It's going to be in the low 90s at the baseball game tonight.
Haze hung on the hills as I drove to work at 7:00 a.m.
This is what I've been looking forward to.
My hair is going to look so bad.
I love summer.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
E6
Through the thick, hazy glass the book editor spied the yellow bag, whose colorful contents she knew would make the day's final chapter easier to read. She placed dimes and nickels in a fitted slit until through the dirty plastic screen above a red number 70, the high yet magic number needed to extract the yellow bag, shown.
It was time to press the item's letter-number combination, time to press the two slick buttons that would release the yellow bag from its hypnotizing captor. It was then the editor noticed that the bag's edge hung below the sticker below the bag that indicated what the letter and number were. A brief and necessary panic hit her chest: I can't see the combination!
But before looking at the items on either side of the yellow bag to determine the bag's combination, she let her hand raise, unrestricted, to the rows of letters and numbers on the right side of the machine. Only half aware of what was pressed she watched in subdued excitement as the yellow bag twisted free and fell with a chunk to the cavity below.
She retrieved the yellow bag and consumed its contents in spite of the tacos and dirt Kevin would be serving two hours later. The tacos were just a dream, and a dream can't get you through bland and obsure reports on the status of the hospitality industry around the world. But candy can. Peanuts covered in chocolate and decorated with a candy shell can. Kevin will forgive her. And she'll still eat a taco.
It was time to press the item's letter-number combination, time to press the two slick buttons that would release the yellow bag from its hypnotizing captor. It was then the editor noticed that the bag's edge hung below the sticker below the bag that indicated what the letter and number were. A brief and necessary panic hit her chest: I can't see the combination!
But before looking at the items on either side of the yellow bag to determine the bag's combination, she let her hand raise, unrestricted, to the rows of letters and numbers on the right side of the machine. Only half aware of what was pressed she watched in subdued excitement as the yellow bag twisted free and fell with a chunk to the cavity below.
She retrieved the yellow bag and consumed its contents in spite of the tacos and dirt Kevin would be serving two hours later. The tacos were just a dream, and a dream can't get you through bland and obsure reports on the status of the hospitality industry around the world. But candy can. Peanuts covered in chocolate and decorated with a candy shell can. Kevin will forgive her. And she'll still eat a taco.
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
In my passenger seat sits sunblock, a pair of sunglasses, a Keith Urban CD, and a parking stub from a B-Mets game. I can smell the baby powder of my deodorant, and light brown dust has settled on my dashboard from too many constructions zones driven through with a rolled down window.
It's summer.
It's summer.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Jesus forgot to get a green card.
When an alien lives with you in your land, do not mistreat him. The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the LORD your God.
Leviticus 19:33-34 (NIV)
Ye "Christians" of immigration reform, heed this teaching before thou beist a-holes.
(Imagine you were the immigrant. Just a thought. Maybe then you'd start working toward making immigration into our country less necessary; this means making the world better for everyone, everywhere. I know, wtf. How un-American of me. Fortunately, despite David Bowie's claim, God is not an American--we just think he is.)
Leviticus 19:33-34 (NIV)
Ye "Christians" of immigration reform, heed this teaching before thou beist a-holes.
(Imagine you were the immigrant. Just a thought. Maybe then you'd start working toward making immigration into our country less necessary; this means making the world better for everyone, everywhere. I know, wtf. How un-American of me. Fortunately, despite David Bowie's claim, God is not an American--we just think he is.)
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Pencil lead, eraser shavings, and cracker crumbs
I just spent the past hour cleaning my computer keyboard, popping off each key and Clorox wiping it. Then I disinfected the cavity below. I just wanted my accomplishment of this worthy task recorded in writing.
When I reached the L key, NPR began a story about putting your keyboard in the dishwasher; Morning Edition and I are so in sync. Apparently putting your keyboard in the dishwasher is all the rage now, except with anyone who knows anything about computers. "Short circuiting" I think I heard the Microsoft employee say in the report (and unfortunately not regarding the awesome Steve Guttenberg movies).
However, if I've just given you an idea you can't possibly resist, you can buy waterproof keyboards from a company called Seal Shield. The company sells mostly to hospitals, for understandable reasons, but that "dishwasher safe" now appears on the keyboard's box leads me to believe the company intends a general market appeal. But if you don't want to buy a $50+ keyboard, and still want to put your keyboard in the dishwasher, the two people in the piece who had dishwashered their board report that the keyboard still functions.
Though I doubt it's far less satisfying than popping keys out and putting them back on.
When I reached the L key, NPR began a story about putting your keyboard in the dishwasher; Morning Edition and I are so in sync. Apparently putting your keyboard in the dishwasher is all the rage now, except with anyone who knows anything about computers. "Short circuiting" I think I heard the Microsoft employee say in the report (and unfortunately not regarding the awesome Steve Guttenberg movies).
However, if I've just given you an idea you can't possibly resist, you can buy waterproof keyboards from a company called Seal Shield. The company sells mostly to hospitals, for understandable reasons, but that "dishwasher safe" now appears on the keyboard's box leads me to believe the company intends a general market appeal. But if you don't want to buy a $50+ keyboard, and still want to put your keyboard in the dishwasher, the two people in the piece who had dishwashered their board report that the keyboard still functions.
Though I doubt it's far less satisfying than popping keys out and putting them back on.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
It's summer: don't forget your parka.
I'm about to blog on a subject of great importance: air-conditioning.
It is currently 73 degrees Fahrenheit outside, a dream temperature that weatherpersons dare to call comfortable. But holy crap the office has air-conditioning, so it must be on, and set at "blast."
First of all, I kind of hate air-conditioning. It's artificial, dry, wasteful, selfish, harmful, and often unneccesary in most circumstances in central New York. I recognize the instances in which it is necessary (nursing homes, hospitals, large gatherings of people, etc.), but by necessary I do not mean set at 57 degrees in every standing building from May 15 to October 15. Who is comfortable at 57 degrees anyway? The exceptions, that's who, so why the heck do we make this the rule? Why make ourselves cold when we do not have to be? I'll let you all in on a little secret: we control the level of air-conditioning. Unlike the weather, all we have to do is press the "off" button if we want to stop shivering in July. Let the revolution begin!
Rarely do truly hot days occur in this area of the world. When they do, you have my permission to turn on the air-conditioning. In fact, I may thank you for it, but I'm really okay with being a little warm. When it's in the 70s, and even low 80s, just turn the darn fan on (and save energy, and money, and your soul). Maybe dress as if it were warm? Such clothing is sold. Let the revolution continue!
I wish I was being facetious about my anger, but I'm not. I like being warm (and even hot and sweaty has its moments), so in the bloody summer why do I have to wear winter clothing to work/grocery store/movie theater/theater/book store/coffeeshop/restaurant? Feel free to join the revolution.
It is currently 73 degrees Fahrenheit outside, a dream temperature that weatherpersons dare to call comfortable. But holy crap the office has air-conditioning, so it must be on, and set at "blast."
First of all, I kind of hate air-conditioning. It's artificial, dry, wasteful, selfish, harmful, and often unneccesary in most circumstances in central New York. I recognize the instances in which it is necessary (nursing homes, hospitals, large gatherings of people, etc.), but by necessary I do not mean set at 57 degrees in every standing building from May 15 to October 15. Who is comfortable at 57 degrees anyway? The exceptions, that's who, so why the heck do we make this the rule? Why make ourselves cold when we do not have to be? I'll let you all in on a little secret: we control the level of air-conditioning. Unlike the weather, all we have to do is press the "off" button if we want to stop shivering in July. Let the revolution begin!
Rarely do truly hot days occur in this area of the world. When they do, you have my permission to turn on the air-conditioning. In fact, I may thank you for it, but I'm really okay with being a little warm. When it's in the 70s, and even low 80s, just turn the darn fan on (and save energy, and money, and your soul). Maybe dress as if it were warm? Such clothing is sold. Let the revolution continue!
I wish I was being facetious about my anger, but I'm not. I like being warm (and even hot and sweaty has its moments), so in the bloody summer why do I have to wear winter clothing to work/grocery store/movie theater/theater/book store/coffeeshop/restaurant? Feel free to join the revolution.
Friday, June 08, 2007
They made a statue of us.
My husband and I were watching Studio 60 last night (apparently NBC is airing new episodes on Thursday nights?), and a continuing plot point is that the characters Matt and Harriet should be together, with constant flashbacks to their history to help prove the point. The key word here is history.
It’s a common tool in art and life to rely on the past to determine the present, especially regarding relationships. But shouldn’t determining who you are meant to be with be focused more on the future? Having a “history” with someone is a poor measurement on which to base a relationship. Before you indulge in previous good times and kind acts, think: Why are we not together now? (Some may offer the advice, “think of all the bad times and what you hated about him/her,” but this is crap, because all relationships have bad times and annoying habits. I offer instead that you figure out why you couldn’t get past them the first [second, third, etc.] time around. It’s not the bad times that are to blame, it’s the coupling of the people.)
Every situation is relative, and I’m not talking about the growing pains of young love. You two may truly be “meant to be” at a later time, but meant to be occurs in the moment, and it isn’t up to your control, so if a real relationship with the past person occurs again, I guarantee it won’t be based on the past (if it is, be prepared to break up), you’ll be different (if you aren’t, be prepared to break up), and the relationship will be wholly new (if it isn’t—you guessed it—be prepared to break up). It is easy to think, hey, with all this crap it must be love. It's not. History is history for a reason.
Thank God my husband and I didn’t have “history.” We didn’t even know each other when we first kissed, but we knew that from that moment on it would be impossible to live separate lives. I’ve watched Gone with the Wind, I’ve watched The Notebook and Sweet Home Alabama, so how could this guy possibly be the One if we didn’t have a history? We hadn’t played any mind games. We hadn’t used or tested each other. I hadn’t broken his heart just to make sure I could. How could the love of my life be a man I had never ridiculously, incredibly hurt? Pardon my lapse into drama, but I’d rather die than do any of those things to my husband.
So my point, if I even have one, is to say love really isn't, or doesn't have to be, as complicated as Dawson's Creek or Ross and Rachel. As for Matt and Harriet, I think they're in love with being in love but broken up. That's a whole other issue. Hopefully real love comes and saves them.
It’s a common tool in art and life to rely on the past to determine the present, especially regarding relationships. But shouldn’t determining who you are meant to be with be focused more on the future? Having a “history” with someone is a poor measurement on which to base a relationship. Before you indulge in previous good times and kind acts, think: Why are we not together now? (Some may offer the advice, “think of all the bad times and what you hated about him/her,” but this is crap, because all relationships have bad times and annoying habits. I offer instead that you figure out why you couldn’t get past them the first [second, third, etc.] time around. It’s not the bad times that are to blame, it’s the coupling of the people.)
Every situation is relative, and I’m not talking about the growing pains of young love. You two may truly be “meant to be” at a later time, but meant to be occurs in the moment, and it isn’t up to your control, so if a real relationship with the past person occurs again, I guarantee it won’t be based on the past (if it is, be prepared to break up), you’ll be different (if you aren’t, be prepared to break up), and the relationship will be wholly new (if it isn’t—you guessed it—be prepared to break up). It is easy to think, hey, with all this crap it must be love. It's not. History is history for a reason.
Thank God my husband and I didn’t have “history.” We didn’t even know each other when we first kissed, but we knew that from that moment on it would be impossible to live separate lives. I’ve watched Gone with the Wind, I’ve watched The Notebook and Sweet Home Alabama, so how could this guy possibly be the One if we didn’t have a history? We hadn’t played any mind games. We hadn’t used or tested each other. I hadn’t broken his heart just to make sure I could. How could the love of my life be a man I had never ridiculously, incredibly hurt? Pardon my lapse into drama, but I’d rather die than do any of those things to my husband.
So my point, if I even have one, is to say love really isn't, or doesn't have to be, as complicated as Dawson's Creek or Ross and Rachel. As for Matt and Harriet, I think they're in love with being in love but broken up. That's a whole other issue. Hopefully real love comes and saves them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
