Webster's new and improved

cat·er·waul /kæt-r-waal/kat-er-wawl/
–verb (used without object) 1. to utter long wailing cries, as cats in rutting time.
2. to utter a similar sound; howl or screech.
3. to quarrel like cats.
–noun Also, cat·er·waul·ing. 4. the cry of a cat in rutting time.
5. any similar sound.
------------------------------------------

[Origin: 1350–1400; ME cater(wawen) (equiv. to cater tomcat (fr. MD) + wawen to howl, OE wāwan to blow, said of the wind) + waul, var. of wail]


—Related forms cat·er·waul·er, noun

—Synonyms 2. wail, shriek, squawk, yowl.

20 words for snow

If it's Sunday...it must be snowing. Does this kind of talk ever get boring? get yer own blog.

Do you love that? That is literally Nanook.

20 words for snow, explained
1. flurries: very exciting October or May event. Otherwise it is not worth commenting on except by weathermen, who are just lonely

2. pretty: first snowfall of the season, unless it is flurries.

3. soft: a heavy snowfall that is eerily silent. This is hard to appreciate over the sound of reversing plows, but country folk do enjoy walking in it

4. romantic or moonlit: pretty snow under a full moon. Happy Couples get giddy making angels.

5. virgin: the pasture before some sap makes an angel in it. At a stretch, your backyard before the oilman arrives.

6. snowman: Used in the redundant phrase "good snowman snow." You would never refer to "bad snowman snow," as that has its own name (below), and what else would you make a snowman with, genius? "This is good snowman ketchup." Snowman snow packs tight, stays packed, and hurts like hell when you are hit with it.

7. christmas: self-explanatory. I can not describe it personally.

8. powder: wicked bad snowman snow. Easy to shovel, but blows right back to where it was.

9. pellets: consistency of a Slush Puppy (even the dog is afraid of brain freeze. check the hat). Tiny BBs of ice whose only purpose is to make you pratfall.

10. sleet: technically, neither rain or snow, but the mailman still delivers. In the same ambiguous way, you can't call out of work for it, but you could die driving in it.

11. blizzard: more technicalities. Meterologists have specific criteria for this term, but they also name Hurricanes and STAND in them. So let's call it what it is - one fierce blinding snow you shouldn't be out in. Capitalized, it stands only for 1978.

12. crunchy: morning-after snow, now hardened. You could cut yourself making an angel.

13. glaze: crunchy snow that has been rained on, then refrozen to a blinding shine. Do not sled on glaze.

14. cement: snow you have failed to farm.

15. sandy: same snow 3 days later, now heavier.

16. slippery: falling snow that hits the road. "It's getting slippery!" everyone says, with wonder, as if this is unexpected behavior for wet roads.

17. treacherous: Slippery snow turned evil, brother-in-arms of Black Ice.

18. slushy: snow + sand + soft-serve, funnelled through tire treads and onto your windshield

19. sloppy: slushy + 1 rush hour

20. dirty: The plow drift by the side of the road which has been driven by so long it has taken on the look of the Utah desert. Snow we are sick of. And will be glad to see covered by something soft and pretty.

This envelope does not contain your bonus

How nice to come home from a holiday week away to discover a thin envelope from the Company has been delivered to your mailbox. Not to your mail slot, where nothing is ever delivered, and which you can not often find because it is always being re-alphabetized, but to your mailbox at home. Stamp and all.

And you think, "what do you know, there is a bonus check after all."

No there isn't. There is a letter from Mr Lowell thanking you for your year of service and warning you of the s***storm to come.

I shall paraphrase:

Happy whatever you celebrate. American society has confused me into not knowing whether I am supposed to/allowed to acknowledge it. I could just say Happy New Year, but you might think me a Godless Capitalist, so ... enjoy whatever it is you did with all the PTO we made you take.

Hoo boy, are we gonna shake up the apple cart in 2008! I don't want to ruin your turkey dinner, or give the market anything to talk about, so that's all I'll say. I could just say Thanks and Happy New Year, but you might think you are being ambushed if I don't at least hint at it, so.... don't order new business cards.

Might as well buy into it, because we are going to flog this horse hard -- the one I won't say anything more about. I could just say the best is yet to come in the New Year, but you might think I am not open to dialogue, so... talk to your manager about it, and hope that her manager talked to her.

We are burning the whole house down, because frankly it is a rat trap and we have run out of nails. We will talk about this rebuild a lot -- more than you would have thought us capable of. You can expect focus groups, and committees, and task forces, and every other clusterbleep you have come to love about us. I could just say this house has no resale value, but you might think me disrespectful of the founding fathers, so... buy your swag on closeout.

Look at it this way, you are the Titanic survivors. Poor Rose, holding onto Jack till her voice and her hands gave out, but she lives to an extraordinary old age and gets to keep the jewelry. Let us sail into fresh waters, full steam ahead.

On behalf of the upper levels of the ranking executive tier of senior vice presidents, let me ask you to kindly stop shaking the envelope.

First Things First

I humbly thank the Readership for their votes, and enthusiastic monitoring of the tally while I was away. I graciously thank His Dieselness for snorting (his word) at my caption. I am only marginally worthy....Stop reading this and read his deconstruction of The First Noel instead. Very grateful I did not read this before Christmas Eve services, or I might have blown my own candle out with church giggles.

Lots to get you caught up on, and the battery is dying. Errands tomorrow, and then we can get back in gear.

Play the caption game! I testify the fix is not in. You too, could scream In Your Face, in the spirit of fair play that the Internet was built on! Happy Near Year, every one....

Closed for the Holidays

The operatives of the Drawing In room have been turned out for the holidays, and will return to their stations next week.

Thanks for all the votes over at The Mattress Police. Let's hope that banner ad is coming! (and the Kwanzaa sweatshirt...) Keep reading in my absence. He is one funny guy.

Enjoy these previously posted Christmas stories, and get your Google Reader on. All the best in 2008!

Native-ity - creche...chess set... same thing

Christmas Pickle - village myth

Satan's footprint - mind your luminaries

Yankee Swap - this year I scored movie popcorn and a big ol' bowl. Also... gave in to the peer pressue and chipped in on the boss gift. Both of them. But I do love them so...

God Bless Us Every One - suitable for family dinner

Christmas Stamps - who thought of the sweaters?

Miffed Jesus - he's a little annoyed you haven't called.

Common Pitfalls of the Internal Transfer

Today's post is published on the BWFS website. enjoy!

Between the Storms

A beginner's guide to snow farming.

In New England, our snowstorms don't usually drag on for days, as they do on the plains. Today is a blue-sky Saturday with little wind. It is bone-chillingly cold, but this is no day to nest. Between the storms, one must practice their drift maintenance. Old snow out, new snow in.

Make no mistake you Southerners, you transplanted easterners turned Californians,you coast-dwellers with your skill for X-taping picture windows and planning your escape routes.... snow shoveling is sweaty work.

The togs
silk-wool-fleece-down. You can't be Vegan and shovel snow.

Wool socks first, then wicking silk undergear over the socks, to seal all openings. Wear your sports bra; you're gonna need it. You'll want a ski-type undershirt that zips open down the chest. All your layers should zip open. Sweat maintenance is as important as snow maintenance.

Fleece vest to keep your chest warm and allow freedom of shoulder movement. Don't box yourself in. Down jacket. Your snowshoveling jacket should be a ridiculously flourescent color like a hunting jacket to lessen your chances of being plowed. Gloves of course - waterproof ski style with a silk liner underneath. Mittens are great for skating and waiting for a bus, but you need a grip to shovel.

The tools
Like the prairieman's rifle, the bayou's fishing rod, your snow shovel is for life. Local news loves that stand-up of people crowding Home Depot before the storm to buy a shovel.
The truth is, New Englanders have their shovels.

I have been thinking about getting one of those new aerodynamic push-plow styles, but I picture my wood and steel shovel wimpering in the garage with only a velveteen rabbit to give it comfort. And I cant bring myself to. It fits in my trunk, it has a wide flat blade like a dustpan, and a sturdy handle that suffered a stress fracture years ago and somehow still hangs on. When it goes, I know there are more in the world, but until then, we are a team.

The warmup
No kidding. Stretch out. You won't look as ridiculous doing that as you will walking in a L shape for the next 3 days.

The rules
Know your local custom for parking spot clearance and observe it. Don't assume that whatever rules worked in your former village will be acceptable here. Breaking the scared rule of the spot is sure way to get your tires slashed.

Never shovel a neighbor's driveway or walk unless you ask first. They won't like the way you do it, and it is the equivalant of mowing another man's lawn in the South. It says, "You're a slob and I took matters into my own hands."

It is, however, a noble gesture to approach while the neighbor is shoveling (pushing a car, scraping an overhang) to offer help. It's good karma and an even better pick-up line.

The laws
Never ever, don't you dare, shovel snow into the street you selfish bastid. You can actually get a ticket.

The strategy
Instead, plan your snow pile ahead of time. When moving into a new home this is as key as knowing where the christmas tree will go. Be mindful of sightlines and keep your pile long and low rather than high. You never want it higher than your hips. And when it gets that high, you must farm before the next big one. A pushbroom is good for this, or even a dirt rake. Not a leaf rake -- they are barely good for leaves.

The technique
Wet snow can push-plow-pack to make a pathway almost as tidy as a snowblower's. The dry powder is going to drift back on you and will need to be combed out Zen style instead.

The aftermath
Depending on the type of snow (post for another day - a thousand New Englander terms for snow) and the forcasted conditions, you may have to farm immediately after the storm. And since the sun sets at 4:30, this is often done in the dark. Kick, rather than chop, the icy top layer away before digging. Just wade around in it to break the surface tension and spread out the drift. Get as close to the bottom as you can and sow some ice-melt for good measure.

The cool down
Shower. Sweats. New socks retrieved from the drier. Hot chocolate. Bailey's optional.
Do it all again in about 3 hours.

Drug Decision

(long and linky. Suitable lunchtime reading)

#4 in an occasional series of repressed 70's memories that turn out to be true.

AGENDA
I. What I remembered clearly before proving this memory

II. What I had forgotten, or never noticed

III. What I had not known at all, and if I had remembered... I would have thought was in error

I. What I remembered clearly
In 5th and 6th grade -- fall 74 - spring 76 -- the curriculum included Drug Decision, designed to reduce drugs to the rote boredom of botany and american history. At the time I thought this must have been to take the glamour and mystery out of it. Once you have to do an oral project on barbituates and their effects, you don't much want to take any. In my 20s I wondered if it really was meant to be a public school exercise in freewill. Drug DECISION, after all. Here you are, here are drugs. Grow a pair.



This was 10 years before "your brain on drugs," which was the most awesome PSA campaign since lead paint (which I will blog on someday when I can finally prove that the lead paint PSA song I know is real) and unmatched in shock and awe until Yul Brynner spoke from beyond the grave.

Drug Decision was mostly workbook based, contained a lot of scout-style projects for us to do, and was accompanied by audio visual aids.

The 2nd most frequently requested classroom film, as voted by the student body, was known informally as "the hot dog movie." I could not then, nor before this post, have told you what its true title was.

[2nd most popular because nothing could unseat Johnny Tremain. It was longer, for one thing, a FAR superior film, and Johnny was just plain dreamy]


(pretty boys were my drug very young)

Anyway, in the "hot dog movie," a girl drops acid and hallucinates that her hot dog comes to life and talks to her. In the production values of this masterpiece, it is depicted as a troll doll with long red hair who appeals, "I have a wife and 7 kids." Totally freaked, man, she stomps the troll to bits under her chunk-ass heels.

That picture above tells you, readership, that you are damn skippy I found that film on the web.





Before you load it, I'll warn you it is the longest 5 minutes of your life -- which is probably why I remembered it as taking up an entire Health class. bringing us to

II. What I had forgotten, or never noticed

It was called, “Case Study LSD.” More evidence for my first theory that they were trying to BORE us straight.

It was copyrighted 1969, and the trippy teenage girl is much more dated than I remembered. A little more “Eddie’s Father” than “Brady Bunch.”

She is actually wearing Keds, and not chunky shoes. But then, I had remembered her in a Marsha Brady outfit, not a Serena the Groovy Cousin outfit.

That techno-porn music. What in the bloody heck?

The narration. Believe me: we BEGGED for this movie. Were we ironic? Or just a bunch of 11 year-olds from central Virginia?

III. What I had not known at all
If you can’t read the tiny print on the title slide, it says “Lockheed Martin Aircraft Corporation.” And I had to know a lot more about that.

In quests like this, I have learned, always start with eBay, because there I found

Book #305422; Title: Drug Decision: Program Summary: Drug Abuse Education Program, Grades 7 Through 9; Publisher: Lockheed Missiles & Space Company; Book Condition: Good +; Jacket Condition: No Jacket; Binding: Soft Cover; Place Published: Sunnyvale, California; Description: Interior is clean and tight. Soft cover has only light signs of wear. Nice overall condition. Lockheed Education Systems.

“soft cover has only light signs of wear.” Tissue end papers missing.

Now I got somethin’ googable. And all the time in the world.
What I could never pin down was why Lockheed invested in this program, which frankly sounds court-ordered to me (cf. Philip Morris). But I did find reference to a game they marketed called “Drug Attack” imagine it. I must have it.
And the teacher’s manual.

But I’ll say this. I knew the street slang for every drug, its physiological effect on the body, how to draw them on posterboard, how to separate physical from psychological dependence, and in 7th grade we would learn the differrences between felonies and misdemeanors. Far out.

But as a Virginian, all I really wanted to do was smoke. Missing from the curriculum.

Another AOL News Scoop

Joke I just can't work through

There's something about Blackwater.... Whitewater.... isn't there?

Isn't there?

Go Ahead and Tell... just sign up

News this week that 3 retired high-ranking military officers have outed themselves in commemoration of the US "don't ask, don't tell" 10-year anniversary. In true military fashion, let's call it DADT, like they do.

Keith Kerr, age 71, is a Korean War vet who retired from the US in the 50s, was an officer in the Army Reserve until 1986, then a Brigidier General in the California State Military Reserve -- which is actually a state militia and not bound by "don't tell."

Alan M. Steinman, age 62, was a Coast Guard Admiral (a Rear Admiral, actually. call Jay Leno) and physician who is an expert in hypothermia.

Virgil Richard, age 70, identified as "funny," (what one says in Oklahoma) as a young man, and was inspired to come out at the Australia Gay Games. That sentence right there is the thesis of my next novel. Also truer-than-fiction, Richard's section leader at Army War College (a name we all wish they would change) was John Shalikashvili, once Chairman of the Joint Chiefs under President's Clinton's "don't ask" policy at the time it was enacted.

Gen. John M. Shalikashvili, Retd, published his open letter January 2 of this year, in the New York Times, and stood by his decision to support DADT as the right policy at that time. He does not express regret for the policy, or refer to the estimated 10, 000 servicemen and women discharged under that policy (presumably for the Telling, not the Asking). Defense Secretary Cohen, in 1998 after the first 900 discharges, commented, "I think it's working."

In his letter, the former chairman does not refer to his philosophy when he was a War College section leader that stress and discomfort accompany growth -- that one measure of a student's success is the degree to which he gets outside of his box or comfort zone ( see The US Army War College: Military Education in a Democracy).

But don't get the impression that Shalikashvili has broken out of his own comfort zone. His motivation for his public call for a repeal of DADT was simply this

I now believe that if gay men and lesbians served openly in the United States military, they would not undermine the efficacy of the armed forces. Our military has been stretched thin by our deployments in the Middle East, and we must welcome the service of any American who is willing and able to do the job.

even if they are a big ol' queen.

The traditional 10 year anniversary gift is tin or aluminum. Perhaps an armored Humvee will also suffice.

Keep your power dry.

NPR has the leading edge

On tonight's drivetime programming, NPR's The World aired a cute little story about a cute little Swedish company who did a cute little PR piece on how Santa should move to Kyrgyzstan because it was more centrally located on the planet -- closer to most of the world's children who are in China and India.

Ho..ho..Doh!

Leave it to NPR to point out that....
if those stats are true, then most of the world's children do not celebrate Christmas
Kyrgyzstan is officially a Sunni Muslim nation
Kyrgys themselves actually hold the reindeer as a sacred totem.

Oh, Marco Werman, you old Schoolmarm. You take the fun out of everything.
As I looked for a reindeer link, I learned a hundred other people have just written this rant.

More Great Moments in Children's Programming

From the Afterschool Special archive.

This is the Al-a-Teen episode, where the heroine learns to confront her own co-dependency through the help of her group, half of whom are also her Drama Club.

I love this shot, and took great care to freeze frame it for you. Moments before this, mom had actually knocked it back, but you couldn't see the flask as well as you can here.

The plot borrows a few important scenes from Effect-of-Gamma-Rays, including mom's arrival on stage at the opening night of the big play. This scene pictured occurs on Parent Day when mom has to pop into the Ladies for a little shot of courage and a touch-up of the Gena Rowlands coiff.

The episode was originally aired in 1981 as... wait for it... "She Drinks a Little."
awesome.

Try to complain about slapstick violence on That's so Raven now, why don't ya. The film is now packaged as "First Step," which is why you can't find it on the IMDB.

Most Afterschool Moms work too much to care for their children, like the mom in "A Matter of Time," the other movie packaged with "First Step." She gets cancer and dies -- onscreen -- to the fury of her older daughter who screams, "she never had TIME for me." (PS - Rob Lowe is in that one too). Cindy Scott, drunk mom, can not hold down a job (because she drinks...you know... a little) This condition still leaves our teen-lead to care for her younger brother, who like most Afterschool brothers is a pill, but oddly, not played by Moosie Drier.

This special actually won a daytime emmy in 1982. programming for kids! at last!
Other winners that year: Guiding Light (yay), Anthony Geary (ew.)

Primetime? why not? I'm just sitting here.
Barney Miller. Hill Street Blues. Night of 100 Stars ~~ which was essentially an awards show without any awards.





You can feel that 70s grit lifting, can't you? It's like it's Morning in America.

A new Modern Art story... rewritten for my amusement.

London's Tate Modern Gallery, in an attempt to discourage patrons from letting their inappropriately-aged children run rampant through their exhibits, have installed a toddler trap in the floor of Turbine Hall.

Artist Scary Lollipop guy was commissioned by the gallery to create a fool-proof and liability free installation which would rid the halls of no-neck monsters, leaving them free for Johnny Carson's stage curtain, as the founders intended.

Seen here, a pair of Mums on "Stroller Holiday," reassure 2 year old Willie, who was running recklessly and has been swallowed by the marble as a result.

Fiona, age 7, was able to escape capture by holding tightly to Nanny's hand, as placards instruct.

the real story. Not much different.

Damn, Google

I can't italicize the headline, but that reads more like, "Daay-yum, Google."

It's hard to read, so I'll walk you through it. It starts, "If you recently used Google to search for the word 'Jew,' you may have seen results that were very disturbing. We assure you that the views expressed by the sites in your results are not in any way endorsed by Google. We'd like to explain why you're seeing these results when you conduct this search."

This all started when I realized that my goddaughter's pile of toys lacks a Noah's Ark, and that my prime role as godmother not only entitles, but may actually require, me to make this purchase. The other godmother would not allow her son to have a toy farm because animals are in captivity, so the Ark may fall into that category.

This could have been a post about the new traditional godchild gifts, but I couldn't think past age 1, which is definitely a Noah's Ark, and ideally a bathtub version. And it's a damn shame that the Fisher-Price version, with the coolest animals, good feel, and amusing small print ("ark does not float") is a choking hazard for children under 3.

This could have been a post about the hoops one must jump through to find "safe" toys, not only lead and roofie free, but also non-choking, non-electrical and the like. Or we could have discussed the fact that Tupperware once made this toy, and what in the world that must have been all about. Or my favorite aspect of ark renderings, which are the absurdly disporportionate animals, resulting in dogs the size of elephants, and peacocks that should not stand so dangerously close to Noah.

(notice that in this version of the story, the animals will not successfully repopulate the earth...)

Instead this post will be about this:

If you use Google to search for "Judaism," "Jewish" or "Jewish people," the results are informative and relevant. So why is a search for "Jew" different? One reason is that the word "Jew" is often used in an antiSemitic context. Jewish organizations are more likely to use the word "Jewish" when talking about members of their faith.

Can you picure the room full of Lawyers and PR types hammering out that paragraph?

You can see the full text of this disclaimer at google.com/explanation.

I got tired of getting the same matches from the big (leaden) toy companies, so I decided to dig deeper. Drawing on the web as the haven for home schoolin' I asked for "Jewish toys." Here are a couple of tips. If you search "biblical" or "religious" toys, you will get the christian sites first -- not that there's anything wrong with that but a) too much to sort through and b) I noticed you are less likely to get Noah's wife. another post for another day. here's another tip: once you are on your chosen site, search for "noah," not "ark." Judaism has more significant arks.

Someone searching for information on Jewish people would be more likely to enter terms like "Judaism," "Jewish people," or "Jews" than the single word "Jew." In fact, prior to this incident, the word "Jew" only appeared about once in every 10 million search queries. Now it's likely that the great majority of searches on Google for "Jew" are by people who have heard about this issue and want to see the results for themselves.

Damn, Google. I said "Jewish."

Must Google the Google "incident."
Poor Google. They shouldn't have to answer that call anymore. The one where they have to explain that the world is full of hate, and the Internet is the wild west, and it isn't your town's tax-supported library, or your college's reading room. And it isn't a newspaper or a talk show. It's just an index:

The beliefs and preferences of those who work at Google, as well as the opinions of the general public, do not determine or impact our search results. Individual citizens and public interest groups do periodically urge us to remove particular links or otherwise adjust search results. Although Google reserves the right to address such requests individually, Google views the comprehensiveness of our search results as an extremely important priority.
Accordingly, we do not remove a page from our search results simply because its content is unpopular or because we receive complaints concerning it.

So don't call them. Even about something like this:

So we were going to talk about absinthe

TIME magazine reports "Absinthe is back," and encourages us to "party like it's 1899." Oh, Time... you hoot an'a half...

Distillation of absinthe was outlawed in the United States (and most of Europe) in 1915, after enjoying a galloping run through bohemian society, with its neighbors opium, laudanum, heroin, and Dr. Pemberton's snappy cocaine beverage. The turn of the century was truly a buzz-kill.

Absinthe was rumored to be hallucinogenic (Wilde said it gave him the jimmy legs) and could also act as an aphrodisiac. Those Victorians loved to be titilated, but only without their control.

Absinthe madness is blamed for 1 particularly horrific mass-murder, after Jean Lafray killed his whole family in 1905. He had consumed 2 glasses of absinthe that morning. he had also consumed five litres of wine, six glasses of cognac, one coffee laced with brandy, two crème de menthes and a sandwich. I always say "de menthe before brandy...you don't feel so dandy..." "Absinthe 'n' menthe'll... make you go mental."

(by the way, reefer makes you all kinds of crazy too...)

What absinthe was considered worse than:

rum - pivotal leg of the triangle trade. 1860 Census count of enslaved persons ~ 4M ( 27M free persons) of course those 4M were not counted as "persons," but as assets.

tobacco - current estimate, 46M smoking Americans at $7 a pack. 1 in 5 deaths in America is smoking related, says the CDC

hemp - Pot never caught on as a drug in Europe primarily because it was more valuable as rope, but also because it just wasn't strong enough.

morphine - Anything sadder than Albert Ingalls on morphine? How about this: one of the fastest addicting and most violent to kick, though you can withdraw from it in as little as 2 weeks -- if you don't kill yourself in the attempt. Afterward, you'll learn you are now more susceptible to Hep C.

gin - not outlawed until 1920 , and then for no reason that has ever made sense.

vermouth - which is German for wormwood. I promise.

not to mention child labor, Jim Crow, and rickets, none of which were on the social agenda in 1915.

It was long believed that the chemical thujone, naturally occurring in wormwood (an otherwise useless herb) was the source of absinthe hallucinations. It was thought to be related to THC (the mad part of reefer madness) and therefore, of course, very very baaad. Interestingly, the new US regulations will only allow absinthe that is free of thujone, the faery that gives the Green faery its kick. Which means that US absinthe is just herb-liqueur. More commonly.... Campari.

Notice the subtle connection between green faeries and red.

So. everything you want to know about the now-legal, less-potent, labor-intensive elixir that apparently tastes like Tic-Tacs soaked in air freshener, is of course available on the Web. here are some interesting resources:

The Virtual Absinthe Museum - this is the most comprehensive source I have found. It is also available in French, so you know it must be authentic. Plenty of paths to follow here.

The Wormwood Society - founded by a man named Gwydion, which is also one of the houses in Harry Potter. Judging by the "About Us" page, this is a full-on Bloomsbury group of alt.bohemians. Be sure to check out their reviews before you buy.

Absinthe original - only 1 of many shopping sites available.

Merry Faery Christmas

TI Humor

#3 in an occasional series of repressed 70's memories that turn out to be true. And thanks to the Internet, are now provable.

Isn't it just the livin' end that you can turn your calculator upside-down and make it spell something? And what if that something is the word "Boobs"? Well...Pet Rock: out. Calculator spelling: in.

The test of a real capitalist, I think, is one who can jump on a craze at the exact moment that the public thinks it is HIGH-larious, convince us to buy something ridiculous, then slip away with all our money and no merchandise left over.

Maybe the money fell out of the 53704 in our pockets....

Everyone's a comedian on southwest airlines

Welcome back to the DrawingIn Room. I'll assume you have been away, as I have, working up more adventures to relate in a way that makes them sound like Real Livin', and inspires you, I hope, to mutter, "well, if that's all there is, I could have a blog." Because I need things to read on the job too.

I started a list of topics, with the clever intention of back-dating them, to make you feel like there was a LOT to catch up on. But you know what happens when you make that choice is that each post has to have a story arc and a satisfying conclusion, which is not always readily available. If I lump them all together as one big week of posting, I only have to do that once, and I could accurately date this as today and we are all caught up.

So I am going to compromise. I am going to consolidate vacation week into 1 post, dated Nov 23, as you see today, then a couple of things that have been on-deck. You don't really want to see this much of the process, do you?

Here then, my whirlwind tour of central TX.

Memo to Southwest Airlines - we don't need you to be "funny." We understand that the saefty instructions are dull, and rote, and you are looking for a way to make us pay attention. We admit we are captive to you and you have a microphone. But seriously... it is 6am. It is Thanksgiving Day. Spare me.
Anybody remember this story? I heard no one, in 4 take-offs, say "eenie meenie," but I did hear a flight attendent proclaim (in an imitation Mickey Mouse voice) that we were landing in "the happiest place on earth," when in fact it was Baltimore. It might take a talented lawyer to equate such sarcasm with racism, but the real lesson of the original lawsuit is "stay with the script."

Thumbs up to the new boarding process, though. It will take people some time to feel comfortable "cutting" in line, but we adopted a sort of hold-your-number-in-clear-view posture and an ask-before-you-step in practice. It will catch on. I had B-17 at one point, and couldn't get the song out of my head for the whole day.

Crazy thing we did - Friday, 4am. Arrived at the San Marcos Prime Outlets by 5. When I lived in this town 20 years ago, there was no such attraction. People came to San Marcos for the river, the university, the natural darkness of Wonder World. (2 things that haven't changed: that logo, and Buddy, who still runs the place)

But this was a story about the Prime Outlets. They opened at midnight on Thursday, and by 6am Friday were rummaged into complete disarray. We actually had to leave the Gap when I was overcome by the need to fold everything. In the Pottery Barn we met a man who had been at it since the doors opened after a 200 mile drive from Corpus. ("when in Rome" tip: never add the "Christi.") He didn't seem aware of what he was buying, but did comment that the crowds were "thinning out." We bought several baby outfits and went to Johnny Rockets for breakfast/lunch.

What did I buy, you ask? Nothing for you, I am afraid. I selfishly hit the Kaspar outlet (50% off already marked down merchandise before 8am) then needed to get a new suitcase at Samonsite to carry them home in.

We held out until 12, then had to come home to nap.

The baaay--beee, of course - (ya gotta see the bay-beee) Much progress since last year, in the form of standing, walking, vocalizing (sounds just like English, only no words you would recognize). The current favorite game is making chairs out of things, like baskets and bongos, by turning them over and sitting on them. Then standing on them to see if Mama will say No every time. She will, kid, and sometimes just with that look. You can't beat it. I've tried.

Canyon of the Eagles - is only here for people who Google it. we'll cut to the chase: The Great Escape package is only great, Theresa, if you tell the customer the correct date for the river cruise, it is not raining through the star-gazing tour, there is entertainment actually booked, and the restaurant is open. None of which was true. We elected to drive back home rather than pay to stay in a cabin the size of Thoreau's house, dining on wine. Maybe in the Big '80s, Theresa, but not anymore. This is the mother of a 1-year old, and she was promised a Great Escape. It was clear from our front desk experience that Theresa would not be fired, or even remotely scolded, but we agreed that Buddy at Wally World would have put his size 10s right up her bee-hind.

Hey, Austin has music in it - so we went out instead. Even a sudden cold snap can not keep the locals off their patios, where your table comes with a Mexican lap blanket and an overhead heater. The band is working hard enough not to need one, and a couple of martinis in... well, you hardly notice. As middle-aged ladies, we went inside at 7:30 for our dinner reservation -- the exquisite tuck-n-roll booths pictured above are from our establishment, called The Belmont.

My best friend now eats meat. It's the damnedest thing. She says now that her daughter is weaned, she will wean herself, but I had never heard her ask a waitress if she should have the salmon or the New York strip. I was so scared I had the butternut squash, so as not to upset the universe.

3 rounds of Scrabble - 2 me; 1 her. Dr. A has taught me the double-play, which my best friend does not think is fair. I have promised to draw the line at memorizing anagrams.

It is 11 o'clock (really) though not really the 23rd. I wanted to post one more 70s repressed memory before retiring. I think you'll agree it's a good one.

Back to work tomorrow.

New relief for book hoarders

and just in time for the holidays.

Karen explains Book Lanterns

Closed for the Holidays

Happy Thanksgiving from the gang at DrawingIn.

Ok, you're right. It's just me.

Have a great weekend. I will be back with stories to tell. This is a good time to catch up with your off-line friends. But let's meet back here in December and get caught up.

We haven't even talked about absinthe yet.

There is no need for me to write...

...as long as this is out there.

The Animatronic Singing And Talking Elvis.

copy by Hammachler Schlemmer. Snarky commentary is my own.

First question - was the name "hammachler schlemmer" made up by your Grandfather's brother, who had it in for the Hammachler family whose 5-and-dime ran his little shop off the block? Was it originally "Hammachler Schmammachler"? And am I 90?

This is the animatronic Elvis, a singing and talking robotic bust adorned with The King's trademark leather jacket, sideburns, and pompadour, recalling the musical icon's performance during the highest-rated television event of 1968-Elvis Presley's Comeback Special.

Whew! I need to rest a minute.

The device (Device?! It's the King of Rock and Roll. Show some respect) sings eight of Elvis' most acclaimed songs including Hound Dog, Love Me Tender, and Jailhouse Rock, and the mouth, eyes, and head movements are synchronized with the music, replicating his unique facial expressions (including the curled upper lip) and baritone voice. Notice that the "curled lip" is real copy. Do NOT leave me alone in the dark with this.

Integrated infrared sensors in his jacket detect ambient motion, prompting Elvis to say "Bring it on back now" or another famous Elvis remark as you walk by, and the device has 37 monologues recorded from interviews that play at a touch of a button, each reflecting on the life and career of The King. I would, however, like it in my workspace.

A karaoke feature allows you to sing along with Elvis and the device has an audio port for connecting an MP3 player or another audio source, allowing you to play your own music through Elvis's 10-watt speaker. OF COURSE IT DOES. How else do you justify the $300 price tag?

Includes a remote control, 1/4" microphone jack, and an AC/DC adapter. Remote requires three AAA batteries. 20 1/4" H x 13 3/4" D x 21 3/4" L. (10 lbs.)

I ordered one for each of you.

"What are you doing?" "Culling a List..."

That answer is to be read in a confessional mumble, as if it is the same as "drinking alone..." "surfing porn..."

The best part of the story is that when my sister asked the question, it was because she had a list she wanted me to make for her.

But I am telling the story out of order. Let me start over.

I have referenced the book list here before, and with a horrifying amount of detail. I really don't know what I was thinking. What I didn't mention then is that I started this book list 20 years ago. Same list. It has survived 8 moves and several pens, but over the past year or so I have discovered that it is no longer interesting to read things I thought might have been interesting when I was a 23 year old graduate student. For a while it was, and I have had some good reads that way, but the past few trips to the library have had me rolling my eyes at the book jacket. Not now, not ever, but apparently once, and dear me would that girl get deep under my skin right about now.

I did this weekend what I never thought I would do.
No, I didn't throw the list away -- I'm not medicated, I'm just bored.
I culled the list. And mostly by gut. I started to look into what these books were, but then I thought, **** it, there's been 20 years of books written since then, and I can't read the ones I have already acquired that weren't on the list to begin with.

Here's what I dumped:
Anything I thought I "should" read, but never wanted to in the first place
This means you, War & Peace, Old Man and the Sea, and Crime & Punishment.

Books I read in college
It was a nice idea -- read them again now that you have time, instead of the "1st & last sentence of each paragraph way," or the "even chapters only" method, which is still my advice on Grapes of Wrath.
Inspired by this weeding, I later culled the Netflix list of things I thought I wanted to see again.
Maybe I AM medicated.

Books I wanted to write like, including lists of first novels I was going to study to see what the secret was. Remember too that I was in publishing school, so I was exposed to Publisher's Weekly weekly, which is just open bar to the task-aholic.

Books which have since becomes movies, and which I have since (mostly) seen.
I didn't even know some of these were on there. But gone was Evening, Thousand Acres, Last Exit to Brooklyn... Truth: I would still rather watch a movie than read.

Short Stories - whatever. I think I was trying to impress a professor. Ditto on..

Post-modern crapola I was only pretending to like.

AIDS novels, Holocaust literature, and anything late-80s that smacked of Tama Jamowitz, Doc Martens, and Gen X-ers disdaining the culture the Boomers had left them. They all had their day -- some very good stuff came out of them -- but it's been said.

What stayed? This list won't make me look deep, or anything, it just shows you where I am now.
Southern fiction. Still great, still what I wish I could say un-self consciously and without effort. A lot of this got on the list right away in 1987 when I had moved to Texas only to discover it was not the South (it is Texas) and I missed my homeland and that of my "pipple."
Now that I am more Yankee than I ever would have been a Belle, I have begun subscribing to the Oxford American, because I really do think the South I knew is disappearing.

4 women who.... The senior thesis I never wrote was "4 women/1 story: From Little Women to Designing Women." I love 4 women friends books, even when they are ridiculously tacky (cf: Valley of the Dolls.) Don't you wish you could read Lace again for the first time?

By the way, my unwritten linguistics thesis would have been "Why gay men talk like that." Another story for another day.

Mother/Daughter Joy Luck-ish plots - which is really just a combination of the 2 above. These diagrams come together to form Ya-Ya Sisterhood at the Center.

Biographies - I only threw out a couple as, "well that was a short-lived interest," and I can't quite name whose they were just now.

Theology - some of it stayed. Some of the biblical fiction just had to go. It is always written too densely, in too small a font, and the copies you can get smell like Nanny's basement. So I just kept the straight talk.

I did have to get a new notebook, because now the original was a mess; and for half the day I didn't care much about preserving the list of books I had already read, since it was not wholly accurate, and recopying it did seem to stretch even my limits of crazy. In the warm sunlight of Sunday morning however, it seemed like an excellent way to revisit the past 20 years.

Now - the beginning of the story, which is the end.
My phone rings and it is Greatest of All Sisters, who is driving with her daughter, Rory Gilmore, and they are trying to name movies named after states. They both have an appreciation of lists, but neither has the attention span (read: neurosis) to make one themselves when they know they can call me.

I do not have much interest in this list, because I know about Delaware and Rhode Island, which they have not yet thought about, and Rory yells from the back seat that they have to be fiction, "I'm not watching in documentary!" (the girl I watched Traveling Pants for. how is that for gratitude?)
And I say, don't they want movies that are set in the specific states? And they say, yeh, whatever, we don't care... and I know they will watch Georgia, even though it is set in Idaho, and My Own Private Idaho, even though it is a terrible movie. And really, my head has already exploded and now they are off naming movies named after months.....

The films-by-states list is now available upon request. Write me at my personal email for your copy. And Delaware was still a problem.

well, that's indescribable

A couple of weeks ago, when I thought I could not come up with 30 consecutive days of blah-blah, I intended to tell you how I was half-nelsoned and pinned by my assignment at RFB. Eleven years on the job there, and I have never found anything I couldn't navigate.

I have read this




this






things like this




But when I came to the International Phonetics Alphabet, I just went limp.

Certainly I can say "labialized velar approximant," even without giggling. I can also say "statistically significant simultaneous fricatives." I've got crazy-descriptive/narrative skills, yo.


The idea of a dyslexic phonetician is fascinating.

That's not a warm-up exercise; it's an observation. It's a contemplation that someone who can not ordinarily navigate the Roman alphabet with much degree of success can work with this set of characters. But I think I have put my finger on it. Besides there being fewer characters to start with, in the phonetic alphabet, they always mean what they mean.

"cough," "tough," and "Through," don't look like they should rhyme when they are spelled using the phonetic letters. Turns out they do have names -- the letters. One of them is Lezh. Who many also have been one of the sons of Benjamin.

I recommended the studio call Noam Chomsky, because I was in over my head. Then I found this listserve, and the night passed quietly.

Chinese has one too. Good thing I took the winter off.

Things you're glad I don't blog about.....

...but about which I could rant for hours.

I really hate the new Tampax design.

speaking of...

....the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing.

AOL "news" front page story.... or is it?

Find out what it means for your weekend, tonight at 6

In Praise of Rock Star

Recently, on the BWFS, our Founder and Dean of Students posted a contemplation of lady executives. Early in the school's history, a guest lecturer reflected in the loss of mentorship at the top (she is now a lady executive herself). I encourage you to read both. To that growing collection, I'll add this brief commentary.

To remind you of this cast of characters, and bring you up to date:
The Boss has been delivered of her son (at last) --healthy, happy, and damn cute. Both of them. Seriously. Our crew is in the day-to-day hands of The Lieutenant, who hit her long-legged stride right away and, I can report, has lost neither her sense of calm nor humor (which is not only the best medicine, it is a top-grade sedative).

Rock Star is The Boss's Boss; ordinarily I say about her that "she makes me pee." As in, 2 dogs meet in the park and one of them squats and pees. That one's me.

When I say this to others -- particularly to other lady execs who are patient enough to mentor me over martinis -- it requires explanation. So let me elaborate: I play a pretty high level of game myself, and I'm in the starting 5 most of the time (to use a basketball metaphor for a change, respect to The Lieutenant). But I only have a few moves, and I am particular about who sees them. I am not unconditionally loyal, I can not be "on" all day, sometimes I'm not even listening, and you know I am not moved by the Company logo.

But I don't really want her to see that. (I accept that she already knows it. My reputation precedes me.) She is the gold-medal Olympic team. So I become completely self-conscious, and by extension submissive. You know...I'll turn it off when she does. And that ain't nevah gon happen.

At the time The Boss came down with-child, and we were shipped to Camp Rock Star, I had high hopes, (especially for The Lieutenant, who deserves the best), but was also scared out of my mind.

Rock Star?? Really? without a buffer? oh man, we're gonna have ropes courses and intramural mentoring, and "stretch goals"... it's bad enough I have to present all my work in a plastic report cover, do I have to burn the edges now too?

I steeled myself for 3 months of lying low, biting tongue, putting on the happy face. exposing my belly.

And you know what, Dear Readership? It's really quite good. This is not to put down The Boss. You know I have a big fat work-crush on her, and I miss her far more than I expected to. But the tone that has been set for the rest of the year caught me quite by surprise.

To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.... in a reverse homage to Thomas Jefferson:

1. She has observed that we work too much, in both time and scope. And we should stop it.
What? well, now you're scaring me.

2. She understands we are understaffed.
And so she "leveraged," (because she talks like that) her other slightly under-staffed staffs to help out. Also a little scary, since I do NOT look forward to reciprocating that favor, but it gave us some breathing room in our assignment-to-worker bee ratio.

3. She understands we are addicted.
So she tries little Anabuse doses, like "try to leave by 6," and "try leaving your laptop at work a couple of days a week." "Try drinking at lunch." I may have heard that one wrong, but it makes the afternoon much more pleasant.

4. She would like to undo some bad habits.
It's a subjective view, certainly, when she suggests that a lot of the ways we spend our days are doing things that are other people's jobs. But then she asked us to list what we think those are. She also suggested that if we stopped sending emails in the middle of the night, we would stop getting replies. And you know... she was right.

5. She works at her level for the benefit of our level.
A lot of Executives don't really like the conflict management part of their jobs, especially when they are middle management. They would rather tell you to "work it out" and sign off on it. "Escalating" to them, then, becomes the adult equivalent of telling the principal you are being bullied. Rock Star will delight in the "opportunity to enhance synergies."

6. She never lets us see her sweat.
And I am sure she does.

So when I am wrong, I say I am wrong. I do know perfectly well the Yankee Swap is coming, and we only narrowly missed an apple-picking team builder, but if that's the price one pays for bringing the time sheet down to under 50 hours a week, I'll take it.

Crusader Rabbit

#2 in an occasional series of repressed 70's memories that turn out to be true. And thanks to the Internet, are now provable.




I should like to add Rags the Tiger to the list of obscure cartoon characters I would consider tattooing on myself.

Though it's not really much of a "cartoon," is it? More like a .... drawing. As filmed by Ken Burns.


Crusader is really a 1950's cartoon, but like most 50's TV resurfaced in the 70s to claw its nails into my skull wall -- see also Mickey Mouse Club, entire songbook of; American Grafitti, repeated viewings of; and new post-war patriotism.

This just in: Darkness Impairs Vision

I meant to post this last weekend, when clocks changed, but my house has conspired against me to create confusing time zones within my own home. My alarm box changes according to the "old schedule," so it dropped back an hour 2 weeks ago. I am actually afraid to touch it, so I don't try to fix it; I just know that on that flight of stairs, I have entered the past. This morning my cell decided it was 9pm last night, and seems to have no feature for changing it.

But that's not important right now.

What sparked this post was an AP story in last Saturday's paper, A-section in fact. We have become accustomed to the news media warning us that ordinary items in our lives will kill us (especially when we use them just plain wrong). So I was only amused to learn that pedestrians are more likely to be hit by cars in the dark.

To prove this science, a chart was displayed, measuring pedestrian fatalities 1999-2005. November - January, 500 pedestrians are killed each month between 6-7pm. From April - September, it drops below 100 per month between 6-7pm.

This is a great quote; "Their study of risk to pedestrians is preliminary..."

Please fund this study. Rush hour + darkness x pedestrians in the road = fatalities.

We need to learn more

Carnegie Mellon professor David Gerard closes the AP story with this chilling observaton:

"This clearly shows that both drivers and pedestrians should think about this daylight-saving adjustment... There are lives at stake."

cue Law & Order gavel-gong.

It would be easy enough to just make fun of this story as another example of News of the Obvious coverage that pervades, but here at DrawingIn, we take it to the next level.

We ask the Transportation Department.

In the spirit of Guns don't Kill People, the Federal Highway Administration suggests that the "national policy to encourage increased walking" may be partly to blame. If we weren't all walking so much, drivers tailgating in the dark on their cell phones might not hit so many people (about 80,000 people in 1997).

But even FHA admits that it isn't all about reduced visibility -- more pedestrians are out at night and more drivers are drunk after work.

If you want more stats than you can stand, the FHA has them for you, including the aspects that the Carnegie Mellon study may not uncover until they are past the "preliminary" stage.

Pedestrian fatalities are actually down as a proportion of traffic fatalities (if you can agree on what that means - the National Safety Council and the FHA don't, as it turns out) only 14% of total these days. It was once 41% at a time when there were very few traffic fatalies because there were very few cars (1927).

FHA agrees with the finding that over 60% of fatalities occur in the dark, but avoid any indictment of Daylight Saving. They have those secondary stats working in their favor.

This trend in fatalities could be partly associated with rural pedestrian crashes involving high-speed vehicles and pedestrians walking along a dark road or in some cases lying unconscious (sleeping) in the road. In fact, in North Carolina, 10 percent of all pedestrian fatalities involve a pedestrian lying in the road (North Carolina Traffic Accident Facts, 1990).

One more thing to make people feel so good about the South.

I got lost in the bar graphs for a while, and forgot I was writing this. Let me sum up. I already know you are not as interested in this as I am.

If you want to guarantee you are hit by a car, but not willing to fly to NC to lie down in the road, try this instead:

Between 6-9pm on a Friday in October, walk along a dark roadway with no streetlight

It is a statistical sure thing.

It helps if you are between 45 and 75, male and sober. Though a .10% or above will also get you hit, a couple of drinks reduces your changes over being sober. I can't explain that; I just know what the table says.

I wonder if that silly duck will remember he can fly

Professional problem solver draws a blank.

I broke my glasses about a month ago and had done nothing about them because, gack, what a hassle, and I had found a replacement pair and that was working just fine. I had also found that I had half a dozen replacements, all broken in nearly the same way, and someone should do a time and motion study on that. But summary statement is, they were broken and on the dresser -- not even of my own room, but the guestroom. They were doing their best to be fogotten that way.

Friday night I am out with the fellas, and Nick says (because he notices things like this and is a very generous conversationalist) "those are new." "No, they're old, actually," I say, and launch into the uninteresting story of how they have been broken for a month...... well, it's all about my VSP, you see, and what's covered. Because the lenses are covered annually, but frames are every other year. Only I can't remember when I bought these, because the prescription ....

Jay tenderly interrupts, taking my hands across the table. "I think you'll find..." he begins, with a careful pause to be sure he has my attention, "that you can afford your glasses."

Blink. Blink. Because of course it takes Jay to remind me that we are not poor anymore.

Ten years ago, when we were both trying to leave the field that made us so poor, and I thought we were trapped, because what else in the world COULD we do, it was also Jay who observed, "I am pretty sure we can find other jobs that pay 27 thousand a year."

What makes this story come to its embarrassingly obvious close is that Monday when the pipes burst I decided to drop by the Eye Cent-a and make inquiries, as they say. The receptionist "pulls my card" (honestly, a CARD from a metal file drawer. It was lovely) and says "They're under warranty. We'll fix 'em." Egg, meet face.

Sometimes I make things so hard.

Bread and Toilets

Let me tell the story of the plumbing failure first, so you can follow where this train of thought takes me. The water main break in town this morning had caused a water shut-off by 10am, and an email from the Facilities office asking us to "use bathrooms sparingly." (a hundred pregnant woman belly-lifted themselves out of non-ergonomic chairs to march on the executive wing, as soon as they could catch their breath.)

Use bathrooms sparingly, you occupants of 1 million square feet of office space.

I had already punched up the OSHA statement on this very problem and was about to send it to my HR rep by the time we were ordered home:

If the employer does not provide reasonable access to toilet facilities when the employees need to use them, the employer would be in violation of OSHA's general industry sanitation standard (29 Code of Federal Regulations §1910.141(c)(1)(i)). OSHA addressed the issue of employee access to toilet facilities in a memorandum to OSHA's Regional Administrators dated April 6, 1998 (copy enclosed). This memorandum is a public document and is available on OSHA's website www.osha.gov.

which brings us to our topic.
Which do you like better, the fact that the US Government has ruled on what is "reasonable" access to toilet facilities, or the fact that they did it in 1998.

I'll tell you what you'll like best: reading the memorandum. Let me give you some highlights so that you too can become completely annoying in your workplace

Toilets must be located in separate rooms for each sex.
So Ally McBeal was in violation. If you have a one-seater, you do not have to designate them by sex, but the urinal will probably give it away.

Facilities must contain hot water, soap, towels or blowers, and trashcans. If showering is required, shower soap must be provided. Don't let them pretend they are doing you some kind of big favor.

No employee shall be allowed to consume food or beverages in a toilet room nor in any area exposed to a toxic material. This seems like a good rule. The better rule is 2 paragraphs later when you learn that you can't store food there either. So IF you are caught with your apple or coffee cup, don't try saying you were jusy "putting it away."

The memorandum (man, I miss that word) opens with an explanation of why human beings should be allowed to urinate when they need to, citing the New England Journal of Medicine. The issue of "accessibility" and "promptness" required a field sanitation ruling on how far from the field is safe for the spinach and close enough to be safe for the worker. One quarter mile. Sounds longer than it is - 70 yards - but I know a few of you who will say you wouldn't make it.

The Company can not place "unreasonable restrictions" on your bathroom use. Which means it can place reasonable restrictions. Think of that. And just what that means may depend on how much stamina you have to take your case to the Supreme Court.

In the Mill where I work, back when it spun wool into gold, "each and every absence, no matter how small, by a day hand, must be deducted from the time of the absentee." Once presumes it was more than a quarter-mile to the privvy.

You might be interested to learn that OSHA can not have an opinion on whether or not your bathroom breaks are considered unpaid. That is the authority of the Division of Wage and Hour, and a different website.

I think what I'm saying is, if you are reading this on the job right now, especially if that happens to be in your living room, or on a Treo in the lobby of your daughter's ballet class, if you can go to the bathroom as much as you damn well please...thank a Mill Girl.

Mulligan's Stew

From our grabbag of things you thought maybe you dreamed from the 70s that really did happen.

How I Managed to Blow NaBloPoMo on the First Day

It's called National Blog Posting Month -- correction: it is CALLED NaBloPoMo. It is NAMED National Blog Posting Month. A simple premise: commit to posting every day. And I blew it.

I also fake my updates, in case you haven't caught on through the miracle of Google Reader, but this is dated Nov 1 and it is Nov 3. So I already blew it. It wasn't hard to blow it. I simply missed posting every day by the 3rd day.

Truth is, I thought I was farther behind than I was, because I forgot I had posted the Offermatica picture on Thursday, smack dab in the middle of the workday. (A girl could lose a finger!)

So that pressure is off, and now that I have removed both the goal and the ambition, I probably will manage to post every day , since I have taken my life back through the miracle of the 4 game sweep.

Please enjoy... list of things I did with my evenings this past week without baseball.

Monday - Ya kiddin' me? went to bed

Tuesday - Propped myself with a book I ended up hating and watched a movie instead. My rule on books is that I will give you a hundred pages, but life is too short to read bad books. If you can't keep me to page 101, you go right across the room. Or, you get skimmed, which is the equivalent of watching a movie on FFwd, both of which I do. (and plenty. but more on Ted Turner's Gettysburg at another time. I won't give too much away, but it's the world's slowest bloodbath. Don't ask Virginians about Pickett. We still bite our knuckles over it.)

Wednesday - Recording for the Blind, where I was completely bested for the first time in 11 years by my assignment. I need to blog about that separately too. See how I can easily do this every day if you don't make me?

Thursday - drinks with an exiting work-buddy. The going away parties at the Local are starting to stack up on each other, and it gets kind of awkward when you walk in for one person's bash, and other people are there thinking you are coming to their bash. But you weren't. Until now.

Friday - Dinner and a show with the Tarletons. I love dating married couples. Especially when they are boys and let me order first.

Don't count me in the Blog Post ring. But I'll try to give you plenty to explore through the week.

Next time: reading the Phonetic Alphabet and hunting down the borrower who wants you to.