Hoy.

Feliz Navidad y Próspero Año Nuevo

… can this really be the end

… to be stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis blues again …

Family discussions

They are better with the Internet at hand. Having the same principle as the Guinness Book of World Records, it's made to settle disputes and to leave everyone just a bit more informed, even if for a second.

Tonight we learned that Snow White was from 1937 (I'm going to use memory and not the Internet to present these facts, so do not consider them reliable).

We learned the name of the composer of the "I've got no strings" song in Pinocchio (Leigh Harline) but that it's difficult to trace (with the Internet) the historical development of the adaptation of its 1940 melody to the 1955 "I'm getting nothing for Christmas" one. It may be even earlier.

I suppose my role is that of family fact-checker. I'm not the most stellar of hosts. Sure, all is clean and newly-rugged, the food is of high quality if B- quality (some dishes earn A+, a few are in C range, hence …), and the company I offer is stressed but trying to be non-vapid and all-sweet. Mostly engaged.

Groups are hard when all parties are of equal intimacy.

We also learned a few things from randomly-read Trivial Pursuit cards. Recalling no facts as of this point. Oh, and regular soy milk and 2% cow's are about the same in calories and fat.

And I want to be more, better, different.

Went to the Benton home and learned that our house's windows are not as bad as I thought, that even a state historical site (the smallest in Missouri) can have painted woodwork (argh), and that Benton made wax maquettes for his murals (perhaps other paintings).

I'm getting that nauseous pre-regret. I think it's love, but I don't like how it settles in my stomach like so many of my stronger emotions and agitates until some kind of chemical release is achieved. By that, I mean nothing ingested, smoked, injected, applied, but more along the serotonin line.

Nancy Johnson Went to Sea

(As if that name were not cause enough!) — she's in my e-mail, and she "wants" me to buy Viagra knock-offs.

No, nothing but the real deal for me, baby.
Spam. It is amazing what gets through.

Dear, Yahoo,

Haven't you figured this out yet?
Women really really don't want these ads.
Even men posing as females in their profiles don't want these ads. Some people even tend to think that if a company has to rely on spam as marketing, the product probably doesn't work … or is only as reliable as anything on an infomercial.

All of us would have an easier /more fun time finding new _______ than waiting for a plain package of fake drugs to show up in the mail. What are women supposed to do — stick it in the steak and coffee like Peggy Hill did?

Calling all males (over a certain age): would you trust the fake V. on an important appointment? We women have learned that generic types of many ingredients for holiday food are just as fine. No one knows because it's the same thing.

However, my dad complains that certain health care companies induce him to take generics (not for that) that have proven to be ineffective. Ingredients are not quite listed on pills.

This woman, however, never got pregnant on Canadian Orthotricyclen, we'll have you know. And it was half the price.

Indeed, none of these things are the same thing.

Red herring alert.

Vigilance is important. Go, lighthouse, go.

What did that feel like, the shortest _____ ever.

Any number of curse words could be inserted here.

Rats — it is what Charlie Brown would say.

Hormones apparently are responsible for most of the problems in the world.

And the opposing ones don't do any good beyond the _______
(presumably).

Christmas in your face!

Because it's sweet

I ran into a couple of friends today at the drug store, and one chided the other, whom I know is diabetic, for having six bags of candy in hand "for the guests."

And my mother in law baked five or so kinds of cookies, and she's a diabetic who exercises all the time and eats appropriately. We all ate too much cheese tonight. And the homily (sermon) was very dull.

Another friend, she made 100 kinds of cookies, too, but so far, she's healthy in the insulin department.

My friend on the east coast was recently told the new guidelines for health dictate 90 minutes of cardio five times a week. She hit the nail on the head with "where does that time come from?" She already does 40 minutes five times a week. She has two kids and a full-time job and doesn't screw around. So she's beating me.

I'm sure I have time to run and jump and bake more, but I'm still playing in college-student mode. That's what it looks like, anyway. More than 10 years ago, I knew people 10 years my (current age's) junior, who, when they were only a few years older than I was then (when I knew them — edit this, people, I'm off the clock for concise rhetoric), had homes, children, pets, and yards. So responsible! And, now, look, I'm playing along too! Ah, the games.

And my jobs have all been the most gleeful of holiday excursions — not. Partially. Just partially. Still, not much progress has been made.

Yes, work sucks.

We do these things because we're in love with sugar. (We have some kind of addiction / dysfunction.) We care to provide. We are attached to the habits we associate with childhood.

Funny to know. Funny to ignore. Funny to eat.

Dare I

Enter the mire of bureaucracy?

Please note use of capital letters (government shouting*) "where it counts," as well as admonishment that it is important to be on time. I also like how Fingerprint Session becomes a proper noun. What can take three hours about something one needs to be on time to and get really specific parking instructions about?

I think it's funny they imply that some of "us" might have "talent." Later, the department is transformed into another title (see signature line, where they assure sincerity).

I am also offended that I have to obtain an official transcript. Whatever. Why can't universities put that online or verify with some e-signature? Keep paying and paying, folks — I'm going to be reviewing your data — what's funny is their need to assure me that if they position is closed, I will not have wasted entirely my transcript fee.

Yes, and so it has come to this, (as it were : ):

Department of the Treasury
Internal Revenue Service
Talent Hiring and Recruitment
PO BOX 2xxxx
Mail Stop ccccBB
Kansas City, MO 64131
EMAIL: kcjobs@irs.gov
816-291-xxxx

MISCELLANEOUS CLERKS
(code numbers)

Dear _____:

Thank you for your interest in employment with the Internal Revenue Service. You have been scheduled for the next step in the application process. Please keep in mind this is not a job offer. Candidates are responsible for any travel costs associated with the session. This session will last approximately 3 hours.

You have been scheduled to attend the following fingerprint session.

[Date and 3-hour time-slot.]

Please Report To:
INTERNAL REVENUE SERVICE
EXTERNAL RECRUITMENT TEST ROOM
[etc.]

PLEASE NOTE: Visitors parking is located behind ______. We recommend you park on either levels 3 or 4 and take the elevator down to the “T” (tunnel) level. Parking will be validated.

In order for you to be considered for employment you must attend a Fingerprint Session. Your failure to attend will be an indication that you are no longer interested in employment with the IRS and your application will be rated as “ineligible” for failure to report.

Please do not be late. Allow yourself enough time for parking, weather, etc. Timeliness is very important.

At this session you will complete application forms and will be fingerprinted.
To receive further consideration your fingerprint results must be received from the FBI and reviewed, you must be tax compliant, have registered for the selective service (if applicable), and must show proof of citizenship at this session.

If you are qualifying for this position based on education, you must bring a copy of your official transcripts to this session (If the vacancy is closed transcripts will not be accepted). If you are claiming Veterans Preference you must bring in all required documentation.

VERY IMPORTANT:
Under Executive Order 11935, only United States citizens and nationals (residents of American Samoa and Swains Island) may compete for civil service jobs. To receive consideration, you must bring proof of citizenship to this session. Acceptable documents are:
• Certified Birth Certificate (if born in the U.S. or U.S. Territory)
• U.S. Passport
• Certification of Birth Abroad FS-545 or DS-1350
• U.S. Citizen Identification Card I-197
• Identification Card for Use of Resident Citizen in the U.S. I-179
• Citizenship Certificate
• Naturalization Certificate
• State Department Form 240

In addition to proof of citizenship you must also bring a State or Federal Issued photo ID such as a Drivers License or valid State ID card.

IF YOU NEED INTERPRETER SERVICE YOU WILL NEED TO LET US KNOW AS SOON AS POSSIBLE IN ORDER TO ENSURE AN INTERPRETER WILL BE AVAILABLE OR WE WILL NEED TO RESCHEDULE YOU FOR A SESSION WITH AN INTERPRETER.

Sincerely,
Kansas City Employment Section II
External Recruitment

********************
*it's important to "shout" at people who don't read English. let me tell you, they totally read that far in the first place and have the text-training to realize all-caps as emphasis.

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

I really don't like the FBI part. The sun's not yellow, it's chicken.
But mama doesn't want to be in the factory sans shoes, nor have anyone out in the alley looking for anything.
Raffle will be held for guesses about my "G" scale. Prize will be that I will look around for your taxes but never find them.

What do you think of

girls who incessantly post pictures of and talk about their _____?

Stopping is difficult

There is no moral friction,
Nothing definite to rely on for change,
Only willpower.
Willpower is a trumped-up description for people who
Are not slaves to passion.

I'm at a loss to believe it's really the 23rd.
Santa.
My goal to post-mark the cards by Saturday failed.
Alas.
Every year I speculate that it can't be possible to have less
X-mas spirit than this.

If 12 months happen to pass again,
It comes to pass that it's so obviously that.
Economic slow-down indeed; it coincides
With my "last year really was the final one for presents" —
One place my desire has triumphed.

Cheshire Moment

(Effect needs to be extended to belly region.)

Drooling

Over what I missed.

1996 Ani

life used to be life-like
now it's more like show biz
i wake up in the night
and i don't know where the bathroom is
and i don't know what town i'm in
or what sky i am under
and i wake up in the darkness and i
don't have the will anymore to wonder
everyone has a skeleton
and a closet to keep it in
and you're mine
every song has a you
a you that the singer sings to
and you're it this time
baby, you're it this time

when i need to wipe my face
i use the back of my hand
and i like to take up space
just because i can
and i use my dress
to wipe up my drink
i care less and less
what people think
and you are so lame
you always disappoint me
it's kinda like our running joke
but it's really not funny
i just want you to live up to
the image of you i create
i see you and i'm so unsatisfied
i see you and i dilate

so i'll walk the plank
and i'll jump with a smile
if i'm gonna go down
i'm gonna do it with style
and you won't see me surrender
you won't hear me confess
'cuz you've left me with nothing
but i've worked with less
and i learn every room long enough
to make it to the door
and then i hear it click shut behind me
and every key works differently
i forget every time
and the forgetting defines me
that's what defines me

when i say you sucked my brain out
the english translation
is i am in love with you
and it is no fun
but i don't use words like love
'cuz words like that don't matter
but don't look so offended
you know, you should be flattered
i wake up in the night
in some big hotel bed
my hands grope for the light
my hands grope for my head
the world is my oyster
the road is my home
and i know that i'm better
off alone

Drying

Thirteen months ago, a washer and dryer set was moved into a cluttered basement of a house. This happened before the human occupants had moved in.  A nice gesture on the part of the in-laws, the premature gift caused me to throw some kind of fit at the time, probably.

Moving is nothing but stressful, and this old house had never had such appliances, its 220 is rigged to the max, there are no vents, there was no clean space …  Additionally, some people are obsessive about energy-saving or other features, and some are not.  In other words, the set has been somewhat more of a hassle than a convenience, since our lack of preparation meant the deliverers could not also install that day.  And there they sat.

It didn't take too long — I did not go to the laundromat, so it could not have been more than a few weeks — before spouse and father-in-law made at least four trips to the hardware store in order to hook up the washer.  Motivational aid:  spouse had gone to laundromat.

Last week, when a frozen pipe burst in response to our lackadaisical treatment of its condition, we decided that our usual inability to schedule anything made already having a repairperson in the house the perfect opportunity to spend unearned (make that earned but un-received) income on getting the gas connection squared away on the dryer.

For a year we've washed the clothes in the washing machine and have dried them using the time-honored, Inconvenient-Truth-approved drying method.

A friend asked about the clothesline the other day, and I mentioned that I know someone who chooses to hang-dry clothes despite having a functional dryer — to save money.  Indeed, I remembered that in Japan, for example, virtually no one has a clothes dryer because clothes dryers use lots of energy.  Overall, appliances in Japan, Europe and Mexico (places I can say I've kitchen-ed) are trailer-sized compared with our American ones.  There's not a lot of central heating in Japan, either.  I used to wake up and see my breath when I lived there.  Kids wore shorts all year long because that was the school uniform.

Being cold was so close to the bottom of my list of things that made me miserable that I don't even remember ever complaining about it, though.  In other words, it was no big deal. It was much worse to be the only person my age using a bicycle instead of a car.  Yes, stiff socks are rather a drag, but for the most part few of my regular clothes are supposed to be dried in a machine anyway.

And we still have not solved the venting issue, so fluffy towels are still probably months away.  I'm just not motivated by "convenience."  Inertia is stronger.  I also am miserly.

I know why this headache is here.

Scenario

Cat complains for hours, "I'm hungry, get up."
Cat follows human to first floor, where coffee is made.
Cat complains.
Human offers small amount of food #B.

Cat rejects food.

Cat complains.
Cat follows human upstairs, demands bathtub water.
Human obliges.
Cat drinks. Cat grooms off extra water.
Cat continues to complain, "I'm hungry."
Cat follows human to third floor.
Human offers small amount of food #A.
Cat accepts.  Cat eats.  Human leaves cat.

Time lapse … three minutes …

Cat comes crashing down the stairs
(sounding as if has fallen or was pushed).
Cat sits, gags, etc.

Human sighs.
Human cleans up pile of watered-up dry food.
Cat complains.
Cat seems to have been reading up on bulimia.

Snowscreen

Getting what you have asked for

I remember playing on something called MUD (multi-user dungeon — the chosen noun says a lot about who was in control and how much foresight the rest of us had of what would become the main thing I spend my life doing, besides sleeping and often in lieu of it).

I didn't feel much affinity for talking to text-shaped user-ID-characters. I played along and do not remember quitting. I tried to learn HTML, but I was lazy. I did write about the phenomenon of our online writing lab, however. (A journal rejected my research and requested more first-hand narrative; I declined the edits because I had no more first-hand information.)

There was something called MOO as well, and I was a teaching assistant in one of my university's first "let's see how this works" online-enhanced English 20 classes.

Now, of course, you can take entire classes online and remotely.

Re: school online:  Do not think it has not crossed my mind to broadcast my notes or even a video of my class sessions … but I am unclear about those ethics.  Perhaps it would only be wrong if I charged a fee.  After all, what's in the book is nothing; it's what the teacher says in class that counts.   I missed three or so the first half and as many the second, despite my vow not to waste any more money missing what I actually enjoyed.  It was the getting there that was the hindrance.  Troost bus, people.

I am aware of the new era of severe anti-cheating edicts, and yet I'm pretty sure I saw some girl looking at notes on her cell phone during the midterm this semester; I said nothing.  Grades are meaningless, after all.

Her editors of the future will have her out.  Employment is a great sifter of talent.

The title up there refers to what I've been sharing in e-mail for weeks:  items like the decision of the Christian Science Monitor (which I have only read virtually or heard online for over a decade) to go all-online as of April.

Are trees out there "dancing?" (I realize that if a tree dances in the forest, it's enchanted / we're delusional.)

It's just as, "Wow, am I really standing on the curb as THIS parade happens to go by?" as when Mr. Bush was elected twice in odd ways, not to mention (which obviously I'm alluding to) all the rest up in that.

For the record, I argued with my spouse about the shoe-throwing.  I think it's just plain not allowed, not matter what.  Yup, color me that conservative.  Anti-abortion-banning, however.  As someone whose own "Chinese shoe" (cheap stitched black cloth mary janes over probably toxic orange-ish soles that I wore like a crazy woman all through high school, even in the winter*) was hurled through the air through a crushing crowd as I stood half-barefoot on sticky beer-glazed linoleum (with glass-shard accents).  The shoe, by-Karma, let's pretend, whacked me in the head at that Revolting Cocks concert.  I can say it just sucks to get assaulted by a shoe, especially when you're standing half-barefoot in beer and cigarettes and and who-knows-what-else, avoiding getting your toes crushed by boots everywhere.  I recall limping through the snow back to the car.  At any rate, you all must know my feelings for GHB, but I still do not condone throwing shoes.

Shaking sandals … maybe … but not journalist-turned-pugilist.  I mean, we're all pissed off, after all. 

There are plenty of stories about the "demise of print," which I have no time to convey: (Information about the Chicago Tribune company's having declared bankruptcy and that countless I-care-about-facts writers laid off tales can be found at sites like www.editorandpublisher.com and www.sportsshooter.com, and www.magazinedeathpool.com.)

I will miss the archaic feel of standing in a room and being able to visually intake 100s of texts and all their memories at once.  There is nothing akin to being alone in odd carrells and niches, either.  I will miss being able to thumb through something at a speed far superior than any Internet data-transfer I've ever experienced.  We are people of the faster eye.

When "the Internet" was invented and there was not all that much information online — indeed, I don't think either the term "Internet" nor "online" existed (at least in my vocabulary) — I remember reading the rejoicing of others … but a decade ago, when writing to friends and family, I used wacky stationary and stamps I had to use Japanese to buy — the Internet was still beloved as being the next "best thing since sliced bread."  [Do you like bread or rice?]

Now, of course, I would be cranky at friends who don't post anything while on vacation.  Even the couple in Central/South America managed as much.

And so it has come to this.

"This" is something that is so impermanent.  Requires battery power / fossil fuel power.  Impossible to read in the sun / outdoors.   Has ruined my eyesight, I maintain, despite what my teacher scoffed jovially back about mythology, on that one day when I was blurting out "whatever"comments."  [Note to self:  this is the 5th time you've "remembered" to check your grade but have not.]

I don't want the Kindle (and yet I bitch about moving — carrying — 100+ boxes of books; we don't have a scale or I would give an average weight).  I wanted to die afterwards, I know, and  I do recall being 13 or so and being chided for packing death-boxes of my books.  I was able to move them then so easily.  What did I do with that strength?  This is the woman who would (and still recently does, on a much smaller scale) rake leaves (on 1.5 acres, including stupid sweet gum menace trees' droppings) barefoot to expiate illicit sexual feelings.  I've added digging trenches and moving bricks.

She's Catholic by training.  She has done plenty of work with the Buddhacharita and the Hebrew parts of the Bible, but you can't undo what's imprinted early.  And when she was confirmed, she felt pressure and sadness.  Of course, like the driving test, she had mastered the "facts" for the written part.

Speaking of that, lately, I realized that the driver's manual (online now) does not contain any information about turning on any red lights, right onto two- or one-way or left onto one-way street.  I find that odd.  Did something change (besides me, of course)?  Right-on-red not encouraged anymore? Of course, I no longer have my vintage written copies of the rules of the road, so there's no way to check.

I meant to say that I never knew that the fulfillment of desire looked quite like this.

Paper.

________________

*I walked through grey urban slush and was fine.  There was an experience in Montana, with shoes I thought would work … later, some January camping in New Mexico that added to the problem … .Now, of course, I need extreme insulation or my toes turn white and numb. I have some boots, but I want more.

We're watching the snow

At this point

I'm cold.  Hungry.  Unable to concentrate.

Have been doing mindless things (file transfers).

Know that it could be far worse (I could be working outdoors).

But.  Indoors is not warm enough for the sitting-all-day people like me.

Feet are losing circulation.  Are already inside sheep.

Hat on head.  Turtle Fur.

Requesting mobile soup shop to stop by …

Now wearing coat.

Angry girl.

At Least It's Not a Snow-Blower

Always look on the bright side.

Yeah.

If it were not a Facebook blackout day, I would be bitching about this there.

Nothing like waking up two hours before dawn to the sound of a New Year's noise-maker.

Oh, wait — that's just the sound of the neighbor being OCD and scraping a metal shovel over every inch of their back driveway in the darkness outside my window.  (This is the same one who zooms off on the loud moped pre-dawn during other seasons.  I can handle that much better because it's probably a necessary trip.  Doing the driveway in the dark is not.)

There's barely an inch of snow out there.  We drove home last night in it and there was no issue.  Just because there is no stupid lawn to mow … (we're talking about Ms. Oh, They Mowed Today And Even Though I Mowed Yesterday, Now My Lawn Is Too Tall According To This Microscope And So I'll Get Out There With The Gas-Powered While You're Watching TV Sunday Evening).

OK, now she's out front.  WTF.

Woman, go back to bed!

Sad

Money's just something you throw ~ off the back of a train;
Got a head full of lighting ~ and a hat full of rain.

I can get over the fact that my bank decided to take five bucks to transfer a franklin from the miniscule savings account to one of the main ones, when there was twice as much in there as the draw was for.

One of my friends has decreased lung capacity for some undetermined reason (part of it is a lack of diagnosis but also is due to my failure to remember any technical terms — I need to write them down), something to do with cysty-type things.

One of my friends has decreased and declining eyesight due to something I have know about forever but, again, have failed to remember.

One of my inlaws needs a cancer biopsy soon.

One of my friend's father seems to be declining suddenly due to some liver dysfunction, to be tested drastically soon, I understand.

One of my friends has some kind of cystic kidney dysfunction and will need a transplant eventually.

Two of my friends' dads have had multiple strokes and attacks.

I should stop. It's been a strange week.

The brutal bursts of wind make it seem like someone is invading.

A few of them have insurance that is useful in some way.

Memorex

Once these kids I was in college with (yes, we were kids, and we finally admit it) decided to celebrate the independence of the United States (I believe William Jefferson Clinton was the president — like I said, we were quite young and didn't know about all the borrowing from China yet) by shooting bottle rockets and such in a parking lot of the apartments where we lived.

The three four-plexes were made of wooden green-encrusted shingles and flooded if one lived on the south side where the hill was. There was a creek below, and "Moss Creek" represents some of my happiest moments. I think I was 21 to 23. Without looking it up, I am not sure.

A highlight of the evening, aside from the angry non-friend resident who came out declaring we should desist because she had a bunch of fireworks in her car's trunk (I know, it still makes me laugh, makes me think of that news story in which the person blew up the house because he turned on an oven without checking — who checks? Yes, of course, I do, always — to see whether it was empty. And, yes, who stores fireworks in the oven), was when the boys took a big cardboard-backed poster of the Memorex Man, propped him on the roof and fired away.

Never mind that they were shooting at their own home.  Unfortunately, we did not have digital cameras then.

Fortunately, my paranoia did not pan out, and all was well. I don't think anyone even got burned, despite the fact that at the "end" of the night, the envelope-pushing took the form of taking random paper bags of Chinese gunpowder products, lighting them on fire on the ground and seeing which way things would shoot out at our feet.

That's how you know you have overbought.

A short while ago, I was trying to recall whether a certain dream I had happened on Tuesday night (Wednesday morning) or some other time.

I did not blog it, journal it, nor inform the subject via e-mail of what my subconscious seems to be up to. The scriptwriters on Numbers tonight had one of the characters say that our psyches play things out so that we don't have to in real life. That explanation doesn't do much for me.

I don't like not to remember things.  I'm not 80 nor 60 nor even yet 40.

My memory has essentially be transfered to cyberspace. I joke to those I interview (even unofficially; you are all always on the record) that I don't remember anything that is not written down. I have grown fully into my "photographic memory" in that I can't recall anything I am not immediately reading.

We do have terribly much to manage these days.*

But still.

It troubles me that I can't recall basic personal cycles, hours of work, times of medication, amounts of experience – without a written record. Most of the records are virtual. They are tied to the calendar mapped on my computer's hard drive, they are logged in the list of the e-mails I have sent, and they are typed up into items such as this, which I do not own, which I would not have access to in most earth-zones nor which is at all private (is not immune to data-mining).

Anytime I recall anything factual, I can only see its written record in my mind's eye.

There are obvious pitfalls to storing data in such a way that requires a special (and ever-becoming-obsolete) tool for its access.  I have an IBM PS notebook computer from the 1990s full of things that are getting more and more difficult to retrieve or transfer.  Books and paper notebooks are heavy.  Books can be burned, but they can come in handy in ways a Kindle cannot.  (Fire — staying warm and cooking — is important, for example, but books can't be eliminated in one fell technological swoop the way le Grid could.)

Case in point:  A free e-mail address I used to use abruptly turned into a pay-site one day, and all the saved mails, including ones I felt were valuable and genuine reactions about 9/11 from friends and strangers, were suddenly and irretreivably gone. It was like a fire. Like dealing with a fire, I had no choice but to let it go. Gone.  In practice, that's what I'm doing with all the texts on the old laptop, too.  Its disk drive is dead; the ports have outdated pin-configs, there is, naturally, no USB, no firewire.

And as someone who drags around a MacBook all the time in public and knows anyone could steal it or that I could somehow accidentally get hit by a bus and become one with the thing, I certainly don't do a lot of backing up to the external harddrive.  But even that is somewhat useless, you know. 

I wrote on the last page of a college exam today that "someone needs to learn some dates."  It was sad not to be able to visualize what I needed.  I'm sure some was due to having had only a few hours of sleep, to studying after a full day of tedious work-tasks, to not having (providing) an additional hour – but I also know that I rarely store anything in my real brain anymore.

It's a fallow place where I'm waiting for impetus to plant anything.  I still water what's there, but I see the desert advancing and know that it's just easier for now to store grain in RAM-jars.

Ask me about "who was in that movie," "who is that artist," "what did that politician say," or even the simplest damn thing like "what's the exact wording of the First Amendment," and I will ask the Internet.  Sometimes, I will search in one of the several hundred books in the other room, but usually, yes, I'm at a loss in public without something like an iPhone.  (I do not have any G3 machines.)  I used to know things.  I used to have time to learn things.

I know some of you out there will have your own semi-informed theories about my brain.  Yes, whatever, go ahead.  I still say that there's too much to keep track of.  After all, I do have over 100 draft e-mails awaiting completion or sitting there saying, "hey, I'm an action-item, act on me," 500 in the inbox, 1,000s of articles, press releases, and images to keep simultaneously at the forefront.  And that's just the employment-related part.  There are three other e-mail addresses (at least), 30,000 other ideas I'm looking for the time to use.  And school.

On an unrelated note:  I can't believe it's been five years since we were running around Tangancicuaro celebrating the feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe with fireworks and friends. 


*Heavy information overload: the world's total yearly production of print, film, optical, and magnetic content would require roughly 1.5 billion gigabytes of storage. This is the equivalent of 250 megabytes per person for each man, woman, and child on earth.

To arms

Fear of the known

I always said that I'm much more wary of the white men out there than the "scary black guys" who wander about.

I could have chosen to be kidnapped today, but I declined the ride offered me by the middle-aged and well-groomed white guy in the nice, clean, white SUV who thought I was pitiful, I suppose, being a white woman walking in December, oh no.

As if, I told the fellow pedestrian who witnessed it and who laughed at the idiocy too, I'm going to get into his car.

When I say "offered," I mean turned and started driving the wrong way on a one-way street to call out something and then nod, wide-eyed and pointing in the direction we were heading; and when I say "declined," I mean I looked at him like he was crazy to think I was so stupid, scowled, shook my head and mouthed a very bitchy, "No!"

This is the kind of thing you get when you let your hair down, by the way.

(So, when I say that I'll "do anything" for money, now you know that I'm lying : )

There he is

Mr. America … I mean, "Mr. Cat" (what a stupid name). He used to be Milo, apparently. Can you believe he is only 4 pounds overweight? That's what his last vet report reports. I suppose, if anyone cared to do the math, that 4 to 17 is a ratio somewhat like 60 to 225.

Very American.

But he's handsome, isn't he?  He's about 12 or 13, like Katrina.

The birds that did not react to tiny, heavy-footed Katrina freak out when "giant racoon-shaped silent beast" slinks by.

He's scared of everything.  Has not really eaten in a day.  Seems to be adjusting.  His shape is due to having lived in a nursing home for several years.  Three nursing homes, in fact.  His bed-fellow (woman) died two months ago.  He is easily agitated and growls and hisses, but he is too lazy or nice to do much about it.  I don't push it. 

He is living with us because of a 9-month-old poodle and the Internet.

Happy Birthday

Gear!

Happy Birthday

Diane!

Went

Museum. Yes. Could only answer the idea / question of satyr's anatomy by using mirror and own (marble) body.

Wedding. Yes. Stayed up until 3 a.m., as with all weddings these days.

Darn.

And then there's Pakistan et al.

Paper due in 30 or so hours. Extreme jealousy of those on planes across Atlantic last few days hinders.

Know of three.