Commenting, Ice and Serial Killers

Enetation is down right now, so comments won't be working for a bit. I've been told I should switch to another commenting service, but I've decided I like these Brits, so I'm sticking with them for the time being. I can't reach them to see what the problem might be as their entire server seems to be out of commission.

Perhaps they, too, have been hit by an unseasonal ice storm which has knocked out their power. Power's been on and off here since last night, actually going down right when I was about to hit the "Post & Publish" button. Grr. Lost my post. Not that it was monumental, but there were some descriptions in there of which I was rather proud. Naturally, I can't remember them, nor can I write anything to equal them, so I'm leaving it be. Silly thing is, if I'd just bothered to write the entry in WordPerfect, like I've been doing of late (except for this one), there would have at least been a partial copy from back-up.

Speaking of things I can and cannot do with my blog, I really wish I could put up pictures here so you guys can see what the trees and bushes look like up here. Everything is coated with a little less than a third of an inch of ice. You can hear the ice cracking and falling from the higher branches. Sometimes it's the branches themselves. A lot of power lines have gone down here. We haven't been without power for a period longer than maybe forty minutes. They're very good at clearing those messes up.

I don't envy the power line guys, though. They haven't had a break since the frozen rain started falling Thursday night. It turned to sleet and hail Friday. We got a little more frozen rain today. There is an inch-thick layer of hail and ice on the ground. It looks like snow, but you can tell it's not when you step on it. The flags finally melted today, but are soaked through and aren't flapping properly in the wind.

The ice coating everything is very pretty. My mom told me to take her digital camera and take pictures of the dogwood outside the kitchen door. Its slender, fragile branches and round leaf buds now remind me of reindeer antlers. They are so heavy with ice they practically scrape the ground. The tall trees next door are swaying heavily, like women in mourning, some of them leaning on each other for support.

Because of the overcast, the night is not entirely dark; the ambient light from the city of Albany turns everything a strange, disturbing, dirty orange color. This erie light didn't help last night, when the power first went out. The electronic equipment made strange noises of distress throughout the house and my mind instantly went to the hours of documentaries on murderers I'd watched earlier that day. Mass murderers and serial murderers and cannibals. It was fascinating at the time, but I had planted a seed of freak-out in my suggestible mind, and called out for my mom, loudly, when the office went pitch black. My excuse was that I couldn't see and needed a flashlight, but we both knew that I could see by the orange Albany glow from the windows.

If only they hadn't ended every half-hour episode with some sort of phrase like "they caught these men, but there are countless others still on the loose, preying upon the innocent for no other reason than the thrill of the kill!" Oh, if only I could be addicted to the Food Network like any other, normal cable-viewing person. No, I must be a History Channel junkie. "Just like Tony Soprano," my mom told me. How wonderful. My viewing patterns are similar to a fictional, violent-tempered mob boss.

Gag Reflex

My brother, to thank me for forwarding a dancing Meatwad Flash game to him, sent me this link. Seeing as the Weight Watchers cult is claiming more and more of my friends, I thought you all would enjoy. My "favorite" is the Hot Wrap Ups.

There, I also found these freaky-ass diet plan suggestions and this site of equally freaky-ass mid-century non-weight-lossy cookbooks. (My mom has the cookbook referred to in the "Meat! Meat! Meat!" section. It's somewhere in the basement in a dust-covered and probably mildewed box. I suspect that it, too, is stained with ancient meat-juice. Mm-mm-mm.)

snicker

There is, perhaps, something wrong with me, but this very simple flash video cracked me up.

UPDATE Just went back to that link to see if it was just a one-time giggle. It still cracks me up.

A Night With Mr. Roxbury

Please laugh with me at this video of an angry Welshman in his skivies. (Full story here.)

Frozen

It was very noisy outside last night. I couldn't have slept even if I had gone to bed before four. It sounded like the wind was blowing everything not stuck in the ground across the yard and back. Rattling, scraping, banging, thumping all night long. I looked out the window this morning to check the damage and discovered it wasn't the wind blowing things about making that racket last night, it was falling ice. We had an ice storm. It's still– I'm not sure what to call it. Icing? Not as heavily, but I hear the wet, clicking rattle of the falling ice. I've never been in a proper ice storm. This isn't a very big one. I can tell because there are no trees lying in the road and no branches in our yard. The snow from earlier this week is entirely gone, but now everything is covered in a layer of ice. Branches are encased and shimmering starkly. Everything looks fragile. The flags are covered with ice, too. If I'd known there was going to be an ice storm, I would have brought the flags in, but now I don't want to do anything to them for fear of breaking them in pieces. They're not shifting in the wind, but I can tell they're moving because of the cracking sound they make. The flag pole lines are coated in ice and sticking out at sharp angles, looking as though a good tug of breeze could snap them. Everything is brittle. It reminds me of the White Witch from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. A cold, slightly forbidden, frozen world.

Honey

The wall between the outdoors and the kitchen cabinet is not very well insulated. As a result, the honey in the cabinet has crystalized in that sticky, funky fashion honey crystalizes. This is annoying, as I like to use honey in my green tea.

It is even more annoying because I'm drinking even more green tea than I usually do because I heard green tea helps accelerate one's metabolism. Faster metabolising means less excess flesh. Hyper-metabolisms lead to super-skinny size-one types who complain that they eat and eat and just can't gain a pound, which is a very irritating yet enviable complaint.

I'm sure adding honey is not helping the excess weight problem any, but it takes the edge off the bitterness of the tea. I'm a round-eye. This is what I do.

Still, the honey is crystalized and refuses to come out of the large squeeze bottle. Frustrating. So I nuke the honey bottle. The honey is now willing to come out of the squeeze bottle, but there's a problem. Not a real problem, but an issue nonetheless. The honey, post-crystallization and post-nuking, now comes out of the bottle like serious diarrhea. This, you can imagine, is unappetizing at best. Squeezing diarrhea into my tea is not a pleasant idea, even if it's sweet, honey-flavored, golden diarrhea. I still use it and I still drink the tea, but it's a good thing the tea has to sit and steep for a while, as those few minutes of steeping allow me time to forget the sweet, sticky, gold diarrhea I just poured into my metabolism-raising tea.

Lurking Is Good

Of course, I'll feel like a complete ass when someone tells me "That's not the right word, Little Trooper!" There you are, though. Anyway, it's good to lurk on the blogs of those you don't know or know of or know but not particularly well. This is because you can find many nifty things, like this. Please note I have used my full moniker, which is a very different result from my name (if I used it, I'd be a Man-Eating Attack Monkey with a kick-ass battle rating of 9.1; my writing name is a somewhat less kick-ass Brain-Eating Skeleton Monkey with a still-respectable battle rating of 8.0; my full name is a pansy-ass Gruel-Eating Jungle Monkey with a measily 2.6 battle rating). My partial web moniker of Sugar Kat is a Poison-Eating Killer Monkey with a pathetic 3.7 battle rating. (I'm not cheating, I'm being thorough, so ;-p. You'll probably kick my LTSK ass, anyway.)

Little Trooper Sugar Kat is a Potato-Eating Space Monkey ...with a Battle Rating of 5.6 To see if your Food-Eating Battle Monkey can defeat Little Trooper Sugar Kat, enter your name:

Please note the following battle results:

• Buffy v. Spike
  
• Buffy v. Angelus
  
• Xander v. Dark Willow
  
• Buffy v. The First
  
• Buffy v. apocalypse
  
• Wolverine v. Sabertooth
  
• Jean Grey v. Dark Phoenix
  
• Batman v. Superman
  
• Spiderman v. Batman
  
• Marvel Girl v. Wonder Woman
  
• Obi-Wan v. Darth Maul
  
• Ben Kenobi v. Darth Vader
  
• Gandalf v. Dumbledore
  
• Harry v. Frodo
  
• Harry v. Draco
  
• Eowyn v. Arwen
  
• Kenny v. Cartman
  
• Professor Farnsworth v. Dr. Zoidberg
  
• Meatwad v. Master Shake
  
• Desi Arnaz v. Brak's Dad
  
• Yankees v. Red Sox
  
• Ireland v. England
  
• Cantonese v. Mandarin
  
• Barnes & Noble v. Amazon.com
  
• Our President v. Gore
  
• Democrat v. Republican
  
• liberal v. conservative
  
• late v. early
  
• Mom v. Dad
  
• chocolate v. vanilla
  
• tea v. coffee
  
• cat v. dog
  
• God v. Satan
  
• SheepBoy v. E.T. ...it's a tie!

IMPORTANT NEWS

This is not actually important news to anyone but Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans, and that particular group probably already knows about this, but I thought I'd quote SciFiWire here, anyway:

Final Buffy Eps Slated
UPN will wrap up Buffy the Vampire Slayer with five new episodes, starting April 15, featuring the return of former series regulars David Boreanaz (Angel) and Eliza Dushku (Faith) and guest star Nathan Fillion (Firefly). Subsequent episodes will air April 29, May 6 and May 13, with the series finale on May 20.

This five-episode story arc will pit Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar) against her most insidious and evil opponent ever, Caleb (Fillion), a depraved operative of the First. A final battle to the death will decide whether good or evil will prevail on Earth.

Also found on SciFiWire are these pieces of info:

• Bruce Campbell makes his own cheeze-fest film, to star himself.
  
• Dude! A Battle Chasers movie! (Film Cynic sez: it either won't get made or it will and it'll suck.)
  
• Interesting cast signed up for a sequel to the very good Pitch Black.
  
• A reference in the news briefs to an Ain't It Cool News piece which revealed that the guy who played Mickey Mantle so very well in the HBO film 61* is going to be The Punisher in the upcoming film of the same name.
  
• In the why-god-why? file, Edward Furlong is getting prepped for his role in yet another crap-ass Crow sequel.
  
• An idea was bandied about a couple of months back that UPN was going to dump Buffy's ass, anyway, no matter what SMG decided.
  
• And, finally, in the laugh-your-ass-off rumor pile, there's this piece about David Boreanaz, our soul-full Angel, signing up to play Superman in the film currently struggling through development. Come, laugh with me. BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! Those Brits are so damned gullible.

Here's a nice thing Buffy fans can do: Nicholas Brendon, a stutterer himself, is chairman of the Stuttering Foundation of America's Stuttering Awareness Week. Okay, so this reads a bit like a joke, but James Earl Jones is a stutterer, too, so you'd best not be mocking the Voice of Darth Vader. Anyway, apparently Xander fans are trying to raise funds for the foundation in honor of Brendon's birthday on April 12th as well as to thank him for seven years of Xandery fun and goodness.

Or, if you don't like Xander in particular, but are a big, honkin' Buffy fan, you may wish to check out the Buffy Thank You site.

Household Hints!

Though I've read in many places that the best thing to do to get rid of bloodstains is to run the stained material through cold water, I find that very, very hot tap water works best.

Rinse the blood-stained cloth with water as hot as you can get it from the tap. Then rub the stained spot with directly with bar soap. Rinse with the hot tap water again. The stain should, at best, be completely gone. You may have a faint yellow mark where the bloodstain once was if the bloodstain was not quite fresh. If the stain is old, it will take some extra time to clean out and you will probably still be left with a faint brown mark where the stain was. Once you've done as much as you can in your sink, you should immediately launder the item to remove the remainder of the stain. Now that nasty bloodstain is all gone!

That Song Has Me Confused. Is This Ironic?

Because it wasn't homework, I decided to take a stupid test on AOL regarding how good a date I am. I got a 16 out of 20. And I quote: You must be in high demand on the dating circuit. You have a knack for making men feel at ease. Enjoy yourself, girl!

They couldn't possibly be more wrong. I am Sugar Kat the Dateless. I haven't been asked out by a non-drunk in about, what, seven years? Drunks (reason: beer goggles) and jokes (reason: obvious) don't count. Drunk asking was last year. Joking request for a date was four years ago. Both smushed my ego just that much further. And my mother wonders why I don't wear more feminine clothes (I'm a jeans-and-tee-shirt kind of gal nowadays, usually wearing the flannel shirt I stole from my brother over the tee). Why bother? Ugh.

So's you get some context on the silly response, here are the quiz questions and my responses (along with ubiquitous LTSK commentary in brackets):

1. How long does it take to decide how you feel about a guy?
   · I can tell within the first few minutes of meeting him [not unless there's something obviously wrong with him, I can't]
   x A few hours of conversation [this is prelims, like, do I think I like a guy or not, is he second date material, etc., so, yeah, a few hours of conversation should do it]
   · Two dates
   · Sometimes months
   
   
2. What's a first date dealbreaker for you?
   · The way he dresses [snooty bitch]
   x Unpleasant odors
   · Showing up without a gift [what kind of demanding bitch expects a freakin' gift on a first date?!]
   · Staring at your chest throughout dinner [heck, that happened all the time at the office. There's roughly a foot of space between my eyes and my admittedly largeish chest. I can tell. I can always tell. Eye angle. But it's the first date. I'd write that sort of behavior off to hormones. So long as he's not trying to grab them and makes occasional eye contact.]
   
   
3. On which subject do you demand the full story during the first date?
   · His previous relationships [that's just stupid; why wander into that dangerous territory on the first freakin' date? Especially considering he might just start whining unpleasantly about a total bitch of an ex. Do I need to hear that, even if he is a great guy?]
   · His future career plans [he can tell me if he wants to, but to ask about it makes it seem like I'm concerned about how much money he's making, which sure isn't my main concern]
   x His hobbies and passions ["demand" is an overly strong word, but, yeah, I generally want to know what the heck the guy is interested in. You know, if we have anything in common, or if he's into something I can't stand (I should imagine vice-versa).]
   · His feelings about marriage [Jesus! Stalk much, superfreak? Hell, I don't want to think about marriage. Why would I bring it up on the first freakin' date?]
   · None [almost chose this, simply because of the "demand" (who am I to demand anything at this point?), but I'd be very much interested in the hobby stuff, so I chose that]
   
   
4. On a date, do you ever envy the other couples having fun on their dates?
   · Yes
   x No [what the hell do I care about the other couples?]
   
   
5. How far do you push him to do something he doesn't want to do, like dancing?
   · Two or three whines, then stop
   · Until he complies
   x I don't -- I ask what he'd rather do [not to say I'm a wussy, compliant non-entity, but this is the first date. We're looking for neutral territory where we're both comfortable. If I met a chick like the two answers above, I'd probably smack her.]
   · I don't, but then I make fun of him to my girlfriends [again: bitch!]
   
   
6. What do you always compliment a man on, even if it's not true?
   · His smile
   · His clothing
   · His choice of date activity
   · His kissing
   x I only compliment if I mean it [I hate false compliments. They're lies. Why start off with stupid lies that will lead you to trouble later? They always do.]
   
   
7. How do you bring up the subject of a second date?
   · 'That was fun'
   · 'So what are you doing next weekend?'
   · 'Give me a call sometime'
   x Wait for him to bring it up [I'm a coward. I'm not going to presume any desire on his part to see my sorry self again. If I had a good time, I'll say so, but not to lead into anything.]

That all seems pretty reasonable to me. I guess. But I think I give off some sort of cooties!/Ebola!/rabies!-vibe. Or something. Or maybe I'm ugly. Or too tall. Or too fat. Or maybe it's this flannel shirt. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm Dateless because my social circle's now a bunch of kids nine or twelve years younger than I am. But, considering the duration of time, I think the age range can be ruled out. It's probably the height/weight/looks thing. (And maybe the boobs are, like, scary.)

Baby Eaters

Um...huh? I think this can go in the "what the fuck?" propaganda file. I thought calling your enemies baby-eaters had gone out of vogue. Guess not.

(excerpt) Marines in south-central Iraq offered food packets to wary civilians yesterday. [...] One Marine said a prisoner of war told him "they'd heard to be a Marine, you had to eat a baby or kill someone."

I'm sure everyone knows that, according to late Medieval/Renaissance diabolist theory, witches flew to their giant sabbats, danced about naked, kissed Satan's ass as a pledge to honor and obey him, had orgy sex (which was pleasureless because of Satan's cold, hard flesh (ew!)), and made mock-Host out of babies which had been roasted/boiled during the sabbat. Because witches, as societal scapegoats, were supposed to be deviant from the societal norm, the idea of the witch snatching, cooking and consuming babies is very common through much witch myth. The invading marines are deviants not to be accepted by good Iraqis, therefore the marines are called baby-eaters. It's stupid and medieval, but it works, especially on a panicked populace kept ignorant by its leaders. (Remind you of anything?)

While I Was Waiting For Buffy...

I decided to hit the Daily Show website and look at their videos. I really, really hope you can watch this one, as I've yet to read, see, or hear a better response to the Haliburton thang the administration pulled on us.

Auugh! (part two)

Yeah, I know I posted on this already, but I'm upset. Extent of Jeter injury still unclear:

(excerpt) Derek Jeter still isn't sure how long he will be out after suffering a dislocated left shoulder on Monday, but early estimates have the All-Star shortstop out at least four-to-six weeks.

Auuugh! Auuugh! Shit! Fuck! Auuugh!

I hate this useless feeling, not being able to do anything. Yeah, okay, I don't even know Jeter. But, still. Shit! Fuck! Auugh!

My apologies to those who are offended by the coarse language. Today's posts has been rated NC-17.

(Also a pisser is that Mom brought home all sorts of yummy food from Trader Joe's and I can't eat it 'cause I'm all sickly from my meds. Grr! Auugh!

However, just so you know, sipping hot white tea is a good way to settle an unhappy tummy. I recommend plain ol' Emperor's White Tea, as extra stuff like melon or jasmine might make the settling tummy waffle on the settling bit.)

Auugh!

It's snowing again. What melted away this morning in the early spring sun has been replaced with more cold whiteness. It's still lovely, but it's spring, dammit! It's beautiful, but I want to plant tulip bulbs!

I'm now concerned for the songbirds which were making such lovely noise a few days ago but are now silent. Frozen? And what about the robins? The first one showed mid-February, and I'm positive his little skeleton will be found behind a bush somewhere while we're clearing out the hedge, the giant, black crows in our neighborhood having cleaned off the edible bits a month ago. There were robins in the front yard last week, making it feel even more like spring. Now they're nowhere to be seen. I hope they grew sensible and flew back south until the weather up here is more reasonable to worm- and bug-eaters.

"Hey, it's Spring! snow snow snow April Fool's!"

Then again, I'm sure Frau Baker, my German teacher in high school, is very happy. She, her husband and her two children were all avid skiiers, weekending in the mountains well into the spring and telling smiling stories the Monday following of whatever jump or slalom her family went over. I miss Frau Baker. She was so nice. (And I was the best student in her class, beating out my class' valedictorian and my brother's class' valedictorian every quiz and test! Woo! I'd always get 100% plus all of the bonus points. During verbal quizzes, I'd finish so quickly Frau Baker and I would chat for a bit about languages before she sent me in to get the next student. Ah, the glory days of my youth.)

It's A New York Times Kind Of Day

If you haven't signed up to read The New York Times on the web, then do so. It's free, for pete's sake. And you can use a dump e-mail account (like "myself_nyt@yahoo.com") if you're concerned about random spam (which I haven't had a problem with). Anyway, today's entry is going to be about stuff I read in the Times, with links.

Jeter's Shoulder Dislocated
Some of you could give less of a shit. I was seriously ill last night and listening to the season opener game over the radio because watching television was making my head/stomach that much worse. I heard about the collision when it happened, leapt out of bed and ran to the T.V. They played the colision over and over and showed them trying to reposition his shoulder while his teammates looked on.

Derek Jeter does not wince. He never shows any sign of pain. That's just the way he is. Except last night, when he was obviously crying out in pain. The picture shown in the link isn't the same as the picture on the front page of today's sports section, which is of him on the ground, fully baring his teeth in a grimace. I nearly cried while watching this last night, and I'm still worried. This is my team. I can't think of anything that would work so my tiny readership would understand how I feel, except maybe if Michael Jordan dislocated his shoulder during his prime with the Bulls. But then, that only works for one of you. Ah, well. Just know I was upset enough last night to watch television until I puked and am still upset enough today to get myself on the computer, in spite of still being wobbly, health-wise.

NYU Raises Fees 6.3%
I read this and was super-pissed off. The education at NYU isn't even worth what they're charging now. They're one of the most expensive private institutions out there, and the name does not yet merit the cost (you don't get instant-hire for being an NYU alumni as you might for being a Harvard alum). I know there are people who feel they got a decent education there, but I think the quality of the teaching and the requirements here at U-Albany is, in some ways, superior to what I experienced at NYU. For pete's sake, they have an actual historian running the Medieval & Renaissance Studies program here, as opposed to an ignorant French professor who knows next to nothing about the course of study. And, to be honest, considering what they charge, the students should be getting far more than a decent education and the occasional good professor.

NYU has squandered their funds for years on unnecessary projects. My dad got angry with them some years ago for putting more emphasis on money for themselves than educating their students (he was in a position to know).

Grr! Arrg! Anger!

Paul Zindel, Writer of a Lot of Teen Books, Dies
I read a bunch of his books when I was in junior high and high school. They were left over, mostly, from when my sisters were that age. In some ways, his books were very 70's, but they were mostly timeless in the angst and weirdness which teens face. They were mostly suburban tales and I'm not entirely sure the folks reading this blog would like Pardon Me, You're Stepping On My Eyeball as much as I did, but Zindel's books are a part of my childhood and I feel I should acknowledge his passing.

(As for the play mentioned through most of the obituary, The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, it mostly stands out in my memory for the description of a girl's method of obtaining a cat skelleton. Ugh.)

Daniel Patrick Moynahan, Former New York Senator, Buried At Arlington Yesterday
He was an amazing man. I'm not sure how much the folks when spent their youth up in New York State heard about him during his years in office, but he was on the television almost daily during my years outside of D.C. His obit is here. The details on his funeral, here. Again, I feel the need to acknowledge this important man's passage.

Interesting bit at the end of the description of yesterday's ceremony: "[Maura Moynihan, the Senator's daughter] explained later that she chose the verse ["Do not go gentle into that good night"] because her father knew Mr. [Dylan] Thomas and sometimes drank with him at the White Horse Tavern in Greenwich Village." Now I want to go to the White Horse Tavern.

Finally, Investigation Into 9/11

(excerpt) As witness after witness addressed the commission, several gnawing questions were either articulated or implied: Who, if anyone, would ever be held responsible for failing to stop the attacks? Did the commission have the authority to truly make changes? And would a world focused on the latest war have the stomach, or the attention span, to listen again to the facts surrounding Sept. 11?

"I am convinced that this tragedy did not have to happen," said Stephen Push, a spokesman for Families of Sept. 11, which pressed for the establishment of the committee. "Too many politicians put re-election over national security. There were people who failed us on 9/11."

[...]

Afterward, some family members, while encouraged with the initial opportunity to have their say, expressed a queasiness over whether their words would stick, or whether political considerations would eventually erode their concerns.

Really, there's not much for me to add to this article. Just read, but be prepared to be angry.

Stuck In The Middle With You

Every once in a while, I wonder what the films are going to be about ten years after this war is over. There are going to be at least a couple of this war. And then I see the pictures of the fleeing Iraqis, those not fighting, and think, "That's going to be in there, in a montage, with music piped over." How strange is it that I can think of this war as a thing of the past, regurgitated and reconsidered by some young filmmaker who studied Quentin Tarantino and David O. Russell.

Notes From Kuwait

Go to this link: Electrolite: "Rhetoric of war. Compare and contrast.", then scroll down the comments until you find Terry Karney ("posted on March 23, 2003 07:47 AM"), who was stationed in Kuwait when he wrote his comment. It's a long piece, three from the bottom of the thread of comments (as of this posting).

I wish this guy had a blog I could check, but I have a feeling that might be against some sort of military security rule. It's a well-written piece, full of detail. I get more of a sense of what it's like to be there as a member of the American armed forces (he's army) than from all of those vaguely silly reports from embedded reporters. I hope he can write more in the future. Do read.

Opening Day

It's opening day for the regular baseball season. Yankees play their first regular season game in Toronto tomorrow afternoon. Dad came into the kitchen early this afternoon as Mom and I watched cooking shows on PBS and cheered the start of the baseball season, arms raised to the ceiling, wide grin breaking up the calico red-brown-white of his beard. I looked out the window at the still-bare tree tops scraping the grey sky and reminded him the first Yankees game wasn't until tomorrow. He nodded his head and said that's good enough.

As of Friday, there was not a square inch of snow left anywhere in our yard. There is a layer of dead, light brown grass lying over the spring grass, except where I hadn't managed to pick up the leaves in a corner of the back yard before the snow started in December. There some bacteria apparently grew under the leaves and ate up the dead grass, facilitating the decomposition and leaving bright green patches in the sad and tired taupe. Mom and I discussed yesterday morning what our strategy might be to get rid of the thatch over the rest of the yard. I spent some time after cleaning up the rotting, soaking wet leaves, silver with slime, bacteria and mold, but had to quit after three bags because of the rain. I'd been planning to finish the job today and tomorrow, depending on whether the weather allowed.

Except last night we got a confirmation from the news: four to six inches of snow were expected in our area of the capital region. Ten plus in higher elevations. Snow. It's Opening Day and we're getting snow. And not just a little bit of snow, a tiny bit of frosting to remind us this is March, the liony, ill-tempered month. Inches, up to half a foot. The snow is falling hard outside and much has accumulated in a relatively short period of time. Views to the distance are blurred and faded through the thickly-falling snow.

"Falling hard" is a strange way to describe snowfall, though anyone who has seen serious snowfall knows what I'm talking about. There's a lot coming down very quickly, but it's still drifting beatifically as snow always does. Even though I'm disappointed in this bump in the road to spring (which I've actually been very much looking forward to this year), I can't help but look outside and think, "How lovely." Even Mom, who has blamed this winter's heavy snowfall on my arrival and has expressed extreme frustration with that white stuff on her yard and her hedges, admitted quietly, without prompting, that the snowfall is beautiful and calming.

I had put up the American and Yankees flags in the backyard the Monday before last, as the breeze that morning was brisk, the sun was shining, and the sky was early-spring blue and it seemed like a perfect day for flags to wave. When it snows or rains very hard, we usually take the flags down for some reason or tradition with which I'm not familiar. However, all three of us had very late nights last night and were too tired to put on shoes and coats this morning and head outside to take down the flags. So the American flag is flapping in the snowy wind, the red and blue bright against the vague white of the falling, drifting snow, the white stripes and stars somehow made whiter in constrast to the blurred world around it. I rather like it.

Egan Sighting

Switched over to watch The Agency (10pm, CBS) after The Lion In Winter finished on TMC. Apparently there was some sort of news-worthy item earlier this evening which caused a shuffle in the CBS schedule, so we didn't miss the beginning of the episode. I checked the info on the show (nifty trick TimeWarner cable set up on their system), and the episode title was "Elite Meat To Eat."

"That has to be an Egan title!" I told my mom. "That's so Egan! She must've written the show!"

Mom nodded noncommittedly and we waiting for the opening credits to fade in and out discretely as they are wont to do on this show. Sure enough, Egan had cowriting credit. There are also little bits, like how the nebbishy guy trapped in the Irish museum is dealing with the guy he bumped into while trying to escape from terrorists which are so Egan, I feel like telling the world, "That's so Egan!" I only have my mom, who has yet to read the Ivory trilogy. So I thought I'd put it here in my blog, even though I'm pretty damned sure no one who has read Egan who is reading this blog has watched this particular episode. Darn it.

Please do try an episode, eventually. Before it's cancelled for lack of viewers because CBS decided to place it on Saturday night. They are especially good when Egan writes them, and she writes a lot.

(By the way, does everyone else hate the "Are you gellin'?" Dr. Scholl's ad as much as I do?)

Mood Weather

Do you ever have the weather match your mood? Like, you're in a terrifically good mood and the sun comes out, not too warm, and shines happily while fluffy white clouds drift blissfully through a periwinkle-blue sky. This happens to me on occasion. No connection, naturally, outside of coincidence, but still, I find it interesting.

Like today. I've been put on this hormone therapy 'cause of unpleasant chick stuff I really don't want to go into because it's private and upseting. Today's the last day of the heavy-duty doses, and in a couple of days, I go on a more regular thingamabob. Hormone therapy seriously whacks out your emotions. It whacks out your ability to deal with shit which flies in your direction, and makes you more likely to freak. (I think the reason I was so damned hyper until a short while ago is the stuff that's going on which requires me to take these pills.)

Living with my parents is not exactly a treat. My parents should have gotten a divorce years ago. I mean decades. They should have gotten a divorce when I was elementary school. Or earlier. They have serious fucking issues, as individuals and as a couple. They both need serious therapy. They should neither of them be in a relationship of any kind. They are both very twisted, psychologically. They have their good side, each of them, and I love them, because they are my mom and dad and I remember those good things.

But since I have moved back in with them, they both have decided I am part of this war they have been waging against eachother since before I was born. Many little things. Many, many, many little things. Occasional big things, but mostly small, even tiny. I don't want to go into details, but lies and accusations and insults are included.

I am punished by either parent for the behavior, recent or long-term or imagined, of the other. This is not particularly fair. I am not a perfect housemate, but I do try. I'm no longer that 18-year old, whiny bitch. I'm nearly thirty and have a sense of responsibility. I do my best to pull my weight here, chore-wise, making meals, cleaning up. I do my own laundry. I do their laundry. I fold their laundry when I find they've left it sitting in the dryer for a week. I clean up after they cook. I clean up the mess after they do laundry (there's this whole thing with lint I will not go into). I clean growing things out of their fridge and wipe up the strange and sticky brown spills. I vacuum. I try to leave a minimum of my things lying about the house, only leaving something somewhere if I really need it to be in that partcular place in the house. Et cetera. Et cetera.

But this isn't enough. It could never be enough, especially since they don't even notice or one of them claims to have done what I've done. I haven't flipped out. I just sigh or shrug my shoulders and keep quiet, even when they're screaming at me. Any further reaction would only make matters worse.

Until this week, with these damned hormones. I'm irritable and hyper-sensitive. Not a good state of mind when dealing with these two. All week, when something happened, I'd whisper angrily at the door through which the parent who had upset me had gone. Trying to keep my temper down. A flare of temper only makes it worse, it only makes it worse. But I could get calm. Angry whispers at no one, then calm. But today, I snapped. I slammed a wall with my fist and swore at the top of my lungs. I was in the basement and no one was there, but I just couldn't take that one last thing this week. That one last straw. That one last piece of undeserved blame, that one last lie, that one last passive-agressive act. After the outburst, my mom came to the top of the stairs and asked me just what the hell I thought I was doing. I told her exactly what was wrong, as loudly as I could, unable to keep myself from screaming at her exactly what was wrong, wrong, wrong, always. She quietly said, "Oh," and walked away.

My throat aching and my entire body shaking, I came upstairs and, lo!, the very skies had opened and a thunderous torrent had been unleashed from the heavens! It was like the world reflected exactly what happened to me. Boom! Everything came pouring out in a grey, vertical river, the rain hitting the ground so hard it bounced back up higher than the roof. I almost cried, but I didn't. There's no point to crying. It changes nothing, just makes my face puffy and bloched-red. There really wasn't a need for me to cry. Or yell or scream or slam and kick walls. It's stupid, juvenile behavior. I'm better than that. I hope.

I've stopped shaking, but I feel nauseated and my throat is still rough and sore. I'm hoping I can get back to the passive calm I had earlier, now that I no longer have to take this pill anymore. But I do wish I had one of those big, hanging punching bags like Buffy Summers practices on when she's training. It'd be good to have something to punch, just in case. I really don't want to lose my temper like that again. It changes nothing and just makes me feel sick.

The rain helped, though. I wonder whom I should thank for that quick storm.

Best Headline of the Week

"Sudden, Unexplained Death May Kill Many Adults"

Further Thoughts On Private Riley

Reading over what I wrote, I noticed the private's name was Riley, like Buffy Summers's ex, who worked for that black-ops-y military organization. So, in my weird, twisted, dork mind, Private Riley is now Buffy's Riley (even though that's the private's family name, not his first name). Which makes me very depressed. And feel like a complete ass. And just plain stupid. And like I'm doing something wrong in my head. Mostly depressed. And worried. And sad. And scared.

I hate this.

How completely unfair is it that there's no such thing as superheroes?

And Because Sex Is Funny

Thought you might like to peruse this article: "That's One Very Old Dildo" (Nov 29 2002).

(excerpt) A 2,000-year-old sex aid for women has gone on show in a Hong Kong display of relics from China's Han Dynasty.

The ancient phallus - made of bronze - is part of an exhibition at the Hong Kong Museum of History which also includes a number of Xian's famous terracotta warriors.

The phallus is believed to have been used by frustrated courtesans living in the imperial palace during the Han and Qin dynasties which span 221 BC to 220 AD, according to the South China Morning Post.

Arrogance and Ignorance

Bush II interrupted my television-viewing this afternoon. He was addressing a group of veterans. You know, the people from whom his budget would take loads of benefits. He spent the first five minutes talking out of the side of his mouth, being smarmy and disgustingly smirky. I muted the next ten minutes, then turned off the television entirely, no longer able to tolerate even catching his slimy smirk with the corner of my eye.

Then I read Teresa Nielsen Hayden's blog entry from this morning. Very eloquent statement on what makes me so angry about this man. Well, one of the things.

(excerpt) One more observation. Consider Bush’s statement: Maybe somebody needs to explain to me why they say something, but I don’t feel like I owe anybody an explanation. That is not and cannot be the voice of a public servant. What you’re hearing there is a long-accustomed and automatic assumption of privilege: You’re there for me. I’m not there for you.

Now Visiting Books of Wonder

It's a good idea to check the Books of Wonder website for their store events, as they get lots of nifty visitors. Thought I'd let you know about the visitors I'd like to meet:

Saturday, April 19

• Susan Cooper, author of The Dark is Rising sequence.
  Noon – 2pm

Saturday, May 10

• Eoin Colfer, for his new release, Artemis Fowl: The Eternity Code.
  Noon – 2pm
  He's an Irish school teacher and writes in a distinctly Irish tone. His best so far is The Wish List (apparently not available in the States), though my nephew adores the Artemis Fowl series. Mr. Fowl is a super-genius kid who uses his gift for crime.

Surfing around the site, I noticed they have a 19th century edition of Adventures of Tom Sawyer, which is kind I want, with the blue cover and gold stamping. It could be mine, if I had $650. Not exactly an impulse purchase.

Books!

I am inordinately happy that there is a new Honor Harrington book out. It is not great fiction, but it is fun space opera with interesting characters and creatures and more tech detail than I can shake a stick at. Nice thing is, it’s in hardcover, which used to annoy the crap out of me, but this time means I’ll have time to get a job and make some money before the mass-market paperback comes out, which is the format in which I’ve been getting the series. The same could be said for the goodness of the latest Amelia Peabody still being hardcover.

Not good because of the temptation to spend money I don’t have is the 14th Amelia Peabody book being out in mass-market. Bad Sugar Kat! No! Bad!

But they’re so goooood! (Guilty pleasure without too much guilt, as the characters are well-realized, etc., etc.)

… Well, I have to get my nephew his birthday present and the Harry Potter movie is cheap when pre-ordered, but I still need a certain amount for free shipping, so….

I guess I just have to buy The Golden One.

sigh How unfortunate. Forced into buying a book.

Responding to What Was Said

ET wrote this post over on her blog. I started to compose a response in her comments, but decided I had too much to say, so I'm posting it here instead. Sort of a preemptive strike against my comment being clipped out of her commets section and posted in mine here. So, here's my uneloquent reply to her blog's thread:

It's the individual stories which get to me the most during things like this. I got a little flipped out when I realized the woman P.O.W. was a cook who'd never expected to be in battle conditions, let alone a POW. My mind kept going over what she might have been thinking, as "just a cook," in that situation. Empathy. I'm putting myself in her place, and am further horrified by this mental exercise.

The "tribal" bit of "Riley's an SF dork, man" carries the empathy through in this case. Reading through the comments on the linked thread, I saw people thinking what shared reading experiences they've had with the captured private, and the idea of him being in such a vulnerable and dangerous position hurt all the more for this.

There is something more specialized about the reading of a book than living in a large city. There are specific trains of thought you've probably shared with this private if you've both read The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress or The Man In The High Castle. Okay, so I'm pretty much repeating what ET's just said, but not saying it as well. But I think my point is it's when the story is personal that it hurts. Ten people dead don't mean as much until you find out their individual stories, and sometimes not even until you find out something specific which you have in common with them, such as dorkiness.

According to one of the comments posted at Electrolite, a lot of the guys over there have played RPG games. That just bugs me out 'cause in my head (irrationally), those soldiers and sailors and pilots (and cooks) have turned into Halifax and ET and a whole crowd of people I know and would rather not have blown up into little bits or tortured (usually).

There is also the concern for those with whom I've a relatively passing connection. There are a lot of students from U-Albany who have been called into duty. I am terrified by the idea of these kids (and they are kids; they're exceptionally young), these students, getting killed or (possibly even worse) disabled (physically or mentally) in this war started for unconvincing reasons by the Bush II regime. One of my professors cancelled a class last Thursday, first day of this war. He was nearly in tears as he spoke of the several students who had come to his door, wearing cammies, asking for an incomplete for the semester. His students, he called them. He couldn't imagine talking about literary theory after that.

Even Ari Fleischer Is Flummoxed

Q. Yes, why was the French toast named Freedom toast? (Laughter.)

Q. Is that a White House decision?

MR. FLEISCHER: I'm not a Hobbit, so I didn't have a second breakfast. I had my breakfast before I came in. Is that what it said?

Q. Yes.

MR. FLEISCHER: It said Freedom toast?

Q. Yes.

Q. Was that at the administration request, or was that --

MR. FLEISCHER: I just -- we're always proud of the men and women of our Air Force. (Laughter.)

Excerpt from March 26, 2003, press briefing, from The Press Gaggle.

I like the "second breakfast" reference. This makes me almost like a man to whom I've a physical aversion, by association with Pippin, my favorite character in the books (well, so, he is, so there). Good job, Fleischer. (We'll see how long this lack of gagging lasts.)

There, That's Better

I just realized that the links under the first two "et cetera"s were incorrect. Fixed 'em.

Why? Because I'm completely blocked on two—count 'em!—two papers which are due tomor– sigh later today. I have nothing to turn in. I'm so very, very screwed. whimper

and I quote

"...[A]ny time you got the Pope and the Dixie Chicks against you, your time is up."
-Michael Moore, while the music played, after pissing off many people

et cetera

I was wondering about that.

et cetera

Oh, boy, is this true.

et cetera

Exactly!

And then there's this not-humorous bit at Electrolite.

Oscars

If everything were right with the world, the Academy Awards show would have been as hokey and cringe-inspiring as usual. Instead, though it's still highly-paid people congratulating themselves for making money for themselves, last night's show didn't annoy me half as much as they normally do. Highly-contested war, strangely enough, is good for the Oscars.

Also, if everything were right with the world, I would have been at my friend C.'s Oscars party in Boston, stuffing myself on the world's best vegetable dumplings and fake-pork chops. sigh

I will now list things I feel like listing, completely out of order, even though you really don't care about my opinion of the things listed, or even the Oscars.

• Best acceptance speech: Adrian Brody. Even if he hadn't been so beautifully surprised (so were the rest of us, Mr. Brody) and beautifully articulate, he would have won this blog's best speech award simply for that celebratory yet overwhelming snogging of the ever-gorgeous Halle Berry. That was fabulous, darling.
  
  
• Best wit: Peter O'Toole. Why the hell didn't this man win an Oscar for Lawrence of Arabia? Well, at least they acknowledged his talent last night. Better late than never? Not sure. However, he was everything that is wit and grace. "As I totter into antiquity...." Everyone should be so lightly eloquent. Three cheers for Mr. Chips.
  
  
• Moment I cheered the hardest: Spirited Away winning Best Animated Feature. I was convinced they'd give it to a more widely-shown film, but they started off the show giving the award to the most deserving nominee in its category. Yay! Very good way to start the awards ceremony.
  
  
• Best surprise other than Brody: Eminem winning Best Song for "Lose Yourself." This was the first year in a long time I liked all of the nominees, but I really felt his song was the best. And, surprisingly enough, so did the Academy. Huzzah! (Homophobia and misogyny are evil things, but that was a good song, dammit.)
  
  
• Best win other than Spirited Away: Chicago for Best Film Editing. The editing made the performances what they were, especially Renée Zwelleger and the ever-annoying Richard Gere. Other than the professional dancers, the editing was the best performance in the film.
  
  
• Most totally predictable moment: Michael Moore's protest/speech. God, didn't they know he'd use that moment to piss off the conservatives/moderates? Haven't they seen his films? Sheesh. (Still, it made me laugh. Good old Moore.)
  
  
• Most ridiculous and therefore wonderful outfit: Sean Connery. It took major brass cojones to dress like that. I admired that. Giggled, but admired.
  
  
• Most ridiculous and therefore best hair: Pedro Almodóvar. Weird. Eccentric. Whatever. It's just totally him. I dug it. (Yes, I checked the spelling.)
  
  
• Moment I drooled the most: Damn, but Gael Garcia Bernal was hot. Wow. R-r-r-r-r! (Yes, I had to look up his name.)
  
  
• Sexiest bald head: Daniel Day-Lewis. R-r-r-r-r!
  
  
• Best eyes: Salma Hayek. Always serious, but the most increadible pair of eyes on the screen, male or female.
  
  
• Best boobs: Queen Latifah. Damn, man. That is one, big, queenly woman. I should be that bold.
  
  
• The Dear-God-I-Hope-I-Look-That-Good-When-I'm-That-Age award: Tie Susan Sarandon and Meryl Streep. One was sexy, the other was regal. Both were beautiful. I can only hope my genetic material allows me to look half as good when I'm their age.
  
  
• I might chop off a limb to look this good: Jennifer Garner. Sheesh. That's just totally unfair. (By the way, how freakin' lame was that Mickey bit she had to do? Oy.)
  
  
• Still butt-ugly: Hilary Swank. Ew.
  
  
• Coolest fat lady: As always, Kathy Bates.
  
  
• Coolest loser: Martin Scorsese. The man grinned as if his name had been announced, stood up and gave Roman Polanski (statutory rapist at large) a standing ovation. That, my friend, is class. (Bonus points to me for spelling either of those names correctly.)
  
  
• Two things which should have won but weren't even nominated, dammit: Best Makeup to The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and Best Picture to Far From Heaven. I am pissed about both. Far From Heaven was as close to perfect a film as I've seen since Amélie and, dear lord, did you not see The Two Towers? That makeup kicked Frida's ass! Not to disparage the artistry of Frida, mind. But, seriously, what the hell was the Academy thinking?
  
  
• Person who should have won but wasn't even nominated, dammit: Best Actor In A Supporting Role to Dennis Quaid in Far From Heaven. In a film full of brilliant, spot-on performances, his shone the most. I am deeply pissed he was so utterly ignored. Grr!
  
  
• Best host: Steve Martin. I hope they bring him back again next year. I actually laughed at his jokes.

In all, I wasn't too pissed about this winners this year. Was Chicago really the best film released last year? No, it wasn't. But it sure as hell was enjoyable. I heartily recommend it to everyone. Anyone who can't enjoy themselves watching that movie... well, there may be something wrong with you, dear. You may want to have, ah, something checked. (Better coverage elsewhere: EW.com.)

IKEA-y Goodness

After my afternoon doctor's appointment on Friday, Mom drove us down to the IKEA at Elizabeth Center in 'Jersey. I. Love. IKEA. We did much exhausting shopping, wandering all over, looking at everything displayed, getting ideas for the front bathroom and the kitchen. Eating very tasty 99-cent plates of Swedish meatballs (yum!) and doing even more shopping. We got loads of stuff for a little over $100. I never feel ripped off at IKEA. Plus, Mom purchased the following for me:

• print of arching-stretching cat brush painting
  
• clip frame for stretching cat print
  
• Mammut, the furry, rubbery, teal alarm clock with interesting feet
  
• Espressivo, the super-bright, extending desk lamp (goes-with-everything black)

...none of which I could find on the IKEA website, darn it. But, they're nifty. And all under $10! (I'm stealing Mom's little-bitty tropical plant with pink spots, too. She'll find out when I move out.)

They're Not Even Being Original

So, everyone knows by now of the dumbass move of the Congress renaming french fries and french toast "freedom fries" and "freedom toast" just because the French had the audacity not to agree with Bush II's regime. So the fuck what, I say. The French have made a habit of disagreeing with us since at least the close of WWII. Why is this a big deal.

Anyway, it was an intensely stupid and childish thing to do, even more disturbing behavior when you consider the people running our government are our representatives and supposedly the best and brightest. Gak. International embarrassment once again. Gee, golly, Congress. Thanks for making Americans look like asses, again. Not like Bush II's pathetic "diplomacy" hasn't done that already.

Best thing is, this move to rename foodstuffs is not original. During WWII (I believe), sauerkraut, the cabbagey stuff that some people like to eat on their hot dogs, was renamed "freedom cabbage." Which is possibly even worst than "freedom fries" and "freedom toast."

Except this: look at the words. Freedom is fried and toasted now. Abused. There's a certain poetry to this, considering the formalization of the institution of Big Brother.

Okay, I've made myself all depressed. Off to listen to the Amelie soundtrack again. And then maybe Spike crooning. (Yumdelicious Spikey goodness.)

Re: Buffy Alert

I want to apologize to everyone who tuned into Buffy on FX tonight to watch "Once More, With Feeling." I wasn't aware FX edited episodes so drastically. I'm generally forgetful, but I remember songs like they're imprinted on my brain, so when you mess with a musical, I'm going to notice it, straight off. I'm more than a little pissed at FX. But then, what can you expect? It is Fox. Rat-bastards.

In Case You're Curious About The War

You might like to keep track of Kevin Sites' blog: "First-person account of a solo journalist's life on the front lines of war.
(Kevin Sites is a CNN journalist, but this is a personal website not affiliated with, endorsed by, or funded by CNN.)"

Quick notes and essays and photographs by a CNN commentator on the front lines of the war in Iraq. Sounds good to me. It's interesting, and not outrageously political one way or the other. Photos are great. Not pretty, but good. Anyway, bookmark it and check it out once in a while. I've put it in my blogs list here, in case you don't feel like bookmarking.

Buffy Alert!

I'm just a little obsessed. I've been watching the reruns on FX every freakin' weeknight. This is how I know that at 6:00 PM (ET) tomorrow (that's March 20, bubbie), they'll be running the musical episode from season six, "Once More, With Feeling." Yay! One of the best episodes, ever! Whee! Buffy, the Musical Vampire Slayer! Happy, happy!

By the bye, how much did Angel kick butt tonight? I loved it when Faith kicked the shit out of annoying-whiner Conner. And go super-Willow, defeating evil, First-y Cordy! Woo! The Angel-Buffy angst bit at the end was good, as well, with Angel looking soulful and Willow smiling all Willow-like. Total gas, her thinking Fred was making a pass. Also enjoyed her brief interaction with Conner ("androgynous"! ha!) and Wesley ("Anything else change?" "Oh, just little things."). However, you could tell, I think, that Alyson Hannigan very much adores new hubby Alexis Denisof. She was super-glowy the entire time they were on the screen together. (Aw, how cute!) Happy me, happy me. I think I'll spend this war watching Buffy and her spin-offs, which are fictional in their demony evil and death, and the good guys win in the end.

Rare E-mail From My Brother

My brother is currently employed by the State Attorney General's office in Texas.

Subj: death

The Electric Bill garbage pail kid keychain that you gave me was a big hit in the capital litigation department.

Joss Whedon Haunts My Dreams

Well, not quite. Something else is haunting my dreams at the moment, actually. I won't go into that. But I cannot get the soundtrack to "Once More, With Feeling" out of my head. Those songs are so damned catchy! (And "The Gift," from the season five ender, keeps making me weepy when I hear it.) Cheers to Joss Whedon for keeping me up at night with Spike singing,

Life's not a song
Life isn't bliss
Life is just this
It's living

You'll get along
The pain that you feel
Can only be healed
By living
You got to keep on living
So one of us is living

Brilliant? I don't know. But I can't get it out of my head.

H  A  P  P  Y   S  A  I  N  T   P  A  T  R  I  C  K  '  S   D  A  Y  !

Corned beef with cabbage, potatoes, and carrots is one of the yummiest meals there is. I adore corned beef. Yet another reason I'll never become a vegetarian.

Oh, and Guinness bottled draft is surprisingly good. The second beer-type beverage I've had which did not make me want to spit it out and rub my tongue with my napkin. Not that I was willing to drink more than a half-bottle and—blasphemy!—I preferred it ice cold, but it was surprisingly potable. Guinness bottled draft goes with corned beef like how certain French wines merge perfectly with certain French cheeses. It is a culinary delight. Yum. My tummy is distractingly happy. Thank you, St. Patrick, former slave and chaser of fictional snakes, for this day of corned-beefy goodness.

(Yes, I'm actually part Irish. So there.)

So, We're Going To War

Not that this a surprise or anything.

On a lighter note, a fella who calls himself South Knox Bubba has discovered that Bush has a "tell" when he lies (credit to Tom Tomorrow for pointing this out). Good to know.

Word of the Year

I love this word more than I can say. I can't believe it actually exists in a dictionary. Huzzah for

crapulous • \KRAP-yuh-luss\ • (adj.)
1 : marked by intemperance especially in eating or drinking
2 : sick from excessive indulgence in liquor

Example sentence:
If you're feeling crapulous the morning after the big celebration, drinking lots of water and taking some aspirin will help.

Did you know?
"Crapulous" may sound like a word that you shouldn't use in polite company, but it actually has a long and perfectly respectable history (although it's not a particularly kind way to describe someone). It is derived from the Late Latin adjective "crapulosus," which in turn traces back to the Latin word "crapula," meaning "intoxication." "Crapula" itself comes from a much older Greek word for the headache one gets from drinking. "Crapulous" first appeared in print in 1536. Approximately 200 years later, its close cousin "crapulence" arrived on the scene as a word for sickness caused by drinking. "Crapulence" later acquired the meaning "great intemperance especially in drinking," but it is not an especially common word.
(copyright the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary)

It's Quiz Night

Can you tell I'm avoiding homework?


I like them tall, dark, sexy, and fun.
(brought to you by Quizilla)
Karl Urban? Not especially (and definitely not when he's a Rider of the Riddermark bleh), but, yeah, the description's about right. ;-d

I'm Liking grittynoir's Quizzes

Well, this is a pleasant result, I must say.


I'm Ripley. Believe it or not.
(brought to you by Quizilla)

Sweet!

Thanks to Sam, for pointing the "Which B-Movie Badass Are You?" quiz out. It made me one happy, cheering dork, 'cause it turns out I'm...


"Gimme some sugar, baby."
(brought to you by Quizilla)
This is me doing my happy-dork dance at my mom's desk. Yee-haw!

More Than Just The Flu

So, have you heard about this one: "WHO Issues Advisory on Atypical Pneumonia" (AP report).

"Until we can get a grip on it, I don't see how it will slow down," WHO spokesman Dick Thompson said in Geneva. "People are not responding to antibiotics or antivirals, it's a highly contagious disease and it's moving around by jet. It's bad."

So, it's East Asia for barely-curable influenza and pneumonia, but Africa for Ebola outbreaks and witch hunts.

Chatty Carp

Everyone must read this: "Fish Talks, Town Buzzes." One of the most amusing NYT articles I've read in years.

Cops

Guess who just got here? Grandma. Madame d'Alzheimer's herself. She super-freaked when she didn't see Mom after she found her way out of the bathroom, like a two-year old when Mommy disappears.

"Where is she? Where is she? Did you find her?"

I turned and pointed to the dining room, where Mom was sorting through Grandma's luggage, trying to find Grandma's hearing aids. "She's in there, Grandma."

Mom, not being deaf, immediately came to where we were.

"No, not her," Grandma said, waving her hands vaguely. "Not her."

"It's me, Mom. It's J---."

Grandma blinked and said, "Oh, yes. Your glasses. You were wearing your glasses."

"My sunglasses, Mom. I took off my sunglasses. It's me."

"Yes, yes," and Grandma laughed her fake laugh, "ho ho ho," which she does now whenever she's trying to cover for one of her lost moments.

Why is Grandma here, you ask, after Mom told her sister that she wasn't going to be involved anymore? Oh, the answer to that is soooo special!

Grandma walked out of my aunt's house, wandered around the neighborhood, through the trees, then went into a neighbor's house. The neighbor wasn't home. My cousin, S., was supposed to be watching her, as my aunt has disappeared to Australia again to meet with her billionaire boyfriend. My cousin, eventhough he knows my grandmother is in a bad state and should never be left alone, left her alone in the house for hours. This is the equivalent of leaving a very young child, a three-year old, alone. It's unbelieveable that he would do that. When he returned, Grandma was not to be found. Eventually, the police were called. They found Grandma in the neighbor's house. They then told my slacker cousin that he was no longer allowed to watch after Grandma, as he obviously, in abandoning her, is neglecting his caretaking duties. They demanded to speak with my aunt. Call to her cell in Australia. She was told that if there is not a caretaker with Grandma 25-7, Grandma will be taken away by Social Services and cared for by the state.

So, Mom gets a panicked call from her sister last night. She needs Mom to take care of Grandma until she gets back. Whenever that will be. Except, we have doctor's appointments in the City next Friday and tickets to see A Little Night Music at the City Opera next Saturday. We have to return her next Thursday, my mother tells my aunt. My cousin S., who is on spring break at the moment, so I've no freakin' idea where the hell he disappeared for so long, was told he has to find someone to take care of Grandma from next Thursday until my aunt returns.

Fortunately, my mom's baby brother, who's only about ten years older than my eldest sister, decides he's had enough. He finds, after two phone calls, someone to take care of Grandma next week. He also has his friend at the bank my grandma uses stop my aunt from taking money out of my grandmother's account. He's also looking to take over Power of Attorney from my aunt. Thank God. But for now, we have Grandma here. I am a complete stranger to her. I stand there and smile and if Mom's not there, Grandma freaks out. So I can't watch over her while Mom runs errands anymore. Mom has to be with Grandma, always. I don't know how Mom's going to take this. She's not exactly young and sprightly, and this is a very exhausting job, physically but especially emotionally.

It's so weird to look at my mother's mother and have her look back at a stranger's face.

Well, I Think It's Good News

Saw this AP report this morning: "NASA Planning Space Return by Fall." I actually cheered. It's good to see they're not going to stop the program entirely like they did for all those years after the Challenger. I still hurts to think of those lost in the Columbia (especially after watching that video filmed by the crew during reentry), but I still believe the program needs to continue.

Explain This To Me

Okay, so I've bitched plenty about how crap-ass my job and boss were at that certain investment bank. Then I stopped, 'cause I'm too busy whining about how I've all this work to do here with my Writing major and all. (DUH, Sugar Kat. It involves writing. Ya stupid cow.) However, there have been weird developments since I quit that crap-ass job with Evil Incorporated mid-August:

1) my former, highly unappreciative boss sends me an unsolicited (meaning I didn't send her one so there was no obligation on her part) Christmas card thanking me for all of my hard work after not peeping in my direction once since August. She also included an Amex gift check for $50. Yeah, that bizzare noise and strange wind the beginning of January was me gasping hugely when I cracked open that baby. Once I regained consciousness, I sent her a return note thanking her and thought I was done. Until

2) Evil Incorporated told me I owed them for an overpayment of about $450. I hear about this late-January, roughly five months after I left the goddamned place. First off, what the blankety-blank do they mean they overpaid me? What is that all about? Are they crack-addled? And even if they are, isn't there a fricking computer program monitoring this stuff? Ignoring that issue, where the hell am I supposed to get $450? I'm a feckin' unemployed student, after all. (I borrowed it from my sister. I am now suffering massive amounts of guilt. I am evil. Bleh-phooie on me. Guilt, guilt, guuuuiiiiiiiiillllt.) Oh, and did I tell you they never paid my O.T. from my last two weeks, the ones where I worked the equivalent of an extra two-and-a-half weeks? I mean it when I call them Evil Incorporated, 'cause they're, like, evil. More so even than I. I who take money from my sister who needs it to pay for house stuff and kid stuff and car stuff and other mom-type stuff. Evil. Gak! The evil! Phaugh! But all was silent until

3) I just checked the account folks still stranded at Evil Incorporated use to e-mail me. And my former boss' husband sent me this chipper e-mail: "You escaped without saying goodbye!! I hope you're having a ball." For pete's sake, I left six freakin' months ago! His wife sent me a Christmas card and gift! What is with the random-fucking "have a good life?" This is weird and socially awkward. I dealt with him a lot over the phone when I was working for his wife: we were a client of his—H U G E conflict of interest issues, y'all—but sending me random, friendly e-mail was not our thing. It was business-y.

So, what do I say? Do I respond? Should I cc his wife? Tha hell?! Shouldn't this be a complete non-issue by now? Why don't these people leave me alone! I'd even do without the $50 gift check to find some peace. Waah. Sob. Bitch. Moan. Help!

Doris Egan

...is a regular writer and producer of The Agency, which is doomed to fail because CBS can't figure out where to put it (of late, it's been squrreled away at the 10 PM slot on Saturday nights—D O O M). (Mom is a frustrated fan. I told her she's lucky she's not a Firefly fan.) But at least Egan has regular work, which is good. And that regular work means she's writing on a regular basis, which is better. I've watched two episodes of The Agency beginning to end now (it's good), and can confirm she wrote both episodes, as I actually read the credits. From Dark Angel (member of writing staff (bleh! phooie!)) to Smallville (member of writing staff (fun)) to The Agency (main writer/producer (surprisingly good)). It could be another Egan, but somehow I doubt it. I just wish she had time to get going on the follow-up to City of Diamond. sigh

Hm. She's on AOL. I think I shall fan e-mail her to ask if it's really her. Updates in about six–eight months.

Most Pathetic Spring Break, Ever

The Swedish singing horses site is still a favorite. It's amazing how much time I can waste introducing and clicking off each of the four horses according to some weird pattern in my head. Apocalyptic? (Or is that five? I can never remember. Bad Catholic! Bad! (Well, we knew that already.))

Most Amusing Piece of News

Poking about BBC News, I found this: Botox 'may cause new wrinkles'. Not only are you infecting yourself for large sums of money, killing off parts of your face and destroying your ability to have a facial expression, you may be creating new wrinkles. I can now mock botox users even more than I did before. Mock! Mock, mock! Mock! Mock-mock-mock-mock-mock! Ah, that feels good.

On Earth

In case you're bored by things interstellar, here's a bunny with a pancake on its head.

Colder Than Albany

Another nifty picture taken by Hubble. It's a rapidly expanding (or something) nebula, one degree warmer than absolute zero. Named Boomerang, 'cause those fellows at NASA get as bored with numbers and letters as we do after a while. Full story here at BBC.

(Homer Simpson would be disappointed with the space burger of last August, I should think, though I think it's pretty.)

Comments

Haven't exactly been getting a flood of them, but then, there's probably not been a lot to say in response to what I've written other than nasty things which will get you deleted. ;-p However, I've been poking about Will Shetterly's blog ("No. Really?") and discovered another commenting service which is still open to new users. I am considering switching over since the commenter interface allows for limited HTML (or, at least allows you to enter links, bold, italics, and smilies). However, I'm somewhat indecided. Which means indecided. Right. So, if you guys could go to Shetterly's blog, check out the commenting software, and let me know what you think, possibly after you've checked out the BlogOut (oy, what a name) website, that would probably help me get my lazy e-butt in gear.

Right On, Mr. Shetterly

"People like Mr. Rogers should never die."
-Will Shetterly, February 28, 2003

Spring Break

I had a tentative plan for spring break this week. I can't afford to take myself to NYC to see my friends there or Boston to see my friends there, so I was going to mooch off of my sister to see my sister, her husband, and their two boys. Aunt Sugar Kat time. Except Thursday I caught my dad's cold, and I'm now suffering from the Cold From Virus Hell. I've spent the past four days sleeping. I get up for a while with good intentions, then pass out. It has now reached the coughing stage, so I feel truly wonderful. La la la. It's my freakin' spring break, dammit! I don't want to be sick during my freakin' spring break! But, at least it's not during classes. That would suck. (Except I'd planned to do a bunch of catch-up reading and writing and stuff, but I haven't. waaaah!) Hope everyone else is enjoying themselves. Can't wait for my writing professors to ask me, And what did you do for break? Ugh.

Black Sheep

(Ha. I wrote that and instantly thought of SheepBoy. There's this image in the second volume of the Kare Kano manga books which I need to copy and make into a tee-shirt for SB.)

My mom has not gotten along with her family since the year her father died of cancer and her brother was hit by a drunk driver.

(Two lessons to be learned from that year: 1) Always go to your regularly-scheduled physical, be it every three years, every two, or annually. After all, if you let yourself sit around sick for years, you might discover the cancer too late to do anything about it except die a horrible, painful, humiliating death. 2) Don't drink and drive, 'cause not only will you probably kill yourself, and kill someone else, but severely injure someone else so that they're under state care for the rest of their life. This will fuck up an entire family, so not only are you destroying your life and the life of your victim, but the lives of that man's children, his wife, his siblings, his parents, etc. So, don't be a complete and total evil asshole: don't drink and drive. Here endeth the lesson.)

My mom is distant from her mother and sister, the sister who decided to take my grandmother out of her own home, in spite of fully being able to take care of herself, and forcing her to become her live-in housekeeper/babysitter. For free. Oh, except my aunt takes my grandmother's money. Anyway, of late, Mom has been taking Grandma for weeks at a time as she takes Grandma in to see specialists about this, that, or the other illness or concern. It was really Mom who pushed to get Grandma diagnosed for Alzheimers. Mom loves her mother. It's a fucked-up relationship, but she loves her. She paid out of her nose for various medications, tests, and visits. My aunt, on the other hand, has refused to refill prescriptions required, including prescriptions to help Grandma with the Alzheimers. There are all sorts of meds, but my aunt has been haphazard at best in making sure Grandma takes her pills. For instance, when Grandma was supposed to start a new medication last June, my aunt didn't start her on it until August. And even then, Grandma is, at best, taking it three-four times a week, when she's supposed to be taking it daily.

My aunt is also refusing to put my increasingly ill grandmother in a home where she can be taken care of full-time. Instead, she leaves my Alzheimers-ridden grandmother alone in her giant house in the middle of the country for hours at a time. The people who usually take care of her are my teenaged cousins, who can barely take care of themselves (one of them was abusing all sorts of drugs for ages—I wouldn't be surprised to hear he started using Grandma's meds). My aunt leaves the country for weeks at a time, leaving my grandmother solely in the care of my cousins.

Of late my aunt has decided that her children, who were basically raised by Grandma, should not have to take care of Grandma while she's out, so she's been dumping Grandma on my mother's lap for a week, then asking at the last moment for two more. Then a call while Grandma's with Mom: my aunt will be away for another week. So on. So forth.

I've been witness to this behavior since September. It's completely unthinking of my aunt to act in this manner, especially considering the state of my grandmother's illness. There is no way my mother and I can take care of her. Grandma is further and further from our reality each visit. She requires more and more care. She needs someone to give her a bath, to tell her to eat, to tell her to take her medicine, to keep track how long she's in the bathroom, to tell her to brush her teeth (and how), to tell her to brush her hair, to tell her to wear clean clothes, to wear clean underwear, sometimes to dress her. She needs a nurse. We can't do it. And I will not go into the stories we've heard during my aunt's calls to my mother. They start with my aunt telling of the latest thing Grandma's said or done, then a request that Mom take Grandma on for a week.

Mom has suggested that Grandma would get the best care if my aunt would supply an in-home nurse. But my aunt says there is no such service in her area (very likely; they live in the frozen wastes of No-fuck, New York, which is practically Canada, on the St. Lawrence, and miles and miles from anywhere in particular). My mother then rationally suggested that perhaps, especially considering the latest behavior, it might be time to look at homes. My aunt refuses. No reason. Just refuses. Why? Well, my grandmother is a very good source of income. How? Well, Grandma actually has quite a bit aside from Grandpa's work and pension and other sources. My aunt has the power to sign Grandma's checks. A nice fund to pay for, say, my cousin's college education, even though he drops out, too drugged-out to study. A nice fund to pay for trips her job won't, like ski trips with her two girls. And while she's on this ski trip, my mother's the one to care for Grandma.

My aunt has not been taking care of my grandmother while my grandmother has been in her care. She can't even be bothered to make sure Grandma takes her meds. Even I can do that, as intimidated as I have always been by my mean grandmother (she's always disliked me; just because she doesn't remember who the hell I am now doesn't mean the weird, anxious vibe I get goes away). So, Mom decided, after much soul-searching and worrying, to tell my aunt No More Free Mom-sitting Services. You took Grandma and locked her away in your house as a servant for decades, you take care of her now. No more help. No more abusing my mother's generosity. That's it.

It's kind of awful, 'cause this means Mom's basically abandoning Grandma to my aunt's care, which is shoddy at best. But, I believe it's the right thing to do. Grandma needs real help. Maybe two years ago the kids could still work it out, but she needs professional care. Her disease is advanced. She doesn't recognize her own grandchildren. She doesn't know where she is. She—the anal-retentive neatnik who tortured my mother every rare visit during my childhood—doesn't even know to put on a clean pair of underwear. For chrissake, she sleeps in her slacks and sweater unless you demand she take them off and put on her pajamas. I can't even imagine what state she's left to live in at my aunt's house. But my aunt won't listen, and my mother can't help. So, that's it. For now, at least. I'm not sure how long my mom can let my grandmother live like that.

But Mom said, "I've just disowned myself from my family." And I have a feeling she might be right. 'Cause my aunt's up there, with their ears close to bending range, and my mother's here, the black sheep of my grandmother's offspring, wishing her little brother were still alive to help.