3211 What Classic Movie Am I?

Friday, April 8, 2011

The hardest memories to rewrite are the ones stored before language, before there were words to describe them. Those are the ones that continue to influence our reactions for the rest of our lives. We may be aware that there's something unreasonable going on in there, but we don't know what it is, because it isn't in words. We reason in words, but we react without words. And even when we reason, it's built on a foundation of no words, something we can't describe, and therefore can't easily change.
-- Me, in post #2179, 12/23/08 --

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What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Every time you take the test you get a different set of questions. I took it several times with the maximum number of questions, trying to answer as honestly as possible (except some statements make it confusing, like "People find it difficult to read me, and that's fine with me" - well, what if I DON'T think people find it difficult to read me? That kind of thing.), and it came out the same every time.
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3210 Aaaaarrrgh!

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to,
it doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

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I have three dirty toilets. I have three bottles of toilet cleaner and three brushes, one in each bathroom. For months now, I have been cleaning the bowls with just plain water and the brush, or a shot of liquid soap, or a bit of bleach, because

I CAN'T GET THE FREAKIN' BOTTLES OF CLEANER OPEN!

"To open, push down and turn." Push down. Turn. Click... click... click.... Nothing. Push down harder. Turn bottle under my hand. Click... click... click...." Nothing. Push down gently. Turn. Click... click... click.... Nothing. Nothing but clicks and no rising of the cap toward, like, opening.

I don't understand.

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Later, evening, same day -- I took the bottle across the street and handed it to SIL Hercules. "Here. Open this."

He laughed. It's the A&P house brand toilet cleaner. Daughter had bought a 2-pack of the same stuff a while ago and had made the same request. He'd finally resorted to punching a hole in the neck of the bottle.

I fully intend to take the flippin' thing back to the A&P and hand it to the store manager. "Here. Open this."
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3209 Interesting weekend in White Plains

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry,
but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.

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I went to a weekend Mensa gathering last Friday, at the Crowne Plaza in White Plains. I had volunteered to work at the registration desk, handing out the id badges and the programs, so I arrived early. I like working the registration desk because you get to meet almost everyone who comes in.

After my shift I hung out in the hospitality room until about midnight.

The next morning, I got visited in my room by hotel staff and security, and then got a ride to the White Plains Hospital Center (strange name...Hospital Center?) in an ambulance with sirens and lights and everything, followed by a CT scan and a bunch of stuff, and then into the OR.

My left kidney finally got thoroughly pissed (that's a pun) at being ignored for the past year and a half at least, and attacked me. It was very nasty about it. It should have obeyed that green quote above.

The short story is that there was a large stone firmly wedged in a tube (and a smaller stone further down) but they couldn't remove the larger stone because the kidney was very infected, lots of edema and general nastiness, and they didn't want to touch the stone until the infection was gone. So they put in a stent (they went in through the bladder, no cutting) so the kidney could drain, put me on four days of IV antibiotics, and kept me captive until my temperature stayed below 99 and the cultures told them what oral antibiotic would work. (It turns out all of them.)

So now I'm home. Pills four times a day for 21 days. I have to find a urologist here, and once the kidney is no longer infected, the stent and stone need to be, uh, addressed. Exactly what and how remain to be determined.

In the hospital, I walked. Round and round the halls of my section, over and over, whenever I wasn't actually attached to the IV (the IV was for 1/2 hour every six hours), until they gave me permission to widen my route, and I walked the whole fifth floor. But today I still feel wrung out. (Snork. Probably from blood loss! They drew blood like every four hours. Or sleep deprivation. You're not allowed two consecutive hours of sleep. When I left the hospital I noticed a sign in the lobby that they were having a blood drive. Hmmmmm.)

That's the me part, but I figure I should get this out now so folks don't think I disappeared.

Later, the rest of the story.
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3208 ...and into the fray.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first,
the passion fades
and there had better be something else to take its place.

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I just started reading Michael C. Ruppert's Crossing the Rubicon. It's 675 6x9" small-type pages, not including the introduction and the preface. I've so far read the introduction and the preface and the first seven pages of Chapter 1, and I'm already fascinated.

This could be a problem. I may have difficulty getting anything else done.
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3207 Buncha Idiots!

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Either you control your attitude or it controls you.

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I'm venting here. I'm so annoyed I want to spit. If I'm ever in south Jersey, there's a certain bank manager I want to strangle.

Many moons ago when Ex#2 and I split, we owned a block of stock jointly. He got half and I got half, and we were to transfer our halves to each of us individually.

Well, I didn't do the transfer for my half, because Daughter was small, and if anything happened to me he'd be raising her, and if I left the stock joint it would go directly to him avoiding probate and tax, and that would be fine and just. So I simply had the account changed to my SS# and the dividends coming to me, and then of course I never got around to transferring them.

Cleaning out the old house I found the certificates. Of course they've split multiple times, so there are also shares in a joint "book-entry" account held at the transfer agency. Ack! I'd better get them transferred now, because if anything happened to him (and I don't see how he is possibly staying alive), I'd be the one with the probate and tax problems.

I called the transfer agent, and they sent me the form to transfer all the shares and the instructions. It's pretty straightforward. He and I each sign the form, and we each get what's called a Medallion Signature Guarantee. The medallion is absolutely required, and it says so several times, both on the form itself, on the cover letter, and on the instruction sheets. Two separate signatures as joint owners of the stock, and two medallions, one for each signature. Almost any decent sized bank can do the medallions.

So I filled out the form and sent it to him, along with a letter instructing him what to do, and the "How To" and "FAQ" sheets from the transfer agent. I even put stickies on the form with "sign here", "date here", and "medallion here" arrows.

I have to give him credit. He's trying his best. He's not the main problem, it's his local bank. (Well, he's a little bit of a problem because he doesn't know enough about the process to argue with his bank. Either that or he's already pissed them off enough on other occasions that they're just giving him a hard time -- and that's entirely possible. He does that. I can't believe the bank manager doesn't know how to transfer stock.)

Short lesson:

A Medallion Signature Guarantee and a Notary Public Stamp are similar in that you have to sign the document in front of the guarantor or notary, you have to show identification to prove you are who you claim to be, you have to affirm that you are signing of your own free will and demonstrate that you are sober and of sound mind sufficient to understand the significance of what you are signing. But there are also a few big differences.

The notary public has no financial stake in the document, and he/she can carry the stamp around in a pocket. The notary doesn't even have to know what the document is - just that the signature is that of the person signing. They'll usually accept a driver's license, and don't have to know the signator personally.

The medallion, on the other hand, carries insurance against forgery. If the signature turns out to be forged, the institution that applied the medallion is responsible for the inherent value of the document. It's a big deal.

All transfers of stock absolutely require the medallion, because the stock transfer agent never sees the actual signers, so the medallion transfers the financial responsibility to the medallion holder, who did see the signers and has the responsibility of authenticating the signator. That's why it's usually banks who do medallion signature guarantees, only an officer of the bank is allowed to use it, the medallions are kept under separate lock in the vault, and usually they will do them only for people who have a long-standing account with them.

Ok. So Ex#2 takes the transfer form to his bank, and asks for a Medallion Signature Guarantee.

The bank officer refuses.

Why? Because, says the bank manager, only sales of stock require a medallion. Transfers don't. According to him, just taking Ex#2 off the account needs only a notary stamp.

Duh? Like, uh, there's no chance of forging a signature to take someone's name off stock? No financial risk there? It's TRANSFERRING OWNERSHIP!

Ex#2 called me from the bank. I told him to have the bank manager call the transfer agent. He did. Next phone call, Ex#2 says the bank manager and the transfer agent got into an argument on the phone, and incredibly, the bank manager tried to tell the transfer agent what the agent needed to see.

Duh? Can you spell "arrogance"?

Anyway, the bank manager refuses to medallion guarantee the signature. That's the only bank where Ex#2 has accounts.

Ex#2 had the bright idea of selling me the stock for $0, "then the bank manager will do the medallion".

Duh?

First off, no contract is valid unless both parties receive "consideration", so it would have to be for, say, $1. Secondly, the sale would be reported to the feds, and, uh, do you want to talk about capital gains? You want to explain to the IRS a $1 sale of a gazillion dollars worth of stock? Look like a tax dodge, maybe? No? Ok, no selling.

More phone calls. Ex#2 lives in the tomato fields of south Jersey. There's only one other bank, in the next town over. So he went there. They won't do it because he doesn't have an account with them.

So he opens an account with them.

But - they want more documentation. They want an official document from the transfer agent as to how many shares are being transferred, and the total value. Ok, I can understand their wanting to know what their risk is. BUT, they also want a notarized statement from ME requesting the transfer.

Duh? Why?

It's taken this whole day. A dozen phone calls hither and yon to and from Ex#2 and the transfer agency, pulling together the additional documentation the new bank wants, writing another letter explaining what I'm sending and requesting that they please allow my ex-husband to sign stock over to me (duh?). I'm surprised they haven't asked for a notarized copy of the 28-year-old divorce decree.

I had only two things I absolutely wanted to do today - take a box to the post office for mailing, and pull together the tax stuff for my accountant, and I've got neither done, and it's too late now for the post office. Yeah, I've got a cell phone, but I had to stay here near the file cabinet and the computer between all those calls. And poor Ex#2 has been doing the running around and getting the runaround.

Buncha freakin' idiots down there in south Jersey. Probably being poisoned by all that chemical fertilizer sprayed in the air. Oughta go back to cow manure.

(Grumble.)
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3206 Jousting with big rigs

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

You can keep going long after you think you can't.

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Hmmm. Somebody from Old Bridge is reading. Hello. 'Fess up. Was it the cousin connection?

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I drove north Saturday afternoon. Had dinner with some Mensa folks, and then went on to the old house. Worked Sunday cleaning it out - filled more garbage bags. There was so much recycle paper I didn't want to store it there, so I brought it on south with me. I'll take it to the local recycle center.

I also loaded some stuff to move down here, but not a lot. I think my concentration should be on throwing crap out right now.

I drove back late, got home a bit after 11 pm.

It was a good fast drive. There are few cars on the NYS Thruway or the Garden State Parkway late at night. It's mostly just big trucks.

The truckers and I did have one spot of excitement. It was somewhere just north of Newburgh (around mile marker 71), in the 2-lanes-south section. I was in the left lane coming up on a line of four semis in the right lane going up a slight hill, and was passing the hind-most truck when suddenly the three trucks ahead of him started swerving and whipping back and forth. There was something big and dark in the road ahead.

It was a little to the right of the center line, and the trucks were swerving right and left to miss it. The truck I was passing couldn't swerve left - I was there! I was afraid to slow down, because if he whipped, I'd be right by the tail of his trailer, so I slid further left and hit the gas and almost climbed the bumper of the truck ahead of him, which was now in my lane. The guy I'd been passing swung right, off the road, then back on. He's darn lucky it didn't cause him to jackknife, hitting the shoulder at that speed.

It was a big overstuffed upholstered chair! Windsor, from the look of it. Must have fallen off the back of a truck. It was tipped forward on its top and seat with its legs pointed toward us, like it was offering a jousting challenge.

Everybody slowed down to below the speed limit until we got to the rest area five miles later. Nobody wanted to be the first to find the matching sofa. All the truckers pulled into the rest area. To change their underwear, I guess.
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3205 Missed and finally found.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

It's a lot easier to react than it is to think.

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A friend sent this link to an article about a 12 year-old kid named Jake, who is well on the way to challenging Stephen Hawking: http://www.indystar.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2011103200369

It's interesting that he was originally diagnosed as borderline autistic, then "upgraded" to Asperger. I wonder if he's really either. It's almost as if he was born into a continuation of a previous life where he had learned mathematical relationships.

I had a very personal reaction to the article. It says that Jake "has been measured at 170 (top of the Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children)" in mathematical IQ, and that as a toddler, he stopped talking for a year and a half. It's also mentioned that he had periods of regression.

Rather than attempt to "normalize" him, and mainstream him, his parents chose to feed his specific interest and skills.

What hit me:

• My daughter scored 168, general, not specifically math, at age 12. I was not aware until just now that 170 was the top score.
• My daughter was talking in sentences at 10 months. When she realized that her immature pronunciation made it difficult for anyone but her parents to understand her, she suddenly stopped talking. Period. She didn't say another single word until she was a bit over two (but was a master in pantomime, easily conveying even complex ideas), and then suddenly when she started talking again, she had an enormous vocabulary, including four and five syllable words with solid grammar and complex sentence construction.
  
• I noticed early that she would have a period of rapid and amazing learning (she knew colors and numbers at three months. "Which is the blue block?" "Show me five blocks." "Now show me two blocks and three blocks" - and her eyebrows would shoot up and big smile when she realized two and three is five), during which time she didn't grow physically at all, followed by a period of physical growth during which she seemed to find learning anything new to be very difficult. Sort of like Jake's regressions.

My personal reaction after reading the article:

• I noticed the parallels.
• I was horrified.
• I wondered if I had failed her in some way by not offering her opportunities in her interests.
• I tried to remember if there was any area in which she showed an early interest. Um, nothing obvious stands out, not in an academic area, anyway. She just liked to learn things, was hungry for new "experiments" and information about anything.
  
• I was aware that she seemed to have difficulty relating to children her own age. She was comfortable with much older and younger children, and adults, but she wanted to be "in" with kids her own age, but she couldn't seem to relate to them. She couldn't seem to figure out what they were interested in, how their minds worked. (The word "autistic" was so new that most people misheard it and thought it had something to do with artistic ability, and Aspberger's wasn't even on the horizon.)
• If she had any special interest at all, it was in social interaction, and it was the only thing she wasn't very good at.

This article made me feel guilty. Like I should have noticed something important, looked for her special gift, some specific thing that engaged her attention, but I don't know what.

When she was in high school and thinking of future areas of study, I thought she should head for something medical or psychological. She rejected that. I don't know why. Her teachers said she was good in math and science, and that's how she ended up in engineering. For which she was entirely unsuited.

Now the field she's in is medically and psychologically related, with an eastern slant, and she's happy. Her special talent is an ability to "read" people, inside and out, to feel and direct energy flow, and she's rather spectacular at it. Really. You have to know to appreciate it.

And that's what I missed when she was young. Without even realizing it, her father and I kept at a distance anyone she reacted negatively to, even when she was an infant. We learned over and over that she was always always always right.

Believe it or not, I ran The Man past her before I consented to date him. He laughing refers to that evening as "the interview". (Little does he know.) Her take on him was "He's ok. Have fun, Mom. But take everything he says with a grain of salt."

She was so very right.
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3204 Hair - Again....

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Want to live a calm and happy life? Simple. Never do or say anything that could be misinterpreted or taken out of context.

Good luck with that….

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My hair is now super short. Too short.

I figure if you want to find the right length and shape, starting long and nibbling it down, the way I've been doing the past three months, isn't the way to go. Better to go too short, and let it grow into something that works.

I already know I'd like it a little longer on the top back crown and at the bottom behind the earlobe. More feminine. It'll get there. I think I like the back of the head, though. At least it's willing to lie down at this length.
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3203 Acting

Saturday, March 26, 2011

You get what you settle for.

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Lots of praise for Ms. Taylor the past few days. This is a very good article on why she was special: http://www.salon.com/entertainment/movies/feature/2011/03/23/camille_paglia_on_elizabeth_taylor.

Yes, I loved and appreciated her. I have a soft spot for her. There are many good things to say about her, and all of those good things were simply her, not put on just for public approval.

However!

I am now going to bring down the wrath of the world. I am going to speak ill of the dead. I'm sorry, but all this praise of her acting skills annoys me. I, personally, don't think she could act worth beans.

Maybe it's just what I expect of acting.

In everything I'd ever seen her in, I was always conscious that it was her up there, not the character she played. It seemed obvious to me that she was quoting a script. That she was "performing".

Contrast the way she comes across on screen to, say, Dustin Hoffman (in his serious roles, like in "Midnight Cowboy", not stuff like the Fockers.) You forget that's Dustin on the screen. You aren't aware there's a script. Now contrast Dustin Hoffman to Robin Williams. Robin Williams is always Robin Williams, no matter who he's playing. He "performs" the character.

Ms. Taylor's acting was in the same class as that of Mr. Williams. A performance, of a script, to direction.

The article linked above mentions "Sophia Loren, who has the same combination of qualities" as Ms. Taylor. Well, Sophia could ACT!
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3202 HOTW - The "Lemond Bishop" character

Saturday, March 26, 2011

We are not educated well enough to perform the necessary act of intelligently selecting our leaders.
-- Walter Cronkite --

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I don't regularly watch "The Good Wife". If it's on and I happen to notice, then I do watch it.

I watched it the other night.

There's a recurring character, Lemond Bishop (that's how the show spells it, but I wonder if it should be pronounced LeMond?), a drug kingpin. A very impressive character. Apparently he has been in many episodes, but I'd never seen him before.

I was stunned. My stomach went hollow and dropped.

I don't know why he fascinated me so much. It probably had a lot to do with the similarities to The Man. Similar skin tone, same head shape, similar eyes. They both fill space the same way. They move the same way, that leopard prowl. Emotionally vulnerable when it fits, impenetrable when it doesn't, and very still and observant in between.

I know you can't assign attributes of a character to the actor playing him, so I suspect, having seen him only once, only in this role, and only in the "Ham Sandwich" episode, it's the character that fascinates me, not necessarily the actor. (On the other hand, if the things that grabbed me are not already a part of the actor, then he's one damn good actor!)

I carefully watched the end credits, to see who he was. He was not credited. I went online and searched a few zillion articles on and reviews of "The Good Wife". The character is mentioned often, but not the actor.

I finally resorted to a "The Good Wife" fan forum, and asked. I did get the answer, and the fans were surprised that not only was he not credited on the show, when they went to the actor's own publicity sites, including things like IMDb and Wikipedia, "The Good Wife" is not listed for him. There was a lot of speculation as to why.

Now that I know his name, I have found him a few places linked to "The Good Wife". Very few.

I present the Honey of the Week, Mike Colter:

Of course, Lemond Bishop was all spiffed up in suit and tie. But I kinda like thinking about a little fresh sweat on him, as opposed to talc.
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3201 Dear Diary (skip this post)

Friday, March 25, 2011

We generate the results we think we deserve.

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Ignore this entry. Skip. Back button. (Except for the green up there. Read that.)

Just noting a few things I did that may require followup,
or at least that I need to remember,
and a few things I have to do, in a place I won't lose it.
A place I look at often.
Otherwise I'll forget.
Lists on paper get lost.

3/23 Copied old photos, took most of day.
""""" Printed list of in-network doctors etc.
3/24 Canceled phone at old house.
""""" Went through photos w Daughter.
""""" Cut hair to basic shape/length.
3/25 Wrote letter to Dr. K. re history. Not yet mailed.
""""" Called McAfee and applied for refund. Check in 10 days.
""""" Called xfer agent re xfer of old joint stock, "Can sigs be separate?" Ans: yes.
""""" Wrote instruction letter to Ex#2 re xfer, mailed letter and form to him.
""""" Picked up box to mail photos. Verified address.
""""" To hairdresser to get back smoothed and shaped.
""""" Bought rake/dustpan-type pooper scooper for gum balls.

To do:
- Find warranty for microwave.
- Find procedures for getting house problems fixed.
- Do so^.
- Make appointment w. doctor, get mammo & bone scan
- Write cover letter, pack & mail photos.
- Unpack latest load from north.
- Pull tog tax docs!!!!
- Locate joint certificates.
- Letter to Nancy M.
- Letter to Bob P.
- Call Colette re FJK Jr. estate - closed.
- Clean attic, take stuff up.
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3200 Some photos

Thursday, March 24, 2011

No matter how thin you slice it, there are always two sides.

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This is the view north from my back windows. That's a portion of a small lake in the foreground, then a strip of land beyond that that separates the lake and the neighborhood from Raritan Bay, which contains a walkway along the bay to a beach up the way a bit. After that, the bit of dark gray is the bay. Off in the distance you can see a pale strip - that's Brooklyn. It's barely visible during the day, but at night it's a blaze of light and looks a lot closer.

This is as seen from the side window in my bedroom:

My grandbaby, due in perhaps five weeks. I keep saying Daughter is huge. She doesn't look that large in this photo (taken yesterday), but actually she's normally extremely slender and willowy in the middle. She's now at least three times as deep as usual in the belly and behind region. The tummy is perfectly round, like a basketball. (Looks "boy" to me.)

I've spent much of today searching the internet for hints on how to clean up the sweet gum balls in my yard. They are downright dangerous to bare or sandaled feet, and I've heard they are very hard and can kill a lawnmower, so I have to clean them up before the first spring mowing. My neighbor George said the only way is to pick them up by hand, rake them, or use a vacuum.

I've got a zillion of the darn things in my yard. These photos are through the sliding glass doors with the sun shining on the glass, so they're not clear, but you can see all those dark brown balls, mixed in the grass and the straw from last fall's seeding.

They're all in MY yard, not in either side neighbors' yards.

I don't understand.

I looked at "rolling nut picker-uppers", and they don't work on gum balls because of the stems. (Of course they SAY they do, but the reviewers say differently.) I looked at lawn sweepers, and they don't work because they can't get down low enough. (Of course they SAY they do, but the reviewers say differently.)

I looked at lawn vacuums, and those things are huge and expensive (like $800 minimum for the smallest).

I can't rake - I know my back won't stand for that, especially with the straw woven into the grass. I can't bend over and pick them up without destroying my back, unless I use something like a pooper-scooper.

'Bout the only thing I can think of is to put a sign on the front yard offering to pay kids $2 a bucket for picking them up. Or buy a pooper-scooper.

One good thing - a website recommended using them as top mulch on garden beds, since unlike bark or other covers they're easy to pull off to work the soil and push back on, they take decades to rot, they don't block watering, and animals don't like to walk on or dig in them. Plus when your neighbors see it, they think you're amazingly inventive.

Um, anyone want a bucket or two of sweet gum balls?

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Update: There's some woman selling bags of the damn things on Etsy, for craftwork! I can do that!
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3199 Knut

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

You can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life.

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I guess everyone has heard by now that Knut, the polar bear at the Berlin zoo, has died unexpectedly, reason unknown. (If you don't know about Knut, Google him, or check here: http://cuteoverload.com/2011/03/19/knut-a-retrospective/.)

Knut was not exactly an orphan. He had been rejected by his zoo mother, and had been raised by humans at the zoo. He was cute and playful, and quite the sensation. But as he got bigger, he had to be separated from his adoptive human parents. He was four years old, an adolescent, when he died.

Animal rights folks are all up in arms, claiming that he was obviously depressed at the lack of the human contact he'd been used to, and that's what caused his death. The zoo officials disagree, saying that he was perfectly happy and playful.

Me? I'm not at all surprised he died, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with his having being inappropriately raised by humans.

Nature loves babies. It's built into animal mothers that they will care for their babies. That his mother abandoned him at birth is highly significant.

Nature will abandon babies only if the babies cannot be raised to the point where they themselves can have babies. Nature is realistic and won't spend energy and resources on a cause doomed to failure. The reasons can be that the environmental conditions aren't right, in that there is danger, famine, stress of confinement, whatever makes it difficult to raise the young, or there is something inherently wrong with the baby itself such that it will be unlikely to live to reproductive age. Animal mothers can sense something wrong, wrongness that may not even show up in medical tests.

Knut's mother rejected him. To me, this means there was a good chance there was something wrong with Knut.

And that's why I'm not surprised he did not live to reproduce.

Nature is very stern about stuff like that.
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3198 Tea Parties Are for Toddlers

Monday, March 21, 2011

It's not what happens that's important. It's what you do about it.

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Wondering what the country might be like if the Tea Party had total control?

Read this: http://www.philly.com/philly/opinion/20110320_Tea_party_insanity_perks_in_capitols.html (then watch the movie Idiocracy).

2505 is HERE! We have already reached the age of idiocracy.

(Hey, really, read it. You'll laugh between the tears.)
(Um, and you don't perk tea. That's coffee.)
(And if you haven't seen Idiocracy, you should.)

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While driving north and south over the weekend, I listened to some right-wing talk radio. The hosts were all freaking out about perceived indecisiveness on the part of the administration regarding Libya.

Duh?

I don't claim to be on top of the news and the world situation, but even I was aware of the danger of too quick a military response. All over the Muslim world, people antagonistic to the West are putting forth the theory that all these revolts were not simply popular internal uprisings, but were carefully orchestrated by US and European agents. Even groups friendly to us are wondering if there might not be some truth to the stories. (Wikileaks didn't help us there.)

So to jump in too quickly against Moammar Gadhafi could be very dangerous to our position in the Middle East. We don't want to confirm the rumor monger's "Aha! See? We TOLD you so!" among those who would otherwise be willing to give us the benefit of the doubt and work with us.

Secondly, we are already running an unbearable financial deficit due to two wars started by the previous administration, neither of which were necessary for our safety. (Want a terrorist? Offer a few million for his head on a platter, then sit back. The glory of war that dubya wanted wasn't worth it.) So we simply cannot afford to get involved in a third war that, frankly, when you come right down to it, is none of our business.

That's why we were slow to react - not from indecisiveness, but because of diplomacy. It was necessary that the UN take the lead, and necessary that the Arab League condemn Gadhafi first. And we are offering tactical support only because - hey, in case you hadn't noticed, we're BROKE! And our military is already stretched too thin.

But hey again, truth and diplomacy and the economy be damned - any excuse to trash the president will do, and the American public (for whom, by the way, those talk show hosts have nothing but scorn, the masses whom they whip up and entertain and thereby get rich) will believe them.

Because it's more interesting to listen and bluster and and parrot than to think. Especially to think ahead and consider the real world facts. That's really hard.

(I never understood why anyone would call themselves a "dittohead" with pride. Have they no more pride than that?)

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Oh, yeah, and now that Obama has acted, they're pissed because he didn't get the approval of Congress. Well, a) technically, he didn't declare war, and b) didn't dubya already decide that presidents don't have to involve Congress in declarations of war anyway?

Or was that only for him....
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3197 Paintings

Sunday, March 20, 2011

You shouldn't compare yourself to the best others can do, but to the best you can do.

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I have a lot of stuff on the walls in the old house. Decorators say that pictures, prints, photos, whatever you frame and/or hang on the walls of a room should match the colors in the room, and groupings should have something in common. "Anything hung together should hang together."

I ignore the rules. The only thing all my wall stuff has in common is that I like each and every piece. I'm not going to not hang something just because it's the wrong color, and I'm not going to go out and buy "eh" stuff just because it picks up the color of the pillows. Or whatever. If I love it and it fits in that space, it goes there.

Yesterday I brought back two of my favorite paintings. This one
will go in the living room. (The light is hitting badly behind her head. Ignore that. Looks better in real life. And the frame isn't bent. The camera did that.)

I bought her at an estate auction a few years ago. She's an 18th century oil on canvas, 22"x28" not including frame, signed "Kolberg C". She must have hung over a fireplace, because she was so covered with oily black soot that you couldn't actually see much of her beyond the blouse, which looked gray. She was so dirty that as I was cleaning her I was surprised to find flowers in her left hand and the butterfly on the right. There were very few bids on her because the auction was held during a snowstorm, the artist seems to be unknown, she's pretty crackled, and there's a puncture wound, so I got her pretty cheaply - cheaply enough that I didn't feel bad about cleaning her myself with onions. I think she came out beautiful. I love her skin, and the puncture is in the lower fold of her sleeve, so you can barely see it.

This one is completely different, but also loved:
I think it'll enlarge if you click on it. The colors are much brighter than the photo shows. It's a little larger than the lady above. Also oil on canvas, bold brushstrokes and heavy paint in the background, very fine delicate strokes for the vixen and kits. Date unknown, unsigned (or I just haven't found the signature yet). The frame is definitely very old, and probably easily worth three times what I paid for the painting. The bidding was fierce for this one, probably because of the frame, but I won it because I loved it.

I think the foxes will go into the second bedroom, probably over the headboard.
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3196 Radiation Dose Chart

Sunday, March 20, 2011

You can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better know something.

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http://xkcd.com/radiation/
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3195 Janice's box

Sunday, March 20, 2011

It's not what you have in your life but who you have in your life that counts.

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I went north to the old house Friday. For once, I remembered to both set the trip odometer and look at it when I arrived. 130 miles.

My goal was not so much to pack up stuff to bring back, but to fill big black garbage bags. My minimum goal was five garbage bags, and five recycle bags. I took the recycle bags to the center (open only on Saturday morning), and put the garbage bags out for pickup. Saturday morning I had filled the sixth garbage bag and was starting on the seventh (I'm being tough! Haven't used in a year? Haven't missed? Not valuable? OUT!), when I unburied a box I didn't recognize in a corner of the bedroom.

I opened it. Big mistake.

My youngest sister Janice died in April of 1999. She was one of the most beautiful women you'd ever see, with skin that reflected light, huge dark eyes, clear unambiguous smile, fluffy dark hair, and amazing eyebrows. She was also sweet, gentle, and forgiving. She never had a chance in life, because our father got worse as he got older, so the last two, Janice and Baby Brother, well, it's a long sad story but they both ended up deep in addictions.

Janice and her husband were both alcoholics. They met in AA, and at the time they married, they had both been dry for a few years. But the husband (a handsome and very talented cabinetmaker) had low self-esteem also, and I guess he was afraid he couldn't hold such a beautiful wife --- unless he kept her too drunk to leave. His jealousy wouldn't even let her go to AA for fear she'd meet someone else.

I sent her money to save their house when they'd lost another job. I sent her money when they didn't have grocery money, even though I knew they'd probably buy alcohol instead of food. Every once in a while she'd be involuntarily committed to dry out, but he'd pull her out as soon as she was allowed to leave.

I kept waiting for her to hit bottom and agree to stay in rehab regardless of what he wanted, and I offered to pay for any clinic, for both of them if necessary, but it had to be separately, and she'd have to commit to the full time. She'd have to agree to be away from his influence for the duration. She never got to that point.

They went on a weekend binge, and she died sometime during the weekend, and he was too drunk to notice. They figure she'd been dead three days before he figured it out.

They buried her immediately, so I couldn't go to the funeral. Jay'd just been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, had surgery, and we were starting the clinical trials. I didn't have the energy to morn both Janice and Jay. There was a brief period of shock and regret for Janice, guilt that I didn't know how bad it was and didn't do more, and then I had to turn to Jay and more immediate matters.

Early in 2001, Janice's husband died. His mother, going through his stuff, found a lot of photos and papers that she said was Janice's family stuff, and she sent it to me. I'm not sure why me, when I believe our other sister had been more involved with them, but maybe because I had paid for Janice's funeral. But at that time, Jay was blind, bedridden, hemi-paralyzed, on a gazillion medications, and I was his fulltime and sole caretaker. We were in the end stretch, and again, I couldn't yet face what might be in the box. So I didn't go through it. Then Jay died, I went into a 3.5 year depression, became somewhat of a hoarder (I guess because I had lost so much, I bought bought bought anything and everything I wanted and didn't want to give anything up), I lost control of the house, and the box got buried.

I rediscovered it yesterday, and opened it.

Suddenly all the mourning for my sister that I had suppressed back then came flooding in. I cried and cried over the life she should have had, the life she could have had if our father hadn't beaten her into thinking she didn't deserve anything ... and then it got worse.

Her death certificate was in the box. Under cause of death it said "Alcoholism", and listed as a secondary cause was "Hepatitis C". I didn't know she actually had hepatitis. If I had known, I'd have taken more drastic measures to stop her drinking. I'd have gone down there and physically kidnapped her. If I had to, I'd have provoked her husband into beating me up so I could have him arrested so he'd go to jail, and then as soon as I could walk again I'd have a few days to convince her to get help, or failing that, I'd kidnap her.

I think. I don't know if I could have. Kidnapping her would be one thing. Keeping her would be another. But the point is, I didn't do anything. And so the guilt hit, and it hit hard.

I had planned to work on the old house until about 7 or 8 pm last night, but I ended up leaving at 2, because I knew I wasn't going to get anything else done, and if I were driving I could stop the crying.

I think I'm ok now. I'm able to think back to that time and what I was already dealing with, and it's easier to accept my inaction. Sometimes things are just fate.

But the green quote at the top of the page (random! honest!) will make it easier to fill more garbage bags.
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3194 As if things couldn't get any worse in Japan...

It takes years to build up trust, and only seconds to destroy it.

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...it's snowing.
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3193 Baby shopping

Thursday, March 17, 2011

No matter how much you care, some people just don't care back.

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Daughter and I went shopping for baby stuff yesterday, but not at a store, at a community college.

"They" (not sure who) run a multi-day consignment sale in a huge gymnasium twice a year, spring and fall. Rows and rows of tables and racks covered with everything from baby furniture and clothing and toys to maternity clothes and car seats. Some is lightly used, and some is never used.

Daughter got a slew of sacques and footie-sleepers for like $2 each, and a bag of undershirts and booties for $1, and several little shirt&shorts sets. I bought a little umbrella-folding stroller, and a light over-the-shoulder sling for my use. Hercules joined us when he got out of work. He fell madly in love with a huge solid wood "fancy name brand" highchair, and bought that. I think he just loved the wood - but the thing doesn't fold, it's huge, and their house is tiny. I think he'll be sorry, but they can just sell it next fall when they get tired of climbing over it, eh?

With all the furniture, books, maternity tops, and baby clothes, and keeping in mind that most things were less than $5, the total came to $209 - not counting the rather expensive highchair. (I paid for it all, except the highchair. Belated shower gifts.) She got a LOT of stuff. We don't know how big the baby will be, and she's hearing horror stories of women who'd bought a lot of newborn sizes, and everything was already too small when the baby came home from the hospital, so she stocked up on 6-12 month sizes yesterday.

That consignment sale is a great idea. Sometimes things are used for so short a period, it makes sense to cycle things through many babies.

Daughter is tiny. Pre-pregnancy she wore XS-XXS sizes. She's already huge in the tummy (six weeks to go), and she's having trouble finding maternity tops that will cover her belly. She can't wear mediums, they fall off her shoulders, but the small tops aren't long enough to cover the belly (they stick almost straight out at the bottom), and small maternity pants are too tight around the tummy, so she wears them with the waists rolled down to under the belly. That leaves a belly gap, and she has nothing to comfortably cover the gap. She doesn't like maternity dresses - they're not suitable for work, and she can't wear long T-shirts for the same reason.

I suggested that she pick out some maternity dresses yesterday, and I can shorten them to the length she needs to serve as tops.

She's seriously huge. I don't see how she can still drive a car - how she can fit behind the steering wheel and be able to reach the pedals - so pretty soon she may not be able to get to work, and the clothing issue will be a non-issue.
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3192 Meeting people

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

If you chase two rabbits, you will not catch either one.
-- Russian Proverb --

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I haven't gotten involved with any Meetup groups here, because I've got too many things to do that aren't getting done to go adding more stuff to do. But I have been saving groups that I can check into when things loosen up.

There are a few problems. I put in a distance of 25 miles - but that is "as the bird flys", and so I'm getting alerts for a gazillion groups in Brooklyn and Manhattan. Even though I can see Brooklyn across the bay from my back windows, it's not exactly easy to get there! There's, um, a bay between us!

Second, it seems like four of every five groups more local to me are businesses, not just people who want to share time and events. By businesses, I mean self-help groups where you're supposed to buy the book, or "event coordinators" who get paid to pull people into clubs and shows, or people who are just getting people to pay for some kind of lessons or services. Of the one in five left, they're almost entirely booze/band/bar oriented, mainly it seems because 30 to 80 people or more regularly show up. There don't seem to be any small dinner or movie groups. Are the organizers not aware that they can limit attendance to the first eight or ten who respond?

All I want is a small dinner group. Please please please don't make me organize a group. I am not the organizer type. I've already tested and proven that.
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3191 Random stuff

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

You cannot make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved.

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Ever since the big swine and avian flu scares, people here and there have been wearing surgical masks. They're especially popular in Asia.

But --- something I don't understand --- when you see large groups of people in surgical masks, at least half of the people don't have them over their noses. They wear them over the mouth, but below the nose.

Why bother at all?

I've noticed that since the radiation leaks in Japan, more folks in the photos now have them over the nose. Uh, that doesn't fix radiation....

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Tyra Banks is suddenly all over the TV talk shows, but she doesn't seem to have anything to say. What's she selling? What did I miss?

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A few years ago I went to a friend's 40th wedding anniversary. They had at least 150 guests, and little containers of bubble stuff as favors on the tables. Most people didn't take them, so when I helped clean up, I collected about 5 of them.

I found them a few weeks ago, and brought them south. I've had fun blowing bubbles on the porch. They last a very long time, especially when it's cold outside, and when the wind is right they drift high into the trees behind the houses across the street.

Well, I'm running out of what's in the little bottles. I saw large bottles of bubble stuff yesterday, so I bought some.

Inferior! The bubbles pop so close to my face they mess up my glasses. And when they do manage to get a few inches past the wand, they fall straight to the ground and pop. Like they're heavy or something. Yeah, I checked. I got one of the little bottles and blew some test bubbles, and they floated merrily out to the street.

Sheesh. How do they make heavy bubbles?

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Some of Daughter's friends threw her a baby shower on Sunday. There were 21 people there. Daughter has so much stuff! She's more got for that kid now than I ever had for her. (She slept her first four months in a laundry basket, and I made all her blankets, sleepers, and kimonos myself.) She and Hercules have one small kitchen, one small dining room, three bedrooms, and a small patch of hall. What the heck are they going to do with four baby monitors?

She's making noises at me now about getting baby seats for my cars. Are you kidding? I suspect that kid won't be allowed in my car until the kid is holding a learner's permit.

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Something that has bothered me for a long time, brought to the fore with the disappearance of a semi-local wife....

Local police always look first at the spouse or the parent when an adult or child is missing. Yeah, ok. I can see that.

But the part that bothers me is that they don't seem to also gather all the evidence they can, and then see where it points. What it seems like is that they first decide on a theory, and then look only for evidence that supports that theory. And if they find even the tiniest bit (Neighbor: "Oh, yeah, they argued a lot.") then they tighten in on that theory and not only look at nothing else, but will reject anything that doesn't fit the theory.

To the point of actively hiding it at trial.

The first few days are critical to solving a disappearance or murder. Evidence that might be useful disappears quickly. Forming a theory, and then focusing only on evidence that supports that theory and missing (and thereby losing) other evidence is how innocent people get convicted.

How do you fight that?
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3190 Selling

Monday, March 14, 2011

There are a lot of people who like to be told what to think.
They are more dangerous than the people who tell them.

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BNG ran into a high-pressure saleswoman over the weekend (http://badassnaturegirl.blogspot.com/2011/03/first-weekend.html). Her experience made me cringe. (Turned off BNG, too.)

I can't sell. Nope, no way. Can't do it. Well, I could sell stuff on Etsy, or eBay, or my own website, or at a table at a fair, that kind of thing, because then people look at the stuff, make their own decision without input from me, come to me and say, "I want this." But I could never grab someone by the arm and say, "You want this! You need this!"

Many times people have tried to recruit me for one of those party-type things, like Tupperware, Avon (back when it was party), various jewelry and cleaning stuff and so on, and I just can't do it - because I feel like people get roped into going to the parties because they're friends with the hostess, and then they buy stuff they don't really want because they feel like they are expected to and have to support their friend, and then they regret it.

I just don't want to feel like I coerced people into buying things - coerced or shamed or fooled them into giving me their money.

I couldn't sell a space heater to an Eskimo without worrying that I'd taken his money for something he didn't really need, fooled him into thinking that he needed it when he'd done just fine for so long without it.

I just can't do it. I'd feel enormous guilt, and I don't understand how high-pressure face-to-face salespeople don't feel shame or guilt.

Yeah, they can make lots of money, but they lose friends. They have to keep expanding their territories, and recruiting people to sell for them, because after a while nobody wants to be around them, afraid of what they'll get pressured into next.

Sometimes I think you have to have a hard heart to be successful at sales. That, or have a terrific product that sells itself. If it's terrific, you don't have to be aggressive to sell it.

Which leads to the corollary - if you have to work so hard to sell it, and take so much pride in selling it, I am suspicious and figure I don't need it.
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3189 @#$%^& Builder!

Friday, March 11, 2011

Little girls grow up to be women. Little boys grow up to be ... big boys.

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Wanna see sumthin creepy? Literally creepy?

1. Click on this link: http://www.neave.com/strobe/
2. Then "click me to get trippy",
3. Look at the center of the screen for 30 seconds (no cheating), and then
4. Look at your hand. You'll be shocked at what you see.

Caution - do not try it if you are prone to epilepsy or motion sickness.

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I'm mad at someone, not sure right now whether it's the builder, his lawyer, or my lawyer. I closed on this house in mid-October. The deed didn't get filed until mid-February! Somebody screwed up there. Around here they want the taxes paid quarterly. There was a tax bill sent out in December or January, but I never got it because the authorities weren't yet aware I'd bought the house. So, the bill for the next quarter arrived today, and guess what? I'm in arrears for the previous quarter. Surprise. Penalty and interest assessed.

I figure that the builder was still the owner of record for the December/January mailing, and therefore the SOB got the bill and never bothered to forward it to me, or even notify me.
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3188 Pain Redux

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Explanations are interpreted at the level and understanding of the listener, not the speaker.

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The above quote is, as usual, random, but this is one case where it applies to the post it heads.

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I confessed to Daughter yesterday that I had raised a bit of a stink in the Grandparents' class Monday evening, over the nurse's overuse of the word "pain". Daughter smirked. That particular nurse teaches the Lamaze classes, AND the Cesarean classes.

Daughter says she pretty much agrees with me that setting up for expectation of pain can cause pain, for a variety of reasons, but that it goes further than that. She said that she and I are a bit different from the average American in that we are more European and Asian in our views of the relationship of mind and body, and the relative roles of internal and external intervention, and therefore we won't necessarily understand the average American's response, and they won't understand ours.

Like when she or I have a headache, our first response is to figure out why we have the headache, and then remove or fix that stimulus. Most Americans' first or only response is to take aspirin.

She and I think a fever is a good thing, it's the body's way of making itself inhospitable to an invader, and she and I let it do its work (unless and until it gets too high). The average American immediately tries to reduce the fever, as if the fever itself is a bad thing, then relies on antibiotics to do the fever's work (which then upsets the natural good-bug/bad-bug balance in the gut, necessitating further intervention).

She and I look inwardly for balance and healing. Most Americans look outwardly, they don't trust their bodies, as if their bodies don't know what to do and the cure has to come from outside.

Yes, there are always times when outward intervention is absolutely necessary, especially when the damage has originated from the outside, or when the body's natural defenses are damaged or not sufficient, or the body doesn't recognize the threat, or either doesn't react or overreacts. The problem is that the average American has been conditioned to believe that outward intervention is always the best and only way.

A tiny example: Does a little cut on your hand always require the application of an antibiotic cream?** If so, you are probably an average American.

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**(That was one thing that Jay and I didn't agree on. He always put antibiotic cream on every cut, even tiny paper cuts. And yet it was Jay the chemist who explained to me that those creams, and alcohol, and most other things people use on cuts, kill the living body cells at the edges and inside the cut in addition to any bacteria in the area.)
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3187 Haircut Update

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Heat, pressure, time. The same things that make a diamond also make a waffle.

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I've been nibbling at my hair. Rat tail comb, scissors, mirrors. The original cut was much too long, difficult to deal with.

I was a little worried about what The Man would think, but I guess it was ok. He said he liked that the back was short - that too many women, when they go short, leave it too long in the back. Which was kind of neat because it was just the night before he saw it that I went after the back and chopped it all off.

This is what it looked like in November when the professional was finished:
Feminine, sexy, but next to impossible to keep the back looking right without "product", and difficult to wear a hat without killing it entirely. Just too much hair behind my ears.

This is what it looks like since I've been nibbling:
From the front (sorry about the focus, or whatever it is that went wrong - call it a virtual face lift - which helps a lot because I have no makeup on):

It even looks like the hair is thicker when it's shorter. Not so much scalp showing through. Note how the color has changed as the old blond dye is growing out and the natural is coming in. It's still blonder in the front and on the sides. The light has a lot to do with the color, too.

I might eventually go blond again, but I figured it was a good opportunity to find out what color it really is these days. (It's actually darker in the lower back than shows here.)

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I bought automatic dishwasher detergent the other day, "Regular Scent". Scent? Why scent?

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Some guy has written an extension for browsers that will automatically blank out any mention of "Charlie Sheen", as well as photos, for those of us who are sick of the whole thing cluttering up our environment.

You know, even though I intensely dislike the show, I hope the network continues "Two and a Half Men" with another actor in Sheen's role, and that the show is even more successful with the replacement actor. That would really be ironic, pop ol' Sheen's ego-trip bubble, show him that it WAS the writing and production that made it successful after all, not him.

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Vocabulary lesson of the day: The term is straitjacket, or strait jacket, not straight jacket, where "strait" means "narrow, confined".
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3186 First sure sign of Spring!

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Originality is the fine art of remembering what you heard,
but forgetting where you heard it.

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I shaved my legs four days ago, and I've already got 1/4 inch of hair there!
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3185 Two classes

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Computers have raised writing to a new low.

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I went to the grandparents' education class at the maternity hospital last night. The 4 hours did cover a lot more than just "put the kid on its back". They went over the labor and delivery procedures and policies and a whole bunch of stuff, and ended with a tour of the labor/delivery rooms (very homey, and you deliver in the same room as labor) and the nursery and so on. They do have rooming-in if the mommy wants it. It all sounded pretty good.

I did have two spots of annoying concern.

• Five people had signed up: me, two women who were apparently the future maternal and paternal grandmas of the same baby, and a grandma/grandpa couple. The couple didn't show up, so it was just three of us. And yet, the nurse conducting the class, fully expecting five people, had brought only two informational packets. Um, disorganized much?
• The nurse said she teaches the Lamaze classes, and she repeatedly referred to "pain". Pain, pain, pain. It was always, over and over, pain.

It's my opinion that it's NOT pain. It is extremely intense, yes, but it's like when someone else removes a splinter from your finger, it hurts, but when you remove the splinter yourself, even though you are doing the exact same thing, it's not pain. If everything goes as it's designed to, if you fully understand what is going on during birth, if you understand that your uterus knows exactly what it's doing and is doing it right, if you are able to relax the rest of your body so that all the energy goes to the uterus, and if you are allowed to feel that you retain control of what's happening to you, knowing that you are delivering the baby, not the doctor, then it's not painful**. It's hard hard work, and very intense, but not painful.

If, however, someone in a position of authority tells you over and over that it will be painful, then I guarantee it will be. It sets you up with the expectation, which causes tension, which CAUSES PAIN! and even when there's no tension, if you expect pain, then you will interpret the expected intense contractions not as the natural wonder of the uterus doing its job in spectacular fashion (wow! look how strong it is!), but you will interpret it as pain, because that's what you'd been told it is.

Bullshit!

I've had two babies completely absolutely totally naturally, no meds whatsoever, one baby's head was out before I got to the hospital, and it was very hard work and very tiring, but THERE WAS NO PAIN! Because I knew what was going on, and I knew about relaxing the lower muscles and pushing only with the upper muscles, exactly the opposite of the "like a bowel movement" crap they tell you, which is completely counter-productive and will cause the vagina and vulva to resist, which causes the muscles there to separate rather than to stretch, which causes PAIN! and tearing. Or that "little snip", which should be totally unnecessary. Plus if those muscles separate rather than stretch, they don't go back and you end up loose.

I do know whereof I speak.

Anyone who wants to argue that they have more experience in these matters and they know I'm wrong, simply has the wrong experience, dealing with frightened tense women who have been taught to push wrong and to expect pain and who feel no control.

So there!

**Note that women who deliver "by surprise" in their kitchens, or in a taxi, with no meds, nobody taking over, never say anything about pain.

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Daughter took an interesting anatomy class last year. The class got (relatively) fresh cadavers, and, in groups of three, over the course of the class, they took their cadavers completely apart.

Daughter was fascinated by all of it, of course, but one thing was surprising to her. In anatomy books and everywhere else, when there's a diagram of what's inside, they all show the liver "here", the spleen "here", the kidneys "there", the pancreas "over there", the intestines "just so", and so on. The diagrams always look pretty much the same.

'Tain't so. When the students visited each other's cadavers, they discovered that the organs were all over the place. Some higher than expected, some lower, some more toward the center, some flat-out reversed or backward, some much larger or smaller than expected. It seems it isn't really all that easy to predict where you'll find something. Or even that it will actually be there.

Cool. Makes laparoscopic surgery a treasure hunt.

(I'm remembering the surprise when we discovered that Jay had only one HUGE kidney. Now I'm wondering why the doctors freaked out over that.)
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3184 Houdini socks

Monday, March 7, 2011

Quando Omni Flunkus Moritati
(When all else fails, play dead.)

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Z's comment on the previous post about dryer lint made me laugh.

I have some habits (sometimes I'm almost OCD), one of which concerns socks.

When I drop a pair into the laundry basket, I either tie them into a loose knot or tuck one into the other. So they live in the basket in pairs. When I sort them for washing, I untie them and put them directly, as pairs, into a net lingerie bag with a zipper closure, with a pin holding the zipper closed. They go through the washer and dryer in the bag.

When I take clothes out of the dryer, I take out the stuff that goes on hangers first, then the stuff to be folded, and last the lingerie bag full of socks.

I unpin the pin, unzip the bag, and dump the contents onto a table for pairing and tucking or tying together.

There's almost always ONE sock missing.

How? At what point could it have gone missing? Jasper's a mighty hunter, but even he's not Houdini.

Two missing can be explained - I probably mismatched/swapped members of two pairs sometime in the past. ONE cannot. Right now I have five orphan trouser socks on the shelf, none of which match any of the others.

I don't understand.

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Daughter has registered me for a "Grandparents' Education" class at the hospital this evening. At the time she signed me up, she thought it had to do with delivery stuff, tour of the maternity area, etc., which I would have liked, but since then she has discovered it has to do with stuff like "we don't put babies to sleep on their bellies any more", so she said I didn't have to go to be patronized if I didn't want to.

I think I'll go anyway. Maybe if I get annoyed I'll skewer them with some questions.

Off to the shower. I'll count my feet when I get out.
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3183 How do I have any clothes left?

Monday, March 7, 2011

"There are lots of people who mistake their imagination for their memory."
-- Josh Billings --

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Here's something else I don't understand:

I wash and dry a small load of clothes, say seven light knit tops, one sweater, and two t-shirts that I sleep in. Folded, they make a stack about 10 inches high.

When I clean out the lint trap, I remove a ball of lint the size of my fist, even when squeezed.

All that lint came from those few pieces.

I have a LOT of clothes, some things are very old, because I rarely throw anything out. It just moves down on the "acceptable in public" list. So I can pretty much guarantee that every item in that load had been washed at least, at a minimum, a dozen times, assuming I wore it twice a year. More likely a LOT more.

How do I have any clothes left? Howcum they're not transparent by now?
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3182 Metaphor

Monday, March 7, 2011

Plants are living things too - they're just easier to catch and you can’t hear them scream.

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Back in post 3178 Why I disliked poetry professors, I said I hated the way they made us analyze the meaning of a poem, as if anyone could really know what the author was thinking. Not only that, but the profs seemed to think that even though there could be many interpretations, theirs was the correct one.

Well, last weekend I went to a Mensa gathering, and was reminded of one I attended in Washington, I think, in the late '70s. One of the speakers was a semi-famous British poet, and one of the things he said was that he is pleased when people see one of his works as a metaphor for something that has meaning to them, but he hates when someone states that this is obviously what he meant. He gave an example. (I don't remember his name, and I don't remember the poem he used as his example, so I'll make one up that comes pretty close to his example.)

He was going through a period of depression, sort of writer's block. One morning he was sitting in the breakfast room, glanced out the window, and saw a patch of bright summer morning sun shining on the rose bushes, dark maroon bushes backed by white climbing roses trellised up the garden wall. The roses glowed, and he'd never seen them so beautiful. The sight made him feel so good, he wanted to capture the effect so that when he felt down, he could revisit it. So he wrote the poem, right there at the breakfast table.

Later he realized that the poem contained a lot of possible meanings, that it could be interpreted many ways. That's often what makes a good poem great. There was one interpretation that he didn't consider. Others saw the sky as representing Heaven, and the sun as God, the maroon roses as sinners and the white roses climbing up the wall toward Heaven as the virtuous, but that God's light and love shone on both alike. Very Victorian.

That interpretation didn't bother him - if people wanted to see it that way, that's ok, although he didn't because he is atheist. What really pissed him off was when people decided that he saw himself as one of the maroon roses, a sinner, and the poem represented his repudiation of atheism, that it was an epiphany for him. That became the accepted interpretation in academia no matter how much he denied it.

He almost whined, "I just wanted to remember the sun on the roses. That's all."

I think anyone other than the author who says, "This is what it means" without adding the "to me" is being incredibly arrogant.
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3181 What's the difference?

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Life is uncertain. Order your dessert first.

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For an excellent social analysis, please read http://asecular.com/index.php?110303.
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3180 Gathering, Image, Id card

Sunday, March 6, 2011

There can’t be sin without knowledge.

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Friday I went 13 minutes up the road to the Central NJ regional gathering. It started at 4 pm on Friday, and went 'til about noonish today, with conversation and food in the hospitality room, a slate of speakers, and people from all over the north east in attendance. I heard one of the organizers say they had about 200 people registered, but I don't know where they were all hiding, because it didn't seem like that many to me.

The Man and I had met at this gathering four years ago, so this is sorta like an anniversary for us. It was a fluke that he was there that year. He just doesn't enjoy the gatherings.

I got a room at the host hotel for Friday night, but not for Saturday, because not much happens on Sunday anyway, so I figured I'd leave late Saturday night.

I sent The Man a note mid-week to tell him I'd be there and would love to see him. He's been working in Delaware, so I was a bit shocked (and very happy) when he said yes. He arrived Friday evening, bearing sushi, and we had dinner in the room. He'd said he had to leave on Saturday for a 4 pm dinner with his son, but what I didn't realize was that he'd be meeting his son in Maryland. So he left a little before noon Saturday. That means he drove from Delaware to central NJ to see me, then drove back through Delaware to Maryland - I was way out of his way. I am gratified. It feels good.

Back in the Hospitality room, many people were commenting (not exactly complaining) that they were disappointed in the speakers. Seems like nobody was up to par. There were no topics that interested me until a 4 pm talk on "Humor", by a guy who was the 2006 Time magazine "Man of the Year". I thought that would be good. Like what makes something funny? What are the differences in regional or national humor? What effect does laughter have on one's attitude and health? On brain chemistry? Why do some people find some things funny (like slapstick, the Three Stooges, the Marx Brothers, Seinfeld, Two and a Half Men) that others (like me) find offensive? What is the anatomy of a joke? There were so many approaches that would have been interesting.

A series of ancient jokes wasn't it.

I actually left the room before it ended, and I rarely walk out on a speaker. Sorry. I was tired (a night with The Man does that...) and I was falling asleep sitting there, which I suspect is worse than quietly creeping out.

There was nothing else on the roster that interested me, so after wandering around a bit and talking to a few people, I left. I was home by 6:30 pm, and in bed by 10.

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When a perfectly presentable person looks in the mirror, and sees a fat slob, or an ugly face, or is generally unhappy with their appearance, we have names for that. It's seen as a psychological problem. A disconnect between reality and perception.

I wonder if there's a name for my problem. When I look in the mirror, I'm happy with what I see. I think I look not only fine, but downright sexy, verging on pretty. Everything about my mirror image pleases me, and I think I'm being critical and realistic.

But when I see a photo of me, I'm shocked. Look at the wrinkles! The scars! The sags! The belly sticking out! The thunder thighs! The thin shapeless hair! The droopy neck! The yellow crooked teeth! Where did all those chins come from! My God, that nose is HUGE! Who IS that person!

And then I'm embarrassed. I wonder, when people look at me, do they see my mirror image or the photo image? I guess I have a disconnect between reality and perception, too. But is it good or bad? Healthy or unhealthy?

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I keep hearing that the Conservatives, Republicans, Tea Party folks, most, anyway, want less government messing in our lives. But read this: http://www.switched.com/2011/03/03/real-id-act-republicans-push-to-enact/.

It seems to me that what they really mean is less regulation of corporations and big business (campaign contributors), but more messing in and control of the lives of the "little people".

I don't see where a national id card would be any safer than the existing ids. The terrorists used faked driver's licenses. Would faking a national card be any more difficult? Especially when much of the info comes from state DMVs anyway? Seems to me it's more like an excuse to gather information on me, and you, and everyone else. That's all. An extension of the Patriot Act that has already destroyed our privacy, gone a major step farther.
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3179 Best Laid Plans, blah blah

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Pardoning the bad is injuring the good.

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Remember I said we nonprofessionals can be forgiven errors, but professionals must be held to a higher standard? This is from www.fox40.com/news a few days ago, about a herd of goats that got loose on a highway: "After nearly 20 hours of wandering, and wrecking havoc, around 60 nannies and billies are back under control."

Listen my children, and learn. "Havoc" is a state of chaos. It IS a wreck. So it doesn't make any sense to "wreck" havoc. The word the writer was looking for was "wreak". You wreak havoc. The two words are even pronounced differently. Another case of someone having heard and then used an expression without thinking about, let alone understanding, it.

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Tuesday I headed north to the old house with the newly patched up Fred. His pink leak was transmission fluid, seals now fixed. I filled some more garbage bags, and packed up more stuff to bring south. I was very tired by 8 pm, went to bed with some crossword puzzles, and was asleep within minutes.

I had brought some things for Wednesday's breakfast and mid-morning snack, but needed to go out for lunch, so when I went into the village, I stopped in at Piper's office. Piper wasn't there, but his daughter was, and she said he'd gone to the Italian restaurant for takeout for their lunch. She called him, and he said he'd bring back her sandwich, and then he'd go to lunch with me.

Fine. But.

It took him a half hour to return, and then there were "a few things to be done" before we could go to the diner, and my one hour allotted for lunch (including the drive) turned into two and a half. Or more. I wanted to leave to head back south by 5 pm, and didn't get back to the house to load the van until 3.

When I arrived back at the old house after lunch with Piper, The Hairless Hunk followed me up the driveway. I would have liked to talk more with him, but I really needed to load the van and get moving, so I'm afraid I gave him short shrift.

I got back to the new house about 7 pm last night, parked Fred and turned him off, and ... his tail lights stayed on. His lights stay on for a while when you turn him off, so I didn't notice at first, until I went out for a cigarette about an hour later and wondered what the red glow on the driveway behind him was.

I tried everything I could think of - turned headlights on and off, tried the emergency brake on an off, started him and tried turn signals and then turned him off, but the tail lights stayed on.

Ack! Battery! Death of!

I went into the house to get his book (still in the house from when I was looking up his pink fluids), and when I came back out, the lights were off.

I had a slew of things to do today, like take a load of fabric to the storage facility, pick up a 4' stepladder at Home Depot, deposit some checks, grocery shop, pick up a "raincheck" order at the CVS, and so on. Most of it didn't get done because I had to go to the dealership and get Fred's lights fixed. And yup, again they stayed on when I turned him off.

Turns out it was some of his handicap wiring had rubbed some regular wiring, and caused a short in the switch. $208.33 and a few hours later, the switch was replaced.

In the service department waiting room, I was reading a Time magazine, and another woman about my age was reading a book. A man came in, also about our age, sat between us, and made a cell phone call. A very LOUD chatty call. It was impossible to read. Hey, he's our age! He should know better! When he finished that call, and then dialed another, I slapped the magazine on my thigh, and the other woman slammed her book closed and slapped the cover, we glanced at each other, and glared at him. I said to her, very loudly, (I had to be loud to be heard over him), "Well, maybe we could read aloud." It didn't seem to faze him, but maybe, because he talked only a few more minutes before saying, "I'll call you later" and hanging up.

He has to be the most dense man ever, because even though I had gone back to my magazine and was engrossed, he then proceeded to "chat me up." He got one-word responses. He finally took the hint and moved to the sales area.

Too bad. He was actually kind of good looking.

I never did make it to the grocery store or the CVS. Ice cream for dinner!
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3178 Why I disliked poetry professors

Monday, February 28, 2011

Consensus is a political concept, not a scientific one.

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Introduction to Poetry
---Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

I think I'd have been ok with Billy. Enjoy the words, explore the content, but if you REALLY want to know what a poem means, you'd have to tie the poet to a chair and beat it out of him/her.

3177 If you're watching...

Sunday, February 27, 2011

“A stupid man’s report of what a clever man says can never be accurate,
because he unconsciously translates what he hears
into something he can understand.”
-- Bertrand Russell --

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... the Oscars, Marisa Tomei just introduced a group shot of the technical award winners.

That's what Jay's father won in the mid '90s. They don't get the statuette. They get a gold medallion on a wood plaque. I touched it....

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A little research: According to IMDb, he won in 1991, but Jay and I weren't married until 1994, and I distinctly remember Fred going to California, and getting the award at a presentation dinner the night before the Oscars, that's when they do the technical awards, and I was horrified that he took his ancient rusty moth-eaten tuxedo to wear. When he came back, he showed us the medallion, right there in our kitchen, and then Kodak took it and put it in the Kodak "trophy case". So I don't see how it could have been 1991. Something's wrong somewhere. I think IMDb might have it wrong.

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Later: Some more research - In 1988 and again in 1994 he was also awarded gold medals by The Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers. Hmmmm.

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Sigh. Further research. I went directly into the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences data base - and that says he won the Academy Award in 1990. Heh. IMDb, and several other websites that say 1991, are, in fact, wrong. And it must have been the SMPTE medal he showed me, not the Academy award.

How annoying.
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