Indulgences in Verbosity

This space probably for rent

2008-09-07T13:42:00.003-06:00

So due to my lack of posting to this blog and the subsequent lack of verbosity, and thusly my subsequent feelings of inadequacy regarding the verbosity that I've been "advertising" but not delivering, as well as imparting mistaken notions that, were my by-now-probably-nonexistent readers to meet me, I'd actually say stuff using more than one- or two-sentence answers, I've been thinking I'll probably close down this blog. Or at least stop posting to it. I'd like to figure out how to properly save at least my decent posts ("On Solicitors," anyone?) before completely deleting the blog. I'm not sure why I feel the need to mention this since the only people who are likely to see the post may be those on Facebook, since it links to this blog, and should anyone actually bother reading my notes. But I guess on the off-chance that some poor soul happened upon a not-awful post ("On Allergies and Allergens" is semi-amusing, I think) and kept checking this blog in the incredibly optimistic hopes that I'd come up with something good, I'll put out my notice.

I do have plans for another blog, but that one will be focused on my attempts at getting published. Not that there's anything new about that, but I think it might help keep the momentum going if I, at least, expect myself to post about my progress. Because it can get pretty depressing posting about lack of progress and "Instead of writing this week, I watched Season 4 of Gilmore Girls in all my spare time." So I think it might be a good motivational tool, even if I'm the only one who cares.

However, that blog may be anonymous. I'm still debating if I think I'd wind up talking about my day job too much. And I like being able to eat and pay rent. None of that starving artist stuff for me. Because starving means if I can't afford food, I can't afford paper. J.K. Rowling may have scribbled notes and early versions of Harry Potter on napkins, but that doesn't appeal to me, folks. And if I mention what I'd rather be doing than the day job--not that it's bad, per se; there's a pretty good group of people there, and when I'm able to look past the momentary frustrations and remember that these educational materials really do help kids, I can get the warm fuzzies. And that's good.

Where was I in that convoluted sentence? (Ahh, I envision my lone reader saying. There's that good ol' verbosity. It does exist.)

But before I get back to elucidation, the day job is far better than working at Walgreens was. Or (shudder) selling Cutco.

Now where was I? Oh, yes. I am a bit paranoid about including too much identifiable information just in case it might jeopardize the day job. Because of the desire to pay rent and eat on a regular basis. So the future blog may be anonymous. If any readers were wanting to follow me over there.

See, I could have written all that in just a single paragraph, as my little summary proves. But let this be Indulgences in Verbosity's last hurrah.

Archiving/deleting of the blog won't happen this week, however. Last Thursday I was at a panel discussion hosted by Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, of which I'm a member. Its annual Colorado Gold Conference is this weekend, and while I hadn't initially planned on going, while at the panel I won a door prize: a breakfast with an agent. This particular agent is most interesting in urban fantasy. The novel I'm currently editing is urban fantasy.

And I pray and believe that God cares about what we want, though his answer may be no. I'd actually prayed for the free conference registration, with "Oh or one of those editor/agent lunches or breakfasts might be nice, too" and while I didn't get the free conference, obviously I got the breakfast with the agent. So,yes, I see this as an answered prayer, and I don't want to pass it up.

Which puts me in a bit of a rush to finish as much editing on my novel as I possibly can on the off-chance I manage to babble out a coherent and interesting pitch (again, in-person speaking, not my forte) and she says to submit chapters to her. But that, of course, is really a no-no--first-time novelists truly should have a completed work before they start pitching it. That way, if an agent or editor requests it, you can send it along before they forget who you are.

Okay, so call this Indulgences in Verbosity's last hurrah slash incipient blog's blathering beginning. Sort of. Because of course incipient blog would have a different URL and whatnot and a maybe-anonymous author.

Ugh, I've spent more time on this post than I intended, and it has no witty or urbane conclusions with which to leave IV's readers. Again, if they exist.

My apologies on the lack of wit or even vague items of actual interest.

But I've got a novel to edit. So I'm copping out and referring you to "Bike-buying for semi-novices".

Farewell, readership. Of one. Or zero. Whatever.

My city park screams

2008-07-06T14:31:00.002-06:00

For the purposes of this post, imagine me

not in front of Lady and the Tramp topiary, but on my bike

and to keep with the Frank Miller reference, the image of me on my bike should be in black and white, with one significant color not in grayscale. My bike helmet is black with some blue, so we can pick the blue from that.

There is, however, no actual significance. Get over it.

Also in keeping with the Frank Miller, or more specifically, the Sin City reference, Bruce Willis can be around somewhere if you like him. I'm rather meh about him myself, but it's your imagination.

So now that I am on my bike and in black and white save for the blue of my helmet, with Bruce Willis there or not, let me give you the background: July 5, 2008, 6:15 am. I take my bike out of my apartment, carry it downstairs from my second-level walk-up, get on, and bike to the nearby park, which is within walking distance. Scratch that. It's within crawling distance. If my apartment suddenly lost access to water, leaving me enervated, dehydrated, and desperate enough to ingest the non-potable water that is to be had at the park, I could crawl there. It's not that difficult a ride. But I'd gone bike-riding the day before, since it was July 4 and I was off work and I could. So I didn't want too strenuous a ride. But likewise, it was Saturday morning, my customary bike-riding morning, and I like me my schedules. So I rode to the park.

My first clue was the amount of cars in the parking lot. At 6:20 on a Saturday morning, the parking lot is never that crowded. There were at least ten when the average is two or three. Then, it hit me. Oh yeah. They're probably the cleaning crew.

They would be returning the park it its normal beauty after the Fourth of July day-long party. No problem; I'd weave gracefully between them as they used their pokey-stick-thingies (professional word, I know) to pick up the odd piece of trash. We'd wave to each other, smiles of joy on our faces.

And then I got on the path around the small lake. And then the smell hit me, a nastified combo of vomit, dog poo, and rotting food. This was my park? And what was with all the pop cans scattered across the grass? And, dear Lord, what had happened to the grass? Vast patches of brown dotted the landscaping. A mere week ago, there had been no brown. Gentle hills of rolling grass had graced the park, with bright spots of fuschia flora. Now, it looked liked there had been sporadic grass fires. Not even the concrete path was clean. Spilled and smeared food, the vestiges of hotdogs and potato chips and whatever snacks people had brought from home, made me curl my lip at my wheels having to touch the ground. Stupid gravity. But better the wheels than my feet.

How could people be so inconsiderate? wondered I as I rounded the bend. There were trash cans around; maybe not always within twenty feet like at Disney World*, but present. Didn't people respect the park enough, which was there for their enjoyment, to attempt to keep it clean? Evidently not.

My city park screams.

As I turned off the path to bike down by street, where the stench couldn't get to me, I then felt guilt over my reaction. Sure, if I'd been at the party, I would've thrown my trash away in the provided recepticles. But did I hop off my bike to help with the clean-up? No. I left it to the paid city workers. Or volunteers; I honestly have no idea who was cleaning up the park, only that there was a dedicated team doing so. And from there, it wasn't too difficult to conclude that maybe degrees of laziness don't count for much; it's still laziness, the idea that "it's someone else's job" to clean up. Which makes me wonder if the premise of Wall-E** is so far-fetched. We let things get so nasty that we actually get on a spaceship to escape it, leaving behind the robots we created just for the sole purpose of cleaning up after the humans, the ones who screwed everything up.

That is, of course, if we haven't killed ourselves before we get to that point.

*twenty feet supposedly being the limit of how far people will walk to throw something away before they just drop it
**an excellent movie, BTW; go see it if you haven't

MDC vs. DBAG

2008-06-14T10:55:00.002-06:00

This is the way my vacation ended
This is the way my vacation ended
This is the way my vacation ended
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Or not a whimper, actually, but a shriek and a dead bird.

Let me back up and qualify. My vacation at Disney World did not involve a dead bird. In fact, our very last morning at the parks included a baby duck sighting. It followed its mother around Adventureland while guests (yours truly included) whipped out their cameras to take pictures, since it was a baby duck at the Disney World and therefore cuter than baby ducks elsewhere. It's a strange phenomenon I will call Magical Duckling Cuteness (MDC). MDC worked on me as I ate my final Dole Whip with my friends, Nevi and Melneth. It wiped away the horror at having witnessed the mangy-looking Country Bears sing incomprehensible songs (a mistake on our last day, but alas, we'd missed it during our first Magic Kingdom day, and it was on the Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World Touring Plan). MDC was the proverbial cherry on the ooey-gooey, so-sweet-you-could-almost-puke-and-be-happy-doing it sundae that is is a trip to the World. MDC was an excellent way to end the World portion of a trip. I highly recommend it. Should you be planning a trip to the World--or anywhere, really--you might want to consider finding a duck egg and incubator and then time the hatching just right so you can experience MDC too. It is that spectacular.

But I do not consider any vacation truly ended until I'm home in my apartment. I stretch out the warm fuzzies of a vacation to last me through goodbyes and security at the airport, during the flight, and during the drive back to my abode*. It helps sustain me despite the cries of anguish at having to return to work.

So: My vacations do not end until I'm home again. And really, I also employ my silly-puttyish vacation-extending skills to say that if I was off work that day, it's still vacation until I wake up the next morning. Thus, I was still awash in Disney-joy and MDC, if bittersweet Disney-joy and MDC, as I lugged my suitcase and backpack to my second-level walk-up. I shuffled things around until I could fit my key in the lock, opened the door, and spied a dark shape on the entryway beside my bike.

Huh, thought I, Didn't I leave things more cleaned up than that? I like coming home to a clean apartment... I turned on the light to see the carcass of a dead bird, its wings splayed out and its legs raised in the air. I shrieked, made incoherent noises, and my brain kept babbling "That's not magical! That's not magical!"

Nor were the droppings in my laundry room magical. The bird carcass, in its pre-carcass state, must have come in through my laundry vent and relieved its bowels all over my laundry room before fluttering about and deciding that my bike would provide it final comfort as it expired. I suppose it might have mistaken the handlebars, or perhaps the pedals, as wings.

So that was the end of my vacation. Dead Bird in Apartment Grossness (DBAG) terminated it prematurely, robbing me of those final hours when I might have dreamed of smiling characters and Cast Members and a final trip on the Rock 'n' Roller Coaster.

Oh well. I still have the memories. And the photos. And my Pirate and Princess mouse ears. As vacations go, it was pretty sweet.

*Unless it was a bad vacation involving illness or theft or emergency surgery or crashes on deserted islands with mysterious shadow-beasts or other unpleasant things. But hurrah! such was not the case.

What I'm doing now

2008-05-20T19:36:00.002-06:00

I have a (mostly) legitimate reason for not posting. I'm spending quite a bit of my time here. I'm in the midst of writing a pre-trip report, and I honestly considered linking my blog there--but for various reasons I don't think that'd be a good idea. If you're incredibly bored, however, or feeling a little stalkerish* you're welcome to peruse the board and see if you can guess who I am.

My other reason for not posting here is that I'm attempting to polish the first chapter of my NaNo novel and get a synopsis together to enter this contest. Anyone writerly inclined is welcome to enter, but I must warn you that if your entering means I miss the 200-submission cutoff, I will hunt you down so I can beat you with my keyboard. I wouldn't mind getting a new wireless one anyway.

*If so, please don't tell me, because I'd rather not know.

Orphan Works Bill

2008-05-05T18:01:00.003-06:00

Okay, so I know that with my fanbase of, hmm, four or so, this may not make much of an impact, but I figure every little bit helps.

Being creatively inclined myself, I'm concerned about the Orphan Works Bill, which can strip me of the rights of anything I've written, anything I've photographed, anything I've made, unless I pay to have it registered with the copyright office. That means that if I make something semi-decent, any Slick McTheiver (okay so it's not my best) can steal my work. Current copyright law is that I own the works of anything I create as soon as I create it. If someone wanted to steal my work, they'd have to prove they own the copyright. With the Orphan Works Bill, they could steal my work, and then *I'd* have to prove I own it--which I wouldn't, unless I'd shelled out some cash to register it.

Anyway, fanbase of four, please read the following, watch the youtube video, and if you're a creator of works yourself, or sympathize with those of us who are, contact your congress representative.

_____________
Permission to share is granted at the end of this, so please do.

There's a reason why Google, Getty, Disney, et al are interested in seeing
this bill pass:

http://www.youtube. com/watch? v=CqBZd0cP5Yc

PASS IT ON

The Orphan Works Bill promotes theft of creative work, pure and simple.
This bill, currently under consideration in Congress, will deny you the
right of immediate ownership over the product of your own creativity, and
therefore makes it increasingly difficult to make money--much less a
living--from it.

Copyright law, as it is now, acknowledges that the work you create is
legally yours--your own property--as soon as you create it.

The Orphaned Works Bill will deny that right of ownership. It requires that
the creator of any work must pay to register that work before it can be
legally deemed the property of the creator. It means you have to register
with a private company to have it copyrighted. That means your work can be
"orphaned" as soon as it's created, especially since such companies don't
exist right now.

Should someone copy your work and leave off your name, it becomes "orphaned"
especially when the copied work is copied again and again. These days, this
happens all too easily. That repeated copying makes it difficult to
discover who created the work in the first place--even for the "diligent"
copier.

In addition, it pits million- and billion-dollar companies that want easy
access to creative work against artists who can hardly make ends meet from
their own work as it is. Why? Because it puts the burden of proof on the
creator of the work, rather than the copier.

Worse, it seriously erodes the property rights of citizens of the U.S. as
outlined in Section 1 of the 14th Amendment to our Constitution.

Write your senator and congressperson now.

Washington state residents:

Senator Patty Murray: http://murray. senate.gov/ email/

Find your state representative:

https://forms. house.gov/ wyr/welcome. shtml

Feel free to forward this e-mail.

"The three great rights are so bound together as to be essentially one
right. To give a man his life, but deny him his liberty, is to take from him
all that makes his life worth living. To give him his liberty, but take from
him the property which is the fruit and badge of his liberty, is to still
leave him a slave."

- George Sutherland, Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court,
1921.

Pardon me, your mouse ears are showing

2008-04-13T14:52:00.004-06:00

So I'm in the midst of planning a trip to Walt Disney World with two of my most favorite people in the world, my old college roommates. Here we are in San Diego last fall, looking photogenic:

I anticipate looking photogenic at Disney World as well.

I've sort of taken on the role of lead planner since (1) the trip was my idea, and (2) I believe I have some deep-seated control issues, the resolution of which would probably be for me to relinquish control to someone else, but I've enjoyed planning this, so that's not gonna happen any time soon.

But anyway, planning began by purchasing The Unofficial Guide to Walt Disney World, which I have now read, not quite cover-to-cover, but thoroughly nonetheless. Example: I now have an idea of how to go about touring WDW with a child, if the three of us happened to have one. I also know that if we were to obtain a Pal Mickey, the best way to go about hearing his helpful hints would be to decapitate him, leaving attached the one arm you can press so he'll tell jokes and whatnot.*

Most adults without children might halt their planning there. But I also ordered Disney's vacation planning DVD. I didn't watch all of that, but I did spend 1.5 hours of my life watching the bits on WDW, and sort of cringing to myself whenever a sentence began with, "Your little one..." or "Imagine your little one..." or any variation on the implication that I, or my friends, should be visiting WDW with progeny in tow.

Then I also ordered the set of customized maps WDW offers free, though I thought my "customization" would be that I wanted them to include all the attractions. But wait! My customization didn't end there: We have "The Helms Family's Guide to the Magic Kingdom Park,"** "The Helms Family's Guide to the Disney's Animal Kingdom Theme Park," "The Helms Family's Guide to Epcot," "The Helms Family's Guide to Disney's Hollywood Studios," and even "Spellbinding Tips for the Helmses." And since I am an editor, I give Disney props for the proper pluralization of "Helms," but they failed to achieve consistency in the style of the headers of the "guides."

So between the "Imagine your little one" statements and "The Helms Family's" guides, I'm starting to feel like I should adopt a child just for the duration of the trip. Except Disney World is expensive enough just splitting a hotel room and paying for my tickets and meals. Sorry, urchins.

Still, it got me to thinking--WDW is really sort of "oriented" toward kids. It's the dream vacation for most family with children 12 and under. So why do I want to go so badly, to the point where it's seeping into my dreams? Twice now I've arrived at the parking lot of one of the parks, but for some reason could never get inside. Another dream involved the Haunted Mansion somehow, and yet another the Tower of Terror, though I haven't been to WDW since I was 10, and the Tower didn't exist back then.***

Why is WDW a prime destination for weddings and honeymooners? Why, in fact, do adults like it at all? I mean, the entire time I spent with the Disney vacation planning DVD, I watched it with a smirk--it's orchestrated, it's pageantry, and I see through it. Those smiling children--that's right before they had to stand in line 2 hours to ride Space Mountain. It's before their ice cream fell on the sidewalk, before Mom and Dad refused to buy the Princess Tea Party set because it's too expensive at the World and can be bought online for half the price. And likewise, the grinning adults haven't gotten their credit card bills yet, or had their wallets stolen, or developed blisters on their heels walking from service restaurant to service restaurant, trying to find one that isn't booked solid. I know Disney trips aren't as "magical" as the DVD presents.

But I'm still going, and I'm still excited. I look at my Helms Family's guides, and I appreciate that it's actually a pretty great marketing scheme, one that makes me think I might like to be an editor for Disney. To think that yes, it is a huge conglomerate, but if it's so popular, they have to be doing something right. And back to the trip, there's so much to do, I understand why people can and do spend a year or more planning these things. And that's what scares me, that despite my semi-cynicism, I'm still getting sucked in.

I've been verbose enough for now, and this is even one of my less entertaining posts. Should anything brilliant occur to me re: Disney, I'll post. If not, I might be able to post a video clip of my friends' and my Disney commentary. We have our moments.

*Visions of our videos featuring discussions with Pal Mickey's head, including a reenactment of the "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio" scene from Hamlet, but alas, I don't think any of us want to spend the dough on him.

**I should have that little "registered" copyright symbol after pretty much everything from Disney, but sadly am not Blogger-efficient enough to know how to include it.

***Incidentally, after having a dream involving fighting off a gelatinous alien life form, I've had no Disney dreams.

Draft the first

2008-02-18T19:42:00.002-07:00

Since I think I've put something or other about writing in my "About the blog" blurb--or was that a couple of descriptions ago?--I just thought I would let all and sundry (meaning fanbase 'o three or four) that today I finished my first draft of the novel I started for NaNoWriMo. Mixed feelings of satisfaction and anticlimatic-ness, the latter largely because I know it still needs so much work.

Like I'm definitely going to have to take out the chapter entitled "In Which I Am Attacked By a Bike-Riding Ninja." And I'll probably also excise all the chapter titles. Though they were pretty fun to include during the craziness of NaNo itself because I'd have a flash of inspiration *cough*, include my title, and then have an idea of what I was going to write for the next twenty pages.

And I really need to solidify how, exactly, my MC's, er, "abilities" work. I'll have to dig out one of my journal entries (no, I don't blog that sort of stuff) since I think I came up with something semi-intelligent.

Anyway, it's here, draft the first of Augmentation for Beginners,* weighing in at 119,075 words; 348 pages in 12pt double-spaced Times New Roman.

If only my printer didn't keep blinking at me that it needs more black toner, I could print it out and snuggle with it. Alas.

*No, the novel has nothing to do with plastic surgery. It's a working title.

Things I understand and things I don't

2008-02-15T22:08:00.001-07:00

It starts when I arrive home after work to more thoroughly investigate the bag of crap (though I haven't yet officially decided it to term it bag of crap) left next to my welcome mat. I hadn't had enough time to look it over much on my way out, being surprised by its presence right after I locked my door. But a quick peek revealed some ramen noodles, what might have been a container of OJ, and, inexplicably, a t-shirt.

Perhaps it's supposed to be a care-package, I thought, left by some well-meaning neighbor who somehow heard me hacking and coughing through the walls.

But now that I have more time to look it over, I realize that the OJ is actually a half-full gallon of skim milk; the t-shirt is an old one (discerned by carefully poking around it since I am reluctant to actually touch it); and in addition to the ramen (which I wouldn't deign to eat since ramen is disgusting), there is, evidently, a can of beer. Not the tools of the convalescent.

So on my way to the park for the walk that will hopefully help clear my sinuses and stimulate my immune system to fight off the blasted sinus infection, I toss the bag of crap into the Dumpster.

I don't understand why someone would leave a bag of crap on my stoop.

***

I arrive at the park about five minutes later, lungs thankfully untaxed by the short distance. The parking lot is at about 80 percent capacity; the cement path around the tiny lake is crowded with walkers, joggers, and a few cyclists; and bright-eyed children who most certainly do not have sinus infections climb on the playground. I understand why; it's 60-degree day in Colorado, and snow is in the forecast for later that night. We all get out while we can.

I identify another thing I don't understand as I wend my way through the parking lot: I do not understand why parents swear at their two-year-old children. The little girl isn't throwing a tantrum. She isn't complaining about a sinus infection. That the girl probably doesn't understand what the word means seems inconsequential. Of course, I'm not a parent, and I don't know the mother or her situation. Still.

Moving now onto the path. Even with my slower pace, I first draw even with and then pass by an older woman, obese, and I hear her wheezing breath. And I try not to pity her, that a person who two days ago was laid up with a fever and has spent the forty-eight hours from then till now hacking up and blowing out gunk can so easily pass her, but pity is there nonetheless. And I do understand that this kind of obesity, the kind that leads to labored breathing even with light exercise, is rarely just about food.

Then again, I don't know this woman or her situation, either. Maybe she's sick, too.

After one turn around the lake, I pass a hand-holding teenage couple. At my invalidish pace. I'm cheered. Granted, they have the whole slow-lovers'-stroll thing going on (day before Valentine's, after all), but maybe my--what would it be called? benchline health? Well, maybe I underestimated my overall healthiness. Huzzah!

And then my body decides to force itself through one of its now-familiar phlegmy coughs. Hubris is a fatal flaw and all that.

Third turn around the lake, a trio of teenage boys whizz by me; they're going clockwise and I'm going widdershins*.

Well, it's really the first two who whizz by. They're both riding BMX bikes, knees pumping up nearly to their ears with the effort of achieving a cadence worthy of racing. On BMX bikes. Here's another thing I don't understand: why teenage boys apparently believe they look cool with their knees practically gouging their ears. There is no skate park nearby, so they can't be on their way to that. The ground around the park is level; it's not like there's anywhere to practice tricks. Maybe they had to pick between a BMX bike/mountain bike/road bike/whatever, and BMX and dreams of the X-Games won out? Still, do they realize the damage they could be doing to their knees?

But the last boy, who isn't as svelte as his companions, follows more sedately on a mountain bike and wears a sheepish grin on his face. Ah, I think, his knees will probably be all right. And perhaps he realizes the foolishness of his peers.

The teenagers drift from my mind as I head around the bend that brings me westward. And because I'm already thinking there's a semidecent blog post somewhere in all of this** I'm casting about for other things I do or do not understand. And there before me is the orange and pink sunset. So I think: Do I understand sunsets? Yes. No. And I think Does anyone understand sunsets? even as I realize that this is becoming maudlin or contrived or something that means "overly and falsely deep," and I feel a smile stretch my lips a little, because now I'm trying too hard.

Eh, it can go in the post, anyway.

And I think I could also go into how I don't understand why, now that I am coming near the end of my novel started for NaNoWriMo, it's so difficult to finish the thing. But I do, partially; it probably has something to do with fear, because once I finish the first draft, that means I have something I can edit, and once I edit it, that means I may have something worth shopping around, and once I can shop something around, it can be rejected, blah blah blah. So there's truth to that, but I don't want to delve into it because there's truth to it, and dealing with it fully is beyond the scope of my half-hour walk and my infection-addled brain.***

At the beginning of my fourth and final circle around the lake, I re-encounter the teenage bikers (I can't bring myself to call them cyclists), who are stopped on their bikes and having a discussion. Says the BMXer who had led the three to the one on the mountain bike: "We can't slow down for you, man. It's not like it's a race or anything."

Ha. They're teenage boys. Of course it's a race.

Not-so-svelte teenage boy keeps ping-ponging his gaze from me to his companions as I approach, still with that sheepish expression. And that, I don't understand. Can he not tell that I'm about eight years older than he is? Particularly since it has been made painfully clear to me that I look older than my 25? 26, actually, in four days. Plus, with the red nose from being sick and whatnot, I'm not looking my best. Surely my sunglasses don't magically make me seem younger and sinusitis-free. Still, it's ping. Pong. Ping. Pong. Maybe he's into older women.

Disturbing.

Or maybe I'm being true to my INFJ nature and overanalyzing everything to begin with.

And after I've gotten about six feet away from them, the lead BMXer continues: "Let's just roll somewhere, dude."

And I don't understand why that amuses me so much, but it does. A stupid grin forms on my face. Let's just roll somewhere, dude. How . . . teenage-boy-who-rides-his-BMX-bike-everywhere-ish. Let's just roll somewhere. It's just so apropos, somehow.

Heading west again. I still yes-no understand sunsets. And that thought is still contrived.

But my breathing remains relaxed, I'm getting better, and I do have an idea for a decent blog post, though I'll probably ruin it by making it too long for anyone to want to read.**** Oh well. It'll entertain me, at least.

And it does.

*No, I'm not a wiccan, but it's fun to use widdershins. Try it. You'll see.
** Yes, probably another form of hubris. But at least I'm aware of it.
***And no, I still haven't explored that topic fully. Don't worry, fanbase. You won't be subjected to those particular musings.
****Which I did. If you got this far, I salute you!

Before I forget again. . .

2007-12-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

I must post my accomplishment for all to see:

Now to actually finish the plot. Onward ho!

Also, if any of my fanbase of--what am I down to? Four?--happened to watch Tin Man on the SciFi channel, drop me a note. I've found many eminently mockable bits, but it's definitely not as fun when I'm the only one around to hear my comments.

Brief thought on the WGA strike and NaNoisms!

2007-11-07T20:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it once again being NaNoWriMo, I have a suitable excuse for not posting. Not that I did during the past couple of months, but oh well. *cough*

Anyway, purporting myself to be a writer, I figured it might behoove me to comment, albeit briefly (due to NaNoWriMo! Trust me, I'm going to milk this excuse for all I can) on the Writers Guild of America strike. Having occasionally considered taking a stab at a screenplay, in addition to the whole "I write books!"* thing, I definitely feel for the writers. Given that movies and TV shows just don't exist, period, until someone writes them, it does seem rather unfair that producers and directors and actors tend to get the majority of the moola.

Tangent: I do wonder what effect a Best Boy Grip strike would have on Hollywood. Guess they'd need a union first for it to do any good. Though there may be such a thing.

Anyway redux, I'm definitely pro-writers. But as a movie fanatic** and watcher-of-non-reality-TV-shows, I'm going to be pretty sad if we make it to January and there aren't any new episodes of Heroes. So let's just hope the strike is over quickly, and the writers get what they want.

And now, NaNoisms! Yes, those snippets of hilarity that always ensue when one is attempting to write 50k in the course of a month, or, in my case, 60k! Here are the gems I've come across so far, complete with the comments I posted to the NaNoisms thread:

"Crap and double-croup"
Childhood illnesses as mild swear words! I like it.

"Isaiah's voice had a nasty look on it."
I hate it when voices have those nasty looks. Though they are better than voices having nasty smells.

And this last one isn't quite a proper NaNoism, but nonetheless:

There's a very good reason why I don't listen to the things my brain tells me while I'm lying in bed still half-asleep. Case in point:

[My MC's boss walks into the office my MC shares with her detestable coworker.]
"Hey, super twins! We can't get married with the windows so close together!"

"Super twins" is so bizarre I can't comment on it, but the "we" somehow actually referred to my MC and the detestable coworker. And I actually had a vision of the windows spreading out to a distance that would somehow make the marriage a go.

I'm as dumbfounded as the rest of you.

*On occasion, though I'm hoping NaNo will help me get back in the habit

**Though I think I deserve props for finally canceling my Netflix subscription, even though I did it primarily because I finally got satellite

On nutrition and cooking

2007-09-24T18:20:00.000-06:00

I'd been planning a nice, deep Thinking Post before I spent five minutes trying to figure out why my dishwasher detergent thingy wasn't latching and envisioning calling maintenance to complain, when in fact it hadn't latched because it can only do so "once the wash cycle is complete." So we'll see how this goes.

After spending a few days counting my calorie intake, I discovered I wasn't getting enough of them. Now, my frame is really built for cardiovascular activities, such as running (and when the city agrees to make the sidewalks out of rubber, I'll get right on that), rather than, er, heavy lifting. I don't put on muscle mass easily, and so I wouldn't be surprised if my resting metabolic rate is lower than average. Even so, 1000 calories a day struck me as being too few for a 5'9" person who gets what I guess is "moderate" exercise (at least 30 minutes an average of six days a week). Though I tend to eat more on the weekend, so that probably helped. But still.

The thing is, though, that I never really felt deprived, or too weak to accomplish what I wanted to do. So I guess my decrease in caloric intake was so gradual that my body kept adjusting its resting metabolic rate while greedily storing every bit of nutrition I deigned to give it. But being slightly undernourished would explain why I've been bruising more easily, and why those same bruises take longer to heal.

Anyway, I'm getting things back on track now, but I did wonder how exactly I got around to eating so little in the first place. I was never really actively trying to cut calories. I think it amounted to laziness: I'd come home from work, and if I hadn't gone through the effort over the weekend of making the meal I'd live on for the week, I'd do something easy, like sautée a zucchini in some olive oil and have some sort of fruit alongside it. Quick, and better than sticking a questionable foodstuff in the microwave, but not exactly nutrient-dense.

The thing is, though, that I like cooking--or at least I like the romanticized idea I have of cooking, in which I flit about my kitchen, testing the soup on the stove and checking the quiche in the oven and chilling the cookie dough in the fridge until it's firm enough for me to mold into balls that will bake into little rounds worthy of Martha Stewart or Paula Deen.

Or scratch the soup and the quiche, because my favorite thing really is baking, and after a particularly frustrating day at work, I'm given to fantasizing about opening up a bakery. One in which there is no sign of refined flour or sugar, and I smile Sphinx-like at the customers who say, around a mouthful of brownie or lemon bar, "Sweet merciful heavens, Amanda! Whatever did you put in this [brownie or lemon bar]? It is ambrosia!" Because, after all, it's generally more fun to cook (or bake) if you have someone to cook for.

But I don't despise cooking main dishes, and I like to think I'd enjoy it more if I didn't have the ol' 7:15-3:45 (the hours are my choice, BTW). I buy organic as much as I can, and since organic is expensive, another one of my favorite fantasies is the one in which I have a yard and can do some organic gardening. When embarking on one of these fantasies, I usually manage to forget how I rather disliked working in my mom's garden. Instead, I am growing zucchini for (of course) sautéed zucchini and and zucchini bread and zucchini fritters and whatever else it is one can make with zucchini, and I am growing pumpkins for pumpkin pie and pumpkin pancakes and, why not, pumpkin fritters, and for the local children to carve into jack-o-lanterns around Halloween, and while I sit in my garden on my knees, shears in hand and a straw hat on my head, I hum a little tune that the birds pick up, and they provide a nice counter melody while flying about my head a la Snow White.

And, of course, there are no insects in my garden, because I am an organic gardener and would never, ever, use pesticide on my produce. And I have a dog, because I like dogs, but he doesn't eat my strawberries or anything else I grow, unlike a certain canine for which I have visiting rights since he wouldn't get on well in my apartment. It is, in fact, an Easy Garden, one that doesn't even require the application of a couple of green thumbs.

Yes, fanbase of--what are we down to now? Four? Three?--whatever, that is all it would take for me to truly enjoy cooking, and perhaps therefore more easily maintain a proper caloric intake: an Easy Garden.

Hmm. This post seemed like a better idea before my dishwasher proved it's smarter than I am.

Addendum to post the previous

2007-08-26T17:26:00.000-06:00

And another license plate:

CANT C

I thought this clever, albeit somewhat alarming, as it adorned a van emblazoned with "blindguy.com." But then I actually went to blindguy.com, whereupon I felt somehow cheated.

And yes, I am becoming aware that I probably ought to change the name of my blog, as my posts are few and far between, and this one isn't particularly verbose. But then again, CANT C is also false advertising, so I guess I'm in (somewhat) good company.

On vanity plates (and associative thoughts therefrom)

2007-08-13T18:25:00.000-06:00

I know my commute isn't as long as some people's, but the 25 minutes still gives me plenty of time to ponder things. Such as my fellow drivers' choice of license plates. And, in particular, one that read NO YNIN.

No Yihnin? pondered I. What does that mean? Someone still bitter over the John Lennon/Yoko Ono hookup? No, spelled improperly. And then the flash of realization: "No whining."* Ahh.

Present mystery solved, I moved on to the next one: Just what, then, does "No whining" mean? Who is the recipient of this directive? Is it the command of a harried mother to her children? A message to the populace at large that there is no sense in complaining about the state of, well, everything?

Or is it the superior "ha-ha, sucks to be you, chump" of a Corvette driver, as in, "No whining that I, and not you, you plebeian, have a Corvette**"? Feeling rather pessimistic,*** I decided upon the latter, had my moment of self-righteous indignation, and accelerated through the stop light when it turned green again.

Okay, I told myself after returning to a more philosophical state. So that could be construed as a somewhat offensive license plate. But it's really not bad. Someone could have chosen something like HL HTLR or GOSATAN, either of which would have irritated me far more than NO YNIN. Or is it even possible to get such license plates? I mean, there was that couple in New Zealand who wanted to name their baby 4Real, but couldn't because numerals aren't allowed as names or something-something, and the article said that other names such as Hitler and Satan had been rejected due to the offensiveness factor. So it seems logical that if you can't name your kid Hitler or Satan, you can't list them on your car.

I wasn't far from my gym at this point, so it was nearly time to wrap up my ponderings. So what, wondered I, would I get on a vanity plate if I were so inclined? Hmm. Umm... GO... GOWRTR? Uhh....

NO YNIN is actually pretty clever. Why couldn't I come up with something so creative? What's so wrong with me that I, a supposed writer, couldn't--

Ooh, there's my turn. Time to release some happy endorphins.

*Yes, I was rather slow that day, but I blame it on frying my brain at work devising decodable homework activities for children. Another day in the life.

**Red, to boot.

***I blame that, too, on the homework-writing. Last footnote, I promise.

Because I must vent somewhere

2007-07-21T20:55:00.000-06:00

UPS sucks. Really, really sucks. Curse you, UPS, and your stupid " IN TRANSIT TO FINAL DESTINATION" message that has been listed for my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows since 11 am yesterday, 7/20/07. So much for my weekend reading marathon.

*Grumble*

Bike-buying for semi-novices

2007-05-31T19:13:00.000-06:00

I've mentioned that during my autumn in Chicago, my bike was stolen, right? The same bike that I'd owned for a total of three days, and hadn't even been able to take around the block before it was pilfered. Alas, how I grieved the loss of that green Cannondale (I think it was a Cannondale. I'm pretty sure it was a Cannondale. But it was definitely green) hybrid. I even ended up writing a rather bitter creative nonfiction short about it. It was to be part of a collection my writing classmates wanted to put together, "Bike Shorts." But then I left grad school and Chicago and never heard what happened about that.

I digress (who's surprised at that?).

Anyway, I've meant to replace that bike ever since it was stolen, but finally got around to doing it on Sunday.* Since I haven't ridden much at all since I was, hmm, about thirteen, it was with a small amount of trepidation (along with the scissors and nylon rope so I could secure it in the trunk of my Corolla) that I went to the bike shop. It would be best to ride a bike around the shop, I knew, so I could get a better sense of the fit and whether the bike would really work for me. But I, nevertheless, had visions of myself crashing into a stand of helmets or running into some teenager trying out a BMX bike. Seeing as you supposedly never forget how to ride a bike** I wondered what my status was. I wasn't a beginner, as I'd ridden before, although admittedly nearly half my lifetime ago. But I certainly wasn't a seasoned rider. I now think "once and future rider" is rather poetic, but at the time I settled upon "semi-novice."

So reassuring myself that bike shops are there to help semi-novices as well as beginners and seasoned riders, I headed off to the bike shop with a brand and possible models in mind.

At the bike shop, it wasn't too long before I found my chosen brand and my possible models. A few minutes more, and one of the shop assistants approached me. "Can I help you?"

Okay, I thought. The guy has a leg in a cast and is on crutches. This doesn't bode well.

But I was there to buy a bike; I was determined to buy a bike, and so I cast aside thoughts of ill omens.

I explained to the crippled assistant that I was interested in buying a hybrid bike, and had a couple of questions about the differences between the Trek hybrid line and the fitness line. Main difference, the shop worker told me, is that the fitness bikes are lighter. I perked up at that. "Weight's an issue for me," I said, "because I'll have to lug it up to my apartment."

The worker's eyes brightened behind his glasses. "Ah, I actually had a girl return one of those"--he gestured to one of the straight hybrids--"for that very reason. Third floor."

All right, so I'm on the second floor. Only half as difficult as the third floor. But if the thought of carrying my bike upstairs after a long ride makes me want to not take the dumb thing out in the first place, what's the point?

But to be sure, I test-rode both, then proclaimed to the shop-guy that I liked the fitness one better. "I'm not surprised," he said. "This is the model I use to commute."

Well, when his leg's not broken, I assumed.

He then proceeded to ask me about my commute. "It's seventeen miles," I said, "and it's along the Interstate, so I don't think . . ."

I trailed off as it became apparent the worker was cogitating. "You ought to be able to take the frontage road," he said at last.

I made some sort of noncommittal noise, then said I'd like to go ahead and buy the bike.

"Great!" he enthused. "And then, somewhere down the line you can get [some type of tire the name of which I've forgotten] that are great for rain and snow. Once you get up to about six inches of snow, things get difficult, but otherwise--"

It was at that point I started to tune him out. Did he fail to notice my frequent braking as I attempted to navigate around various stands filled with bicycle accessories? He definitely couldn't have missed my awkward dismount from the fitness model, since he found it necessary to take my arm to keep me from falling over. Did I really seem like the type of person who's going to lug her bike down the stairs when there's even a quarter-inch of snow on the ground?

But I bought the bike and spent only about fifteen minutes using the nylon rope to jury-rig the bike in my trunk so it wouldn't fall out during the twenty-minute trip home. I rode the bike the next morning, and enjoyed it--when I wasn't trying to avoid collisions with fisherboys standing on a bridge I had to cross, or panicking about hitting some rocks on the sidewalk and careening into the street. Still, who knows? Maybe the shop assistant has some sort of sixth sense about assessing bike-buyers, and my semi-novitiate state is actually the cocoon of a hardcore cyclist.

After all, I grew up near Boulder.

*As I've ridden it once and have had it for four days now, my record is already better than with the maybe-Cannondale. Things are looking up!

**Though I figure that if neurological problems can make you forget how to walk, the same thing could happen for bike-riding.

On spam

2007-05-14T19:34:00.000-06:00

Okay, so writing about spam isn't particularly innovative. My lack of innovation is only one of the reasons why I haven't been able to quit my day job and live off the profits of the Next New Thing! invented by yours truly.* So you're stuck with a post on spam. Suck it up.

Aside from the OEM software spam, the spam I receive the most is that along the lines of "Separate yourself from other men." I know that spammers don't discriminate in who they spam, but I gotta wonder if they'd have more luck with a little targeted marketing. I don't want to "separate myself from other men." I'm already separated from all men by virtue of the fact that I'm not a man. Can't really get more separated from that.

And why is it that I have never once received any spam with the subject line "Separate yourself from other women"? If "separate yourself from other women" would refer to what I think it'd refer, I wouldn't be interested in it in the first place, but nevertheless, there's an opportunity for a feministic rant there. But I don't really consider myself a feminist--or at least not a feminist who goes into feministic rants. And plus, Heroes is going to come on soon; no time for a rant. I have my priorities.

Then there's the spam I receive with the weirdo subject lines, such as "Machiavellian splendor." When I open these up (because how can anyone resist "Machiavellian splendor"?) it appears to be some sort of weather report. At any rate, there's usually something about a storm blowing northeast.**

So once the novelty of Machiavellian splendor wears off, what spam would I actually look at? To be honest, if I'm very bored, "Fix split ends!" might do the trick. Even during the composition of this post, I have spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the ends of a lock of my hair and wondering if I should change conditioner brands. I kid you not. I did that a lot during NaNoWriMo, too. It's interfering with my productivity. Just think, if I were more productive, maybe I could indeed become more innovative. Then I could get the townhouse--er yard*** with muscly foreigner Yosef, and in addition to fanning me with palm fronds, Yosef could massage coconut oil into my scalp and hair, thereby ridding me of the need to read split-end-spam in the first place.

Life is cyclical.

*I would greatly love to live off the profits of the Next New Thing! I'd pay off my debt, get out of my apartment, and buy a nice little townhouse. Only I'd want a yard where I could lounge in the sun while being fanned with palm fronds by a nice, muscly foreigner who doesn't speak English and therefore wouldn't interfere with my innovative thoughts.

See, not even my fantasies are innovative. But you've got to admit that palm fronds in general are very tempting, to say nothing of the muscly foreigner. We'll call him Yosef.

**As yet, my computer hasn't blown up after opening one of these, so I don't think they're viruses. And my antivirus/antispyware/anti-otherstuff software has yet to find something less innocuous than tracking cookies. Should you care about the security of my computers. Cough.

***See the first footnote if you have no idea what I'm talking about.

Skeletor, Overlord of Evil--and Dance Master!

2007-04-30T19:57:00.000-06:00

To make things as succinct as possible, I found this video while dredging up quotes to include in my Facebook profile. It's choppy, but more or less enjoyable if you have a couple of minutes to kill.

On fermentation

2007-04-02T17:58:00.000-06:00

I've been reading Nourishing Traditions by Sally Fallon. Its subtitle is The Cookbook that Challenges Politically Correct Nutrition and the Diet Dictocrats. It's interesting reading--suggests that many of our modern ailments, such as the increased rise in allergies, is caused by the modern diet and that we ought to return to the diet and food prep style of our "ancient ancestors."

There's quite a bit I agree with and am trying out--such as fermentation. I have a healthy sourdough starter going in my fridge; I've cultured three batches of my own yogurt; and I plan on trying sauerkraut in the near future. At the risk of sounding like a slightly skewed PBS special, fermentation is fun! and I'm going to try to make fermented foods a mainstay of my diet.

There are other things, however, that I highly doubt I'll ever attempt. Every time I flip past one of the recipes for brains (yes, brains), I feel like I should wear scraggly clothing, take on a shuffling gait, and moan "Braaiinnnssss" at periodic intervals. The zombie gourmet!

And then I run with it and think--well, fermentation is supposed to ease digestion, right? So the health-minded zombie ought to eat fermented brains. Especially since, y'know, due to its very nature, the zombic digestive track probably doesn't function at its best.

A quick flip to the index of Nourishing Traditions, however, reveals that while BRAINS warrants its own capped head with five subpoints, there is, alas, nothing on fermented brains. We must hope our health-conscious zombie is also computer savvy (and isn't using my computer since I wouldn't like decomposed flesh left on my keyboard) and can use Google.

But here, too, it seems Zombiekins is out of luck. Google first politely asks "Did you mean: fermented beans recipe." No, we did not. And perusing the list of hits, it looks like we have sites discussing the healthful effects of lacto-fermented grains on the brain and one that seems to imply that "once the fermented dough is ready . . . [it's] enough to puzzle the brains of the lady who writes the cookerybook*."

Well, now we're in a pickle. It seems that no one ferments brains-- But wait! Part of the suggested diet is also raw foods, and that does include raw meat, since to cook some foods above 118 degrees Fahrenheit destroys the enzymes and other good stuff that our bodies need. Health-conscious zombie is in luck! It seems the instinctive call for raw brains is just what the putrefying doctor ordered. All is again right with the world.

But the zombie will have to go somewhere else to get the brains, because mine aren't up for grabs, and no one else's** will cross my threshold unless they're safely encased in a skull and attached to an ambulatory body. I have my standards.

*The editor in me notes that while "cookbook" is a closed compound, "cookerybook" ought to be open, at least per Merriam-Webster. Which the Chicago Manual of Style says to use. So there.

**Lest you get the wrong idea, no, Sally Fallon does not endorse eating human brains. She suggest the brains of livestock. I'm being facetious, people.

The summons

2007-01-25T18:33:00.000-07:00

So I've received a jury summons. I go in tomorrow. I've received one before, but as I was in school in Texas, I was unable to return to my county in CO and so was able to apply for "postponement."

Anyway, I'm sort of excited as I've never done this before, and I've heard that initially it's sort of boring and so you should bring a book. So I'll get paid for leisure reading, which is nice. But more more interesting to you, fanbase (or so I think) are the 12 Angry Men-like fantasies in which I have indulged over the past couple of days. I could be the juror who stands up for truth and justice! The one who holds out against the other eleven, because guilt must be proved "beyond a reasonable doubt"!

Or, conversely, I could be the juror who says "Heck, yes, the defendant is guilty, you bunch of idiots!" Only I wouldn't actually say that, because I don't tend toward angry. I'm really more passive-agressive. I seethe in silence.

And really, I think it's fairly uncommon now for juries to be made up solely of men or solely of women, so we'd need a new title. Assuming that the other eleven jurors have my same emotion, it'd have to be something like 12 Silently Seething Persons, which admittedly doesn't have the same punch as 12 Angry Men.

I must now jump back momentarily to getting paid to read bit. The law dictates that my workplace must pay for the first three days of jury service, but after that, I'm eligible for for recompense from the state, which is a whopping $50/day. My employee manual indicates that they will not pay for jury service beyond the three days required by law, which some employers do. I can't pay my bills on $50/day. So while I am looking forward to the experience, I don't want it to last beyond three days. I don't think murder trials are resolved in three days, ever.

Or maybe the O.J. Simpson trial has tainted my perception. Eh.

But nevertheless, I'm not sure I'd be comfortable in applying the death sentence, anyway, which could disqualify me in a murder case. So, with those constraints--the passive-agressiveness, the coed aspect, the necessity of an "easy" case that can be resolved in three days--the synopsis of 12 Silently Seething Persons will go something like this:

Using grunts and the body language of crossed arms, one juror attempts to convince the rest of the jury that further discussion is necessary in the case of a man accused of bicycle theft.

A scene in part:

JUROR 1 gathers up and flips through the votes.

JUROR 1: Guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, same . . . same . . .

JUROR 1 flips through several votes.

JUROR 1: Well, it looks like we're unanimous--

JUROR 1 pauses, frowns, then looks at rest of jury.

JUROR 1: Okay, who's the one who put in the "not guilty" vote?

AMANDA crosses arms over chest.

JUROR 8: Oh, come on! I have to get home. I'm have chili in my slow cooker, and I know I can't count on my husband to take care of it. Speak up!

AMANDA slowly raises hand while staring at the table. Her other arm remains crossed against her chest.

JUROR 12 huffs.

JUROR 12: Well, do you mind telling us why you think the defendant is not guilty?

AMANDA grunts.

Yup. I already smell my Oscar for Best Screenplay Ripped Off Another Screenplay That Was Based on a Regular Play. If only I had a mantel to put it on.

I have returned!

2006-12-16T09:54:00.001-07:00

...for the nonce.

A week ago, my brother said to me, "So you know you haven't updated your blog in over a month? And now NaNoWriMo is over so you don't have an excuse."

He sort of softened the blow, I see, since it's actually been over two months. Anyway, I didn't feel much like posting because I've been going through a rather nasty bout of what my dermatologist identified as "some sort of dermatitis." Very helpful. He confirmed what the mirror had already told me, that I have an inflammation of the skin. Well, he did say it's probably "atopic dermatitis," which, after I looked it up online, I realized is a form of eczema. It would've been helpful if he'd told me that in the first place, since I suffered from eczema as a child, though not on my face, where my current outbreak is.

Anyway, at one point I'd had a thought about posting the things I think in order to convince myself things aren't all that bad. One was that if I were ever to take a bullet shot to the head, maybe the crust formed by the "dermatitis of some sort" would prevent the bullet from going the 1/16" further that would mean my certain death. Newspaper headlines (not front page, would read "UNSIGHTLY SKIN CONDITION SAVES WOMAN'S LIFE." There'd be quotes from the ER docs about how amazing it is, what a miracle etc., and once I'd recovered, I'd probably write melodramatic journal entries: So I have my atopic dermatitis to thank for saving my life. Is it worth the two months of wanting to hide my face from the world? I don't know, because if I have to suffer from this for the rest of my life, I'm not sure life is worth living....

And so on. But my skin is doing much better (also for the nonce) so I find I don't have the motivation to go on about that at length.

Instead, you get to read about my low alcohol tolerance! Let the cheering commence.

But it's really not as interesting as you may think, so if you have something more important to do, like welding, I won't be offended if you trot away to take care of that. Go on, shoo!

For those of you still with me, okay, then. Last night I had a work holiday party to attend. I trotted out my new holiday dress (red), put on my new shoes (red, four-inch heels), attempted to cover up the aforementioned dermatitis (marginally successful), got in my car and drove to the party, where I consumed about two and a quarter glasses of wine. This, mind, is more alcohol than I've ever consumed in one go, and since I knew I'd have to drive myself home, I thought that should be my limit. Good thing I did, too, because even the two glasses was enough to retard my cognition.

Design coworker, speaking to a group of us: All of you are so young! And you're how old, Amanda? 21, 22?
Yours truly, somewhat shocked that she'd even come up with 21: 24.
Design coworker: Oh, so did you have a birthday in Chicago?*
Yours truly: Yeah, I turned 24 there. (Pause, remembers turning 24 in Colorado) No, wait! I was back here when I turned 24. I turned 23 in Chicago!
Design coworker: (nods)

It was only during my drive home that I realized/remembered that, since my birthday is in February, I was never in Chicago during a birthday. Oy. I can only conclude that under the influence, I am more susceptible to others' suggestions, even ones that blatantly contradict the truth. I'm a people pleaser to begin with and dislike confrontations, and I guess alcohol can exacerbate things. Good thing I drank no more and that my coworkers are all pretty beneficent, or else if someone had asked me to stand on the coffee table and yodel while throwing the hostess gifts through the window, I might have done it.

And before you ask, I made it home safely, without changing lanes unless I wanted to. I did, however, hit my head on the doorframe as I was unlocking my apartment door (I'd bent over to pick up a bag I set down, and went wham! as I stood straight). Then I nearly lost my balance while removing my heels.

They are, I must say, great shoes. To look at and admire on my feet. Not great shoes to walk or stand in, especially with an elevated blood-alcohol content. Nevertheless, I think every woman should wear a pair of heels that can double as a stabbing implement at least once in her lifetime. I have now met that goal.

*Referring to the semester-long stint I spent in Chicago in fall 2005, pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing that I ultimately decided I could not afford. I then returned to Colorado, and to my current workplace.

Two random things a post shall make

2006-10-12T19:04:00.000-06:00

Random thing number one: Gotta love the forums over at NaNoWriMo. People mention the coolest links, like this one. (Warning: the site contains [biblical] Lego nudity, violence, sexual content, and cursing.)

Random thing number two: Okay, so I tried out the South Beach Diet about a year ago--lost weight on it and have kept it off. So I continue to get the little emails. The lastest one said, and I quote, "The South Beach Diet is not a fad. It's not even a diet!"

Okay, so this is the editor in me rising forth, but if the South Beach Diet is not a diet, change the stinking name.

Ahh--the smell of NaNoWriMo is in the air

2006-10-02T18:16:00.000-06:00

It's a wonderful smell. The smell of nonsensical plots, egregious run-ons, write-ins (if you're lucky enough to find a group), blatant word padding, and sobbing into the wee hours of the morning as you curse the name of Chris Baty.

If you have no clue what I'm talking about or who Chris Baty is, head on over to NaNoWriMo.org. And if you have the vaguest interest in writing, sign up. Go on. I dare you. And so do Chris Baty and about 75,000 other WriMos.

And I'm having issues getting my participant icon into my sidebar. Until I do (and maybe even after), it'll remain in this post.

Who'd you sail with today?

2006-09-19T17:42:00.000-06:00

Someone left a Long John Silver's hat outside my apartment door. It was waiting for me after I returned from my post-work walk. And before you ask--the placement of the hat has to have been deliberate. It was shoved into the crack between my apartment number plaque and the wall, too short for a kid to get to without help, and too improbable for the wind to blow it there.

I can only conclude that some celebrant of International Talk Like a Pirate Day realized I was nonobservant of the holiday and thought a hat with the proclamation "I sailed with Long John Silver's[tm]!" to be the best way to encourage participatory behavior. Who am I to deny said celebrant?

But since I don't know who left the hat, I can't talk like a pirate to him or her. The blog will have to do. And so:

Arr, matey. Avast. You call that swill? That be not swill! Where's me peg leg? I'll use it to brain ye, if ye leave more offal outside my door, says I.

There. Mission accomplished. Arrr.

Poor, poor Pluto

2006-08-26T16:56:00.000-06:00

Bereft of its planet-hood. Or at least demoted to dwarf-planet. That's gotta be hard on Pluto's ego. I mean, if a bunch of scientists got together and then told me, "Sorry, Amanda, you no longer meet the definition of human" I'd be none too happy, and I don't think I'd be placated by the creation of a sort of sub-human label, even if it did mean I was at the forefront of a new class of sub-humans.

I think Pluto's just being punished for its erratic orbit. You try to be individual in this world--er, solar system, and look what happens.

And check out the fourth and fifth paragraphs of the linked article above. Naming those "trans-Neptunian" objects Plutonians is just a bad, bad idea. What will the writers of speculative fiction call the denizens of Pluto if 'Plutonian' comes to mean "trans-Neptunian object"? Travesty!

Surviving zombies

2006-08-20T16:54:00.000-06:00

So I'm working my way through The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead by Max Brooks. It's facetious. I know it's facetious. I know that, though the book is written straight in a true survival-guide format, it's not real. So why do I find myself nodding sagely: Ah, yes, the tundra would be the best terrain in which to run from zombies, because they freeze! and Hey, further rationalization for purchasing a new bike! Bikes are far superior for zombie escape than cars, which require finite resources to run and can be easily impeded on blocked roads!

Fanbase, it frightens me that there is a part of my brain that is taking this seriously. Even as I read this for the yuks, my brain is filing away tidbits just in case there ever is an outbreak of zombies, and I must defend myself from them. Forevermore in the back of my mind will be the thought that, in a zombie outbreak, apartment complexes can be considered safer than houses, because you have a bunch of other people around and all of you can band together to defend the complex. And I'm on the second floor, which is even safer: zombies (or at least Max Brooks' zombies) can't climb, so all I have to do is manage to destroy the two staircases leading up to my apartment and then, with proper provisioning, I could live indefinitely while hoards of the living dead crowd below, emitting that horrid zombie moan.

And speaking of the horrid zombie moan, it's been known to drive people insane, so in the midst of a siege I'd have to be sure to keep my morale up. Play games, sing, etc.

Then the writer part of me thinks that I should take this idea, morph it a bit, and then come up with a series of self-help books: So You've Just Become a Werewolf; Dating in a Lunar World; The Werewolf's Guide to Etiquette: Don't Bite Your Neighbor. Things like that.

But enough about that. The next section in The Zombie Survival Guide is an account of outbreaks throughout history. Must go glean survival tactics.

On solicitors

2006-08-13T16:19:00.000-06:00

So last night, as I was in the middle of watching Dead Like Me (which, BTW, I highly recommend), there came a knock at my front door. It was an episode I'd seen before, so I got up off my couch with the DVD still running and peered through my peephole. Some guy I didn't recognize, but it wasn't dark yet, and hey, it was an episode I'd seen before. So I open the door.

"Hello! I'm a student in yadda yadda and I'm doing this thing where we have to talk to 100 strangers to work on our social and interpersonal skills to make sure we don't stutter and stuff like that. I'm blah blah." Here Blah Blah (we'll call him BB for short) sticks out his hand. And I, like an idiot, put out mine. Introductions.

"I'm also selling magazine subscriptions for sick kids at St. Jude's hospital."

Of course, BB doesn't say it quite like that. He presents it as a "contest" h's participating in, part of the "talk to 100 people" thing he mentioned before. I may be slow on the uptake sometimes, but I'm not stupid, so once he mentions the contest I hold in a sigh at having gotten off the couch. Should've pretended I wasn't home. Dead Like Me still plays in the background. I glance back at the TV; chances are I'll miss the end of the episode.

So then after the brief mention of the contest, BB bounces back to the "make friends" part of the script. Because it is a script; I'm not sure who handles the training for these types of things, but there are stratagems these solicitors are taught to employ. (1) Make yourself a person to the prospect. Hence, BB bubbles enthusiastically about his contest. "Guess where I get to go if I win." Earlier, he held up a little pamphlet that was supposed to serve as an identifier so I wouldn't think BB was a whacko just trying to get into my apartment. [I must admit I forget my safety rules. I should ask for real ID, probably student ID since he claims to be doing this for some school program. But then, I'm taller than BB by a good six inches, and he isn't very muscular so I guess in the back of my mind there's the thought that if he does try anything, adrenalin would come to my rescue and I'd, well, win.]

Anyway, BB flips open a folded part of the pamphlet. "Ta-da! Cancun! You ever been there?"

This part of the spiel is designed to make the prospect identify with/be on the side of the solicitor. The solicitor is so friendly, after all, a young go-getter of a student; wouldn't it be nice to help him on his way to Cancun?

But at this point I'm thinking, okay, magazine donation for some sick kid at St. Jude's. Charitable. I don't mind doing that. I don't care about the free magazines he's now babbling about that I'd get with my donation. And admittedly, there are better ways to go about helping kids with cancer than sending them a subscription to Nick Jr. But at least this is partially charitable.

So decide, sure, why not, I'll go ahead and pay for a stupid magazine description. I start wishing that we could just cut to the part where I pay for the magazine and he goes on his way.

"So are you a student?" Crap, still on the "let's be instant friends" kick.

"No."

"Oh, 'cause I thought you look young, like a student. What do you do?" I explain I'm an editor at an educational publishing company. "Oh, cool! Did you, like, have to go to college for that?"

That's a stupid question. If I look young, would I really be in an editorial job if I hadn't gone to college? What jobs are there nowadays where you don't at least need a bachelor's? And even if I hadn't gotten a degree, how many years of experience would I have needed before I reached editorial status? More than my "young looks" ought to warrant. But I say, yes, I did, and BB again bubbles over. "Great! Education! That gets me 50 extra points! High five!"

We will high-five four more times throughout our encounter.

Finally we get to the point where I provide verbal agreement to pay for a subscription to some magazine for some wide-eyed, ill waif at St. Jude's. "Okay! Do you mind if I come in so I can write on something?"

This is clinching the deal. It seems like the success rate for these ventures after entering the prospect's home is something like 98%. BB has, for the past five minutes, been talking about him and his wife. They moved from Florida when their house was destroyed in a hurricane. (That's the pity vote: Oh, poor plucky student! He really does deserve a trip to Cancun!) BB continues to talk about his wife as he comes into my apartment. Again: humanizing the solicitor, also making him less of a threat because he's married.

Then he spots some cranberry capsules I have sitting on my counter. "Oh, my wife takes those too!"

What am I supposed to say to this? Does he know what they're for? Will I, after hearing about the destruction of their home, now be treated to a discourse on his wife's troubles with UTIs? Worse, will I, after having to answer questions about my own personal life ("Are you married? Do you have a boyfriend? You don't have kids, do you? None of the above? Well, you're stress-free!" [That last statement is a diffuser: "Okay, class, so there could be a point where all your questions, asked in an effort to ingratiate yourself to the prospect, will actually sadden him or her. If he or she has no significant other or kids, that may be depressing to him or her. A depressed prospect is one who doesn't buy anything. Therefore, to make the prospect feel less loser-like, smile real big and say, in a chirpy tone, 'You're stress-free!' Hopefully that'll get you a chuckle or half-smile, and you're back in the game."]), so will I, after answering all those questions in the negative, now have to report a history on the health of my urinary tract? Dear God, please, no. That's something I will refuse to answer. I will kick him out of my apartment without his dumb magazine subsciption. I will then call my apartment complex office on Monday morning to complain about solicitors.

But thankfully BB moves on from commenting on my accoutrements (he also commented on some pictures I have hanging on the wall) to our shared religious background. Because after revealing that I went to a Christian college, BB whipped out a picture of Jesus. "I'm a Christian, too!" (Ignoring that just because one attended a Christian college, one is not necessarily a Christian. One's parent's could have forced one. One could have had a change of faith since graduating. Neither is the case for me, and I am still a regular church-goer. But still.) So BB gets the name of my church, because "he and his wife are still looking."

Now BB notices the Dead Like Me menu on the TV. "Oh, what're you watching?"

"Dead Like Me."

"Never heard of it."

"It was a show on Showtime. It's about grim reapers."

"That's not a very Christian show."

I, for the better, decline to provide comment.

And so, fifteen minutes later, once we've completed the requisite high-fives and I've picked my magazines (which I'm sure will join the piles of unwanted/used magazines in the lunchroom at work the day after I receive each issue), once I've told him to just go to my church's website and the Netflix website if he's really interested [he asked for a phone number for Netflix. Netflix! The entire thing is web-based!], once I've handed him my check, I get him out the door.

Then I reflect: I've just spent $56 on three magazine subscriptions I don't really want and a subscription to Nick, Jr. for some kid with cancer when what he or she really wants is a cure and to feel loved.

I. Am. An. Idiot.

And I'm too nice. I actually identified the majority of the manipulations as they occurred--but I went along with it. So does that say more about the quality of the manipulations, the maneuvers into one's home and pocketbook, that one submits to them even having recognized them; or does it say more about me, who did nothing once she noticed said manipulations?

I'm still pondering that one, fanbase. If you have any helpful insights, let me know. For the moment, though, I need to clean my oven. My zucchini bread overflowed and the oven has burnt, smelly gunk baked onto it.

More on knowing thyself

2006-08-08T19:01:00.000-06:00

Okay, so a couple of posts ago I revealed that I'm an INFJ on the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. According to Keirsey, INFJs are very keen on self-development, knowing themselves, etc. (Caught up? Good.) Case in point:

A week ago I donated blood. Yes, I wanted to do my moral duty and help save a life, but I also wanted to discover my blood type (a few years ago, when I was still under the fortuitous umbrella of my parents' health insurance, I was told the best way to find out your blood type is to donate, as bloodwork as part of a routine health examine just checks abnormal levels of whatchamacallit and not blood type).

So I made an appointment, filled out forms, had my finger pricked, then squeezed a little planet Earth stress ball while a pint of my most important bodily fluid flowed into a plastic bag. Two days later, I called the dontation center, all atwitter.

"You're A positive."

"Really? Thanks!" I hung up. A positive! A positive! I'm A positive! I--

--don't know what to do with that information. Work it into casual conversation? "How's the weather? Yeah yeah, that's nice. I'm A positive! What's your type?" Overanalyze it? "My father is A positive. My mother is O positive. Do my other traits follow more in line with my father's than my mother's? Hmm, I've often thought my handwriting is more like my father's, except for my cursive L's..."

That brief moment of elation of learning yet another tidbit about myself was short-lived. Then, a couple of nights ago, I actually dreamed about this. I was telling people that I'd had blood drawn, found out I'm A positive, but then had a sense of now what: "What am I supposed to do? If I'm in an accident, as the paramedics put me on a stretcher, should I shout 'I'm A positive! A positive! Don't give me B positive or B negative because it'll kill me! Nooooo!' "

And I'm still not quite sure what to do with this newfound knowledge. That I'm actually dreaming about it--that this is what my subconscious thinks I need to work out during my slumber, rather than how to get my work in progress out of its various plotholes or how to stop global warming; you know, something useful--is distressing.

Next I'll be wondering what it means that my pinky toes curve inward toward my other toes. Yeesh. It's a little scary to be an INFJ.

This is too hilarious

2006-08-03T22:02:00.000-06:00

Fanbase, my goal is to entertain you. If I can be lazy while doing so, all the better for me!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLbdVXdjP94

Enjoy!

More self-absorption

2006-07-30T16:27:00.000-06:00

I thought about including this in my previous post, but decided that post was long enough.

Just so you don't think I've spent the past month of non-posting doing nothing, head on over to Evil Editor's blog. More specifically, go here. See that stuff in blue? That's my contribution (with some edits by Evil Editor, who is an editor, after all). No, I don't get to take credit for it, but it's a neat exercise. And I have a comment (I used to have two, but forgot that EE likes to approve messages, so I commented twice thinking my first didn't go through. Then, once it showed, I deleted the first, as the second said the same thing and was better written).

In other news about stuff partially written by me, some of the folks over at NaNoWriMo want to get a NaNoisms book together, and I was asked if I'd be willing to have my NaNoisms included (NaNoisms are those delightful typos and just skewed "I'm up at 2am, running off of three pots of coffee*" writing). I said sure, why not? It was my fav forum for both NaNo 2004 and 2005. I'd purchase a hard copy and stroke it lovingly while anticipating the next NaNo. A nice fellow WriMo at the site sent me a soft copy of all the NaNoisms because I said I'd like one. At some point I'll have to search through it to find mine, which I could then post on this blog, as I've discontinued my NaNo blog and had meant to post them but never did.

And since I'm devolving into egregious run-ons, it's time to move on.

Oh, so that's why I'm self-absorbed!

2006-07-30T15:58:00.000-06:00

So recently I've been making my way through Please Understand Me II, by David Keirsey. I read about it in a book on fiction writing that recommended it as an aid for character development. But right now I'm using it to delve into one of my favorite topics: me.

In case there are any members of my fanbase of six (are we still at six? I imagine I've lost a couple in the past month or two of little posting) who haven't heard of the book, it's based upon the Myers Briggs Type Indicator. Keirsey takes the Myers-Briggs types and essentially interprets them, explaining behavioral tendencies, character strength and weaknesses, as well as dividing them into four groups: SPs (Artisans), SJs (Guardians), NFs (Idealists), and NTs (Rationals).

I, good fanbase, am an Idealist. Idealists are the rarest group, and though they are friendly toward other people and like to get along with everyone, they also tend to have very deep inner lives. See, that explains why I am one of my favorite topics and why my posts are perennially about things I think about rather than things I do. My type made me do it! I am living my inner life, seeking my me-ness, etc. etc. etc.

My Myers-Briggs type is INFJ, which stands for Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, and Judging; Keirsey interprets those characteristics as "Reserved," "Introspective," "Friendly," and "Scheduling," respectively. With those powers combined,* I am what Keirsey calls a Counselor. I am part of the second rarest type; we're just a little over one percent of the population, according to Keirsey. (INFPs, the least common, are one percent.) Keirsey says that INFJs are highly intuitive and have "strong empathic abilities," so much so that these abilities can borderline on what people call ESP, which itself "may well be exceptional intuitive ability."

Did you catch that fanbase? ESP. I know what you're thinking. Mwa ha ha ha ha!

But don't worry. As a Counselor, I am altruistic. I use my powers for good, not evil. Now . . . *getting out legal pad and posing pen to write* how does that make you feel?

*Ultra super bonus points to those who can name the reference.

Why I will never want to bear Dave Eggers' love child

2006-06-29T18:43:00.000-06:00

Dave Eggers on being a temp, as described in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius*:

"It's bliss. The temp doesn't have to pretend that he cares about their company, and they don't have to pretend they own him anything. And finally, just when the job, like almost any job, becomes too boring to continue, when the temp has learned anything he could have learned, and has milked it for the $18/hr and whatever kitsch value it may have had, when to continue anymore would be a sort of death wand would show a terrible lack of respect for his valuable time--usually after three or four days--then, neatly enough, the assignment is over. Perfect."

Me on being a temp, as described in "Why I will never want to bear Dave Eggers' love child":

"It's soul-sucking. Because a long-term temp ends up caring about the company, or at least the people with whom she has direct contact, and as the months pass she begins to think that yes, the company does indeed owe her something for all the work they've taken from her. They owe her sick leave and paid vacation and health insurance, including dental. Vision would be nice but is not crucial, because the temp's parents were kind enough to pay for laser surgery on her steadily deteriorating vision, and now instead of wearing two contacts in each eye** she sees 20/15. And the temp reads "the $18/hr" part of the excerpt from Eggers' AHWOSG and begins frothing at the mouth. Where are these $18/hr temp jobs? Can she get one? Failing, of course, becoming a bona fide employee and having health insurance so she can go have a physical and her semi-annual dental cleaning and checkup. Would it be a long-term temp job, because she likes security, likes knowing that she'll be able to pay her rent and her cell phone bill, and she dreams of being able to afford cable/satellite TV someday and going back to buying books instead of taking them out of the library all the time--$18/hr! Bliss!

"Of course, she values her time too, so the second she sells a novel and gets a decent advance [oh, the beautiful dream], she's quitting the $18/hr temp job [oh, the not-as-attractive-but-still-pretty-in-an-abashed-sort-of-way dream] to spend her days clacking at the keyboard and looking pensively out the window. Perfect."

So that's why I will never want to bear Dave Eggers' love child. Our views on temphood are too disparate. Well, there's also the fact that I don't want to bear anybody's love child. But the previous clinches the deal (or non-deal, as the case may be) re: Dave Eggers' love child.

A side note: My spam file keeps getting e-mails from insurance companies with subject lines like "Exciting New Opportunities" and "I've Had Your Resume on My Desk for a while Now." The most recent is "You Are the One We've Been Looking For."

I haven't yet, but I'm sorely tempted to e-mail back and write, "Trust me, I'm not. My poor sales skills would bring your company to its knees, and I'd hate the job and contemplate suicide nightly."

But then... d'you think they'd pay $18/hr?

*Which, despite the espoused views of temphood, is an excellent book.
**True. Referred to as "piggybacks."

Examining the grammar of a song lyric

2006-06-12T18:40:00.000-06:00

First off, let me just mention that my brother told me the other day that my blog hadn't been updated in over a month. I will remind him that my last post was dated May 22, and today is June 12. Three weeks is not over a month (and even if he doesn't count the weirdo "we make suicide beautiful" post, I do). So there.

Now, on to today's topic: grammar in song lyrics! Well, a particular song lyric, anyway.

So I was listening to Lisa Loeb's CD Tails on my way to work this morning. If you don't recall Lisa, her most famous single is probably "Stay," which was featured on the Reality Bites soundtrack. And if you don't remember Reality Bites, quite making me feel old. I'm only 24, and so, yeah, the movie came out half my lifetime ago, which--well, now that I think about it, I've lived half my life since that movie came out. Fifty percent is a lot. Lots of a lot.

Enters depression spiral at aging

Forces self out of depression spiral so that she can post on

One of the songs that I sit through on my way to "Stay," which remains my fave on the CD, is called "Sandalwood." It's a love song and features the line "Your skin smells lovely like sandalwood." I'm not quite sure what sandalwood smells like, but I can buy that it smells lovely. That makes sense to me. More confusing is the next line, "Your hair falls soft like animals."

Fanbase, I have checked the liner notes on this repeatedly, and what Lisa seems to sing and what's on the liner notes matches up. "It is indeed "Your hair falls soft like animals." This, I don't get. How does hair "fall soft like animals"? Not all animals have soft hair. Not all animals have hair. Mammals, sure, but I'm pretty sure sea sponges fall under the category of animals, and they don't have hair.

Then there's the falling bit. I've heard of hair falling across a shoulder, and hair falling softly, but falling softly like animals? Do animals fall softly? I certainly haven't researched the falling habits of animals, but again I would say that there are several that do not fall softly. Elephants. If an elephant fell, I doubt it'd be soft. And I would also say that there are some animals that never fall at all. Left in their proper habitats, I don't think those glowy-fishes that live way deep down in the sea ever fall. They don't surface, so how can they fall? They swim, and maybe float belly up when they die. That's it. No falling at all.

So what in the world can "Your hair falls soft like animals" mean?*

After much pondering, I thought that maybe Lisa had missed some of her punctuation in her lyric, and what she really meant was "Your skin falls soft, like Animal's" meaning:

I just can't come up with any other rational conclusion. There you have it. "Your skin falls soft, like Animal's." "Sandalwood" is written about a guy, or so I assume, but I can't say that if I were a guy, I'd be impressed.

________________________________________________
*I am aware that "Your hair falls soft like animals" could be a simile of some sort. But what's the point of having a simile that makes no sense? If you care to explicate the lyric, fanbase, or you happen to be Lisa Loeb or have connections to Lisa Loeb so that she can explain it, I'd be much obliged.

Is it just me or...

2006-05-22T20:28:00.000-06:00

is this totally wrong? I forget what, exactly, I was looking for on Google, but "attractivecorpse.com" came up on the third or fourth page. And once you see it, that's not something you forget easily. I did debate for awhile about whether such a thing might be a hoax--after all, Dr. Kevorkian didn't get away with helping terminally ill people die. How could there be an entire company devoted to making suicide "beautiful"?

But I forgot: We're talking about LA. Things are different there, I know, I just never thought that would include--well, that. It seems to take "morally reprehensible" to unheard-of levels.

And just how would one get into something like that, anyway? What enterprising entrepeneur thought, "I know! Designer death! Brilliant; it'll sell!"?

And in the FAQ's:

"Isn't this service immoral?

"We do not consider helping someone find peace and beauty in their last moments to be immoral. Attractive Corpse also takes steps to make the loss easier on the deceased's friends, loved ones, and other survivors, and we consider this to be a great good."

Fanbase, I have no words. And considering my URL touts my verbosity (of which there has been admittedly little of late) that's just sad.

Again in the FAQ's:

"Do you sell gift certificates?

"We consider requests for gift certificates to be in poor taste."

Well, there's that, at least.

Updates

2006-04-25T20:00:00.000-06:00

Well, fanbase, remember how I've harped about how I'm not going to tell you about my personal life, because it's boring? I lied. Not about its being boring, I mean; I lied about not telling you about my personal life. Why subject you to stuff that's boring? Well, I'm feeling guilty for not updating this blog in over a month, and also feeling guilty that my last post was about watching March of the Penguins while in a hormonal state. So:

Update 1: I will sally forth from the parental abode in about a week and a half to live in my own apartment. Ah, the bliss, the freedom, of living on one's own. No need to share a bathroom. No misconceptions about what one means by "average cleanliness" (that's relating back to my Chicago roommate, a situation upon which I do not care to expound). The joy of having 727 square feet of "personal space" (not huge, but not small, either).

The bills.

I'm trying not to think too hard about that last part, or about how I probably won't be able to afford satellite TV/cable, which is unfortunate as I've gotten hooked on all these anime shows on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim.

(Let's insert a confession here: For all intents and purposes, I am a nerd. Yes, I watch anime [currently Inuyasha, Full Metal Alchemist, and an episode or two of Cowboy Bebop]. I also enjoy Mystery Science Theatre 3000 and am working on collecting the DVD sets, disposable income permitting. I like Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail. Heaven help me, I also like Army of Darkness. I can't remember how the movie came up, but I think on some message board on some website somewhere, there is a post by yours truly that reads "Bruce Campbell, make me your zombie queen!")

Ahem. Moving on.

Update 2: About a week ago, I attempted to upgrade my desktop system. It worked, more or less, and everything was going fine until I set it on fire. At least, I assume it caught fire. I turned on the computer and five seconds later started smelling nasty smoke so dived to turn the thing off, and when when my brother and I opened the case, some wires were burnt. But luckily all I had to do was replace the power supply and--

Boy, that's even less interesting than the apartment update. Moving on again.

Update 3: Progress on my NaNoWriMo novel continues at a snail's pace, as should be evidenced by my trotting out the tired cliche of "a snail's pace." Creativity does not abound. Contrary to my previous goal of posting one new chapter a week, it's closer to posting one new chapter every two or three weeks, and sadly I'm not all that much farther ahead than what I've been posting. I keep thinking of all the little plot bunnies that have found themselves a nice warren somewhere and begun propagating themselves. They have porn music playing in the background. Anyway, I retain hope that I'll finish the stupid, holey plot sometime in *throws dart at wall calendar* June.

That's about it for now. One hopes that my urbane wit (ha ha ha) will return shortly (ha ha ha multipled by 100) but we'll see. In the meantime, you can try to hunt up my "zombie queen" post. I'd be curious to hear if it actually does exist somewhere and if it other people can find it.

Another reason why I haven't posted

2006-03-19T15:11:00.000-07:00

Yes, fanbase, it has been a very long time since I have posted to this blog, and I have a good reason for my reticence: I am boring.

When I started this blog, I had no intention of posting about my everyday life, because my everyday life is dull. You don’t care about the trials and tribulations of my job, or about my decision to leave grad school. You have better things to do with your time than read about my uneventful life. So I figured I would try to write things that are least mildly entertaining, and if I don’t have something mildly entertaining to write, I don’t write. And, unfortunately, there has been a dearth of mildly entertaining things to write for the past couple of months. Because, remember, I am boring.

Take my weekend, for example. The highlight was watching March of the Penguins on DVD. I picked a rather bad time to watch it, because I think I’m hormonal. How else to explain the several times I murmured “Poor little penguins” and the few tears I actually wiped away? Like when the seals attacked the female penguins after the pitiable things had laid their eggs and walked all the way back to the ocean so they could get some much needed food. I was rooting for the penguins, but had a passing thought about how if I were watching a documentary about seals, I’d be rooting for the seals since they’re probably starving, too. Then I tossed that thought aside because I was watching a documentary on the penguins that showed graphic pictures of bloody-jawed seals with sharp looking teeth, so instead I said “Poor little penguin” [warning: spoiler ahead, if one can spoil a documentary] when the last tried to make it back on the ice but was cruelly killed by the murderous seal. And yes, I think I wiped away a tear at that point, too.

Then [warning: another spoiler] when the little penguin chicks were attacked by that nasty bird that ate one of them, I nearly yelled at the stupid mother penguins (the fathers had departed back to the ocean for food) who just stood there and let some of their sisters’ baby chicks be attacked and eaten by this ugly, horrible bird that looked like a cross between a seagull and vulture. But at least a vulture would have waited till the penguins were dead. Anyway, after my anger at the mother penguins died down, I became angry at the stupid documentarians. How could they just stand there and let those cute little penguin chicks be killed by this awful bird hardly any largely than a Central Park pigeon? Sure, fine, they’re not supposed to interfere with nature and all that, but these are BABY chicks, and they’re CUTE, and they SHOULD NOT DIE. If I’d been there, you can bet I’d have been running across the ice, brandishing the camera (I don’t care how expensive it is) and yelling at that bird to leave the chicks the [bleep] alone, you [bleeping bleep] nasty [bleep] of a [bleep].

As I said, I’m hormonal.

And that, perhaps, explains why, after I’d gotten ready for bed and was all curled up nice and warm under my electric blanket, I looked at my TiVo’s Now Playing list and saw that it had recorded Weddings from the Knot or something else that managed to stick both wedding and knot in the title. But the title doesn’t matter, because it’s just one of those half-hour shows where a couple talks about their special day. This episode featured Cheryl and Fred from Hawaii. Early on in the show, Cheryl looked at Fred with shiny eyes and said, “I wish everyone could have a Fred.” And so I teared up again. I want a Fred! I thought. Only I want him to have a better name than Fred! Then at the wedding itself, Fred’s eleven-year-old son, who was the best man, gave the toast and talked about how much he loved his dad and his new mom, Cheryl, and I had to reach for the Kleenex once more.

I’m telling you, fanbase, Hormonal with a capital H. I hang my head in shame.

See, what I need to do when I’m hormonal is watch the crappy stuff my TiVo records for me because some sorry chip in that silver box thinks I’d like it. I should have gone for Dracula 3000: Infinite Darkness starring Casper Van Dien. At the least, Casper’s pretty cute, and a plot involving vampires on a space station is begging to be mocked. Though admittedly I might have just ended up thinking I want a Casper! Only I want him to have a better name than Casper! because I was, after all, hormonal.

See, fanbase? This is why I don’t write every week. Count yourselves blessed.

Titles are for chumps (and yes, I used to be a chump and will be a chump again, but not today)

2006-02-19T15:11:00.000-07:00

Well, fanbase, my other blog has now passed this one in number of posts. There are now two new chapters of Disenchantment up, since I missed posting one last week.

I'd add something here, but all the humor has been sucked out of me due to missing paychecks. I'm still not sure if I need to blame the postal service or my temp agency. If, however, you would like to contribute to the Help Amanda Pay Off Her Bills Because Her Bloody Paychecks Are Missing, Which Has Robbed Her of Her Sense of Humor fund, please feel free to leave me a message with your e-mail address and we can take it from there. I am only semi-kidding.

I guess at some point I could stick in a mail:to code in my HTML so that my e-mail is just a click away, but that would require effort to put it up in a format that the spammers can't find me easily. And the missing paychecks have also robbed me of the willingness to put a great amount of work into things. Sorry.

Check out the other blog!

2006-01-29T17:59:00.000-07:00

Hey fanbase!

If you've stopped checking out my other blog, shame on you! Well, of course I can't blame you, since it'd been about six weeks since I'd touched it, but that is no longer the case.

For your reading pleasure, I have now posted the rest of chapter 3 and all of chapter 4. My new goal will be to post one full chapter a week until you're caught up with where I've gotten in the story. But we all know how I've done with goals recently. Meh.

So anyway, Get thee to Disenchantment!

Car shopping with Jesus

2006-01-25T19:39:00.000-07:00

So I've mentioned how I've left Chicago for Colorado, right? Good. Have I mentioned that I'm living with the 'rents till I can find a suitable apartment? Well, I am. And have I mentioned that I did without a car in Chicago, but now that I'm back in Colorado, I must needs find a vehicle for mine transportation? No? Well, I must needs.*

Apartment hunting doesn't bug me so much. I call possible places up (or send some request via e-mail), set up a walkthrough, and say "yea" or "nein" (the latter if I'm feeling more German; "no" is just so... passe), or maybe "Can I have a few days to think about it?"

Well, not that I've actually scoped out any apartments yet, but this is how I envision it going. And even just looking at the floorplans online, I get to imagine where all my furniture--and yes, most of it is as yet unbought, but who cares?--will go, and stare at the spot on the kitchen counter, or the squiggle that represents the counter, where I'd set my (also unbought) electric kettle. It's finding a fresh start and all those other cliches, possibilities are open to me, blah blah blah. But the thing is, when you're hunting for your future domicile, I think some of that future home-ness can't help but seep into the process. A sort of relaxation; the knowledge that you're finding out where you'll be able to put your feet up after a long day, mug of tea in hand, and let out that contented Ahhh. It's fun to figure out where you'll hang your hat.

Not so fun is to figure out where you'll hang your pine air freshener.

At least, not for me. My mom this morning was telling me that her father loved to go car shopping. He liked bargaining down to a good price, and though my mom didn't say it, I bet my Papaw's eyes took on the shine of the hunt as he bartered. That car-hunt-shiny-eye gene considered placing itself in my DNA and then ran off laughing maniacally. I'm an Internet hound and I didn't even enjoy looking up car models online. This, fanbase of six, is a sad thing indeed: the day I dreaded online research of a future purchase.

What I really wish could happen with the car search is that someone could just tell me "This is a good car. Buy it." Then I would smile and take out my checkbook. Simple! Only of course it can't be a car salesman, because if TV has taught me nothing else, it's that you can't trust car salesmen. Salespeople. Whatever.

So I decided to use the broker my parents used to purchase their new car last summer--hey, I figured, I don't have to scour all those online listings of used cars! (Budget dictates that my car must be used unless I want to be in debt a very, very long time. Insert weeping here.) All I have to do is pick a model, throw in a few guidelines such as Must not smell of urine and CD player would be nice but not crucial, and the broker finds me the perfect car.

But even this, though better than doing all the work myself, is difficult, because the broker is being a good broker and not pressuring me into one car over another, but giving me more things to think about, like how an older car, though more in line with my budget, wouldn't be under the manufacterer's warranty, and thus repairs would come straight out of my pocket. D'oh.

So I'm back to wanting that special someone who can tell me "This is a good car. Buy it."

And that, fanbase, led me to this realization: Basically, I want Jesus to tell me which car to buy. Jesus wouldn't lie about a lemon. And being God, he's omniscient, right, so he'd know exactly which car is the Amanda car; which car might, when I get behind the wheel, give me that same at-home feeling that I envision of my future apartment. I mean, how neat would that be, to feel at home, really at home, in my four-wheeled cage of steel? Super cool!

Sigh. If only I could go car shopping with Jesus.

Anyway, as long as the car wouldn't shame me too much, I may post a picture of it once I get it. Stay tuned, fanbase; hopefully things will pick up quickly.

And you can bet your sweet patootie that if Jesus does decide to come down from heaven to help me car shop, you'll hear about it here first.

*"Must needs." What's the origin of that term, anyway? I've heard it when people are attempting some sort of medieval-type language pattern, but is "must needs" really part of Ye Olde Englysh, or did somebody just say "Hmm, 'Must needs'--that sounds medieval-y! I'm sticking it in!"? What happened here, people?

Again, I'm not dead

2006-01-09T12:11:00.000-07:00

So I was IMing with my good friends Kelneth and Nevisha last night, and they were mentioning that my blogs hadn't been updated since December. True enough. But I leapt to my defense:

"See, I haven't updated my blogs because I'm still trying to finish that NaNo novel, right, and the previous year's NaNo novel keeps whispering to me about how wouldn't I prefer to work on it? And I'm like, "Yeah, NaNo novel, but seeing as you would require a major rewrite and the current NaNo novel just needs a few more nudges to get a basic plot finished, wouldn't you prefer that I finish the current NaNo novel so that then I can fully devote my writing time to you? And then the old NaNo novel goes off into a corner to sulk while the current NaNo novel laughs maniacally and screeches 'Writer's Block! Writer's Block!' "

Then they made comments about talking to words, which I duly ignored, and then I came up with the brilliant idea of writing about what said NaNo projects are doing to me. So here you are.
And if you're new to my blog, welcome, and you can read about the happy insanity that is NaNoWriMo here.

In other news, I'm about to begin the process of packing up and moving back to Colorado from Chicago, as mentioned in my previous post. The job hunt has commenced, and I'll do my best to wring every last drop of blog fodder out of it. Craziness will ensue!

No, I am not dead

2005-12-18T16:29:00.000-07:00

Hello fanbase!

Yes, yes NaNoWriMo ended 18 full days ago, so I don't really have an excuse to have not updated this blog. Except I do. I think I may have, like, two readers who don't know me personally, and so it is to you, dear readers, that this post is addressed.

After much contemplation and prayer (which I did instead of blogging), I've decided to leave my grad program in Chicago and return to Colorado. Not that the two of you ever knew I was from Colorado to begin with, or even that I was in Chicago for a Master of Fine Arts creative writing program, but still. I'm sure you care about the developments of my life all the same. And if not, just smile and nod and pretend that you do.

I really missed Colorado and the mountains and a cold that's not sopping wet, and I couldn't justify the amount of debt I was going to get into for a degree that wouldn't necessarily help me in the job market. So, new plan: move back to Colorado, most likely return to my old job (they'll take me on as a temp, at least), save bunches of money and closet myself at night and write the novel that will make my name!

Yes, I remain a dreamer.

Now, you want to know what the major bummer is about all of this? I have to change my profile description yet again. I aim to do that later this week.

Anyway, fanbase, thanks for sticking with me, and now that I'm no longer a graduate student but will instead join the rest of the working flunkies, maybe I'll be a bit better at regular posting. In the meantime, I really and truly mean to continue updating the NaNo blog. Oops, maybe I shouldn't have made that a link, because it hasn't been updated recently either. In the words of Bart Simpson, "Here you go. Just kidding!"

Just kidding indeed.

Where I'm at now

2005-11-10T16:29:00.000-07:00

I think I posted something similar, but as it's gotten buried, I figured I'd do it again.

If you're a new reader to my blog, welcome, and thanks for clicking whatever link and/or button that brought you here! But as it's November, I'm participating in NaNoWriMo, which means that this blog isn't being updated all that much (and my fanbase of six might tell you that that's just a convenient excuse, as of late of I've been poor at posting anyway. Cough).

But you can always check out Disenchantment, my NaNo 2005 blog, which is being updated much more frequently than this one is.

Again, thanks for showing up, and consider this my shameless invitation for you to become a member of my fanbase.

New goal update

2005-10-30T14:57:00.000-07:00

The changing of my about-this-blog-blurb has resulted in no obvious changes to my blog's placement in Google searches of Amanda Helms. Curses. Anyone care to enlighten me as to how Google ranks items?

New goal

2005-10-30T14:36:00.000-07:00

Hey fanbase of six (and if you didn't hear that my fanbase has now increased to six, go to my other blog and read all the comments so that you're back in the loop), I have a new goal. Because for all my insecurities I'm a narcissist at heart, I want *me* to be the first thing that pops up when I--or anyone else--Googles me. Currently a search on Amanda Helms brings up a bunch of sites that are not related to me and feature people who aren't me or work by people who aren't me (and yes, I realize it should be "people who aren't I" but I'm going for a more conversational and less pedantic tone here).

And I have just discovered that the top result for Amanda Helms isn't even for a real person.* It's for a Web page that is available for someone who is named Amanda Helms. Now, I could buy that Web page and come up instantly as the number one Amanda Helms Web page, but where's the difficulty in that? Besides, the current page has things like "Background Check on Amanda Helms" and implies that the public ought to have access to my--or any other Amanda Helms who buys the page--driving record, litigation record (I don't have one), maiden name(s), criminal record, and lots and lots of junk that the public doesn't need to know about me.

But here's a freebie anyway: being unmarried and never having been married, I technically have no maiden name.

On the plus side, though, an item related to moi is the second result* that comes up when one Googles Amanda Helms. Go there and you can read a post of mine for a Yahoo group I'm in.

Anyhoo, as part of my plan to be first in Google searches on Amanda Helms, I will be rewriting my About doohickey for this blog. Cross your fingers, fanbase. I know I am.

*Note, however, that these rankings are accurate only as of 10/30/05, 3:47 p.m. central.

My duties as a new resident of Chicago

2005-10-27T09:11:00.000-06:00

Since I'm a new resident of Chicago and one who is working to establish Illinois residency so I can take advantage of state funding for students, I feel it is my duty to say, "Yay, Sox!"

So here it is: Yay, Sox!

Is it just me or...

2005-10-14T16:23:00.000-06:00

does Cedric Diggory look rather well-endowed in the chestal region (as Bart Simpson might call it)? Fanbase, you be the judge. I'd post the pic here, but there are copyright and bandwidth issues. And unfortunately there's not a direct link to the pic. So go to

http://harrypotter.warnerbros.com/gobletoffire/

Skip all the intro stuff, and then when you see a row of pictures at the bottom of the screen, click on the third pic from the right.

I really am looking forward to the movie, but Cedric's she-male physique sort of puts a damper on things.

Somebody wants me!

2005-10-11T19:24:00.000-06:00

...to sell insurance, that is.

I have my resume on Monster.com because I put it up there in the summer of 2004 when I'd graduated college and was looking for a job. Then I got a job and was too lazy to take it down. Then I moved to Chicago in July of this year for grad school and updated my resume because I was looking for a job. Then I found one on campus and again have been too lazy to take it off.

Plus the e-mails I get from insurance companies who claim I am so qualified to be an insurance saleswoman make me laugh, and Gilmore Girls isn't on every day of the week, you know.

The latest one has the following subject line: You Are the One We've Been Looking For.

I don't know about you, fanbase, but considering the fact that this e-mail went directly to my spam box, I figured the spammers must have finally found me and thought I might be interested in a menage a trois, and thought I might be more likely to say "Pick me! Pick me!" if they were able to imply I'd been carefully selected (ignoring the fact that it would frighten me to discover that nameless persons had been scoping me out and conferring as to whether I was an acceptable candidate for their third).

Then I saw the from line, which involved "join-our-sales-team." Ahh, another one of these! Hurrah, I'm about to be entertained for the next five minutes! So I clicked on it, because I always like to laugh at those who think my English degree and work on the college literary magazine and minor writing awards enable me to tell people, "Hey, you're going to die! Don't you want it to pay off for your loved ones?"

The first line: "I still have your resume on my desk." Well, it really continues on from there, but it sounds poignant the way I've got it, doesn't it? I can imagine this person looking lovingly at my resume and sighing with longing. "Oh, if only we could convince the Bachelor of Arts in English person to join our sales force! She is the key to everything, everything! Maybe if I send her another e-mail letting her know I still have her resume on my desk...."

And of course it's the bulk e-mail they send out to every person who doesn't jump at the chance to be the next great thing in insurance sales. But I get to feel all superior because I've cottoned on and I know what they're up to.

So, no, I don't think I'll remove my resume from Monster any time soon.

Redirection

2005-10-10T20:41:00.000-06:00

All right, fanbase of four, I've decided to set up a blog that will be my NaNoWriMo 2005 blog. It's

http://disenchantedwrimo.blogspot.com/

There, come November 1, you will find my NaNo in progress. Leading up till November first, you will find NaNo-related stuff, like plot preparation (ha!). So if you have me bookmarked, you'll have to make another one. Sorry. And Nick, you may have to set up another one for Mom. My goal in life is to make yours more difficult.

This blog will probably be on hiatus during the month of November. But then, it has been nearly ever since I moved to Chicago, so what's new about that?

And any newbies, welcome! Do check out my NaNo and tell all your friends what a wonderful writer I am. Unless I suck, in which case I'll thank you to stay silent.

Watch this space!

2005-10-06T13:45:00.000-06:00

Good news, fanbase! Beginning November 1, you ought to be able to expect fairly regular posting! Nearly every day during the month of November, in fact, because during my extensive downtime at work today (it's been an easy week--just waiting for everything to blow up) I signed up for NaNoWriMo!

http://www.nanowrimo.org

And since I highly doubt I'll make it to the 50k needed to "win," let alone write anything I plan on trying to shop around somewhere (there are often publication issues with stuff that's appeared on the web), and since it's really just going to be a fun exercise for me where I have no set plans, I figured hey, why not post it to my blog? So that, fanbase of four--wait, it's supposed to be five now, isn't it?--is exactly what I'll do.

I'm sure you're getting all tingly just thinking about it.

I did think of one thing to say

2005-09-25T19:06:00.000-06:00

So I was watching Supernatural on my TiVo the other night. Aside from the fact that I think Jared Peda-whatever tends to overact, it's not a bad show. But in this particular episode, the supernatural bad-guy hunting team of Jared and his brother were in Colorado in order to find and destroy a Wendigo (an evil thingy that used to be human but became cursed to be "less than human" when it ate human flesh--yet it gained all sorts of spiffy powers and things that humans don't have, so that would imply it's "more than human," but oh well) and they told other characters that they were students at "UC Boulder." Come on, Supernatural writers, do your research. Yes, the university in Boulder is really called "the University of Colorado at Boulder," but no local or current student calls it "UC Boulder." It's CU, people, CU! And the Coloradan characters should've known that Jared and his brother were imposters from the start.

Anyway, I got to feel all superior and "in the know." Nice break from my current state of, "Wait, I need which direction of the Red line again? To Howard or 95/Dan Ryan? Which one goes north? Where's my stupid map?"

And now, fanbase, for another three weeks of silence (probably).

Why I haven't posted in a while and why posting will probably be rare for the foreseeable future

2005-09-25T15:55:00.000-06:00

Because grad school is kicking my butt. I spend nearly all the time I'm not at work or in classes writing or reading for classes, so the last thing I really want to do with the little free time I have remaining is write. If I ever have a particularly interesting/funny/not boring journal entry (meaning the journal I have to keep for all my classes) I might transcribe it here. Otherwise, don't hold onto your seats, because it's not going to be a bumpy ride.

Do check this space, though, but probably not too often. Sorry, fanbase of four.

"L" experiences

2005-09-06T19:45:00.000-06:00

Today marks my first experience with (though "experience with" is too strong a phrase; "observation of" is more accurate) a mentally unbalanced person in the "L" subway.* He had four bags, two of which at least were full of newspapers, and he spread copies of the same Best Buy ads on the ground as we waited for the train. I might have thought he simply had a yen for recycling if he didn't repeat "Clinton got killed, they should all get the money" over and over. He reminded me of the crazy numbers guy from Lost** who, as with most of the bit characters on the show, simply brought up more questions than answers.

Anyway, I had a brief moment where I thought, "Wow! I'm in an episode of Lost!" and then felt spiffy as I tried to figure out what "Clinton got killed, they should all get the money" meant. Was it code? Was it some sort of reference to ex-president Clinton, who was in fact still alive? Maybe some sort of freaky weird prediction about the imminent assassination of ex-president Clinton? After all, TV, movies, and books have taught me that the mentally unbalanced see more than the rest of us--

Then I thought, oh yeah. TV. He probably picked the line up from some show.

Real life is so normal.

*Note for those unfamiliar with Chicago: " 'L' subway" is somewhat a contradiction in terms, as the "L" stands for "Elevated train," which is the Chicago Transit Authority's, um, train type. For the most part. In the downtown loop area, many stations are subway stations, so I guess those portions should be called the "S," but then that would just be confusing. CTA has its logic.

**Incidentally, a very good show, even if at times one does get the sense that the writers didn't have any idea how things were going to turn out but didn't worry about it as they were banking on its cancellation midway through the season. They when they discovered people were actually watching it, they panicked and just threw a bunch of stuff together. If I can ever through a bunch of stuff together with such panache, my writing life will be set.

Morbid laugh

2005-09-01T09:47:00.000-06:00

I signed my online Master Promissory Note today so I can get loans for school (would have done it a long time ago, but I had to register for classes first--jump through a lot of hoops, really. That's bureaucracy for you). I'm the type of person who reads--or thoroughly scans, at least--things I sign, and parts of the MPN proved humorous, in a morbid fashion. It's nice to know that since my lenders "will discharge (forgive) [my] loan if: [I] die," my corpse won't be held responsible for repayment. Good thing, because I don't think my future co-workers would have appreciated the smell of my putrefying flesh, and I quite expect I would have received anonymous letters and e-mails along the lines of "Go lie in the dirt, where you belong!" and "Jump into the incinerator, maggot-bag!" and my soon-to-be desiccated lungs might find it difficult to give me enough breath to moan, "Must . . . repay . . . loans. . . ."

So yes, I am very happy that I will not be required to pay off loans if I die.

Top ten reasons why I love the endorphins running through my body

2005-08-30T08:40:00.000-06:00

10) I can see the plus side of missing work outs for a week--I get endorphins easily, they make me feel happy, and I'm inspired to return to my beloved blog.

9) Showers feel like the best experience, and you know man, I, like, feel really connected to the world, man, it's like the plumbing goes through the wall, man, and then it goes underground man, and, like, when you think about it, man, everything's connected to the ground. Duuuudddde.

8) I can spout cheesy cliches like "I'm high on life!" and not care when people look at me as if I'm a moron.

7) After a week of coughing up phelgm and feeling miserable, I no longer feel miserable but can instead examine the coughed-up phelgm and marvel at nature's color palette.

6) Cleaning, a task upon which I normally embark solely so that I don't live in slovenliness and filth, now seems like a wonderful happy fun-time activity for my Tuesday afternoon, assuming there's nothing good on TV.

5) The ISP that keeps dropping my Internet connection has been downgraded to the spawn of Satan rather than the dark lord himself.

4) Ummm . . .

3) Endorphins fading.

2) That phelgm is just gross.

1) Life sucks.

So I'm a bit late in posting...

2005-08-12T14:05:00.000-06:00

I blame it on the stress incurred when my bike, which I had owned for a mere two days, was stolen. I hadn't even been able to take it around the block. Sheesh. Donations to the Buy Amanda a New Bike Fund now accepted. Feel free to leave a comment indicating you'd like to help out!

I also blame the brevity and lack of wittiness of this post on stress. Try me again when I'm feeling more settled, say in another week. This post is really just to let my fanbase, should it happen to be larger than the four who know me personally, know that I'm not dead.

Have a good weekend!

On the off-chance that my fanbase is larger than four

2005-07-30T10:21:00.000-06:00

Well, fanbase of four, I know you all personally and so all of you presumably know why I haven't posted in over a week and why I'm not likely to post after this for another week. But in the infinitesimal chance that I've been wrong for the past few months and that people whom I don't know consistently read my blog and wonder what's going on, I'm about to leave the parental nest in Colorado to seek out new urban life and new urban civilizations; to pursue that jack-of-all-trades degree, a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing; to boldly go where no curly-headed 23 year-old former editorial assistant has gone before (to the best of my knowledge): Chicago.

That's right, in a mere four days, I'll be loading up and moving to Chicago (with the help of my parents and my parents' SUV, that is) , where I'll attend Columbia College and pursue the aforementioned degree. Since I think I have a legitimate reason for not posting, my rule about revealing tidbits about the depths of my psyche yada yada yada doesn't apply. So HA! I get to remain an enigma wrapped inside of a mystery. Or is that a mystery wrapped inside of an enigma? Oh well.

Watch for me in a week, give or take a few days.

On another note, some of you may wonder why I post what might be called "flights of fancy," such as my previous post, or this one, rather than amusing anecdotes about my life. The reason is very simple: my life is boring. Thus I'm forced to be creative. We can hope that things will improve in Chicago, but don't hold your breath: I anticipate many panic-ridden posts in which I bewail my lack of money, as I'll soon embody the double-whammy of starving student and starving artist.

Of course, you're always welcome to start up a Help Amanda, She Who Embodies the Starving Starving Student and Starving Artist Fund (HASWESSSAF). If you do, I'll start up another list in my sidebar called "HASWESSSAF Supporters" and post your name there, and if you give me your contact info (again assuming there are people in my fanbase whom I don't know) I'll send you your very own handmade "I'm a HASWESSSAF Supporter!" pin.* In the words of Captain Planet, "The power is yours!"

*Pin will be a piece of cardstock attached to safety pin. Cardstock will have a crude design on it that was supposed to look very fancy and professional but does not because I cannot draw, and so legend will start out in neat block letters, but get scrunched up toward the end as I begin to run out of room to write. Graphic will be a circle that is meant to be a face, with squiggles on the top that are meant to represent curly hair; a disembodied hand holding a pencil; and a voice bubble that says "I'm starving!" Part of the pin will be colored as I will have thought that color might save it from becoming a travesty, but I will quickly realize color only makes it worse and decide it's not going to get any better, and besides, I have that short story due, and I haven't vacuumed in over a month, and my eye has started twitching each time I think about my bank statement. But I will also personalize it on the back, and that makes all the difference.

Failed willful suspension of disbelief with commericals

2005-07-21T11:00:00.000-06:00

I tend to overanalyze commericals. That's one of the reasons I love TiVo--since it's so easy to just zip right past them, I save myself the effort of pondering unrealistic pieces of advertising. But there are a few things I tend to watch live, and one of these is the news. Last night, one of the local news shows had a commecial for the morning news. It featured the entire morning news crew in a couple's home as the couple awakened and began their day: the weather forecaster said it was going to be a bright and sunny day; one of the news anchors offered the woman a toothbrush with pre-applied toothpaste; the sports announcer gave tickets to the man, etc.

Now, the couple took all this in stride--which, of course, was the point of the commercial: the news team was helping the couple prepare for their day and everyone is happy; of course that's how the news channel would want the couple to appear, blah blah blah. But during the entire commercial, I was thinking about how I would react if I were placed in the same situation.

My alarm goes off at 5:55. I groan, roll over, and hit the off button.

"Morning!" chirps Anchor 1 (female).

She and I scream in unison, but for entirely different reasons. "What're you doing in my room?" I croak, just as she says, "Good Lord, your hair looks like Krusty the Klown's!"

I pull my sheets up to my chin and my eye darts around the room, counting invaders. They're all here: of course there's Anchor 1; then there's Anchor 2 (male), Traffic Reporter (female), Sports Reporter (female), Weather Forecaster (male), and Replacement Anchor/Traveling Reporter (male).

"Granted," says Anchor 1 as she edges closer to peer at my bedhead, "his hair is blue, but you certainly have that tri-point thing of his." [Note: Of course the woman in the commerical was already wearing makeup, and her hair was a tangle-free, shiny curtain of black hair.]

"It's the result of sleeping for seven hours when you have curly hair that's long-ish but not long enough to tie back," I mutter. Then, louder, "What're you doing in my bedroom?"

"We're your Morning News Crew!" they chorus, and beam at me. I wish I had a baseball bat under the bed.

"Say hi to the camerama-- whoops, cameraperson!" says Anchor 1, and giggles. Cameraperson (androgynous) waves at me from my doorway.

"I repeat: what're you doing in my bedroom?"

"We're here to help you start your day," says Weather Forecaster. "Uh-oh! You better get out and walk your dog now, it looks like it's going to be another scorcher with record-breaking heat!" He grabs my arm and tries to pull me out of bed.

It occurs to me to scream "Sexual harassment!" but instead I yank back my arm and cower under the covers.

Traffic Reporter is at the window, having pulled back the shades, and looks at the street through a pair of binoculars. "Looks like the road to the lake is clear, very little traffic. One stoplight appears to be slow letting cars across the intersection--wait, there they go! We have no gridlock!" She turns to the east. "And it looks like the road to the gym is clear as well, but you better take your dog to the lake quick, because who knows what it'll be like in a half-hour!"

Now I realize that I have no bra, and my cheery Morning News Crew wants me to get out of bed and flop in front of the camera. [Note: The woman in the commercial was not well-endowed enough to flop, and she probably got to wear a bra anyway.]

Now Replacement Anchor/Traveling Reporter holds up a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. "Your clothes." He smiles at me as if I'm supposed to thank him for rummaging through my closet. [Note: The man in the commercial did.] And from behind his shoulder, I can see into my closet. The bra that I wish I was wearing hangs right next to my robe, in plain view. I groan and cover my face.

"Come on, you haven't got all day," says RA/TR. He shakes my clothes in my face.

"Well then, get out so I can change," I snarl at all of them. [The commercial skipped over the part where the couple went from PJs to work clothes.]

Six smiles falter. Maybe seven; I can't see Cameraperson's face.

"Well, I suppose that's reasonable--" says Anchor 1, a frown on her face. "And let's see if we can't get makeup and hair here for her," she whispers as they trudge out of the room. "That hair--"

"It's bedhead!" I shout. Cameraperson keeps the camera trained on me as I get out of bed, doing my best to keep my boobs from flopping. Then, and only then, does Cameraperson leave the doorframe and shut the door.

At last I emerge, after double-checking that I do not have a baseball bat under the bed, and head to the bathroom. Since the morning news crew lines the hallway, there is no chance of escape. In the bathroom, I see that Sports Reporter has already found my toothbrush and applied toothpaste to it. "Don't forget the game tonight," she says as she gives me my toothbrush and pulls some tickets out of her pocket.

"I don't like sports, and all the Denver teams suck right now anyway." I take the toothbrush and ignore Sports Reporter's pressed lips and proffered "tickets," which I now see are just pieces of paper. "And who brushes their teeth before they pee in the morning!" Then I shove her out of the bathroom. [Because unless it's about incontinence or a bladder issue, no one has to urinate in commercials.]

Once I emerge, Weather Forecaster is at it again. "Already seventy-five degress and climbing! You'd best get on your way."

"Sunscreen," I mutter, and head back to my bedroom. Too bad the bathroom didn't have a window I could climb out of.

"Ah yes," says Anchor 2. "Studies say that young women are the fastest-growing group of skin cancer cases. What's causing this trend? Evening Correspondent 1 reports at five." He eyes me as I slather sunscreen on my face. "Now, since you have brown hair, brown eyes, and are freckle-free, you are less likely to develop skin cancer than people with light hair, light eyes, and freckles, but you should still use an SPF of at least fifteen--"

"You stole that from the newspaper, didn't you? And why don't you save it for Evening Correspondent 1?"

Finally I get my dog (who, this one time, decided not to bark at intruders) hooked up to his leash. I head out of the house to see my Morning News Crew congregated on the lawn, camera still rolling.

"Right, who's ready for the next house?" asks RA/TR.

They cheer and stride toward the neighbors' home. I heisitate, then run back inside to look up their phone number. They deserve a warning.

More from the closet: "My life in ancient Egypt"

2005-07-12T09:50:00.000-06:00

Remember the previous post where I said I would include more crappy writings from my youth? Well, this one isn't really a crappy writing from my youth--though it is still very crappy, I assure you. No, this is evidently a bonus project from sixth grade when my class studied ancient Egypt. My best friend and I, who teamed together for the Egypt stuff, were overachievers, so much so that we would have given Lisa Simpson premature ulcers if she had been (a) a sixth grader, (b) in our class, and (c) real.

So my friend and I, overachievers that we were, made several bonus assignments to get extra credit. From what I remember, we did this without even asking our teachers if we would get extra credit. Yes, Lisa would have wept.

Anyway, one of the bonuses was a "story" written in fake hieroglyphics and then translated. It's in my handwriting, so I know I did it, but I don't have a specific memory of creating it. Here's the translation:

My Life In Ancient Egypt

I was riding away from a dog who seemed determined to have my bike tires for lunch. Suddenly, I fell into a hole. Where am I? I wondered. I stood up and saw . . . the Sphinx. "Whoa. I'm in Egypt."

It was pretty cool. I guess I'll never know what it's like till I stop dreaming.

See, that looks pretty short, but with all my little hand-drawn feathers and things that were presumably birds, it took up over two pages. And as I reread it for the first time in several years, I thought, "Funny. I never took crack, yet who would know?" but then the last line struck me as sort of poignant. "I guess I'll never know what it's like till I stop dreaming." Whoa, man. That's deep. And I'm sure it'd seem even deeper in a smoke-filled basement illuminated by the glow of lava lamps. Nevertheless, that phrase yawned before me, an open gate to metaphysical contemplation. Do any of use really know what the undefined "it" is like before we stop dreaming? Are we dreaming even now? Can we find the truth in the seemingly idle lyrics of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat"--life is but a dream? Because it really makes you think, doesn't it, "Till I stop--"

Then I thought, "Screw it, it's blog-fodder" and went back to purging the closet.

Despair and writers as egotists with low self-esteem

2005-07-10T18:21:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I read this article by Patti Thorn, a staff writer for the Rocky Mountain News. Pretty depressing figure there: according to Thorn's "new friend Greg Slominski," the odds of a book (from my understanding) writer living as a writer--meaning, writing is his or her day job--is 1 in 380. Keep in mind, fanbase, that we're not talking striking it rich in J.K. Rowling proportions, or even Dan Brown proportions (off topic--am I the only one who thinks The Davinci Code isn't all that great, that in fact it's a colorless piece of work with some of the flattest characters since, well, Flatland?). We're talking being able to pay the bills and get by without resorting to another job. After adjusting the figures to allow for "a range of error," Thorn reports the odds as ranging from 1 in 200 to 1 in 500.

According to "The Odds," I'm more likely to die "in the next year in any type of transportation accident" (1 in 77). But, according to the same site, I'm less likely to be struck by lightning (1 in 576, 000) or be "considered possessed by Satan" (1 in 7,000). Things are looking up.

The site also lists the odds of writing a New York Times bestseller as 1 in 220--slightly better than the 1 in 380 figure of living off of writing. Which just goes to show that should I ever be so lucky as to pen an NYT bestseller, I should refrain from quitting my life of drudgery to make my computer my BFF in the belief that just because I've made it once, I'll make it again.

All this got me thinking.* Writers** are egotists with low self-esteem.

Let me explain.

To see the initial creation of a book through to the end, a writer has to believe that, first of all, the idea is a good one, and, second of all, that he or she is a good enough writer to present the idea in such a way that it is publishable and people will actually want to read it. I speak from experience--it becomes horribly difficult to write something if your brain keeps chanting "This sucks, you hack! This sucks!" as your fingers tap the keys, or as you stare out the window hoping for inspiration. Or even when you're not writing at all--the thought can come at you from nowhere. It's morning, you're still groggy because the coffee or other caffinated beverage of choice hasn't hit you yet, and you're brushing your teeth and you haven't yet spared a thought for your work in progress. Your bleary eyes stare at yourself in the mirror, and it is then that the little part of your brain that consists of the blackest evil and wishes nothing but the worst for you wakes up, rubs its little hands together in malicious glee, inhales deeply, and shouts at the tops of its lungs, "Hey, hack! Your book sucks! Sucks! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

But I digress. The point is that the writer has to have faith in his or her work and in him- or herself to get the initial draft down on paper. That's the egotist bit--you're writing something worthwhile, and it's more worthwhile than all the other thousands of manuscripts in current preparation, because only so many books can be published (unless you're willing to put out the money to self-publish, in which case saturation of the market, readability, and anything else don't matter) and yours is the one that will be published.

But once that first draft is down on paper, low self-esteem has to kick in, because now comes the time when the book needs to be ripped apart and edited. Mind, self-esteem can't be so low that one gives up but at this point the writer has to become unenamored with the work and see its faults, which then need to be fixed. And with a first draft, one can expect numerous and sizable faults, and come to believe that one is a hack after all. Nevertheless, the "Hack!" voice needs to be gagged, tied to a chair, and perhaps tortured, because I think the difference between hacks and real writers is that hacks don't bother to rewrite. They don't care enough about the work to rewrite, and that's what makes them hacks.

So what's the point of this post, fanbase? What purpose do these 806 words, including footnotes but not the text following "these," serve? Essentially to remind myself that I am not a hack, and that if I love writing, I'll do it in spite of the odds of becoming a successful writer. I'll do it for myself. So really, this has been a very self-absorbed post, but one that I think is worth it.

See, I told you writers are egotists.

*This is a lie. I had actually got to thinking before reading Thorn's article, but the two topics flow together so well that I decided to ignore the fact that I had been thinking even before reading Thorn's article and merge the two items anyway. I do try to be honest with you, fanbase, and don't you forget it!

**Well, ones who want to be published, anyway.

The absurdities of youth--or, Cleaning out the closet

2005-07-08T00:04:00.000-06:00

So I've been going through all my junk in prepartion for my move to Chicago in less than a month. Currently, I'm just figuring what's pure junk that I can just throw away, what's not quite so junky that I can dontate somewhere or sell at a garage sell, or what's stuff I actually want to keep.

Part of this latter category includes a subcategory of "stuff that isn't junk to me but will be junk to whoever has to clean out my junk when I'm dead." Today, I found a bunch of stuff that falls in this subcategory, mostly very humorous early attempts at writing. I had completely forgotten that when I was about nine or ten years old, I had made a series of "books," which I called Book Quest (see left), based on the Choose Your Own Adventure series. Only, if I recall correctly, the Choose Your Own Adventure books had more than one way to finish, meaning that you could achieve the book's "goal" in more than one fashion. In other words, there was more than one way to slay a dragon. Not Book Quest! In the three finished Book Quest books,* there were myraid ways to die (see right), but only one way to "beat the book," as I called it. Now that I actually remember having created the books in the first place, I seem to have another memory of a very frustrated aunt who refused to finish reading my books because she kept dying in them. Sigh. At least her negative attitude didn't stifle my creativity--or rather, my desire to be creative--as my closet full of crappy childhood stories proves.

I also found someting that I think isn't half bad, but then I was much older when I wrote it (seveenteen) and I have a sort of skewed sense of humor to begin with. Remember the "Fuzzy Wuzzy" rhyme? "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear, Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair, Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't very fuzzy--was he?" Or something like that. Apparently, on November 9, 1999 (it's so helpful when I date my work!), I decided to write a brief story--what I now would call flash fiction--entitled "The True Story of Fuzzy Wuzzy." Read on, fanbase of four!

And now, we've all heard about that lovable bear, Fuzzy Wuzzy who had no hair. But is that the true story? Sources say otherwise. (CAMERA VIEW: Gradual close-up on Fuzzy's back as he turns his head slowly to the camera to reveal a sinister snarl complete with elongated fangs and demonic, glowing red eyes.) Find out what Fuzzy's true side is in the (trumpet fanfare) RANDOM RHYME OF THE FORTNIGHT!** (Caution: May not be suitable for young children.)

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a were-bear.
Fuzzy Wuzzy hated Care Bears.
So Fuzzy Wuzzy took his chainsaw
That went buzzy buzzy and he--

(CAMERA VIEW: Clip of pastel fur flying everywhere, occasional glimpses of gore-encrusted chainsaw, abruptly cut-off cries of "Care Bear Stare!" and maniacal laughter throughout.)

Leading people to ask, "Was Fuzzy insane? Was he?"
One thing's for sure:
Fuzzy no longer inspires "fuzzy wuzzies in your tummy," does he?

Well, it made me chuckle, anyway.

At any rate, this treasure trove of junk-to-everybody-but-me will likely ensure that I have somethingto post for quite some time, since I'm never averse to a little humorous self-deprecation. Keep visiting, fanbase; along with the stories, I found a bunch of journals.

*There was a fourth, unfinished Book Quest book, which I can only assume would have followed the same policy of "Death! Death to you! Mwa-ha-ha-ha!" and which I know had several aspects blatantly ripped-off from the King's Quest series of adventure computer games. Plagiarism at an early age!

**I have no memory of actually coming up with a random rhyme every fortnight. My guess is that I simply thought it was a clever title for a fake television show, since it featured alliteration.

Hurrah! Photo hosting!

2005-07-06T17:39:00.000-06:00

Well, fanbase of four, I am pleased to see that Blogger now offers direct photo hosting! I did look into using Hello, but got bored/frustrated with trying to get it to work properly, so gave up and decided I would just have a photo-free blog. No longer, however! To that end, I am posting my first-ever photo to my blog. It's a picture of yours truly, and I'm doing it mainly so that I can include a photo on my profile.

Here's moi, or at least the eyes de moi.

Of course, my entire fanbase of four already knows what I--or my eyes--look like. So this post is really meaningless to you. Oh well.

I hang my head in shame

2005-07-06T17:06:00.000-06:00

Right, it's been nearly a month since I last posted, and I made the mistake of scanning my last post and seeing that I decided to make it an "unofficial rule" that I would reveal "some snippet that reveals an aspect of the hidden depths of my psyche" in return for failing you, my fanbase of four, by posting infrequently.* So now, in addition to trying to come up with something mildly entertaining so that you, fanbase of four, don't waste five minutes of you time in reading this post, I have to be entertaining while giving some sort of said snippet. This, dear fanbase, is a difficult task, but here goes.

I dislike sock fuzz.

Now, just what does my dislike of sock fuzz reveal about my psyche? Could it be that there is some sort of childhood trauma involving sock fuzz? Perhaps at some point, a torturous soul, such as an elder brother, forcibly placed me inside a dryer and laughed while I screamed and begged for freedom, and the only thing I could hear above my own increasingly hoarse cries for help was a malicious, "Eat sock fuzz!"?

No.**

Could it be that I am obsessive compulsive, and that when I get the sock fuzz trapped between my toes, and see the sock fuzz trapped between my toes, I must halt all other acitivity until I have removed every last bit of fluff from the crevices separating those tiny appendages that are so helpful for balance? Or is it that some part of my brain is skewed and I think the sock fuzz might somehow hinder my toes in their important job of maintaining my balance?

Again, no.

So what, exactly, does my dislike of sock fuzz reveal about my psyche?

I don't know. But it was the first thing that popped into my head when I was wondering what I should write, so I figure it's got to be related to my psyche somehow. If you happen to have any theories, fanbase of four, feel free to post them. Though I may regret saying that later.

On another note, the countdown to Chicago is on. I'll be moving in less than a month. Yay!

*After receiving a complaint many weeks ago from someone who seemed to think he/she was not included in my fanbase of three, I have decided to increase the number. And now I have that cool alliterative thing going: "Fanbase of four." Huzzah for alliteration!

**Unless, of course, my brain repressed such a memory because it was too dreadful and traumatizing to remember, and it is now slowly revealing itself to me as I write. But that's getting a little too Freudian for me.

Fun with Babel Fish!

2005-06-12T17:40:00.000-06:00

Ah yes, it's been another two week interval between posts. I've decided to make it an unofficial rule that when I go for so long without posting, I will repay you, fanbase of three, with some snippet that reveals an aspect of the hidden depths of my psyche. Last time it was Confessions; this time it's fun with Babel Fish.

Now, fanbase, you may be asking yourself how fun with Babel Fish can reveal anything about my pysche. Internet translation doesn't really have much to do with the human psyche, you may be crying out in your heads, or even aloud, as your eyes rove over the words on your computer screen. On the surface, there is a disconnect. But, ahh! when we take a portion of my novel-in-progress, translate it to, say, Spanish, then to French, then to Dutch, then back to English, the mysteries are revealed! Or solved! Or--whatever!

But if you're still confused about how translating a portion of my novel using Babel Fish reveals any aspect of my psyche, well, you can always consider that maybe I was just too lazy, even after two weeks of no blogging, to come up with anything decent, or even to come up with a plausible excuse as to why fun with Babel Fish reveals anything about an aspect of the hidden depths of my psyche.

Enjoy!

The English to Spanish to French to Dutch to English:

I must allow, the can of cabritos is adjacent whereas sledding. He variëert of them they use guard, and someone, especially uses the little girls, have small of pompoms in cover. There are, decked back outside in snowsuits or perhaps trousers of equitable vachers, and they are everyone that they shout. In particular a boy in a current beginning with its innertube to a completed successfully him, then bevoegheden obtain, by pushing mueca of pain of I to innertube for him he down to lack have had now and have ridden into under innertube of without hillock. When he will obtain to the fund of the hillock, he as soon as he lies until there friends down to work, confirm he that he are each reason, have and launches it with snowballs. "keep the called entertainment in the eye," the previous day. They keeps sledders more equitable in the eye and appears the collapse of innertuber have noticed. "he is." ECHO vistazo in her. Its haren behind its hearings and she uses themselves Boina which they does not keep in the eye such as he really terrible well are warm head of it late maintain. I seem myself on Josslyn indicate to that persuade of they it buys during of its forwardings of the purchases. Its attractive jacket around seen as a confinement as a role.

The original English:

I have to admit, the kids look cute while sledding. Several of them are wearing hats, and some, mostly the ones girls wear, have little pompoms on top. There they are, decked out in snowsuits or maybe just jeans, and they’re all screaming. One particularly bold boy gets a running start with his innertube held before him, then springs, pushing the innertube down before him— I wince. He missed and is now rolling down the hill sans innertube. When he gets to the bottom of the hill, he just lies there until his friends run down to him, confirm that he’s all right, and proceed to pelt him with snowballs. “It looks fun,” Eve says. She’s looking at more successful sledders and doesn’t appear to have noticed the crash of the innertuber. “It is.” I glance at her. Her hair is tucked behind her ears and she’s wearing a beret that doesn’t look like it actually does any good at keeping her head warm. I seem to recall Josslyn convincing her to buy it during one of their shopping expeditions. Her pink jacket looks about as insulating as paper.

Now, wasn't that fun? And I'm sure you now know more about my pysche than you could ever wish. Go on, admit it. You do.

Reassessing goals and timelines

2005-05-22T14:08:00.000-06:00

We all know there are many pithy sayings out there about knowing yourself, investigating your self, being true to yourself, knowing your strengths and weaknesses, etc., and making plausible goals. Since I'm an introspective person anyway, and since I needed some sort of topic for my blog, I figured I'd include here a reassessment of some of my own goals. And fanbase, I highly suggest that you do the same. Where would the world be without egotists such as ourselves? ;)

So, first off, remember when I said I'd be changing the colors of my blog? The few of you you've read this blog since its inception know that it looks just the same as always, alas. Now, I'd still like to change the colors of my blog. I even had borrowed a book from my local library, the title of which I'd tell if you if it hadn't been so long since I've seen it that I've forgotten it*, which would have told me how to do this easily, but I returned it because I finally had to admit that I wasn't going to finish reading it.

However, I'd still like to change the colors of my blog. I have plans to do this in the future. So, my realistic assessment is this: In about two weeks, when I've quit my job as a peon at an educational publisher and am focused on things like packing for my impending move to Chicago for grad school, when I have more spare time, I will fiddle with the HTML code and make my blog prettier.

Even more realistic assessment: In the time after I've quit my job and before I move to Chicago, I will become so frustrated with packing, apartment and/or roommate hunting, part-time job hunting, and so stressed about reentering the world of schoolin' and the prospect of working at Dairy Queen or some other menial job that nonetheless has the flexible hours I'll require, that the last thing I will want to do is frustrate myself further with figuring out how to make my blog pretty. Thus the only time I will log on the computer will be to play Pop & Drop and check email to see if someone, somehow, has heard of my woe and has decided to alleviate it by giving me $40,000 to pay for grad school (which wouldn't take care of everything, but sure would make me feel better).

Next--and this is one that none of you have heard about on my blog--I must think about my plan in which I write a novel so amazingly good that I singlehandedly become responsible for causing the public to read again. People everywhere rediscover the joy of the printed word and spend their every waking moments discussing my work, or The Great Work, as they will come to call it, eyes gleaming with pride and happiness. World leaders will be so grateful to me that they will agree to hand over the rules of their countries/territories/what have you, confident that all will be well in the hands of my benevolent dictatorship. Benevolent dictatorship in place, I will have Orlando Bloom, Colin Firth, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, and Jack Johnson (the list may change and expand, however, as this is quite far out in the future) become my personal cadre of cabana boys who wave palm fronds at me while I sip iced tea and tap away on my laptop as I create what will become The Next Great Work.

Realistic reassessment: Palm fronds imply that I'd be at some sort of beach-y resort, as does the cabana boy thing. Beaches imply tropical, and tropical implies heat. I don't do well with the heat. I'll have to think of some non-beachy place to write The Next Great Work, and Orly, Colin, Johnny, and Jack will have to form a cadre of something besides cabana boys. And the palm fronds are probably a bit much, too. I can't imagine that they would create enough of a breeze. My cadre of whatever can instead aim handheld, battery-operated fans at my head.

All right, I think that's quite enough self-assessment for now. It's so good to have a plan in place, isn't it?

*This is true. I cannot for the life of me remember the title of that stupid book, of which I read only three chapters. One of the later chapters supposedly would have taught me how to increase traffic to my blog, which I, based upon the pitfully low number on my stat counter, could definitely have used. Then again--why aren't you readers spreading word of my blog to all and sundry? For shame, fanbase! For shame.

Üder Redux

2005-05-15T14:42:00.000-06:00

Hey fanbase!

Remember Üder? Well now you can check him out in an expanded version!

While you're at the Comic Widows site, browse around. It's pretty nifty, and the moderator of a writing group I'm in, Writer Circle (check it out in my links section), puts it together.

And unfortunately, I currently have no amusing anecdotes or pity comments for you, save this one: Happy Sunday, everyone!

Confessions

2005-05-14T11:26:00.000-06:00

Well fanbase, in the wake of a couple of weeks of no posting, and then my two sorry posts, I'm feeling pretty guilty. My blog has been far from up to snuff recently, and I apologize. The ubiquitous "they" say that confession is good for the soul, and so, largely to ease my own conscience, I will make some confessions to you right here on this blog. And if you're a voyeur who thrives on this sort of stuff, great! Sit back and enjoy!

Confession No. 1:

There are times when I think I am a talentless hack who cannot write. Then I think, No no, it is not so! for I have been Accepted Into A Creative Writing Program! Somebody thinks I'm good! I begin to whistle, then pop on over to my blog to review my latest masterpiece.

Hey, wait a minute...

Confession No. 2:

Long ago, during the naivete of my youth, I liked New Kids On The Block. A poster of Joe adorned the door to my room. I saved my weekly allowance of one dollar for months and bought the dolls of both Jonathan* and Danny,** with plans to buy the rest later (thankfully never happened). I even owned a set of NKOTB towels. Now, it's just disturbing (though somewhat salacious) that I used their faces to cleanse and dry my body.

Confession No. 3:

I own a pair of Birkenstocks. I know, I know, Stacy and Clinton would have my hide. But own them I do. And they're comfortable! I don't care if the "style gurus" would throw them away. They're comfortable. Plus I (used to) suffer from plantar fasciitis. I need the arch support! And I will continue to wear my Birkenstocks, so there, Stacy and Clinton. I defy you!

And on that subversive note, I leave you, fanbase. I hope your voyeuristic desires have been satisfied.

*In an ultimately futile effort to impress Barbie (who moved on to Danny), Jonathan tragically lost his leg when attempting to do the splits. He retired to a shoebox in shame. Current location: unknown.
**Current location: unknown, but Barbie*** likes to believe that he's not off with Skipper somewhere.
***Yes, this is a footnote of a footnote. I'm avant garde that way. Anyhoo, Barbie herself was sold a at a garage sale, and so her current location is unknown as well. Or she was given to good will. I forget which. In any case, I don't know where she is.

Warning: this is a Thinking Post

2005-05-13T20:28:00.000-06:00

If you're looking for a laugh, I'm honored that you came to my blog for it. However, you'll have to check out another blog/Web site/joke-of-the-day calendar (assuming there exists a joke-of-the-day calendar that is actually funny, of course). This entry is going to be a Thinking Post. If you're not in the mood for a Thinking Post, come back in a couple of days. I'm sure I'll come up with something witty, yet urbane, at a later date.

In the meantime--

I was over at Apple's Movie Trailer site browsing the trailers and noticed that the trailer for Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is up, as well as a WETA featurette for The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The WETA one was neat, but the Harry Potter one actually brought on warm, fuzzy feelings and even fond recollections of my recent rereading of the book. I'm currently rereading The Fellowship of the Ring and am enjoying it more than I did when I read it the first time round, shortly before the movie came out.

So all this got me thinking on why I like fantasy--I don't read it as much as I used to (though it's making a comeback since I'm trying to save money and so am looking to my personal library, of which fantasy still makes up at least 60% for my reading pleasure), but I read it almost excusively growing up, and I'm sure I'll always have a soft spot for the genre.

Why? What is it about this stuff that kept me reading an average of a book a week for about six years straight, until I had to go to college and my free time was cut down drastically? And why is it that I'm coming back to the genre after a hiatus during which I read little but contemporary fiction?

It really didn't take me long to answer: I like the fact that the bad guys get what's coming to them. The vast majority of fantasy is based on the good/evil dichotomy. You have a dark, powerful overlord who's bent on taking over the world or destroying it. You have a group of characters who want to stop the dark overlord, and eventually do. It's interesting, because the fantasy I like best maintains the good/evil dichotomy and yet retains the protagonists as characters who neither black nor white but instead in the gray area. They're not perfect; they struggle with their own weaknesses, but the good in them wins out in the end. I think there's comfort in that. Though the worlds are made up, it's a reassurance that there is good in the world and that there are people willing to fight for it.

The thing about contemporary fiction is that it's largely concerned with the individual. Individual people getting on with their individual lives, and those lives are touched only by a few other individuals. Things that happen to those individuals won't affect Fictional Bob across the street. Fantasy, however, is typically on a much larger scope, because the outcome of the battle between the antagonists and the protagonists will affect the entire (fictional) world, including people like Fictional Bob. Fantasy offers a showcase for some of the best aspects of humanity--devotion to others and the willingness for self-sacrifice. I don't know that that comes across in much contemporary literature.

It's difficult to explain, but I guess I'll say it like this: if these books any of them, were real, I think epic fantasy, with its focus on, you know, saving the world, would matter more than the individual-centeredness of most general literature. Which I think is an interesting aspect for a genre that many malign as being a lesser form of fiction.

Well, I've babbled on long enough. I may get a more light-hearted post up tomorrow.

Been so long!

2005-05-07T13:13:00.000-06:00

Apologies to my massive fanbase (*coughofthree*cough). I do realize it's been quite some time since I've posted anything to my blog. There are several excuses I could offer as to why I have not, but why don't we go with this:

I've been spending the last two weeks weeping into my pillow because, alas, I will be unable to attend The Time Traveler Convention.

This is a sad day for me, fanbase. For at 10 pm EDT, I will not be at

East Campus Courtyard, MIT
3 Ames St. Cambridge, MA 02142
42:21:36.025°N, 71:05:16.332°W
(42.360007,-071.087870 in decimal degrees)

I will instead be weeping into my pillow because I am not at the Time Traveler's Convention. Unless someone happens to invent a time traveling device in my lifetime, and a future version of me uses the time traveling device to attend the Time Traveler's Convention, in which case it would be a good thing that I'm not there, because we all now that meeting future/past versions of ourselves can ruin the space-time continuum and destroy the worlds, because so many books and movies have told us it is so. Or maybe a future version of myself (including the one that will be weeping into my pillow) will have the good fortune to fall into a worm hole (how would we get one on earth? Psh, like I know) and end up at the TTC anyway. Hope remains!

So a correction: I will be weeping into my pillow because my present self will not be at the Time Traveler's Convention. A future of myself may very well be. But moi, as I know moi--nope.

I'm a grammar god! (or goddess...)

2005-04-19T14:59:00.000-06:00

Well, we all suspected that to be the case, and now I have the HTML code inserted into my blog to prove it! Thank you, Quizilla! And BaalObsidian, who appears to be the quiz's author. And I suppose my brother, who directed me to the quiz.

Anyway, there's a link right under my neato Monty Python picture, which is in in my sidebar, and the text proclaiming me to be a Grammar God (really, I think the author should have called it "Grammar Deity." We live in a PC world, after all). Check it out, underlings!

Oh my! A flame!

2005-04-17T16:08:00.000-06:00

Right, so maybe it's not all that major a flame, but take a look at Howard's comment.

It appears, fanbase of three (because heaven knows Howard's not going to become a part of it!), that I am not broadminded because I read Harry Potter, and I am also a "phony." I am not quite sure what Harold's definition of "broadminded" is, but it appears to have something to do with having a wide vocabulary. And since I read Harry Potter, ergo, I can't have a wide vocabulary, and, ergo redux, my employing "words [I think] everyone [doesn't] know" is "phony."

Gasp! Alert the media! This is a danger that must be avoided at all costs, fanbase! Children's futures as verbal pundits are at stake; they will be left to flounder with dictionaries and thesauri, hoping to happen upon a word that uses more than three syllables and yet meets their needs, all because they read Harry Potter. And the adults! Won't somebody please think of the adults!

In any case, it seems to me that broadmindedness would involve investigating a vast array of topics, or, as in this case, reading material. Of course I have no idea what Howard's reading preferences are, but his comment implies that he is of the camp that Harry Potter is lesser literature, or that it isn't literature at all, and so he won't "waste his time" reading it since it isn't in the scope of the literati. I won't get into an argument about that, because frankly I have better things to do with my time. I read Harry Potter. I read Jane Austen. I enjoy them both. There's nothing else to it.

And nor did I ever make the claim that I believe the words I use aren't ones everybody knows. I use what fits. If I chose words simply on the basis that "Hey! Only the erudite will know this one, hee hee hee," that would make me a phony. That would be artificial. And it would be a form of egotism I hope I never indulge in. Just to let you know, Howard, should you even deign to view my blog ever again, I like the masses. I've found they're the real people.

Anyway, my first flame! *Sniff. Maybe I ought to print it out and hang it on my wall.

**Edit: I just thought of something else. If Howard "knows a phony when he hears one," and I am a phony, shouldn't he have known I was a phony before he discovered I read Harry Potter?

Psst! Hey! Look to your left! (And scroll down a bit)

2005-04-16T12:56:00.000-06:00

Hey fanbase! (Yeah, all three of you...)

If you look to the left of this post, you'll notice a few new items on my sidebar. I now have a list of links, the book I'm reading now, the books I read recently, and books you should read. I suppose at some point I could also attempt to link the titles to amazon.com for your buying pleasure, but I didn't feel like doing that just now. Keep an eye on the blog, though; I plan on meddling with the colors and stuff to make it extra purdy. You'll also notice that I now have a counter at the bottom of my web page, and also that it's pretty low right now--the majority of the clicks having come from myself as I previewed my blog to see if my edits to the HTML were working--so visit often and tell your friends so I don't feel pathetic and sad at having created a blog that nobody cares about. (Insert the sound of weeping here.)

Go on, now. Back to your own lives. I have nothing further to say.

On Allergies and Allergens

2005-04-13T20:34:00.000-06:00

It's that semiannual time of the year again. The time when my eyes become itchy and watery, my throat becomes scratchy, I sneeze every five minutes, and I get jacked up on Benadryl.

Yes, it's one of my allergy seasons, and worse than the fall because I know that even once spring is over, plants will continue to grow during the summer, send out their pollen and whatnot, and give me occasional attacks even in the supposed "off season." In the fall, I can at least remind myself that every thing will die soon and free me from my suffering.

But alas, the full ordeal is before me, the horror of which makes me, in an ultimately futile effort to distract myself from my misery, personify the local flora and fantasize about the personifications. Example:

The dandelion pokes its stem through the soil, bud rising tentatively above the greening grass. It waves a bit, though there is no breeze, and gives the sense that it is sniffing the air.

Ah ha! it says to its fellow dandelions, who remain but seedlings beneath the ground. I've found one! A sensitive! Boy, can we wreak havoc on her screwed-up immune system. Emerge! Emerge!

Confident now, it opens its yellow head and laughs maniacally while its brethren poke up beside it. Soon, says the first dandelion, now the Dandelion King, we shall be many, and the human will suffer immensely. It waves its leaves. Alert also the crabgrass and cottonwood trees. If we form an alliance with them, her suffering will know no bounds! Bwa ha ha ha ha!

Yes, my liege, says the second largest dandelion, and sends a telepathic message--because the evil plants are telepathic, you know--to the crabgrass and cottonwood trees, whose laughter joins the Dandelion King's.

Meanwhile, I sneeze and a shiver runs down my spine, but I don't know why.

Then there's the alternate fantasy of the personification of my immune system:

Everything's chugging along nicely; the innards of my body are happy as can be and even hum "Whistle While You Work." I inhale, bringing in a cottonwood tree allergen.

Hey, what's that? asks Immune System Component 1. To make it easier, we'll call it Ted.

Immune System Component 2 (henceforth to be known as Cheryl), glances at the allergen. Oh, that. That's just a bit of cottonwood stuff. It's been here before. It won't do anything. Don't worry about it. Cheryl goes on its way.

Ted tries to go back to humming "Whistle While You Work," but can't. Ted eyes the cottonwood allergen.

I don't like you, Ted says suddenly. You're evil! You're here to attack us! Well, we'll get before you can do anything. Mucus membranes, to arms! Lungs, sneeze that puppy out!

Ted, what's going on? asks Bailey, aka Immune System Component 242.

It's that thingy over there, says Ted. It's attacking us.

Bailey, who is, it must be said, very stupid but very powerful, takes Ted's word for it and calls for the entire immune system to leave off "Whistle While You Work" in favor of trumpet blasts and shouts of "Charge!"

All over a harmless little bit of cottonwood.

Sigh. My body is a battleground, and I hate spring.

minishowcase of blogs more popular than mine will ever be

2005-04-08T21:44:00.000-06:00

Right, first up is this blog.

Reasons why my blog will likely never be as popular as it is:

Being a lowly editorial assistant (and temp to boot) at a small educational publishing company in Longmont, Colorado, is much lower on the totem pole of peonhood than being a lowly intern at Comedy Central in New York City.
People like pictures. The above blog includes pictures, some animated. I do not know how to make pictures, let alone animated ones. I do not even own a digital camera. I am a technofreak, and technofreaks do not have popular blogs.

Reason to, despite all, retain hope that one day my blog may be as popular as it is:

Internships don't last forever, and nor do editorial assistantships, but my blog is not centered around the fact that I'm a lowly intern at a small educational publishing company, which means I can blog on even after I leave. Bwa ha ha ha ha!

Okay. Let's move on to the next blog.

Reasons why my blog will likely never be as popular as it is:

I can't act (as I discovered in the spring of 2003 when I took a course in beginning acting, thinking, "Hey! Maybe this would help with the dialogue in my writing" only to have any happy thoughts of this possibility driven far into the ether but the blindingly obvious conclusion that I can't act). Because I can't act, I will never have a film career that could serve as the launchpad for a popular blog.
I'm not David Duchovny.

Reason to, despite all, retain hope that one day my blog may be as popular as it is:

None, unless I can bank on growing male parts and morphing into David Duchovny. Which I'd really rather not do, as this would result in cries of "Look, it's the she-male who shares the same facial features as David Duchovny! But I've heard s/he can't act!" Yes indeed, that is something I'd rather not experience, even at the cost of having an unpopular blog.

I may continue the showcase later. Or I may not. Bets on the outcome allowed, if I get a share of the pool.

Cows as Superheroes

2005-04-04T19:53:00.000-06:00

In the "Spotlight" section of today's Rocky Mountain News (paper version), there is, for the readers' edification, a little sidebar that lists Dutch and Swedish superheroes in the Marvel and DC universes. (Note that this sidebar appears on the page facing the article on show cats. Quality reporting every day!) I took note of the Cowmen (Koemannen) because they brought to mind Kellogg's Üder, the Hermaphroditic Cow.

I first learned of Üder in the fall of 2001, when I participated in my alma mater's study abroad program in Oxford. There, my Oxford roommate and I became quite fond of Kellogg's milk and cereal bars. Üder appeared on the back of every box of them in Ye Merrie Olde Englande. He stood, bipedal, wearing his dashing protective goggles and sporting his infamous udder gun.

Udder gun?

How could this be, thought my Oxford roommate and I. Üder was male--always referred to with masculine pronouns. How could he have an udder? Could this, wondered my Oxford roommate and I, be the result of a patriarchal culture that will not allow any superheroes, including those with fully functional mammary glands, to be female? No, no, we concluded. Kellogg must have deliberately made Üder a hermaphrodite in a surprising show of acceptance of one of society’s most downtrodden pariahs.

Sadly, it now appears that Üder's Web site is now for sale. One can still see a tiny picture of him, however. Could it be that Üder is fading into the abyss of Cereal Promoters Past?

I fear it is so, my friends, I fear it is so. But maybe not all hope is lost. Perhaps Üder can hook up with the Cowmen and stage some sort of confrontation in the style of WWF Smackdown. Let the better cow win. And truly, wouldn't cows be the way to go about promoting the WWF? I can think of no better spokesanimal.

Inaugural entry

2005-04-03T20:11:00.000-06:00

Well, here it is--my inaugural entry. First impressions: seems like a blog ought to be more difficult to set up. It's a little distressing that in under ten minutes, anyone with an Internet connection can begin spouting their thoughts for the world's perusal. The world that has Internet connections as well, that is, and the world that is willing to sort through all the other blogs--all the other Web sites, really--just to find this one. Or the world that somehow manages, despite itself, to end up here anyway. So in truth, it's a very small world indeed.

Still. Mustn't let the power go to my head.

Indulgences in Verbosity

This space probably for rent

My city park screams

MDC vs. DBAG

What I'm doing now

Orphan Works Bill

Pardon me, your mouse ears are showing

Draft the first

Things I understand and things I don't

Before I forget again. . .

Brief thought on the WGA strike and NaNoisms!

On nutrition and cooking

Addendum to post the previous

On vanity plates (and associative thoughts therefrom)

Because I must vent somewhere

Bike-buying for semi-novices

On spam

Skeletor, Overlord of Evil--and Dance Master!

On fermentation

The summons

I have returned!

Two random things a post shall make

Ahh--the smell of NaNoWriMo is in the air

Who'd *you* sail with today?

Poor, poor Pluto

Surviving zombies

On solicitors

More on knowing thyself

This is too hilarious

More self-absorption

Oh, so *that's* why I'm self-absorbed!

Why I will never want to bear Dave Eggers' love child

Examining the grammar of a song lyric

Is it just me or...

Updates

Another reason why I haven't posted

Titles are for chumps (and yes, I used to be a chump and will be a chump again, but not today)

Check out the other blog!

Car shopping with Jesus

Again, I'm not dead

No, I am not dead

Where I'm at now

New goal update

New goal

My duties as a new resident of Chicago

Is it just me or...

Somebody wants me!

Redirection

Watch this space!

I did think of one thing to say

Why I haven't posted in a while and why posting will probably be rare for the foreseeable future

"L" experiences

Morbid laugh

Top ten reasons why I love the endorphins running through my body

So I'm a bit late in posting...

On the off-chance that my fanbase is larger than four

Failed willful suspension of disbelief with commericals

More from the closet: "My life in ancient Egypt"

Despair and writers as egotists with low self-esteem

The absurdities of youth--or, Cleaning out the closet

Hurrah! Photo hosting!

I hang my head in shame

Fun with Babel Fish!

Reassessing goals and timelines

Üder Redux

Confessions

Warning: this is a Thinking Post

Been so long!

I'm a grammar god! (or goddess...)

Oh my! A flame!

Psst! Hey! Look to your left! (And scroll down a bit)

On Allergies and Allergens

minishowcase of blogs more popular than mine will ever be

Cows as Superheroes

Inaugural entry

Who'd you sail with today?

Oh, so that's why I'm self-absorbed!