This one's for L

A couple weeks back in comments, long time reader and cyber-friend L asked me if I had an opinion on the new Olympus Pen camera.

I had little to say on the subject as I haven't shot an Olympus for over 20 years.

But in my mailbox this morning, an email from Digital Photography School held some better information.

Here ya go, L:

Olympus PEN E-P2 Review

Oooh, karma is a b-word

So as mentioned, earlier this week, while getting my hairs did at the salon, I read the most current version of People magazine.

Air travel and hair fixin's are the only time I let that kind of drivel inhabit my mind.

Aaaaaanyhow.

I noticed, while reading, an advertising for McDonalds and their new offering of Shrek 3 drinking glasses.

Oh did this take me back to my youth.

As a kid, I believe we had a set of Star Wars glasses. We also had a set of McDonalds character glasses, you know, Ronald McDonald, Hamburgler, etc.

I *loved* those glasses and loved collecting them.

However, they were made of such cheap glass that most ultimately broke in the dishwasher.

Ah well.

I thought it was a quite a bit of capitalizing on Gen X nostalgia that Mickey D's was doing this sort of promotion again.

I had planned to write a blog post that was something like "Stop pandering to my generation! I know we are a target audience what with being at a good money making part of our careers and most of my peers with the house fulla kids! Google pandered with retro Pac-Man and now THIS?!?!?!"

Turns out I have to switch that slippery ol' rant lever to "off".

McDonald's Recalls 'Shrek' Glasses.

Damn. Sorta stole my Friday blogging thunder.

Oh, and...

Important, Vital Work

I'm so glad someone had the time and ability to amass this into a single location.

The world is a better place because of:

The Best Photobombs by Goats

Thank you Shoebox Blog for the link.

Awkward Fan Girl Alert!

I have a crush.

Ok, to be fair, I have the biggest crush of all on my husband. He makes my tummy go all googley.

But I also have another, less powerful, crush.

A crush that I've been open and honest about with my spouse. He is ok with it. Or, while maybe not ok with it, tolerates my geek girl crush because that's just the sort of kind and understanding way he has with me.

You see, my crush is not about the usual sort of person you'd think.

No Robert Pattinson nor Johnny Depp. Nope.

Not even someone who you might call a celebrity. But someone who is a known figure...at least in the UK and to watchers of the BBC.

Oh, ok, I'll be out with it.

I have a crush on Mike Embley, lead presenter on BBC World News.

In my post-cable rabbit-ears-and-a-digital-box joy, I've discovered the very serious yet truly wonderful BBC World News show.

It's informative and not inflammatory. It's not televised drama, it's actual news from around the world. I've learned a LOT from this show and I chalk much of that up to Mr. Embley who presents the news in a professional and calm manner with a slight tinge of a sense of humor burbling just below the surface.

Plus, he cuts a stunning figure in a pink shirt and tie with a dark grey suit.

Truth be told, I find him rather irresistible. Brains and humor reel me in every time (just ask The Good Man who has both in spades, and might I mention, cuts a rather fabulous visage in a suit, himself).

Anyhow, yesterday, I was taking in the world news from the pleasing voice of Mr. Embley, and at the end of the show, he said, "You can follow me on Twitter at @bbcmikeembley."

Well that was that.

I looked him up and began following him straight away.

In reading his Tweet stream, I saw that he seems to be rather responsive to his followers. In many cases, he thanked people for the follow and answered their questions.

So...I took a chance.

Here's the transcript:

From me:

karenfayeth @bbcmikeembley I'm pleased to find you on Twitter. I very much enjoy your BBC World News broadcasts!!

A couple hours later came the reply:

bbcmikeembley @karenfayeth Happy to be Twting. Don't as much as I'd like but that mostly cos busy with the brdcasting. Or kids. Or dog. Or v bad guitar.

Oh swoon!

I appreciate he left out vowels to get to an economy of characters, and still managed to be very well spoken.

I am simply all a flutter to receive a reply!

When I showed it to my husband, he replied, "Oh my, you're a news fan geek. Who would have thought?"

He says this because I'm pretty steadfast in that I don't watch the news.

I really, really don't watch American broadcast news. It sets my teeth on edge.

Nope, no news...

But for one show. The one presented by my new Twitter friend...Mr. Embley.

: geek out!!! :

Just Another Marble in the Brain Jar

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the nature of memory.

Mainly, because my own memory sucks.

What was I saying?

Oh yes.

Some of this memory loss is, I think, is a hazard of having put in a few years on this ol' planet. Over time, one tends to collect a few things in the closets like bottle tops, tattered paperback books, and stacks of memories, both good and bad.

I sometimes think of my brain as a big storage device. Lots and lots of space. Too many bits of memory get shoved in there, and it's time for an upgrade.

But maybe that's a little too Silicon Valley for my tastes.

Let's try another metaphor.

Maybe my brain is more like a big glass jar filled with marbles. Some are large, some small, some are in between. So as I go about living this crazy mixed up life, these marbles roll their way toward the jar and drop in. These new residents tend to push out the old when I've run out of space.

There is only so much room in the jar, of course, and once filled to capacity, something's gotta give.

As I was getting my hair cut last night, I spent the color "cook time" working over this particular visual metaphor. Unfortunately, I was thinking about it while also pouring over the pages of the current "People" magazine.

Without my consent, some fresh, small marbles found their way into my jar.

For example, I don't really need to know that one of the Jonas brothers broke up with his girlfriend. *plink*

Or that Jon and Kate plus 8 lady just celebrated the birthday of her sextuplets. *plink*

That some blonde chick named Heidi needs "time alone" from her overbearing husband. *plink*

And that weird Svengali-like husband of that sad, tiny, actress that recently died has now also shuffled off this mortal coil. *plink*

These are not vital memories. These don’t need to be kept in the jar. If they do manage to stay in the jar, then other, better, memories have to slip out.

Oops, there goes making Thanksgiving turkey drawings by tracing my hand onto the paper.

And there goes the name of my childhood friend who lived by the park, across from the swimming pool. We took gymnastics class together at the YMCA. What *was* her name?

Don't tell me a Jonas brother shoved my friend out of the brain jar!

I suppose the trick is to let those lightweight worthless marbles flow in for a moment and then find a way to shove them right back out.

If I get too many of the trivial marbles, there's no room left for the big meaningful marbles to find a permanent home.

Of course, some of those big marbles are so heavy, they can't possibly be washed out. My wedding day. Holding my oldest goddaughter for the first time (I cried). Cracking jokes with my pops while he was in the hospital.

The big ones stick around, no matter. The middlin' sized tend to go all floaty without my permission. They are the hardest to hold onto.

But I try. Oh I try.

Let's just hope that at the very least, I can manage to hang on to most of my important marbles.

Because I surely would hate to, you know...lose my marbles.

Photo from the KM&G-Morris public Flickr photostream.

Geez, I've been doin' it wrong all this time

(via Reuters) "The average Briton turns up to work with a hangover three times a month..."

and

"...each day more than 520,000 people in Britain go to work hung over"

AND they get all the bank holidays AND they get five weeks or more vacation.

Damn.

On the downside: "...nearly one in five of those admitting that as a result they make mistakes and struggle to keep on top of their workload."

Hmm. Everything's a tradeoff, I suppose.

Source

Memorial Day, Not Just for Humans

Big thanks to Jamie Dedes over at Musing by Moonlight for giving me the best happy weepy moment of the holiday weekend:

Happy Memorial Day

And on this day of hot dogs and beer, sunshine and fun, please take a moment to remember, to have memories, as the name of the day would imply.

While driving up the 280 freeway yesterday, I saw the Golden Gate National Cemetery right off the highway.

It had been decorated with flags and bunting in anticipation of today.

It looks beautiful and my heart is with all of the people who will pay a visit to that cemetery today.

I also think about the Santa Fe National Cemetery where my father's ashes reside.

Rows and rows of neat white markers reflect so many New Mexicans who have served their state and their country.

It is for them, today, and for all our active people still in service, that I feel honor and I have memories.

Cheers! And Happy Memorial Day.

Merchant Marine cemetery at Fort Stanton, New Mexico:

Oh my mortality

I had a doctor's visit this morning. Nothing special, just a routine check up for blood pressure and all of that.

My doctor was running late so I had some time to sit and entertain myself.

When all my email was read on the iPhone and I'd caught up on Twitter, I started people watching. You know, people watching at a medical center is quite a thing. You see a lot...

Anyhow, pretty soon, a nurse came down the hall pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair.

They came into our waiting area and the nurse helped the man to get up onto his feet, and he then took a few steps with the aid of a cane.

As he shakily got to his feet, he said to the young nurse, "Who would have thought it would come to this, eh?"

He said it in a wry way, but it carried a deep note of sadness.

The man was, by all appearances, pretty healthy. He was probably in his late seventies and from what I could see, was suffering a very bad hip.

The nurse helped the man get settled into the seat, with a groan.

He gave me a weary smile and I smiled back.

The nurse said to the man, as she departed, "one of my patients told me that his best advice was simply this: just don't get old."

"Yes, certainly," said the man, with a sigh.

The whole exchange made me a bit melancholy. I remember when my dad struggled with rapidly advancing lung disease. His mind was fine but his body crapped out on him way too early.

How angry that must make a person, your legs, your lungs, your eyes, your whatever body part you want to name just doesn't work like you know it should.

Ugh.

And me. Still fairly young but full of the knowledge that I'm not taking care of myself as well as I should. Now is the time to tend to these things.

Time marches on, whether I'm keeping step with it or not.

And even now, I know some parts of this ol' rig don't work like they should. But I still have time.

Time to remember to enjoy my legs that still carry me easily, a heart that still beats strong. Lungs that take in air without coughing.

Yes. It was just a nice reminder, a needed wake up call.

Because one day I might be uttering to a kindly young nurse, "who would have thought it would come to this?"

Sorry for the sort of down post today. The rain and the doctor's waiting room has me in a very thoughtful place.

Dear Mother Nature,

As you know, over the years you and I have enjoyed an especially close relationship. You bring me the sun and the ocean and endless blue skies. You are in charge of all that is outdoors that I love and enjoy.

And you do a fine job of it, don't get me wrong.

Being a woman as you are, we all know that we ladies can be prone to *moods*, and that is to be expected. Fickle moods. Cranky moods. Just...moods.

Over the years I've forgiven a lot of your more extreme bouts of moodiness.

Remember the time I had to dive into a wet alfalfa field because you struck the telephone pole I was walking past with a big blast of lightening?

Yeah. I forgave.

Remember I cried my eyes out in the winter of 1997 (that so called El Niño winter) because I thought it would never stop raining?

Remember that time I drove to Silver City, New Mexico on the hottest day of the year? My car was overheating, so I had to turn on the heater to help keep it cool enough to finish the trip, and when I arrived, I realized I'd sweated through all of my clothing?

That wasn't fun.

But I've been able to let by gones be by gones.

You are entitled to be a little whimsical now and again. Heck, enjoy yourself!

But this year...well, I think it's time we have a serious talk.

You *might* need to seek professional help for this schizophrenic behavior you are exhibiting.

It's sunny, it's rainy, it's too hot, then it's too cold.

You can't seem to make up your mind, alternating between sunny and rainy on a given day!

Ma'am, today is the frapping twenty seventh day of May.

May. You remember? Spring?

When the birds sing and the sun shines and a (straight) young man's fancy turns towards young ladies in short skirts?

No one wears short skirts in the drenching rain!

Um. Look. I just did my toes and they are a fabulous shade of melon pink. I want to show them off.

When it's fiercely raining and yes, HAILING outside, I can't show of my fabulously painted toes because they are covered by my wellies.

Ok, look. I understand that living in Northern California means ya gotta accept the rain. I get that. But c'mon! Can't you give a desert born and raised girl a break?

And let's talk about my friends in places like Utah and Colorado who are getting SNOW?

Look sister, you need to get a hold of yourself!

Might I remind you that this weekend is Memorial Day? Hot dogs and cookouts and the beginning of summer fun?

So why *exactly* is there rain and snow in the forecast?

You know, they make meds that can help this condition.

Why don't I make you an appointment? Maybe some talk therapy will help you work out your issues.

I'm here to support you. Just so you know...I'm a much more supportive friend in the sunshine.

I'm just saying.

(bonus points if you remember the tagline from this commercial)

I love having new toys!

Especially photographic type toys.

Yay plastic cameras!

After lusting and longing for a while, I finally broke down and spent some money on a Fuji Instax instant film camera.

It's like a Polaroid, only a Fuji brand. You know, *coff coff* a financially solvent company?

Anyhow, this fabulous little Instax makes very small instant photographs, they are 2 x 3.25 inches in size.

I LOVE that I have an instant photo camera again!

It hearkens me back to my youth. One Christmas holiday, I got a Polaroid under the tree. Oh what a fabulous present!

I could spend my allowance on buying Polaroid film, which was fairly cheap back then, and then run around snapping photos of whatever I saw with *instant* gratification!

Ok, sure, these days digital cameras provide that instant look at the photo you just took, but there sure is nothing like the sound an instant camera makes after snapping a photo. The motor engages and it shoves out the cloudy photograph. Oh the sweet agony while you wait excitedly for it to develop.

Gah! I love it!

So as I do with every new camera I buy, I take it out of the box, ooh and ah over the features, load up the film or memory disk, and then turn it on and point it at the Feline.

She's my test model for all new photo and video devices in the house.

Ah, the long suffering Feline....

(scanned photo, not actual size)

And yet, she always manages to strike a pose. I really do think she's getting better at this job of supermodel.

"I won't get out of bed for less than two scoops of kibble."

Such a Diva.

Harumph!

And yet...she sure knows how to work the camera.

As for me, I'm still giddy with the fabulous gadgety goodness of it all!!

Show and Tell Time

Since yesterday was a whirlwind of deadlines and today is a whirlwind of meetings, I thought for the blog today I'd share a bit of what I was working on yesterday.

The deadline was for the Arthouse Co-Op, located in Brooklyn.

I participated in a project they have going called The Fiction Project.

They sent me an 80 page Molskine notebook and challenged me to fill up the pages with stories. My topic for the stories was, "And suddenly..."

Whoo. And I thought this was going to be *so* easy to do. I love to write short stories and flash fiction. What a snap!

Silly me.

It was a fun challenge. Writing the stories wasn't even the hard part, though it was hard enough. The rough part was in actually putting all the stories into the book in some coherent form. It's harder than you'd think.

I thought I was done and had a full book of stories, but when I glued it all into a first draft piece, I still had four pages left to fill.

I suppose I could have left those four pages blank, but that seemed like cheating.

So I sat down to dash off something quick.

Dash off something quick. Har, har. Of course, that's when writer's block set in.

Anyhow, it took a while, but when I did finally write, what is below what came through.

It's in need of more editing, but as I ran out of time, I had to just run with it. This is what covered the last four pages of my Moleskine book. For your perusal.

It's called "And Suddenly...It's Over"

*****************************

I look at my oldest, most reliable friend and plead silently, "speak to me!"

The blinking eye of the cursor just beats a perfect metronome rhythm back at me, waiting. The whole empty white page, devoid of the text I yearn for so much, mocks me openly.

I love the words, the black squiggles and marks on the page. Words that express how I feel, how I want to feel, how I ought to feel. But the words don't flow so easily from my veins.

I plead with the empty page to fill up quick, but it never helps. So I take another course and appeal directly to The Muse. She is recalcitrant and obstinate, but I goad her along.

She wakes from her satin sheets, stretches her pale, lovely long arms, and rises.

"Oh, all right," she concedes after I've wooed her with mimosas and caviar.

And so we sit down to write.

I step back, ceding control of my body, my thoughts, and my mind to The Muse. I let her dance. I let her sing. I let her weep if that's where she wants to go.

I am at her service, totally, completely.

We write tales of the life cycles of the human, of cranky old men with faithful dogs riding in rusted old pickup trucks. We write of lost girls with music in their head and small town girls finding their way in the big city. (editors note, these were the topics of the other stories that filled the book)

Sometimes we write of horses and cows, other times about diamonds and millionaires. We write of everything and nothing. All of it and more.

Today, however, this day when there is nothing I want to do more than write, I can't manage to coax her to give more than a single paragraph.

This is the worst. We begin the takeoff sequence, the words start to form, but I can't get wind under my wings. Soon we stutter and the engine fails. We write, but then we don't get very far before we don't write anymore.

The cursor blinks. Waiting.

I sit, begging, pleading with her. I try to do it on my own, force the words to come through, but each letter oozes painfully out of me like blood from a fresh, deep wound. It's not natural like when she does it.

I used to think this was a terminal condition, this writer's block, and would last forever. Over the years I've come to know that the diva inside of me, she of all the ideas and brilliant turns of phrase, will always come back. No matter how firmly she leaves or how far she goes, one day, I know she will return.

And she does.

She'll always find a way to embody my fingers and my soul because she just can't resist. The pull toward the joy we feel in those moments when the words flow free is too great. It's like an addiction, stronger than any drug or drink.

We write because we must write.

And so today, I wait her out. The first paragraph is written and I wait, blinking in time with the cursor.

If I don't squeeze too hard, if I don't press her, it will happen.

Magically, it will happen.

So I avert my eyes and pretend it doesn't matter. I fix a cup of coffee and I read the news and I say in a sighing way, "oh, I guess we're not going to write today."

And finally, when I've got her fully convinced that it just doesn't matter, The Muse shows up with a "who me?" look on her face and suddenly has the will to write.

So we take another go at that runway. Faster this time, we let the words start to flow free. Soon, with enough speed and plenty of ideas to fuel our ascent, we break away from the land below and we begin to rise.

The adjectives and adverbs and participles flow smoothly over the wingtips and we soar, together, my fingers are her engine while The Muse is pulling all the levers.

It's magnificent. Suddenly, we kill off the main character and bank hard to the left. Oh this is a great run. Then a plot twist, some suspense, upward we climb, faster, faster.

And finally, when it feels like my fingers might snap off from the speed and the altitude, the climax of the story arrives and we climb to impossible heights and finally crest that hill.

Once over the apex we begin coasting down the story arc of the glorious dénouement.

Then, the story draws to a close. The engines slow, the fingers wind down, and we touch gently back to down earth, weary but fulfilled.

Flaps come up, we coast to a stop and ease our rig back into the slip.

And suddenly...it's over.

It is then, with much melancholy, together we type the words...

The End

Deadlines

Yeah. Had a big one today. Been looming out there since January.

Funny how May seems *so* far away in January.

And then without looking, it's May 24th and you are NOT finished with your project.

Ugh.

Anyhow, it was a race across the finish line...but thankfully, I did cross the ol' finish line.

And now:

Back to our regularly scheduled bloggy goodness tomorrow.

That's not *supposed* to be funny

And yet, it is.

Was reading an article today in the online version of the San Francisco Chronicle, the SFGate with the headline of "Flushed jail items cause S.F. court flooding."

The article talks about how inmates at the San Francisco Hall of Justice managed to flush two orange jumpsuits and a bed sheet down the toilet, thus causing a major backup of raw sewage into the courtrooms.

Workers got the mess cleaned up last night only to have it flood again in the morning.

Just. Ew. Talk about a crappy day at work.

Sorry. No really, I actually am sorry. I've been on a pun kick lately. But that's not the funny part.

The funny part comes toward the end of the article.

Here, I'll quote it directly:

"...the last major problem occurred in the mid-1990s and prompted the city to purchase grinders, known as 'muffin monsters,' that are installed on sewage pipes."

Giggle. *snort* Chuckle. Guffaw.

Muffin monsters?

Ok really. Honestly?

How am I not supposed to laugh at that?

I immediately dashed into the other room to share my new phrase with The Good Man.

Thus proving once more that I am the intellectual equivalent of a twelve-year-old boy.

But come ON. Muffin monsters?

Ok, ok, they really exist and that's really what the manufacturer calls them.

They look like this:

That's all well and good, but I don’t care who you are, that's still funny!

*giggle snort*