Things That Piss Me Off

 The Elf on the Shelf. WTF? A cheap, creepy-faced little doll spies on the whole family all day and sneaks back to HQ at night to report on whether you're naughty or nice. (Don't we have the NSA for that?) Worse, it comes alive and moves around the house when nobody's looking. Talk about The Nightmare Before Christmas.
 
NPR. I love NPR. It's one of the very few sources I trust, and I have it on all the time. But couldn't there be some kind of pleasant topic interwoven into the daily dose of depression? Something other than the muck and mire of American politics,  the desperation of wars in faraway places, the endless litany of terrible things about which I can do absolutely nothing...keep those, yeah, because somebody has to do actual journalism. But even I need a breather in between stories, a momentary shelter from the shitstorm. Anything will do. I'll even take a little news from from Lake Woebegon.

Cannibalistic commercials. I find it disturbing that the cute little Cinnamon Toast Crunch pieces are eating each other. I don't think I could stand having a whole box of them on my shelf, because I'd always be imagining the horrors taking place within. And I don't think it's funny to watch the little M&M guys being lured to their doom, fighting for their lives while being stuffed into ovens, and especially the one  having his brain devoured by voracious women (who are not even zombies). "It hurts! But I kinda like it" he says. It hurts. I don't like it. Ditto all the happy, singing cows, chickens, and pigs selling beef, chicken, and pork products. Epic Ewww.

No point here. I'm just saying.

Accidental Poetry: Prospectus

 PRWCX

Current performance may be higher

or lower

than quoted past performance,

which cannot guarantee

future results.

Share price

principal value

and return

will vary.

And

you may  have a gain

or loss

When you sell your shares.

Just messing around. OK, just procrastinating about figuring out where

the hell

to put

my old 401k.

Fondle Your Franklins

There's a new study that found people are happier, stronger, and better able to endure both physical and social pain after handling money. It doesn't even have to be their own money. Just touching the stuff has a profound, positive psychological impact.

Thinking about your bills, however, has the opposite effect. So don't do that.

Just sharing.

Hight Octane

Want. Not.

This poor woman's kitchen is awash in egg slime and her muffins (Oh God, not the muffins!) are ruined by shells! The horror!

Really? How hard is it to crack a freakin' egg?

Ya gotta love an over-engineered, overpriced, non-biodegradable hunk of imported plastic that solves a nonexistent problem.

Bad Cows. Bad.

There's a guy out there tonight who is in trouble with the law because his cows are licking the neighbor's house. Yep. Licking a house. Licked off a window and a gutter, and probably left a lot of icky cow spit on the siding.

You just never know what the day will bring, do ya?

Your Laugh for the Day

I've just run across a New York Times article featuring The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain (No Tiptoeing Through the Tulips), which has apparently been around for a few years now. However did I miss a thing like that?

The article says that the group makes people smile. I can vouch for that. When you've finished this one, you want to click on the related videos for The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly and Smells Like Teen Spirit. Seriously.

Doctors Drop Their Pants on Everest

Irresistible title, huh? It sucked me in, too.

I have a day off today, and I have a to-do list that would take a week to do. So I'm just sitting here Web surfing and watching the snow come down. Yeah. I'm a slacker. I'm OK with it.

So the title comes from the Discover Magazine website, and it's about a group of doctors doing a study on how much oxygen deprivation a body can take before going down for a dirt nap. The dropping trou part comes in when they draw blood from their groin areas and hand the samples to the Sherpas to schlep down the mountain for testing. If you ask me, the big round of applause should always go to the Sherpas.

There is also a story there about how horny mosquitoes buzz in harmony to produce a perfect fifth with an overtone. This is much more interesting than I ever thought mosquitoes could be, but I still hate them.

And then you have your transgenic goats producing pharmaceutical milk ... self reassembling robots (Terminators, anyone?) ... and last but so not least, zombie animals and their mind-controlling parasites.

And it isn't even noon yet. I'm gonna need more cocoa.

Best. Toy. Ever.

I've been avoiding the news lately, mostly because I dislike heart palpitations. They scare me and they make me cranky, much like the news itself.

The price I pay is missing stuff like this: Toy Hall of Fame Inducts the Stick.

Now that is funny, as in snorting-coffee-out-your-nose and laughing-until-you-pee. There's even a photo of the beaming curator holding the stick, proudly housed within another classic, The Cardboard Box. (I am so in the wrong job.)

Once I caught my breath, though, I began to remember my childhood, way back at the dawn of time, and the fun we used to have with the good ol' stick.

A neighbor had a row of trees that dropped loads of long, willowy, flexible switches. They became jockey whips, transforming our bikes into race horses. They were magic wands, and instruments of tickle torture; pointers for the teacher when we played school; probes for investigating the contents of mud puddles.

Best of all, they were forbidden. Parents assured us we'd put out an eye with them. They told us, in dire tones, the story of then-famous Andy Divine, a gravel-voiced actor who ruined his throat by running with a stick and falling on it. We could end up like Andy, croaking our way through life -- and blind to boot.

In reality, the stick was the least of our perils. We raced our bikes down the middle of the street, and nobody wore helmets. We rode them behind the DDT truck, in the cloud it made when it sprayed the alleyways to kill flies. We tunneled into sandbanks down by the river, with no thought of cave-ins. We fished in a chemical soup of a river. We trusted and obeyed adults, even strangers, just because they were adults. A broken thermometer was an occassion for fun with mercury. Cars didn't even have seat belts. Nobody gave any of that a thought. But sticks? Lethal. Certain death.

Now here we are in 2008, and the stick is vindicated. Exalted, even.

So now I know what to get for all the kids on my Christmas list. Yes, kids, Santa is bringing switches this year. And this is officially A Good Thing.

Whispers from the Cellar

Once in a while, in my line of work, I find myself on the phone with a customer from my home state of West Virginia. Good natured banter always ensues, as we are a friendly and clannish folk. The customer relays news from home, and I dutifully lament my loss at having left the place. Yesterday, though, the usual script took a surprising turn.

At the end of the call, the client recited the first line of the West Virginia state song: "Oh the West Virginia hills, how majestic and how grand." To which I found myself adding, without hesitation, the next line: "With their summits bathed in glory like our Prince Immanuel's land."

Where the HELL did that come from? I haven't sung that song since grade school. In the '50s.

But wait, there's more: Today on public radio, I heard that researchers have discovered that baby boomer brains are still carrying around an extra load of carbon 14 from the nuclear bomb tests done when we were babies. Some parts of people regenerate completely over time, but the brain just keeps packing new stuff into its original equipment. Hmm. Permanent, radioactive memories. This explains so much.

So it seems I have reached the age where I can't remember whether I took a pill with the glass of water I am still holding in my hand, but factoids from half a century ago are on speed dial. Nature has a cruel sense of humor, and she loves to screw with old people.

Fall Back

So what did you do with your extra hour when you turned your clock back this weekend? I frittered mine away online. I considered staying in bed longer, but the lure of the Internet was just too strong. Looks like I made a bad choice.

According the Los Angeles Times, the New England Journal of Medicine reports that there is a 5 percent drop in heart attack deaths the day after we reset out clocks in the fall. On the flip side, there is an increase in heart attacks when we "spring forward". And why is that? It's sleep.

Everyone knows that sleep deprivation is rough on your whole system, including your heart. But experts are surprised that one hour apparently makes a big difference.

And so, on that note, I'm off to catch a few of those Zzz's I missed. Nighters.

How To Get Great Medical Care

My sister sent this to me by email. Just sharing:

Two patients limp into two different medical clinics with the same complaint. Both have trouble walking and appear to require a hip replacement.

The first patient is examined within the hour, gets X-rays the same day, and has a time booked for surgery the following week.

The second sees his family doctor after waiting three weeks for an appointment, then waits eight weeks to see a specialist, then gets an X-ray that isn't reviewed for another week, and finally has his surgery scheduled for a month from then.

Why the different treatment for the two patients?

The first patient is a Golden Retriever.
The second is a senior citizen.

Next time I get sick, take me to a vet.

A Good Fit for Fairies

These mushrooms grow along the pine border in the background of the photo in my last post at Havenwood. They are huge, at least eight to ten inches tall and equally as wide. The day after this was taken, the one in the foreground had a bite out of it, probably nibbled by one of the many deer that come through there every day.

The fields and woods around here are just studded with all kinds of amazing mushrooms. Recent heavy rains have brought in a bumper crop of them, and I simply can't resist a daily foray into the underbrush in search of the exotic and vaguely mysterious little creatures.



This one and the next are also inhabitants of the pine line. The one above is about three inches tall, shares the edge of the path with the big boys above, and looks like an egg yolk hovering just above the ground. The next one is about six inches tall, and seems to prefer the deep shade back near the tree trunks. See the others in the background?



Unfortunately, the rains have also increased the mosquito population to nearly intolerable levels. As long as I keep up a brisk walk, I'm relatively safe. But within seconds of stopping for a photograph I am enveloped in a stabbing, buzzing swarm. The last outing cost me 16 new bites. Totally worth it:



Is this cute, or what. It's only about an inch high, and is growing all alone in the middle of a mossy path around the pond. Deeper in the woods, these mottled brown fellows grow among the roots of oaks and beeches...



Apparently, given all the bites around the edges, some small animal finds them tasty. Below, on an old rotting log, these fragile, ethereal beauties jostle for light like a flight of angels hurrying home to Heaven.



It is difficult to pay attention to camera settings while being eaten alive, so these could be better, I'm sure. Dedication to the perfect shot only carries me so far. But these are my favorites so far, and I hope you like them too.

There is so much work to be done here, and running off to the woods with a camera while cabinets need scrubbing would have been unthinkable a short while ago. However, under my new set of priorities, pleasurable pursuits trump domestic duties. Because I say so.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered: It's Ours

We closed on the new house today!

I'm still half thrilled and half terrified. We spent the whole day there, the hubby mowing weeds and me exploring nooks and crannies, airing the place out and deciding on paint colors. Now, at last, this is beginning to feel real.

There are some fairly major things that still need doing, foremost among them being pumping out the septic tank and putting in a radon remediation system in the basement. I'll need kitchen appliances, too, which is a whole other post. But I'm excited about all the possibilities of life in the country.


The really nice thing about this place is the variety. There are irrigated open spaces for growing things, a fenced pasture and barn, plus acres of woods and a pond.








Oh yeah. This is gonna be fun.

Check out others' views at PhotoHunt
(Click photos to enlarge.)

OmigodOmigodOmigod....

We found it! We're making an offer on the bee house! We're really gonna do it! We're moving! ... Omigod we're moving. Omigod we're trading a paid off house in town for a mortgage and a commute ... But we're gonna have a vegetable garden and open spaces, and our very own woods, and fresh, clean air, and deer, and a dark starry sky! Omigod we're gonna have to buy a tractor to mow this place and snowplow the driveway. I may actually have to learn to drive a tractor ... would that be fun?? I dunno, I've never had a tractor. We're gonna have five bedrooms and a finished den in the basement! Omigod what the hell are we doing with a house that big? The place is steal at this price ... Omigod the price! We are never, ever going to able to retire! But what a wonderful place to come home to at the end of the day ... OmigodOmigodOmigodOmigod ...

House Hunt: 20 Acres and a Billion Bees

We've gotten pretty burnt out on the whole house hunting thing, having explored eight homes, driven by and rejected about three dozen others, and sorted through who knows how many listings. We've walked miles of property lines and Googled a gaggle of addresses, only to arrive at dead ends.

Everyplace is too far away, too run-down, too small, too big, too expensive. Too weird ... one place had an enormous master bathroom with the toilet set on a diagonal about a yard out from a fully mirrored wall. On shag carpet. With an aquarium with plastic fish in it over the spa tub. And a little door halfway up the wall that opened onto the old roof, which was now inside the attic.

The realtor, however, hasn't given up on us yet, and he just may have found us The One. It's out in the country, but only about 15 minutes away from here. It's been empty for a while, as you can see from the weeds. Bees have made nests in the eves, and there are swarms of them around the front of the house, so we only peeked in the back windows. Orkin can fix that, though, provided they're not inside the walls.

There is a long, long driveway through a wooded section of the property. The house is big and seems to be in good shape. There is a new barn on the property that would make a perfect woodshop for the hubby. There is way too much land, but most of it is woods and the rest is out back, where it could be left to be its own wild self. There is a pond, too, though it's stagnant.

It is, again, at the upper limit of our price range. But if it turns out not to need much work, and if they'll come down on the price, it's doable. We're going out this evening to see the inside. Wish us luck!

Almost Home

There's a reason I haven't been around much lately. Well, actually there are several. But mainly, it's because we've been house hunting.

You see, hubby has always wanted a woodworking shop. A big one. We're talking a major, stand-alone structure, with a log milling machine on the side. However, we live in a suburban development, where the homeowners association gibbers and drools if you stack your firewood in the wrong spot. It's been a great place to raise kids, but the kids are grown now. And we've suddenly reached the realization that at our age, it's now or never.

Personally, I'm OK with never. Twenty years ago, I would have killed for a place in the country. I'd look at old farmhouses on lots of land, and I'd dream about where my pottery shed would go; how the gardens would look; a little stand by the roadside filled with vegetables and flowers in French tin holders, with an honor box for the money. There would be a wooded section, cool and deep, and maybe a little pond. I'd fill the place with antiques and quilts, and there would be an attic room for writing. Now I look at these places and I think, Who the hell is going to mow all that?

So we're in compromise mode. I need a manageable house within easy driving distance of work and shopping. He needs acreage outside city limits. So far, everything we can afford is too far out, too expensive, or needs too much work. Which brings us to this little gem in the photo.

Isn't it pretty? It was built in 1900, and all the original wide-plank pine floors and woodwork are still there, never painted. It's in great shape for its age and has lots of quirks and charm. There are ten acres of land, a huge bank barn (we think it was for dairy cows), the original chicken coop and a couple of newer outbuildings. It's only fifteen minutes from where we are now. And it's in our price range.

On the other hand, the kitchen and eating area are very small, there's only one bathroom, and you have to climb a scary set of very narrow, steep stairs to get to the two upstairs bedrooms. Being in there feels like being home, but it also feels like being in a museum, which is both cool and weird. And while the kids are grown, they are not gone. Hubby and I could manage there quite well, but all four of us would never fit.

Still, I keep coming back to it. It would have suited my old dreams so well, and it would accommodate hubby's new ones. I don't know. I just don't know.

What do you think?

Up, Up and Away

My pilot son sends me links sometimes, just because he knows I'll wig out. Check out the kid's latest attempt to rattle my cage: Cluster Balloon Flight Page.

Cluster ballooning is the thing where you tie a mountain of helium balloons to yourself and float off into the sunset. Because if you're going to kill yourself, you may as well go out with flair.

The site belongs to a guy intent on popularizing the sport--though he won't answer any specific questions about how to do it "because I don't want to be held responsible for your possible injury or death."

It's nuts, but the pictures there really are pretty cool. Just don't let your kid see it.

AOL Photos Users: Move 'Em or Lose 'Em

AOL has found yet another way to cut costs by screwing its users. They're closing AOL Photos, along with Xdrive and Bluestring.

I got the news over at Steven's place, (Sometimes)Blog, and I recommend you click the link for details.

What this means for those of us with photos stored there is, we need to move all those photos ASAP. As Steven points out, AOL has a history of making changes with no warning or consideration for its customers, so it would be unwise to wait.

I don't have a lot of images stored there, thank goodness, but I'll be finding new homes for them today. While I'm at it, I will move the posts from my old AOL Journal into Blogger--again, there aren't too many. And then, I'll probably delete the AOL Journal. I'll be surprised if J-Land isn't closed soon, too.

That leaves few reasons to still have an AOL account: My email address, which is linked to a boatload of subscriptions; my extensive favorites lists; and the extra security of browsing the Web from inside the service. Those, and the hell on earth that comes with cancelling through AOL's customer disservice department. I'll be better off when I'm out, but it will be a sad day.

Once upon a time, AOL truly was America, online. Its content was of, for, and by the people. True communities and lasting real-world relationships were forged between members who would never otherwise have met. Things like race, gender, age, looks, nationality, and wealth were irrelevant; all you really knew about the person behind the screen name was the quality of their mind and character. Nothing mattered but what one could bring to the table. It was heady stuff, and I loved it. I spent many happy hours there in chat rooms and on message boards, all moderated by dedicated and friendly volunteers.

Alas, the subscription business model could not sustain the service, especially after access became easier and cheaper elsewhere. And once advertisers became king, it was game over.

The service first usurped the most popular member-created communities, putting employees in charge of them and selling ad space to the audiences those ousted members had built. Over the years, management has launched one abuse after another. The last straw for me was when they pasted banner ads on paying members' private journals, with no notice, after promising never to do so. Their response to the resulting uproar was simply, "It fits our business model."(And if you don't like it, tough.)

And still a loyal core of members stay. Why? For the communities in which they participate, for the communities they helped guide and build, for their online friendships.

AOL never got it. Management never understood--and do not understand to this day--what it was they had. Its magic came from the inside out. They're all on the outside looking in.

Goodbye, Golden Girl

Dorothy: [Sophia is busily cooking] Ma, what are you doing? You're supposed to be resting. Remember what the doctor said?
Sophia: Dorothy, I'm feeling anxious. And when I feel anxious, there's only one thing that calms me down.
Dorothy: I know, Ma. Cooking a big meal.
Sophia: No, making hot naked love in a closet. But hey, you do what you can.

Estelle Getty passed away this week. I knew her only as Sophia, the irascible, sarcastic and hysterically funny octogenarian of Golden Girls. Sophia's best lines were zingers, but there was more to her than that.

In her best episodes, she gave voice to the forbidden thoughts and fears about growing old and dying--and about alternately adoring one's grown children and wanting to kick their shins. Through it all, scrappy, sharp little Sophia was full of life, a force of nature, raging against the dying of the light. We haven't seen the likes of her since the show went off the air.

So. Ms. Getty, Godspeed. And thanks for being Sophia.