seven days a week

What do you say after not posting for a month? Sorry for not posting for a month? Sorry for not posting for a month.

It's just that I've been busy, because my plan worked. I got into a program. Not at the level I wanted -- which, now that I realize what that have entailed, makes sense to me, and is actually a relief. Which hey, shoot for the stars, right? And you'll land on a rainbow? Something about unicorns?

In other news, I've been thinking about putting my keyboard in the dishwasher. The o, i, and u keys stick, and yesterday p wouldn't work. I had to cut and paste a p.

Yeah, but so the Plan did not take into account several factors. In high school, it was rumored for years that a good senior prank would be to borrow a cow from one of the many nearby pastures and walk it up onto the mezzanine overlooking the school gym. This plan held that cows can walk up stairs but not down -- I don't even know whether that's true -- so it would be funny to see school officials trying to figure out how to get a very heavy, hungry cow down. The plan remained a legendary possibility, because it also held that stealing a cow in the state of Indiana fell under the category of grand theft auto -- which I'm pretty sure is true. Despite the significant population of high school guys with bad judgment, we couldn't find anybody who would take the rap and steal the cow.

So now, in terms of my life, I've got a cow up on a mezzanine. Which is awesome! Moo! It's just that I didn't realize how much cows eat. What the hell do cows even eat? Do they sleep standing up? I know nothing about cows.

SHITE.

In a good way, though. I mean, it's going to be fine. The Plan will be tweaked. Yeah.

Omaha?

Today, I sneezed. That is not the interesting part, though, the interesting part is that I was standing next to the bathroom, and turned as I was sneezing so I could grab a Kleenex (okay, a square of toilet paper). And I slammed my forehead into the door frame with the full force of the sneeze.

So I'm uncoordinated, and I'm getting dumber.

I'm changing my name to Butterfly Rainbow Jones.

I've been wondering why I haven't been writing on this here blog-o for a while, and I guess it's because recently I've felt that there was waaaay too much of me visible in the world. My job has me in contact with a ginormous section of the public, practically on display like a zoo animal some days. And on days that aren't quite like that, I've still got nowhere to hide. Feeling looked at and scrutinized and having every little thing I do be fair game for a conversation doesn't make me eager to come write about myself.

But, so, by way of an example and also to fill the vast hunger I'm sure there is for more stories about my experiences in the grocery store, this is a story from last week.

I've been going to a deli a few blocks from where I work this semester, about two days a week. I order the same thing every time I go, and it has gotten to the point where we can conduct the entire transaction without a single word being spoken. (We tell each other "thank you," because we're not, you know, four years old. But we technically wouldn't need to.) This is both nice, because I like not having to say much and being able to sit alone for an hour in the middle of the day, and kind of not nice, because it is the opposite of anonymity.

So, yeah, I'm standing in the grocery store checkout line and I see the three guys from the deli come walking in. They don't notice me right away, and really, even if they had, how much can I assume that they want to say hi to the weirdo who eats the same thing every day? So I did the thing where you become really interested in the process of your groceries being scanned. They walked past a few aisles over, and just when I thought I was out of the woods, I heard, "HEY VEGETARIAN NUMBER SIX NO CUCUMBERS, NO MAYO!" Which I couldn't help but recognize as my order. I have no idea what my face looked like when I turned to see where that had come from. When they saw that I'd looked over, they all laughed and slapped each others' backs.

So-o-o. What does that mean? Were they making fun of me? Was that affectionate?

Clearly I can't go back there.

Did you see it?

I really want you to watch this. I've liked Obama from the outset -- the things he says are important to him, how he's handled campaign conflict, how he reportedly is running the internal parts of his campaign. I've picked up his books at the bookstore and the random pages I flipped to were interesting enough that I finally bought the first one this Sunday and am plowing through it. It's really interesting. It's thoughtful, honest, and clearly the product of a younger mind than the mind he has now, which is not a bad thing at all.

So when CNN yesterday was running around with its hair on fire because of Wright, I was pretty bummed about how the whole story seemed to be on auto-repeat a la "the scream" of 2004. Footage of Obama under his black pastor's inflammatory quotes. A still photo of Obama next to printed excerpts of his black pastor's inflammatory quotes. A scroll on the bottom of the screen endlessly repeating inflammatory quotes from Obama's black pastor. The general impression I suppose I should have formed that Obama hates white people. Wait, what?

I took a little bit of solace that if we're all going to hate Obama because he's got a crazy black priest, at least that throws some cold water on the Obama's-a-Muslim theory. Perhaps he could still be a secret Muslim, I don't know.

But anyway, to my point: this speech is incredible. He said things I didn't even know I wanted to hear, and there's a lot that I'm listening for when I listen to politicians. Now I know what he means when he says "hope." Now I know what he means when he says "change." Even I, an Obama supporter and (small) donor, kind of shrugged at the words, as if they hit some kind of wrong chord - yes, yes, change, the change we've been searching for since John Freaking Adams was president, chuck out the old guy get someone else in here, etc. That's not what he means at all.

The speech is 37-something minutes long. It's important. Not important relative to this campaign, although it is that, but it's important in lots of other ways. Please watch it.

just to see - you are not - passing by

With deserved trepidation, I followed some links today to a story in the Washington Post about how women are just kind of dumb and pathetic. Yeah, all women. Yeah, because they're women. Yeah, that Washington Post, the one you've heard of. It was written by a woman (and therefore unassailable?) and says pretty much what I said it says.

I wouldn't blame you if you didn't believe me, and went looking for the link that I'm not going to give you. Because I kind of didn't believe it, which is why I clicked on the link and read the whole thing.

Plenty of people in plenty of places are disputing the logic, which is clearly flawed. (Yes, studies show that men have on average greater spatial abilities than women. And women have better verbal memory than men on average, what of it? Is one type of ability inherently more central to judging a person's intelligence and worth?) The piece has spawned many arguments between one man, for instance, who says jeez, finally, the truth is acknowledged, and thirty women trying to shout him down. It also had the effect on me to want to send the writer an e-mail and say, "okay, then, I'll quit my job, get knocked up, refrain from voting (Obama!), and just go stare at a wall."

Because, really, what are we supposed to do with this information? Of course, yes, the article is wrong for all the reasons it's obviously wrong. But what's the real point of publishing it? Hackneyed arguments about the worthlessness of women aren't going to change the minds of people like me. They're not going to make me actually quit my job and get knocked up and refrain from voting (Obama!) and just go stare at a wall. They're just going to make me feel shitty all day.

I have an idea about what the point is of publishing it, and it's not a great conspiracy against women -- although if making me and a bunch of women like me feel shitty all day is a side effect, then so be it. The point of publishing it is to get a nickel from an advertiser who profits from them kicking me in the teeth.

Yeah, you know, that's what's to be done about this; here's a nice little note appearing at the top of the article now:

Agree? Disagree? Think this article should never have been published? Send a response to outlook@washpost.com and put "Smarter Than You Think" in the subject line. We'll publish a selection online and in the newspaper on Sunday.

And here's what will happen: a bunch of women and men will write in and say no, women aren't dumber than men. A few men will write in and say jeez, finally, the truth is acknowledged. And the Washington Post will sell more advertising. Not surprisingly, right now this article is at the top of the Post's list of most-read opinion articles.

So what's to be done about this? Let's not reward the Washington Post with more shit to stir. Let's reward advertisers with more hell than they bought advertising. It's 10:00pm Eastern, and here are the advertisers who are associating themselves with this dreck:

SmileTrain.org (Really SmileTrain? A non-profit providing free cleft surgery for children wants to tack its link up next to an article about how stupid women are? No donations for you, SmileTrain!)

BudgetTravel.com" (Actually, this one might actually work. Women may be dumb as boxes of rocks, but men still want to go on romantic vacations with them.)

UnderArmour.com" (Hey UnderArmour.com, guess what makes me feel my girl power and engage in activities requiring awesome fitness wear? Oh, just about anything other than an article telling me how I'm stupider than men.)

Okay, apparently after three separate article viewings, WaPo wants you to register. And I think it's pretty obvious that the last thing I want to do is give them another registration to tally up and show their advertisers.

Ha! Okay, here's my e-mail to Budget Travel (and here's where you can find contact information for their PR people):


Hi Soandso,
I was just wondering whether Budget Travel was aware that its ads were appearing next to an article about how women are, on balance, dumb and pathetic. Here's the link, in case you're in too good of a mood right now.

(**Hey, I told you I wasn't giving it to you!**)

Does Budget Travel make a habit of advertising alongside such articles? This particular one has certainly gotten a lot of attention from the public, probably because it's so inflammatory, so I can see why Budget Travel would want to put its name there in one sense. In another sense, I'm puzzled by why Budget Travel would want to associate itself with something that is so openly insulting to a group of people whom I'm guessing make up about half its readership.

Cheers,
(me)

Ha! Here's my e-mail to UnderArmour (submit your own here!)

Hello!

I noticed that your company is advertising alongside an article in the Washington Post that claims, essentially, that women are dumb. Here's the link to it:

***

I hope you don't also think that women are dumb, but just in case you do, I'll be careful not to purchase any of your products until I hear otherwise in some public forum or another.

Thanks!
((Me))


Ha! Here's my e-mail to SmileTrain (infoatsmiletraindotorg):

Hi SmileTrain,

Looks like you're doing some good work there. It makes me really happy to see non-profit organizations helping people, especially children, who need it.

I'm writing you because I was wondering what a nice non-profit organization would be doing advertising alongside an article about how dumb women are. Here's the link, in case you were allowing the Washington Post to put your ad up all willy-nilly and aren't aware of which specific articles they're putting it next to.

***

If you have time, I would be interested in hearing whether or not you were aware of your ad being placed next to this article. It's gotten a lot of hits today, which I'm sure was its purpose, but it seems to me like you wouldn't want to be purchasing advertising from a news organization that publishes stuff like this.

Thanks!
((me))


Well, sending off these e-mails has lifted my mood at least to the point where it was before I read that stupid thing this morning. If you have the time and inclination, I hope you submit your own letters as well.

The Drudge Report: Children in an Adult World

Does anyone else feel like they completely wasted Leap Day? 'Cause damn.

Here is a list, entitled "Who Are These People?"
1) People who send spam e-mails. Do they work 8 hours a day in an office? Or do they "work from home" and get paid under the table by people who they never see? Who writes spam e-mails?

2) People who write computer viruses. Is it a hobby, like people who used to have chemistry sets in their basements? Do they consider viruses "projects"?

3) People who are getting rejected from the same programs I am. Does anybody apply half-assedly?

How to Make French Toast for Your Honey: A Valentine's Day Tutorial

I do not cook, in the same way that I do not cross-country ski. I prepare food, and I walk around in the snow, but I never use more than one heating element and I don't strap fiberglass to my feet.

I worked in a soda fountain for several years in high school, and learned to make all kinds of things pretty well. Food was never really a focal point in my family, though my mom worked very hard at homecooking nearly everything we ate. So it wasn't until I was 16 that I realized a salad with "everything" was not actually a salad with pickles on it. (Okay, people, FINE, I am a freak. Just pick them off and shut he hell up.) I learned what the different styles of egg were, when to put the bacon on in relation to the eggs (later, a lot lot later), how to make hashbrowns (butter, grill press, put them on before you even think about doing anything else because they take forever to cook).

So through this experience of making complicated breakfasts for the most picky and sneering people on earth, I learned to make a french toast that will make you cry. With pleasure, I mean, not because there are razorblades in it. In that spirit, I give you:

Orooni's Guide to French Toast:

You will need: a griddle, bread (slightly dry bread helps absorption), as many eggs as slices of toast you would like, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, one regular sized dinner plate, and one oversized dinner plate or shallow salad bowl (big enough for a piece of bread to lie flat). And obvious things like a fork and spatula.

1) Place skillet on range (they're called ranges, right?) and set on high, unless you want to burn the shit out of your first piece. If not (and la di da for you), set it on four.

2) Put first piece of bread onto regular dinner-sized plate and cinnamon both sides to taste.

3) Mix an egg or two, plus some milk (about as much volume of milk as there is of egg), plus a little shot of vanilla, on the oversized dinner plate/shallow salad bowl.

4) Place the cinnamon-ed bread in the mixture and let it sit on the first side for awhile. (A few minutes.) You can use this time to cinnamon up some more slices and turn the burner down if you set it on high.

5) Flip the bread in the mixture over, let it sit for a bit longer, then transfer to griddle. For the first few, try this with a fork only, but after shredding several pieces, give up and use your fingers. Just make sure your hands are clean first, for God's sake.

6) Move next cinnamoned piece of bread to the egg mixture, replenishing egg, milk, and vanilla as necessary.

7) Look for spatula that isn't broken; discover in un-run dishwasher and settle for one that is broken.

8) Flip piece on griddle as soon as it becomes easy to un-stick. Or, if you greased the griddle for some reason, when it's golden brown, yada yada. Let cook on other side until you need room on griddle for next piece.

9) Continue as established until you have a big old pile of french toast.

10) Serve with burned side down and a dollop of love, because you forgot to buy syrup.

Okay, so it looked a little better on Audrey Hepburn.

People, this is post #700.

I'll pause to let that sink in.

Instead of writing blog posts, I've been writing a list of blog post topics down in my notebook. Nothing seems particularly fitting for a seven hundredth blog post, you know? For instance, one idea for a post concerns the Mac laptop that I use at work. It has one of those uber-convenient (or uber-inconvenient, depending on whether your battery is completely incapable of hold a charge and you are clumsy) magnetic cords that separate from your computer at the slightest tug. I recently got a new battery for it (see parens, above), and have been doing my best to treat the battery like a very special lady, the queen maybe, by plugging it in, charging it completely, and then unplugging it and letting the charge run down. This, as you can imagine, involves a lot of plugging and unplugging.

Well, recently also Other advised me not to keep my cellphone charger plugged into the wall when I'm not actually using it in order to conserve energy. Makes sense, yes.

But for some reason, this idea that a plugged-in cord is siphoning energy off the grid has made me intensely curious about how much energy is actually there.

So, translating this idea to the nice tiny little rectangular Mac plug has given me a distinct urge to touch it to my tongue when the outlet end is plugged in.

Every time I plug or unplug it, I look at the little rectangle and just imagine myself touching it to my tongue. It's not like one of those knife fights in the movies, where one hand is doing its best to force the little plug into my mouth and the other is struggling valiantly against it, and I'm leaning back over a desk and cursing. And you're probably not ever going to see a Reuters News of the Weird headline about some crazy chick who electrocuted herself with a Mac cord by purposely touching it to her tongue. But every time I see that little thing, I just get the mental image of touching it to my tongue.

Post Seven Hundred: Still An Idiot.

If George can be draped in velvet, I can be swathed in wool.

It was a momentous day in internet history, the day I discovered the :D. :D just says so much more than :). :) says "heh." :) says "what're ya gonna do." :) says "it's alright, yo." But :D. :D says FUCK YEAH. :D says fist pump! :D says "I am happy" or "I am a big goofball and I'm fully aware of that and I'm totally cool with it."

And I confess to you now that every time I :D in gmail, I watch it turn rightside up and blink its remarkably be-lashed eyes and burst into a grin. It makes me feel good. It makes me want to :D again. I am like a monkey with the cocaine. MORE. MORE BIG SMILEY.

And also, I have not yet found a single situation in which it would be conceivably plausible to use the winkey smiley. Winkey smiley kind of just seems like a sleazeball smiley. And I would rather be a goofball than a sleazeball.

Satuday is the new Sunday! And Friday.

Hey, want to try something fun? Whine, then drop your voice to a whisper (stop moving your vocal cords) but keep whining. Congratulations, you are now making the noise that Lou makes all the time. Well, okay, just when he's breathing. He curls up on the couch next to me and drowses, all the time whisper-whining. When I look over at him, he opens his eyes fully and looks at me all like, "What?" but doesn't stop making the noise. Such is Lou's state of perpetual suffering.

HOLY EFFING ESS, the plug is back!

I always sing the words to "Decatur, Or A Round of Applause for Your Stepmother!" wrong. There's no such thing as an abolition pain train. But maybe there should be.

Get Confident, Stupid!!

Here is a photo of a random run-of-the-mill turtle, because goodness this blog needs some color.



I missed the trip to the woods during which Jane Dog actually kicked a turtle (accidentally), pushing off from it in such a way as to send the poor thing spiraling through the air. Other helped it get right side up again, because it had landed on its back. The dogs will sniff them about as much as they will sniff rocks, leaves, sticks, and litter, which is less than they will sniff other, less sanitary substances in the woods. Turtles are the king of Just Be Cool.

It's the time of year where the temperature reaches the high 50s and confuses everyone. The windows are open, and I'm breathing in nostalgia.

oh goody, my phone bill is ready to be paid

Today we saw Juno and The Savages. I heartily recommend both, wowed newly as I am by Ellen Page, and wowed as ever as I am by Michael Cera and Philip Seymour Hoffman. Laura Linney, Jason Bateman, Rainn Wilson, all are also worth watching. I'm completely conflating these two movies, of course, good luck sorting all that out if you're inclined. Bah. See them both.

Other's birthday has the fortunate habit of falling toward the middle of my week off from work. I went about four family-packed days without even thinking about my life here or the upcoming semester (which is going to kill me, or make me stronger, or kill me, probably kill me) except in the most general and abstract of ways. That was nice. I will take more of that, please.

I also just realized a few minutes ago that it had been a full week since I checked my business-ish e-mail account. If I stop tending to my feet here soon, please call in some professionals.

i'm -- too clever for my shirt

Here's another post, one to sit at the top of the page, at home here on the internets whilst everyone is out caroling and making merry.

I'm pretty damn merry right now. I see people, out walking around, picking up prescriptions, whathaveyou, and I genuinely want them to have a nice holiday. It's weird.

Coincidentally, I am feeling kind of as if someone has carefully removed my brain and filled the empty space with a mixture of heating oil, a few drops of anise, and some rose petals. Not entirely unpleasant, really.

The ice storm washed my car.

It did. I didn't recognize it at first, it was so clean.

Well, so. How are you? I've been kinda sick, pretty much better, not sure if it's stress or actual pathogens.

And a few days ago my family's dog died. Reggie was 12, a mix of two big shepherd breeds (German and Australian), and in relatively good health. She was so smart as to have an almost world-weary demeanor once she got older. We three used to run around in the back yard to get her to herd us, which she could do so well that we had to choose between going the way she wanted us to and falling over.

She was just always so reliably there, and now she's just not. I'm going to miss her.

me: computer expert

So, as the old rumbler was firing up tonight, it seemed to be taking longer than usual. And usual means about four or five minutes. Then I decided that hey, I'll just see if it will give me internets before it's completely come to. So I clicked "Start" and it just did this weird mild flashing thing, as if the start button were being pushed over and over again, and nothing else. I tried clicking on a couple other things and it vaguely acknowledged the requests but didn't actually comply with them.

At this point the neural nets were getting a little hoppity, blood pressure rising a bit. Nothing on the screen moved. Then the images came, the oh fuck I hope I at some point e-mailed myself everything that needs to be printed and in the mail literally yesterday I know I have at least a version of this and did e-mail that why didn't I renew my virus protection, no, fuck the virus protection why did that stupid company have to make me sign up for credit card protection program bullshit I mean I know they're a SECURITY company but does that really mean they have to be a EVERYTHING'S A PAIN IN THE ASS company? I don't think so, shit, I have to take this to the virus-cleaning place that'll be a hundred dollars even for something that basically gets me nowhere other than to back to where I was god damn it what else can go wrong here and the virus cleaning people will see all the stuff on my desktop, why WHY didn't I change "psycho programs" when I had the chance*

And then my hypothalamus was all like waitwaitwaitwait, that's what happens when something's on the keyboard. Move that skein of yarn off the escape key.

Love ya, hypothalamus. Stay sweet!


*the closest verbal representation of what was going through my head at that point, although I think I forgot some stuff