distance myself from labels. Often the first questioned people ask after we're introduced is, "What do you do for a living?" To me, that is a personal question, akin to asking how much money I have or how much I weigh. A job or profession should be a topic that arises only after extensive conversation, not as an immediate label of status.
Having to wear a uniform to my current workplace doesn't help. People stop me in parking lots to comment on my outfit, or feel the need to grill me on my job simply because I'm in work clothes. Yes, I'm wearing scrubs, but that doesn't mean I want to discuss my employment with total strangers. Worse, some of my scrubs are embroidered with the name of the vet clinic that provides my paycheck. "Oh, you work in a vet hospital? How cute! That must be SO interesting." It makes me want to respond, "I see you're wearing an ugly shirt. You must be an accountant."
Maybe I'm too private, but I appreciate cultures in which jobs don't define a person. I think it's refreshing to have numerous meetings with people and realize later that I have no idea what kind of work they do. Perhaps I just feel this way because I have no job-related status in this society. Maybe I would love to brag about my career if I were a best-selling novelist or successful stockbroker. I could then show off my importance with a Lexus SUV, designer clothes and a McMansion in a lovely suburb.
See, I can be judgmental, too.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Handbags, Gladrags and Indiana Jones
Paul Tropische recently posted a psychotic comment on my "Fork" entry. While the tone and content of his posting were utterly insane, I appreciated the time it must have taken Paul (if that is his real name) to write such a thorough response to my restaurant issue. I've decided, therefore, to respond in turn to each of his odd little points.
First of all, the Trop suggested hauling around some silverware in a handbag for cutlery emergencies. Besides the obvious problem of keeping forks clean in a purse full of other junk and the bigger issue that any passerby or restaurant worker would assume you were stealing the restaurant's silverware and cause an uncomfortable commotion, the main drawback is that I hate carrying a handbag. A purse--a cumbersome, girly accessory and stupid waste of money--would be utterly unnecessary if designers made women's clothes more practical and comfortable. I could easily fit a fork or two along with a wallet and keys in the pocket of men's clothes, but many articles of women's clothes don't have even a single pocket. I've seen some clothing in which the pockets are purely decorative! This complete nonsense makes me even angrier than not getting a second fork, so it can hardly be a solution to my problem.
Second, Paulo mentioned using forks as weapons. Now this is a great idea. I'm always looking for new ways to attack people who irritate me. I mean, they'd never expect that innocent looking utensil to come charging at them, would they? Indiana Jones is my hero. You'd never see Indiana Jones carrying a purse.
Incidentally, whatever happened to Lao Che? In the "Temple of Doom" movie, he organizes the almost certain death of the good guys by arranging for their plane to crash, but through quick thinking and a remarkably well-made inflatable dinghy, they survive to reach India, eat eyeball soup (grossest idea ever), escape ritual sacrifice to a catchy chant, and race around in a runaway mine car. Of course, Indy saves the day (yes, it may seem condescending for an outsider to solve the mystery, but Harrison Ford can pull it off without seeming like a pompous American), but where is his thirst for revenge? I imagine that James Bond would have been on the next flight to China to take out Lao Che and his little empire. Dr. Jones is either too forgiving, too forgetful or too chicken to return to Shanghai. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him forgiving. I guess every hero has a tragic flaw.
In his comments, the tropical mischief-maker then tried to bring politics into the issue. While I refuse to blog about politics (triple the anger of fork problems and wretched hand-gags), I will say that my darling significant other agreed that we'd never live in a red state unless it came with the benefit of a spectacular, mountainous natural environment (Alaska or western Montana). So that can't be a factor.
Thanks, PT. You've been very helpful. You'd better hope I'm fork-less if we ever meet.
First of all, the Trop suggested hauling around some silverware in a handbag for cutlery emergencies. Besides the obvious problem of keeping forks clean in a purse full of other junk and the bigger issue that any passerby or restaurant worker would assume you were stealing the restaurant's silverware and cause an uncomfortable commotion, the main drawback is that I hate carrying a handbag. A purse--a cumbersome, girly accessory and stupid waste of money--would be utterly unnecessary if designers made women's clothes more practical and comfortable. I could easily fit a fork or two along with a wallet and keys in the pocket of men's clothes, but many articles of women's clothes don't have even a single pocket. I've seen some clothing in which the pockets are purely decorative! This complete nonsense makes me even angrier than not getting a second fork, so it can hardly be a solution to my problem.
Second, Paulo mentioned using forks as weapons. Now this is a great idea. I'm always looking for new ways to attack people who irritate me. I mean, they'd never expect that innocent looking utensil to come charging at them, would they? Indiana Jones is my hero. You'd never see Indiana Jones carrying a purse.
Incidentally, whatever happened to Lao Che? In the "Temple of Doom" movie, he organizes the almost certain death of the good guys by arranging for their plane to crash, but through quick thinking and a remarkably well-made inflatable dinghy, they survive to reach India, eat eyeball soup (grossest idea ever), escape ritual sacrifice to a catchy chant, and race around in a runaway mine car. Of course, Indy saves the day (yes, it may seem condescending for an outsider to solve the mystery, but Harrison Ford can pull it off without seeming like a pompous American), but where is his thirst for revenge? I imagine that James Bond would have been on the next flight to China to take out Lao Che and his little empire. Dr. Jones is either too forgiving, too forgetful or too chicken to return to Shanghai. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him forgiving. I guess every hero has a tragic flaw.
In his comments, the tropical mischief-maker then tried to bring politics into the issue. While I refuse to blog about politics (triple the anger of fork problems and wretched hand-gags), I will say that my darling significant other agreed that we'd never live in a red state unless it came with the benefit of a spectacular, mountainous natural environment (Alaska or western Montana). So that can't be a factor.
Thanks, PT. You've been very helpful. You'd better hope I'm fork-less if we ever meet.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
I Deserve Two Forks (if not more)
Is there a shortage of forks in the restaurant business? Do cafes save big bucks on dishwashing bills by skimping on the silverware?
All I want to do is place my fork on my salad plate when I'm finished. The mostly-empty plate seems like a logical place for a used utensil, and placing the fork thus signals to the wait staff that the plate can be removed. Yet, unless I shell out big bucks for a caviar and linen tablecloth kind of place, I am apparently only allowed one fork per meal.
Numerous times I have been astounded by a server's request that I keep my used salad fork. Keep it? Should I hold it in my hands until the next course arrives? Am I to put it down on the potentially grimy tabletop after meticulously licking all the remnants of salad dressing off? I guess I could rest it on my napkin, but isn't that supposed to stay in my lap? Should I put the fork in my lap, too? Maybe I'll just forget about using a napkin and wipe my hands on the salt shaker.
If they want to skimp on forks, perhaps we should forgo knives as well. Who needs a knife when you can tear food really well with your teeth and hands? If they continue this downward slide, soon we'll be drinking straight from the wine bottle and slurping right out of the soup bowl, which would indeed speed things up considerably.
In the end, I guess it all comes down to speed and convenience. All that silverware is just too time-consuming for the frenzied American lifestyle. I always feel rushed when eating out in American restaurants. The restaurant staff, while probably trying to cater to those who are in a hurry, end up making me feel pressured to scarf my meal in record time. I don't want the main course when I am still eating the soup or the salad, and I hate being brought the bill when I am still enjoying my entree. Even in an uncrowded place, it feels impossible to linger. When I get the check without asking, I feel like I am being firmly shown the door.
I don't need a formal place setting or a ten course meal, but when I'm paying to go out to dinner, it should be a little more civilized and classy than pizza and beer night in front of the telly. If not, then I'll just stay home and have more pizza and beer.
All I want to do is place my fork on my salad plate when I'm finished. The mostly-empty plate seems like a logical place for a used utensil, and placing the fork thus signals to the wait staff that the plate can be removed. Yet, unless I shell out big bucks for a caviar and linen tablecloth kind of place, I am apparently only allowed one fork per meal.
Numerous times I have been astounded by a server's request that I keep my used salad fork. Keep it? Should I hold it in my hands until the next course arrives? Am I to put it down on the potentially grimy tabletop after meticulously licking all the remnants of salad dressing off? I guess I could rest it on my napkin, but isn't that supposed to stay in my lap? Should I put the fork in my lap, too? Maybe I'll just forget about using a napkin and wipe my hands on the salt shaker.
If they want to skimp on forks, perhaps we should forgo knives as well. Who needs a knife when you can tear food really well with your teeth and hands? If they continue this downward slide, soon we'll be drinking straight from the wine bottle and slurping right out of the soup bowl, which would indeed speed things up considerably.
In the end, I guess it all comes down to speed and convenience. All that silverware is just too time-consuming for the frenzied American lifestyle. I always feel rushed when eating out in American restaurants. The restaurant staff, while probably trying to cater to those who are in a hurry, end up making me feel pressured to scarf my meal in record time. I don't want the main course when I am still eating the soup or the salad, and I hate being brought the bill when I am still enjoying my entree. Even in an uncrowded place, it feels impossible to linger. When I get the check without asking, I feel like I am being firmly shown the door.
I don't need a formal place setting or a ten course meal, but when I'm paying to go out to dinner, it should be a little more civilized and classy than pizza and beer night in front of the telly. If not, then I'll just stay home and have more pizza and beer.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Internet Wonders
It's easy to waste lots of time just clicking around on the internet. I can read articles and blogs, watch The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, write emails, check my accounts, choose movies on Netflix, Google strange words and buy things on Amazon.com.*
Even with all these distractions, nothing eats time like a bad quiz. "What's your dating style?", "Who's your inner diva?", and "What American Idol contestant are you most like?" don't interest me, but I was suckered in by the "What animal would you be?" quiz. When my results came up, I just had to laugh:
Even with all these distractions, nothing eats time like a bad quiz. "What's your dating style?", "Who's your inner diva?", and "What American Idol contestant are you most like?" don't interest me, but I was suckered in by the "What animal would you be?" quiz. When my results came up, I just had to laugh:
This horoscope is the best I've ever read. Except for the last bit--do people really think I'm that bad?--it was spot on. I am grumpy and cynical and striped and grizzled and I enjoy living in British Columbia or the British countryside. I think this website may be on to something.(http://quizilla.com/users/EmrysWolf/quizzes/What%20Is%20Your%20Animal%20Personality?/)
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in our fuzzy little friends that we are underlings.
*free advertisement, but I'm willing to negotiate.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Government Priorities
The city leaders of St. Petersburg, Florida have decided that recycling is a luxury that need not be pursued. Although they would like their town designated a "Green City", they'd rather not have to act environmentally conscious to achieve it. Apparently, it would cost approximately $3 a home to establish curbside recycling, but they deemed that too much of a burden on local citizens. They must have thought it was against our national freedoms to enact a mandatory fee for recycling. Maybe we should also go back to the medieval ways of throwing refuse out of the closest window to avoid the unfairness of having to pay for garbage pick up.
In other ridiculous news, the U.S. Government is cracking down on the sale of European Kinder Eggs in American stores. A hollow chocolate egg, a Kinder Surprise contains a small toy in a plastic cylinder that the government has designated dangerous for children under 3. So instead of just labelling the product as unsafe for toddlers (a warning which was already on the package), they've banned the sale completely. I think my right to enjoy chocolate is being infringed, but I guess it's probably for the best, since the plastic in their eggs would just end up in the landfills around here, anyway.
In other ridiculous news, the U.S. Government is cracking down on the sale of European Kinder Eggs in American stores. A hollow chocolate egg, a Kinder Surprise contains a small toy in a plastic cylinder that the government has designated dangerous for children under 3. So instead of just labelling the product as unsafe for toddlers (a warning which was already on the package), they've banned the sale completely. I think my right to enjoy chocolate is being infringed, but I guess it's probably for the best, since the plastic in their eggs would just end up in the landfills around here, anyway.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Plagued by Prince
All this week I've had some mysterious part of my brain torturing me by repeating the few Prince lyrics I know. I'm not a Prince fan and have never thought much about his music, but I've also got nothing against him (although that whole changing his name to a symbol was pretty weird). I've never felt the urge to run screaming when one of his songs came on the radio, but now that's my first impulse. I can't seem to escape them. They're playing in the back of my mind on a constant loop and I'm wondering what's the cause, or better yet, who's to blame.
Right now my brain is going, "Two-thousand-zero-zero-party-over-it's-out-of-time". It's utterly embarrassing. Not only is it an annoying song, but it's pretty lame to want to party like it's 1999 now. I totally see the appeal of ideas like those of "The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". I want that guy's songs out of my mind. Erase them, please. I'm sure I could use the space for something else.
Raaaaspberry beret....
The other day I had a dream that my clock radio was playing "When Dove's Cry" and no matter what I did, I couldn't get it to stop. I banged it, smashed it, threw it, but the song played on. Doot doo doo doo. Doot doo da doo. I woke up, confused, to find the song still going. My (undamaged) clock radio was playing it right by my head. Talk about nightmares coming true.
This morning, after being awoken by a similar song, I whined in discomfort and pleaded for it to go away. I've come to the conclusion that the media conglomerates are conspiring against me with their repeating playlists. Damn you, ClearChannel. I changed the station to modern rock. I don't think Prince is allowed in that category, so I'll probably be woken tomorrow by Nickelback or some other whiney, cringe-inducing garbage that will make me just as angry. I'm angry right now just thinking about it.
I discussed my troubles with my man, hoping he could help explain the sudden influx of Prince songs. He proceeded to hum "If you get caught between the moon and New York City....", which, if nothing else, proves that no matter how bad you think your problem is, you can always have a worse song stuck in your head.
Right now my brain is going, "Two-thousand-zero-zero-party-over-it's-out-of-time". It's utterly embarrassing. Not only is it an annoying song, but it's pretty lame to want to party like it's 1999 now. I totally see the appeal of ideas like those of "The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". I want that guy's songs out of my mind. Erase them, please. I'm sure I could use the space for something else.
Raaaaspberry beret....
The other day I had a dream that my clock radio was playing "When Dove's Cry" and no matter what I did, I couldn't get it to stop. I banged it, smashed it, threw it, but the song played on. Doot doo doo doo. Doot doo da doo. I woke up, confused, to find the song still going. My (undamaged) clock radio was playing it right by my head. Talk about nightmares coming true.
This morning, after being awoken by a similar song, I whined in discomfort and pleaded for it to go away. I've come to the conclusion that the media conglomerates are conspiring against me with their repeating playlists. Damn you, ClearChannel. I changed the station to modern rock. I don't think Prince is allowed in that category, so I'll probably be woken tomorrow by Nickelback or some other whiney, cringe-inducing garbage that will make me just as angry. I'm angry right now just thinking about it.
I discussed my troubles with my man, hoping he could help explain the sudden influx of Prince songs. He proceeded to hum "If you get caught between the moon and New York City....", which, if nothing else, proves that no matter how bad you think your problem is, you can always have a worse song stuck in your head.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Undedicated Follower of Fashion
I think I'm fairly observant of pop culture. I usually know the popular singers even if I don't listen to their music. I've heard about many shows and movies even though I don't have cable or satellite TV. I can figure out what styles of clothes are stylish from people-watching or window-shopping. Today, however, I read a newspaper article that made me feel completely clueless about current fashion.
The article (thankfully in the "Style" section, not in "News of the World") gave tips for spring looks. It began by positing that white will likely be the trendy color of spring. Fair enough, I can handle that simple tidbit. It seems like too normal of a color to be trendy, but maybe it's an anti-trend.
From her simple beginning, the writer then quickly progressed to a recommendation of espadrilles. I don't know what those are, but I bet I don't have any. It sounds like some unpleasant French food: would you like some espadrilles with your escargot? I Googled the word and it turns out to mean canvas sandally shoes with ribbons. Nope, don't have any of those. It will probably slip my mind to go out and buy some.
The fashion guru then suggested flowery dresses to evoke the feel of spring. I generally don't do flowery. Or dresses. I have one skirt that has small flowers on it, which I guess will have to do. I can wear it with a white shirt and go barefoot. I'll just pretend I left my espadrilles in my Hummer.
Her next tidbit for a fresh, spring look: "anything seersucker". This mysterious word sounds parasitic and uncomfortable and I'm guessing that I don't have any of that in my closet, either. Helpful Google tells me that it is a wrinkly fabric, usually striped. Can you get seersucker espadrilles, or would the two trends negate each other?
Finally, I am supposed to accessorize with a hobo bag (sounds expensive), a macrame belt (sounds summer camp-ish) and a hat (she probably doesn't mean baseball cap).
What must people be thinking of me when I'm out in public in my unwrinkled, solid clothing? My entire wardrobe is totally passe. I don't even have anything fit to wear to the mall to stock up on spring fashions. I'm so embarrassed.
The article (thankfully in the "Style" section, not in "News of the World") gave tips for spring looks. It began by positing that white will likely be the trendy color of spring. Fair enough, I can handle that simple tidbit. It seems like too normal of a color to be trendy, but maybe it's an anti-trend.
From her simple beginning, the writer then quickly progressed to a recommendation of espadrilles. I don't know what those are, but I bet I don't have any. It sounds like some unpleasant French food: would you like some espadrilles with your escargot? I Googled the word and it turns out to mean canvas sandally shoes with ribbons. Nope, don't have any of those. It will probably slip my mind to go out and buy some.
The fashion guru then suggested flowery dresses to evoke the feel of spring. I generally don't do flowery. Or dresses. I have one skirt that has small flowers on it, which I guess will have to do. I can wear it with a white shirt and go barefoot. I'll just pretend I left my espadrilles in my Hummer.
Her next tidbit for a fresh, spring look: "anything seersucker". This mysterious word sounds parasitic and uncomfortable and I'm guessing that I don't have any of that in my closet, either. Helpful Google tells me that it is a wrinkly fabric, usually striped. Can you get seersucker espadrilles, or would the two trends negate each other?
Finally, I am supposed to accessorize with a hobo bag (sounds expensive), a macrame belt (sounds summer camp-ish) and a hat (she probably doesn't mean baseball cap).
What must people be thinking of me when I'm out in public in my unwrinkled, solid clothing? My entire wardrobe is totally passe. I don't even have anything fit to wear to the mall to stock up on spring fashions. I'm so embarrassed.
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