September 03, 2003
Thar She Blows!
{In case you're wondering why I've not written, I've many reasons why. For the purpose of THIS post, I'll stick to one topic - that one up there in bold typeface. Then maybe later or tomorrow I'll carry on about something else.}
I'm a fan of technology -- a huge fan. Whenever I can absorb things of a technical nature, I do my best to make like a sponge any chance I get. However, I am, as explained in my Who, What, When link over there on the left, a pathetic wannabe. I read books, I ask, I require side-by-side-show-me-how-it-works instruction. And no matter how much I still don't get, I love it nonetheless. Really. It's in my bloodstream, I've no clue why, but it's been there for many, many years. I'll never claim to know tech stuff if I don't. Yeah sure, I can sling the HTML raw ... that I can indeed do. But when it comes to more advanced tech, I'm at a loss. I'll study those damn MT templates over and over again simply to try and figure out, on my own, how to add a damn list of recent comments to the side of this blog. And yes, I'm stubborn. I'll beat my head against a wall trying to figure it all out because I don't like admitting when I can't figure something out. Asking for help is a problem for me. Always has been. I suppose I've been so independent for so many years the thought of asking is offensive to me. SO I don't ask. However ...
I digress.
Lately I have experienced more tech problems than even I can believe. I am sure I'm not the only lonely ranger on the planet who experiences a bad tech day here and there. Mine just seem to be increasing as the weeks and months go by. To begin, there was the hardware problem with the Apple clamshell, where the power cord began smoking crack one evening. Solution: buy a new power cord. Next, the TiBook decided to trip the light fantastic also and decided, in the middle of WORK, to go *poof!* (The story of my morning at the Genius Bar will be posted soon, by the way.) With both laptops in working order again, hey, let's try and add a post or two on MT. ACCESS DENIED. ACCESS DENIED. ACCESS DENIED. THE URL YOU ARE TRYING TO ACCESS: WWW.SQUIPPER.COM/WEBLOG FAILED. This went on day after day. I couldn't access the blog via my browser or via my MT panel. Forget about getting into the control panel for my domain. That, too, was nicht gut; nein! (scheisse! x 3) ;-)
After troubleshooting everything I could possibly think of and actually asking (okay, begging) someone more technically adept than I for help, I still couldn't get into any of it. Then came the massive list of possible reasons that my hosting company gave. I have to give them credit for trying to bullshit me, but thankfully between my prior experience of SELLING hosting services and the input of the technically adept one, I wasn't believing any of it. First they wrote that it might be my router (nope) - then they wrote me that squipper.com doesn't have an index. page (yeah, and?) - then they wrote me that it was because of the East Coast blackout (nope, this has been going on since BEFORE the blackout) - then they wrote me that it was a cable problem (nope) ... they gave me ALL kinds of excuses. At one point my domain served up a page that read the Apache Server software I installed was successful (nope, not me) and then my domain was pointing to someone else's domain, and finally, the domain was pointing to some church site. God, it's exhausting just remembering all of that!
So ... hardware problems. Software problems. Bullshit, and more bullshit. And finally, I wrote the hosting company and told them how their inability to fix this problem was tarnishing the image of their company. Mr. Don from tech (my image is that Mr. Don is a 16-year-old holed up in his garage, running the domains of say, 100 dorks like me who want to pay minimal money for superior service.) I'm hoping that Mr. Don is not a teenager. I really am. I need to deal with grown-ups on this one. I'm glad I was always nice and helpful and good to my clients because their side of the fence can really suck. Someone recommended a hosting company in the UK to me, and I checked them out, but they don't offer the services I'm looking for. The company I use now is in Edmonton, Alberta. I relied heavily on the expertise of the person who recommended this company to me -- and though overall I've not had a lot of problems with them, I'll no longer use them for the jewelry e-commerce site. (Another story, another nightmare, the jewelry site. It will go *poof* on purpose. More on that another time.)
In continuing the sad and sorry saga of Cindy and her tech problems, we move to the next bullet point on the mental list of technological anguish, and that is, Enabled Comments. Watch as I wax poetically about why I'll disable comments just because I can.
Delete Comments
I found the following in my Comments this past Sunday.
IP Address: 61.181.5.155
Name: vig-rx
Email Address: bushlee@yahoo.com
URL: http://www.top-penis-enlargement.com/vigrx.htm
The comment included 43 "hardcore porn" links (yes, I counted) for everything from penis enlargement/viagra for women to shemales to boobs, tits and blowjobs. Lovely. And what was it that I said not too long ago about disabling comments? Shelley at Burningbird received this comment on her blog also, and she has addressed it in detail from a technological standpoint. In her post, Shelley provides a point of view that even I, the non-techie, can understand, and I greatly appreciated her lengthy posts about the topic. She also has a pretty good attitude about it all, whereas mine was not so pleasant. My first thought and reaction (and as Shelley predicted in her post, though she didn't know I also received the comment) was to immediately ban the IP address. Nice thought, but duh. (Try getting into MT to delete the comment but oh, I forgot, I'm still having problems with the hosting company and my IP address and blah, blah, blah.) I learned after reading further in Shelley's post that this is useless, plus I'd be banning any potential visitors to my site from China, as that is where the IP address is from. Personally, I didn't care what country couldn't visit my blog. I suppose you could say that I'm suffering from tech problem overload, and this latest ditty only exacerbated that pre-existing condition. When I have a bit more time to go back and sit quietly and re-read Shelley's posts, I'll probably change my mind completely about all of it. But for now, I don't care.
It's time to move off of that and into my next question:
If I disable the comments, what does that do? Would you put your thoughts down in an email to me, or would you
forget about it? For years I didn't have the functionality of comments, and those who had something to say about
whatever I wrote put it down in email. Are we spoiled by the comments function? Zoe
uses enetation.uk for her comments function. Zoe goes through hell (IMO) every so often
because the comments don't always work, and I become equally as frustrated, and end up just firing off an email to her.
Damned if you enable comments, damned if you don't?
This is only the tip of the iceberg in regard to Cindy plus technology = unhappy camper.
Spam and the Bouncing Emails
Leading into my next rant and something Shelley also addresses, and that is spam and virus emails. I can't begin to tell you how many bounced emails are coming my way with the SoBig.whatever virus notation in it, and all under my email address. I don't know anyone at rochester.edu, where a few of these came from and I don't use Outlook for email. So somewhere out there lots and lots of cindy@squipper.com emails are bouncing around and it infuriates me. Why? Because I like to think that I'm pretty quiet here in my own little corner of the cyber landscape; I pop into my blog, I do my thing, I leave. If anyone gets annoyed through that enter/exit process, it's news to me. My emails go to friends and business associates. And on rare occasions, I'll blow some sunshine in the direction of a blog I think is well-written or someone's writing has given me a hearty laugh, or I learned something and it was important for me to share that with the author. Other than that, I'm pretty careful (at least I think I am) about virus protection software and the like. I learned long ago to simply trash unfamiliar mail with email addresses that were unrecognizable or subject lines that begin with "re:" -- and I'm not saying I'm even close to being on top of it all; I'm not. The new twist I'm finding in emails destined for the trash bin are those with the subject line: your blog. Cute. When I send email to someone I don't know personally, I'm careful about the subject line, because these days, you just don't know who is sending what, whether that piece of email is spam or actually from someone who wrote you a nice email. Pretty soon I can just forget about email, though I was planning on using it to replace my soon-to-be disabled Comments section. So what's left? I'll probably forget about MT and about having squipper.com alive and living and send it back to the domain name registered-but-not-used purgatory. I'll go back to RCN or use Earthlink and sling some HTML hash on a page and post it. Or I'll walk away from it again. Time will tell.
From the length of this post, one can easily deduce that that is the ultimate direction I'm heading in; it seems to be a lot of effort for an end result of wasting my posting breath on this topic. But those of you who know me well know that I don't throw in the towel that easily. I'll be butting my head against the brick wall a few more times before I give up for good. :-)
September 07, 2003
Men and Breasts
Zoe points to an amusing bit in The Sun about breasts and implants:
There were Russian melons, Polish bullets, French bee stings, German Zeppelins and a handful of British middle whites.There were breasts 13 years younger than their owners and breasts that appeared to be 13 years older.
There were Jonssons, Jacksons, juniper berries, spanielsâ ears, hat pegs, half-filled water bottles, airships, fried eggs, pointersâ noses and bazookas.
And all of them were utterly fantastic.
But then down the shoreline came an American woman and it all went wrong.
[NOTE: Unless he spoke with her, I wonder how the author knew those breasts belonged to an American. Did the breasts include a tattoo of an American flag or the words MADE IN THE USA?]
Reading this story got me thinking about breasts. I look down at my very own and exclaim, "WOW! LOOK AT THEM!!!" Actually, I looked down and thought, "yeah, so?" What's all the fuss about? I'll never understand the hetero male's obsession with breasts. Last I checked, a head and body came packaged with those breasts. But some men don't see it that way. You would think that breasts were a standalone entity, that pairs of breasts just walk around in the hope that some guy will come along and pay homage.
Imagine if women carried on like that about penises. Instead of looking at you, the person, a woman's gaze zooms in on your crotch. I'm sure we (women) can come up with penis slang in the same way men talk about women's breasts (e.g., knockers, balloons, etc.) Hmm... check out the size of THAT oar! or I'd love for him to sweep me up with his broomstick! Perhaps I should turn this post into penis slang just to see what other women bloggers come up with. Surely there's got to be one witty woman out there who can craft a term for a penis as distasteful as knockers.
But before I turn this post into something other than what I intended it to be, let's move to the topic of breast implants. There are indeed some good reasons for getting implants. Women who have undergone radical mastectomies may decide to get implants. Other women whose breasts did not grow with the rest of their body, and are extremely self-conscious about that, may decide to get implants. Then there is the reason that I myself could never justify going under the knife for: vanity. Women who get implants (IMO) just to make what nature provided larger than their heads. In that case, it makes you wonder if they are getting implants for themselves or for the benefit of someone else.
Mr. Clarkson of The Sun asks if women would want men to get silicone injected into their penises -- (looks good in a Speedo... but why not get a vibrator?) My response to that for the breasts category is, looks good in a tight sweater, but why not get a blow-up doll? If a guy wants a penis sculpted and sized accordingly, then he should have it done, if there's a good reason for being sliced and diced (medical, emotional health.) In the second example of vanity, I do wonder if vain men would unzip and show off a newly sculpted penis the same way some vain women show off their new flotation devices.
I'd rather see some men get injections to enhance their brain cells (though some women claim that a man's penis = his brain.) I'll take a nice, sexy male brain any day, and if your body parts match that brain, well, good for you. As for breasts, in the end it doesn't matter whether the twins are natural or manufactured; breasts will always be a body part that is observed, commented about and obsessed over.
September 08, 2003
Bear Stories
While in the Pine Cone, a small shop located right outside the Promised Land State Park in Pennsylvania: an oldtimer to the store proprietor: "Did you hear about the black bear? Last night, 6 park rangers shot blanks at the bear ... it was around 500-600 pounds ... (2 minutes into the story) ... it was around 700-800 pounds ... feisty thing he was, disrupted everything ... (4 minutes into the story) ... it was around 900 pounds ... they were finally able to control the thing, and the bear ran off into the woods."
Hmm...I thought. Joy is me. Yippie yi yo. I'd just finished my morning bike ride through the woods where the bear was hanging out.
Over on the Fulton Chain blog, there's a great photo that works well with this post. I'll just stick to photographing the deer, thank ya very much. >:-o
September 09, 2003
Golden Oldies
While cleaning out some old files today, I came across some entries from the year 2000. I sat here and read through them, wondering where that chippy little voice went, the one who could easily wax on about the most inane things. I decided that I'd regurgitate those entries here, just for the hell of it. Greg, if you're reading, notice the completely different tone used in these entries compared to the imposter's voice that is reflected today. It's vastly different, IMHO.
NOTE: I have more of these old entries. In fact, I may just use them for the rest of the month in this space, just to really confuse myself. ;-)
Long Island. Wednesday.
It has rained so much here that I could easily float back into the city, no train required. While The Donald and the rest of San Francisco suffer through brown-outs and roasting temperatures with little relief in sight, the right coast, the right side, THE happening part of the US is swimming. Here, catch! I threw you a few puddles.
Today there was a bit of a reprieve from the rain. The sun popped itself out this morning, and boy was it hot-headed. (damn, I thought I left the flies outside: excuse me one minute SPLAT!!! Okay. Problem solved.) But I should back up a bit and tell y'all about my time in purgatory.
It all began last Saturday when my mom departed New York for distant Carribbean shorelines. She had not been on a vacation in many years, and was coerced into taking a cruise with one of my older sisters and one of my brothers. Mom's at that age where she worries about everything, especially her dwelling - the house. Would I be so kind as to practice my mobile computing and work virtually while she was gone? Would I put the garbage out on Tuesday and Friday, would I tie up the newspapers and put them out on Wednesday (oops, forgot that one!), would I check the boiler in the basement and make sure the water level is, well, level. Of course. Sounds like an easy, pain-free job to me. I get the run of the house, a big backyard, patio to lounge on, sun myself at my leisure (sure, when the neighbors are in their homes.) Do my work in peace (can you say no drilling or hammering?) ... well, it is noisy here, since she lives on a somewhat busy street, but it's not NYC. Yeah, sounds like a good deal to me. I was imagining a nice, golden brown tan while being highly effective in my work ethic. Bike rides down to the beach at the end of the day. Surprise. Surprise. I'm glad I thought of rain before I left the city. My foul weather gear included my Columbia rain jacket and two books and my laptop was here already. All set for rain.
Saturday and Sunday it rained -- on and off for two days straight. I don't do so well in rain. It all depends on where I am and what I'm doing at the time, as well as who I'm with. I should say I don't do so well when I'm at my mom's house and it's raining outside. I prayed for sun on Monday. I got it too, right about the time the refrigerator decided to resign from duty. The trays for ice that I filled the night before were still liquid the next morning. (Scratch. Scratch. Damn, I thought I left the flies outside!) The sun went in, I went to hide under a blanket somewhere. Okay, it's my imagination. Let me check the settings for the refrigerator. Yep, everything looks fine to me. I figured I'd give it another day before I did anything drastic. drastic: adj. - 1. acting with force or violence. violent. Monday was a washout in more ways than one.
Tuesday morning I jumped out of bed (actually I rolled off and onto the floor - I'll tell you the bed story some other time) just to go check the ice cube trays. No, I didn't REALLY do that. I REALLY got out of bed, went downstairs to collect the 3 newspapers scattered across the front lawn (always fun to traipse out there at 6 am) and make some coffee. Since the summer drink of choice is iced coffee, I went straight for the ice cube trays. I popped a digit into one of the squares, and an expletive rolled right off my tongue. $#&$* !!! It was still liquid! Damn! No, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what this meant. I was doomed. I felt it. Chained to the house to await the refrigerator repair man. NO! DON'T MAKE ME DO IT!! I caved. I phoned the repair shop. "He'll be there between 11 am and 2 pm." Lovely. With lukewarm coffee to start my day, I tried to amuse myself and not think about it.
A walk outside brought forth another discovery. I forgot about the racoons. These smarmy little creatures love to wreak havoc on the garbage pails. Thankfully I remembered the last time I was here getting the papers from the front lawn, only to turn around and find last night's garbage bag out of the can, on the pavement, with a big gaping hole ripped into it. This time, the pail was knocked over, but the contents remained intact. I was so clever. I stuck a piece of wood between the handles so the little suckers couldn't get into it. HA HA! Foiled again.
[Geez, it's really quiet here. I'd better put the television on. I'm scaring myself.]
Next thing I know, it's almost 1 pm, and the fixer of fridges is nowhere in sight. Then I see this minivan pull into the driveway. The license plate a dead giveaway, "FRZERMAN" or something like it. (aka "freezer man") I rolled my eyes. I thought to myself, you've got to be kidding, but then, this isn't New York City, it's Long Island. What did I expect? He was a little man with a balding pate and "flood's over" slacks on with sneakers. He carried a little briefcase. [HUH?] He walked into the house, went right to the fridge, and after two minutes of looking it over, declared a busted heating element. [HUH?] Little man then gave me the project specs: 1. Disengage the plug from the electrical outlet. 2. Defrost the refrigerator. 3. Take EVERYTHING out of the refrigerator. 4. Put towels on the floor "'cuz there's gonna be alotta wata!" 5. Give me a deposit of $80. 6. I'll be back with the part on Thursday between 10 am and 1 pm. After digging out my credit card, he took it out of my hand and stuck it in between the carbons of an invoice. He then took out a pen and rolled it over the credit card. Voila! He had an imprint. I guess a standard carry-in-your-briefcase machine was too much for him to deal with. I stood there with my mouth agape; did I really just watch this and see him do it? I guess I did. Suddenly I felt I needed to shower, and after 5 full minutes of the little man being in my house, he disappeared. *poof* He was out the door. Then he stopped for a moment, looked up at the sky and said, "hey, what's that, the SUN?!" He slithered back into his "Frzerman" minivan and was gone. *shudder*
It was no surpise that my mom doesn't have a cooler (ice chest? something to put cold things in when you go someplace hot?) in her home. No, the days of taking five kids to the beach are long over and gone. So what do we propose I do with a refrigerator full of food. #$&( !!! This is not going to be fun. Where's my houseboy anyway? (Right where he's always been. In my dreams.) I cannot begin to express my frustration in finding a suitable container that would hold the entire contents of the fridge. I rummaged through the shed outside, the garage, nothing. I decided to check the basement, and came a cross a couple of Rubbermaid plastic bins with lids. Don't ask me, I have no clue how big they are, I just know that two of them now hold most of what was lurking behind closed refrigerator doors. I followed the project spec to a "T" - and then I went for a bike ride. The rain had subsided enough, and whether it rained again or not was not the point. There was now an alien in the kitchen. A refrigerator with its doors agape, bare, like a centerfold in Playboy, fully exposed for all to see. *shudder* I won't look at it. I won't sniff the air near the two plastic bins. I fear the worst. Rotting food. A complete waste. I wish I could have fed needy children who are starving in other countries. I wish I could have done something worthwhile with that food. If I throw it away, it's a sin. If I keep it, it will rot. If I unpack the bins on Thursday after the refrigerator is fixed and put it all back in, someone could get really sick from the spoiled food. I become selfish for a minute and think about those iced coffees I won't be having on Wednesday and Thursday. I hear words ringing in my ears and echoing in my head from a far-away land, "mom's gonna KILL you!"
I digress. The Donald loves these little bouts of writing that seem to surface more often than they have in the past. I'm happy to oblige him when the spirit moves me or when, as in the case above, the refrigerator breaks. For now though, the tan is fading, the biking has been good, and that's all I'm going to write today. :-)
p.s. Remind me to tell you the story about the door bell here.
New York City. Wednesday.
The Donald and his family breezed into town over the weekend. It was really terrific to meet them all after 4 or 5 years of exchanging emails and phone calls. Face-to-face didn't change anything; he was exactly the way I knew him and it was great to actually see facial expressions -- that may sound strange, but when you've been communicating sight unseen for so long, it's a welcome change.
Marcus was discovered somewhere in Florida. He wrote that he decided to venture off the beaten path on his way back to Charlotte, and subsequently was so bored at the beach that he forced himself over to the tattoo/piercing parlor nearby to have his ear punctured. His reasoning behind this foray into hole punching was that he'd always wanted to know how he'd look as a pirate. I guess he doesn't know about clip-ons. :-)
ION, I'll be traipsing back to Germany in a few weeks. It's been too long since my last trip there, and I've got quite a bit of catching up to do. The departure out of NYC will be good for me. I have had the "get on a plane" feeling in my bones for a few months now. I can't wait to get there.
Other than that, no news. The Day in the Life of... pages are still going strong, as I have added yet another German friend to the list. It would be nice to have some from other countries as well!
New York City. Wednesday.
I guess that's the way it's going to be, writing here on Wednesdays. Weird.
No new news other than the fact that SO many people seem to be MIA these days. Emails I send go unanswered (should I be paranoid?), friends are away on golf vacations in Italy, others are masquerading as pirates, and THE DONALD had the vacation from hell. It started out bad and it ended, well, badly. Poor Donald. The guy needs a break.
In other vacationing news, my youngest brother was expected back from a trip to Mexico yesterday. Mr. "live life on the edge" never phoned, and subsequently my mom was frantic. It didn't help matters that a tropical depression was wafting its way around Cabo San Lucas, where he was staying. Talk about adding fuel to the fire, but alas, he returned late last night and dutifully informed mom of his safe arrival in New York. *sigh*
Looking forward to seeing the photos The Donald took while he was here, still waiting for Sotiris to cough up the ones he took here also. Speaking of Sotiris, he leaves to fulfill his duty for the Greek Army soon ...
Thinking of my father ... he died two years ago today.
Even though I was going to leave this entry as is, with just that one line, something pushed me to write more. Since my plans to go to the cemetery with my family have been nixed thanks to the weather, I have the time, and the inclination, to continue typing.
I thought about my dad earlier in the week. I thought about how I wanted to be with my family last year on the first anniversary of his death. I thought about how I had to travel on business during that time. I thought about how stupid it was, and how I should have put my foot down and changed the plans. But I didn't do that. Instead, I once again sacrificed my duty to family in favor of my duty to work. I'll never do that again. Ever.
In thinking about dad this week, I decided to play his favorite classical music. It made me weep, and no matter how much I try NOT to cry when I hear Waltz of the Flowers, I can't help it, it just happens. I recalled that summer when he was sick. It's like it happened yesterday. It was late June, and I had bought some new pajamas and boxer shorts for my dad for the hospital. He wrote me a note after that, dated July 3, 1998, which says:
Cindy (Rocket) 7/3/98From dad. Love you and thank you
for your many visits to the hospital
from your busy time.
Thanks
Twinkle Toes
My dad decided to nickname me "Rocket" because he said that when he needed me, I was there, as fast as a rocket. I in turn called him "twinkle toes" because he loved to dance. For the entire time he was sick, that is what we called each other.
In early August I left New York City for my first trip to Germany. I spent two weeks travelling around, and I remember my first few days in Hamburg. I was with a colleague, and we ventured to the town bearing my family name. I insisted on going there, I thought it would be nice for my dad if I took some photographs in the town and brought back some little trinket bearing the town name. I stopped to photograph what looked to me like a quaint little building or storefront. My colleague asked me why I took a picture of it. I replied that it just struck me somehow. She told me I had just taken a photograph of a funeral home. Now I don't particularly like the idea of saying it was a sign of things to come, but I remember it vividly; this really spooked me.
Later on the next week I stood atop a hill in Stuttgart that overlooked that town. Somehow, some way, I got the feeling that something was seriously wrong in New York, and subsequently pulled out my mobile and dialed my sister's office number. Sure enough, my dad had been taken back to the hospital, as he was running a high fever. I begged my sister to telephone me to let me know how he was doing. She promised to phone if I was needed, if his condition worsened. The remainder of my time in Germany, which was only a few days, I heard nothing from her. I was happy that I'd be back in New York by Saturday of that weekend.
Once I returned, I went directly to the hospital, taking my souvenirs for my dad with me. Dad was in and out of consciousness, delirious with a high fever. Although I attempted to show him what I brought, it really didn't register. My mom had told me that my dad had been asking for me since Wednesday of that week, wanting to know when I'd be back home. I thought back to Wednesday. I remembered standing atop that hill and knowing that something was wrong, and now my mom tells me this. I was spooked again.
Sunday proved to be a little better for my dad. He was more conscious than the previous day, but barely. He slept most of the afternoon, and I didn't stay very long. Monday I returned to work. At noon, while in the midst of a meeting, I was interrupted by the assistant telling me I had a call. Although I requested she take a message, she informed me it was my sister, and it was urgent. My sister told me that the doctor recommended that my family go to the hospital immediately, as my father was dying. He died around 2 a.m. on August 18.
Not long after, my mother told me that my father had waited for me to return from Germany before he died. Although I understand why she told me this, I couldn't help but feel guilty for being away while he was sick, that he actually "held on" for days and days until I came back. Every time I make a trip to Germany now I think of that.
These are my memories. In a previous entry here I wrote that one day I'd tell you the doorbell story. Today is the day to give you the details. Not long after my dad died, while staying at my mom's house one weekend, the doorbell rang. I went to answer it, and upon opening the door, found no one there. I thought it was some kid playing games and running around the neighborhood ringing doorbells and running away. I looked down the street, right and then left, searched behind the trees and bushes in front of my mom's house. Nothing. No one was there.
It didn't happen often, but when it did, it seemed as though something was going on in the house at the time. Any type of disagreement or intense discussion and there it was -- the doorbell would ring and no one would be there. It spooked me. We began saying it was my dad ringing the bell, his way of telling us all to snap out of it - or something. Then my mom told us that there most likely is a short in the electronical component of the bell - or the batteries need replacing, or something like that. I kind of liked the idea of the story - that my dad was ringing the bell.
When my mom was away on a cruise a few weeks ago, a couple of hours after she left the doorbell rang. As always, I went to answer it, and yes, no one was there. It didn't happen again for the remainder of the week, until the day my mom was to return. That morning, around 8 a.m., the doorbell rang, and yes, I went to answer it.
And yes, no one was there.
I see I'm doing a pretty decent job of writing on Wednesdays ... even though August 18 was a Friday ... sue me.
Yesterday was an interesting day. "How so?" you inquire. WELL. Let me tell you how easy it is to start a fire while checking your email.
To begin, no, it's not funny, but I can't help finding the humor in a dire situation. Reminds me of the time I was held up at gunpoint in a Manhattan Upper East Side store, and I laughed for at least 3 hours after the fact. Again, no it wasn't funny, it was just my mind and body's reaction to a life-threatening event. *shrug* I never said I was sane, did I.
Anyway, before I digress any further, I was at my mother's house, having spent a few days longer than planned visiting her. I was awake early, and after reading all the day's newspapers and having had my fill of caffeine, decided that it was time for breakfast. I took a couple of pieces of bread and popped them into the toaster. Then I decided to go check my email.
Using my sister's laptop, which does not have the latest version of Netscape on it, I dialed up into my ISP and launched Netscape. Connectivity, though it stated 44,000, was not too swift. Netscape was "chunky" -- and it was taking quite a while for the connection to, well, connect. Finally after a good 5-7 minutes, I had my connection, and went in to check email. I'm pretty well versed in what to expect in daily emails. I have enough list mail to know that if there's nothing in my email box when I launch it in the morning, that my ISP is screwing up yet again. On this morning, I found nothing, so I closed the browser, disconnected my connection, and shut down the laptop.
While in my deep, email-induced state of mind, I had completely forgotten about the toast.
When the message connected with my brain that toast was in the toaster, somehow the message was rerouted to my nose also. That's when I smelled the smoke. I jumped from the chair and went into the livingroom. Shit. The entire room was filled with black smoke. I ran to the kitchen, and the smoke was just as bad. I went over to the corner of the kitchen where the toaster was, and saw that it was in flames. Again, the message quickly registered that if I didn't move fast, the entire kitchen, and the house, could ignite in mere seconds. That's when I ran over to the toaster, pulled the electrical cord out of the socket, grabbed the toaster by it's heat-protected ends, and took it outside. By that point the flames were out, and my toast was, well, toast. I flung open the doors and windows to get the smoke out of the house, hoping it would depart quickly, or at least not be as bad as it was when my mother saw it. She's at the age where any little thing suddenly becomes bigger than it really is -- and since my firefighting duties were a success, why get her more upset than she needed to be?
I went back into the house to find my mother and tell her. Thank god she was in a side room busy doing something, she hadn't seen or smelled the smoke -- in other words, I'm glad I got to the smoke before she did. Like a 10-year-old confessing some HUGE, terrible secret, I was barely audible when I said, "mom, uh, I uh made a problem." She joined me in the livingroom and saw the smoke, then went into the kitchen and surveyed the scene of my crime. That's when I started shaking. I explained my faux pas with the toast, silently cursing myself for being hungry in the first place, and told her that the toaster was toast now. She calmly replied that she had wanted to "throw the damned thing out" anyway, and that I shouldn't be upset. She told me to calm down. I couldn't. I stuck my hand out, and I watched as her eyes widened, she thought I burned my hand. No, I told her, look at how I'm shaking. She had to keep telling me to calm down, it wasn't a big deal. All I kept thinking was what could have been, that she could have lost her entire house simply because I was so #%$*& wrapped up in email.
Anyway, that's my long, dramatic story for today. I remain in awe over my own stupidity. *shrug*
September 10, 2003
Travel to the B's
Before I wax on about my own travel plans, read this little ditty:
Man Shipped from NY to Texas
CNN:
Charles McKinley wanted to go to his father's house in Dallas and decided to "ship himself rather than pay for a ticket."
> From B2B + B2 --or-- 2B or Not 2B
From Berlin...
Two friends from Berlin arrive in NYC tomorrow. I found out just this morning that they'll be in town for 10 days, and it will be great to see them. I can't wait ...!
... to Binghamton? ...
While I'm on the topic of travels, the Austin thing probably won't happen as Donald is up to his ears in work and adjusting to life in Texas. Marcus and I spoke last night and he suggested that in place of Austin, we do the "fall foliage" drive up to Binghamton, where the events list on the city's pathetic web site asks the question, "are you bored or just looking for something to do?" (I wasn't bored until I read that site) or Vermont, so I could find the old guy in the general store selling cans of green peas ...
I don't know if Marcus and I can spend that much time in a car together, we might end up killing each other. Putting two stubborn and thick-headed Aries together in a car for an extended period of time isn't the best idea. ;-) However, we do manage to laugh more often than most people when we speak via telephone. Last night's conversation had more than the usual amount of "fuck you Marcus!" statements out of my mouth. Trust me, it was all said in jest. Marcus is the comic relief I seem to need quite a bit of lately. Thank god for friends.
... to Berlin ... to Belgium... YES!
And speaking of friends, even those across the Atlantic manage to perk me up. I spoke to the "damn good looking boy" (that's what Zoe calls my friend Holger) this morning, and in addition to my Berlin visit in late October, I'll be travelling with the D.G.L.B. (damn good looking boy) to Brussels.
Yippee! We've never travelled together, so I am really excited about it and that we're going to Belgium. I've never been there and Holger and I are really looking forward to meeting Zoe, some other folks I know and Holger's friends too.
Daily Read
I was surprised to find my blog listed as one of Wendy's daily reads. Mine? Thanks Wendy! It's nice to know that I can count on Wendy as one of 5 regular DMB readers, and thank god for those sniveling bots that visit too. It just ups my popularity index in the blog-O-lympics and puts mine at number 1,350,685 on the top 100. :-)
They're Deer, Not Puppies
"I have mixed feelings about deer. When I first moved up here
I was amazed at the sight of deer wandering through town
and hanging out on my lawn. As time passed and the novelty wore off
I began to see them as a pain in the ass." - Al, Fulton Chain
Having spent a lot of time in Pennsylvania over the past few years, I've had many an opportunity to interact with the local deer. My friends and relatives in PA appreciate the beauty of whitetail deer. I was surprised to learn that they feed the deer on their property. A bag of corn from the local feed store does the trick, and the corn is spread out either by the salt lick (a large block of salt -- deer like this, go figure) or elsewhere on the property.
I've heard many reasons for not feeding deer: it upsets their digestive systems (when was the last time a deer walked into a veterinarian's office and complained of an upset stomach?), it makes them dependent (debatable), the neighbors will be pissed off, etc. Though I can joke about it, I honestly don't see the harm, though lately I've had a guilty conscience about feeding them.
On my last trip to PA, my goal was to take some in-your-face, up-the-snout deer photographs. I've taken numerous photos of deer over the last few years, but I've never been happy with any of them. I was determined to get at least one photograph of one deer that I'd be happy with. This meant getting up close and personal with the deer, making them comfortable enough to walk up to me. The digital camera I use is limiting, so that left me no other choice but to get very, very close to the deer. This resulted in one of two things: either the deer pounded its hoof in a display of fear and took off like a bat out of hell, or it just stood there staring and curious about you. (as if to say, "who the HELL ARE YOU!?" Luckily for me, deer don't speak.)
After two days of bribing spreading out the corn, the deer seemed comfortable enough to let me traipse
around them without so much as a flinch on their part. It was time for me to move in with the camera.
Click, click, click went the digital -- I'd just keeping clicking away, hoping that my efforts would result in a
decent photo or two if I was lucky. Here's the best of the bunch (some 50 or so photos):
This particular deer became my favorite. He would happily pose for me, giving me mere seconds to capture some sort of expressive look. It was a game between us. He'd want corn, and I'd want the shot. One day I just didn't feel like feeding the deer, and also wanted to gauge how dependent they became on the daily corn feed. At 6 a.m., I looked out the door and there they all were, 10 deer -- yearlings and fawns and does and bucks -- turning to see me at the door, looking at me as if to say, "hey! where the hell is breakfast?" After 5 minutes, it was obvious I wasn't going out to feed them, and they went about their natural course and began eating the leaves off bushes.
Though beautiful to look at, deer can also be dangerous. Outside of deer ticks, they can also go into attack mode and pound you
with their hooves. I've seen them jump up and believe me, they're lightning fast and can do serious damage if you're on the
receiving end of their wrath. I know when to walk (or run, if necessary) away if I sense one of them is in a snit.
And speaking of walking away, when I'd walk away from them, the yearling above in the photo would always
follow me. Eventually the others became curious enough to follow him, and when I'd turn around, he'd be there, right
behind me, and 9 other deer behind him. It was funny to see a trail of deer behind me, like follow the leader feeder.
It would have been highly amusing if they followed me into the house, but they don't go that far; they just stand there, staring. After all, they're deer, not puppies. (wink, wink)
"They have a nasty habit of jumping out in front of moving vehicles,
they make it impossible to have a garden (flower or vegetable) and at
times the deer crap makes walking around the yard like stepping
through a minefield." - Al
We can debate the pros and cons for feeding or not feeding deer, and both Donald in Austin, Texas and Al in Saranac Lake have provided me with many good reasons not to do it. For some people, deer are a nuisance and not unlike bears in that respect. And though I am seriously debating the p and c in my own mind for the future, I did manage to get the photo I wanted, even if I had to resort to manipulative tactics in order to do so. Hey, at least I was manipulating deer and not people! :-)
Note to Al: Thanks for the title and the quotes!
September 11, 2003
My Morning at the Genius Bar
Camp Apple
On a Wednesday evening some weeks ago, I experienced a hardware nightmare. Without much warning, the TiBook decided to take a nap while I was in the middle of some work. The machine would not wake up. I did notice that the battery wasn't charging before it fell into its slumber, and the power cord was indeed plugged in. I checked everything. No luck. I was determined to get to the root of the problem and have it fixed, and that meant going downtown to the Apple Store the next day.
Once I had my coffee, it was out the door to the subway, get off at 42nd Street, hop on the N/R and get off at Prince Street. Walk down (well, I basically ran there) a few blocks until arrival at the Apple Store.
The people who work in the Apple Store in Soho are very friendly and very helpful. I was directed to the "Genius" bar upstairs. I suppose when naming that area, Apple decided that the geniuses were not the customers, but the people who are there to HELP the customers. I certainly didn't feel like a genius. I parked myself on a stool at the bar, waiting my turn for desperado-type assistance. Each employee at the store had a bright orange t-shirt on with the word CAMP on the front along with the Apple logo. My very own camp counselors, here at Camp Apple in Soho. Yup, this is gonna be great.
For someone in a panic, I surprised myself with an uncharacteristic amount of patience. The genius bar was packed with people. I wondered how long I'd be there, and also considered the fact that I might have more serious trouble with the laptop than I'd thought. I began praying to myself, PUHLEEZE be able to fix my laptop. Pretty please???? I think the fact that I was there, in the store, was enough to elicit calm, placid waters. It also helped that the guy sitting next to me was at least 85 years old, which I thought was really, really cool.
When my assigned camp counselor got to me, I put my head down on top my titanium and begged him to wave the magic apple wand. He had a very, very serious demeanor, and since I was very, very serious about having the laptop fixed, one of us had to lighten up. Two serious people dealing with a serious problem? Nah. That is just unacceptable behavior. One of them has to cough up the humor. I decided that it would be my job to somehow elicit a chuckle or two out of Counselor Serious.
So there I was, Ms. devoted Apple user, dramatically begging with downcast eyes, "PLEASE! PLEASE tell me it's JUST the power cord!" {insert mega sigh here.} When I looked up at him, he was busy fidgeting with my laptop, and then I saw it. The beginnings of a smile sneaking up through his bottom lip, out the corner of his mouth, and then voila! A full smile, and a laugh too. [Success!] Okay, I felt better. Of course I had to point out to him that I succeeded in making him smile, which made his face turn red and made him smile even more. He said, "I smiled because you're funny." This was a good thing. My good deed for the day, making him smile, and his good deed by telling me I was funny, even though the situation was SO SERIOUS.
He took the battery out of the laptop and ran the scanner across the bar code inside (who knew there was a bar code in there? Not me.) He said, "what's your name?" I reply, "Cindy." He says, "how do you like the I-Pod?' (Typical New Yorker I am, my first thought was, how the hell does he know I have an I-Pod? I didn't say anything about owning one.) I then have a light bulb moment, OH RIGHT! DUH! He's in the Apple database, and OF COURSE my Apple history is in there. This had me wondering what else was in there; pathetic Apple user? Switched from IBM 386 to Apple IIFX in early 90s? Forced to work on PCs at the office but she protested? Be nice to her?
As he's busy going through the database titled "ALL ABOUT CINDY, PATHETIC APPLE USER/GEEK WANNABE, this perfect, gorgeous young woman takes the seat next to me. She was stunningly beautiful, in a very fresh-faced, perky, wholesome way. She had her titanium with her, along with the same problem I had. With that, my counselor began fumbling behind the bar, I think he was blown away by how beautiful and sweet his new client was, until she said something about having a boyfriend. I sat there and watched as that big smile he'd had only minutes before slowly dissolved into genuine disappointment. I don't think the beauty queen caught it, but I did.
Regardless of the obvious disappointment generated by this little tidbit, my camp counselor suddenly sped up the process of working on my laptop and informed me that the TiBook just needed a new power cord. One can't help but wonder what happened at the Genius Bar after I departed, but I'll guess my counselor spent countless hours slaving over the young lady's TiBook. {wink, wink}
September 12, 2003
Beatles Label Sues Apple
Apple Corps versus Apple Computer
Reuters: Apple Corps., the company formed in 1968 by The Beatles, has filed court papers in a London High Court seeking penalties and an injunction against Apple Computer Inc., insisting the computer maker's iTunes online music store breaches the band's trademark.
"Specifically, (the) complaint is made over the use by Apple Computer of the word "Apple" and apple logos in conjunction with its new application for downloading pre-recorded music from the Internet," the London-based company said.
... yeah, yeah, yeah.
Friday Bits
Hell hath no fury ...
... like a Category 5 hurricane. Hurricane Isabel is rapidly gaining strength ... will it turn next week and head out to sea, or will it hit land? In case you're wondering what other names are slated for the future, check out the Worldwide Tropical Cyclone Names list. I'm slated for 2005 :-)
I take you to be my ...
... lawfully wedded husband. Utter Wonder gives you his version of "Bennifer's" wedding vows.
September 13, 2003
Traveler's Nightmare
Nice to see you, now GET OUT!
When visiting another country, one might think that lost luggage is the very worst thing that could happen. Based upon the experience of my friends from Berlin, losing one's clean undies would have been a better alternative.
Friends Florian and Daniel arrived in New York City on Thursday and were invited to stay with two female pals in Chinatown. All was going smoothly. Flo and Daniel arrived, deposited their luggage, and went out shopping, etc. Out of nowhere last evening, in the middle of the night, one of the two women went ballistic for no reason whatsoever and literally threw them out of the apartment at an ungodly early morning hour. Their host even went so far as to begin packing up their things to get them out of the apartment pronto.
Florian said that the woman was heavily medicated due to some tooth problem. The fact that she was tossing wine all over the apartment was a good sign that she combined alcohol with the meds; NOT a good idea. Since my contact information was in his email, Florian couldn't reach me (though I am listed in the directory information for NYC.) Many hours later, he managed to phone Holger in Berlin in order to get my telephone number. Scheisse!
Flo and Daniel spent the early morning hours in the rain and cold trying to find a hotel downtown. Since it's Fashion Week in New York, all hotels in that area are booked solid. Eventually, they found a place on 31st Street, but it's a fleabag no-tell hotel with a shared bathroom on each floor. eww. Thankfully Florian has a friend who lives in Nolita and is not at her place for the week. Though she'd offered the place before they arrived, somehow they ended up in Chinatown at the other friends' place instead of the Nolita location. They're going to Nolita later this morning, and we'll meet up once they have situated themselves and calmed down.
The LAST thing I'd want to happen on a visit to Berlin would be getting thrown out of a friend's place. I would have brought them to my place, even though it's dreadfully small, and we would have figured it out and made it work until coming up with a better, more comfortable solution. *sigh* Now that the drama is over, (I hope,) I'll try to make sure that Florian and Daniel (this is his very FIRST visit to New York City) both have a nice time for the remainder of their visit.
September 15, 2003
This and That
-Update- Just because I'm a genius doesn't mean I don't make mistakes, as evidenced by trying to read this page in Netscrape, where it looks like, well, you know, like shit ... in Internet Exploder, it looks just ducky. I persevere in my learning ...
I changed the look of the blog (beta 3.0.) Happily I was filled to the brim with technical genius
simply because I am who I am. One should never underestimate one's self. Just goes to show you that if you I put your my mind to something ...
It's still a work in progress, as I'd like to add some photos
to the side bars and haven't moved to that part of the puzzle yet. I suspect I'll be receiving a
comment from the Belgium mistress of good taste any minute now.
Call for Writers Dale Keiger is hosting another Microstories Project, this one called "Twice Told"-- stories that someone told you. I'd enter, but no one ever tells me anything. ;-)
Submit Your Photo
Utter Wonder is up to his usual fun and games. Today's offering: apply to become a member of Utter Wonder's Hall of Fame by submitting your photograph. He writes: "I'll put up your picture and induct you in grand Utter Wonder Hall of Fame induction style. Just think: an entire day on Utter Wonder devoted to you."
Happy Anniversary
Zoe and Quarsan ... celebrating two years of bliss. As Zoe so eloquently points out in her post, Nauseous Love: Warning - this post could make you throw up.
September 16, 2003
The Worst Jobs in Science
From Popular Science, here is the list of the worst jobs in science:
The Flatus Odor Judge
Dysentery Stool-Sample Analyzer
Barnyard Masturbator
Brazil Mosquito Researcher
Hot-Zone Superintendent
Isolation Chamber Tester
Fistula Feeder
Prison Rape Researcher
Carcass Cleaner
Postdoc
Metric System Advocate
Corpse-Flower Grower
Endangered Species Ecologist
Astronaut
Fish Counter
U.S. Stem Cell Researcher
Planetary Protection Officer
Fusion Researcher
How Do You Sleep?
London (Reuters): The way people sleep reveals their personality, a British sleep expert said Tuesday.
Professor Chris Idzikowski, director of the Sleep Assessment and Advisory Service and a visiting professor at the University of Surrey in southern England, has identified six common sleep positions and what they mean.
Crouched in the fetal position is the most popular sleep pattern and favored by 51 percent of women. Fetal sleepers tend to be shy and sensitive while people who assume the soldier position, flat on their back with arms at their sides, are quiet and reserved. Sleeping on one's side with legs outstretched and arms down in what Idzikowski refers to as the log, indicates a social, easy-going personality. But if the arms are outstretched in the yearner position, the person tends to be more suspicious. The freefall, flat on the tummy with the hands at the sides of the head, is the most unusual position. Only 6.5 percent of people prefer it and they are usually brash and gregarious. Unassuming, good listeners usually adopt the starfish position -- on the back with outstretched arms and legs.
For Scrabble Fans
From the cool widget department ...
Practice your word skills online via Wordblog. Every day there is a rack of seven Scrabble tiles and a play strip that displays one letter already in place. Your job is to submit the highest possible word score.
September 17, 2003
Stopping By
Hurricane Isabel is expected to show up sometime tomorrow. First stop on the storm's itinerary is North Carolina.
From the National Hurricane Center:
The center of Isabel is expected to make landfall in eastern North Carolina during the day Thursday. However...the precise timing and location of landfall is uncertain...and conditions will deteriorate over a large area well before the center reaches the coast. Tropical storm conditions are expected to reach the coastline late tonight.
Maximum sustained winds are near 110 mph with higher gusts. Little change in strength is forecast prior to landfall. Hurricane force winds extend outward up to 115 miles from the center, and tropical storm force winds extend outward up to 315 miles.
Update on Galileo's Doom
This Sunday, (September 21), NASA's Galileo mission will come to an end when the hardy spacecraft plunges into the crushing pressure of Jupiter's atmosphere. This planned maneuver will prevent the risk of Galileo drifting to an unwanted impact with the moon Europa, which may harbor a subsurface ocean.
Space Science Update on the Galileo mission's legacy will be webcast today at 11 a.m. Pacific time, 2 p.m. Eastern time. There will be another webcast about the End of Mission on Sunday, September 21 11 a.m. Pacific, 2 p.m. Eastern.
For additional information, I point you to an earlier post from my archives: Galileo, 13, to Commit Cosmic Suicide
September 18, 2003
"FAT" Ballerina Fired
Reuters: Moscow's Bolshoi Theater was embroiled in a high-profile row with an ice-cream-loving ballerina it says is too heavy for ballet partners to lift. One of Russia's best-known ballerinas was informed 12 hours before she was due to perform in "Swan Lake" NOT to turn up. She told a news conference on Thursday she had been fired.
"None of the male soloists at the Bolshoi agree to dance with her, particularly in her current physical state." She is taller than most ballerinas and admits being partial to ice cream although she opts for the lower-fat option of frozen yogurt.
The AMAZING part of this story: the ballerina weighs ONLY 109 pounds.
Today's Blah Blah
Oh look, I can access my site again. Isn't that just ducky. The gods have blessed me. It only took 6 hours this time... grrrrrrr.
Spoke with Holger this morning about our trip to Brussels. We did our usual carrying on/Lufthansa-bashing about the insane cost of flying within Europe (which should be cheap but isn't.) Holger: "darling, would you like to pay $3000 Euro for my plane ticket??" He's found a cheap enough flight though and now we're working on where to stay for the one night we'll be there. Hopefully the divine Belgium princess will be available November 1 and 2 for some outrageous multi-cultural fun.
I'll write more later.
September 19, 2003
Bitchfest and Up Yours
Two blogs I've been reading lately and worth mentioning here: Bitchfest, which I found via Zoe, and Dawn Olsen's Up Yours ... and other helpful tips. In her post about Pregnant Sex Dawn writes, "Ready, set, go, it's over - and you feel like you just had a ride on a beach ball, all sweaty and out of breath - but no final victory dance."
Birthdays
Today is Wendy's (All Seasons) birthday. She has a day of pampering scheduled (smart lady!) so most likely she won't read this until later. Be a blog pal and pop over to her site and wish her a happy one!
September 22, 2003
Oops
A few keystrokes later and here I am, right back where I started from. This isn't so bad, considering I was a pretty happy and content camper at the start of the year. For those of you fairly new to my blog, this is basically what it looked like for quite a while. It had none of the widgets offered up by MT ... basic, bare bones, easy to write and post. And one day it was suggested that I use MT for my blog. I figured I'd try it out, knowing in the back of my mind that if it didn't suit me, I didn't have to use it.
However ... I did use it and came to know it pretty well when I had the time and inclination to really get into it and understand how it all works. But then I fucked it up.
Here's what happened, without regurgitating all the gory details. I had the MT upgrade file sitting on my desktop for a couple of weeks, and finally got around to installing it. Well, it's there at least. And my blog is still there, as well as all the pertinent files, etc. Alive and well but stuck in a freeze-frame. I think that MT is a wonderful tool, and when it's up and running properly, it couldn't be simpler. However, if you are a non-techy like myself, an upgrade can easily become a downgrade ... and ALL the way down and back to slinging raw HTML. I did get some help from a gracious fellow blogger who felt my pain. And after spending way too much time on it and it still wasn't working, I decided to stop what I was doing.
THEREFORE, until I can blow the dust off whatever file is completely screwing it up, y'all are stuck with this and no comments. Remember what I said in an earlier post about disabling comments? Well, I had quite a few tricks up my sleeve before my little disaster struck, and I think they would have been fun. For now though, if you have something to say, email is the only route. Sorry 'bout that. As far as links and all that, as soon as I can find my patience (obviously misplaced along with the offending fucking file I screwed up) I'll add the links, which are still live, btw, as well as anything else you'll find in Cindy's handy library over at squipper.com/weblog ... though I just realized the main page probably won't work if I redirected you to this one ... oh well, good intentions gone awry.
If nothing else, at least I'm enabled :-)
September 23, 2003
Browsing
Gert would like you to indulge her ...
She also has a mouse problem, while Zoe has "mouses" that made a nest out of all the labels from the tins in her cupboard.
Horny Hungarians are now the most active between the sheets. Condom maker Durex's annual global survey showed that Hungarian lovers enjoy sex 152 times a year. The survey of more than 150,000 people found lovers across the globe are having sex an average of 127 times a year. 73 percent of people say they are happy with their sex lives. Other results:
Performances Per Year:
French - 144
Italians - 119
Spanish - 123
Americans - 118
Germans - 120
Australians - 125
Bulgaria, Russia, Serbia and Montenegro - above average
Sweden - 102
Singapore - 96
54 percent of Americans have had sex via phone, email or text message. Only 20 percent of the French said they could see the point of it. -- (Reuters)
Today's photo is from a dozen white beauties that friends Florian and Daniel gave me before they returned to Germany. White roses represent worthiness, spiritual love, innocence and purity.
September 24, 2003
Struck Down
US Court Blocks Anti-Telemarketing List
A federal court in Oklahoma has blocked the national "do not call" list that would allow consumers to stop most unwanted telephone sales calls, one week before it was due to take effect. The Federal Trade Commission (FTC) has signed up 50 million phone numbers for the list. Telemarketers would face fines of up to $11,000 per call if they called numbers on the list. The court said the FTC has authority to curb abusive telemarketing practices under existing law, but that any national do-not-call list must be handled by the FCC (Federal Communications Commission.)
Source: Reuters.
Searching
Recent Google searches leading to my blog include:
terms of endearment ... senior citizens driving ... sexual positions ... body worship ... caught by surprise, oops!... print + val + kilmer + saying + I'm + your + huckleberry ... (let it be known for the record that Mr. Kilmer can be my huckleberry anytime he wants) ... up my sister's skirt (bizarre that it brought the googler right to my story about fashion and dressing for work) ... orangina shirts ... fat ballerina ... where dreams come from in the brain ... take me home country road ... men WITH breasts ... lyrics for Lookin' Out My Back Door. that last search etched the tune in my head this morning ... tambourines and elephants are playin' in the band ...
Laughing
... over the lengths some folks go in shameless self-promotion ... I find it quite refreshing when I stumble on a blog where the author engages me in something other than allaboutme-itis.
Thinking
... about bloggers (IMHO) who are sexy ...
September 25, 2003
Sexy Bloggers
What makes a blogger sexy? For me, a blogger's sex appeal includes the following:
- Can laugh at themselves
- They make me laugh and often
- Spins witty missives to the masses
- Pompous? NOT!
- Responds to comments and email
- Informative posts
- Ability to mix it up
- Frequent updates (though not necessarily daily)
Contrary to what you might think, I put my list together based on the sex appeal of a blogger's brain. To me, there is nothing sexier than a person who knows how to use their imagination, is smart and talented, a blogger who isn't in the top 100 (or maybe they are and I just don't know that.) The unsung heroes and heroines, people who manage to reel you in like the guppy you are in the bait shop of bloggers. Those who, in my opinion, just don't get the attention they really, truly deserve.
SO ... without further ado, I give you my initial male and female sexy bloggers for today. I'm happy to blow a little sunshine and ego inflation their way!
Chris of Utter Wonder is a sexy blogger because:
- He is very, very funny
- He continually writes highly amusing entries
- He answers his fan mail
- He's good, I'm sure he knows he's good
- He is not pompous (unless I missed something on his blog)
- He is happy when you link to his blog
- He has a Star Jones fetish >:-)
- He wrote a wacky but funny entry about "A-list" bloggers
The sexy female blogger for today, the divine Ms. Zoe of My Boyfriend is a Twat has been selected based upon the following:
- She wears a crown
- She takes no shit
- She makes fun of herself
- She's a damn good writer
- She answers her fan mail
- She addresses me with witty nicknames
- She lives with a twat
- She's a great mom
- She can be really wicked but in a fun way
- and last but not least, SHE DESERVES IT.
Stay tuned for more sexy bloggers...
Search Engine of Love
"She's a "well-rounded (!), late thirty-something vice president of healthy appetites (!), ready to settle down and raise a passel of rusty-butted kids with a stable, romantic and tax-protesting Libertarian." And I, of course, am a "boyish, salt-of-the-earth go-getter of independent means who loves to laugh, play the didgeridoo on my sailboat with my golden retriever, breed snow-white Lippizaners, and buy expensive unmentionables for my assy biffer." Oh, we wrote back and forth as excited as teenagers, burning up the ether with our ballooning passions." - Henry E. Panky
Every time I read something from Patrick Carlisle (aka Henry Panky) I just can't stop laughing... the man is definitely twisted, in a fun and amazingly gifted kind of way.
Funky Weather
The atmosphere in upstate New York is getting really strange. According to Al, The forecast for his neck of the woods calls for partly sunny skies tonight along with a complete absence of daytime tomorrow. But before you depart Al's blog, check out his latest photo -- stunningly beautiful!
Geek Eye ...
... for the Luddite Guys
FORTUNE magazine's October 6 issue features the experiment: let three tech experts loose in an average family's home.
September 26, 2003
Yeah Okay
It's all been a bad, bad dream. Must run out now. Brain on overload. Warning! Warning! DANGER!!!
Writer George Plimpton, the self-deprecating author of "Paper Lion" and a patron to such writers as Philip Roth and Jack Kerouac, died
yesterday. He was 76. CNN
Rock singer Robert Palmer dead of a heart attack at 54. [CNN]
Research conducted by The Institute for Genomic Research found that out of 24,000 clearly identified human genes,
humans share at least 18,000 with dogs. Reuters (Science)
There's a joke here but I've lost the
If you can unhook 17 bras with one hand in under a minute, your place is assured in the Guinness Book of World Records.
Reuters (Oddly Enough)
Today's sexy bloggers ...
Even though I am a fairly new visitor to Welcome to the Bitchfest, Nedra Zeall
is today's sexy female blogger not only because
she's a jewelry designer, (nepotism, you betcha -- all jewelry designers are related, period), but also because she's just plain funny. Her blog always has something
witty on it -- the Euro Having Sex with the US Dollar notation -- or the Third Nipple Gallery -- and I just noticed this, the
Oral Sex, Donations Accepted button. She's outrageous and I love it. She's also a mom. One more thing: she not only sends email, she also answers it.
Greg of Mr. Helpful is a sexy blogger because his blog is "helping desperate
people help themselves, one post at a time."
The fact that he plays the drums was absolutely NOT influential. (No, not much, she says with an evil grin. It was really the
Sheila E./Tito Puente thread that did it.) Mr. Helpful waxes poetically about his son, the "Pride and Joy," who is the drummer for the Jezebel Diary,
[soon to be nothing less than a money-making, put-dad-in-an-oceanfront-mansion with a plethora of scantily clad maids, kind of band.]
Seriously, Mr. Helpful's unique brand of humor, coupled with his delicate yet ingenious way with words, sculpting them into masterful
pieces of comedic wax, is the reason why he's today's sexy male blogger. His Shatner Chronicles should not be missed! Oh and he answers
his email too. (One wonders if anyone sees a pattern unfolding in the criteria ...)
More sexy bloggers soon ...
Whoopsadaisies
Before I launch into the latest chapter of my nightmare, let me just say thanks to all of you for your continual
visits regardless of my spasticity. One can easily be put-off by the back-and-forth, and the fact that
y'all have hung in there makes me all warm and fuzzy and loved. Thank you for that! I do so solemnly swear that
once things are fixed that I'll be much more careful in NOT screwing it up again. I promise!
Yesterday's Rush...
I know, I know, I know. Let's just say I, er, oops, I did it again. (Can you see me dancing like Britney?)
Hopefully the latest hiccup will be fixed by next week. In the meantime, some selections from this morning's spam:
- from stretchmasters@juno.com: penis stretcher
I'm terribly curious about the people behind spam. Wouldn't you just like to slap them a few times, get them to do
something else for a living? I mean, do they tell the truth when people ask, "and what do you do for a living?" What would they say -- "I'm in direct mail?"
Who would actually click on the link in an email for
a penis stretcher? The imagery of a "stretcher" is ... well, you know. And an eBay free training conference for a corpse?
I suppose that last one, Soar above the clouds, could be anything from learning to fly your own plane to mind-altering
drugs. [I can easily soar above the clouds at any time, without the use of drugs or planes.] Hell, I know lots
of folks whose minds are in the clouds, and often. ;-)
Plans for the Belgium part of my trip next month (actually it will be November by that time) are moving along. The flight from Berlin
to Belgium has been arranged and the only thing left to do is find adequate accommodations. Zoe graciously offered her assistance on
it, (you're SO FAB, thank you!!), this way Holger and I won't be wandering around Brussels looking for a place to stay. I picked up a copy of Fodor's Belgium and
Luxembourg book and a map, and I've already begun my studies. :-)
The word for today is sheesh -- and I can't find it in the dictionary, but I use it in place of a sigh [insert long, drawn-out
sigh here ...]
Fishing
This entry began as a story about the photo below. It ended up with my story taking steroids and ballooning into something entirely unplanned. Heck, that's writing for ya.
I put that photo up of the fish (I'll address the image scale and request for help later) because I really like the photograph.
About the Fish
The fish, a strawberry grouper, (there's another name for it but I can't recall what it is) is one of many I caught while slumming on the waters of the Bahamas last year.
The Fishing Vessel
I was a guest among six or seven others on this trip, and though we all knew each other, I never spent more than a day with any of
them. It was going to be interesting to see how it all turned out. To begin, it was indeed an adventure travelling from Florida
to the islands by boat. To me, any vessel you hop on that traveleth by sea is a boat. But this one, well, it was something like
57 feet long, taking it right out of the 'boat' category. That's like calling a yacht a Boston Whaler. I digress.
Fishing for a Hotel Room
Yes I know, my life is terribly rough and boring. As glamorous as it all sounds, spending
two weeks on a boat sleeping on a bunkbed made for children is not luxury. I was on the floor of the boat more times than
I care to remember, smacking my head into the wall each time. Showering in a 2x4 space
is not extravagance, and god help you if you drop the soap. The door of the shower is glass. You get the picture? It's not long before
you're pining away for a hotel room, anything but this. Hey, it's an adventure, right?
The Fishing Trip
The trip by water vessel was a two-hour excursion and I learned a few things. Wave height is important. VERY important. Weather is an important factor as well. When in eight-foot seas, and you experience it for the first time, all that rolling of the boat, back and forth and back and forth and UP and down, UP and down, is not for the faint of heart. After enduring the how will your body react exercise, I learned that I don't get seasick. Yes indeedy, I've got my
sea legs and I'm proud of it! It wasn't long before I was up on the bridge (sitting in the cabin while crossing is ill-advised, unless you want to
become ill.)
The Fishing Technology
Or, the technology of fishing.
I digress. Sorry.
Fishing Lessons? NOT.
I also learned such intense and pay attention CINDY! things such as fishing with an electric reel, deep-dropping and all
that fishing speak. It's not as if this was my first time fishing. Nah uh. I used to go fishing with my dad when I was a kid, so
this was nothing knew and the sight of live bait didn't freak me out. I paid attention, watched closely, and listened. I didn't think
I missed anything or heard something that was new and different. Nope, I've got it. That's affirmative.
Fishing to Use Boyfriend as Bait
There are those vivid moments of recollection. I was in the middle of futzing with the electric reel when my former BF began ranting that
I be careful with the reel, like I was a moron and didn't know squat about what I was doing. Yes, I'd never used an electric reel before,
but give me a minute before you start barking at me, will ya? Geez. I get your point that the reel is a zillion-dollar item. It's not like there's gold
and diamonds encrusted in it! He badgered me so much that I almost pushed him over the side of the boat to feed him
to the shark that was on my line. It wasn't long before I realized his badgering was simply to get the reel out of my hands and into
his. There was one electric reel. I had it, he wanted it but I had it, and that was that. All he had to do was ask me for it. Jackass.
Fishing for Memories
This story was about fishing. I mean the fish. I mean the trip. I mean ... shit. See, it's the fish's fault. I suppose that's what happens
when you look at old photographs buried somewhere. It makes you think, it evokes memories that perhaps are better left hidden in with your bills or stuffed
into a book or where I put everything that I don't want to look at: in my bookcase behind closed doors. Regardless, I still like that photo. It's one
of my better ones (she says, fully aware that she's now fishing for compliments.)
Fishing to End this Story
Back to image resizing. I see it's a bit too wide and throws off the margin. If I make it smaller ... well, it loses something ... yes?
Photo experts come to my rescue. All suggestions considered and appreciated.
I love that damn fish. :-)
The following was sent to me via email from my friend Donald in Austin, Texas.
Source unknown, and I don't feel like finding it. :-)
Quantas Airlines
After every flight, pilots fill out a form called a gripe sheet, that
conveys to the mechanics problems encountered with the aircraft during the
flight that need repair or correction. The mechanics read and correct the
problem, and then respond in writing on the lower half of the form what
remedial action was taken, and the pilot reviews the gripe sheets before the
next flight. Never let it be said that ground crews and engineers lack a
sense of humor. Here are some actual logged maintenance complaints and
problems as submitted by Quantas' pilots and the solution recorded by
maintenance engineers. By the way, Quantas is the only major airline that
has never had an accident.
(P = The problem logged by the pilot.)
P: Left inside main tire almost needs replacement.
P: Test flight OK, except auto-land very rough.
P: Something loose in cockpit.
P: Dead bugs on windshield.
P: Autopilot in altitude-hold mode produces a 200 feet per minute
descent.
P: Evidence of leak on right main landing gear.
P: DME volume unbelievably loud.
P: Friction locks cause throttle levers to stick.
P: IFF inoperative.
P: Suspected crack in windshield.
P: Number 3 engine missing.
P: Aircraft handles funny.
P: Target radar hums.
P: Mouse in cockpit.
P: Noise coming from under instrument panel. Sounds like a midget
pounding on something with a hammer.
Al's Anecdotes
The Oaks live in a little town south of here, in a little house with a
tarpaper roof.They work in the junk business and have a yard filled
with chickens, car parts and 55 gallon drums containing god knows
what. The guy is something of a hillbilly Lothario and they have about
seven kids crammed into this shack, the youngest of whom can usually
be found playing half naked in the dirt with a rusty car part.
Somewhere along the line Mr. Oak was exposed to Georgia O'Keefe and
her southwestern art and got the idea that there was a market for
cattle skulls. Cows, even dead ones, aren't hard to come by in this
area so Mr. Oak cut a deal with a local farmer for the severed heads
of several cows.
After boiling them in his yard for a while, he decided to go for the
bleached look and placed the still fleshy cow heads on the roof of his
house, with the intention of letting nature take it's course --
figuring in a few short weeks he'd be rolling in the bucks.
Needless to say the neighbors were less than happy. When the
complaints started rolling in, the town board/police/zoning office got
involved and started squabbling over whose responsibility this was. It
seems that there isn't a law against putting dead animal carcasses on
your roof. It's not a health problem because they aren't in contact
with anyone and it's not a nuisance, because, well... they're dead and
not bothering anyone.
Eventually it fell on my friend Loren to go and ask them nicely to
remove them. He doesn't like to talk about being inside that house, but
does say that his visit ended abruptly when two chickens wandered
through the open kitchen door and started fighting while the Oaks
continued the conversation.
So the skulls sat on the roof of the tarpaper shack. The sat there
through the spring and into the summer. Eventually they became a
tourist attraction of sorts with people driving for miles to look at
the rotting cow heads on the roof. Birds roosted on them and we started
taking bets on whether they would decorate them for Halloween.
Then one day they were gone. The only evidence that they ever
existed -- a small classified ad in the local newspaper reading -- "Cow
skulls. Free to a good home."
A heaping tablespoon of thanks to Al (Fulton Chain) for sharing this tale.
Varmints
Chris @ Utter Wonder had an unexpected guest. Read his story:
Oh My God There's a Racoon in My House!
The "Fat" Russian Ballerina
Is it her weight, her height, her ego or her ex-lover?
Russia's Labour Minister criticized the Bolshoi for unfairly sacking a Russian ballerina fired because of her supposed hefty body.
Alexander Pochinok said the company broke labour laws when it fired Anastasia Volchkova. " The Bolshoi Theatre personnel department
has breached the law. The inspectorate said that she should be restored to her position," said Mr. Pochinok.
Her spokesman said she was 169 cm (5 feet 7 inches) tall and weighed 50 kg (110 pounds), Reuters news agency reported.
The Russian press has speculated that Ms. Volochkova's size may be just one part of the story.
The business paper Kommersant reported recently that the theatre bosses had trouble dealing with her equally large ego.
- BBC
Television news here in the US reported that she was sacked because her former lover has all the right connections and told her
if she ever left him that she'd be out of a job. Hmm...
Zoe stayed
home from work today as she's a bit under the weather. When she informed her boss that
she wouldn't be in today, he replied, "how inconvenient."
Her post brought to mind some of the more bizarre comments and requests that have been
made to me. For example:
One former boss said:
"If you marry and become pregnant, I just want you to know that I expect
you to deliver that baby at your desk and continue working ... "
Then there was my first boss. I was 19 and slaving away
at a mega publishing company.
He was old-school, old-fashioned, and he believed that a woman's place was in the home--
married, barefoot and pregnant. If not, your role was that of a servant. One day in
the first month of employment, he came to my desk with his coffee cup, almost empty and
lined with coffee stains and grinds. He stretched his arm out in front of me, coffee cup dangling
from his thumb, little droplets of coffee splattering on me and my desk. He said, "I
expect you to wash out my coffee cup every day and put it back in my office on the
windowsill near the coffee maker." Hmm... I thought. I don't recall that part of my
job description, washing dishes. I was naive and eager to please, so I agreed
to do it.
Every day I'd get his coffee cup and wash it out. This routine lasted a week until
I snapped out of it. Since washing out his cup had nothing whatsoever to do with my
job there, plus the fact that I'm not his servant, I decided to
address the situation with him. I went into his office one day and said, "I think we
need to address the coffe-cup-washing request you made a week ago. I've thought about
it, and as it's not part of my job description, perhaps we can arrive at some sort of
agreement here. I'll wash out your coffee cup if you, in turn, water my plants."
That was the end of that. He never asked me to wash out his cup again.
Years later, I was on a business trip to Germany and on the plane, seated next to a doctor who was travelling with
an orchestra group. We were chatting away about Berlin-related things, when suddenly he said to
me, "why are you travelling alone? Shouldn't you be travelling with your husband?" He went
on, "women should not travel alone; it's not right."
Excuse me?
dog funny bone ...
September 27, 2003
- from emma fields: eBay FREE Training Conference corpse
- from robin day: Soar above the clouds, its easy
September 28, 2003
The bridge is cool (Beam me up Scotty!) and the cool factor was ALL THE ONBOARD TECHNOLOGY. I was in heaven. Quick!
Tell me what THAT does! Tell me how THAT works! What's THIS for? I was so excited it was sickening. So much technology, and do NOT
look at me with that face that says I don't need to know this. I WANT to know this, so tell me. There was (and I'm wracking my
brain trying to remember exact names of the equipment, wondering if it really matters) the global system navigator, or something
like that, which sets your course. Then came what I call the FISH FINDER, which actually scans the depths of the water for the exact location
of fish, and you can mark that spot (hehehe, just press the ENTER key) so you can return to it. The graphs were cool. I could
care less about fishing, just let me sit here and play with your technology for a while ... the bad part about the technology? You're not going to believe it. Our friend, captain of his vessel, informed me that had I brought my laptop along, his vessel is capable of access ... you know, ACCESS... the kind we use to get HERE?
I didn't need to know this. I had visions of blogging from sea. I'd make them forget about the fish and let me fish for things on the Web ... ;-)
(S = The solution and action taken by the mechanics.)
S: Almost replaced left inside main tire.
S: Auto-land not installed on this aircraft.
S: Something tightened in cockpit.
S: Live bugs on back-order.
S: Cannot reproduce problem on ground.
S: Evidence removed.
S: DME volume set to more believable level.
S: That's what they're there for.
S: IFF always inoperative in OFF mode.
S: Suspect you're right.
S: Engine found on right wing after brief search.
S: Aircraft warned to straighten up, fly right, and be serious.
S: Reprogrammed target radar with lyrics.
S: Cat installed.
S: Took hammer away from midget.
September 29, 2003
September 30, 2003
Yes, he was joking,
but still. Imagery being what it is and all, I just ... well, ewww.