Perthpective

What's that old platitude, something like "you're not the best judge of your own work?"

The more I give over to my creative side, I keep learning that lesson over and over. I think I have a good eye for editing my own work, and of course I'm usually wrong.

I've also learned that the best way to really see something objectively is to give it time.

Time is the great mediator.

(wow, I'm chock full to brimming with platitudes today!)

Anyhow, I got to thinking about this recently while sorting through my iPhoto library. As an amateur photographer, I take *a lot* of photographs. This is the advice of my friend, mentor and teacher, Marty Springer, so I follow her advice.

But this means my iPhoto library fills up fast with fair to middling to downright awful shots. Since all of this dreck was slowing down my iMac, I decided to save the photos elsewhere and start again.

Oh, and also...my New Year's resolution is to get better about tagging all of my photos as I download them so I can search more quickly.

So in cleaning out my old photos, sifting through the pile, I came across the shot at the end of this post.

The Feline had climbed into the laundry basket that was lying on the ground, so I grabbed my camera and took a few snaps. I considered them throwaway photos. Less than throwaway. I downloaded them to my iMac and never looked back.

But something about this photo...it really works. It was taken probably two or more years ago when I was just learning my camera and had no idea about depth of field. And yet, the depth of field is what makes this photo interesting. It's not a perfect photo but it's also not bad. A little imperfect Photoshop adjustments and I'll be damned...not too bad at all.

Because not only with time comes perspective, but also...I can learn some lessons from three years ago me. The one just learning about photography. The one who just snapped and didn't think.

A careless shot can be magic.

I guess that's why my photography teacher tells us never to delete photos. "You never know" she says.

click photo if interested in seeing a larger size

Photo by Karen Fayeth and subject to Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.

The Reckoning

Today, the alarm clock went off and I groaned. Champagne, ham, prime rib, potatoes of all sort and way too many desserts slowed my senses and made me weak.

A Christmas hangover if there ever was one.

But this is December 27th. Christmas is over.

I knew what I needed to do. It was time to confess my sins.

Rising from my warm slumber, I put on the appropriate raiments and went to face the only entity that could absolve me from my indiscretions.

TM* looked at me with that one cold eye. He knew what I'd been up to. The last time we'd visited had been eight days ago.

Eight days.

A lot of bad behavior can happen in eight days.

A lot of bad behavior DID happen in eight days.

There was no turning back now. I entered the confessional and slowly began my ablutions.

The iPod went into my ears and shuffle fired up. No need for a hymnal, I know the words by heart.

Five minutes passed. Hey, I thought to myself, this is not so bad!

At about the fifteen minute mark, my left calf piped up. "Pardon me, but with all that booze you had, we're a skosh dehydrated. Potassium low and all that. I believe I'll go ahead and cramp right up."

I said to myself, "just keep walking."

At about the twenty five minute mark, my lower back chimed in. "Yes, yes, cramping does seem to be the thing to do. Huzzah!"

"Just keep walking."

Then my feet had something to say, with a backing chorus from my knees.

"Just keep walking."

My hip flexors asked, in a rather snotty tone, "Why *exactly* are we doing this?"

The very sweat glands of my body began exhaling stale booze and toxins.

I replied by turning my iPod up louder and putting an ever more determined look on my face and then I...

Just kept walking.

At the fifty minute mark, I'd said all the metaphorical Hail Marys and Glory be to the Fathers I could manage. I'd done my act of contrition.

I was absolved.

Kind of.

I suspect that tomorrow, I'll need to go confess again.

You know, New Year's Eve is just there on the horizon.

And the confessional is waiting.

*TM = Treadmill

A less than beautiful mind

When I look inside my head, as I usually do about this time of day, and ask myself "what would I like to blog about today?" I often see many colorful suggestions, images and ideas pop to the forefront.

Sure, many of the suggestions that my monkey mind puts forth are so capricious they become either not appropriate or too complicated to write about in about 500 words, on average. But I can usually find one gem among the rubble and bring that to you, every weekday, on my blog.

Today, on my walk over to the cafeteria to grab a salad and rush back to my office in time for another conference call, when I turned inward for a good blog idea, what I got, instead of colorful confetti and suggestions of "poop!," was resoundingly gray. Quiet. Lonesome.

As gray as the cubicle walls that line my office building.

As quiet as the dark winter clouds that have gathered over the Bay Area to lie down and weep cold rain on our heads.

As lonesome as New Mexico state highway 285 between Vaughan and Roswell.

When I looked inward, I discovered that my brain hurts.

For every company that's ever employed me, December has always been a busy month. My current employer is no exception.

At five months into my new gig, I really like it a lot, and as I've begun to hit my stride, I have discovered that cute little word "global" in my title means my days begin in the UK, lunch with Sao Paulo, a quick break for the US, afternoon tea with Australia, early evening snack with Hong Kong and I am put down to bed for the night with India.

All on the phone. All day long. The UK to India run encompasses about twelve hours of my day.

Then I wake up and do it all again.

While this probably sounds like complaining, it's really not. My job is fascinating and fun and really good stuff.

But I am *tired*.

In the interest of my own health, I've begun working out again. Nothing major, Jazzercise a couple times a week and a sashay on the treadmill a couple other days a week.

I found I need that exercise to build up my stamina so I can sustain these long days at work.

But all that exercise wears me out too.

And my blog, my beautiful, wonderful blog. It's suffering too. My goal of a post every weekday stands firm. Then I go and miss a day (like yesterday) and I've got to climb back out of the hole.

So all of these words (about 430 so far) are just my way of saying I don't have much to say.

For today, anyway. That quiet, gray, lonesome mind only lasts for a little while. Then my severe latent childhood will kick in, and I'll figure out how to write another post about poop.

You can count on that.

Artist Heather Gorham's interpretation of the monkey mind

An Open Letter To My iPod

Dear Shuffle Function on my iPod Shuffle:

Today, after a really long day at work that started WAY too early this morning and ended WAY too late, I climbed my large and rather tired behind up onto my treadmill and fired up the big machine.

Normally I can rely on you, my long suffering iPod, veteran of many miles, to get me through the agony of exercise.

Not today.

Here's a hint, little musical device: when I need a little inspiration, how 'bout we avoid every single four bar blues available on the playlist, huh?

Minor chords don't really scream "get that heartrate up!" Albert King and John Lee Hooker are really better suited to competitive whiskey drinking, not sweating for my health.

And that John Denver song? Yer killin' me! (yes, I have John Denver on my iPod. No, I'm not ashamed)

Workout time is also not time for Colbie Callat, John Legend, or Coltraine.

Damn, iPod Shuffle, that skip function got more of a workout today than I did!

That said, dropping a "Stayin' Alive" on me near the end of the hour? That was inspired.

Occasionally, you still got it, Shuffle.

Sad iPod cross stitch from benjibot's Flickr photostream.

Let's Have A Brainstorming Session

I just finished reading a book called "Riding Rockets: The Outrageous Tales of a Space Shuttle Astronaut."

It is the biography of NASA Astronaut Mike Mullane, and it's a pretty damn good book, not just because it's about a kid who was raised in New Mexico (though many, many bonus points for that!), but because Mullane gets down to the nitty gritty details about what it was like to ride NASA's Space Shuttle on three separate occasions.

Add to all of that, I personally think "Riding Rockets" is a fantastic title.

Which got me thinking...if I was going to write up the story of my life so far, what in the blazes would I call such a tome?

Tell you what...let's brainstorm together, shall we?

Here we go...let me clear my mind...remember no idea is too outrageous, all have merit.

If Loving Cheese is Wrong, I Don't Want to Be Right: My Life from Velveeta to Camembert

Fart Jokes Are Always Funny: A Retrospective

Decision Points: Red or Green? (<== honestly, doesn't that truly sum up my life?)

Ain't Got Sense Enough To Come In Out of The Rain: My life, and other things my father said

It's 10:00am and I Already Ate My Lunch: The trials and tribulations of a perpetually hungry girl

Nina Karen: Wisdom of the Ages (<== I can include the time I let my toddler aged goddaughter grab onto an electric fence. Great moments of godparenting...)

I'm From New Mexico: You don't look like you're Mexican, so Find A Map @#$&hole

Mommy, Why Does California Act That Way: A New Mexican's tales of living in the craziest state in the union

Whoops!: One woman's life of "excuse me" for inappropriate bodily noises

The Audacity of Taking the Last Piece of Pie: One woman's quest to become a better wife, except when there's pie involved

I'll keep working on it....

Cartoon from Noise to Signal by Rob Cottingham

I Don't Even Recognize Myself Anymore

Oh no.

I have a confession to make.

It's too horrible to mention, though it must be said out loud. Perhaps an open discussion will take the stigma out of it.

Here it goes:

: deep breath :

I've got the Christmas spirit and I don't know why.

This is a perplexing condition. Usually I'm very, very cranky from about November 15ish until about January 3ish.

I hate the music. Hate the cheesey decorations. Hate the whole hubbub.

For reasons I cannot explain, every once in a while, I get the spirit. I *want* to celebrate the season. I have a burning desire to decorate. I hum Christmas carols. I plan out gift lists and actually, *gasp*, send holiday cards out.

It's an illness for which there is no cure.

It's been about three years since I had this affliction. I cannot explain why it hit me so hard this year, but here it is with all its screaming tinsel and shouting jingle bells.

Halloween snuck up on me out of nowhere. Thanksgiving arrived and caught me unawares.

But Christmas? Nope. I've got my catcher's mitt on and I'm waiting for ya!

I even...well, I did a bad thing yesterday.

It looks like this:

I know! Don't look at me...I'm so ashamed.

At least it's not decorated yet.

But that's only because...

No, it's too terrible to speak.

But I must.

There are no ornaments on my tree yet because....

Ok fine.

Because I'm MAKING THEM ALL THIS YEAR!!!!

It's a sickness.

: hums : Just hear those sleigh bells ringing their jing-jing-jingling tuuuuune. C'mon it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with yoooouuuuu.

Photo by Karen Fayeth, taken with my iPhone 4

Waiter? I'd Like To Order....

The topic of Theme Thursday this week couldn't be more timely. In the lead up to the best eating holiday of the year, our topic, is: Food.

But here's my sideways twist on the theme.

Over the weekend, while on a fairly long drive, I began to riff on something The Good Man said, devolving, as I'm prone, to low brow humor. The stuff of twelve year old boys.

The Good Man isn't so much a fan of the twelve year old boy humor, so his side of the car went pretty quiet.

Well. Fine. I am who I am. If I can't let my inner twelve year old boy fly free at home, I'll take the next best option...imposing it on you, my fair readers.

So, herewith, my list of food names that are unintentionally rude, just in time for Thanksgiving.

1) Head cheese. You knew I had to start there, right? I'm not going to lie, I laughed right out loud typing the words. I wouldn't laugh out loud eating it though, because congealed gelatinous meat bits doesn’t really appeal to my palate. But whatever.

2) Cacahuete. Hee, hee, giggle *snort*. You said caca! Yeah, cacahuete is the Spanish word for peanut. But still, it's sooooo fun to say!

3) Bubble and squeak. It's just fried up meat, taters and cabbage and when done right is very tasty. That said, eating cabbage *does* cause certain parts of my anatomy to both bubble AND squeak. In addition, I rather like saying the name. Repeatedly. Like a toddler. Bubble and squeak! Bubble and squeak! Bubble and squeak! (making a squeaky noise as you say the word squeak is mandatory)

4) Rump roast. Yeah. Unh huh. And I'm supposed to ask for that at the butcher shop and not laugh? I've always been curious about what names were rejected in that marketing meeting. Ass brisket? Booty beef? 'Tocks steak? I mean, what exactly do you call a cut of beef that is sourced from, well, here. (link is TOTALLY safe for work)

And finally...

5) Spotted Dick. I think the gold standard for rude food names has to go to this British fare. It's a spongy concoction of dried fruit that is usually served in pudding. There is a version manufactured by Heinz available at my local grocery store. I always chortle inappropriately when I see it there on the shelves.

I mean, come on, Spotted Dick? Who thought that was a good idea?

You got any others I forgot? Leave 'em in the comments!

Weeee Represent the Lollipop Guild

I'm what they call a robust gal. Hardy. Big boned. The word "petite" doesn't apply to any of the assets I embody. I'm broad of shoulder and sturdy in the hips and thanks to a mom who told me to stand up straight, I own every one of my five feet and almost eight inches.

I had to stand in the back row for class photos. I long ago gave over to the knowledge that with these thighs, corduroy was not an option.

Back in college, I danced with short cowboys and took many a brim of a cowboy hat to the bridge of my nose.

After I moved to California, I wore flat shoes for years because I dated a guy not much taller than me. He once cooed over a friend who is teeny tiny, "you're like a little doll!" he gushed. I never felt more elephantine than I did at that moment.

This is the hand I've got to play, dealt by my genetics. Honestly, I've become more sanguine about it over the years.

This brings us to the events of yesterday. I'd been invited to a status update meeting with a VP from my company and the CEO of a large multinational corporation.

In the morning, I dug around in my closet and put together a pretty nice outfit. A meeting like this is big doings, so I knew I had to up my game.

I got dressed and put on my favorite pair of three inch heels. The outfit looked great. Before leaving the house, I asked The Good Man if I was committing a work faux pas.

See...my boss is about 5'9" on a good day, and his boss is maybe 5'6" if the wind is right and he's on the uphill side of an incline.

Is it bad form to tower over the people who pay my paycheck? The Good Man considered the question and decided the outfit worked, and thus all would be ok.

Off I went to work feeling pretty good. The meeting time rolled around and I stepped into the conference room. As I was the only woman in a roomful of nine men, they all rose and walked over to greet me.

Ok, so flatfooted I'm 5'8" and now wearing three inch heels I'm 5'11"

There was only one person in the room who was taller than me. Just one. The rest of these #$%^ing Lilliputians scrambled around somewhere about my kneecaps.

*sigh*

At the end of the day, I was very glad to go home, kick off my tall shoes, stand on tippy toes, and kiss my 6'2" husband.

Because that's the best way to navigate through a day chock full of Oopma Loompa-ish men.

(I might also add that I was only one of two Americans in the room. We had a gent from Hong Kong, a Dutchman, an Aussie, a Swede, a Scotsman, a Russian, an Irishman, a Spaniard, an American from Phoenix...and me.)

And the Wheel Goes Round and Round

Back in March I talked about the Rosanne Cash album "The List," a collection of songs culled from a list of 100 must-know songs crafted especially for Rosanne by her father.

The List is an essential music history lesson.

That story and the resulting album became the inspiration for my best friend and I to endeavor to create our own list as a legacy for my two goddaughters.

It's been an ongoing process, serious work, and we're making progress.

Over the weekend, I had the chance to see Rosanne Cash perform live at the Uptown Theater in Napa, CA.

I've been a fan for a while and I think Rosanne is a massively accomplished songwriter. I love the heart and emotion she puts into every lyric.

I figured as a consummate musician, she would put on a great show. I was in no way prepared for how stunning seeing Rosanne perform live really was.

Her backing band, including her husband John Levanthal on guitar, was one of the tightest bands I've ever seen. I told The Good Man during the show "I know musicians who would kill somebody to get at her drummer."

I've spent a lot of years in the company of musicians who struggled have a band that is tight and seamless. Rosanne has that in spades.

And talent too. She's an amazing, emotional and powerful singer. Like any great musician, the sound seems to pour from her effortlessly. It takes a lot of work to make it look that easy.

Then, after putting on a show that brought the house down, Rosanne went to the lobby and signed autographs for her fans. I got her signature on my copy of her recent bestseller "Composed" and had a chance to tell her that my best friend and I are working on our own version of The List.

And when I awkwardly mentioned that her gorgeous song "Seven Year Ache" is on the list, Ms. Cash smiled and shook my hand.

Made. My. Year.

What a powerful, beautiful, wonderful woman.

I am deeply inspired.

Photo by Karen Kristofferson, as posted on her @KarenKristo Twitter stream.

Word Association

Ok, back in the day shrinks used to use word association to tell something about their patients.

Yeah, no idea if that really works.

Anyhow, just for fun, let's see where this takes me.

We'll start with a random word generator.

And the word is: Lost

Not going to think too much, just going to let this flow.

Let's see...

Lost

Map

Driving

Back roads

San Francisco

Roads not straight

Crooked

Broken

Snapped

Why in the *&#% hell did you *&@#! make a right turn back there when you @#$% know that we wanted to go THAT way!!

Ahem. Yes.

No, that doesn't imply anything about me or my relationship with The Good Man. Why do you ask?

Oh, this is all hogwash this word association thing.

Ok, fine. Let's try again.

The word is: Liquid

Liquid

Moist

Wet

Damp

Why the !@#$ing hell is the cat wet? Did you leave the shower door open again? Or was she drinking out of the toilet? I HATE it when she drinks out of the toilet!

Hmm.

Ok, one more.

The word is: Corn

Which just makes me think: I am Cornholio! I need TP for my bunghole!

Yeah. There you go. Sophisticated psychoanalysis technique to Beavis and Butthead in three easy steps.

Welcome to the inner workings of my mind.

Never Underestimate

Here in my home, I have this cat that I managed to acquire by marriage, and is now part of my family. I'd had cats before so I knew what to expect going in.

But this cat is something different. Something special. Something about half a bubble off plumb.

Despite rightly being called a "special needs" cat, owing to suffering an especially high fever during her kittenhood, sometimes the wisdom of this not-always-so-smart pet just blows me away.

This cat has no patience for anyone. She wants to sit on your lap, but you're not allowed to actually touch her. Give her a skritching and you'll face the grip of her steely jaws.

Food must be delivered on time, or preferably early, or a string of thuggish behavior will ensue that begins with knocking things over and culminates in all out attacks on appendages.

She likes to fight before settling down for sleep at night, often leaving The Good Man with red marks on his arms.

She's rasty, moody and rather obsessive compulsive.

And, may I mention again, she has no patience for anyone. Or really...anyone who lives in the same house with her.

Guests? Oh, guests are great. She mews coquettishly and rubs legs and climbs up in laps and accepts chin scratches with chirrups and purrs and loving eyes.

In short, the cat is a tart. She'll give it away to anyone who visits, but for the folks at home...nothing. But here's where my heart grows soft. This silly, rasty, bitey cat is especially kind to kids.

Yesterday evening, a dear friend brought her eighteen-month-old daughter over to my place to watch Game 2 of the World Series. Her husband is on business travel and she wanted company.

Many cats I know will run hide under the bed when a toddler enters the room.

Not this cat. She adores children. The moment that toddler's toes hit the ground, we heard "kitty!" and it was off to the races.

The toddler pulled The Feline's tail, poked her ears and repeatedly hugged the kitty rather roughly. Did the cat run, bite or get nasty?

Nope. She went right back in for more, letting the child maul her while she head butted and purred.

Later, the cat was asleep up on top of her favorite perch, a stack of blankets on an old steamer truck. The toddler noticed the cat again, as though she'd never seen her before, squealed "kitty!" and went racing over.

I kept a close eye on things as I feared The Feline's patience was running thin. Toddler got a hold of tail and pulled hard. "No, no," I said, "We don't pull the kitty's tail." The toddler looked at me like I'd lost my mind, but let go.

At that moment, The Feline extended her paw out and I thought, "uh oh."

Then my rasty, tacky, bitey cat laid her paw (claws very much retracted) very gently on the baby's forehead. It was sort of like a "that's ok kid, you can pull my tail. We're all good."

And the baby giggled.

It was one of the most gentle and sweet gestures I've ever seen between two beings. They found a simpatico.

Again I'm amazed at the...well, I'd use the word humanity, but that wouldn't apply to a cat...the felinity?...that this little animal displayed.

I'm not much of an animal rights activist type person, but I will say this...never underestimate the soul of an animal. There is personality and spirit that is much to be respected.

Even a wacky, not quite right, bites my toes when I sleep kind of animal like mine.

Taken with my iPhone 4 using the Hipstamatic iPhone app

The Power of a Good PR Rep

Here in the Halloween season, it's hard not to have one's mind turn to thoughts of monsters.

Goolish, creepy, scary monsters.

We all have the cast of characters from our childhood (or even adulthood) that can still send a chill down the ol' spine.

For me, it's La Llorona. Just saying her name aloud creeps me out.

But didja ever stop and think a bit about the positive characters in our folklore that are more than a little creepy?

Maybe our beloved heroes are really the biggest monsters.

Think about it.

Let me give you an example, without the positive PR spin.

Kids, guess what!? There is this lady, see? She's something called a fairy and that means she's pretty tiny and probably has wings on her back.

Do you know what this lady likes (and by like I mean is obsessed with)?

Your teeth.

Yes, she loves little kids teeth SO much she will even pay for them!

Be careful when you go to sleep at night because this wacked out winged lady is going to break into your house and steal your teeth! Sure, she might leave you a quarter or for lucky kids, a dollar.

Keep your mouth closed while you sleep, kids! She may steal the rest right out of your maw while you sleep!

Or, try this one on:

How does Santa Claus look to a kid growing up in Brazil?

So, December 25th is the dead of summer to you. You're wearing shorts and tank tops and hoping for a break in the heat.

On that one special night, some fat Nordic man in a snowsuit (you gotta be crazy to wear a snow suit in summer!) is going to show up, break into your house, and leave you toys. All your favorite toys.

Wait? How does Kris The Fat Man know exactly what toys you wanted?

Because he sees you when you are sleeping. He knows when you are awake.

The fat Nordic man is a stalker, kids. Can you say stalker?

I suggest you take out a restraining order now.

Ok, are you starting to see what I'm saying here?

Wanna try one more?

There is this rabbit, see? And in April, as a way to celebrate Spring, the rabbit will come to your house and leave you eggs.

But kids, you learned in your science class that a rabbit is something called a mammal, and mammals don't lay eggs!

Whoops! Where does this strange bunny get all these eggs and why does he hide them?

And...bunnies don’t have opposable thumbs, so how is he getting these eggs dyed in bright colors?

And why is he trying to lure all the little kids outside with promises of jellybeans and chocolate? Didn't your parents tell you not to take candy from strangers?

What kid of sick, twisted, walks on two feet kind of rabbit is this?

Though in this horror story, the kids get the final revenge.

They are presented with a chocolate effigy of the offending monster and are encouraged to bite the head off.

So wait a minute.

Maybe that means....just maybe...we are all the monster.

Hmmm..........

Round and Round

The past couple weeks I've participated in the Theme Thursday challenge. A fresh topic is presented each Thursday and over the next week, bloggers interpret the theme.

Cool, right? I sure think so.

The first couple weeks were pretty easy. The words were game and knot and I happily interpreted them in my own way.

This week, the theme word is wheel.

It's one of those deceptive words. It seems so easy. Simple. Complete. Because it's so simple and ubiquitous, it actually becomes hard to narrow down a single interpretation of the word wheel and go with that.

So I won't.

Here's a real time brainstorming session. All the ways wheel speaks to me:

Ferris wheel. Uncle Cliff's in Albuquerque. I'm kid, waiting in line. That incredible view of the lights of the city when I'm up there at the top and it pauses a moment just to let you sit. Yeah. The smell of cotton candy and corn dogs wafting up. That's summer.

The Wheel of Fortune Tarot card. Round and round.

The Wheel of Fortune television show. Vanna, pick me a letter.

The wheels on a car. Man are tires expensive. Yesterday it rained like it meant it here in the Bay Area. The first big rain of the season. We drove up to San Francisco, and it became very clear that The Good Man's car needs tires soon.

The steering wheel. Remembering gripping that big wheel when I learned to drive in my dad's 1972 Chevy Blazer. Blue. Four wheel drive. I loved that truck.

"Wheel in the sky keeps on turning..." Who did that song? Gonna have to Google it. Oh yeah. Journey. Weirdly, Steve Perry has been in the ballpark during the San Francisco Giants baseball playoffs. The park has been playing "Don't Stop Believing" and Perry has been leading the singalong. Hell, if Steve Perry is the Lucky Stuff that got us to the World Series, I'll take it.

Wheels, as used in baseball. Referring to the feet, especially of a fast runner. "Man, that Andres Torres has some wheels! Did you see how fast he got to first base?"

If you say the word wheel to yourself long enough, it starts to sound weird. Wheeeel. Wheeeeeeeeel. Have you seen that Geico commercial with the little piggy going wheee wheee wheee all the way home?

Asleep At The Wheel, what a great band. Saw 'em play live at the Pan Am Center in Las Cruces. Danced my booty off. Fun!

Business lingo: "Let's not reinvent the wheel." Though lately that's been replaced by the equally lame phrase, "Let's not try to boil the ocean." Argh! Take your low hanging, wheel inventing, consensus building, suit wearing phrases and stick them in your.... *curse words redacted* for the sake of my mom, who reads my blog.

Ok, I think that's enough. There's more where that came from, but ten interpretations of the word wheel is plenty.

And there you have it.

Photo by Tamás Schauermann and provided royalty free via stock.xchng

An Open Letter on Behalf of Mankind

Dear engineer-type gentleman I just passed on the way into the cafeteria:

I appreciate that today is pretty warm day. The weatherman predicts temps as high at 95 degrees where we are.

I also appreciate that when the weather heats up, it's always nice to release your legs from the tyranny of pants.

Fair enough.

Given that our employer favors a "business casual" environment, shorts are, for the most part ok.

What I take issue with, sir, is not that you are wearing shorts, but rather the shorts you chose to wear. That garment was obviously bought in or around the year of 1985 when both you and Larry Bird had the legs to pull off a pair of uncomfortably short shorts.

The year is now 2010 and neither you nor Mr. Bird should put people through this. It's a lot to deal with while strolling the campus of this very conservative and well-respected multi-national corporation.

I fear for your manhood when you sit, good sir, because there is not enough cloth available, given the dimensions of your now engineer-like body, to cover all that needs to be covered.

No. Don't bend over. Please. I'm begging you.

Just take your cheeseburger and fries and head back to whatever research lab you emerged from.

I shall go cleanse my eyes with a Brillo pad.

Let's not have this chat again, eh?

Warm regards,

Karen

Listless In San Francisco

In searching for something to entice The Muse to put down her bons bons and get off her settee, I like to search around for pages offering help to flagging bloggers.

Just about every page I visit suggests creating posts with lists.

I see it all over: "list posts are very popular!"

1. Really? With who?


2. Perhaps the who doesn't matter as much as the what


3. I'm not sure lists are my thing


4. Maybe on this one I should go against my own grain


5. And make a list


6. A list for the listless


7. (Yes, I went there)


8. How about a blog post where the contents ARE the list


9. No well thought out collection of ideas


10. No useful reference guide


11. Just random thoughts


12. listlitized


13. Which is so not a word but I don't care


14. I mean, does it count as a list if it's not


15. a clean, well organized list?


16. I think it does


17. In fact, I think it makes it better


18. Maybe people will even want to


19. read to the end


20. instead of scanning down the list


21. Which I am totally guilty of doing


22. Maybe


23. I should leave


24. Some blank list items








28. Just to make it confusing


29. Or maybe


30. Lists


31. Are just too darn orderly for my disordered mind

The Well Went Dry

I guess my insightful marbles and rubber chicken post yesterday tapped out The Muse.

I'm at another lean spell on blog topics. So you know what that means!

Imagination Prompt roulette!

A spin of the wheel and away we go!!

Your present job makes you...

Able to pay the rent and buy groceries and every once in a while, a stupidly expensive bauble.

One food you would never give up is...

What?!? Give up a food?!? : looks around suspiciously :

Never! You can't take me and my twinkies alive!

Nothing matters...

You're telling me.

(I don't make these up...they come straight off the prompt)

I remember when...

...my dad used to start a sentence with "I remember when..." and then I'd turn up the television just a little bit louder.

Why do you feel like you do right now?

A carefully managed concoction of sugar, fat, salt, and vodka. Lots and lots of vodka.

What's the coolest piece of technology you work or play with?

I work for the most austere tech company in the world. We don't make cool. We make reliable.

So that lets out the work part of the question.

Play with? Well, the husband has an iPad which is VERY cool. When he got that, I got his MacBook Air. I know the technology is a couple years old but I'm deeply enamored of this little thin machine. It's beautiful and reliable and it makes the PC on my workdesk look like a hunchback.

What's the last piece of art you made?

Ok, now we're in my wheelhouse!

I think it was the three small canvases that I turned in for the Brooklyn Art House Co-Op project. I mailed those out on Sept 1.

That's a LOOONG dry spell of not creating any art.

I'd better get on that.

High school reminds you of...

Horrible dark things I shant share here.

I generalize about _____ because...

... _____ is so specific.

Why now?
Because I'm booked later.

Could you stay in bed all day and think?

Yes. I could also stay in bed all day and not think if anyone is looking for that talent.

Today when I put on my pants, I...

Double checked I'd zipped my fly. Otherwise it's too drafty.

Money is _____ and here's why

Wait. I thought _____ was specific. Now it's specifically money?

I have the golden touch!

Woo hoo!

I'm off to go spend my _____ all around town.

And there we have it.

Thanks for tuning in through the latest edition of Writer's Block!

I've Lost My Marbles!

Woooo!

There they are! In my hand!

Oooh how I love marbles. I was in a Diddams party store today and I generally revert to about ten years old when I get in that store.

Sensory overload!

It was the bin of marbles that really did me in. That's grade school, baybee! We used to have mad marble competitions on the playground.

Damnit, I sucked at sports but I was GOOD at marbles.

I remember winning a very big and very pretty shooting marble from a bully of a boy. He was SO ticked off at me.

What did I do? I giggled, dropped the marble in my pocket, and walked away.

That's how I roll (pun TOTALLY intended!).

Ain't nothing better than a big bin of marbles.

Unless, of course, it's a big bin of rubber chickens!

(All photos taken with my iPhone)

Curse you PowerPoint!

Oh how you vex me.

Sure, so the boss of my boss says...."Karen, put together a couple slides on [insert name of project here]."

And because I am that kind of employee, I say, "Yes boss!"

Then I when the boss is out of earshot, I sigh. Deeply. Loudly.

Then I make motions not unlike a cat would when being shoved into a mailbox.

Then I open up a blank PowerPoint screen with the company approved slide template.

And I sigh again.

It mocks me. The blank slide mocks me.

The company approved slide template has a graphic and logo running down the left side and the bottom of each page.

This takes up valuable real estate on every slide.

In this already limited space further limited by the corporate branding, I've been asked, essentially, to describe the d'être for my department.

My powerful team and successful program that was a decade in the making by my very talented predecessor.

I'm to boil that down to a few salient bullet points, format them in the corporate way and in corporate colors.

I have to make all the bullet symbols line up. And the font on every page should match in typeface and size. If I put in a table of numbers, all the numbers should line up like obedient school children.

I haven't even BEGUN to discuss "transitions" where you have your text come swooping in or looping out or emerging from thin air. I hate transitions. I really, really hate them.

I'm not *good* at PowerPoint. There are some people in this world who can make magic happen with the PowerPoint software. Unfortunately I am not one of these people.

One would think with my creative mind that I'd be all up and over PowerPoint. Nope. See, the times when I've gotten clever in the ol' PowerPoint, I've received dismissive looks and suggestions for edits. My sense of humor doesn't really translate to the rigid slide format produced by the PowerPoint software.

No. Must maintain a professional attitude. Must use a tool with SO many moving parts it could make the Pope cuss (you suppose they use PowerPoint at the Vatican?).

Must do a good job on this as I'm only sixty days into this new job. Must help them continue to think I was worth hiring.

Must make PowerPoint magic.

Oh and did I mention...this all must be done by Monday?

The Next Phase of Cold & Flu Recovery

Ah yes, I've hit rock bottom. The worst has passed and healing is on the way.

I've achieved that next, all-important phase of any decent common cold cycle:

Today I recovered my dignity.

I looked down at the same clothes I'd been wearing for 36 hours, front dotted with chicken soup stains, collar reeking of fever sweat and said to myself, "For the love of all that is decent! I need a shower."

And shower I did. The first time in three days I felt like actually cleaning myself up a bit. The first time in three days I'd cared.

This may sound like a small thing, but it's a big step on the road to recuperation.

Emerging from the shower, I felt like a new woman. It was one of those showers that not only cleans the skin, but refreshes the soul.

And then...I took a big step...I actually left the house. For only an hour, but it's progress.

I ran an errand to the post office, then went to Trader Joe's for some sort of food other than broth. While there I scared the beejeezus out of an old lady when I got on a brutal coughing jag (it sounds ugly even though I cover my mouth).

As soon as I got my breath back, I left the store quickly and retreated back into my home triumphant, but weary.

I'm not 100% but I'm making good progress.

Hey, I might even feel good in time for the weekend. Imagine that!

Floating in Blue

A few weeks ago, one of our beloved Betta fish took ill (as Bettas are wont to do).

At wits end wondering how to help our little female fish through the rough spot, The Good Man consulted with a fairly fish knowledgeable employee at the store where we got the Betta.

Most fish owners will just dump an antibiotic like Tetracycline into the tank and hope for the best. Not knowing exactly what is wrong, we didn't want to go that route.

The pet store guy recommended something called Betta Revive as a first defense.

It covers a broad spectrum of low-level medications to address a whole host of potential fish illnesses.

One of the main ingredients in this remedy is Methylene blue.

For those a little short on their anti-psychotic knowledge, Methylene blue, also known as Thorazine, became a heavily favored drug for psychiatric use in the 1950's and 1960's.

Apparently, it also has an antifungal effect, so is included in the fish remedy to ward off the dreaded Ich.

We got the Betta Revive and made up a fresh batch of water and added the remedy. Predictably, it turned the water a nice shade of medium blue. Pretty much the color of airplane toilet water.

We floated our sick fish in the blue water, changing it daily, for about a week. She's mostly recovered and is eating again, which is a good sign.

I’m blathering on about blue water to get to a point. It's coming, don't lose me now....

Over this past weekend my body decided to avoid the holiday rush and succumb to a nasty early winter cold.

It the usual stuff, runny nose, sinus pressure, achy joints, low-grade fever and a raging, uncontrollable cough.

I feel like crap and I'm a little depressed. In an effort to cheer myself up, I took a nice hot bath last night.

While soaking, I thought to myself, "Hey, I wish I had some of the blue water to soak in. I don't know if what I have is viral or bacterial, so a broad spectrum fix might be just the ticket!"

I mean hell, it'll make my scales lay down nicely and the Thorazine will help me feel aaallll right about the world.

I asked The Good Man if I could soak in some blue water. Gonna have to get a big container of the stuff, but I'm ready!

He gave me that one-eyed squinty look that says, "I'm just going to nod my head and walk away." And so he did.

I may be sick, but my creative brain is always working out the angles. Even if The Good Man doesn't buy into all of my (fabulous) ideas.