Bleh
Last year I bought myself a nice comfy toilet seat for my birthday. This year I bought myself an adaptor for earphones—I had earphones with the mini-stereo plug but needed the older-style larger plug. We went to Best Buy and bought one for $2.99. The highlight of my day.
Well, I did get to eat at the mall food court. Chick-Fil-Et (sp, I’m sure) strips and a large Diet Coke.
After that, we sat around the house waiting. And waiting. And waiting. There were a couple of Lebarons advertised in the paper and we called about them, only no one was home. Spouse Thingy left messages on answering machines, but the calls were never returned. So I spent my birthday sitting here at my desk, playing computer Mahjong, one game after another, with sporadic internet surfing, until midnight.
The problem with car shopping seems to be that we have a far smaller budget than the market seems to demand. There aren’t many listed for sale to begin with, but the ones that are even worth looking at are so far over what we can afford it’s not funny. Cripes, people are selling ’89 Miatas with 120,000+ miles for $7000. A ’97 Sebring is going for $10,000. The two Lebarons we’ve test driven have been around $5,000 but had problems that would have been another couple of thousand to fix. I really don’t want to trade one problem car for another.
But it sucks, it really does. And it’s a little mind boggling. When I drooled over convertibles on the Lemon Lot at Travis AFB, they were 5-6 years old and the prices hovered around $5,000-$6,000. Same cars here are way more. Go figure.
Wednesday
Saturday
No Go Zoom
My poor pretty little purple car is slowly dying L After putting new brakes and new front drums on it, a new sway bar, another stabilizer bar (not sure what it’s really called), the transmission is slipping and sounds like it’s about ready to just fall out of the car.
Anyone wanna buy a pretty little purple car??? It’s cheap.
So, we’re in the market for another used car. This time it has to be a convertible. We already test drove one (’94 LeBaron); it was marketed as “low miles mint leather.” Kind of made it sound like it was mint condition, but no, they meant mint leather. And it was, the inside of that car was absolutely perfect. The paint job was in need of some TLC, but I could live with that. The salesman fired it up, and it made an awful chirping sound—probably the alternator, but they would fix that before delivery. And it had a ding in the trunk, one of their guys backed it into a table, they would fix that too. So I had high hopes … but then we drove it, and the steering was a little loose. Not terribly, but I’m not so desperate I’d buy a car with loose steering.
There are other convertibles out there.
Hell, even Yugo made a convertible for 2 years. Heh. But no, I don’t want one of those. Just a nice ’94 or ’95 LeBaron, or a ’96 or ’97 Sebring. Or a Pontiac Sunfire ragtop.
I’m not picky.
Impatient.
Just not picky.
My poor pretty little purple car is slowly dying L After putting new brakes and new front drums on it, a new sway bar, another stabilizer bar (not sure what it’s really called), the transmission is slipping and sounds like it’s about ready to just fall out of the car.
Anyone wanna buy a pretty little purple car??? It’s cheap.
So, we’re in the market for another used car. This time it has to be a convertible. We already test drove one (’94 LeBaron); it was marketed as “low miles mint leather.” Kind of made it sound like it was mint condition, but no, they meant mint leather. And it was, the inside of that car was absolutely perfect. The paint job was in need of some TLC, but I could live with that. The salesman fired it up, and it made an awful chirping sound—probably the alternator, but they would fix that before delivery. And it had a ding in the trunk, one of their guys backed it into a table, they would fix that too. So I had high hopes … but then we drove it, and the steering was a little loose. Not terribly, but I’m not so desperate I’d buy a car with loose steering.
There are other convertibles out there.
Hell, even Yugo made a convertible for 2 years. Heh. But no, I don’t want one of those. Just a nice ’94 or ’95 LeBaron, or a ’96 or ’97 Sebring. Or a Pontiac Sunfire ragtop.
I’m not picky.
Impatient.
Just not picky.
Tuesday
:/
You would think, at my advanced age, that I would have learned a few basic things. One being if you have a cat, leaning an uncovered plate of sliced turkey on the counter is not the wisest thing to do.
My apologies to Spouse Thingy, who must now take a sandwich for his lunch tomorrow, because the PsychoKitty licked all the turkey…
You would think, at my advanced age, that I would have learned a few basic things. One being if you have a cat, leaning an uncovered plate of sliced turkey on the counter is not the wisest thing to do.
My apologies to Spouse Thingy, who must now take a sandwich for his lunch tomorrow, because the PsychoKitty licked all the turkey…
Saturday
How Stupid Do I Look?
I just checked my email and had something from a PayPal address with the subject header “Verify Your Account.”
Now, I knew before I opened it that it was a fraud; PayPal does not ask you to verify your accounts via email. But I opened the email anyway, just to see what it said. And this was it:
Dear Costumer,
This email was sent automatically by the PayPal server in response to verify your identity. This is done for your protection --- only you, the recipient of this email can take the next step in completing the Verify Your Identity form. To verify your identity and access your account, follow these steps:
1. Click on the link below. If nothing happens when you click on the link (or if you use AOL), copy and paste the link into the address bar of your web browser.
(link removed)
The link will take you to our Verify Your Identity page.
2. On the Verify Your Identity page, answer ONE of the questions, and click Submit.
You will then be able to access your account and becoming a REAL verified costumer.
Thanks for using PayPal!
Dear Costumer ??? =snort= #1
You will then be able to access your account and becoming a REAL verified costumer =snort= #2.
That’s a relief, to know that I can become a REAL verified costumer. I mean, that is my life’s ambition, to create odd clothing for people who perform on stage, or want to dress like it’s Halloween year ’round.
Sheesh, if you’re going to run a scam, at least get it right.
I just checked my email and had something from a PayPal address with the subject header “Verify Your Account.”
Now, I knew before I opened it that it was a fraud; PayPal does not ask you to verify your accounts via email. But I opened the email anyway, just to see what it said. And this was it:
Dear Costumer,
This email was sent automatically by the PayPal server in response to verify your identity. This is done for your protection --- only you, the recipient of this email can take the next step in completing the Verify Your Identity form. To verify your identity and access your account, follow these steps:
1. Click on the link below. If nothing happens when you click on the link (or if you use AOL), copy and paste the link into the address bar of your web browser.
(link removed)
The link will take you to our Verify Your Identity page.
2. On the Verify Your Identity page, answer ONE of the questions, and click Submit.
You will then be able to access your account and becoming a REAL verified costumer.
Thanks for using PayPal!
Dear Costumer ??? =snort= #1
You will then be able to access your account and becoming a REAL verified costumer =snort= #2.
That’s a relief, to know that I can become a REAL verified costumer. I mean, that is my life’s ambition, to create odd clothing for people who perform on stage, or want to dress like it’s Halloween year ’round.
Sheesh, if you’re going to run a scam, at least get it right.
No, I Do Not Care To Smell You
If I had my way, perfume and cologne would be banned. Along with smoking. It’s not so much that I wish to infringe on others’ personal choices to cover up their own body odor with alcohol-laden smelly things, or stop them from committing slow suicide; it’s just that I happen to enjoy breathing, something I cannot easily do while in the presence of someone wearing perfume, cologne, or who is smoking.
Yesterday the Spouse Thingy and I decided to go to an afternoon movie; we got there early, got the seats we wanted (heck, we were the first ones there), and the theater filled up fairly quickly. And all was well, until three people came in during the previews and sat directly in front of us. One of them was wearing perfume—and a lot of it.
I wound up watching the movie while breathing through folds of a sweatshirt. I tolerated it, but just barely.
There’s no escaping the stuff, really. Walk into a department store, and guess what’s right up there near the front door? The perfume counter, complete with testers that have been sprayed so many times the air is thick with it. And in some stores there are so many counters, and they’re so freaking long, that getting past them while holding one’s breath is damn near impossible.
And smoke… this is something I seriously miss about California. There I could go into any public place and know I’d be free from other peoples’ cigarette smoke. I’d be able to breath without the worry of suffering an instant, choking asthma attack within 2 minutes. Spouse Thingy I enjoy playing pool (badly) but we’ve yet to find a place here where we can play. The few places we’ve been into the smoke is just hanging there in the air, visibly even, and I can’t take it.
Now the mall, I like it because it’s smoke free. Not perfume free, but in a space that large I can get away from people wearing perfume easily and I can just not go into stores with large stinky displays up front. But other places loose my business—and that of lots of other people like me—because they allow smoking. And really, that’s too bad.
Face it, people can shop, and go to dinner, and play pool without smoking. I can’t do any of those things without breathing.
I just want to be able to breathe without fear, where ever I happen to be.
Is that too much to ask?
If I had my way, perfume and cologne would be banned. Along with smoking. It’s not so much that I wish to infringe on others’ personal choices to cover up their own body odor with alcohol-laden smelly things, or stop them from committing slow suicide; it’s just that I happen to enjoy breathing, something I cannot easily do while in the presence of someone wearing perfume, cologne, or who is smoking.
Yesterday the Spouse Thingy and I decided to go to an afternoon movie; we got there early, got the seats we wanted (heck, we were the first ones there), and the theater filled up fairly quickly. And all was well, until three people came in during the previews and sat directly in front of us. One of them was wearing perfume—and a lot of it.
I wound up watching the movie while breathing through folds of a sweatshirt. I tolerated it, but just barely.
There’s no escaping the stuff, really. Walk into a department store, and guess what’s right up there near the front door? The perfume counter, complete with testers that have been sprayed so many times the air is thick with it. And in some stores there are so many counters, and they’re so freaking long, that getting past them while holding one’s breath is damn near impossible.
And smoke… this is something I seriously miss about California. There I could go into any public place and know I’d be free from other peoples’ cigarette smoke. I’d be able to breath without the worry of suffering an instant, choking asthma attack within 2 minutes. Spouse Thingy I enjoy playing pool (badly) but we’ve yet to find a place here where we can play. The few places we’ve been into the smoke is just hanging there in the air, visibly even, and I can’t take it.
Now the mall, I like it because it’s smoke free. Not perfume free, but in a space that large I can get away from people wearing perfume easily and I can just not go into stores with large stinky displays up front. But other places loose my business—and that of lots of other people like me—because they allow smoking. And really, that’s too bad.
Face it, people can shop, and go to dinner, and play pool without smoking. I can’t do any of those things without breathing.
I just want to be able to breathe without fear, where ever I happen to be.
Is that too much to ask?
Thursday
Set The Night To Music
I can’t sing.
I used to be able to; not that I was ever in danger of becoming the next American Idol Old Farts winner, but I could carry a tune in a bucket without too many holes. I started singing in elementary school, was in the choir through 5th grade, and kept singing on my own—self-accompanied by the guitar—well into adulthood. I appeared in high school talent shows and did all right. No one laughed or booed me off the stage, in any case.
Then came Real Life and the amount of time I spent playing the guitar and singing along decreased dramatically. I had other things to do, and never gave it much thought.
Until a couple of days ago, when I bought a Roberta Flack CD.
And don’t ask “Who?” unless you want me to reach through the monitor and bitch slap your way-too-young face.
I seriously like this CD; it’s music from my youth, and I know all the words to most of the songs. I used to play a few of them on the guitar. So as I sat here at my desk, playing a computer game, I decided to sing along.
If PsychoKitty could howl, he would have. As it was, I got a “you should stop that” look. He jumped off my lap and left the room.
I’ve totally lost my singing voice.
I am now equal to That Kid from the American Idol tryouts—you know the one. He tried to sing “Like A Virgin,” complete with Madonnaesque body rubbing, and had no clue he was completely, painfully awful.
Really, it was that bad.
It’s not a total loss, however. When the Boy comes for the holidays, I now have a sure fire way of embarrassing him in front of his Significantly Better Half.
Life is good.
I can’t sing.
I used to be able to; not that I was ever in danger of becoming the next American Idol Old Farts winner, but I could carry a tune in a bucket without too many holes. I started singing in elementary school, was in the choir through 5th grade, and kept singing on my own—self-accompanied by the guitar—well into adulthood. I appeared in high school talent shows and did all right. No one laughed or booed me off the stage, in any case.
Then came Real Life and the amount of time I spent playing the guitar and singing along decreased dramatically. I had other things to do, and never gave it much thought.
Until a couple of days ago, when I bought a Roberta Flack CD.
And don’t ask “Who?” unless you want me to reach through the monitor and bitch slap your way-too-young face.
I seriously like this CD; it’s music from my youth, and I know all the words to most of the songs. I used to play a few of them on the guitar. So as I sat here at my desk, playing a computer game, I decided to sing along.
If PsychoKitty could howl, he would have. As it was, I got a “you should stop that” look. He jumped off my lap and left the room.
I’ve totally lost my singing voice.
I am now equal to That Kid from the American Idol tryouts—you know the one. He tried to sing “Like A Virgin,” complete with Madonnaesque body rubbing, and had no clue he was completely, painfully awful.
Really, it was that bad.
It’s not a total loss, however. When the Boy comes for the holidays, I now have a sure fire way of embarrassing him in front of his Significantly Better Half.
Life is good.
Tuesday
Here, Kitty, Kitty
Ok, so we decided the cat was too complacent in his life, and decided we’d dedicate the last couple of days to totally freaking him out.
Well, it just worked out that way. He has the tendency to get his fur in a wad when the furniture is moved (slinking into the living room after a nap you can see the “oh HELL no! Sonofabitch we MOVED again!” look) and over the last couple of days it’s been moved several times.
The urge to rearrange struck after realizing that we really only had seating for two, and the Boy and his Significantly Better Half are probably going to visit for the holidays. Our old sofa and loveseat were still in the garage, so why not move the love seat in? Sure, no problem—no problem other than the way this house was designed. The architect must have dedicated many waking hours to figuring out how to design a home with little actual usable space, both storage and furniture-wise.
We got the love seat in, and it worked, but everything was awfully jammed together. It was enough to really get the cat going, so we left it like that overnight, figuring we could move it around again the next day. Just when he relaxed, I started taking all the knick knacks off the entertainment center and put them on the table.
He was not happy. As I made my way from the table back to the entertainment center for a 4th or 5th time, he launched across the room and wrapped both paws around one of my legs, trying, I think, to stop me. Or trip me. Or rip my leg off. When that didn’t work, he crouched on a chair and watched as his little world was ripped apart. All the knick knacks were on the table. Pictures were taken off the walls. The rug was rolled up and moved. Then to add insult to injury, we moved the entertainment center across the room.
Pissed off kitty.
He began to relax as things were put back into place. It wasn’t as painful as he seemed to think it was going to be (but I am definitely checking the bed before I climb in tonight, just in case he left me a little present) and he seems positive that the love seat was brought in just for him—with the bonus that it still smells like the dog (could have something to do with all that dog hair embedded into the cushions…) The living room seemed much bigger once everything was where it should be, and there was more space for the kitty to play. Time to relax.
We couldn’t have a relaxed cat. Nope. So we put a battery in the uber-nice clock that my ultra talented father-in-law made for us and got it going … and sat back to watch what he’d do when it chimed. Every fifteen minutes.
Seriously pissed off kitty. Not as funny as the dog was the first time he heard it—he thought it was the doorbell and every fifteen minutes would run to the front door (hence, why the battery was removed. He was going nuts and the cat we had then had a heart condition, we were really afraid the chime was going to terrify her into keeling over and dying right there in the middle of the living room)—but PsychoKitty is going to sit on his loveseat and glare at the clock until it finally shuts the phck up.
Poor kitty.
It’s going to be a long night for him.
Heh.
Ok, so we decided the cat was too complacent in his life, and decided we’d dedicate the last couple of days to totally freaking him out.
Well, it just worked out that way. He has the tendency to get his fur in a wad when the furniture is moved (slinking into the living room after a nap you can see the “oh HELL no! Sonofabitch we MOVED again!” look) and over the last couple of days it’s been moved several times.
The urge to rearrange struck after realizing that we really only had seating for two, and the Boy and his Significantly Better Half are probably going to visit for the holidays. Our old sofa and loveseat were still in the garage, so why not move the love seat in? Sure, no problem—no problem other than the way this house was designed. The architect must have dedicated many waking hours to figuring out how to design a home with little actual usable space, both storage and furniture-wise.
We got the love seat in, and it worked, but everything was awfully jammed together. It was enough to really get the cat going, so we left it like that overnight, figuring we could move it around again the next day. Just when he relaxed, I started taking all the knick knacks off the entertainment center and put them on the table.
He was not happy. As I made my way from the table back to the entertainment center for a 4th or 5th time, he launched across the room and wrapped both paws around one of my legs, trying, I think, to stop me. Or trip me. Or rip my leg off. When that didn’t work, he crouched on a chair and watched as his little world was ripped apart. All the knick knacks were on the table. Pictures were taken off the walls. The rug was rolled up and moved. Then to add insult to injury, we moved the entertainment center across the room.
Pissed off kitty.
He began to relax as things were put back into place. It wasn’t as painful as he seemed to think it was going to be (but I am definitely checking the bed before I climb in tonight, just in case he left me a little present) and he seems positive that the love seat was brought in just for him—with the bonus that it still smells like the dog (could have something to do with all that dog hair embedded into the cushions…) The living room seemed much bigger once everything was where it should be, and there was more space for the kitty to play. Time to relax.
We couldn’t have a relaxed cat. Nope. So we put a battery in the uber-nice clock that my ultra talented father-in-law made for us and got it going … and sat back to watch what he’d do when it chimed. Every fifteen minutes.
Seriously pissed off kitty. Not as funny as the dog was the first time he heard it—he thought it was the doorbell and every fifteen minutes would run to the front door (hence, why the battery was removed. He was going nuts and the cat we had then had a heart condition, we were really afraid the chime was going to terrify her into keeling over and dying right there in the middle of the living room)—but PsychoKitty is going to sit on his loveseat and glare at the clock until it finally shuts the phck up.
Poor kitty.
It’s going to be a long night for him.
Heh.
Thursday
From The Plain Dealer:
Dog survives gas chamber with his tail wagging
08/07/03
Jim Suhr
Associated Press
St. Louis- Cast into a city gas chamber to be euthanized with other unwanted or unclaimed dogs, it appeared that the roughly year-old Basenji mix had simply run out of luck - and time.
But this canine had other ideas.
When the death chamber's door swung open Monday, the dog now dubbed Quentin - for California's forbidding San Quentin State Prison - stood very much alive, his tail and tongue wagging amid the carcasses of a half-dozen other dogs.
Animal-con trol supervisor Rosemary Ficken had never seen such a thing and didn't have the nerve to slam the door shut again on the dog and fire up the carbon monoxide.
This 30-pound, orangish ani mal, she be lieved, beat the odds and should live on, doggone it.
"She told me, Please, take him. I don't have the heart to put him back in there and re-gas him,' " said Randy Grim, founder and head of Stray Rescue of St. Louis, the charitable shelter that took in the dog before taking the animal's story public.
Quentin's ordeal was played and replayed yesterday on local television stations, drawing scads of people looking to adopt "such a sweet dog" that showed such dogged resilience.
The center euthanizes dogs nearly every morning - about 3,000 a year.
Quentin's fate appeared grim. Surrendered to the city by an owner no longer wanting the animal, the dog eluded adoption, landing him in the death chamber that he somehow managed to emerge from, groggy from the sedative but otherwise "pretty responsive," if not downright rambunctious.
"There was a reason for this dog not to go down," said Rich Stevson, program manager for the animal center. "Maybe this dog is a special dog of some kind."
The next morning, he said, "it was jumping up and down, wagging its tail."
Grim said yesterday that Quentin was a little malnourished but "in very good condition," being checked for heartworm and other maladies by a veterinarian.
"You can tell he's really digging it," Grim said of the dog. "He has a bed, love, food and water."
And that invaluable second chance.
Nuttin' else can be added to that.
Just... wow.
Dog survives gas chamber with his tail wagging
08/07/03
Jim Suhr
Associated Press
St. Louis- Cast into a city gas chamber to be euthanized with other unwanted or unclaimed dogs, it appeared that the roughly year-old Basenji mix had simply run out of luck - and time.
But this canine had other ideas.
When the death chamber's door swung open Monday, the dog now dubbed Quentin - for California's forbidding San Quentin State Prison - stood very much alive, his tail and tongue wagging amid the carcasses of a half-dozen other dogs.
Animal-con trol supervisor Rosemary Ficken had never seen such a thing and didn't have the nerve to slam the door shut again on the dog and fire up the carbon monoxide.
This 30-pound, orangish ani mal, she be lieved, beat the odds and should live on, doggone it.
"She told me, Please, take him. I don't have the heart to put him back in there and re-gas him,' " said Randy Grim, founder and head of Stray Rescue of St. Louis, the charitable shelter that took in the dog before taking the animal's story public.
Quentin's ordeal was played and replayed yesterday on local television stations, drawing scads of people looking to adopt "such a sweet dog" that showed such dogged resilience.
The center euthanizes dogs nearly every morning - about 3,000 a year.
Quentin's fate appeared grim. Surrendered to the city by an owner no longer wanting the animal, the dog eluded adoption, landing him in the death chamber that he somehow managed to emerge from, groggy from the sedative but otherwise "pretty responsive," if not downright rambunctious.
"There was a reason for this dog not to go down," said Rich Stevson, program manager for the animal center. "Maybe this dog is a special dog of some kind."
The next morning, he said, "it was jumping up and down, wagging its tail."
Grim said yesterday that Quentin was a little malnourished but "in very good condition," being checked for heartworm and other maladies by a veterinarian.
"You can tell he's really digging it," Grim said of the dog. "He has a bed, love, food and water."
And that invaluable second chance.
Nuttin' else can be added to that.
Just... wow.
Tuesday
Ack, Fooey, Furball
I woke up at 4:15 this morning.
I was spooning the cat.
Spooning.The.Cat.
:::shrugs:::
I was lying kind of half on my side, half on my back (bolstered by body pillows on either side) and at some point he stretched out next to me, set his head on my shoulder, and snuggled close. When he realized I was awake, he tilted his head back and rubbed it against my chin—either “Good Morning, how ya doin’?” or “Move and I’ll bite you”—and then settled back down.
Good thing I didn’t need to roll over. I scratched his little head for a minute and then went back to sleep, and he stayed there until Spouse Thingy got up for work at 5. PsychoKitty has his routines, and the Most Important Very Early Thing is to try to trip the Spouse Thingy on the stairs at 5:15 every morning. So when he heard Spouse Thingy get up, he launched off the bed (no, I didn’t need those boobs anymore, thank you) and let me sleep until after 9 a.m.
He has been extremely affectionate lately. If I’ve been out of the house for any length of time, he comes running, complete with an excited feline squeal, as soon as I’m through the door. He’s not pestering me to get up and feed him two hours early. He curls up on me while I watch TV, and he “helps” me type.
I’d like to believe he’s just maturing and enjoy my company, but I know better.
That cat is plotting something.
I am afraid. Truly afraid…
I woke up at 4:15 this morning.
I was spooning the cat.
Spooning.The.Cat.
:::shrugs:::
I was lying kind of half on my side, half on my back (bolstered by body pillows on either side) and at some point he stretched out next to me, set his head on my shoulder, and snuggled close. When he realized I was awake, he tilted his head back and rubbed it against my chin—either “Good Morning, how ya doin’?” or “Move and I’ll bite you”—and then settled back down.
Good thing I didn’t need to roll over. I scratched his little head for a minute and then went back to sleep, and he stayed there until Spouse Thingy got up for work at 5. PsychoKitty has his routines, and the Most Important Very Early Thing is to try to trip the Spouse Thingy on the stairs at 5:15 every morning. So when he heard Spouse Thingy get up, he launched off the bed (no, I didn’t need those boobs anymore, thank you) and let me sleep until after 9 a.m.
He has been extremely affectionate lately. If I’ve been out of the house for any length of time, he comes running, complete with an excited feline squeal, as soon as I’m through the door. He’s not pestering me to get up and feed him two hours early. He curls up on me while I watch TV, and he “helps” me type.
I’d like to believe he’s just maturing and enjoy my company, but I know better.
That cat is plotting something.
I am afraid. Truly afraid…
Monday
On Another Note…
Know of any cheap places to advertise online? Text ads, etc.? I’m ready to start (slow) advertising for Inkblot Books but I have almost zero dollars for an advertising budget. Any suggestions appreciated.
Know of any cheap places to advertise online? Text ads, etc.? I’m ready to start (slow) advertising for Inkblot Books but I have almost zero dollars for an advertising budget. Any suggestions appreciated.
Jesus Hates My Boobies
Apparently, he does. I realized this in the middle of getting my teeth cleaned this afternoon. As I sat there, allowing a stranger to probe the deepest recesses of my mouth, it occurred to me that I was experiencing increasing levels of discomfort, and not from anything she was doing to me. The pain was coming straight from my chest. My crucifix—which I always wear and tend to keep hidden under my shirt—was digging sharply into fairly tender flesh. I peeked when I got out to the car. On one boob was a nice impression of our Lord and Savior, and on the other an imprint of the back of the cross. Ow.
Double ow—I have a cavity. Phfft. And, triple ow, I need a crown on my back tooth.
Oh yeah, the rain can stop now, at least for a couple weeks. I have this bitchin’ new bike and haven’t really been able to ride it because every time I turn around, there’s thunder and lightning and rain. Spouse Thingy even took my car to work and left me the truck so I could throw the bike in the back and ride the other end of the bike path in Fairborn, but the freaking rain kept me home. Sitting here, playing online, dreading the dentist—who I really only saw for 3 minutes.
Argh.
Apparently, he does. I realized this in the middle of getting my teeth cleaned this afternoon. As I sat there, allowing a stranger to probe the deepest recesses of my mouth, it occurred to me that I was experiencing increasing levels of discomfort, and not from anything she was doing to me. The pain was coming straight from my chest. My crucifix—which I always wear and tend to keep hidden under my shirt—was digging sharply into fairly tender flesh. I peeked when I got out to the car. On one boob was a nice impression of our Lord and Savior, and on the other an imprint of the back of the cross. Ow.
Double ow—I have a cavity. Phfft. And, triple ow, I need a crown on my back tooth.
Oh yeah, the rain can stop now, at least for a couple weeks. I have this bitchin’ new bike and haven’t really been able to ride it because every time I turn around, there’s thunder and lightning and rain. Spouse Thingy even took my car to work and left me the truck so I could throw the bike in the back and ride the other end of the bike path in Fairborn, but the freaking rain kept me home. Sitting here, playing online, dreading the dentist—who I really only saw for 3 minutes.
Argh.
Thursday
Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head
There really are nice people in the world. Yep, we met one today. While we were out running errands the sky opened up and a horrendous rainfall began—so hard that even with the windshield wipers on full blast (and in our truck, that’s pretty freaking fast) visibility was about 2 inches. We decided to stay alive and pulled off into the KFC parking lot to wait it out, and figured what the heck, while we were there we’d go in and get a soft drink, and maybe split a small order of chicken fingers.
A lady in line ahead of us had a fistful of coupons, and having already torn out the one she wanted to use, turned and offered them to us. Totally out of the blue. Very nicely. So we split a 3 piece meal instead (and gave her back the rest of her coupons) and saved about a buck and a half. It wasn’t like winning the lottery, no, but her offer of the coupons was a very nice and unexpected gesture.
And it even took the sting out of knowing we were headed to pick up my little purple car from the garage. Again. $$$.
I love my little purple toy, but cripes, it’s more expensive than feeding a teenage boy.
There really are nice people in the world. Yep, we met one today. While we were out running errands the sky opened up and a horrendous rainfall began—so hard that even with the windshield wipers on full blast (and in our truck, that’s pretty freaking fast) visibility was about 2 inches. We decided to stay alive and pulled off into the KFC parking lot to wait it out, and figured what the heck, while we were there we’d go in and get a soft drink, and maybe split a small order of chicken fingers.
A lady in line ahead of us had a fistful of coupons, and having already torn out the one she wanted to use, turned and offered them to us. Totally out of the blue. Very nicely. So we split a 3 piece meal instead (and gave her back the rest of her coupons) and saved about a buck and a half. It wasn’t like winning the lottery, no, but her offer of the coupons was a very nice and unexpected gesture.
And it even took the sting out of knowing we were headed to pick up my little purple car from the garage. Again. $$$.
I love my little purple toy, but cripes, it’s more expensive than feeding a teenage boy.
Tuesday
Where Did I Leave My Brain?
I’ve got this short story… I started writing it at least 10 years ago, and recently found it on a floppy disk. It was in Word Perfect 5.0 format, so I know it was written when we were last stationed in San Antonio. I cleaned up some crappy looking code out of it, and then sat down to read it—and I remember starting it—but it’s unfinished and I have no idea where I was going with it. And that sucks, because up until the point where I stopped, it’s actually pretty good!
I found a bunch of old unfinished shorts, but most of them are painfully awful. Not even in an amusing sort of way—they just stink. I think I’ll file those under What Was I Thinking??!!?? and leave them there.
This week’s discovery: last minute plane tickets are horrendously expensive, and that really bites.
This week’s reality: finding a way to tell someone that those tickets are much more expensive that the web sites say they are.
I’ve got this short story… I started writing it at least 10 years ago, and recently found it on a floppy disk. It was in Word Perfect 5.0 format, so I know it was written when we were last stationed in San Antonio. I cleaned up some crappy looking code out of it, and then sat down to read it—and I remember starting it—but it’s unfinished and I have no idea where I was going with it. And that sucks, because up until the point where I stopped, it’s actually pretty good!
I found a bunch of old unfinished shorts, but most of them are painfully awful. Not even in an amusing sort of way—they just stink. I think I’ll file those under What Was I Thinking??!!?? and leave them there.
This week’s discovery: last minute plane tickets are horrendously expensive, and that really bites.
This week’s reality: finding a way to tell someone that those tickets are much more expensive that the web sites say they are.
Saturday
Entitlement 101
This afternoon I sat at the BX food court pretending to be absorbed in an issue of People Magazine (no pretense at going there to write today—I totally craved an egg salad sandwich from Robin Hood Sandwiches), trying to mind my own business and not get annoyed about the screaming two year old who seemed intent on torturing every single person there.
I was doing a fairly good job at drowning out the sounds of the obviously too-tired toddler; what could be more enthralling than reading about Angelina Jolie’s deep and moving love for the new man in her life, 2 year old Maddox? It didn’t take long for me to find out; a couple roughly my age sat down right next to me (um, crap, there were like 20 free tables and they picked the one only 18 inches from me…) and began Bitching In Earnest.
Their complaint? One of them has an elderly mother who is, I gather, a widow. And this woman apparently only has a year or so left to live (and while curious, I never figured out what is about to cause her imminent demise.) Her egregious crime? She is spending her money.
Yes, her money.
Male Assmunch: She bought a car. A goddamned forty thousand dollar car.
Female Assmunch: She always wanted it.
MA: Yeah, but how long can she drive it? Maybe six months?
FA: I know, it’s a waste of money.
MA: And then there’s all those stupid things. She doesn’t need more clothes or stupid knick knacks. She keeps this up and there won’t be anything left.
FA: She has insurance…
MA: You know what I mean.
I knew what he meant. It pissed me off to no end, but I knew what he meant, and as they continued to talk, it became more clear: Mom was spending her money, and it pissed him off because he wanted an inheritance.
What a complete obnoxious prick.
No, make that Prick. With a capital P.
Do people really feel this way? They’re a year, maybe less, away from losing a parent and they’re worried that they won’t get an inheritance? Holy freaking shit. I can’t even blame “those young people” because they were both obviously close to my age.
Here’s my take. If you have an aging and/or dying parent, get a clue—don’t just get it, but absorb it. Swallow it whole. It’s not your money/house/car/whatever. You are not owed an inheritance. Your parents probably worked long and hard for whatever they have, and it’s theirs to do with as they please. Buy a car. Buy a house. Buy every freaking CD they can get their hands on. Buy a Play Station. A Game Cube. A screaming, kick ass computer and an assload of software to go with it. It is their money. All of it.
And if you’re one of those aging or dying parents—blow it. Spend it. Have as much fun as you can with whatever you can. You don’t owe your kids an inheritance. The only thing you owe your kids is what you’ve already bestowed on them throughout their lives: love, respect, and an example of what a Good Person should be.
Fortunately, I did learn restraint somewhere along the way… I really wanted to get up and bitch-slap the little weasels, or at the very least dump my Diet Coke all over their lunch, but I didn’t. I finished my sandwich, wiped off the table, and left.
I hope the old lady dies broke.
This afternoon I sat at the BX food court pretending to be absorbed in an issue of People Magazine (no pretense at going there to write today—I totally craved an egg salad sandwich from Robin Hood Sandwiches), trying to mind my own business and not get annoyed about the screaming two year old who seemed intent on torturing every single person there.
I was doing a fairly good job at drowning out the sounds of the obviously too-tired toddler; what could be more enthralling than reading about Angelina Jolie’s deep and moving love for the new man in her life, 2 year old Maddox? It didn’t take long for me to find out; a couple roughly my age sat down right next to me (um, crap, there were like 20 free tables and they picked the one only 18 inches from me…) and began Bitching In Earnest.
Their complaint? One of them has an elderly mother who is, I gather, a widow. And this woman apparently only has a year or so left to live (and while curious, I never figured out what is about to cause her imminent demise.) Her egregious crime? She is spending her money.
Yes, her money.
Male Assmunch: She bought a car. A goddamned forty thousand dollar car.
Female Assmunch: She always wanted it.
MA: Yeah, but how long can she drive it? Maybe six months?
FA: I know, it’s a waste of money.
MA: And then there’s all those stupid things. She doesn’t need more clothes or stupid knick knacks. She keeps this up and there won’t be anything left.
FA: She has insurance…
MA: You know what I mean.
I knew what he meant. It pissed me off to no end, but I knew what he meant, and as they continued to talk, it became more clear: Mom was spending her money, and it pissed him off because he wanted an inheritance.
What a complete obnoxious prick.
No, make that Prick. With a capital P.
Do people really feel this way? They’re a year, maybe less, away from losing a parent and they’re worried that they won’t get an inheritance? Holy freaking shit. I can’t even blame “those young people” because they were both obviously close to my age.
Here’s my take. If you have an aging and/or dying parent, get a clue—don’t just get it, but absorb it. Swallow it whole. It’s not your money/house/car/whatever. You are not owed an inheritance. Your parents probably worked long and hard for whatever they have, and it’s theirs to do with as they please. Buy a car. Buy a house. Buy every freaking CD they can get their hands on. Buy a Play Station. A Game Cube. A screaming, kick ass computer and an assload of software to go with it. It is their money. All of it.
And if you’re one of those aging or dying parents—blow it. Spend it. Have as much fun as you can with whatever you can. You don’t owe your kids an inheritance. The only thing you owe your kids is what you’ve already bestowed on them throughout their lives: love, respect, and an example of what a Good Person should be.
Fortunately, I did learn restraint somewhere along the way… I really wanted to get up and bitch-slap the little weasels, or at the very least dump my Diet Coke all over their lunch, but I didn’t. I finished my sandwich, wiped off the table, and left.
I hope the old lady dies broke.
Tuesday
All The Pretty Things…
The UPS man got here right around 3:30 this afternoon, bearing gifts. Well, bearing the proof copy of the new edition of Charybdis. It looks so good. I knew the new cover would be much better than the old one, but I couldn’t believe how amazingly perfect it is. Hopefully it won’t take too long to pop up on Amazon—I want a couple more copies myself, but I’m not going to buy 25 from the printer. Well, maybe not. Depends on how many other people want a copy.
Next up… a cover for As Simple As That and getting it uploaded to the printer. And I need to finish proofreading the 3rd book. It was originally titled Father Rabbit, then Finding Father Rabbit, then Being Naked (after Finding Nemo hit the theaters), but I’ve decided to go back to the second title, in spite of Nemo.
Yesterday Spouse Thingy and I went bike shopping. I was looking for that spiffy recumbent trike, and a couple places around here actually carry them, but they didn’t have any in stock. What one bike shop had was the 2 wheel version, a straight, entry level ‘bent. And they had a decent sized parking lot, on which I could test ride it (I really didn’t think I could keep it balanced, but I did, and it was fun)
We didn’t buy it, though. We left and drove up to Springfield to check out a mall there (not worth the trip.) After buying a pair of jeans at Old Navy (gotta get ‘em when I can find overdyed black in my size) we drove all the way home, where Spouse Thingy threw ribs on the grill (he makes awesome ribs) and discussed the bike a bit more. It would, he said, be fun to be able to take bike rides together.
So he called the shop to see of they were still open—while I’m sitting there saying “It’s after six, I’m sure they’re closed all ready”—and they were. So off we wentm back to Kettering, where the mighty Spouse Thingy bought me a spiffy red recumbent bicycle (turned out to be much cheaper than the trike.) It was almost dark by the time we got home, and rain clouds were forming, so I didn’t get to do much more than ride it around the court a few times… and I bravely decided to try to go up the hill that is our street.
I made it. Several times.
So this afternoon we put our pretty little helmets on :::eyeroll::: and headed for the bike path behind base housing. It’s a nice path, but very hilly. We rode down it about 2.5 miles before turning around to come home… but I did it. I not only rode without reams of pain, but I managed those damn hills—all but the very last one coming back into the housing area (I admit, by this point I felt like puking.)
I haven’t been able to ride a bike in a good 12 years, not really.
This was just too freaking cool! And Spouse Thingy took it for a spin later, and really liked it. It’s much easier on the butt (his main complaint about biking) and it’s easier on the knees and back (my main problem.) Once he gets paid from his moonlighting job at the end of the month, he just might have to buy one for himself. Only he’ll probably get his in blue.
Between the swimming at the Y and the bike, gosh darnit, I should get into shape. A shape other than round!
The UPS man got here right around 3:30 this afternoon, bearing gifts. Well, bearing the proof copy of the new edition of Charybdis. It looks so good. I knew the new cover would be much better than the old one, but I couldn’t believe how amazingly perfect it is. Hopefully it won’t take too long to pop up on Amazon—I want a couple more copies myself, but I’m not going to buy 25 from the printer. Well, maybe not. Depends on how many other people want a copy.
Next up… a cover for As Simple As That and getting it uploaded to the printer. And I need to finish proofreading the 3rd book. It was originally titled Father Rabbit, then Finding Father Rabbit, then Being Naked (after Finding Nemo hit the theaters), but I’ve decided to go back to the second title, in spite of Nemo.
Yesterday Spouse Thingy and I went bike shopping. I was looking for that spiffy recumbent trike, and a couple places around here actually carry them, but they didn’t have any in stock. What one bike shop had was the 2 wheel version, a straight, entry level ‘bent. And they had a decent sized parking lot, on which I could test ride it (I really didn’t think I could keep it balanced, but I did, and it was fun)
We didn’t buy it, though. We left and drove up to Springfield to check out a mall there (not worth the trip.) After buying a pair of jeans at Old Navy (gotta get ‘em when I can find overdyed black in my size) we drove all the way home, where Spouse Thingy threw ribs on the grill (he makes awesome ribs) and discussed the bike a bit more. It would, he said, be fun to be able to take bike rides together.
So he called the shop to see of they were still open—while I’m sitting there saying “It’s after six, I’m sure they’re closed all ready”—and they were. So off we wentm back to Kettering, where the mighty Spouse Thingy bought me a spiffy red recumbent bicycle (turned out to be much cheaper than the trike.) It was almost dark by the time we got home, and rain clouds were forming, so I didn’t get to do much more than ride it around the court a few times… and I bravely decided to try to go up the hill that is our street.
I made it. Several times.
So this afternoon we put our pretty little helmets on :::eyeroll::: and headed for the bike path behind base housing. It’s a nice path, but very hilly. We rode down it about 2.5 miles before turning around to come home… but I did it. I not only rode without reams of pain, but I managed those damn hills—all but the very last one coming back into the housing area (I admit, by this point I felt like puking.)
I haven’t been able to ride a bike in a good 12 years, not really.
This was just too freaking cool! And Spouse Thingy took it for a spin later, and really liked it. It’s much easier on the butt (his main complaint about biking) and it’s easier on the knees and back (my main problem.) Once he gets paid from his moonlighting job at the end of the month, he just might have to buy one for himself. Only he’ll probably get his in blue.
Between the swimming at the Y and the bike, gosh darnit, I should get into shape. A shape other than round!
Thursday
Toys!
Another thing to add to my list of I Want. And I want a lot it seems. But this is sooooo cool—a recumbent trike! I can’t ride a regular bike anymore and I’ve played with the idea of a recumbent for a few years, but the good ones are expensive. And difficult to learn to ride. This thing is only about $600. That’s right! ONLY about $600! And it’s got three wheels! I wouldn’t fall off! Can I use any more exclamation points?!!!???!
So, thus far, I’m coveting, in this order:
Really, I’m either going to have to get a Real Job ™ or stick a Tipjar on here. Or start, in the words of the HMIC, a “cam-whore wishlist.”
Still, the trike would a cool thing, and it would be beneficial and healthy. Healthy!
Convertible first. Though if I got the $100,000 first, I could be debt free and get the ragtop. Eh. I know my priorities.
Another thing to add to my list of I Want. And I want a lot it seems. But this is sooooo cool—a recumbent trike! I can’t ride a regular bike anymore and I’ve played with the idea of a recumbent for a few years, but the good ones are expensive. And difficult to learn to ride. This thing is only about $600. That’s right! ONLY about $600! And it’s got three wheels! I wouldn’t fall off! Can I use any more exclamation points?!!!???!
So, thus far, I’m coveting, in this order:
Really, I’m either going to have to get a Real Job ™ or stick a Tipjar on here. Or start, in the words of the HMIC, a “cam-whore wishlist.”
Still, the trike would a cool thing, and it would be beneficial and healthy. Healthy!
Convertible first. Though if I got the $100,000 first, I could be debt free and get the ragtop. Eh. I know my priorities.
Toast This
Know what I miss? A good toaster. A toaster where you can put your bread in, or a Toaster Strudel, and have it not only brown nicely, but not come out mangled. A reliable toaster, one where you set it on medium and you get a medium-browned piece of bread. A toast that does not pre-eat your food for you.
We recently had to replace a toaster. We found this nice spiffy, shiny metal Toastmaster for a really good price, and bought it. After all, a toaster is just a toaster, right? And all the new ones have these wide slots so you can toast bagels if you want.
The problem… all those new wide slot toasters also seem to come with these really narrow thingies to “support” whatever you’re toasting—and support they do not. If you have anything narrower than a bagel, it slips past the support bar and gets mashed between the heating coils and the basket. Frozen waffles, Toaster Strudel, thin bread … it all gets caught up, which means you have to unplug and fish it out with a fork.
Hating the Brand New Shiny Toaster, I went looking for yet another one. I peeked inside all the model before buying one, and guess what? They’re all the same! No one seems to make a toaster designed to hold bread anymore.
I just want non-mangled Toaster Strudels once in a while. Is that too much to ask?
Know what I miss? A good toaster. A toaster where you can put your bread in, or a Toaster Strudel, and have it not only brown nicely, but not come out mangled. A reliable toaster, one where you set it on medium and you get a medium-browned piece of bread. A toast that does not pre-eat your food for you.
We recently had to replace a toaster. We found this nice spiffy, shiny metal Toastmaster for a really good price, and bought it. After all, a toaster is just a toaster, right? And all the new ones have these wide slots so you can toast bagels if you want.
The problem… all those new wide slot toasters also seem to come with these really narrow thingies to “support” whatever you’re toasting—and support they do not. If you have anything narrower than a bagel, it slips past the support bar and gets mashed between the heating coils and the basket. Frozen waffles, Toaster Strudel, thin bread … it all gets caught up, which means you have to unplug and fish it out with a fork.
Hating the Brand New Shiny Toaster, I went looking for yet another one. I peeked inside all the model before buying one, and guess what? They’re all the same! No one seems to make a toaster designed to hold bread anymore.
I just want non-mangled Toaster Strudels once in a while. Is that too much to ask?
Monday
Ooooh. Pretty, too…
I spent the entire day, pretty much, recreating the cover for the new edition of Charybdis, and then re-doing the interior layout. The new cover image (have I said this before?) was done by Mark Carpenter and is awfully danged spiffy.
It’s all uploaded to the printer, so hopefully it’ll be ready for ordering by next week—but I really don’t want to cough up the cash for 25 copies, so anyone who wants one will probably have to order through Amazon (which might take 2-3 weeks before it’s up there.)
Now… to work on As Simple As That, and try to cough up a new cover (I actually have ideas!)…
I spent the entire day, pretty much, recreating the cover for the new edition of Charybdis, and then re-doing the interior layout. The new cover image (have I said this before?) was done by Mark Carpenter and is awfully danged spiffy.
It’s all uploaded to the printer, so hopefully it’ll be ready for ordering by next week—but I really don’t want to cough up the cash for 25 copies, so anyone who wants one will probably have to order through Amazon (which might take 2-3 weeks before it’s up there.)
Now… to work on As Simple As That, and try to cough up a new cover (I actually have ideas!)…
Sunday
Ooooh. Pretty.
It’s torture. And I’m pretty sure it’s deliberate. The whole world knows I covet a convertible, and the more I want one, the more there are on the road. Tormenting me. Teasing me. Making sure I see that THOSE people have one and I don’t.
We went to the flea market again today, and there’s a dealership that takes half a dozen of their used cars and sells the, there. Today the guy had a brilliant-white ’95 LeBaron GTC with only 84,000 miles sitting there. $4500. [snarl] I’m pretty sure he knew I was coming, and only brought it as a way to give me a good, hard, emotional wedgy.
It’s a conspiracy, I know it.
I think I’m addicted to the flea market. I have an urge to get a bunch of crap together and rent a booth. Every weekend. Only problem is I don’t have that much crap to sell… There are people there who have regular rentals, and they’re basically weekend-stores; that would be awesome. I could do that, if I could think of decent products. Something besides sunglasses, t-shirts, or swords. Too many people are already selling those.
Yep. Swords. Lots and lots of swords. Most of them are cheap crap, but there’s one woman who sells some really nice stuff, and Spouse Thingy loves swords. He says he wants to get a collection going, but I’m pretty sure it’s just that he’s attracted to bright, shiny things, and those are masculine enough that he won’t get laughed at for having them.
Gotta admit, I think they’re pretty cool, too.
The convertible would be cooler. By far.
It’s torture. And I’m pretty sure it’s deliberate. The whole world knows I covet a convertible, and the more I want one, the more there are on the road. Tormenting me. Teasing me. Making sure I see that THOSE people have one and I don’t.
We went to the flea market again today, and there’s a dealership that takes half a dozen of their used cars and sells the, there. Today the guy had a brilliant-white ’95 LeBaron GTC with only 84,000 miles sitting there. $4500. [snarl] I’m pretty sure he knew I was coming, and only brought it as a way to give me a good, hard, emotional wedgy.
It’s a conspiracy, I know it.
I think I’m addicted to the flea market. I have an urge to get a bunch of crap together and rent a booth. Every weekend. Only problem is I don’t have that much crap to sell… There are people there who have regular rentals, and they’re basically weekend-stores; that would be awesome. I could do that, if I could think of decent products. Something besides sunglasses, t-shirts, or swords. Too many people are already selling those.
Yep. Swords. Lots and lots of swords. Most of them are cheap crap, but there’s one woman who sells some really nice stuff, and Spouse Thingy loves swords. He says he wants to get a collection going, but I’m pretty sure it’s just that he’s attracted to bright, shiny things, and those are masculine enough that he won’t get laughed at for having them.
Gotta admit, I think they’re pretty cool, too.
The convertible would be cooler. By far.
Saturday
$#@#$$^$ Part Two
Arrgh.
The whole point of print on demand publishing is that they can print and bind 1 book at a time. Ideally, they print it, and ship it to whomever the publisher requests.
Yesterday I came to find out that the only viable printer for print on demand books won’t do that unless the publisher has 25 titles with them. Twenty five. Until that number is reached, the publisher is limited to ordering short runs of 25 copies or more.
Kind of defeats the purpose.
And can put me out of business before I even get started. Authors looking for POD don’t want to be forced into ordering 25 books at a time. Sometimes they only want 1 or 2 copies.
About the only thing I can do—offer at-cost publishing to the first 25-30 people who want it. No frills, no bells or whistles, just a book with a rather generic cover, and I’ll make absolutely nothing. I can live with that—hell, it’ll get me launched and give me a catalog of books, but finding that many people willing to go this route… =sigh=
I didn’t have a very good week, did I? :
Arrgh.
The whole point of print on demand publishing is that they can print and bind 1 book at a time. Ideally, they print it, and ship it to whomever the publisher requests.
Yesterday I came to find out that the only viable printer for print on demand books won’t do that unless the publisher has 25 titles with them. Twenty five. Until that number is reached, the publisher is limited to ordering short runs of 25 copies or more.
Kind of defeats the purpose.
And can put me out of business before I even get started. Authors looking for POD don’t want to be forced into ordering 25 books at a time. Sometimes they only want 1 or 2 copies.
About the only thing I can do—offer at-cost publishing to the first 25-30 people who want it. No frills, no bells or whistles, just a book with a rather generic cover, and I’ll make absolutely nothing. I can live with that—hell, it’ll get me launched and give me a catalog of books, but finding that many people willing to go this route… =sigh=
I didn’t have a very good week, did I? :
Thursday
$#@!%#@^%&!!!!!!
Yes, I’m >this< close to a meltdown.
First off, the transmission on my car could crap out at any time. The brand new brakes are making a popping sound. It thrills me not, but it only has to hold out until the end of August. If it craps out before then, I don’t know what we’ll do, but I can survive—with a whole lot of whining—without a car for a few weeks.
My computer is on its last legs. Various things keep going wrong, all leading to the inevitable purchase of a new system, but we can’t swing that right now, so we did the next best thing—we bought an external hard drive and I transferred my important files onto it. All my business files, my manuscripts, image files… everything important. The very last pictures we took of Hank.
Last night I finished the new cover to Charybdis, with the intent of uploading it to the printer this morning. And I saved it to the new hard drive.
This morning, I booted up my computer, and was ready to upload—only my external drive doesn’t work. Every application I try pops up with an error message “This drive is not formatted. Would you like to format now?”
Well, ^&$^*&#, No! I would not! I want to access what’s already there!
I rebooted my computer.
I disconnected the drive, rebooted the computer.
I completely shut the computer down. I shut down power to the hard drive. I booted back up with it both connected and disconnected.
Nothing works.
I am so freaking, unbelievably pissed off right now.
Completely.
Yes, I’m >this< close to a meltdown.
First off, the transmission on my car could crap out at any time. The brand new brakes are making a popping sound. It thrills me not, but it only has to hold out until the end of August. If it craps out before then, I don’t know what we’ll do, but I can survive—with a whole lot of whining—without a car for a few weeks.
My computer is on its last legs. Various things keep going wrong, all leading to the inevitable purchase of a new system, but we can’t swing that right now, so we did the next best thing—we bought an external hard drive and I transferred my important files onto it. All my business files, my manuscripts, image files… everything important. The very last pictures we took of Hank.
Last night I finished the new cover to Charybdis, with the intent of uploading it to the printer this morning. And I saved it to the new hard drive.
This morning, I booted up my computer, and was ready to upload—only my external drive doesn’t work. Every application I try pops up with an error message “This drive is not formatted. Would you like to format now?”
Well, ^&$^*&#, No! I would not! I want to access what’s already there!
I rebooted my computer.
I disconnected the drive, rebooted the computer.
I completely shut the computer down. I shut down power to the hard drive. I booted back up with it both connected and disconnected.
Nothing works.
I am so freaking, unbelievably pissed off right now.
Completely.
And Here I Thought I Was Talking To Myself…
It’s a little disconcerting, writing and thinking no one is reading it. The tracker is useless; it shows 1 person a day, even times when the comments showed several, and email showed at least 5 or 6. But in the last week or two, when I surf onto my own blog, at the bottom of every post is “Comments?” with no little numbers to let me know if anyone has left a comment for me.
My poor feelings were hurt. No one had anything to say about my grandiose musings???
This morning it occurred to me that the comments might be broken, so I clicked on one random post to leave myself a comment to see what would happen—and there were like 7 comments there!
I don’t know what’s wrong, if it’s just me, if it’s YACCS, or Blogger. Thinking back, the lack of comments showing coincides roughly with Blogger moving everyone to the new servers, but that could just be coincidence.
So, question: when you load up the page, is there a little number next to “Comments?” or not? It might just be me…
It’s a little disconcerting, writing and thinking no one is reading it. The tracker is useless; it shows 1 person a day, even times when the comments showed several, and email showed at least 5 or 6. But in the last week or two, when I surf onto my own blog, at the bottom of every post is “Comments?” with no little numbers to let me know if anyone has left a comment for me.
My poor feelings were hurt. No one had anything to say about my grandiose musings???
This morning it occurred to me that the comments might be broken, so I clicked on one random post to leave myself a comment to see what would happen—and there were like 7 comments there!
I don’t know what’s wrong, if it’s just me, if it’s YACCS, or Blogger. Thinking back, the lack of comments showing coincides roughly with Blogger moving everyone to the new servers, but that could just be coincidence.
So, question: when you load up the page, is there a little number next to “Comments?” or not? It might just be me…
Wednesday
When I Am Old I Shall Not Block The Aisles
Military retirees in the commissary are something one must experience. There is, evidently, something about age combined with retiring from the military that causes one to stand in the middle of the aisle, shopping cart turned sideways, oblivious to the line of people waiting patiently to get around and out of the aisle.
And yes, people tend to wait patiently for the retirees in the commissary. Because you never know what kinds of horrors they’ve already endured during their time in service; it would be incredibly rude to compound that by being, well… rude.
I am determines, however, that I will not become one of those old people blocking the commissary aisles.
Today I determined that I will also not become one of those old people who don’t watch where they’re going in places like Golden Corral Buffet or Ponderosa Steak House.
We discovered today that Monday-Friday from 1pm to 3pm is Senior Citizens Discount Lunch at the Golden Corral. We walked in a little after 2 pm and other than one couple with kids, we were the youngest people there. It was packed with seniors determined to get their $5.00 worth—and God help anyone getting in their way. In my attempt to get some mashed potatoes I was blocked off by one old woman who just was not watching where she was going, bumped by another old woman who seemed fearful that I was going to take the entire bin of gravy, and cut off by two different old men while simply trying to get to the orange sherbet.
These are all probably very nice people, I’m sure. But they were either oblivious to the people around them, or they wanted to be sure they got to everything before I did.
The last time we ate there, about 3 weeks ago, I sat there munching on strawberries and watermelon as a Very Old Man started to walk past, and just as he was directly in my line of site, he barfed. Not just a little spit up, he heaved everything he had just eaten onto the tile floor. And he had eaten quite a bit.
When I am old, I shall not stuff myself to explosion at the buffet—another promise to myself.
Or maybe I will. When I am old, I’ll probably deserve it, and will just want to piss off all the young people.
Military retirees in the commissary are something one must experience. There is, evidently, something about age combined with retiring from the military that causes one to stand in the middle of the aisle, shopping cart turned sideways, oblivious to the line of people waiting patiently to get around and out of the aisle.
And yes, people tend to wait patiently for the retirees in the commissary. Because you never know what kinds of horrors they’ve already endured during their time in service; it would be incredibly rude to compound that by being, well… rude.
I am determines, however, that I will not become one of those old people blocking the commissary aisles.
Today I determined that I will also not become one of those old people who don’t watch where they’re going in places like Golden Corral Buffet or Ponderosa Steak House.
We discovered today that Monday-Friday from 1pm to 3pm is Senior Citizens Discount Lunch at the Golden Corral. We walked in a little after 2 pm and other than one couple with kids, we were the youngest people there. It was packed with seniors determined to get their $5.00 worth—and God help anyone getting in their way. In my attempt to get some mashed potatoes I was blocked off by one old woman who just was not watching where she was going, bumped by another old woman who seemed fearful that I was going to take the entire bin of gravy, and cut off by two different old men while simply trying to get to the orange sherbet.
These are all probably very nice people, I’m sure. But they were either oblivious to the people around them, or they wanted to be sure they got to everything before I did.
The last time we ate there, about 3 weeks ago, I sat there munching on strawberries and watermelon as a Very Old Man started to walk past, and just as he was directly in my line of site, he barfed. Not just a little spit up, he heaved everything he had just eaten onto the tile floor. And he had eaten quite a bit.
When I am old, I shall not stuff myself to explosion at the buffet—another promise to myself.
Or maybe I will. When I am old, I’ll probably deserve it, and will just want to piss off all the young people.
Friday
Nemo is in Newport, KY
Yep. Nemo and several of his fellow Clownfish can be found at the Newport Aquarium in Newport, KY, just past the Ohio border. Along with Nemo you can see the surfer-dude turtle on whose back Nemo’s father rode the slipstream, and the jellyfish he braved whilst looking for his wayward son.
Lesson learned on the way to see Nemo and all the other fishies and turtle and alligators at the aquarium: Cincinnati has a major traffic problem. It took almost as long to get from one side of the city to the other as it did to get all the way from Dayton to the outskirts on Cincinnati. Cars were bumper to bumper in the Interstate, and in places we were doing a
whopping 20mph. It made the “Minimum Speed 40 MPH” kind of ironic.
Amazingly, of all those cars competing for space on the freeway, there were only a few idiots. For the most part it was just people trying to get where they were going; I just would have been happier if where they were going hadn’t been in the same direction as where I was going.
Anyway. We’re determined to see what there is to see in this little corner of Ohio. It seems like everywhere we’ve lived we haven’t done the touristy stuff, and probably missed out on a lot, so this time we’re going to explore. So far we’ve found a couple of really good flea markets and the aquarium, a decent art museum and a killer air force museum. Spouse Thingy has a week off coming up, and we’re going to check out a science museum and a Packard museum.
I know there’s more around the area, but the Ohio Tourism site sucks…
Yep. Nemo and several of his fellow Clownfish can be found at the Newport Aquarium in Newport, KY, just past the Ohio border. Along with Nemo you can see the surfer-dude turtle on whose back Nemo’s father rode the slipstream, and the jellyfish he braved whilst looking for his wayward son.
Lesson learned on the way to see Nemo and all the other fishies and turtle and alligators at the aquarium: Cincinnati has a major traffic problem. It took almost as long to get from one side of the city to the other as it did to get all the way from Dayton to the outskirts on Cincinnati. Cars were bumper to bumper in the Interstate, and in places we were doing a
whopping 20mph. It made the “Minimum Speed 40 MPH” kind of ironic.
Amazingly, of all those cars competing for space on the freeway, there were only a few idiots. For the most part it was just people trying to get where they were going; I just would have been happier if where they were going hadn’t been in the same direction as where I was going.
Anyway. We’re determined to see what there is to see in this little corner of Ohio. It seems like everywhere we’ve lived we haven’t done the touristy stuff, and probably missed out on a lot, so this time we’re going to explore. So far we’ve found a couple of really good flea markets and the aquarium, a decent art museum and a killer air force museum. Spouse Thingy has a week off coming up, and we’re going to check out a science museum and a Packard museum.
I know there’s more around the area, but the Ohio Tourism site sucks…
Tuesday
Splat
We have this huge tree in our front yard; it’s taller than the house, and the branches expand across our entire half of the yard and part of the driveway. It’s terrific for sitting under in the summer heat—most days I see kids playing out there, when they’re not running through sprinklers in their own yards. The big benefit to me is that all those leaves keep the sun off my car, so it’s not scorchingly hot when I get in.
The birds seem to enjoy the tree, too. And they’ve devised their own little games to occupy the time they spend lounging up there in the branches.
The main game: Hit The Car. Namely, hit my car. They hover on the branches, little asses aimed, and play their dirty little game. As near as I can tell, there are 3 different versions of Hit The Car. The main one is seeing Who Can Hit The Sunroof; plop a good one dead center and you win. The next is Who Can Land The Biggest Splotch on the car. Anywhere on the car. Double points for getting a huge one on the windshield. And the Prize Winning game is Who Can Slime The Driver’s Side Door Handle well enough that it can’t be opened without washing the car first.
They play these games every day.
Every. Single. Day.
Freaking birds.
Too bad they’re all too damned small to eat.
We have this huge tree in our front yard; it’s taller than the house, and the branches expand across our entire half of the yard and part of the driveway. It’s terrific for sitting under in the summer heat—most days I see kids playing out there, when they’re not running through sprinklers in their own yards. The big benefit to me is that all those leaves keep the sun off my car, so it’s not scorchingly hot when I get in.
The birds seem to enjoy the tree, too. And they’ve devised their own little games to occupy the time they spend lounging up there in the branches.
The main game: Hit The Car. Namely, hit my car. They hover on the branches, little asses aimed, and play their dirty little game. As near as I can tell, there are 3 different versions of Hit The Car. The main one is seeing Who Can Hit The Sunroof; plop a good one dead center and you win. The next is Who Can Land The Biggest Splotch on the car. Anywhere on the car. Double points for getting a huge one on the windshield. And the Prize Winning game is Who Can Slime The Driver’s Side Door Handle well enough that it can’t be opened without washing the car first.
They play these games every day.
Every. Single. Day.
Freaking birds.
Too bad they’re all too damned small to eat.
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