Don’t Let the Spam Bot Win

Jun 23, 2008 | This Life

For the last week, IZ and I have been having the same conversation via IM:

Me: I should blog.

Me: I have nothing to say.

Me: I should really blog.

Me: whine whine whine, I should really blog.

IZ: Why don’t you go blog, sweetie?

That’s a very good question. Why not, indeed? Truth is, it’s been a rough couple of weeks. Two weeks ago the tendons in my neck seized up and I lost most of my range of motion. A week later, when the muscle started to spasm, I went in to see my massage therapist. Even she couldn’t get the block to release. It’s complicated and more than I want to blog about—but I went and compounded the situation by falling 4 days ago. Yep. One moment I’m standing on the staircase landing in my cute shoes and summery skirt. The next, I’m in a fetal position on the entryway floor. There was enough time between those two moments for me to utter several expletives. I saw black, I felt the floor give way and after that, I don’t really know how it happened.

I’m pretty sure I landed in such a way that IZ ,standing on the landing I’d just left, could see my underwear. He knows better than to touch me when I’m in pain. He just hovers on the edges gently inquiring about my viability. “Are you still breathing? Do you have a pulse? Should I call an ambulance?” Yes, yes, *sniffle* NO! The dog is less intuitive. Sophie kept sniffing my head like I might be fresh kill. Me, I’m just crying on the floor because I hate the sensation of falling even more than the pain. I’ve always been a faller, and IZ is convinced I fall more than I should. I think I’m just not graceful. Even after all these years, I’m still landing in odd positions with my skirt turned up exposing my knickers for all who care to see. In this case, it was just the dog.

The fall did unblock my neck. Weirdly, I can now turn my head again. But all these minor injuries have made me tired and unfocused. It’s amazing how much concentration it takes to NOT do something you’re used to doing without thought. I’ve found myself unmotivated. And as such, the only writing I’ve been doing is whining in IM at poor IZ.

But tonight he said something different. And I had one of those fashionably late light-bulb moments.

Me: I should blog.

Me: I have nothing to say.

Me: Why FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE don’t I have something to say?

IZ: Maybe you should take a short Vacay?

I love it when the boy talks valley to me. So I’m going to do as he suggests. Yep, you thought there was no quitting you, but. . . there is. I will be back on the 7th. Of July. Next month. TWO WHOLE WEEKS. Oh, my.

This should be killing me; I’m exactly 5 posts from 1000. But it’s not. Of course, this blog would have hit that number two months ago if I hadn’t deleted 50 posts in the archives. Let’s not dwell on that. And we would have hit that number last November if I could import 2003’s posts that are trapped in some platform IZ talked me into when I said, “But I want to use something groovy, like WordPress.” We really won’t dwell on that.

After 6 years of blogging, you’d think that number would be higher. I’ve always been an underachiever. Looking at my commenting stats, I’m not alone. This little blog, which sits at nearly 1000 posts and oodles of comments, has attracted a ridiculous number spam. In fact, the spam bots have been out posting your comments 1000 to 1. You all should be embarrassed to be outdone by mere technology.

However, there is a way to redeem yourselves: post a comment and guess how many spam comments this blog will have received by July 7th when I return. The person who comes closest will be getting a nice little prize from me. But I’m not saying what just yet. You’re going to have to play along to find out.

Do me proud, people. Seriously. And IZ, you don’t get to play and NO HINTING at numbers. Don’t even think about telling them the number is well over 10,000. uh… erm… Anyhow. . .

I’ll be back on the 7th. Don’t you dare lurk on this one. I have stats, people—I can see YOU! It would be very unpatriotic to let the spam bot win. So for freedom’s sake, post your best guess.

See you next month.

UPDATE: I’m scratching my head about the lack of numerical content in the comment section. So, just to be sure it wasn’t me, I ran my blog through a “What reading level is your blog?” utility and it said “First Grade.”  Hmm… funny. Depressing, but funny.

So, Question: What part of “leave a guess” wasn’t clear? YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. People who refuse to play along… uh… well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but it will be something. So. . . uh. . . there!!

We Kissed Like We Invented It

Jun 17, 2008 | This Life

Cake? Anyone?

First, thank you for all your lovely comments. I’m going to break tradition and not answer them individually. I know! But I have to tell you, some of you made me blush! I probably should have closed comments on this post—not because I wasn’t interested in what you would say. But because SOME of you are incorrigible and I knew I wouldn’t be able to answer you without compounding my color. So. . . I’ll just say this, “Thank you, all!” IZ and I both have enjoyed reading all your well wishes.

I will also say this, the lyrics quoted at the bottom of that post are from the criminally neglected ELBOW. Most of you who read this blog with any regularity will know that I’m prone to pepper my posts with lyrics. This is nothing unusual. I admire gifted lyricists like some of you admire poets. Their ability to write with such power and yet, with such brevity takes me—and like most people, I think those memorable lines wander around my consciousness, taking up residence in a land unknown to them. Alien bards drafting the outlines of my narrative.

Who doesn’t have a soundtrack to their life?

But I have to tell you, it’s rare in the genre of music I listen to most, to find a band that can do it all. A band that hasn’t sold out to the 3.5 minute formula of radio fare. Intelligent lyrics rarely are written. But when they are and then married to astounding musicianship—you have to sit back and wonder, “Where the hell are the critics?” Seriously? I’m not kidding when I tell you this band is criminally neglected. It’s shameful.

And it’s not at all unexpected. We live, after all, in a world that has elevated the likes of Paris Hilton to the stature of Icon. My generation just keeps giving ground. We’re afloat in more sugar; it’s no wonder we’re comatose.

So, ELBOW. I’m guessing you’ve never heard of them. But I’ll warrant that if you listen closely, you won’t be able to stop. And you’ll be telling someone you know, someone like me, someone who appreciates amazing words coupled with astounding beats, “You’ve just got to listen to this band.”

And you’ll be adding words to the soundtrack of your life. Because, really, they’re just that good.

(more…)

Eighteen

Jun 16, 2008 | Curated, This Life

It was August. Warm and sultry, the night air so sweet. There were stars for miles. Some lunar calendar will probably say my memory lies, but I recall a moon bright enough to light our path. It was the kind of night I’ve craved ever since—warm enough to walk late into the night, late into the future, talking until it is no longer late, but early. Secrets told and kept and loved. And I can look back and see what should have been obvious: this night was the beginning of everything.

But it felt like such an ending. I remember standing there, clinging to you, my arms wrapped around my best friend. Underneath your down-filled coat I could feel your heart beating, never suspecting the cause. Running my fingers over and over the coarseness of the twill of your jacket—it’s a physical sensation that is embedded into my core. So soothing to hold you, to hear your heart, to trace figure eights in the texture of your clothing. Even then, I was seeking patterns I could recognize.

So we stood there for hours. Our faces turned up to see the sky—bright, bright and yet, the stars couldn’t outshine you, even in the dark. You were such a giant. So full of life and hope and boy were you dreaming that night. We stood there, hanging on to our childhoods. Holding back the change tomorrow held. To separate colleges, in different countries. We could not be going further from each other.

It was August, warm and sultry and tomorrow you were leaving for college. And then, then you changed my world forever. You kissed me.

I didn’t expect it. I didn’t expect you. It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t tender, it wasn’t hesitant, it was nothing I expected a kiss from you to be. Who was this man kissing me? No boy I knew. That kiss, that kiss was powerful. It ripped wide my expectations, it tore away all my preconceptions, and it told the truth even you didn’t want to admit. We were saying goodbye, but you’d been harboring a lot more than friendship. And judging from the state of my knees, you weren’t alone.

I wasn’t ready then to love you. But I couldn’t ignore the power of that kiss—and it would eat away at me until four months later it would occur to me, that glorious you were probably kissing other girls that way. The very thought made me jealous! I was always slow to figure things out.

I have to tell you—and yes, maybe I need to tell the world—nothing has changed. Baby, when you kiss me, I still feel like my world is being ripped wide open and exploding with potential. You believe in beauty and truth and all that is noble and when I kiss you, I believe it too.

I’m still weak in the knees at the very thought of you. At eighteen I didn’t know that you could fall so completely in love with your best friend. I couldn’t know that tracing patterns on your jacket, standing in the moonlight, counting stars would be the beginning. I couldn’t know that your kiss would set me on the path to my LIFE. But what I did know, was that you were a giant.

And baby, when you kiss me, you still are.

So for you. . . Happy Anniversary.

Someone tell me how I feel
It’s silly wrong but vivid right
Oh, kiss me like the final meal
Yeah, kiss me like we die tonight

Cause holy cow, I love your eyes
And only now I see the light
Yeah, lying with me half-awake
Oh, anyway, it’s looking like a beautiful day

When my face is chamois-creased
If you think I’ll wink, I did
Laugh politely at repeats
Yeah, kiss me when my lips are thin

~~Elbow: One Day Like This.

As Promised

Jun 14, 2008 | It's a Dog's Life, Thrifty Goodness

I promised  you a little stroll with my mis-adventure in canine couture. And I’m delivering. It’s a first, I know, but there is no need for your mock fainting.

Liza Lee said in a comment, “I hope Sophie likes clothing more than Ruby.” The thing is, Sophie doesn’t have a choice. Here’s why:

A few months ago, I came home with a Polo T-shirt for the dog from a local store. I’ll admit, I bought it on a whim and it was a total fashion thing at the time. But, within days of wearing it, we began to notice that Sophie wasn’t tearing into her skin with quite the same intensity. I argued that the t-shirt made her feel safer. IZ suggested, my deft psychological analysis of the dog aside, the t-shirt probably just protected her from herself. I promptly went back to the store and dropped a bit of change on more dog couture.

Sure enough, Sophie has healed up and is actually sporting hair in places we didn’t know she could grow hair. She’s still allergic to everything on the planet, and she still scratches herself into a bloody mess if left alone–just not where the t-shirt covers her. If I could wrap her in jersey knit, I would.

The problem came a few weeks later. I began to notice that these little t-shirts weren’t holding up in the wash. What can you expect for $10 a piece? Right??? They probably never were intended to be worn quite the way my dog wears them. Since they were coming apart at the seams, I reinforced all the seams to keep them from unraveling completely. I won’t lie, there was a sense of satisfaction. I’m easily impressed by my own ingenuity.

Of course, I’d just put my finger in one hole of the wall only to encounter another. Soon enough, there were holes in the fabric everywhere, and not just in places where Sophie could scratch. Not to be out-done, I crafted up darling little appliqués of apples in vintage material to patch the holes. But soon, it became apparent that no amount of restitching and appliquéing was going to save these particular t-shirts.

And that’s when I had one of those regional TV Consumer Reports moments. You know, where some guy in a  cheap $300 suit and a bad comb-over suggests to you that dumping $3.50 a day into a latte out adds up to a chunk of change you’d be better investing in an espresso machine for your home. And where, despite his OBVIOUS lack of fashion sense, he makes a bit of fiscal sense? You hate to admit it, but he’s right and you’re throwing money away for no good reason. You get so angry, you click off the TV and swear to subscribe to cable. At least the talking heads on CNN know how to dress and don’t really make you think.

Yeah, and that’s when Wende realized she’d probably  made these very t-shirts several times over just trying to salvage them!  And it’s also when I realized that despite my dog’s scratching, these shirts should not have disintegrated after 6 washings. Sophie needed new t-shirts, but I’m in NO mood to be investing that much into shirts that will end up in the land fill in a month. So not cool.

I ended up cutting up the old shirts, crafting a crude pattern, and making up a shirt from remnant jersey I owned. When it worked, I found some inexpensive red jersey at a thrift store and set about making t-shirts en masse. But that fabric turned out to be too thin—so I cut out the cute iron-ons off these and appliquéd them to a new knit that has a touch of spandex in it. PERFECT.

As you can see, I’ve not finished the edges. I was in a hurry, my machine is going in for maintenance and I needed to be done. But, it seems pointless, really. These are dog t-shirts and not meant to last forever. They are already better constructed than the first set! When they do finally die, I think I’ll cut the cute iron-on off and appliqué them to next t-shirt.

So that’s it. I spent $3.50 on the iron-on decorations which were on deep discount at JoAnn’s. That should make 8 t-shirts assuming I never recycle them. I spent $2 on 3/4 yard of fabric that made 3 t-shirts. You do the math. I’m feeling ever so clever. The dog is offended. But I’m sorry, Sophie, I couldn’t find an iron-on that said, “Vermin Killah”.

I just wish my light-bulb moments weren’t so fashionably late.

Do You Smell That?

Jun 13, 2008 | This Life

Miss Sophie’s new t-shirt

It’s the smell of potential and possible delusion. Welcome to Friday afternoon, dear readers. I’m dreaming big already. I have plans and good intentions and right now, it all seems doable! So, tell me what  you’re doing to feed your soul this weekend, and I’ll be back tomorrow to tell you about my little experiment in canine couture. I promise, it has nothing to do with etsy.

Ugly Feet

Jun 10, 2008 | Changes, This Life

I love this photo, even if it is completely disingenuous. Looking at it, you might think that blue skies have arrived here in the northwest, but that wouldn’t be true. Instead, we got a rare sun-break Sunday. Long enough for IZ to mow our lumpy yard despite his head cold. Long enough for me look busy snapping photos instead of weeding our overgrown flower beds. But not long enough to fool anyone into thinking warmth is on its way. Certainly not long enough to get me out of my funk. I’m waiting, Spring. And I don’t like to wait. Margaret was right to dub this month Junuary!

Anyhow, I don’t have much to say. Vicki dropped by to tell me to update and now she’s taunting me with the backsides of Sun Bears on her site. OH THE IRONY. As I’m a compliant first born, I tend to do what I’m told—especially when told by an authority figure. I’ll let her explain what makes her the boss of me, because I sure as heck don’t know! So, I’m blogging about our cold weather and the lack of sun. And she’s visually cracking wise about her weather. I resent that, darling. I DO!

Except I don’t. I adore Sun Bears. I adore the sun. I adore the BEARS. And Stanford sucks. Ahem.

So, this photo… I was trying to snap a photo of a mysterious Columbine that sprouted up in my front planter. I didn’t plant it. I suspect renegade vermin poop. I figure, if deer are going to munch the heads off all my flowers, it seems only fitting that they might plant something in return. It’s a small gift and since this town won’t let me hunt inside city limits, it’s going to have to do.

This Columbine is magical. It’s really dainty and delicate but difficult to photograph. In desperation, I shoved my lens beneath it and snapped the photo. The flower, obviously, blurred. And it’s apparent that I need to prune our variegated willow. But that sky. . . that sky sings to me. And for a moment, you know, I almost thought I had found a patch of blue to carry me. But it didn’t last. I fell into the grasp of a capricious lover and knew rejection. Grey skies have returned and I’ve been compelled to put on socks. I hate socks. Spring will not stop toying with me.

Summer, on the other hand, is tender. She is kind and she caring. Warm and benevolent. She takes her time. She doesn’t rush anything, savoring every moment. She sings bird song and smells of jasmine. She doesn’t blow down houses or flood plains. She never toys with your emotions. You know just where you stand with her. Lovingly embraced, adored, appreciated. In her eyes, you are always beautiful with your brown toes sticking out of your sandals. And even though you know this love you share will not last forever, it doesn’t matter. You’re not thinking about that, anyhow. You’re too warm to care. Too happy to notice. Too content, if that’s possible.

Summer is tender. But I fear she is going to be late this year. I fear she wandered off to some tropical local and cannot be bothered to return. I fear she is cavorting with some other lover, some other person who always looks beautiful—their brown toes sticking out of their sandals.

I fear she’s figured out that I have ugly feet.

Daft Punk is Playing At My House

Jun 5, 2008 | This Life

There’s a freak-out brewing at my house. At my house.

So, new couches arrived yesterday. Yes, our oldy-mouldy basement couch is still propped up, all cattywompus on the porch. I should have taken a photo of it instead of this new obsession of mine: the candle makes me happy, the couch makes me laugh. I keep trying to convince IZ that I’m Southern enough to have a couch on my porch, who cares a Foxtrot what the neighbors think. He keeps looking at me, with that look of his, and then he affects the “therapist talking a person off the ledge as seen on CSI NY” tone of voice with me, “Uh. . . no.”

Apparently, he cares what the neighbors think of him. I already know what they think of me, and let me tell you: a couch on my LAWN would be fitting. Ahem. So, if the couch is still flashing its underbelly at the neighborhood by tomorrow afternoon, I’m going to arrange it artistically on the porch and then glare when IZ suggests we move it.

Seriously, you shouldn’t judge a girl by her silver ballet flats and Bombalicious lip gloss—just because she knows how to accessorize doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy a little trash decor now and again. Oh boy, I really shouldn’t listen to Social Distortion and blog at the same time.

So, yep… new couches. It wasn’t what we’d planned to buy this summer—but what can you do? We did some quick shopping for what we could afford at the moment and we settled on a couple of couches that will transition into the basement/entertainment center eventually. We went with leather, because IZ likes it and why not buy something that will work downstairs later? Seemed like a good solution. Sometimes, you have to be practical and well, this buys me more time to wear IZ down on the concept of chintz. Every time I suggest big cabbage roses in balmy tones of aqua and beige he looks at me with that look of his, and then he affects the “therapist talking a person off the ledge as seen on CSI NY” tone of voice with me, “Uh. . . no.”

But I am not so easily deterred. And believe you me, I have my ways of making him talk chintz.

The new couches mean a change in our siting regime. Animals are no longer permitted to sit on the couches. They are very MUCH not allowed to pee on th em! Snickers is not adjusting to this as easily as Miss Sophie; but then, my dog is superior to his cat. We’ve established this. To prevent any more expensive accidents, Snickers is spending her evenings sequestered in the gym. She isn’t complaining and I’m not worrying and that’s going to be the way it is for evah!

I’m liking this no animals on the furniture rule. However, I’m making an exception to the sitting rule for the boy because he makes me laugh when he says things like this:

Me: (rocking out to AudioSlave on radioio) You know, it’s pretty sad when your mom who is nearly 40 is hipper than you are.

Boy Wonder: You’re not hip. You’re hippy.

Ha ha ha… he can stay. Ahem, but if he pees on the couch there’s going to be a freak-out at my house.