Socks, Part 1

Laugh if you will, but it occurred to me that the topic of socks was too big a subject to tackle in one blog entry. First there's the fact that I have two distinct points of view about socks. One is from the perspective of a consumer, and the other is from the perspective of a knitter. You'd think they would not be all that different, but they are. But more importantly, those two points of view are much different for the reader. I suspect that the knitting perspective would have a rather narrow appeal, as it has much to do with technique and the evolution of sock yarn during my knitting life. So, I'll save that for another day.

Tonight, I'll focus on my personal life with socks. We should all laugh right about now, for the above introduction and the last line are so overly serious. C'mon - I'm writing about socks! Just socks.

Actually, socks have gotten me into trouble twice in my life. And the interesting part is, I had forgotten about this until just now. When I write "trouble", I mean real trouble. So, here are two stories for you:

When I was in Junior High School, we wore gym uniforms. They were ugly polyester button down shirts with attached shorts (which seemed inpossible to keep from riding up, at least for us girls without skinny legs). I believe they were navy blue, but I'm not sure. We were supposed to wear white socks and white sneakers with our uniforms. I was the kind of kid who bristled at anything that smacked of conformity. These days I suppose I'd be diagnosed with "oppositional defiant" disorder or something. Back then, I was just considered a pain in the butt. Oddly, I was very quiet and seemed to be compliant, but that was a total ruse. If there was any opportunity to mess with teachers or other authority figures, I'd do it. But I didn't do this at home. My parents were both emotional wrecks when I was in Junior High School and I wanted them to continue seeing me as a shy and "good girl."

So, back to socks and gym class. I had already gotten myself into some trouble by embroidering a name other than mine on my uniform. I re-named myself Gertrude Singer. It wasn't well thought out, but it was some sort of nod to Gertrude Stein, whom I knew little about (and still know little about). Of course, I was forced to put my real name on my uniform and this irked me. I really wanted to re-name myself, though I don't remember why.

I hated gym class, so having my first attempt at stirring up the works having been a failure forced me to come up with something else. I took all my white socks and tie-dyed them. I wasn't a hippie chick, but I wanted to mess with those plain white socks. I loved the tie dyed ones. One thing about tie-dying, batik and other forms of creative dyeing, which I loved then, and still love today, is the one-of-a-kind nature of each dyed piece of clothing or fabric. It's pretty much impossible to reproduce the same exact results every time.

So, knowing full well that I was supposed to wear plain white socks, I went to gym class with a pair of purple tie-dyed ones. I was told that the next time I showed up for gym, I better not being wearing them. The teacher didn't say "You better not be wearing tie-dyed socks." She just said I shouldn't be wearing the ones I had on. I remember this clearly. Of course, I showed up to the next class wearing a different pair of tie-dyed socks. I continued to wear a different pair of socks until I achieved the result that I wanted: I was suspended from gym class. I was "punished" by having to sit in study hall for one period. This was fine with me, for I'd sit there and read a book, which was infinitely more pleasureable to me than having to swim in an overchlorinated pool while exposing the body I wasn't happy with or being the kid who was always picked last for any team sport ("Do we have to take her?"). I don't remember how this particular gym class episode ended. I did fail gym one year, but my sketchy memory tells me that was another year (and another story).

Now, the other time I got into trouble over socks was much more serious. I may have blogged about it before, and if you've read it, well, here it is again. It'd be interesting to see if both my stories are the same or if I am repeating myself. Memory is an elusive thing.

When I was 16, I worked at McDonalds. We wore (again) navy blue McDonald's uniforms and with matching caps. These too were polyester and seemed to trap the smell of stale oil better than any fabric on earth. And if you were guessing what on earth this has to do with socks, the answer is that the regulations called for white ones, of course. This time, I had no desire to flaunt the rules. I was living on my own and I needed that paycheck.

The trouble was, I didn't own any white socks. So, on my first day of work, I went to a big store to buy some. Unfortunately, I didn't have enough money. So, I shoplifted them. I was in a big hurry and was sloppy. I got caught. I had shoplifted before, and most of the time it was for things that were worth far more than pair of white socks. I'd never gotten caught. It seemed just that I was finally caught for such a petty thing.

The security guard took me into a small office and made me produce what he knew I had. Those socks probably cost two dollars at the most, but it was two bucks I didn't have. I didn't shoplift for the thrill of it. I did it out of neccessity.

The guard pummelled me with questions. The room was small and poorly lit. It was pretty darned close to the horrible interrogation rooms I'd seen in movies, and so, I was more afraid than I needed to be. I imagined that I was going to wind up in a juvenile facility. But no, the security guard was more concerned about the fact that I refused to give him my parents' names or addresses. He became convinced I was a runaway, and the only way around that was to give him my landlord's pone number. I thought that knowing I rented my own apartment would put this guy's mind to rest about my status as a somewhat self-supporting adult. I wasn't an emancipated minor, so the truth was that it didn't matter what my living situation was. But I didn't know that. He hammered away at me with questions upon questions, and my fear level became so great that I broke down in sobs. I harldy ever cried back then, and my terrified sobs were not only scary to me, but to him. He did call my landlord, who I had lied to. I told him I was 18 and he believed me (which is hard to believe, considering I looked all of 12 years old).

The security guard did call my landlord. He was very angry. When I got home, he informed me that he was kicking me out. I was too young to be renting my own apartment and he figured that in some way he was legally responsible for me. It turned out that that was indeed true.

My shoplifting those white socks had no serious consequences. I didn't go to juvenile hall. I didn't lose my horrible job. I did have to tell the manager that I couldn't afford new white socks.

Beyond that, the end of the story of my short career at McDonalds is on this blog somewhere. If you're interseted, do a search. I'm too lazy to bother. Right now I'm typing with one eye open. I am very tired, to say the least.

Really, I have three more socks topics. 1. Sock knitting. 2. My taste in socks. 3. My life history, as told through socks.

I can think of even more, if I give it a moment's thought. My grandfather's socks, with garters, are a memory that interests me.

But for tonight, that's it. The two times that white socks (or lack thereof) got me into trouble.

Stay tuned for more sock adventures.

For a great entry about shoplifting socks, go to "Burnt Toast Dinner's Confessions of a Shameless Shoplifter." She accidentally spelled shameless wrong - "shamless."

Photo note: The Eichold-Mertz Elementary School in Mobile, Alabama's school uniform page says "Plain white socks. NO footies or" What? Or else? The school's slogan is:

"Good, Better, Best

Never let it rest.

Until the Good is Better

And the Better is Best!"

When I was a kid, my father's biggest clients as an art dealer was a man who said this was his slogan. He was obscenely wealthy and had quite a bit of disdain for those who weren't. I suppose he thought they hadn't lived up to this slogan. The combination of seeing a pair of boring white socks and that slogan gives me the willies.

Mid month update

So far, January has been a month of fewer than normal blog entries. When I have posted, it's mostly been a painting and a bit of music. Is 2009 going to be the year that I become terse?

Somehow, I doubt it. I'm just going through a dry spell. I haven't tried any new scents I'd like to write about. There's no issues I've felt passionate enough to sit down and mull over, though there is an abundance of topics to discuss at the moment.*

I've got a very bad head cold today. The odd thing about this is that it's been so long since I had the common cold that I didn't even recognize it at first. Luckily for me, with all my physical problems, my immune system has been fairly rugged. When I was in my twenties, I seemed to have a cold all the time. Ugh! Now that it's been many years since I've felt this way, I can't imagine it being a regular thing. The common cold may be common, but it feels like crap.

It's no big deal, of course. I'm just surprised by it. I am not leaving my house today for any reason, though I had many appointments. I cancelled them all. It was -20 this morning when I woke up. It'd take an emergency to make me go outside in this weather, considering the way I'm feeling. Honestly, even if I was feeling great, I'd be hesitant. I have no idea where any of my hats, mittens or gloves have disappeared to. Sure, it's been cold out, but until it gets this cold, I usually don't wear those accessories. I suppose this proves I've been living in Maine for a long time. Once, twenty degrees would have sent me searching for some gloves, at least. Now, that seems almost balmy.

I'm writing about such minor things. I feel an obligation to post an entry.

I'm bored by it. And if I'm bored by this, well, I'm guessing you are, too.

Suggestions for topics to blog about are most welcome. I think I need a kick in the pants.

*A confession: I've been spending a lot of time entering online contests. That may be eating up quite a bit of time otherwise spent in meaningful pursuits. When this cold abates, maybe I'll write about this new obsession. I've entered 50 contests a day or thereabouts. So far, what have I won? One free $1.00 music download. Wow.

Painting note: Tamara de Lempicka "Middle of Summer" 1928
I need a new hat, but this one will not do. I've been meaning to post a de Lempicka for ages, and so I am doing so today, rather at random. In a way, I looked a bit like this stylized woman when I was quite young. I had a incredible complexion, a face about the same shape, and a little mouth, upon which I frequently applied the reddest of red lipsticks. And, I wore hats at every opportunity.

Inconsistent

For about a year, I've been playing this online game called Eight Letters in Search of a Word. I put it in the sidebar, but I hadn't announced. Consider it announced.

It's a competitive anagrams game. If you do play, here's a hint - type the words in. Don't use your mouse. You'll be way too slow to get a decent score if you do. It took me a while to figure that out. Of course, I hadn't read the directions. They're on the site somewhere.

You may be wondering what the point of this entry is. It's not just to suggest that you play this game.

It's to talk about me, of course.

I'm pretty good at word games. However, I never win Eight Letters in Search of a Word. There's some other players on that site who are unbeatable. At first, I thought these people must be cheating and getting their computers to play, but I got an insanely high score a few times and realized it was possible. Now, that doesn't mean that there aren't folks who are cheating, for I find it hard to believe that some of these people always get such impossibly high scores. But then again, they just may be consistently brilliant at playing. Unlike me.

When I play, I'm consistently inconsistent. Here's the game: there's eight letters that always make an eight letter word. You type in as many words as you can in the allotted time (one minute?) and hope that you find that eight letter word in the process. I'm amazed at how sometimes I'll think I've exhausted all the possibilities, have found the eight letter word, and then discover that another player has a score twice as high as mine. Take the word "generals", for instance. Can you think of two other eight letter words that you can make out of its letters?*

Well, I couldn't think of the two others in one minute. I was too busy typing in four letter words. Sometimes I'll play this game and feel golden, finding the eight letter word right away. It just hits me intuitively. Other times I can't see a thing. I'll stare and stare at the words and they mean nothing.

This seems to be the way I am at most everything. Sometimes I excel and other times I'm terrible. There's usually no middle ground.

I used to play pool almost every night. I tried and tried and never became consistent. This almost got me killed one late night. Seriously.

I was hanging out at an after-hours club in New York City. I'll admit that this was a dangerous place to hang out, even if you do absolutely nothing but sit at the bar. The place was filled with drug dealers. It was on the corner of the street that I lived on, and opened at 4:00am in the morning. There was some sort of secret way to knock on the door to get in, and I have no idea what it was. I have no idea how I knew was it was, come to think of it.

It was the kind of place where you didn't want to look at anyone the wrong way. I sometimes played pool there, but I always played with someone I knew. I was playing a game, quite terribly, one night, when another couple asked if we wanted to play for money. My friend said, "Sure." The game was for fifty bucks. I have no idea why he agreed, but he was a good pool player.

So, we started to play. Every shot I made was a terrible. Everyone was laughing at me. They had already seen I was a terrible at pool, so it wasn't any kind of surprise. But my partner was playing well, and the last shot came down to me. What a shot it was. There were two balls left, sitting near the corner pocket, with the eight ball slightly closer.

I wasn't sure my friend even had fifty bucks on him and I hadn't gotten one shot in the whole game, so I was determined to get these shots. They were hard, and the likelihood of my making them was low, especially the way I had been playing. But I got 'em. This wound up being a big mistake.

The fellow we were playing against picked up my friend by his shirt and starting yelling at him that I was a shark. He wanted to beat the crap out of someone. He was yelling about us all stepping outside. Then he started to say something about killing us. All over a game of pool.

The odd thing is that I have no memory of how this resolved itself. Obviously, I'm still alive. My friend is still alive, too. I do know that I never went back to that club. I never had any business hanging out there in the first place. I wasn't a good pool player, a drug dealer, a prostitute (or any other kind of criminal). I just happened to be up at odd hours.

Anyway, noone threatens to beat me up for playing a great round of Eight Letters in Search of a Word after I play a lousy round. And that's how I play. I'm not a word game shark, just an inconsistent thinker and game player.

Image notes: These images are both of East 14th Street in New York City. I found them embedded in an excerpt from the book, "The "New Woman" Revised
Painting and Gender Politics on Fourteenth Street", by Ellen Wiley Todd, which can be found here. I used to play pool at Julian's Billiard Hall on 14th Street, which was on the second floor. For all I know, it's the same pool hall that's advertised in both the photograph and the drawing.

*enlarges and gleaners

Dumb Survivor lists

Something TMC wrote about the show "Survivor" made me start writing these lists a week or so ago. I needed a new blog entry, feel overly serious tonight, and so, to remedy that, I present the following:

Ten reasons I can't be on Survivor
1. I'm a lousy swimmer.
2. I don't look good in a bathing suit.
3. My teeth aren't white enough.
4. Eating fish makes me want to throw up.
5. I don't know how to employ feminine wiles to bend men to my will.
6. I don't tan.
7. I don't know how to dive.
8. I'm not soppy enough. If given the choice "Would you rather read a letter from home or have a big meal and a spa treatment?", I'd go for the latter and wouldn't give it a second's thought.
9. There's something wrong with the Achilles tendon in my right foot.
10. They seem to like having peoples with tattoos, but some of my tattoos are just too scary for primetime TV.

Ten reasons why I'd be perfect (not this week) for the never-to-be-made Survivor: Northern Alaska (a show that won't happen because people would rather see mostly-naked bodies than folks in down jackets).
1. I know how to dress for the cold.
2. I know how to build and maintain a fire.
3. Don't mean to gross you vegetarians out, but I know how to butcher a deer.
4. I like the dark.
5. Being cooped up inside a small space doesn't bother me (which I presume we would be most of the time).
6. I could entertain the others with silly stories. After all, we wouldn't be doing all that much. They'd have to keep me around for that.
7. I know enough about dangerous cold and ice not to do something stupid (like pick up a kettle with my bare hands when it's -24 degrees).
8. I know there are lots of things one can do with snow.
9. I am good at making up games. Another reason to keep me around to stave off boredom.
10.I built an igloo when I was a kid. I guess that's more of #8, but I couldn't think of ten things.

Photo note: "Created entirely from ice and snow, igloo hotels cater to adventure-loving guests spending one or more nights. Overnight rates generally include thermal mats, sheepskin rugs and sleeping bags. Guests can weather the experience in winter clothing."

In limbo, with stats (Bonus feature: Conversation with a demon!)

I expected to be on a meditation retreat today. I'm not, and I'm sitting here in my bathrobe. I haven't done anything of any real use for days. My largest interest is "When will the phone ring?" I've left messages and spoken to receptionists at doctor's offices. Won't anyone call me back in a timely manner? I suspect that the answer is "no". After all, it took four months to find out that one doctor would not take me on as a new patient. More on suspicions about why that was so will be forthcoming.

Yeah, I feel guilty for doing practically nothing. I've watched a lot of excellent documentaries, but they all run together in my mind, for I've fallen asleep during every single one of them.

Feeling unwell seems to destroy most of my control over neuroses I've thought I had gotten rid of. Guilt, for one. I seem to feel guilty about nearly everything. Not working. Not being able to concentrate on schoolwork. "Is that really true or are you just lazy?" asks my inner critic. Not making the bed. Oh wait, I didn't sleep in my bed. I slept on the sofa. Never mind that one.

Other shades of something like guilt: feeling like an lazy idiot. Didn't I mention that already? Yes, I have, calling myself lazy. And I am, at the moment. Two weeks ago, a stranger asked me if I ever slept, for I was being so productive. The inner critic sneers at me and tries to scare me with lines like "You'll never feel decent again!" and "You've wasted your life!" The inner critic taunts me, "People with life threatening illnesses have more energy than you do. What's wrong with you?!" Yes, some people with life threatening illness do indeed have more energy than I do. What can I say? People are different. The inner demon (I mean critic) says, "So you say people are different, do you?" and I cower a little. I mean, I'm talking to myself, and should be able to hold a decent conversation, but I'm intimidated by my inner bully, who reminds me that, "Yes, people are different, but you, well, you're a loser. Always were and always will be."

I had thought I'd conquered this miserable demon, but whenever I'm sick, he (yes, he) shows up and throws a party.

Comparing myself to others is a futile way to fight these messages. Comparisons are hopeless. They're traps. We use them when we don't have a solid inner gauge of what's right. I thought "Well, that's what you think!" Of course it is! I wrote it, didn't I?

Take the simple scenario of feeling sick and wanting to stay in bed, nap and read. Some people would say that's a good idea, some people would say "get to work" and others would say it depends on too many factors to give an opinion or "what's the big deal?!" I feel guilty so I'm trying to figure out what others might do or think. That's quite unusual for me. I usually don't care what others think. I know how I feel and where I stand, and that's that. End of story.

But when I get sick (and as I write this, beads of sweat are dripping down my face, so I really am ill), I lose all my grounding. I am suddenly an insecure 10 year old kid (with a slightly bigger vocabulary). Why I can write halfway coherently is beyond me, but I can (albeit more verbosely and tangentially than usual). I'm doing it because. . .I might need to.

What is this post about? Oh, look above. What's the deal with the stats? I totally forgot! Here's the "win statistics" for National Novel Writing Month:
2001: 14%
2002: 15.6%
2003: 13.7%
2004: 14.3%
2005: 16.6%
2006: 16.2%
2007: 15.1%
2008: 18.2%
Yep, I'm one of the 18.2% I wonder how many of these "novels" will be edited. Will even one be published by a major publisher?

Okay, the ramble is over. Will I post it? Maybe I will, and take it down later. Ah, life. It's interesting.

Non-top ten five list

Excuse me in advance for any incoherence on my part. I'm in pain, running a fever, have a headache, and am on medication. I shouldn't be writing, but when I saw I hadn't for three days (!) I figured I'd give it a try.

Here's a list of ten five things that I've done or thought while I haven't been blogging (and I'm not up to thinking of ten):

1. I just used up the last of my Serge Lutens' Un Bois Vanille sample. I've noticed that whenever I want to feel comforted, I reach for this scent. Boo hoo! No more comfort left. However, even if I could afford to buy a bottle, I doubt I would. Un Bois Vanille smells like burnt sugar to me, which is a classier way of saying it smells like cotton candy. I have a suspicion that I could find a similar scent from Bath and Body Works. But, I could be wrong.

2. Tomorrow evening the seven day Rohatsu retreat begins at Treetop Zen Center. I think it's unlikely I will be well enough to go. I've been looking forward to this for months. It's something of an exercise in non-attachment not to be depressed about my health keeping me participating. Aw, to heck with that, I am just plain ol' disappointed.

3. I bought a new bra. Now, normally I wouldn't mention this, but someone who designs bras at Maidenform is a total sadist. I wore this nice-fitting, pretty black bra on Thanksgiving and when I got home, the first thing I did was take that thing off. I had little perforation marks on my skin in the shape of a bra. I inspected the culprit, and noticed that there was what I can only describe as little teeth in the elastic (which should have been covered). First, I was angry at myself for not looking at the bra more closely before I purchased it, but then I sat down and wrote the company a letter of complaint. Will I ever hear from them? I doubt it. I did, in fact, write that whoever designed the offending undergarment must be a sadist.

4. I uploaded a photograph of myself onto a site that shows you what you'd look like with a new hairstyle and hair color. I'm not linking to this site, because you have so few choices if you don't pay for it, and it was frustrating. I did learn that my suspicion that the way I've been wearing my hair is not flattering is correct. And I should lighten it up a little. I'd love to go to hair salon and have them give me the full treatment, but why on earth would I waste my money on this activity? It's not like anyone around here cares what I look like!

5. TMC's latest blog post, the Seven Layer Meme, reminded me of something from my past. It's a really long list of self-disclosing prompts. One of them is "number of times your name has appeared in a newspaper." I'd guess that the answer to this is at least ten, but that's not the point. I sure wish I'd saved this, but I've never saved personal memorabilia; there was once a big photograph of me in a Lubbock Texas paper. It showed me on stage, looking like a complete and utter degenerate nutcase. The caption, in big bold letters was this: "Would you take this girl home to meet your mother?" Oh, how'd I love to get my hands on that article. Google searches have come up empty handed. Yes, I have looked.

Images:1. Heating pad, 2. mattress stack, 3. Wool Batts, 4. the gift of the moose
1. I don't know what I'd without my heating pad. 2.My mattress is truly awful and I'd love it if it was forceably taken away from me. 3.I'd love a wool mattress, but they aren't cheap. I hear they are fantastic for people with Fibromyalgia. Maybe next year (or when I win the lottery). 4. We saw a dead moose at the store, just about to be weighed. It didn't have a rack, and looked pretty much like a cow. Shooting one of these trusting, huge animals doesn't seem very sporting to me.

Addendum: I received an e-mail this morning from someone claiming to be the CEO of Maidenform. I find it hard to believe any CEO would write a personal e-mail to one disgruntled customer, but stranger things have happened. I'll keep you posted.

Update: The e-mail from Maidenform was indeed legit. Now, let's see if they send me a comfortable brassiere. Brassiere is a word that you don't hear much nowadays.Come to think of it, I can't think of anyone ever uttering the word brassiere in my presence. I imagine it spoken with a tremendous rolling of the first R. But really, how can one say brassiere with a straight face? It's a word that now lays firmly in the realm of comedy about old ladies.

But seriously, if Maidenform sends me a nice, new and comfortable bra, without any offending tooth-like elastic edgings, I will write about it. It's the least I can do in return.

Ten things I'm thankful for

1. My partner, Dick, who can fix anything. Our oven broken down just in time for Thanksgiving. Being me, I was perusing the web for cheap ovens. He figured out what was wrong with it in five minutes and fixed it in about an hour. I wondered what the difference is between a four thousand dollar oven and one for 250 bucks. Do the high end ones produce genies that clean it out and poop truffles while you're sleeping?
2. Dick (again), who cuts down dead trees, even if it's pitch black out, chops 'em up, and provides our home with heat.
3. The fact that, even though the government says we are poor, we have more than enough to eat.
4. Barack Hussein Obama will be the next president of the United States.
5. The wonderful Quaker meeting that I was a member of in New York.
6. Treetop Zen Center.
7. The Web, for both its wealth of information and the chance of interacting with strangers all over the world. According to Sitemeter, my blog has had visits from 32 different countries in the past week, including Malaysia, Indonesia and Croatia. Nice to meet you!
8. Sheep. My life would be far less rich without yarn. I also think they are beautiful (and terribly cute).
9. Wild birds. I'm sorry we are destroying your habitat.
10. That I was lucky enough to be born with a fairly well functioning brain.

That's it. I know the graphic has nine images, but I couldn't figure out how to display ten. The list could go on for pages. Happy Thanksgiving.

Heifer International ("Ending Hunger. Preserving the earth") is one of the few charitable organizations that doesn't include proselytizing a religion.Sponsor a sheep or a share in a flock of sheep and llamas for wool production here.

BigHugeLabsMosiac:
1. Dixsons Stove polish, 2. Stacked firewood, 3. Progress, 4. Interior Light, 5. Untitled, 6. World Wide Web?, 7. Mountain view with sheep, 8. Cardinal at Feeder, 9. My Brain on MRI

I am not a commodity

Every once in a while, I get a fawning e-mail from someone who wants something from me because of something I did a long time ago. These folks are usually tripping all over themselves saying they don't want to "bother me." But I never have what they want (memorabilia), and so, I send them a polite response saying so, and tell them that they did not bother me. Not once have I ever received a response afterwards.

I realized the other day that this bothers me. Once these people find out that I have nothing tangible, of monetary worth, to give them, that's it. All that fawning is a crock, not that I like fawning in the first place. I find it creepy.

On one of those silly quizzes I took the other night, there was this question: "Do you ever worry that if you became rich, you wouldn't be able to tell whether people really loved you?" I'm not sure if that's verbatim, but it's close enough. No, I've never worried about that.

You can replace the word "rich" with the word "famous" and ask the same question. The answer is still no. However, I do know that if one is famous, just from my tiny brush with notoriety, that people do in fact want to be with you, not for who you are, but for what you are. Does that worry me? Not in the least. But I think it's rather sad, mostly for them.

Of course, it doesn't worry me now, for fame and fortune don't look to be in the cards.

Now, for some Marilyn Manson:


Photo note: For the record, Marilyn Manson was the only person in Bowling for Columbine who had anything remotely intelligent to say. Okay, that's hyperbole, but it's pretty close to the truth.

Wasting time (and time is money!)

Yes, staying up into the wee hours of the night didn't do me much good. I kept waking up and saying to myself, "Oh no, I've only been asleep two hours", "Oh, why'd I have to pee? I've only been asleep three hours" and so on. And today, I'm still obsessed with taking tests. I really don't feel like doing anything.

I thought I'd read my "novel" (okay, I did say I wouldn't put quotes around that word, but I can't help myself). I can't do it. I had hoped I'd edit it to the point where major revisions wouldn't be needed by the end of the month. But, that isn't going to happen. What needs to be changed is too complicated to rush, and I don't think that it's required in order to "win" NaNoWriMo. If I'm wrong, please, someone correct me!

So, more tests:

Evidentally, only 2% of the people taking this test are not afraid of confinement. I'm one of them.

96% of the people who took this test consider themselves cunning. I'm not one of them.

Evidentally, my self-assessment does indicate I am a tyrant. The "What Leader are You?" test told me that "People who like you better like chemical weapons" because I am most like Saddam Hussein. Huh? Did it ask me if I liked killing people? No.

To make me feel better, I took the Verbal Intelligence Test, which basically is a vocabulary test. I scored better than 89% of the people who have previously taken this test on Similarminds. Do I feel better? Not particularly. I didn't know quite a few of those words!

The Word Association Test says I have "issues" (whatever that means) with the following words: Forget. Religion. Future. Forever. Mirror. It has something to do with reaction time. Maybe I have a problem with words starting with F.

And lastly, the Career Test:

You are an Executive, possible professions include - program designer, attorney, administrator, office manager, chemical engineer, sales manager, logistics consultant, franchise owner, new business developer, personnel manager, investment banker, labor relations, management trainer, credit investigator, mortgage broker, corporate team trainer, environmental engineer, biomedical engineer, business consultant, educational consultant, personal financial planner, network integration specialist, media planner/buyer.

Who are they kidding? Me, an investment banker?

Maybe I was getting lazy in my answers, considering I've been taking tests for two hours, or perhaps it was just a bad test. C'mon - what kind of question is "Are you are brainiac?"

Painting note: Quentin Massys
The Moneylender and his Wife 1514
Why? It was time for an old painting, I like Massys (except for that hideous "A Grotesque Old Woman" (which you can see on the above link), and it's about a profession.

Writing overload

1. Intrusive government?, 2. My Personal Goals for 2008, 3. self-portrait in chenille, 4. The Light Hurts My Eyes, 5. First Snow..., 6. nicotine gum, 7. Breakfast at Chez Moi - Oatmeal (SH 3), 8. waste of time_photo of the day, 9. Let's Go Back To Bed, 10. Finished!, 11. Day 296: My eyes hurt, 12. because it's week 4 of the artist's way

No reading? Not this week.

Ten reasons why I'm probably a nerd

1. I watch the Big Bang Theory. I thought "Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock" was funny, even if I didn't get Sheldon's reasoning, but I'm not a theorectical physicist. Note: After I just watched the clip (with it's overly loud laugh track), I actually get it.

2. I went to one of the first Star Trek Conventions. I always thought I went to the first one, but after a quick google search, I apologize for my ignorance. That convention was at the Hilton Hotel in New York City, where a bunch of my friends and I rented a room. I don't remember us being die-hard Trekkies, but it was more of a science fiction convention, and besides, it was an opportunity to rent a hotel room in the city.

Sadly, this is my biggest memory of the convention: I was walking in the lobby of the hotel, smoking a cigarette (yes, you could smoke inside then). A man passed me, and as he did, he said, "Don't you know smoking is bad for your health?" I said, "Oh, f*ck off, old man." Then I realized he was Isaac Asimov. Isaac Asimov! He was one of my heroes! I may have been a nerd, but I was also a rebellious jerk teenager. I also had no idea how to employ snappy comeback lines. If I was going to be a jerk, I wish I had been more clever.

3. I wish there were more science fiction movies. Also, I wish there were more well-written science fiction books.

4. I read the New Yorker mainly for their science articles and wish there was a magazine devoted to science writing for the jargon-impaired.

5. I was fascinated with cryptology when I was a kid and actually fantacized about working for the CIA (or whoever hired cryptologists), but my family's politics made me think that I'd never pass the background check and that the CIA was probably evil. Early interest in codes is a dead giveaway for nerdism.

6. I love Scrabble. One of my favorite books is "Word Freak: Heartbreak, Triumph, Genius, and Obsession in the World of Competitive Scrabble Players."

7. I like British (aka cryptic) crossword puzzles. What I like even more is to make my own, and one of the "100 things I'd like to do before I die" is get a crossword puzzles published in the New York Times. Somehow, I think this is not going to happen, but one can always dream.

8. Buying the Oxford English Dictionary was one of the most happy moments in my life. I love reading it. Unfortunately, it's too heavy and using that magnifying glass drives me crazy. I wish I had it on DVD, but it's three hundred bucks, and besides, I hear people have complained it doesn't run well on their computers.

9. I am one of those annoying people who tell complete strangers, in the course of conversation, what the origins of an interesting word is or how some idiomatic expression came to be. I also inquire of others, "Did you know that __________?" about obscure factoids, when they probably neither know nor care.

10. I would be lost without the interlibrary loan service.

Bonus: I have a crush on Dr. Reid on Criminal Minds, but I suspect that even non-nerds do. He was a model once (which disappoints me greatly).

Photo note: And, I have a soft spot for "GI Joel" Sherman, a professional Scrabble player and prototypical New York-style nerd. While googling his name, I discovered there is a documentary about called "Scrabylon". Why didn't I know this? I'm going to see if it's on Netflix right now.

I'm bad at doing ______ (fill in the blank)

Earlier this evening, our power was out. I sat at the kitchen table and ate my ramen noodles with tofu and egg by candlelight. When I was done, I thought, what shall I do? I only had these little tea lights and they aren't good for reading, no matter how many one uses. So, I used my chopsticks as drumsticks and sang a bunch of songs. I'm not very good at either of these things, but I was having fun.

I used to be self-conscious about my lousy singing. Nowadays, I seem to care little about the things I'm not all that good at. If I enjoy them, I do them. Maybe that's why the nanowrimo is coming fairly easily to me. I'm not judging it. If I wasn't having fun, I'd quit, and I'd say "oh well."

When I told a writing professor I know that I'd been writing 2-4000 words a day, he was impressed. I said, "I didn't say they were good words." And they probably aren't.

But here's the thing: even though I use words like "good" and "bad", it is not a judgment. At least it's not a judgment in the sense of feeling bad about it (there's that word again). I've gotten to this point lately where I feel pretty comfortable with mediocrity or even downright lousiness. When we're kids and we're learning to do new things, we not "good at" the things we do. It's acceptable (to some people). We're kids and we are learning. You don't go from not knowing how to read on day one and being able to read Tolstoy on day two. That is reserved for some very unusual geniuses.

Unfortunately, when I was a child, I was given the message that if one wasn't very good at something, you shouldn't do it. I've written about this before.

I was fortunate to have gone to an Elementary School where, when we were in the fourth grade, we were all asked if we wanted to learn an instrument. It was optional, but in my memory everyone did, though it seemed quite a number of kids picked the triangle. The school gave us an instrument, for free, and also provided free group lessons. Some kids did have lessons at home, which would have to be paid for, but the lessons at school were quite good.

I wanted to learn to play the bass, but I was steered away from that because I was so short, and so I picked the cello. I loved to play. Noone ever had to tell me "Julie, it's time to practice." If it was up to me, I would have played until bedtime and beyond, but my parents didn't want me to play at night.

I loved Bach and struggled hard to try to learn some of his Cello Suites. But I just loved to practice. If it was scales, fine. It didn't matter. The sound of a bowed instrument, a deep one, thrilled me. I was transported. I would completely merge with that cello and its sound. Years after I stopped playing, my childhood friend told me that one time my mother let her in our house and she saw me in my room, playing the cello, and that it scared her. She said I didn't look like a child while I was playing. I was lost in what I was doing and my face was so serious that she left my house without saying a word.

If you were reading carefully, you'd have noticed I said that I stopped playing. There were a few reasons and they aren't happy ones. For one thing, my parents didn't seem to like that I played. I never once heard a thing about my playing from them (except to quit playing at night). Neither of them ever said, "You've improved" or "that sounded good" or anything.

In the orchestra, one was seated according to how good you were. There was 1st, 2nd and 3d cello and all the rest. Well, only three kids played the cello, so I was 3rd. I didn't care. Celloist #1 was a child prodigy who spent half her day out of school studying with someone we heard was famous. She didn't look very happy. And besides, her sister was Violinist #1 and was already playing concerts, so everyone rather thought she was in a tough spot. The second celloist was a gifted young boy, and besides, he was a friend of mine, who seemed to enjoying playing with me at home, even if I wasn't as good as he was. So, I was quite content.

Now, I have to admit I have no memory of my parents saying any particular words, but I knew they thought I was wasting my time. If I couldn't be the best, I shouldn't be doing it. Besides, I had a talent for drawing and I ought to have been doing that. This was the one thing that they were proud of, but they could understand it, because they were both visual artists. Maybe I'd grow up to be more successful then they had been. That's the message I got.

But drawing never gave me the pleasure that playing music did. I loved to draw, but it didn't transport me beyond myself. Sometimes I felt like a peforming monkey because I was talented, and I hated it. When I played music, there were no thoughts of good or bad or talented or not. I was just playing music.

Unfortunately, when grade school was done, the free instruments and lessons ended. That's when the anvil dropped. I was told that I had to choose between renting an instrument and taking lessons. Now, that's not a choice. You can't take lessons if you don't have an instrument, and you can't teach yourself the cello without an instructor (not unless you're a genius, which I plainly was not). So, that was that.

I was given a cheap guitar at the end of the year to make up for things, but classical guitar just didn't cut it for me. It sounded plunky and even when I listened to a master play, it still sounded plunky. So, I wound up being a punk rock guitarist who thought she sucked. Well, that's making a long story short there (which is unusual for me, I know), but you get the idea.

So, these days I'm reveling in doing things badly and enjoying them. There are others who say I shouldn't say I do these things "badly" because I'm putting myself down. I don't agree. I'm being honest. I'm not a novelist and I'm not some genius in the rough. I thought I'd give writing a novel a try and it's good fun. Will I ever get published and get on the best seller list?

I doubt it highly.

I know people have trouble reading my long blog posts. But I'm having a good time and that's what counts. I'm learning a lot, expressing myself freely and even, at times, reveling in doing something I'm not all that good at. So, please, let me say I'm bad at stuff. It feels really good. It feels freeing. There are no expectations when you aren't good.

But I wouldn't mind a little pat on the back once in a while. I wished I had gotten it from my parents when I played the cello. I wouldn't have minded one bit if I grew up to be the very last celloist in some small city somewhere. But no, if I couldn't make it to Carnegie Hall, it was no go. Well, that's a sure fire way to create an underachiever, if you ask me.

Image note: Apocalyptica. Four cellists cover Metallica songs. Once, I was listening to this in my tat shop, when a guy I knew came in. He said, "Turn that classical crap off!" Then he stopped dead, "Is that Enter Sandman?!", he said. The first time I heard it, I couldn't stop laughing. That sounds like a bad review, but it was the cognitive dissonance that got me. Check it out for yourself:



I found the album cover on a sweet little web site made by a young kid (I think). Take a look.

Addendum: Just in case you think I'm a whiner who's still all upset about what my parents did to me (oh, the pain!) I'm not. One remedy for childhood hurts like this is to do them over and be your own parent. Some years ago, I rented a cello and took a lesson. It was fantastic. At the end of the first lesson, I played the first four measures of one of the Bach Suites. And here comes that word: I played it badly. Of course I did! I didn't care a whit. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, my hands were pretty shot from tattooing and I had to leave it at that one lesson. But that was enough. I had parented myself, gave myself permission to try it once again before I dropped dead, and any resentments I still harbored were gone. Well, maybe there's a wee bit. . .

I do feel the need to say this: If you are a parent, if your child is lousy at something and loves it, be happy for them and encourage them with everything you've got.

I don't know much about sticky notes

Every day at least one person winds up on this blog because they've googled the words "sticky notes on my dashboard." I thought it was because of one post. The name of the post? Sticky notes on my dashboard.

If you have a Mac, I suggest you go here to find out about the latest sticky notes on your dashboard. In spite of my post about the subject, I don't know much. I don't even use a Mac these days. Now that I've visited that link, I'm even more miserable sitting here typing on this aesthetically miserable PC.*

I wrote that post back on March 23rd of this year. It was my fourth post. In a way, those sticky notes on my dashboard were the impetus for this blog. I had so many of them that it was becoming a problem. Many were thoughts about a new scent and I had green notes for colognes and all things light and airy, gray for incense, pink for floral and so on. The yellow notes were for ideas about whatever was on my mind at the time, mostly snippets about translating poetry and the vagaries of language.

I had had other blogs, a website for my tat business, and a myspace page where I mostly wrote about music and tattoos, but I never kept up with any of these for long. In spite of all conventional wisdom, I decided that I just had to be who I am and put it out there. I'm a generalist, a dilletante, a jack-of-all trades and master of a few, and someone who flits from one interest to another.

And lastly, I had this crazy idea that being interested in everything was some kind of remedy for depression. I think it is, though my life hasn't proved that to be entirely true. Yet, without this crazy desire to find out more, to continually explore and learn, I am not entirely sure I would have survived. No matter how depressed I've been, if there was a good book to finish, I'd have to read it, even if the demons of depression were screaming at me that life was not worth living. If I had some knitting to do, how could I leave it?

There might be new perfumes in my mailbox on Monday or a moment of pure bliss on the cushion while meditating. There have been days, weeks and even months when the weight of abject misery was crushing and rendered me useless, but still, I was always easily distracted, in a good way.

Driving in my car to see a therapist, lost in delusions and desperate for some relief, I saw a flock of snow buntings, hundreds of them, swirling over a barren field, raising and falling as one undulating mass. Who could be miserable in the face of such beauty? One eye was always open to these things, thankfully.

So, sticky notes, well. . .if you've landed here and wanted to find out about them, I presume you've gone already. And too bad, for both of us, for the other thing that is interesting is stumbling onto new things and starting a conversation with a stranger. Speaking of which, can't you silent people lurkers leave a few comments? Do you need a bribe of some sort? I may be late with the gifts I already owe, but I still have one slot left for a free gift! Speak up!

*I will certainly offend someone by saying that I abhor that little dog who shows up to find my files. Not only is he not cute, but he does a very poor job of finding files. Just this evening I showed this to Dick and he said, "Isn't there some way to turn him off?"

Photo note: Check out the things people have done with post-it notes here.

My day in other people's pictures

1. valantine's day rejection, 2. rock soup, 3. Watering the Wall of Indifference, 4. Halloween Party, 5. Day 94: This is making it stop, 6. (187) Eye vs. Tabasco Sauce, 7. The Quicky!, 8. MT Tools, 9. R&R 008 | Choke, 10. A Leap of Faith, 11. Szechuan Beef Proper 2, 12. wishing for summer, 13. THE BIG BANG THEORY, 14. Day 106 - I am a librarian, 15. DISCRIMINATION, 16. silent white... ♫ egrets from bali ♫♫

Today's mosaic game: Sixteen words entered into Big Huge Labs Mosaic Maker. Pick one image from the first page that comes up. No cheating. Post mosaic with credits. Don't take the photographer's words literally.

A question for today: If one encounters a personal injustice that is also an injustice to others, is one obligated to disclose it? I think the answer may be yes.

Wasting large amounts of time on nonsense

1. Fröken Julie, 2. Waiting on the platform in Great Neck - New York side, 3. Some Trains Go Nowhere, 4. Sheep in the mist, 5. Basilica di San Marco, Venice, 6. General Tso's Tofu, Eggroll Machine/Cafe Mimosa, 7. Socks of Kindness: a recipe, 8. 座禅会会員様　'Zen meditation club members', 9. what is not a priority, 10. CRIMINAL MINDS, 11. Bookshelf: My literary Refuse, 2004 (with notes), 12. screenshot4, 13. Maine0090, 14. Untitled, 15. Picture 329, 16. Rosy Button ~ Page in my Happy Quilt Journal ~ for no particular reason other than I can

Once again, I'm copying something TMC's done over at Return to Rural. I don't know how she does it, but she routinely finds fun things to do on the web. I dearly needed a respite from writing about nutcases and disease. Unfortunately, I also needed to be asleep by now, but making this mosaic took a bit of time, and now I feel compelled to post it.

The task was this: answer twelve questions and type your responses into Flickr. Then, pick a photo that you like from your first page of results. Click here for full instructions.

I wanted a symmetrical box, so I expanded the questions. My twist on this is that I'm not going to tell you what the questions were that evoked these visual responses. One interesting note, however - some people on Flickr have opted out of being able to use their work in this manner. In field #11, above, I couldn't find a photograph that I liked that was usable. This occurred (thus, leaving a blank square)) not just once, but three times, and since I believe it's three strikes and you're out, I changed the question.

See if you can guess my questions. Some are obvious. Others are not. And maybe this wasn't just a time wasting bit of nonsense. Some of those pictures suggest potential future blog entries (like I don't have enough).

A planned lull, perhaps

I woke up with a terrible headache. My eyes are red and sore. Too much writing and too much reading, all on the computer, can take its toll.

I planned on going to the Zendo today, but I can't imagine the Saturday rituals of chanting and bowing. I want to go back to sleep. When my koan floats into my mind, all I can think of is how it relates to the novel.

Dick sent an old blog entry of mine, "Islands", to someone last night. The writing is quite different than what's been my usual fare for quite a while now. The pace is leisurely. It doesn't read like a diary entry. It contains no silly remarks.

I've nothing against silliness. It's good for my spirits. But I do have to wonder what happened to that thoughtful writer. Caught up in the frenzy of writing 1667 words a day, then 2000 or more, as much as I can, unfettered and giddy with excitement, have I lost my voice? And in spite of spending all this time on the pseudo-novel, I've written more than one blog entry a day. Meanwhile, I'm typing up operative reports, physical exams and autopsies of fictional patients at a fictional health center in Florida for my medical transcription course.

I am unhinged from reality. On the one hand, it's wonderful. I now know I have many voices and stories inside me, and I'm already thinking ahead to the next novel. Maybe the tone will be more like the one in "Islands". So, even as I write this, thinking I've lost something, I realize I'm wrong. Yet. . .

I'm not sure if I should go back to bed or drive the 28 miles to my meditation group. And I'm thinking that in spite of wanting to hit the 25K word goal I've set for myself this weekend, I may be better off sitting and sewing. My house is a mess and I ought to do some cleaning. Everything non-essential in my life has been on hold all week.

I'm afraid to lose my momentum. So, I'm waffling. And I'm waffling, too, on what to do with my day. I hate it when I question my plans. I'm rather rigid that way. And when I'm feeling as I do right now, I think it's usually best to go with my first instinct. So, sleep just may be in order, even if I've not gone to the Zendo for a week.

Even though it's morning, I'd like to end with the Evening Gatha, chanted by one lone and plaintive voice at the end of each day at Zen Mountain Monastery in New York:

"Let me respectfully remind you, life and death are of supreme importance. Time swiftly passes by, and opportunity is lost. Each of us should strive to awaken… awaken. Take heed, do not squander your life."

Does this mean I shouldn't go back to bed?

Photo note: Zen Buddhist monk practicing zazen. Somehow I doubt he's thinking about plot twists and surprise endings, but one can't see into the mind of others.

I don't know who this monk is. The photograph has no attribution.

Addendum: I went out. We chanted the Faith Mind Sutra today, which is a long one. It's my favorite sutra and if you click the link, you'll see how absurd my saying that is.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery

Once again, I'm copying something TMC posted over at Return to Rural, but she got it from Ice Cream is Nice Cream.

As I've had a most productive day thus far and need something silly to help me procrastinate doing the next thing on my day's list o' things to do, I figured I'd do the "I prefer meme". What do you prefer? Mind are in bold, just like TMC's.

birkenstocks or designer shoes
I'll take the or in this one. I don't like birkenstocks. Do I like designer shoes? Not particularly. Do I like really interesting shoes? Most definately. But these days, I mostly wear Keens, which may merit the term "21st century birkenstocks"
outside or inside
This year inside seems to be winning. But there'd be no inside without the outside, so how can a person pick just one?
hoping or planning
I do both, but hoping often leads to planning, so I'll choose that one, please.
carrots or peas
I love peas. I also love carrots, but I seem to eat a lot of peas. Peas with butter. Peas in curry. They are so nice and green (except when they come out of a can, but that's a whole nother kettle of non-fish)
cheese or chocolate
Cheese, cheese and more cheese. Bring it on! I'll take cheese over chocolate any day of the week. Doesn't it seem like I'm using more cliches than usual? Anyhoo, sometimes I feel like I'm not a "real woman" 'cause I'm not all nutso about chocolate.
wristwatch or intuition
I may not wear a wristwatch, but I do like knowing what time it is.
milk or juice
I don't drink milk, so that's out. Juice, I've recently found some (raspberry lemon) that I like to put into sparkling water. Sparkling water (or seltzer, as they call it in New York) is my drink.
creating or viewing
Without the inspiration of viewing, I may not create, but still, I prefer to create.
walking or running
If they could invent a really effective sports bra, maybe I'd run. I miss running around like a kid.
bouncing or rigid
See the last entry.
cozy or breezy
This woman likes cozy. I can't sit on the sofa without my blanket. Life without being cozy - aw, I just would be miserable. Woodstoves, wool and three feet of snow. I love it.
fancy or hearty
Considering how much I like pot roast and turkey dinner (yes, I'm a disgusting carnivore), I must choose hearty. And then there's biscuits and gravy and dumplings and. . .I'm hungry!
chuckle or guffaw
I can't say I've ever done either.
whisper or announce
Everyone says I speak too softly to even hear. Says one person, "I don't hear half of what Julie says. I just nod my head and smile." Nice, huh? Sorry, everyone. I hear things too loudly!
lick or bite
No comment.
snuggle or grope
I refuse to choose.
sing or listen
I love to sing, even if I can't sing very well. There should be more singing on a daily basis.
kiss or hug
Again, I refuse to choose.
wonder or discover
And once again, I think there's no discovering without wondering, but discovery is even more fun.
anticipate or achieve
To heck with both of these.

Well, the world is full of false dichotomies. Commentaries and sutras about "picking and choosing" abound in Zen Buddhist literature. I'm too tired to think or write about that.

Photo note: Okay, maybe I should have written "I prefer designer shoes." John Fluevog, for instance. I don't own any of his shoes. I can't afford them. And where the heck would I wear them? In my muddy yard? When I'm walking through snow? Over to the General Store? I'd still like a pair. Okay, I love interesting shoes much more than my Keens. I might not wear the shoes above, for those colors are almost sickening, and I absolutely wouldn't wear the ones below, because I don't wear opened toed shoes (or sandals), but they are so, ahem, interesting, and because of that, I had to post two (a first!)

What are you doing?

That's the Twitter question.

Today:
1.Take shower (done)
2.Get dressed (done)
3.Drink coffee (half-done)
4.Eat 12-grain hot cereal (waiting for it to be done)
5.Get gas
6.Go to my meditation group
7.Go grocery shopping
8.Start novel
9.Eat dinner
10.To be determined later

Note: Starting a novel is number eight on my to-do list.

Come join me on Twitter, if you like, where I'll be leaving short messages about my Nanowrimo progress. I have no idea how to ask you to join me, as I haven't figured out the Twitter thing, but my screen name is julesinrose. And if you're a nanowrimo yourself, come buddy me.

Image note: Doesn't it look crooked? It's an optical illusion. Dick says, "It is crooked. What are you talking about?" He's sitting right next to me, so I haven't said anything. Yes, the do-to list is crooked, but the box is not.
And I think this is interesting. Really.

The proverbial kitchen sink

I've been surfing the web since 8:30. There's so many things I need to do! On top of that, I'm doing a 24 hour meditation retreat starting this evening.

It occurred to me that I'm trying to stuff my head with as much extraneous information as I possibly can in the shortest amount of time. Maybe this is practice for trying to write a novel in a month. Quantity not quality!

For an ex-perfectionist, this is truly incredible. I'm planning on writing a bad novel. I just wrote a bad term paper (and have yet to find out if anyone noticed).

I worry (sort of) that embracing the idea of quantity over quality may be bad for me. But then again, I think that any activity that pulls me further away from perfectionism is a step towards greater freedom. The risk is to stop seeing the difference between degrees of quality, but I suspect that's not a problem (though I may be proven wrong).

But, on the other hand, conversely, (ad infinitum) I am told repeatedly by my Zen teachers that I need to come to the point. So, why am I about to engage in an activity that encourages me to continue to throw out my internal editor?

Because it's fun? Yep. I think that's the answer. Maybe I don't want to be a Zen Buddhist of few words. Hmmm.

Photo note: When I think about the upcoming 30-day novel writing spree, I think it's the "throw the kitchen sink at it kind of writing" (I just made that up - ain't I smart?) Well, here's a kitchen sink. You can buy it here. Where can you imagine putting this particular sink?

Addendum: Since so many folks have been having little contests lately, here's a question: How many times have I changed the name of this post? I don't know what the winner gets.

National Novel Writing Month

Well, should I or shouldn't I?

I am so tempted to join the NaNoWriMo, which is a challenge to write a novel in the month of November.

Once I saw that there was a book connected to this "event" called "No Plot? No Problem!" I thought, "Well, why not?"

Why not, indeed. As I write this, I'm procrastinating, yet again, on my I'd-rather-kill-myself-than-do-it schoolwork. If I was part of NaNoWriMo, I could be working on that and not beating myself up as much. I'd still be beating myself up somewhat, to be sure.

This one class is a killer for me. I think back to my days in school, years upon years ago (but not eons), and remember there seemed to always be one class that was a problem, one class that would hang me up. I forgot about that.

I must slog through it. Maybe I should put on my muck boots. I've got all my notes in front of me and a paper to write. What is it about, you may ask. . .FILING. I kid you not.

Please, introduce me to someone who finds the subject of filing interesting. I would like to meet that person. Then again, maybe not.

Now, should I try to write a bad novel in the month of November? The website says, "Quantity, not quality"! That I know how to do!

Image note: At least these filing cabinets (from the UK) are not that beige color that all desktop computers used to be. What a hideous color! I always think that particular beige looks like an off white that's been subjected to years of cigarette smokers toiling away in dingy rooms.

Update: It's now only a bit over an hour later and I've written my paper. That didn't take too long! Now I'm going to type it (yes, I write papers in long hand!). I'm concerned that I've written in "Palinese". Doesn't that sound like a real language? What it means is this: I wrote five pages of nonsense that masquerades as a term paper. Here's the scary part: I've done this one time before and noone noticed. If I was the instructor, I'd fail me.

When I'm finished typing, if it is truly, truly awful, I'll re-write it. You'll know. I'll even tell you all my grade.

Second update: It's 2:33 and I'm done. The paper is not half bad, which makes me very nervous, because whenever I think something I've done is lousy, I get a good grade (or in the sphere of art, others like it). What does that say about me (or others)? So, maybe I'll get a really bad grade on this one.

At least the end of this class in finally in sight. The dark clouds are opening and I see the light! Hallelujah! Doesn't that word look odd in print?

Speaking of Hallelujahs, Palin is going to be here in Maine this week. I will not be going to see her. It'd scare the beejeesus out of me.