Marietta and the Creeping Nasties is now available on the Kindle! Woot and such! You can buy this "utterly delightful romp of a story" (as Truman Capote once never said) for $3.99 and download it here.
The next book in the series, Marietta and the Giant Mistake, will be trundling along after its older sibling soon, so keep an eye out for that.
While you're waiting for Marietta and the Creeping Nasties to download, here are some more reviews to entertain you:
"Whimsical and wonderful" Kirkusdidn'thappen Reviews
"Marvelous. A tour de force" The New York not in the this lifeTimes Book Review
"I laughed, I cried, I blew my nose and laughed some more." Ohhowyouwishprah Winfrey
Saturday, April 02, 2011
Sunday, January 02, 2011
If I were to start posting again...
...would anybody notice?
It might be better to write about runs in here and reduce the boredom on the faces of friends and neighbors.
It might be better to write about runs in here and reduce the boredom on the faces of friends and neighbors.
Monday, February 23, 2009
New Neighbor
Adam? Hey, Adam? Can you come grab me that apple?
6:10 Monday morning. I go outside to feed my guest cat, and find a thick, colorful scarf rolled in a tight tube, coiled up outside my back door.
Only...it's not a scarf. And I'm going to be very late to work.
This is a corn snake. They are not native to this area; in fact, my friend says when corn snakes are not masquerading as pets, they are to be found slithering through the warm and wet climates of the southeast.
I have no idea how this guy got here or why he chose my back step to curl up on, but there he was at 6:10 this morning, lethargic, far too cold, possibly dying. Several desperate calls to Animal Control (which helpfully opens at 7:10 am, so don't plan on any animal emergencies before that) yield zero results. Finally, as the snake begins to move either away or up into the siding of my building, I break down and call 9-1-1.
At this point, I have no idea if the snake is dangerous. He has made some half-assed strikes in my direction, even temporarily trapping me outside my back door. While he is moving slowly, I have no doubt he could go faster if motivated, like, to grab a chunk of my calf.
The 9-1-1 operator is one of several heroes I will find today. She tries Animal Control--no luck. She says she'll keep looking and call me back.
A few minutes later, my phone rings. It's hero number two, a guy who calls himself Sasquatch. He identifies the snake from my description, and assures me (if "assures" is the right word here) that the snake's bite isn't venemous. Note he doesn't say that the snake won't bite, just that the bite won't kill me. He does urge me to bring the snake inside if at all possible. It's too cold, we don't know how long the snake's been out, he has a long drive from Woodinville in morning rush traffic.
I call on heroes three and four: Andrew and Wendy. Wendy, who lives upstairs, is down in a flash. Moments later, Andrew arrives from his home a mile away. He has gloves. I feel like such an idiot--gloves hadn't actually occured to me. I may not be the first person you want to contact if you're having a crisis. I'm just sayin'.
My cats have been closed in the bedroom for most of this drama, as I'm concerned for their safety. The entertainment value of watching Beebs deal with a giant snake just wasn't worth risking her maybe getting hurt. I might get a fake snake, though, just so I won't miss out...
Andrew picks up the snake and muscles it into an empty kitty litter container that I have for no reason I can think of other than that I haven't taken it out to the recycle bin yet. We put the snake in, and I carve a very small hole in the lid. We put the coffee pot on top to provide a little warmth and set the bin near my heater. Andrew and Wendy return to their separate Fortresses of Solitude, and I'm waiting for Sasquatch to show up at my door.
Sasquatch is only slightly less exotic than the animal he's here to claim. Built on the Santa Claus model of burly and bearded, he is clearly extremely fond of snakes and extremely knowledgeable about their care. The snake is no worse for his time outside, Sasquatch tells me, and he'll be fine. I heave so many sighs of relief, I start to hyperventilate. Sasquatch bundles the warmer and much-friskier critter into a pillow case (why is it always a pillow case?), gets back in the truck and drives off into a happy ending.
I'm still looking for the animal's owner, so if anyone in Seattle, particularly in the area of Beacon Hill, finds themselves a corn snake short, leave me a comment. Meanwhile, I have to go do something about that cappebara that just showed up on my back step.
6:10 Monday morning. I go outside to feed my guest cat, and find a thick, colorful scarf rolled in a tight tube, coiled up outside my back door.
Only...it's not a scarf. And I'm going to be very late to work.
This is a corn snake. They are not native to this area; in fact, my friend says when corn snakes are not masquerading as pets, they are to be found slithering through the warm and wet climates of the southeast.
I have no idea how this guy got here or why he chose my back step to curl up on, but there he was at 6:10 this morning, lethargic, far too cold, possibly dying. Several desperate calls to Animal Control (which helpfully opens at 7:10 am, so don't plan on any animal emergencies before that) yield zero results. Finally, as the snake begins to move either away or up into the siding of my building, I break down and call 9-1-1.
At this point, I have no idea if the snake is dangerous. He has made some half-assed strikes in my direction, even temporarily trapping me outside my back door. While he is moving slowly, I have no doubt he could go faster if motivated, like, to grab a chunk of my calf.
The 9-1-1 operator is one of several heroes I will find today. She tries Animal Control--no luck. She says she'll keep looking and call me back.
A few minutes later, my phone rings. It's hero number two, a guy who calls himself Sasquatch. He identifies the snake from my description, and assures me (if "assures" is the right word here) that the snake's bite isn't venemous. Note he doesn't say that the snake won't bite, just that the bite won't kill me. He does urge me to bring the snake inside if at all possible. It's too cold, we don't know how long the snake's been out, he has a long drive from Woodinville in morning rush traffic.
I call on heroes three and four: Andrew and Wendy. Wendy, who lives upstairs, is down in a flash. Moments later, Andrew arrives from his home a mile away. He has gloves. I feel like such an idiot--gloves hadn't actually occured to me. I may not be the first person you want to contact if you're having a crisis. I'm just sayin'.
My cats have been closed in the bedroom for most of this drama, as I'm concerned for their safety. The entertainment value of watching Beebs deal with a giant snake just wasn't worth risking her maybe getting hurt. I might get a fake snake, though, just so I won't miss out...
Andrew picks up the snake and muscles it into an empty kitty litter container that I have for no reason I can think of other than that I haven't taken it out to the recycle bin yet. We put the snake in, and I carve a very small hole in the lid. We put the coffee pot on top to provide a little warmth and set the bin near my heater. Andrew and Wendy return to their separate Fortresses of Solitude, and I'm waiting for Sasquatch to show up at my door.
Sasquatch is only slightly less exotic than the animal he's here to claim. Built on the Santa Claus model of burly and bearded, he is clearly extremely fond of snakes and extremely knowledgeable about their care. The snake is no worse for his time outside, Sasquatch tells me, and he'll be fine. I heave so many sighs of relief, I start to hyperventilate. Sasquatch bundles the warmer and much-friskier critter into a pillow case (why is it always a pillow case?), gets back in the truck and drives off into a happy ending.
I'm still looking for the animal's owner, so if anyone in Seattle, particularly in the area of Beacon Hill, finds themselves a corn snake short, leave me a comment. Meanwhile, I have to go do something about that cappebara that just showed up on my back step.
Monday, February 16, 2009
I'm sorry--you're too stupid to eat this.
I bought a hot-air popcorn popper last weekend. I bought it partly because it fits in with my ongoing effort to save calories and partly because my catsitter seemed so disappointed when I told him I ditched the crappy old one that didn't so much pop popcorn as fling unpopped, sizzling-hot 'granny' missiles around the kitchen. This one's for you, Buck.
This morning, I made a bowl of popcorn. Hey, I had a day off, and popcorn is technically in the 'cereal' family. I completely obviated the machine's calorie-saving function by melting a tablespoon of butter in the little tray on top and dousing the popcorn with it, but to complete my whole "it's a breakfast food" thing, I ate it with a glass of milk. It was delicious--quick, tasty, nutritionally neutral rather than actively bad for me, and simple.
Simple. I've been making popcorn on the stovetop at least once a week for nearly my entire adult life and several of the years before it. I love popcorn. I am a purist, however; strictly oil or butter and liberal cloudings of salt. None of your yeast flakes, bacon salt or garlic salt for me, thanks all the same. And Kettle Korn? Well, if it were real popcorn, they'd spell it right. Popping a bowl of popcorn presents no real challenge for me, even when I do the DIY version. It's not like assembling a German-chocolate cake, for example. And yet...
My new popper, a machine which ostensibly makes this relatively simple task even simpler, came with instructions. There are nine steps to making popcorn in this hot-air popper. The President could launch missles to take out half of Eastern Europe in fewer steps. Ok, before we consult the surprisingly long and detailed how-to manual, let's see if we can even come up with nine steps:
1. Fill little tray on top of popper with unpopped popcorn kernels.
2. Pour the unpopped kernels into the popper proper.
3. Plug the machine in.
4. Wait.
5. Unplug the machine.
6. Eat.
Personally, I'm thinking even six is stretching it. But since Orville Redenbacher clearly has no desire for his popcorn fans to end up gracing the Darwin Awards list, I'll see what I can do to make these directions even simpler and more idiot-proof. Additions in red:
1. Set the popping machine upright on a flat surface. Not a road, more like a kitchen counter.
2. Fill little tray on top of popper with unpopped popcorn kernels.
3. Pour the unpopped popcorn into the popper proper. You should probably take the lid off first.
4. Plug the machine in to an outlet in the wall.
5. Point the popcorn descent ramp at a bowl sufficient in size for all the popped kernels. They will be bigger when they come out than they were on the way in. Prepare for that.
6. Step back. Do not immerse the machine in water at this point. Or any point, really.
7. Wait until all the kernels (or at least all that are going to) pop.
8. Unplug the machine. With your hands. Not your teeth.
9. Eat the popcorn. Breathe normally between bites.
You'd be astonished how closely this resembles the actual instructions. Here are the parts they felt worthy to be bolded:
Do not place salt, butter, margarine, shortening, or microwave popcorn in the popping chamber. ("Shortening"?! Did they forget "lard"? And don't get me started on the extra comma. Positive note: I love that my $2o popper has "chambers.")
Caution: Do not leave unit unattended while popping. Presumably it's OK to back away slowly when it's just sitting there. But never smile at it, or it'll lunge for your throat.
At step seven, which details how to unplug the machine after use (and which comes with a disclaimer footnote blaming unpopped kernels on the quality of the popcorn), there's this gem: "Carefully remove the cover--use hot pads--and pour the remaining popcorn into the bowl, then place the cover back on the unit." Why the bolding here? Are they afraid that hot-air popper neophytes might place the cover in the toilet, for example, or throw it out, figuring they had to use a new one each time like a coffee filter?
And the one that makes me laugh out loud is this wonder at step nine: "Wash the butter melter if it was used to melt butter." Dear god. This is possibly the most cynical statement regarding human intelligence I've ever seen. First, we must tell people to clean dirty things, and second, it's called a "butter melter." It doesn't actually do anything! It's a plastic tray that gets hot, and if you happen to have put butter in it, then the butter will probably melt. You could equally call it a spare change tray, if that's what you planned to use it for, or a hamster thermal spa.
The tragedy of all this is, of course, the poor shmuck with half of the Great American Novel at home in his or her drawer, currently condemned to thinking out all the infinite ways the Great American Idiot could possibly screw up a simple batch of popcorn and how to talk him out of it. As my boyfriend's darling daughter says, "If there weren't a need, there wouldn't be instructions."
In giant letters on the first page of my "manual," it says "SAVE THESE INSTRUCTIONS." Oh, I plan to.
This morning, I made a bowl of popcorn. Hey, I had a day off, and popcorn is technically in the 'cereal' family. I completely obviated the machine's calorie-saving function by melting a tablespoon of butter in the little tray on top and dousing the popcorn with it, but to complete my whole "it's a breakfast food" thing, I ate it with a glass of milk. It was delicious--quick, tasty, nutritionally neutral rather than actively bad for me, and simple.
Simple. I've been making popcorn on the stovetop at least once a week for nearly my entire adult life and several of the years before it. I love popcorn. I am a purist, however; strictly oil or butter and liberal cloudings of salt. None of your yeast flakes, bacon salt or garlic salt for me, thanks all the same. And Kettle Korn? Well, if it were real popcorn, they'd spell it right. Popping a bowl of popcorn presents no real challenge for me, even when I do the DIY version. It's not like assembling a German-chocolate cake, for example. And yet...
My new popper, a machine which ostensibly makes this relatively simple task even simpler, came with instructions. There are nine steps to making popcorn in this hot-air popper. The President could launch missles to take out half of Eastern Europe in fewer steps. Ok, before we consult the surprisingly long and detailed how-to manual, let's see if we can even come up with nine steps:
1. Fill little tray on top of popper with unpopped popcorn kernels.
2. Pour the unpopped kernels into the popper proper.
3. Plug the machine in.
4. Wait.
5. Unplug the machine.
6. Eat.
Personally, I'm thinking even six is stretching it. But since Orville Redenbacher clearly has no desire for his popcorn fans to end up gracing the Darwin Awards list, I'll see what I can do to make these directions even simpler and more idiot-proof. Additions in red:
1. Set the popping machine upright on a flat surface. Not a road, more like a kitchen counter.
2. Fill little tray on top of popper with unpopped popcorn kernels.
3. Pour the unpopped popcorn into the popper proper. You should probably take the lid off first.
4. Plug the machine in to an outlet in the wall.
5. Point the popcorn descent ramp at a bowl sufficient in size for all the popped kernels. They will be bigger when they come out than they were on the way in. Prepare for that.
6. Step back. Do not immerse the machine in water at this point. Or any point, really.
7. Wait until all the kernels (or at least all that are going to) pop.
8. Unplug the machine. With your hands. Not your teeth.
9. Eat the popcorn. Breathe normally between bites.
You'd be astonished how closely this resembles the actual instructions. Here are the parts they felt worthy to be bolded:
Do not place salt, butter, margarine, shortening, or microwave popcorn in the popping chamber. ("Shortening"?! Did they forget "lard"? And don't get me started on the extra comma. Positive note: I love that my $2o popper has "chambers.")
Caution: Do not leave unit unattended while popping. Presumably it's OK to back away slowly when it's just sitting there. But never smile at it, or it'll lunge for your throat.
At step seven, which details how to unplug the machine after use (and which comes with a disclaimer footnote blaming unpopped kernels on the quality of the popcorn), there's this gem: "Carefully remove the cover--use hot pads--and pour the remaining popcorn into the bowl, then place the cover back on the unit." Why the bolding here? Are they afraid that hot-air popper neophytes might place the cover in the toilet, for example, or throw it out, figuring they had to use a new one each time like a coffee filter?
And the one that makes me laugh out loud is this wonder at step nine: "Wash the butter melter if it was used to melt butter." Dear god. This is possibly the most cynical statement regarding human intelligence I've ever seen. First, we must tell people to clean dirty things, and second, it's called a "butter melter." It doesn't actually do anything! It's a plastic tray that gets hot, and if you happen to have put butter in it, then the butter will probably melt. You could equally call it a spare change tray, if that's what you planned to use it for, or a hamster thermal spa.
The tragedy of all this is, of course, the poor shmuck with half of the Great American Novel at home in his or her drawer, currently condemned to thinking out all the infinite ways the Great American Idiot could possibly screw up a simple batch of popcorn and how to talk him out of it. As my boyfriend's darling daughter says, "If there weren't a need, there wouldn't be instructions."
In giant letters on the first page of my "manual," it says "SAVE THESE INSTRUCTIONS." Oh, I plan to.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Our Christmas Adventures!
Our routes--every bit as arduous as they look!
Happy holidays, everyone!
We've been doing some serious traveling this holiday season: first there was the trip to Burlington, which was just amazing. I was worried our flight wouldn't take off, but then I remembered that we were driving, so that was OK. The natives are reasonably friendly, though we had some trouble with the local dialect. The food was good, but getting vegetarian fare proved difficult, as always. We had something called “peet-zah:” apparently a holiday tradition in that area. Foreign culture, foreign customs, I guess.
Then there was the fun but exhausting long-haul to Kirkland and back. Again, the weather provided us with some challenges, but we soldiered through it, eager for what adventures awaited us! We did some shopping at a store there they call "Seifweigh" or possibly "Chafeweigh." It was hard to tell what they were saying to us. We had lots of fun doing a sort of modified charades to "talk" with the locals. Toasty's impression of a cinnamon-raisin bagel in the so-called "bei-ker-ee" department was hilarious! Good times.
Glad you all had a great and festive holiday season. We took lots of photos, which we'll happily share if anyone's interested.
Hugs,
Rags
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Aren't you supposed to be in Mexico?
(This picture taken just down the street.)I tried to get to work today. You wouldn't know it to look at me now, pajama-clad with a fresh pot of coffee brewing, but at 7.30 this morning, I really tried to go to work. I showered and brushed my teeth, I dressed for survival situations, I had a fully charged cell phone and a day's worth of rations (some dry Frosted Mini-Wheats and a bagel), plus flares, a bear whistle, a tent, a set of crampons, a team of Sherpas and a yak.
Seattle does not do snow well. I used to abuse this city for shutting down every time a few flakes fell (and not out of a sorority window during a drunken rush-week brunch), but really it's a bugger of geography. Seattle is hilly. And hilly cities are hard to drive in when there's hard-packed snow turning to ice on the roads. This situation is not aided by the idiots who think owning a four-wheel vehicle is license to drive like Ricky Bobby.
Anyway, there was no work to go to, as I found out after I'd walked a mile or so. I turned around and went home, ruminating on how, like someone else's inadequately stifled burp during a wedding, snowdays are a great and wonderful thing, no matter how old you are.
Back at home, I've spent most of the morning dealing with some guests who may have overstayed a bit: hummingbirds. I go out periodically to clear the snow and ice away from the feeders so that the wee, winged, migratorily challenged hummers can suck up the gallon or so of sugar water a day they'll need to survive the next week or so. I finally came up with a cunning plan, though. I moved one feeder so it's very near my outside light. It's under the cover of my upstairs neighbor's balcony, so the snow doesn't cover it, plus the little heat generated by the light keeps the ice off the feeding stations and the dumb birds.
I have also posted a map of North America with an arrow pointing south. I'm hoping they figure it out.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Hi-Falutin' Literary Pursuitin'
Cleared the 40,000 word bar today, like a decathelete with wings on her shoes and lead in her ass. Never mind. Only 10,000 more to go. I have to get them in this week wherever I can--the Seattle half-marathon is this Sunday, and I don't really want to try to run it whilst pushing a cart with my laptop on it, unspooling 13.1 miles of extension cord as I go.
Interesting thing today: at Kaladi Bros., the delightful coffee shop on Pike where they're letting us reserve their back room on Sundays from noon to 3 just for the NaNoMoFo's, we had to chase a guy out because he was using the cafe's computer to look at porn. Now, seriously. There are five or six stellar members of the Word Nerd Herd in there, all zealously typing away at our laptops and occasionally shouting out random numbers like crazed auctioneers (30,000! I just hit 35,000! Do I hear 40,000!), and he sits at the computer, with his back to us, and does his Lolita surfing. Gack. I didn't notice, obliviot that I am, but one of the other NaNos did, and she asked the staff to kick him out.
I didn't realize this, so when the barista came in to tell him that the room was reserved, I, good samaritan that I am, said he wasn't bothering anyone (except himself, I guess) and that he was welcome to stay. Fortunately, the guy had the good grace to get completely pissy and huff off, presumably to find a more welcoming cafe with coin-operated booths and a sticky floor.
Anyway, all's well, and I have just a hair under 10,000 words to crank out this week. Between the shin splints and the carpel tunnel, November has been just spectacular. More to come. Stay tuned.
Interesting thing today: at Kaladi Bros., the delightful coffee shop on Pike where they're letting us reserve their back room on Sundays from noon to 3 just for the NaNoMoFo's, we had to chase a guy out because he was using the cafe's computer to look at porn. Now, seriously. There are five or six stellar members of the Word Nerd Herd in there, all zealously typing away at our laptops and occasionally shouting out random numbers like crazed auctioneers (30,000! I just hit 35,000! Do I hear 40,000!), and he sits at the computer, with his back to us, and does his Lolita surfing. Gack. I didn't notice, obliviot that I am, but one of the other NaNos did, and she asked the staff to kick him out.
I didn't realize this, so when the barista came in to tell him that the room was reserved, I, good samaritan that I am, said he wasn't bothering anyone (except himself, I guess) and that he was welcome to stay. Fortunately, the guy had the good grace to get completely pissy and huff off, presumably to find a more welcoming cafe with coin-operated booths and a sticky floor.
Anyway, all's well, and I have just a hair under 10,000 words to crank out this week. Between the shin splints and the carpel tunnel, November has been just spectacular. More to come. Stay tuned.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Button, Button, Where the F#@*'s My Button?
For the most part, hitting that safe middle ground between dressing like a slut and dressing like a prude is not terribly difficult. There's a lot of room to maneuver there. There is, for example, a lot of possible variations on skirt hem lengths in the safe-zone between peek-a-boo to dragging-on-the-ground-behind-you. There's plenty of differentiation space between clothes so tight the wearer can be safely left in the freezer for up to six months without fear of freezer burn and so loose you risk harboring the homeless in a sort of tent-city of one.
Even in accessories, there's ample safe territory: my grandmother never once reached for her pearls only to find herself later at a ladies luncheon sporting a studded dog collar. Makeup? Easy. Don't apply with a trowel to avoid sluttiness; don't carry a bucket of cold water and a scrub brush made of horse hair to scour the Stain of Whoredom off of other women, and you'll successfully avoid the other extreme.
The only exception to this rule, for me anyway, is the buttons down the front of the average blouse. First of all, the word "blouse" is horrible, like "purse" and "panty"--these are ugly words. OK, maybe that's just me.
But the way that buttons are arranged on your standard blouse-front makes no sense at all. Either you have Strangulation Level (also known as the Jehovah's Witness Come-to-Jesus button) or Sluttastic, the button that generally comes in at just level with the nipples and then gapes open anyway. The expanse of shirt-front between these two buttons is a fastener desert. There are no options here other than application of some gack-worthy brooch you inherited from a maiden aunt. What the hell, people?
For those who know me personally, you know that the only time anyone can properly and without losing an eye refer to me as "conservative" is in the way I dress. I tend to err on the prudish, leaving the sluttery for others more equipped and capable. I cannot wear button-down shirts! I spend the entire day either tugging open the neck so I can breathe, or tugging the shirt down in the back so I can't spend the day watching that freckle next to my bellybutton and worrying if it's a slightly different, pre-melanoma color today and nor can anyone else.
I'm wearing a zipper-front sweater today. Every time I cross my arms, I have to stifle a yip from the cold zipper track inside touching my skin, but at least there's not an actual draft. I have a large pile of turtlenecks for all seasons. Could someone, please, make a button-down shirt for women that has actual buttons on it? You know that one that you put in the little, plastic, Ziplock-type baggie affixed to my price tag? Maybe you could put that on my shirt instead.
Even in accessories, there's ample safe territory: my grandmother never once reached for her pearls only to find herself later at a ladies luncheon sporting a studded dog collar. Makeup? Easy. Don't apply with a trowel to avoid sluttiness; don't carry a bucket of cold water and a scrub brush made of horse hair to scour the Stain of Whoredom off of other women, and you'll successfully avoid the other extreme.
The only exception to this rule, for me anyway, is the buttons down the front of the average blouse. First of all, the word "blouse" is horrible, like "purse" and "panty"--these are ugly words. OK, maybe that's just me.
But the way that buttons are arranged on your standard blouse-front makes no sense at all. Either you have Strangulation Level (also known as the Jehovah's Witness Come-to-Jesus button) or Sluttastic, the button that generally comes in at just level with the nipples and then gapes open anyway. The expanse of shirt-front between these two buttons is a fastener desert. There are no options here other than application of some gack-worthy brooch you inherited from a maiden aunt. What the hell, people?
For those who know me personally, you know that the only time anyone can properly and without losing an eye refer to me as "conservative" is in the way I dress. I tend to err on the prudish, leaving the sluttery for others more equipped and capable. I cannot wear button-down shirts! I spend the entire day either tugging open the neck so I can breathe, or tugging the shirt down in the back so I can't spend the day watching that freckle next to my bellybutton and worrying if it's a slightly different, pre-melanoma color today and nor can anyone else.
I'm wearing a zipper-front sweater today. Every time I cross my arms, I have to stifle a yip from the cold zipper track inside touching my skin, but at least there's not an actual draft. I have a large pile of turtlenecks for all seasons. Could someone, please, make a button-down shirt for women that has actual buttons on it? You know that one that you put in the little, plastic, Ziplock-type baggie affixed to my price tag? Maybe you could put that on my shirt instead.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Another argument against "Intelligent Design"
To those who rabidly and with spittle flying defend the notion of “intelligent design,” I add yet another example to the pile of “oh yeah, well, what about this?”-es. Right up there with rednecks, cancer, the Taliban and Sarah Palin, I give you: the bit lip.
Think about it. You’re chewing away at whatever you choose to chew on—fruit leather, popcorn, beef jerky, an underling—and you accidentally bite the inside of your lip. What happens next (after the jumping around and cursing)? The bit you bit swells up, pushing its wounded and tender self closer to your teeth. And you spend the next eleventy-seven days biting the exact same spot over and over and over again. Does this sound like “intelligent design” to you?
I think if I were making the human body, I probably would not put soft, sensitive, vulnerable skin right there in the mouth with all the sharp and pointy parts. I’m just sayin’.
Think about it. You’re chewing away at whatever you choose to chew on—fruit leather, popcorn, beef jerky, an underling—and you accidentally bite the inside of your lip. What happens next (after the jumping around and cursing)? The bit you bit swells up, pushing its wounded and tender self closer to your teeth. And you spend the next eleventy-seven days biting the exact same spot over and over and over again. Does this sound like “intelligent design” to you?
I think if I were making the human body, I probably would not put soft, sensitive, vulnerable skin right there in the mouth with all the sharp and pointy parts. I’m just sayin’.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Do these 50,000 words have to be in any particular order?
So, November is NaNoWriMo month, but of course you all knew that. I found out about this from my friend Pete, who pulled off this very difficult task a few years ago. Basically, during NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth, you hunker down at your computer, bitch at your partner, drink lots of wine, and attempt to crank out 50,000 words of a brand-new novel in 31 days. Ah, crap: 30 days. November has 30 days. I just lost one. Now I have to recalculate the daily word requirement to make it to the finish line: 1,666.666666666etc.
I'm a fifth of the way there.
When I hit the 10,000 mark, I felt pretty good. I'm cruisin', don't want to kill my characters or myself (yet), Toasty claims to still have undampened enthusiasm for spending time with me, all's pretty darn much well, that's what. 10,000 feels good. Then I realize I'm a fifth (a fifth!) of the way there, and everything around me starts deflating: my ego, my confidence, my omelet...
There was a moment on day one (maybe two), when my cat Beebs trotted across the keyboard of my computer and somehow magically shut down Word without stepping on the CTRL + S keys first. I had been saving pretty religiously up until maybe 15 minutes before this point. Beebs was punished by being fed (I'm such a monster) and not petted for the next eleven minutes. That'll learn her.
As I type this now, she's twice brought up some weird Explorer menu by rubbing her head on the corner of my keyboard. NaNoWriMo isn't quite hard enough--I had to make some sort of weird reality show out of it by throwing into the mix a cat that's really a mole, planted by Big Brother to keep throwing hurdles under my feet (fingers). Fine, but I'm not eating maggots or any other gross stuff. NaNoWriMo seems like a great excuse for an all-popcorn month.
Anyway, wish me luck, and any other NaNoWriMos out there, how about a write-in this Sunday somewhere with coffee and Wi-Fi? No cats.
I'm a fifth of the way there.
When I hit the 10,000 mark, I felt pretty good. I'm cruisin', don't want to kill my characters or myself (yet), Toasty claims to still have undampened enthusiasm for spending time with me, all's pretty darn much well, that's what. 10,000 feels good. Then I realize I'm a fifth (a fifth!) of the way there, and everything around me starts deflating: my ego, my confidence, my omelet...
There was a moment on day one (maybe two), when my cat Beebs trotted across the keyboard of my computer and somehow magically shut down Word without stepping on the CTRL + S keys first. I had been saving pretty religiously up until maybe 15 minutes before this point. Beebs was punished by being fed (I'm such a monster) and not petted for the next eleven minutes. That'll learn her.
As I type this now, she's twice brought up some weird Explorer menu by rubbing her head on the corner of my keyboard. NaNoWriMo isn't quite hard enough--I had to make some sort of weird reality show out of it by throwing into the mix a cat that's really a mole, planted by Big Brother to keep throwing hurdles under my feet (fingers). Fine, but I'm not eating maggots or any other gross stuff. NaNoWriMo seems like a great excuse for an all-popcorn month.
Anyway, wish me luck, and any other NaNoWriMos out there, how about a write-in this Sunday somewhere with coffee and Wi-Fi? No cats.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Cue the Hallelujah Chorus
WWWWHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Dear Diary,
Last night we elected a guy for president who is intelligent, compassionate, educated and SANE. I R so happy.
Go, Gregoire. Clean sweep.
Dear Diary,
Last night we elected a guy for president who is intelligent, compassionate, educated and SANE. I R so happy.
Go, Gregoire. Clean sweep.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Anyone got a border collie?
The three women I met the other day when trying to cross an intersection.
On Monday I was riding my bike to work, and I had to wait at the intersection of Minor and Madison. If you don't know this intersection, let me just say that Minor is minor and Madison is major. Madison is one of those very busy Seattle streets, especially early in the morning. It's an access route for both north and south I-5, so lots of folks travel it. All the time.
Minor is wee. It is aptly named. Pedestrians frequently cross it without even checking for traffic. I should know; I have a collection of them wrapped around my handlebars, dying slowly.
This is a long-winded way of saying that the green light for people on Minor Minor to cross Major Madison is awfully short. Short in the same way Herve Villechaise is short. Short like my rope. Which I was at the end of on Monday.
Here's why:
I was on Minor, stopped at the very long red light. Just as the light begins to change (walk sign's been flashing the big red don't-even-think-about-crossing-now hand for awhile), three generously proportioned women decide to go ahead and cross. They are slow. Slow in the same way Sarah Palin is slow--short bus slow. The light turns yellow before they get three steps across. And then, just as the light turns green for me, they stop--STOP--right in front of me so that one of the heifers can light a cigarette.
I say to them, with as much politeness as I can muster at this point, "Ladies, I'd like to get across, please." This sounds polite but was delivered with tone, lemme tell ya.
One of them moos an actual and unexpected apology (-15 points for lack of sincerity, but it was something, anyway), and they move on across, tails swishing flies from their backs as they go.
I don't care if people are slow as long as they don't slow me down just for the entertainment value of it. I don't much mind if they smoke, as long as they don't stop directly in front of me to light their cigarettes. And I have to wonder if they would have done this had I been driving a car instead of riding a bike. I'm generally not a mean person, really, but at that moment I was scouring the surroundings for a border collie to herd them out of my way.
Next time, they get one of these to the backside:
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
buffalo bill's (not quite) defunct
It seems Dick Cheney has finally managed to do what Silence of the Lambs' Buffalo Bill couldn't: he's built himself a woman suit. The last piece he needed was the head, and fortunately, Alaska governor Sarah Palin's was conveniently empty.
Four more years of Veep Dick Cheney, this time in a woman-suit. Watch the convention (if you can)--are they ever on stage at the same time?
Four more years of Veep Dick Cheney, this time in a woman-suit. Watch the convention (if you can)--are they ever on stage at the same time?
Friday, August 22, 2008
Early Presidential Race
Looks like McCain's chosen a running mate.
Is that.... Joe Lieberman?
http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5hq7FqoGEALMvULiip6DfeR87tZXgD92N8AO00
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Even in Seattle
Abuse of power in action. Rossi's behavior is questionable enough, but when uniformed police start threatening to arrest people because they disagree with their politics, it's time for some citizen protest. Send a note to Gil Kerlikowske that such abuse of authority is unacceptable.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gs0gfs2ZX5w
http://www.seattle.gov/police/contact/
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gs0gfs2ZX5w
http://www.seattle.gov/police/contact/
Friday, August 01, 2008
How I got the job and nearly lost it at the very same time.
Ta da!
It’s not easy. Here are some simple steps to follow if you’re looking at challenging Shorty McCantholdajob for the world’s record in Briefest Employment:
1. Get a job. This is relatively easy and mostly involves showing up on time and leaning forward with a bright-eyed look at meetings, interviews and watercooler chats.
2. Have a higher uppityup person come to your cubicle to congratulate you on your recent hire while you’re downloading some YouTube thing your boyfriend emailed you.
3. Sit, accepting congratulations and kind compliments while behind you, but still in plain sight, the computer grinds away at the download, and the empty page shows the spinning-clock thing that seems to be ticking off the seconds you’ll actually hold this job before some totally workplace-inappropriate video pops up on the screen.
4. Realize your smile of thanks is more rictus-death-grin as you have NO IDEA what the video is he sent you, you just felt cocky and invisible and clicked on it like a fricking idiot, and for all you know it could be nude Wal-Mart shoppers frolicking on a beach before one of them falls bits-first into the firepit and catches his pubes on fire and runs screaming AWAY from the water—it’s just the kind of thing your boyfriend would find hilarious. And your new boss, perched on the end of your desk just now, wouldn’t.
5. Continue to make incredibly awkward conversation as the new boss is being extremely nice to come tell you—at length— what an asset you’ll be, when right now you’re feeling the first three letters of that word are so much more appropriate than the last two. The screen is behind you, you’re dying to turn and see what’s happening on it; the speakers are turned off, and this could be a good thing (avoiding audible inappropriateness to go with visible inappropriateness) or a bad thing (you don’t know what’s happening, goddammit!). Grind teeth. Try not to flinch every time your boss’s eyes flick toward your monitor. It could mean nothing, or it could mean he’s just noticed the Wal-Mart Human Tiki Torch video and is wondering how fast he can get security up here to escort you out.
6. Calculate the number of possessions you’ll have to carry out in that cardboard box that always seems to materialize when people lose their jobs on TV or in the movies. Wonder idly where they always get that one plant that sticks out the top. Realize you could fit your work-place possessions in the box the staples come in—you’ve been here that briefly.
7. Conclude conversation with as much grace and subtlety as possible. Whirl around to check monitor even before boss’s back foot has entirely cleared your cubicle space. See “Page unable to load” error message. Breathe deeply. Thank fates.
8. Repeat.
It’s not easy. Here are some simple steps to follow if you’re looking at challenging Shorty McCantholdajob for the world’s record in Briefest Employment:
1. Get a job. This is relatively easy and mostly involves showing up on time and leaning forward with a bright-eyed look at meetings, interviews and watercooler chats.
2. Have a higher uppityup person come to your cubicle to congratulate you on your recent hire while you’re downloading some YouTube thing your boyfriend emailed you.
3. Sit, accepting congratulations and kind compliments while behind you, but still in plain sight, the computer grinds away at the download, and the empty page shows the spinning-clock thing that seems to be ticking off the seconds you’ll actually hold this job before some totally workplace-inappropriate video pops up on the screen.
4. Realize your smile of thanks is more rictus-death-grin as you have NO IDEA what the video is he sent you, you just felt cocky and invisible and clicked on it like a fricking idiot, and for all you know it could be nude Wal-Mart shoppers frolicking on a beach before one of them falls bits-first into the firepit and catches his pubes on fire and runs screaming AWAY from the water—it’s just the kind of thing your boyfriend would find hilarious. And your new boss, perched on the end of your desk just now, wouldn’t.
5. Continue to make incredibly awkward conversation as the new boss is being extremely nice to come tell you—at length— what an asset you’ll be, when right now you’re feeling the first three letters of that word are so much more appropriate than the last two. The screen is behind you, you’re dying to turn and see what’s happening on it; the speakers are turned off, and this could be a good thing (avoiding audible inappropriateness to go with visible inappropriateness) or a bad thing (you don’t know what’s happening, goddammit!). Grind teeth. Try not to flinch every time your boss’s eyes flick toward your monitor. It could mean nothing, or it could mean he’s just noticed the Wal-Mart Human Tiki Torch video and is wondering how fast he can get security up here to escort you out.
6. Calculate the number of possessions you’ll have to carry out in that cardboard box that always seems to materialize when people lose their jobs on TV or in the movies. Wonder idly where they always get that one plant that sticks out the top. Realize you could fit your work-place possessions in the box the staples come in—you’ve been here that briefly.
7. Conclude conversation with as much grace and subtlety as possible. Whirl around to check monitor even before boss’s back foot has entirely cleared your cubicle space. See “Page unable to load” error message. Breathe deeply. Thank fates.
8. Repeat.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Is this good news or bad?
Saw this "inspirational" quote today in the Puget Sound Business Journal: "Leap and the net will appear."
It occured to me that this would be great news if you were, say, a tightrope walker. It's not so great news, however, if you're a fish.
It occured to me that this would be great news if you were, say, a tightrope walker. It's not so great news, however, if you're a fish.
Friday, July 04, 2008
A four-letter word that means "merge"
I hate mail merge. For a program that ostensibly makes life ever-so-much-easier, it is clumsy, cumbersome and downright mean-spirited. Join it up with a printer that pouts if you try to print a card or envelope on it, and you've got a Very Bad Tuesday.
Let me tell you about my Very Bad Tuesday. I got to work relatively intact, only one minor bike vs auto incident where a woman cut me off in a red-assed hurry to get to a RED stoplight where she sat in the RIGHT HAND TURN LANE, unable to turn, until I calmly pedaled up, prepared to give her a look so nasty it might leave a scar. She was tweezing her chin. Tweezing. Right there at the light, feeling around on her chin with her thumb, looking for that long, curly, wirey one that even scares the cat if left unattended. Maybe she's growing it for Locks of Love, and now that it's long enough, it's time to tweeze and donate it to some pre-menopausal woman or pre-pubescent boy who can't grow chin hairs of their own. Whatever the case, I'm gobsmacked (look it up) that I nearly got clobbered by a woman driving what is apparently a brand new PT Cruiser because she had a tweezing emergency. Then she drives off, and I notice the Hummer insignia on the back of her car. I pull the mini-bazookette out of my backpack and take. the. bitch. out. That'll teach her to tweeze while driving.
Anyway, I arrive at work still a bit grumpy, and find it's time to do the monthly address labels for the birthday cards we send out to clients (presumably those having birthdays). ARGH. In the past, I was strictly the middle-person on this: the labels came to me, formatted by someone who had fought the good fight with Mail Merge and won, and I sent them on to the people who would print them out and send the actual cards. Alas, the person who sent them to me no longer works there. Now I get the list of names and addresses and must somehow produce labels.
So here's what happens: first, the list comes in the wrong form. It is NOT POSSIBLE, I repeat NOT POSSIBLE to generate Mail Merge labels from a PDF. That's the whole point of PDFs--there's very little you can do with them, presumably so that you don't screw up the original document. Fine. I monkey around with that for awhile, try a cut-and-paste into Word, con the intern into helping laboriously retype all the info into spreadsheets until we realize that there are HUNDREDS of names and addresses on the list, blah blah blah, then finally give up and ask the IT guys if they can do any better. They send me back copies of the original files from which the PDFs were made. I don't know what the heck program this is, but it doesn't work either. When I try to cut and paste, it ignores the first line, which then shifts everyone's address up a name. Back to the drawing board.
It's now been a couple of hours, and I'm no closer to generating labels than I was when I sat down. I have, however, received a couple of emails asking how soon they can expect the labels. I opt for discretion, concluding that it's better not to answer than to send a stream of curse words ending with "They'll BE there when they GET there."
I have forgotten to mention the parallel project that's going on while I'm doing this: I'm also printing the monthly anniversary cards. Well, I'm supposed to be printing them... I also have to do a merge for this one, since the card says something along the lines of, "Dear {first name}, Thanks for {number} great years!" After much scheming and end-running around Merge when Microsoft's back is turned, I have gotten this down to "Dear 7, Thanks for Margaret great years!" I feel confident I can crack this one.
I go back to the IT boys and ask if they can give me the birthday list in an Excel document. They can. There is much celebrating. Why we didn't start there, I'm unsure, but we're here now. It's not quite lunchtime, and I've done nothing else this morning. Despair is starting to set in.
I finally get some sort of document sex to happen, but it's kind of like you'd expect a couple of teen-age virgins to do it: sloppy, brief and mostly pleasureless. The Excel document puts its thin little arm around Word, there's a bit of awkward flirtation, they shoo Clippy off the couch, there's a lot of fumbling, and finally we get some sort of beginner's merge. Clearly Excel and Word are brother and sister or some other direct relation because the labels are, sadly, RETARDED. They come out almost normal, but still definitely short-bus. There's no Zip code, and no option to include one.
Much fighting ensues over the retarded children. Word claims it's not her fault, Excel gets all huffy at the notion that he's somehow inadequate, and I have to step in and figure it all out. Finally what happens is the State column has to be absorbed by the City column so that we can call the Zip codes "States" and trick Excel into doing his duty by his stupid children. It works. Labels are created, all accurate and proper, and they get sent off to the next phase of their brief, pointless little lives. I do a little happy dance and receive applause and accolades for both my victory over merge and my creative cursing.
Ah, but it's not over yet. There are still those stupid anniversary cards to do! I have mentally blocked most of the struggle it took to get this to work, but if we go back to the beginner's sex analogy, I'm guessing one or both of these "learned" about sex in one of those abstinence-only education programs because they keep slotting things in the wrong holes. I produce a copy of "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret" and a Playboy magazine, and we finally get it figured out. But then there's the printer who, in this rather tortured analogy, must be a nun, because those cards are NOT going in. That door is firmly closed to cardstock, thank you very much. After much cajoling and pleas of "you'll like it after awhile," I give up. This printer is a prude.
I'm told to try the VERY EXPENSIVE printer in the copy room. Lordy, do I not want to. The nun sits behind my desk and is only used by the 3 people in marketing. This other printer is huge, costly, and used by the entire floor. I'm going to call this printer George W. because it won't do anything it's told to do by reasonable people, and no amount of pushing his buttons will get him to change his mind about what God has clearly ordained. This is the Village Idiot of printers.
In the end, it is the humble Admin printer that takes care of it in somewhat robotic fashion, joylessly cranking out the cards in black and white instead of color (which the other two had the capability of, if only they could be convinced). This dutiful housefrau of copiers, indispensable but largely ignored as it goes about its labors, saves the day.
And so it is over. Until next month.
Let me tell you about my Very Bad Tuesday. I got to work relatively intact, only one minor bike vs auto incident where a woman cut me off in a red-assed hurry to get to a RED stoplight where she sat in the RIGHT HAND TURN LANE, unable to turn, until I calmly pedaled up, prepared to give her a look so nasty it might leave a scar. She was tweezing her chin. Tweezing. Right there at the light, feeling around on her chin with her thumb, looking for that long, curly, wirey one that even scares the cat if left unattended. Maybe she's growing it for Locks of Love, and now that it's long enough, it's time to tweeze and donate it to some pre-menopausal woman or pre-pubescent boy who can't grow chin hairs of their own. Whatever the case, I'm gobsmacked (look it up) that I nearly got clobbered by a woman driving what is apparently a brand new PT Cruiser because she had a tweezing emergency. Then she drives off, and I notice the Hummer insignia on the back of her car. I pull the mini-bazookette out of my backpack and take. the. bitch. out. That'll teach her to tweeze while driving.
Anyway, I arrive at work still a bit grumpy, and find it's time to do the monthly address labels for the birthday cards we send out to clients (presumably those having birthdays). ARGH. In the past, I was strictly the middle-person on this: the labels came to me, formatted by someone who had fought the good fight with Mail Merge and won, and I sent them on to the people who would print them out and send the actual cards. Alas, the person who sent them to me no longer works there. Now I get the list of names and addresses and must somehow produce labels.
So here's what happens: first, the list comes in the wrong form. It is NOT POSSIBLE, I repeat NOT POSSIBLE to generate Mail Merge labels from a PDF. That's the whole point of PDFs--there's very little you can do with them, presumably so that you don't screw up the original document. Fine. I monkey around with that for awhile, try a cut-and-paste into Word, con the intern into helping laboriously retype all the info into spreadsheets until we realize that there are HUNDREDS of names and addresses on the list, blah blah blah, then finally give up and ask the IT guys if they can do any better. They send me back copies of the original files from which the PDFs were made. I don't know what the heck program this is, but it doesn't work either. When I try to cut and paste, it ignores the first line, which then shifts everyone's address up a name. Back to the drawing board.
It's now been a couple of hours, and I'm no closer to generating labels than I was when I sat down. I have, however, received a couple of emails asking how soon they can expect the labels. I opt for discretion, concluding that it's better not to answer than to send a stream of curse words ending with "They'll BE there when they GET there."
I have forgotten to mention the parallel project that's going on while I'm doing this: I'm also printing the monthly anniversary cards. Well, I'm supposed to be printing them... I also have to do a merge for this one, since the card says something along the lines of, "Dear {first name}, Thanks for {number} great years!" After much scheming and end-running around Merge when Microsoft's back is turned, I have gotten this down to "Dear 7, Thanks for Margaret great years!" I feel confident I can crack this one.
I go back to the IT boys and ask if they can give me the birthday list in an Excel document. They can. There is much celebrating. Why we didn't start there, I'm unsure, but we're here now. It's not quite lunchtime, and I've done nothing else this morning. Despair is starting to set in.
I finally get some sort of document sex to happen, but it's kind of like you'd expect a couple of teen-age virgins to do it: sloppy, brief and mostly pleasureless. The Excel document puts its thin little arm around Word, there's a bit of awkward flirtation, they shoo Clippy off the couch, there's a lot of fumbling, and finally we get some sort of beginner's merge. Clearly Excel and Word are brother and sister or some other direct relation because the labels are, sadly, RETARDED. They come out almost normal, but still definitely short-bus. There's no Zip code, and no option to include one.
Much fighting ensues over the retarded children. Word claims it's not her fault, Excel gets all huffy at the notion that he's somehow inadequate, and I have to step in and figure it all out. Finally what happens is the State column has to be absorbed by the City column so that we can call the Zip codes "States" and trick Excel into doing his duty by his stupid children. It works. Labels are created, all accurate and proper, and they get sent off to the next phase of their brief, pointless little lives. I do a little happy dance and receive applause and accolades for both my victory over merge and my creative cursing.
Ah, but it's not over yet. There are still those stupid anniversary cards to do! I have mentally blocked most of the struggle it took to get this to work, but if we go back to the beginner's sex analogy, I'm guessing one or both of these "learned" about sex in one of those abstinence-only education programs because they keep slotting things in the wrong holes. I produce a copy of "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret" and a Playboy magazine, and we finally get it figured out. But then there's the printer who, in this rather tortured analogy, must be a nun, because those cards are NOT going in. That door is firmly closed to cardstock, thank you very much. After much cajoling and pleas of "you'll like it after awhile," I give up. This printer is a prude.
I'm told to try the VERY EXPENSIVE printer in the copy room. Lordy, do I not want to. The nun sits behind my desk and is only used by the 3 people in marketing. This other printer is huge, costly, and used by the entire floor. I'm going to call this printer George W. because it won't do anything it's told to do by reasonable people, and no amount of pushing his buttons will get him to change his mind about what God has clearly ordained. This is the Village Idiot of printers.
In the end, it is the humble Admin printer that takes care of it in somewhat robotic fashion, joylessly cranking out the cards in black and white instead of color (which the other two had the capability of, if only they could be convinced). This dutiful housefrau of copiers, indispensable but largely ignored as it goes about its labors, saves the day.
And so it is over. Until next month.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Per-spec-tive. What an odd idea.
In reading online discussion threads in varying places, I've come to realize that people are generally kind of hostile towards bicyclists. I'm not sure why this is, really; bikers are sort of the on-road equivalent of a high school marching band. Annoying, but rarely fatal.
I ride my bike to work every day (a round trip of all of 8 miles), and I follow most of the rules, most of the time. I do occasionally run a red light, but that's usually because some dickhead construction company has blocked off the sidewalk, the bike lane (in the rare instance that there is one), and the right-most lane of traffic, leaving me with a partially blockaded single lane to share with the Hummers, the SUVs, the concrete trucks and the FedEx guy who apparently truly believes I'd be fabulous as a hood ornament. If I wait dutifully with the cars, I have to squeeze over into the nine milimeters the construction workers have kindly left me and hope that there's no pothole that will grab my front wheel and send me under the wheels of the car that's about to graze me with its passenger-side rear view mirror anyway. If I jump the light, I can get a head start on the construction zone, and usually, be out of the way before the cars get there. And sometimes I just want to be a scofflaw bastard and jump the light because I can.
Generally, I side with the bikers. We are a fragile bunch, invisible to the women daubing their eyelashes with mascara or the men trying to read terribly important documents laid out on the steering wheel or the drivers of both sexes who mistakenly believe that THEY can drive while talking on the phone. While drivers are rarely actually aiming for us, it can sometimes seem like they are. And drivers who don't ride really don't understand that a bike coming down a hill can reach speeds of 35+ miles an hour. They cut us off, in a hurry to make a right-hand turn, no malice intended, but plenty of ignorance.
HOWEVER. Most of the hostility that I see on the Internet is directed at the crowd of bikers I refer to as "The Jersey Boys." You know the guys: lean haunches like some sort of African impala; brightly colored jerseys that claim the rider is generously sponsored by elite, athletic companies like Nike, PowerBar and Maytag; sunglasses that wrap not only around their heads but halfway down their bodies with a lap around their nearly non-existant buttocks; arrogant expressions of the kind normally worn by Dick Cheney. I gotta side with the non-bikers on this one. I hate these guys.
Their bikes cost as much as three times more than my car. They are very very fast and very very rude about it. They have great disdain for my pathetic peasant-bike that cost a mere $450 and is now *sniff* ooooooold. They pass me with a whooshing sound that I swear is actually haughty, and they don't give me enough room, which makes me want to stick things in their spokes. They like me on their roads even less than they like cars--I give bikers a bad name with my stopping-at-stop-signs and panting-while-biking-up-steep-hills nonsense. I and other commuters are an embarrassment to the biking community. I mean, dear god, my jersey has no names!
I'm sure there are nice Jersey Boys out there. It's probably the $800 sunglasses that make them seem pompous and annoying. But if any of them are reading this post, dude, please reign in the attitude. Or the next tire that crosses your face may just be mine.
Grumble.
I ride my bike to work every day (a round trip of all of 8 miles), and I follow most of the rules, most of the time. I do occasionally run a red light, but that's usually because some dickhead construction company has blocked off the sidewalk, the bike lane (in the rare instance that there is one), and the right-most lane of traffic, leaving me with a partially blockaded single lane to share with the Hummers, the SUVs, the concrete trucks and the FedEx guy who apparently truly believes I'd be fabulous as a hood ornament. If I wait dutifully with the cars, I have to squeeze over into the nine milimeters the construction workers have kindly left me and hope that there's no pothole that will grab my front wheel and send me under the wheels of the car that's about to graze me with its passenger-side rear view mirror anyway. If I jump the light, I can get a head start on the construction zone, and usually, be out of the way before the cars get there. And sometimes I just want to be a scofflaw bastard and jump the light because I can.
Generally, I side with the bikers. We are a fragile bunch, invisible to the women daubing their eyelashes with mascara or the men trying to read terribly important documents laid out on the steering wheel or the drivers of both sexes who mistakenly believe that THEY can drive while talking on the phone. While drivers are rarely actually aiming for us, it can sometimes seem like they are. And drivers who don't ride really don't understand that a bike coming down a hill can reach speeds of 35+ miles an hour. They cut us off, in a hurry to make a right-hand turn, no malice intended, but plenty of ignorance.
HOWEVER. Most of the hostility that I see on the Internet is directed at the crowd of bikers I refer to as "The Jersey Boys." You know the guys: lean haunches like some sort of African impala; brightly colored jerseys that claim the rider is generously sponsored by elite, athletic companies like Nike, PowerBar and Maytag; sunglasses that wrap not only around their heads but halfway down their bodies with a lap around their nearly non-existant buttocks; arrogant expressions of the kind normally worn by Dick Cheney. I gotta side with the non-bikers on this one. I hate these guys.
Their bikes cost as much as three times more than my car. They are very very fast and very very rude about it. They have great disdain for my pathetic peasant-bike that cost a mere $450 and is now *sniff* ooooooold. They pass me with a whooshing sound that I swear is actually haughty, and they don't give me enough room, which makes me want to stick things in their spokes. They like me on their roads even less than they like cars--I give bikers a bad name with my stopping-at-stop-signs and panting-while-biking-up-steep-hills nonsense. I and other commuters
I'm sure there are nice Jersey Boys out there. It's probably the $800 sunglasses that make them seem pompous and annoying. But if any of them are reading this post, dude, please reign in the attitude. Or the next tire that crosses your face may just be mine.
Grumble.
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