Word to the wise: Get to know your technology.
It can save you a few bucks and maybe even months of procrastination.
Last summer, I set out to make my daughter and son-in-law a 1st anniversary gift — a collection of recipes they'd enjoyed at our house.
Problem was I didn't want to retype them all. And I didn't want to just photocopy and staple them together.
So .... since the first year's traditional gift is something paper, that's what they got: An IOU.
Before long I ordered "Readiris 12," software that would enable me to magically scan the recipes and they'd turn into editable files.
Cool.
But first, I'd have to read all the how-tos for my scanner and for the Readiris.
I still haven't.
Luckily (if you call feeling stupid lucky) I didn't have to.
The scanner is pretty intuitive for the basic picture scanning I've wanted to do over the last few months. So, there's been very little reading involved.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was searching my desktop for something and came across a familiar word -- Readiris.
I looked to my left to make sure the software I'd bought was still snug and unopened on the shelf. It was. All I could conclude was that it came with the MacMini 3 or 4 years ago.
Geesh.
Yesterday, I finally decided to get started. I turned on the scanner, hit its little icon, and all this fabulous stuff came up on the desktop, including a thin strip of tasks it would do.
What's this?
OCR?
Great.
Optical character somethingorother.
Even the scanner had come with the ability to turn articles, recipes, you name it, into text I can play with.
If I'd only known ....
A DAY AT THE BUFFALO ZOO, by TJ SCHUHLE
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Back to those CDs
Unlike my driving routes, audiobooks have remained a constant as my drive to work continues. I just looked back to see where I left off the last time and noticed an addition and a correction are necessary.
The oops: I referred to the Holocaust-related book I'd picked up as "The Elephant Keeper." Those of you who noticed were too polite to point out that it was really "The Zookeeper's Wife." (And, yes, there are many references to the Holocaust, but more importantly, it's about the Warsaw Rebellion and the Polish Resistance. The early chapters reminded me of the beginning of "The Life of Pi," because they're set in the zoo and full of neat information about animals. It was extremely interesting and educational, but at the same time such a personal story that, had it really been a book, it would have been hard to put down.)
The addition: Worse than the Obama portrayal by the guy who read David Plouffe's book was what he did to the women. Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton both sounded like Jessica Rabbit, and Plouffe's wife was breathily reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe.
On to the newer books: I don't want to tell you just how overdue the CDs have been when I've returned them to the library. Why I continue to take 2 out at a time is a mystery. Let's just say my fines are helping the library through a difficult funding period.
The 2 new ones, due Thursday, are "Thanksgiving" by Janet Evanovich and "The Lacuna" by Barbara Kingsolver. I've always liked Kingsolver's stuff but would have picked this anyway because of its connection to World War II. Might as well stick with the theme, I figured.
I started with that one and found the story engaging, the dialogue often amusing, and best of all, Kingsolver's gifts so fully present that occasionally I wondered if she was the first to put those two or three words together in that particular way.
But, still, there came a moment — on the way to visit my mother last Monday — that I wanted something lighter; so I switched to "Thanksgiving." It was a funny romance that reminded me of books I read a million years ago. When it ended, I wanted to know what happened next.
Now I'm on CD 9 of 15 (I think) of "The Lacuna," and even though it's fiction, the setting she creates for her made-up characters, is based in fact. So, Lev Trotsky and painters Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera come to life in it. The words of Kahlo and the main character's mother (who dies in a crash on the way to a Howard Hughes event) are laugh-out-loud funny at times.
With six CDs left and four days before I work again, it's shaping up to be a hefty "donation" to the library by the time I've finished listening — and procrastinated a day or two about returning these books.
The oops: I referred to the Holocaust-related book I'd picked up as "The Elephant Keeper." Those of you who noticed were too polite to point out that it was really "The Zookeeper's Wife." (And, yes, there are many references to the Holocaust, but more importantly, it's about the Warsaw Rebellion and the Polish Resistance. The early chapters reminded me of the beginning of "The Life of Pi," because they're set in the zoo and full of neat information about animals. It was extremely interesting and educational, but at the same time such a personal story that, had it really been a book, it would have been hard to put down.)
The addition: Worse than the Obama portrayal by the guy who read David Plouffe's book was what he did to the women. Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton both sounded like Jessica Rabbit, and Plouffe's wife was breathily reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe.
On to the newer books: I don't want to tell you just how overdue the CDs have been when I've returned them to the library. Why I continue to take 2 out at a time is a mystery. Let's just say my fines are helping the library through a difficult funding period.
The 2 new ones, due Thursday, are "Thanksgiving" by Janet Evanovich and "The Lacuna" by Barbara Kingsolver. I've always liked Kingsolver's stuff but would have picked this anyway because of its connection to World War II. Might as well stick with the theme, I figured.
I started with that one and found the story engaging, the dialogue often amusing, and best of all, Kingsolver's gifts so fully present that occasionally I wondered if she was the first to put those two or three words together in that particular way.
But, still, there came a moment — on the way to visit my mother last Monday — that I wanted something lighter; so I switched to "Thanksgiving." It was a funny romance that reminded me of books I read a million years ago. When it ended, I wanted to know what happened next.
Now I'm on CD 9 of 15 (I think) of "The Lacuna," and even though it's fiction, the setting she creates for her made-up characters, is based in fact. So, Lev Trotsky and painters Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera come to life in it. The words of Kahlo and the main character's mother (who dies in a crash on the way to a Howard Hughes event) are laugh-out-loud funny at times.
With six CDs left and four days before I work again, it's shaping up to be a hefty "donation" to the library by the time I've finished listening — and procrastinated a day or two about returning these books.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Wow, and another month slips by ...
It's been a busy one, too. But enough about that ...
The challenge this week has been keeping up with the fly population. What began as:
"Pursuit of the Cluster Flies, Summer 2010," has segued into the more frustrating "Average Annoying Flies Saga of 2010."
I think, but can't swear to it, that attics in pre-1900 houses are a pre-requisite for admission to the wonderful world of cluster flies. So I'll explain, in case you have something more modern: Cluster flies are the logiest, laziest phylum of flies on the planet. They may even be stupid. They travel in groups and are most comfortable on windows and sills. They inhabit clean homes as readily as dirty ones, or I wouldn't be admitting to this.
I woke up to an infestation in the kitchen one morning and prepared to do battle. I don't want to say I was disappointed, but the job took all of 5 minutes -- as I dispatched the families on 3 kitchen windows, 1 lavatory window, 1 kitchen window and 4 living room windows. Like I said, lazy and logie. A perfect match for me somedays.
That incursion left me with a dozen or so Average Annoying Flies, which I am slapping into eternity as quickly as possible. But, there are moments when they're flying around that I swear they procreate mid-air. Logic dictates that if you have a dozen and slap a dozen you're left with zero, zip, nada.
I should be so lucky.
As we all know, there's something to be learned from each of life's challenges. In this case, I've learned:
1.) Fly guts are the best remedy for procrastination when it comes to window washing.
2.) Large numbers of small pests can bring out the warrior in the most pacifico people.
3.) It's important to b e thankful for what you've got: Fruit fly season is worse.
Also, in case you're interested, I've learned that a well-loved frog can live for 8 years -- or maybe longer.
What's the connection?
Froggie — The pet of a local senior citizen I know.
She told me about Froggie a couple of years ago, detailing that he was a free-range pet (roams the house like a cat, minus the fur and fleas), who she fed flies from the tip of her index finger, wiggling it around so that Froggie wouldn't suspect it was a corpse.
After that, I decided to jar and freeze my cluster flies so Froggie would have something available for those cold, wintry, flyless days.
When the latest infestation began dotting my windows, I thought about Froggie but didn't really feel like harvesting them that carefully.
Until yesterday.
That's when I put a dozen or more freshly slapped flies in a Ziploc snack bag, packed it in ice, and took them to Rotary to ask whether her husband would delivery them for me.
Alas, Froggie is no more.
He said it was a "considerable loss," and I sent my condolences to his wife.
Where do I turn in the face of such tragedy?
Craigslist, perhaps?
"Free: Freshly fricasseed flies looking for frog in need of refreshment."
The challenge this week has been keeping up with the fly population. What began as:
"Pursuit of the Cluster Flies, Summer 2010," has segued into the more frustrating "Average Annoying Flies Saga of 2010."
I think, but can't swear to it, that attics in pre-1900 houses are a pre-requisite for admission to the wonderful world of cluster flies. So I'll explain, in case you have something more modern: Cluster flies are the logiest, laziest phylum of flies on the planet. They may even be stupid. They travel in groups and are most comfortable on windows and sills. They inhabit clean homes as readily as dirty ones, or I wouldn't be admitting to this.
I woke up to an infestation in the kitchen one morning and prepared to do battle. I don't want to say I was disappointed, but the job took all of 5 minutes -- as I dispatched the families on 3 kitchen windows, 1 lavatory window, 1 kitchen window and 4 living room windows. Like I said, lazy and logie. A perfect match for me somedays.
That incursion left me with a dozen or so Average Annoying Flies, which I am slapping into eternity as quickly as possible. But, there are moments when they're flying around that I swear they procreate mid-air. Logic dictates that if you have a dozen and slap a dozen you're left with zero, zip, nada.
I should be so lucky.
As we all know, there's something to be learned from each of life's challenges. In this case, I've learned:
1.) Fly guts are the best remedy for procrastination when it comes to window washing.
2.) Large numbers of small pests can bring out the warrior in the most pacifico people.
3.) It's important to b e thankful for what you've got: Fruit fly season is worse.
Also, in case you're interested, I've learned that a well-loved frog can live for 8 years -- or maybe longer.
What's the connection?
Froggie — The pet of a local senior citizen I know.
She told me about Froggie a couple of years ago, detailing that he was a free-range pet (roams the house like a cat, minus the fur and fleas), who she fed flies from the tip of her index finger, wiggling it around so that Froggie wouldn't suspect it was a corpse.
After that, I decided to jar and freeze my cluster flies so Froggie would have something available for those cold, wintry, flyless days.
When the latest infestation began dotting my windows, I thought about Froggie but didn't really feel like harvesting them that carefully.
Until yesterday.
That's when I put a dozen or more freshly slapped flies in a Ziploc snack bag, packed it in ice, and took them to Rotary to ask whether her husband would delivery them for me.
Alas, Froggie is no more.
He said it was a "considerable loss," and I sent my condolences to his wife.
Where do I turn in the face of such tragedy?
Craigslist, perhaps?
"Free: Freshly fricasseed flies looking for frog in need of refreshment."
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
That drive ...
Shortly after last week's entry, my new route home was derailed by Taste of Syracuse, a huge annual event right outside our building. Which means some exit routes are blocked. Interestingly, Saturday night was the first time my choice of detours took me far out of my way. I ended up seeing some of the city's nicer neighborhoods. As much as you can at midnight. It made the trip half an hour longer. On a dwindling tank of gas. Yet another adventure survived.
My brother commented that I need to do what he does as he traipses across Kentucky — listen to audiobooks. I'm there, but not with the technology he suggested. So far I've listened to CDs of Obama's "Dreams from My Father," "To Kill A Mockingbird," and "The Speeches of Barack Obama."
Last week, I started "Audacity to Win," by Obama's campaign manager David Plouffe. It's very interesting -- and the only one of the books, so far, that I hadn't read or witnessed some or all of already.
But, I find myself laughing whenever the reader (not Plouffe) changes to his "Obama voice" for dialogue. Sounds more like Barack Stallone.
Next up is The Elephant Keeper. Oddly enough, I didn't think I could bear to listen to the Elie Wiesel book that was shelved next to it. But, this is a Holocaust book, too.
Something tells me that if it's stress-relief I'm looking for, I ought to find something in the Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert neighborhood next time I'm at the library.
My brother commented that I need to do what he does as he traipses across Kentucky — listen to audiobooks. I'm there, but not with the technology he suggested. So far I've listened to CDs of Obama's "Dreams from My Father," "To Kill A Mockingbird," and "The Speeches of Barack Obama."
Last week, I started "Audacity to Win," by Obama's campaign manager David Plouffe. It's very interesting -- and the only one of the books, so far, that I hadn't read or witnessed some or all of already.
But, I find myself laughing whenever the reader (not Plouffe) changes to his "Obama voice" for dialogue. Sounds more like Barack Stallone.
Next up is The Elephant Keeper. Oddly enough, I didn't think I could bear to listen to the Elie Wiesel book that was shelved next to it. But, this is a Holocaust book, too.
Something tells me that if it's stress-relief I'm looking for, I ought to find something in the Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert neighborhood next time I'm at the library.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
TIme flies
I feel like someone who leads you down a potholed path right into a brick wall.
Sorry for the infrequency of this blog lately, and I wish I could promise it'll get better, but I guess this is what happens when real work comes along. Real, as in paid.
Since April 22, I've been working a few nights a week on the copy desk at a mid-size daily newspaper an hour from here. So far, I seem to have substituted work stress for driving stress. Almost every week I find, try or am given a new route home. Last week's was the best and may be a keeper. I knew it had potential when Co-worker Laura tried to look out the window and point out the first of two turns. (Tried, because it's hard to see at midnight.)
I've also been ... let's see ...
* editing copy for health magazines produced in the Midwest
* designing two brochures for my church
* finishing up minutes for three organizations I volunteer with
* editing and fact-checking 200 trivia questions a week
* looking for more work
* feeling guilty because I don't get more done
* looking into why an eBay seller prefers not to do business with me (Would you believe there are a bunch of top sellers who banded together to refuse to sell to anyone who leaves negative feedback to any of them? So much for accountability.)
Yada and yada and yada.
More to come.
Promise.
Sort of.
Sorry for the infrequency of this blog lately, and I wish I could promise it'll get better, but I guess this is what happens when real work comes along. Real, as in paid.
Since April 22, I've been working a few nights a week on the copy desk at a mid-size daily newspaper an hour from here. So far, I seem to have substituted work stress for driving stress. Almost every week I find, try or am given a new route home. Last week's was the best and may be a keeper. I knew it had potential when Co-worker Laura tried to look out the window and point out the first of two turns. (Tried, because it's hard to see at midnight.)
I've also been ... let's see ...
* editing copy for health magazines produced in the Midwest
* designing two brochures for my church
* finishing up minutes for three organizations I volunteer with
* editing and fact-checking 200 trivia questions a week
* looking for more work
* feeling guilty because I don't get more done
* looking into why an eBay seller prefers not to do business with me (Would you believe there are a bunch of top sellers who banded together to refuse to sell to anyone who leaves negative feedback to any of them? So much for accountability.)
Yada and yada and yada.
More to come.
Promise.
Sort of.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Four choices ... and the winner is ...
I was just scrolling through past posts and saw the March 13 one where I was trying to decide which book to finish first of the four I'd started.
Turns out the answer was not on the list.
I'm almost finished with two other books instead, which is probably a sign of some kind of ADHD, but ...
One is "Year of Magical Thinking" by Joan Didion. It had been on my "hope I find it" list for used book sales since it came out a few years ago, but for the life of me I can't remember why. It's an easy read and fairly short but I don't know what would have drawn me to a memoir about the first year of widowhood. Although, I think I was similarly drawn to John Irving's "A Widow for One Year" but CHOSE not to finish it. Didion's I'm almost done with.
The other book is "What's So Amazing About Grace," by Philip Yancey. It's about forgiveness and God's grace and packs in a lot of historical and cultural references. It's a great read. How great? Well, I broke my (almost) inviolate rule and wrote in it (underlining and ***'ing passages).
Worse yet, when I didn't have pen at hand, I started dog-earring it.
But, it'll be worth it.
Turns out the answer was not on the list.
I'm almost finished with two other books instead, which is probably a sign of some kind of ADHD, but ...
One is "Year of Magical Thinking" by Joan Didion. It had been on my "hope I find it" list for used book sales since it came out a few years ago, but for the life of me I can't remember why. It's an easy read and fairly short but I don't know what would have drawn me to a memoir about the first year of widowhood. Although, I think I was similarly drawn to John Irving's "A Widow for One Year" but CHOSE not to finish it. Didion's I'm almost done with.
The other book is "What's So Amazing About Grace," by Philip Yancey. It's about forgiveness and God's grace and packs in a lot of historical and cultural references. It's a great read. How great? Well, I broke my (almost) inviolate rule and wrote in it (underlining and ***'ing passages).
Worse yet, when I didn't have pen at hand, I started dog-earring it.
But, it'll be worth it.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Where has the time gone?
Well, I see it's been a couple of weeks since I last posted. Most likely because the first of two part-time jobs has come through (PT copy editor at the Syracuse newspaper) and the other is due in June. That's added some urgency to getting other things done (or at least writing them on a to-do list).
Despite that, I've added another blog to this site. I invite you to check out CommasEtc., which you can link to from this one (see the sidebars to the right). For the most part it'll just be a collection of errors too funny to keep to myself. Feel free to add your own by clicking the comment button.
The first thing you may notice is that the name Commas, etc. isn't quite as confounding as galimafree. "Comma"is a nod to Don Hadley, who gave me my first newspaper job a million years ago. I often edited his columns and editorials, and as a Strunk & White devotee, I was always adding commas in the appropriate places. He'd bristle but go along with it. One of the last times I saw him, I gave him a book I'd found at the library sale: "Commas Are Your Friend."
"Etc."? Well, I think it's just me not wanting to commit to one topic or task, as evidenced by my business name, as well: GrantsEtc. That, by the way, has worked well. I do far more Etc. work than grant work. I won't be totally surprised if Etc. shows up on my tombstone one day. Can't you just see it: Dead, etc.? The thoughts that conjures ...
By the way, until I get it fixed, the first thing you may notice is that the site seems to be set up for the visually impaired. I can't find the spot that lets me change font size. Even more troubling is that as I typed today's post and started this one, it appeared as 5-pt. type, which explains any typos you find. I can't fix what I can't see.
But, I did solve that part of the problem, which was as easy at holding down command +.
Maybe the reverse (command, minus sign) will work on the other.
It's worth a try.
Despite that, I've added another blog to this site. I invite you to check out CommasEtc., which you can link to from this one (see the sidebars to the right). For the most part it'll just be a collection of errors too funny to keep to myself. Feel free to add your own by clicking the comment button.
The first thing you may notice is that the name Commas, etc. isn't quite as confounding as galimafree. "Comma"is a nod to Don Hadley, who gave me my first newspaper job a million years ago. I often edited his columns and editorials, and as a Strunk & White devotee, I was always adding commas in the appropriate places. He'd bristle but go along with it. One of the last times I saw him, I gave him a book I'd found at the library sale: "Commas Are Your Friend."
"Etc."? Well, I think it's just me not wanting to commit to one topic or task, as evidenced by my business name, as well: GrantsEtc. That, by the way, has worked well. I do far more Etc. work than grant work. I won't be totally surprised if Etc. shows up on my tombstone one day. Can't you just see it: Dead, etc.? The thoughts that conjures ...
By the way, until I get it fixed, the first thing you may notice is that the site seems to be set up for the visually impaired. I can't find the spot that lets me change font size. Even more troubling is that as I typed today's post and started this one, it appeared as 5-pt. type, which explains any typos you find. I can't fix what I can't see.
But, I did solve that part of the problem, which was as easy at holding down command +.
Maybe the reverse (command, minus sign) will work on the other.
It's worth a try.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Required readin?
It's always kind of bugged me that in high school English -- those years when the classics were supposed to be introduced, dissected, and shoved down our throats if necessary -- my class was reading Lance Rentzel's "When All the Laughter Died in Sorrow."
What gives? Maybe the new teacher, fresh out of college, was trying to show he was cool and that even though it was a Catholic school, he didn't care there was a scene focused on menstrual fluid. After all, he was young. Maybe he was tired of the classics and couldn't stand the thought teaching one. Like the woman with the Carolyn Keene pseudonym who acknowledged not too long ago that she was so sick of Nancy Drew she could vomit.
Maybe he was trying to give the guys a reason to pick up a book, so he assigned the football player's autobiography so they wouldn't want to chuck it at him. It's been a lot of years, so I can't say for sure but I think there was only one woman in the book -- Rentzel's wife, Joey Heatherton of mattress commercial fame.
Ah, the craft of it all.
Sparking this morning's screed is a Reader's Digest piece on writer Rick Bragg, who I doubt ever read about Lance's laughter and sorrow. But I could be wrong about that. What I do know is that his assigned reading in high school was "To Kill A Mockingbird," and he said it changed his life. The best I can tell you is Lance's book didn't change mine.
Thanks to my kids' high school assignments we have a copy or two of Harper Lee's only published book, so I can catch up anytime I want to. Hearing Bragg reminisce about it, quote from it, and share what it meant to him has inspired me to at least add it to my list (you know the one) of books to read.
There were a couple of side comments from Bragg that struck home, in a coincidental sort of way. One was that he's pretty sure that the character Dill is someone he would have beat up for his lunch money, given the chance. Yet, growing up in Alabama, he said he already knew as he red the book that was happening to Tom Robinson, the black man accused of rape, was wrong. That was an interesting juxtaposition of right and wrong in the one person's mind. I'd just seen the same -- but opposite -- contrast in the book I'm about done with, Philip Yancey's "What's So Amazing About Grace?" Yancey has written many well-crafted and well-researched books on various aspects of theology. Like Bragg, he grew up in the South, but he grew up hating black people and admiring the KKK. I wonder what it was that changed him, if "Mockingbird" changed Bragg.
The other thing was that when Bragg describes being handed a copy of the book to read as a teenager, he says it was old and suffering the ravages of whatever bugs had made a home in it. It didn't seem to bother him. I wish I could say the same for the copy my son was handed, with dried food sticking some pages together. At the time I could afford it, so I bought new ones for the class from some discount Web site. OK, it's an idiosyncrasy, but I like clean books and I knew it couldn't be a priority for a Catholic elementary school trying to keep tuition down.
Somewhere, though, I hope someone who shares my low threshold for "ick" is reading Lance Rentzel's book and saying "Who?" "Why?????" and "Yuck!" to whatever she finds between its pages.
What gives? Maybe the new teacher, fresh out of college, was trying to show he was cool and that even though it was a Catholic school, he didn't care there was a scene focused on menstrual fluid. After all, he was young. Maybe he was tired of the classics and couldn't stand the thought teaching one. Like the woman with the Carolyn Keene pseudonym who acknowledged not too long ago that she was so sick of Nancy Drew she could vomit.
Maybe he was trying to give the guys a reason to pick up a book, so he assigned the football player's autobiography so they wouldn't want to chuck it at him. It's been a lot of years, so I can't say for sure but I think there was only one woman in the book -- Rentzel's wife, Joey Heatherton of mattress commercial fame.
Ah, the craft of it all.
Sparking this morning's screed is a Reader's Digest piece on writer Rick Bragg, who I doubt ever read about Lance's laughter and sorrow. But I could be wrong about that. What I do know is that his assigned reading in high school was "To Kill A Mockingbird," and he said it changed his life. The best I can tell you is Lance's book didn't change mine.
Thanks to my kids' high school assignments we have a copy or two of Harper Lee's only published book, so I can catch up anytime I want to. Hearing Bragg reminisce about it, quote from it, and share what it meant to him has inspired me to at least add it to my list (you know the one) of books to read.
There were a couple of side comments from Bragg that struck home, in a coincidental sort of way. One was that he's pretty sure that the character Dill is someone he would have beat up for his lunch money, given the chance. Yet, growing up in Alabama, he said he already knew as he red the book that was happening to Tom Robinson, the black man accused of rape, was wrong. That was an interesting juxtaposition of right and wrong in the one person's mind. I'd just seen the same -- but opposite -- contrast in the book I'm about done with, Philip Yancey's "What's So Amazing About Grace?" Yancey has written many well-crafted and well-researched books on various aspects of theology. Like Bragg, he grew up in the South, but he grew up hating black people and admiring the KKK. I wonder what it was that changed him, if "Mockingbird" changed Bragg.
The other thing was that when Bragg describes being handed a copy of the book to read as a teenager, he says it was old and suffering the ravages of whatever bugs had made a home in it. It didn't seem to bother him. I wish I could say the same for the copy my son was handed, with dried food sticking some pages together. At the time I could afford it, so I bought new ones for the class from some discount Web site. OK, it's an idiosyncrasy, but I like clean books and I knew it couldn't be a priority for a Catholic elementary school trying to keep tuition down.
Somewhere, though, I hope someone who shares my low threshold for "ick" is reading Lance Rentzel's book and saying "Who?" "Why?????" and "Yuck!" to whatever she finds between its pages.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Hey, it's a paying job!
Well, at last, a job poster who gets the concept of paying for work. But, gee, do you think (s)he really needs a resume writer?
"need help writing a resume i dont need a see spot run type i can do this my slef I also need a cover letter i dont know what to pay for this but i do know that i am willing to pay I would like to do this wed of next week in my house. email me and let me know what you think hell if you can send me your resume ps you must be good with pepole becuse i going to tell you that i fix s*** and build s*** and you have to make me look good"
"need help writing a resume i dont need a see spot run type i can do this my slef I also need a cover letter i dont know what to pay for this but i do know that i am willing to pay I would like to do this wed of next week in my house. email me and let me know what you think hell if you can send me your resume ps you must be good with pepole becuse i going to tell you that i fix s*** and build s*** and you have to make me look good"
Thursday, April 8, 2010
How bout 4 bucks even?
OK now, this craigslist ad I just came across illustrates my other post about students not doing their own work. But it also speaks to other pet peeves: People who think they know how long it takes to write, even if they're incapable of doing it themselves -- and people who expect quality but haven't a clue what it's worth:
"I need someone to write a simple, but unique persuasive speech of about 4 minutes in length. The topic is yours to choose, but we will need to agree on it before you begin. This shouldn't take more than a half hour to crank out for an experienced writer as I have an outline to follow, but lack the creativity. Please contact me if you are interested; I need this done ASAP.
* Compensation: $4.44 by PayPal "
Hey, do you think we could use this approach universally?
Let's line up somebody with a kid who can't help putting things up his nose. We go to the doctor's office and tell the M.D. that we've seen it done on TV and it should only take 2 minutes -- if he's a good doctor. Then we say, we'll pay him 30 cents. Not a penny more.
Do you see the docs lining up for this job?
"I need someone to write a simple, but unique persuasive speech of about 4 minutes in length. The topic is yours to choose, but we will need to agree on it before you begin. This shouldn't take more than a half hour to crank out for an experienced writer as I have an outline to follow, but lack the creativity. Please contact me if you are interested; I need this done ASAP.
* Compensation: $4.44 by PayPal "
Hey, do you think we could use this approach universally?
Let's line up somebody with a kid who can't help putting things up his nose. We go to the doctor's office and tell the M.D. that we've seen it done on TV and it should only take 2 minutes -- if he's a good doctor. Then we say, we'll pay him 30 cents. Not a penny more.
Do you see the docs lining up for this job?
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Do I hear a C? A B? How about an A?
I've been spending a lot of time on craigslist lately, searching the "writing gigs" and "writing and editing" job listings.
It's actually gotten me a few jobs, but nothing long-term.
I've learned a lot, though.
For instance, college costs are higher than any of us would suspect. I know, I know, you think you've kept up with local tuition rates in your neck of the woods, if only because your newspaper and radio blat about them a lot.
But, I doubt you've factored in the costs buried deep in the underbelly of higher ed.
There are students out there -- I'm not even going to guess how many -- working their way to a diploma the new-fashioned way. (Old-fashioned is actually working, or buying the completed assignment in person -- from the trench-coat guy skulking on the quad.)
These days, the way to do it is to type up a craigslist ad -- good English not required -- and find someone to complete the assignment for you. If it weren't for the ethics of it (and the fact that I never liked writing college papers, either) I could make a bundle this time of year.
The going rate seems to be $20, or a per-page fee; both are higher than what many commercial employers' ads offer.
Unless it's porn site work. Then you're really in the money.
One co-ed's ad that just caught my eye comes to us from the Miami area, where a student needs a paper on: "ANTI-TUMOR ACTIVITY OF RESVERATOL BY INHIBITING COX 1 topic of your choice it's 11-13 pgs completed by the 25th."
Ok, so I don't even know what that means. (Believe it or not, it wasn't the word resveratol that confused me. It's a phytoalaxen, everybody knows that.)
What I don't get is how the paper can be "on" the all-caps title, but also on a topic of my own choice. Tumors would never be my own choice.
What I find most troubling, though, is the possibility that this student is in med school.
If this is how future doctors are getting "educated," we're going to be in a world of hurt, the kind that nobody's health care bill could help.
Right above that ad was another that time means nothing if karma's on your side. Or if you just think it is.
The ad was posted at 7:33 a.m. by someone who needed a report finished an hour later.
I have to wonder what students like those two were thinking. Why didn't they plan ahead? I'm not talking about study habits that involve time management. The boat has sailed on that one. I'm saying that if they'd thought about these papers earlier, maybe over the December holiday break, they could have done what another student did.
They could have advertised for someone to take the class for them, as a San Diego student did this week. Why waste time attending (or logging in to or whatever) when a little green will do the trick?
By the way, if anyone you know is thinking about taking the latter route, remind them to specify the grade they need. Might as well get their money's worth. San Diego Student wanted a B.
Maybe As cost too much?
I'll never know. The ad had been flagged and pulled before I went back to check.
Wonder why.
It's actually gotten me a few jobs, but nothing long-term.
I've learned a lot, though.
For instance, college costs are higher than any of us would suspect. I know, I know, you think you've kept up with local tuition rates in your neck of the woods, if only because your newspaper and radio blat about them a lot.
But, I doubt you've factored in the costs buried deep in the underbelly of higher ed.
There are students out there -- I'm not even going to guess how many -- working their way to a diploma the new-fashioned way. (Old-fashioned is actually working, or buying the completed assignment in person -- from the trench-coat guy skulking on the quad.)
These days, the way to do it is to type up a craigslist ad -- good English not required -- and find someone to complete the assignment for you. If it weren't for the ethics of it (and the fact that I never liked writing college papers, either) I could make a bundle this time of year.
The going rate seems to be $20, or a per-page fee; both are higher than what many commercial employers' ads offer.
Unless it's porn site work. Then you're really in the money.
One co-ed's ad that just caught my eye comes to us from the Miami area, where a student needs a paper on: "ANTI-TUMOR ACTIVITY OF RESVERATOL BY INHIBITING COX 1 topic of your choice it's 11-13 pgs completed by the 25th."
Ok, so I don't even know what that means. (Believe it or not, it wasn't the word resveratol that confused me. It's a phytoalaxen, everybody knows that.)
What I don't get is how the paper can be "on" the all-caps title, but also on a topic of my own choice. Tumors would never be my own choice.
What I find most troubling, though, is the possibility that this student is in med school.
If this is how future doctors are getting "educated," we're going to be in a world of hurt, the kind that nobody's health care bill could help.
Right above that ad was another that time means nothing if karma's on your side. Or if you just think it is.
The ad was posted at 7:33 a.m. by someone who needed a report finished an hour later.
I have to wonder what students like those two were thinking. Why didn't they plan ahead? I'm not talking about study habits that involve time management. The boat has sailed on that one. I'm saying that if they'd thought about these papers earlier, maybe over the December holiday break, they could have done what another student did.
They could have advertised for someone to take the class for them, as a San Diego student did this week. Why waste time attending (or logging in to or whatever) when a little green will do the trick?
By the way, if anyone you know is thinking about taking the latter route, remind them to specify the grade they need. Might as well get their money's worth. San Diego Student wanted a B.
Maybe As cost too much?
I'll never know. The ad had been flagged and pulled before I went back to check.
Wonder why.
Monday, March 15, 2010
too much STUFF
This isn't meant to be a downer.
Think "Bucket List," and you'll be in the right frame of mind.
I'm sitting on the living room floor, writing, sorting and watching bits of Ainsley Hayes' introduction to "West Wing." I just glanced to my left and saw the book I'd been using as a lap-table to write some cards an hour ago.
It's Ansel Adams' "Yosemite and the Range of Light."
We love his work, it's a great book to own, I'm sure the pictures are breath-taking. It's Ansel Adams, after all.
But, I doubt I've ever even opened it.
That none-too-surprising realization got me thinking about everything in this house that I've never used, read or made sense out of owning.
The smidge of guilt that induced caused my mind to leap frog to thinking: "What if I found I only had X amount of time to live? Would I use it to make sure none of this excess went to waste (instead of doing something really interesting)? If so, what would that Bucket List of justification look like?"
Well, here's a sampling:
1. Open every coffee table book we own and look at half or more of the pictures. Including the ones in boxes in the attic.
2. Discard all the newspapers on the coffee table, so there's room for those books.
3. Learn how to use all of the electronic equipment we own. Especially the stuff I "just had to have." Scanner. Laser printer. Digital recorder. Toaster oven. DVD player. (After six years or so, I still can't operate it on my own.) You get the idea.
4. Download all the software that goes into those things. The software that I "had to have" to do all sorts of things. Like scanning newspaper articles and recipes, so they are editable.
5. Watch all the DVDs.
6. Lift all those hand weights. The red ones, the purple ones, the orange ones, the white ones. At least once. Preferably in the right order, which I believe is red, white, orange, purple ... owned, in the same order, by Emily, Mom, Dad and TJ.
7. Try all those crafts I own instructions for: Rock painting, drawing, scherenschnitte, upholstering and more.
8. Look up scherenschnitte since it's showing up with a red line under it right now, triggering a bit of AR in me (not guilt).
8. Take hikes to some of those places in some of those outdoor books.
As much fun as all that sounds, I think some of that time might be better spent giving some of that stuff away to someone who might not wait until they're under the gun to use it.
How about you?
What have you got that's had you wondering why or feeling guilty about?
Would it make it onto your Bucket "To Use" List or your "Bucket "To Get Rid Of" List?
Think "Bucket List," and you'll be in the right frame of mind.
I'm sitting on the living room floor, writing, sorting and watching bits of Ainsley Hayes' introduction to "West Wing." I just glanced to my left and saw the book I'd been using as a lap-table to write some cards an hour ago.
It's Ansel Adams' "Yosemite and the Range of Light."
We love his work, it's a great book to own, I'm sure the pictures are breath-taking. It's Ansel Adams, after all.
But, I doubt I've ever even opened it.
That none-too-surprising realization got me thinking about everything in this house that I've never used, read or made sense out of owning.
The smidge of guilt that induced caused my mind to leap frog to thinking: "What if I found I only had X amount of time to live? Would I use it to make sure none of this excess went to waste (instead of doing something really interesting)? If so, what would that Bucket List of justification look like?"
Well, here's a sampling:
1. Open every coffee table book we own and look at half or more of the pictures. Including the ones in boxes in the attic.
2. Discard all the newspapers on the coffee table, so there's room for those books.
3. Learn how to use all of the electronic equipment we own. Especially the stuff I "just had to have." Scanner. Laser printer. Digital recorder. Toaster oven. DVD player. (After six years or so, I still can't operate it on my own.) You get the idea.
4. Download all the software that goes into those things. The software that I "had to have" to do all sorts of things. Like scanning newspaper articles and recipes, so they are editable.
5. Watch all the DVDs.
6. Lift all those hand weights. The red ones, the purple ones, the orange ones, the white ones. At least once. Preferably in the right order, which I believe is red, white, orange, purple ... owned, in the same order, by Emily, Mom, Dad and TJ.
7. Try all those crafts I own instructions for: Rock painting, drawing, scherenschnitte, upholstering and more.
8. Look up scherenschnitte since it's showing up with a red line under it right now, triggering a bit of AR in me (not guilt).
8. Take hikes to some of those places in some of those outdoor books.
As much fun as all that sounds, I think some of that time might be better spent giving some of that stuff away to someone who might not wait until they're under the gun to use it.
How about you?
What have you got that's had you wondering why or feeling guilty about?
Would it make it onto your Bucket "To Use" List or your "Bucket "To Get Rid Of" List?
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Here we go again ...
I haven't quite figured out what drives this cycle, but I'm in the middle of it again.
Book reading.
I go weeks, sometimes months, without even picking one up. Then I devour a whole one, maybe two, and gradually start hearing about another, then another and another that I just have to read.
So, I start them. One by one. Without finishing any of them.
That's where I am now. In the last several weeks, I've started:
"The Widow of the South" by Robert Hicks
"The Snowball: Warren Buffett and the Business of Life" by Alice Schroeder
"The Help" by Kathryn Stockett
"Loving Frank: A Novel" by Nancy Horan
And those are just the ones that I really want to finish.
The book that got things rolling was "The Associate," a John Grisham that I missed when it was initially released.
Then a friend recommended three books. I started with "The Widow" and was enjoying it until something distracted me. Probably an editing job.
Then, before long, I'd won the Buffett book by adding a comment to a Vibrant Nation blog. Can't say it's anything I'd ever have planned to read. I just like winning.
But, when it arrived, it was clean and shiny, with that new-book smell. So, I started it, quickly becoming that odd brand of hooked where my brain wants to keep going but not enough to tell my arms to pick it up again ... immediately.
After that, I worked at the Geneva Public Library book sale on opening night. Wouldn't you know it? The last dealer to pay he had THE ONE book I'd hope to find for myself: The Help.
I swooned.
The dealer hesitated.
I explained.
He told me to take it.
I balked ... in that semi-sincere way that only a scavenger can.
He said it again.
I accepted.
He said he'd only lose six bucks by not having it to sell.
I pretended that was random information, not something contrived to guilt me into declining the offer. Or, worse, paying him the $6.
I thanked him again.
I started reading it a few days later. Gee, it's good.
Then, an Amazon box arrived.
Some people at Rotary had recently been talking about "Loving Frank," which piqued my interest. It's about Frank Lloyd Wright, and a Chicagoan I know had given me the cook's tour of his city two years ago, including some FLW homes.
So, when my son's birthday present fell short of Amazon's $25 needed for free shipping, I tossed Frank into my shopping cart.
I started it this afternoon. Another good read.
If personal history is any judge, I'm not going to be able to go back and forth among them all for much longer, if at all.
That means I should commit to one of them. But which?
The pressure's killing me.
Any advice?
Book reading.
I go weeks, sometimes months, without even picking one up. Then I devour a whole one, maybe two, and gradually start hearing about another, then another and another that I just have to read.
So, I start them. One by one. Without finishing any of them.
That's where I am now. In the last several weeks, I've started:
"The Widow of the South" by Robert Hicks
"The Snowball: Warren Buffett and the Business of Life" by Alice Schroeder
"The Help" by Kathryn Stockett
"Loving Frank: A Novel" by Nancy Horan
And those are just the ones that I really want to finish.
The book that got things rolling was "The Associate," a John Grisham that I missed when it was initially released.
Then a friend recommended three books. I started with "The Widow" and was enjoying it until something distracted me. Probably an editing job.
Then, before long, I'd won the Buffett book by adding a comment to a Vibrant Nation blog. Can't say it's anything I'd ever have planned to read. I just like winning.
But, when it arrived, it was clean and shiny, with that new-book smell. So, I started it, quickly becoming that odd brand of hooked where my brain wants to keep going but not enough to tell my arms to pick it up again ... immediately.
After that, I worked at the Geneva Public Library book sale on opening night. Wouldn't you know it? The last dealer to pay he had THE ONE book I'd hope to find for myself: The Help.
I swooned.
The dealer hesitated.
I explained.
He told me to take it.
I balked ... in that semi-sincere way that only a scavenger can.
He said it again.
I accepted.
He said he'd only lose six bucks by not having it to sell.
I pretended that was random information, not something contrived to guilt me into declining the offer. Or, worse, paying him the $6.
I thanked him again.
I started reading it a few days later. Gee, it's good.
Then, an Amazon box arrived.
Some people at Rotary had recently been talking about "Loving Frank," which piqued my interest. It's about Frank Lloyd Wright, and a Chicagoan I know had given me the cook's tour of his city two years ago, including some FLW homes.
So, when my son's birthday present fell short of Amazon's $25 needed for free shipping, I tossed Frank into my shopping cart.
I started it this afternoon. Another good read.
If personal history is any judge, I'm not going to be able to go back and forth among them all for much longer, if at all.
That means I should commit to one of them. But which?
The pressure's killing me.
Any advice?
Friday, March 12, 2010
But, it's always been around ...
I just caught an AOL headline saying that the FBI's 10 Most Wanted List is now 60 years old.
Wow, it's one of those things I thought had been around forever, like the Post Office. I don't remember a time when there was no list; although. I don't remember a time when the Olean Post Office actually hung those pictures up, either.
But, I do remember really, really well (from one of the more disturbing aspects of my childhood) that one denizen of the list was featured each Sunday night after the TV show "The FBI," with Efrem Zimbalist Jr.
(For the youngsters among you, he was handsome in the 1950s and '60s the way his daughter, Stephanie's, Remington Steele costar, Pierce Brosnan, was in the '80s, 90s, 00s and probably always will be.)
It's hard to say when I realized that there really weren't just 10 people on that list; but, I'm willing to bet that it was long before I started hearing people talk about how much of what we were taught in religion was just stories to make a point.
I don't know about you, but I could accept that Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny weren't real. I got it. But, the church stuff just kind of annoys me. Whoosh ... there goes that rug under your feet.
Anyway, back to that list. The only name or face I remember from all those scary Sundays is that of Angela Davis. I do remember the sense of relief whenever they announced they'd caught one of the ... um ... well, however many there were, if there was really a list and all ...
Wow, it's one of those things I thought had been around forever, like the Post Office. I don't remember a time when there was no list; although. I don't remember a time when the Olean Post Office actually hung those pictures up, either.
But, I do remember really, really well (from one of the more disturbing aspects of my childhood) that one denizen of the list was featured each Sunday night after the TV show "The FBI," with Efrem Zimbalist Jr.
(For the youngsters among you, he was handsome in the 1950s and '60s the way his daughter, Stephanie's, Remington Steele costar, Pierce Brosnan, was in the '80s, 90s, 00s and probably always will be.)
It's hard to say when I realized that there really weren't just 10 people on that list; but, I'm willing to bet that it was long before I started hearing people talk about how much of what we were taught in religion was just stories to make a point.
I don't know about you, but I could accept that Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny weren't real. I got it. But, the church stuff just kind of annoys me. Whoosh ... there goes that rug under your feet.
Anyway, back to that list. The only name or face I remember from all those scary Sundays is that of Angela Davis. I do remember the sense of relief whenever they announced they'd caught one of the ... um ... well, however many there were, if there was really a list and all ...
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Being picky takes time
To twist a phrase a little harder than is probably wise: If it's true that "children say the darndest things" — and it is — there's no reason to doubt me when I tell you "editors learn the darndest things."
That's what hit me a few weeks ago while editing a memoir for a new client.
I got the assignment around dinnertime Tuesday and the deadline was noon Saturday.
I found myself looking up words I'd never given a second thought. Usually, it was for how they're written, not what they mean. Particularly odd to me was looking up "god-damn," one of many sailor-esque phrases the author's mom was fond of. (His comparison, not mine.)
Sorry, but I don't even say it, it came as no surprise that how to write it eluded me.
Capitalization and hyphenation were up for grabs, but tense turned out to be the bigger question. Think about it. Wouldn't it make sense that it would be past tense, if it's literal and someone were meaning that something was damned by God? With that logic, I changed the guy's present tense to past.
But, I added it to a list of things to run through the Chicago Manual of Style before I sent the manuscript back.
Hmmm ... Seems present tense was correct. Or might be.
I was surprised to discover that Chicago style is more wishywashy than others I've used. So I switched to another rule of editing: Don't change it if you don't have to.
As I was going along, through 86,000 words, I also learned about awhile and a while. What's the difference? Well, it seems that the one-word version is never preceded by a preposition; and the two-word version can be.
Why?
No time to find out. I had a deadline.
I also found myself on a word search, of sorts; 86,000 words seemed like a lot, so I checked to see how many are in "War and Peace." Okay, not so bad. Tolstoy took more than 560,000 to get the job done. And the Bible? 181,253.
Then there was shut-eye. My sense that it needed a hyphen sent me online and landed me in wiki-land.
Looking for the shut-eye that means "nap,"I found its other meaning: "In the lingo of stage magicians, illusionists, and mentalists, a shut eye is a performer who becomes so adept at the illusion of mind reading that the performer comes to believe that he or she actua... " I read no further. I had a deadline to meet.
And that I did, by several hours.
Maybe now I should go back and really learn some new things.
That's what hit me a few weeks ago while editing a memoir for a new client.
I got the assignment around dinnertime Tuesday and the deadline was noon Saturday.
I found myself looking up words I'd never given a second thought. Usually, it was for how they're written, not what they mean. Particularly odd to me was looking up "god-damn," one of many sailor-esque phrases the author's mom was fond of. (His comparison, not mine.)
Sorry, but I don't even say it, it came as no surprise that how to write it eluded me.
Capitalization and hyphenation were up for grabs, but tense turned out to be the bigger question. Think about it. Wouldn't it make sense that it would be past tense, if it's literal and someone were meaning that something was damned by God? With that logic, I changed the guy's present tense to past.
But, I added it to a list of things to run through the Chicago Manual of Style before I sent the manuscript back.
Hmmm ... Seems present tense was correct. Or might be.
I was surprised to discover that Chicago style is more wishywashy than others I've used. So I switched to another rule of editing: Don't change it if you don't have to.
As I was going along, through 86,000 words, I also learned about awhile and a while. What's the difference? Well, it seems that the one-word version is never preceded by a preposition; and the two-word version can be.
Why?
No time to find out. I had a deadline.
I also found myself on a word search, of sorts; 86,000 words seemed like a lot, so I checked to see how many are in "War and Peace." Okay, not so bad. Tolstoy took more than 560,000 to get the job done. And the Bible? 181,253.
Then there was shut-eye. My sense that it needed a hyphen sent me online and landed me in wiki-land.
Looking for the shut-eye that means "nap,"I found its other meaning: "In the lingo of stage magicians, illusionists, and mentalists, a shut eye is a performer who becomes so adept at the illusion of mind reading that the performer comes to believe that he or she actua... " I read no further. I had a deadline to meet.
And that I did, by several hours.
Maybe now I should go back and really learn some new things.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
72,435 things that will really help —
I read a while back that people are drawn to lists, especially ones that might tell them something about themselves. It's why you see so many lifestyle magazines with numbers on their covers. 61 ways to tell if someone dislikes you more than spinach, 92 ways to reuse that butter wrapper ... you know what I mean.
The list I was drawn to last night offered 7 things about blogs. Unfortunately, when I went looking for it this morning, I found that there are apparently 7 x 70 things we need to know about blogs, all broken up among various people with their own opinions. So, I'll be sharing what I remember of the first 7.
Let's see ... there was advice about putting pictures with posts (I tried that two weeks ago, so I get 1/40 of a point) Videos are good, too. Another said create your own attractive, compelling layout instead of using a template. (I get, maybe, 1/82 of a point for at least not using Wordpress, which is the one they dissed in the column.) Don't write about yourself; nobody wants to hear about it. Even though I get that, I obviously get zippo, nada, nothing in the way of points.
However, in my defense, I'm not plummeting into negative numbers, a scale I wouldn't have thought existed until last night when I checked out a blog that a craigslist poster wanted help editing. Not only was it first-person (with no paragraph breaks) she immediately launched into a diatribe about the married man she's having an affair with.
That's right. I don't care.
Part two of that advice: You're supposed to try to use the blog to tell people about something they might not otherwise know. I think I'll try that next time out. Won't those things be hard to come by, though? Wait, I guess not. I just this minute went back to the search results and noticed one blogger's answer to the problem: "7 creative uses for poop."
Finally (if you're counting, this is only 4): Try to post regularly.
Hmm ... I'll have to work on that one, too.
The list I was drawn to last night offered 7 things about blogs. Unfortunately, when I went looking for it this morning, I found that there are apparently 7 x 70 things we need to know about blogs, all broken up among various people with their own opinions. So, I'll be sharing what I remember of the first 7.
Let's see ... there was advice about putting pictures with posts (I tried that two weeks ago, so I get 1/40 of a point) Videos are good, too. Another said create your own attractive, compelling layout instead of using a template. (I get, maybe, 1/82 of a point for at least not using Wordpress, which is the one they dissed in the column.) Don't write about yourself; nobody wants to hear about it. Even though I get that, I obviously get zippo, nada, nothing in the way of points.
However, in my defense, I'm not plummeting into negative numbers, a scale I wouldn't have thought existed until last night when I checked out a blog that a craigslist poster wanted help editing. Not only was it first-person (with no paragraph breaks) she immediately launched into a diatribe about the married man she's having an affair with.
That's right. I don't care.
Part two of that advice: You're supposed to try to use the blog to tell people about something they might not otherwise know. I think I'll try that next time out. Won't those things be hard to come by, though? Wait, I guess not. I just this minute went back to the search results and noticed one blogger's answer to the problem: "7 creative uses for poop."
Finally (if you're counting, this is only 4): Try to post regularly.
Hmm ... I'll have to work on that one, too.
Friday, February 19, 2010
I think I'm confusing her with Lassie
As my son-in-law would say of himself: "I'm not that kind of cat lady."
I do have a sweatshirt with a big black cat saying "I am the boss."
I did paint my parents' cat's face on a sweatshirt for my dad ("commissioned" by my mother).
I do talk to our white calico -- using any and all of her names: Corey (short for "Encore," because she replaced Snore, the kids' first cat after that tiger she got hit by a car); Miss Kins and Kins (for devotees of single-syllable simplicity).
And I do think she's smarter than the average bear.
But I have no calendars, mugs or wall hangings (except the one my stepdaughter gave me almost 25 years ago).
Yet adherence to those parameters hasn't stopped me from being impressed by this cat from time to time, such as:
When, at 2 a.m., I see her pacing atop our headboard bookcase, clearly trying to avoid landing on Fred or me when she descends. She manages it, too. Usually.
When she defies pontifications about cats having no memory. We know she's conditioned to remember many important things, like where the food, litter and door outside are. But, I was not prepared for her ability to hold a grudge. Fred handles much of Corey's care, but certain duties fall to me, including administering flea meds. I'm not sure what the big deal is, beyond the five seconds of being restrained, but Kins hates it. So much, in fact that earlier this month, she snubbed me for two days. TWO days. An hour or two, OK, but two days?
When she snuggles on my back or stomach just as I feel the need to turn over. She'll hold on as well as she can, shifting her weight as I shift mine. Then she has her TA-DA moment(or maybe I have mine). And we both fall back to sleep in our new positions.
Such precociousness must have lulled me into thinking I was dealing with Einstein: The Encore. The other morning, as I sat at my desk in the dining room, she began meowing relentlessly. As usual, I said "OK, show me what you need," and she led me to the food dish (already full, but with "nothing good"); the closed cellar door (the litter pan's down there); or the kitchen door (when she wants to see just how cold it is outside).
Not this time. We made our little trek but she kept walking and meowing, obviously afraid I'd quit following if she led me somewhere new. So, out in the front hallway we went, and she started up the stairs, sticking her furry face through the spindles to make sure I was still moving. So, when she started climbing again, I stopped, curious what she'd do.
She stopped. And stared. Until I resumed following her.
Was Timmy stuck in the cistern? No, we tore that down.
Was the second floor on fire? I sniffed. No.
So, I followed her into the den-ish type room to the left, fearful she was heading for the door to the squirrel haven we call an attic.
Nope.
She stopped and sat on the furnace register next to the ironing board.
For this I climbed the stairs?
When I turned to leave she was back on the go, into our bedroom. Maybe she was just letting me know where she was in case I needed her? Whatever.
Enough was enough. I went back down to the computer.
And I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit that the rest of the day did not pass without me wondering once or twice if cats can detect radon. I guess I won't know unless I pass out and wake to her dragging me out the door by my hair.
I do have a sweatshirt with a big black cat saying "I am the boss."
I did paint my parents' cat's face on a sweatshirt for my dad ("commissioned" by my mother).
I do talk to our white calico -- using any and all of her names: Corey (short for "Encore," because she replaced Snore, the kids' first cat after that tiger she got hit by a car); Miss Kins and Kins (for devotees of single-syllable simplicity).
And I do think she's smarter than the average bear.
But I have no calendars, mugs or wall hangings (except the one my stepdaughter gave me almost 25 years ago).
Yet adherence to those parameters hasn't stopped me from being impressed by this cat from time to time, such as:
When, at 2 a.m., I see her pacing atop our headboard bookcase, clearly trying to avoid landing on Fred or me when she descends. She manages it, too. Usually.
When she defies pontifications about cats having no memory. We know she's conditioned to remember many important things, like where the food, litter and door outside are. But, I was not prepared for her ability to hold a grudge. Fred handles much of Corey's care, but certain duties fall to me, including administering flea meds. I'm not sure what the big deal is, beyond the five seconds of being restrained, but Kins hates it. So much, in fact that earlier this month, she snubbed me for two days. TWO days. An hour or two, OK, but two days?
When she snuggles on my back or stomach just as I feel the need to turn over. She'll hold on as well as she can, shifting her weight as I shift mine. Then she has her TA-DA moment(or maybe I have mine). And we both fall back to sleep in our new positions.
Such precociousness must have lulled me into thinking I was dealing with Einstein: The Encore. The other morning, as I sat at my desk in the dining room, she began meowing relentlessly. As usual, I said "OK, show me what you need," and she led me to the food dish (already full, but with "nothing good"); the closed cellar door (the litter pan's down there); or the kitchen door (when she wants to see just how cold it is outside).
Not this time. We made our little trek but she kept walking and meowing, obviously afraid I'd quit following if she led me somewhere new. So, out in the front hallway we went, and she started up the stairs, sticking her furry face through the spindles to make sure I was still moving. So, when she started climbing again, I stopped, curious what she'd do.
She stopped. And stared. Until I resumed following her.
Was Timmy stuck in the cistern? No, we tore that down.
Was the second floor on fire? I sniffed. No.
So, I followed her into the den-ish type room to the left, fearful she was heading for the door to the squirrel haven we call an attic.
Nope.
She stopped and sat on the furnace register next to the ironing board.
For this I climbed the stairs?
When I turned to leave she was back on the go, into our bedroom. Maybe she was just letting me know where she was in case I needed her? Whatever.
Enough was enough. I went back down to the computer.
And I'm only mildly embarrassed to admit that the rest of the day did not pass without me wondering once or twice if cats can detect radon. I guess I won't know unless I pass out and wake to her dragging me out the door by my hair.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
I like you a lot, but what's your name again?
Some of you who were regular readers of my newspaper column may remember this issue, but it seems to have gotten worse -- and funnier at the same time.
I used to pooh-pooh the concept of "visual learner" and whatever other kinds there are (oral? aural? tactile? unwilling?) because I didn't know what the heck it meant. Until the novelty of calling people by the wrong name wore off.
I'd been mixing up the names of two reporters I'd hired within a week of one another. Even though only Jim had started, I was already calling him Mike. So, I decided to post Jim's name on my door frame, which I saw every time I looked up from my desk. It got a bit of harmless attention, but it worked. SO, then I did the same with "Mike" when he started work two weeks later. Problem solved.
But it has cropped up again, under more precarious circumstances. Over the weekend, my son brought home his girlfriend, Shannon, for the second time. We like her, she likes us, and everything is right with the world.
Except, I keep wanting to call her Amanda.
Apparently, my subconscious thinks she looks like an Amanda. I'm blaming my subconscious, because I don't know any Amandas that she looks like; and, at the moment, I can't think of an Amanda that I know well enough to have lurking anywhere in my gray matter. (TV addicts from the 1960s may be figuring this out for themselves, but the first time I heard the name Amanda was on Dr. Bellows' wife on "I Dream of Jeannie." And she wasn't anyone you wanted lurking anywhere, as I recall.)
When the name Samantha almost fell out of my mouth ("Bewitched" anyone?) last weekend, I knew I needed a good dose of self-help. I had to put an end to those moments where I've sat gape-mouthed looking at ... um ... Shannon, fearful of what name would come out if I spoke.
So, this morning I reverted to my tried-and-true "visual learner's" trick.
In Shannon's case, a single doorway won't do it, because I'm home and moving from room to room. So, there are six copies of "Shannon" hanging around: on the peg board above the stove; from the shelf above the TV; from the top of my desk; below the dining room mirror; above the bathroom mirror; and ... um ... let me go look. Oh, yeah, at the top of the kitchen door.
I'm optimistic this will work.
If it does, I'll move on to my kids. My subconscious lately has me calling them by my younger brother and sister's names. I realize when I do it (thank heavens); and it may happen because my kids are adults now, so my mind is connecting them with the younger adults in the family I grew up in.
I hope that's it. I hope it's not that I'm going nuts.
I used to pooh-pooh the concept of "visual learner" and whatever other kinds there are (oral? aural? tactile? unwilling?) because I didn't know what the heck it meant. Until the novelty of calling people by the wrong name wore off.
I'd been mixing up the names of two reporters I'd hired within a week of one another. Even though only Jim had started, I was already calling him Mike. So, I decided to post Jim's name on my door frame, which I saw every time I looked up from my desk. It got a bit of harmless attention, but it worked. SO, then I did the same with "Mike" when he started work two weeks later. Problem solved.
But it has cropped up again, under more precarious circumstances. Over the weekend, my son brought home his girlfriend, Shannon, for the second time. We like her, she likes us, and everything is right with the world.
Except, I keep wanting to call her Amanda.
Apparently, my subconscious thinks she looks like an Amanda. I'm blaming my subconscious, because I don't know any Amandas that she looks like; and, at the moment, I can't think of an Amanda that I know well enough to have lurking anywhere in my gray matter. (TV addicts from the 1960s may be figuring this out for themselves, but the first time I heard the name Amanda was on Dr. Bellows' wife on "I Dream of Jeannie." And she wasn't anyone you wanted lurking anywhere, as I recall.)
When the name Samantha almost fell out of my mouth ("Bewitched" anyone?) last weekend, I knew I needed a good dose of self-help. I had to put an end to those moments where I've sat gape-mouthed looking at ... um ... Shannon, fearful of what name would come out if I spoke.
So, this morning I reverted to my tried-and-true "visual learner's" trick.
In Shannon's case, a single doorway won't do it, because I'm home and moving from room to room. So, there are six copies of "Shannon" hanging around: on the peg board above the stove; from the shelf above the TV; from the top of my desk; below the dining room mirror; above the bathroom mirror; and ... um ... let me go look. Oh, yeah, at the top of the kitchen door.
I'm optimistic this will work.
If it does, I'll move on to my kids. My subconscious lately has me calling them by my younger brother and sister's names. I realize when I do it (thank heavens); and it may happen because my kids are adults now, so my mind is connecting them with the younger adults in the family I grew up in.
I hope that's it. I hope it's not that I'm going nuts.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The play of the game ...
It's 5:52 the morning after the Super Bowl, and I've been up for more than an hour, having finally given in to clock-watching that began around 1. When the cat cried -- a fairly rare occurrence -- at 4:30, enough was enough.
I wish I could attribute such sleep deprivation to Tracy Porter's phenomenal interception and touchdown. But that would do little to explain the last year or so. It's just life at 51.
Truth is, I did see the play and it was great. Or, at least I saw most of it. I'm a root-for-the-underdog kind of person, just like the president, so I was marginally more interested in this year's Super Bowl. Plus, I've actually been to New Orleans, so favoring the Saints over the Indianapolis Colts was a no-brainer for someone who has no brain for the gridiron.
Anyway, if I worked in an office, I knew I'd be talking today about having seen Porter run the field and score; but, I'd still be wishing I'd seen the whole thing.
I wish I'd seen the catch itself. I blame watching the game and doing online crossword puzzles at the same time. Something was going to get short shrift. I'd rather it had been the four-letter word for combustible heap.
But, I had a chance to set things right this morning when I turned on the computer and saw a story about Porter missing the game bus and why. Embedded in it was a link to the play, so I watched it. Over and over and over again. I kept missing it. Too many guys out there, too wide a shot. I narrowed my gaze, finally, to the area where Porter and the Colts' star Peyton Manning were, but I'll have to go back -- or to a different Web site -- if I want to see the ball actually touch his hands.
Not for anything, but what I really wanted to see embedded in that particular story were photos of the $40 haircut that made Porter miss the bus (overly dramatized, by the way; he caught the next one, just 30 minutes later).
The haircut apparently has SB44, the trophy and the Louisiana Super Dome shaved into it.
An aside ... Almost as surprising as Porter's play was the commercial that had Betty White muddied up -- seconds later it was Abe Vigoda lying there. Abe Vigoda, formerly of "Barney Miller."
I thought he was dead.
So, in case it was camera magic, I checked whosaliveandwhosdead.com, where I learned that three members of the cast have passed away, James Gregory, Ron Carey and Jack Soo.
Vigoda, by the way, will turn 89 next week.
Unless he makes a sudden move to the other column.
I wish I could attribute such sleep deprivation to Tracy Porter's phenomenal interception and touchdown. But that would do little to explain the last year or so. It's just life at 51.
Truth is, I did see the play and it was great. Or, at least I saw most of it. I'm a root-for-the-underdog kind of person, just like the president, so I was marginally more interested in this year's Super Bowl. Plus, I've actually been to New Orleans, so favoring the Saints over the Indianapolis Colts was a no-brainer for someone who has no brain for the gridiron.
Anyway, if I worked in an office, I knew I'd be talking today about having seen Porter run the field and score; but, I'd still be wishing I'd seen the whole thing.
I wish I'd seen the catch itself. I blame watching the game and doing online crossword puzzles at the same time. Something was going to get short shrift. I'd rather it had been the four-letter word for combustible heap.
But, I had a chance to set things right this morning when I turned on the computer and saw a story about Porter missing the game bus and why. Embedded in it was a link to the play, so I watched it. Over and over and over again. I kept missing it. Too many guys out there, too wide a shot. I narrowed my gaze, finally, to the area where Porter and the Colts' star Peyton Manning were, but I'll have to go back -- or to a different Web site -- if I want to see the ball actually touch his hands.
Not for anything, but what I really wanted to see embedded in that particular story were photos of the $40 haircut that made Porter miss the bus (overly dramatized, by the way; he caught the next one, just 30 minutes later).
The haircut apparently has SB44, the trophy and the Louisiana Super Dome shaved into it.
An aside ... Almost as surprising as Porter's play was the commercial that had Betty White muddied up -- seconds later it was Abe Vigoda lying there. Abe Vigoda, formerly of "Barney Miller."
I thought he was dead.
So, in case it was camera magic, I checked whosaliveandwhosdead.com, where I learned that three members of the cast have passed away, James Gregory, Ron Carey and Jack Soo.
Vigoda, by the way, will turn 89 next week.
Unless he makes a sudden move to the other column.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Mmmm ... how'd you make that?
Rest assured, if you like something I've made and want the recipe, it's yours. And I would never even consider leaving out an ingredient to ensure that my dish would always be better. Although, I've eaten things that suggest other cooks are not that magnanimous.
Yes, my arm hurts from patting myself on the back.
You see, my efforts at honesty and generosity are no guarantee that you'll ever get the recipe, or that it'll taste the way it did at my house.
It's more about my memory. I often forget that someone somewhere asked for something. And problems often crop up even when I do remember all of that.
Like the other day when my husband said Jen, a friend at work, had seen him eating leftover frittata and asked for the recipe. He wondered if I knew which Web site I'd found it on. Oddly enough, no.
So the next morning, I decided to type up the recipe from memory. The first thing that came back to mind was that I had read the recipe, couldn't get it to print out in fewer than 72 pages, and decided to go with whatever key points I could remember by the time I got to the kitchen, three steps away.
It wasn't my first frittata, and that helped. The other one I'd made half a dozen times about a dozen and a half years ago. So, I knew I could skip the potatoes that we were out of and could add whatever I could find. That's actually the beauty of frittatas, a Spanish word loosely translated "anything but the kitchen sink."
The new recipe said I should add 2 Tbs. of half and half or water or milk but that the half and half was better. We had it, so I used it. It also said that you should cook the vegetables in oil before pouring the eggs and your laundry-list ingredients over it. So, I tamped down the urge to use butter instead.
Unfortunately for Jen, the recipe quickly morphed into more about how it came to be than the ingredients themselves, and I was in the mood to share it all:
1. You can use as many eggs as you like; the recipe writer recommended a dozen, if you want it to be tall and full of lunch-leftovers potential. (I used six because I only had 12; my frying pan was 10-inch instead of the 12 she used; and personal history told me that I’d have trouble enough getting six cooked all the way through.)
2. I cooked the bacon on a foiled-lined cookie sheet, at 400, after forking holes into it to prevent curling.
3. Below, I suggest combining everything but the vegetables with the eggs and pouring it on all at once. Truthfully, since I was winging it, I added the eggs and then the other things as I thought of them, and there was no problem.
4. The recipe mentions putting the cheese on last and broiling it, but I didn’t feel like bothering; plus, the frying pan had a plastic handle. As a cheese lover, I would have enjoyed tripling the cheese and broiling until golden brown. So, laziness saved me a few hundred calories and unknown grams of fat.
It was a snap, so I soon clicked send and it was on its virtual journey to Canandaigua.
Moments later, though, I discovered that I had, indeed, left an ingredient out. I was walking by the dining room table and noticed a note from Fred, reminding me to send the recipe. He'd even given it a name: Shrimp and Bacon Frittata.
Oops ... I hadn't mentioned the shrimp. So, I sent it quickly, aware that its absence could signal that I actually do hold back when sharing.
But, if I were inclined to make some ingredients secret, I hope I'm a tad smarter than putting it in the title.
If I remembered, that is.
Yes, my arm hurts from patting myself on the back.
You see, my efforts at honesty and generosity are no guarantee that you'll ever get the recipe, or that it'll taste the way it did at my house.
It's more about my memory. I often forget that someone somewhere asked for something. And problems often crop up even when I do remember all of that.
Like the other day when my husband said Jen, a friend at work, had seen him eating leftover frittata and asked for the recipe. He wondered if I knew which Web site I'd found it on. Oddly enough, no.
So the next morning, I decided to type up the recipe from memory. The first thing that came back to mind was that I had read the recipe, couldn't get it to print out in fewer than 72 pages, and decided to go with whatever key points I could remember by the time I got to the kitchen, three steps away.
It wasn't my first frittata, and that helped. The other one I'd made half a dozen times about a dozen and a half years ago. So, I knew I could skip the potatoes that we were out of and could add whatever I could find. That's actually the beauty of frittatas, a Spanish word loosely translated "anything but the kitchen sink."
The new recipe said I should add 2 Tbs. of half and half or water or milk but that the half and half was better. We had it, so I used it. It also said that you should cook the vegetables in oil before pouring the eggs and your laundry-list ingredients over it. So, I tamped down the urge to use butter instead.
Unfortunately for Jen, the recipe quickly morphed into more about how it came to be than the ingredients themselves, and I was in the mood to share it all:
1. You can use as many eggs as you like; the recipe writer recommended a dozen, if you want it to be tall and full of lunch-leftovers potential. (I used six because I only had 12; my frying pan was 10-inch instead of the 12 she used; and personal history told me that I’d have trouble enough getting six cooked all the way through.)
2. I cooked the bacon on a foiled-lined cookie sheet, at 400, after forking holes into it to prevent curling.
3. Below, I suggest combining everything but the vegetables with the eggs and pouring it on all at once. Truthfully, since I was winging it, I added the eggs and then the other things as I thought of them, and there was no problem.
4. The recipe mentions putting the cheese on last and broiling it, but I didn’t feel like bothering; plus, the frying pan had a plastic handle. As a cheese lover, I would have enjoyed tripling the cheese and broiling until golden brown. So, laziness saved me a few hundred calories and unknown grams of fat.
It was a snap, so I soon clicked send and it was on its virtual journey to Canandaigua.
Moments later, though, I discovered that I had, indeed, left an ingredient out. I was walking by the dining room table and noticed a note from Fred, reminding me to send the recipe. He'd even given it a name: Shrimp and Bacon Frittata.
Oops ... I hadn't mentioned the shrimp. So, I sent it quickly, aware that its absence could signal that I actually do hold back when sharing.
But, if I were inclined to make some ingredients secret, I hope I'm a tad smarter than putting it in the title.
If I remembered, that is.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Snow can protect us from what we'd rather not see
Some days it just doesn't pay to go out and embrace late January's day of surprising sunshine.
In one brief stroll along our driveway and front walk yesterday, I noticed things in the yard that would normally have been buried under piles of shoveled snow.
Things that ... well ... I didn't drop there. Things I'm not happy that someone else did drop there.
The easiest culprits to identify were those I credit with digging up, then abandoning the now-rotting tulip bulb that's hiding in plain sight near our dormant trellis roses. It had to have been the posse of squirrels that have been tormenting us for months. Ma and Pa Squirrel and their extended family no doubt tired of the hockey game they've been playing in our attic each morning. So, they took the kids and Gramps out for some good old-fashioned garden destruction. Thanks, gang.
Then there was the salad-dressing cap. It might be reasonable to guess that it had just blown out of somebody's trash. But whose? Not ours. You see, we recycle, which means my husband washes the goo off before dropping it in the recycling bag before tying it up on alternate weeks and leaving it for the men in blue-box collection regalia. So, it's not ours. Which may well mean that Ma, Pa, Gramps and the kids went on a field trip to someone else's trash.
Unless those same squirrel-ly tenants of ours decided they needed a little pocket change, they're clearly off the hook for the stash of thin blue rubber bands scattered where our old silver maple once stood. They were, most likely, left by a newspaper carrier.
It's also doubtful that I can blame the rowdy rodents for the most repulsive find of all -- a used condom. The images it brings to mind (it hasn't been that sunny a January) are ... well ... forget it. They just ARE, and that's bad enough. But, I'm certain that a Trojan treasure would not have been left behind by the squirrels. Surely, they would have carted it up the utility pole, across the wires and through one of the three-inch entrances they've chewed into the wood.
Aha! I've just recognized the silver lining to this particular cloud.
It would have been much more unsettling to someday find the condom tucked somewhere in the attic.
In one brief stroll along our driveway and front walk yesterday, I noticed things in the yard that would normally have been buried under piles of shoveled snow.
Things that ... well ... I didn't drop there. Things I'm not happy that someone else did drop there.
The easiest culprits to identify were those I credit with digging up, then abandoning the now-rotting tulip bulb that's hiding in plain sight near our dormant trellis roses. It had to have been the posse of squirrels that have been tormenting us for months. Ma and Pa Squirrel and their extended family no doubt tired of the hockey game they've been playing in our attic each morning. So, they took the kids and Gramps out for some good old-fashioned garden destruction. Thanks, gang.
Then there was the salad-dressing cap. It might be reasonable to guess that it had just blown out of somebody's trash. But whose? Not ours. You see, we recycle, which means my husband washes the goo off before dropping it in the recycling bag before tying it up on alternate weeks and leaving it for the men in blue-box collection regalia. So, it's not ours. Which may well mean that Ma, Pa, Gramps and the kids went on a field trip to someone else's trash.
Unless those same squirrel-ly tenants of ours decided they needed a little pocket change, they're clearly off the hook for the stash of thin blue rubber bands scattered where our old silver maple once stood. They were, most likely, left by a newspaper carrier.
It's also doubtful that I can blame the rowdy rodents for the most repulsive find of all -- a used condom. The images it brings to mind (it hasn't been that sunny a January) are ... well ... forget it. They just ARE, and that's bad enough. But, I'm certain that a Trojan treasure would not have been left behind by the squirrels. Surely, they would have carted it up the utility pole, across the wires and through one of the three-inch entrances they've chewed into the wood.
Aha! I've just recognized the silver lining to this particular cloud.
It would have been much more unsettling to someday find the condom tucked somewhere in the attic.
Monday, January 18, 2010
To each her own gift
OK, so I accept that each of us has skills that another might not. For instance, I would advise you not to even think about challenging my ability to separate M&Ms into color groups before eating them. And forget about competing with my unparalleled genius for putting my socks on one at a time without falling over.
They're gifts. Both of them. There's no use envying me. Everybody has their own gifts, and these are mine.
What I'm bummed about is that other women got the makeup gift. If you look around, you're sure to notice that, in most cases, the makeup gift went to the same crowd that got the beauty gift. What kind of sense does that make?
It'd be like giving me socks with instructions or a gift certificate for M&Ms packaged by color. A little "spreading it around" is in order, wouldn't you say?
It's not that I think I should have been given the whole makeup gift.
I'm willing to live with the emergency room visits whenever my hand slips and I ram the mascara wand into my eyeball.
And, looking like I was slapped around isn't so bad. Blush is meant to add color, isn't it?
What's got my Q-tips in a knot is foundation. What, pray tell, is the secret to buying the right shade?
Over the course of 35 years, I've gradually worked my way down from the deep tan I really wanted -- until I realized the idea was to MATCH my skin tone and cover up the odd pimple or dark patch.
It makes sense, but that doesn't make it easy.
My skin tone is white white, but nobody sells that or the shade my husband keeps suggesting, prison pallor. Ivory? There's plenty of it, but it isn't quite right.
I thought a change of scenery might help. So, I went outside. As everyone knows, the best possible place to put makeup on is in your car's rear-view mirror on a sunny day. Kind of a combo indoor/outdoor lighting effect that serves you from morning through evening. It's a wonder Maybelline or Hyundai haven't caught on yet.
So, anyway, I was out in the car the other day, shortly before noon, and thought I would nail it for sure. My makeup would be sensational for lunch at the Ramada.
I carefully shook the bottle, opened it and wiped my finger across the top. But as I dragged my finger across my cheek (at an upward angle, of course), I was stunned ... it was three shades darker than my skin.
I looked at the bottle, squinting as I held the label to my eyeball.
Bare Nude.
Bare nude??
How much lighter a shade can there be than Bare Nude?
I don't get it.
Unless, of course ... it's Transparent Invisible.
That might just be the shade for me.
But what do I know? ... I got the M&M sorting gift.
They're gifts. Both of them. There's no use envying me. Everybody has their own gifts, and these are mine.
What I'm bummed about is that other women got the makeup gift. If you look around, you're sure to notice that, in most cases, the makeup gift went to the same crowd that got the beauty gift. What kind of sense does that make?
It'd be like giving me socks with instructions or a gift certificate for M&Ms packaged by color. A little "spreading it around" is in order, wouldn't you say?
It's not that I think I should have been given the whole makeup gift.
I'm willing to live with the emergency room visits whenever my hand slips and I ram the mascara wand into my eyeball.
And, looking like I was slapped around isn't so bad. Blush is meant to add color, isn't it?
What's got my Q-tips in a knot is foundation. What, pray tell, is the secret to buying the right shade?
Over the course of 35 years, I've gradually worked my way down from the deep tan I really wanted -- until I realized the idea was to MATCH my skin tone and cover up the odd pimple or dark patch.
It makes sense, but that doesn't make it easy.
My skin tone is white white, but nobody sells that or the shade my husband keeps suggesting, prison pallor. Ivory? There's plenty of it, but it isn't quite right.
I thought a change of scenery might help. So, I went outside. As everyone knows, the best possible place to put makeup on is in your car's rear-view mirror on a sunny day. Kind of a combo indoor/outdoor lighting effect that serves you from morning through evening. It's a wonder Maybelline or Hyundai haven't caught on yet.
So, anyway, I was out in the car the other day, shortly before noon, and thought I would nail it for sure. My makeup would be sensational for lunch at the Ramada.
I carefully shook the bottle, opened it and wiped my finger across the top. But as I dragged my finger across my cheek (at an upward angle, of course), I was stunned ... it was three shades darker than my skin.
I looked at the bottle, squinting as I held the label to my eyeball.
Bare Nude.
Bare nude??
How much lighter a shade can there be than Bare Nude?
I don't get it.
Unless, of course ... it's Transparent Invisible.
That might just be the shade for me.
But what do I know? ... I got the M&M sorting gift.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Just a quick one
It's worth mentioning that our Rotary Club learned recently how much was dropped in Geneva's Salvation Army kettles on Christmas Eve Day, when club members were ringing the bells.
The total for four sites was $4,300 — up from the previous year's $2,800.
There are all sorts of economic extrapolations that could be drawn by anyone in the mood. Mine is more social than economic: In bad times, good people are still aware that others are worse off — and they're willing to do something about it.
Way to go, Geneva!
The total for four sites was $4,300 — up from the previous year's $2,800.
There are all sorts of economic extrapolations that could be drawn by anyone in the mood. Mine is more social than economic: In bad times, good people are still aware that others are worse off — and they're willing to do something about it.
Way to go, Geneva!
Monday, January 11, 2010
Lying and laptops and cats .. Oh my!
You know how, on sit-coms, the husband can always tell when the wife has used his razor? And he's not exactly happy about it?
That sort of sharing has been on my mind ever since my 19-month-old laptop died last week.
(Please join me in a moment of silence for everything that wasn't backed up.)
So, I've been using my son's MacBook, which he left behind while visiting his girlfriend. Mind you, deciding to let me use was touch and go.
But I filled out the requisite forms and answered a battery of questions, only stumbling over the one that should have been easiest.
"What happened to yours?" he texted.
"Um ..." I thought, unsure whether he'd let me use his if I told him the truth: "I really don't know."
So, I lied:
"I threw it at the cat because she wouldn't quit licking her incision from being spayed."
"You threw your computer at Ollie? Seriously?" he replied. "That makes me very nervous."
Hmm .. I hadn't pegged him for the gullible one.
"No, I was just going for the laugh. It was just some stupid Windows thing," I explained, without explaining.
"You really had me scared, but good one," he texted before cutting to the chase: "What are the chances of the same thing happening to mine?"
Windows problem on a Mac?
I was fairly safe, but I threw in a carrot just to be sure: "And I promise I won't snoop."
Sold! (er ... loaned) to the woman who can't keep her story straight.
So, I've been plugging away on the MacBook for several days now, trying to leave no tell-tale signs that will annoy him.
No full trash cans.
No downloads overflowing from their folder.
No cookies that will dog him until the end of his days.
It's been harder, though, to stop myself from bookmarking sites; downloading another search engine; or reorganizing the desktop so it feels more like home.
I've managed so far.
If Ollie can just resist licking herself, I'm all set.
That sort of sharing has been on my mind ever since my 19-month-old laptop died last week.
(Please join me in a moment of silence for everything that wasn't backed up.)
So, I've been using my son's MacBook, which he left behind while visiting his girlfriend. Mind you, deciding to let me use was touch and go.
But I filled out the requisite forms and answered a battery of questions, only stumbling over the one that should have been easiest.
"What happened to yours?" he texted.
"Um ..." I thought, unsure whether he'd let me use his if I told him the truth: "I really don't know."
So, I lied:
"I threw it at the cat because she wouldn't quit licking her incision from being spayed."
"You threw your computer at Ollie? Seriously?" he replied. "That makes me very nervous."
Hmm .. I hadn't pegged him for the gullible one.
"No, I was just going for the laugh. It was just some stupid Windows thing," I explained, without explaining.
"You really had me scared, but good one," he texted before cutting to the chase: "What are the chances of the same thing happening to mine?"
Windows problem on a Mac?
I was fairly safe, but I threw in a carrot just to be sure: "And I promise I won't snoop."
Sold! (er ... loaned) to the woman who can't keep her story straight.
So, I've been plugging away on the MacBook for several days now, trying to leave no tell-tale signs that will annoy him.
No full trash cans.
No downloads overflowing from their folder.
No cookies that will dog him until the end of his days.
It's been harder, though, to stop myself from bookmarking sites; downloading another search engine; or reorganizing the desktop so it feels more like home.
I've managed so far.
If Ollie can just resist licking herself, I'm all set.
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