Spam o'the day

Because I care, I offer an assortment of the best spam subject lines of the day:

Change from dagger to BROADSWORD!
Capitalizing things make them seem more manly.


Why do you fall so weak and slow?
Because falling strong and fast hurts too much?

Yank off her skirt!
Get a high heel in your nether regions! This is why you should never take advice from your spam box.

15 Ways to act Longer in bed!
10 ways to act in bed longer
Note that they only promise you will act longer. Or that you will act in bed. Buyer beware. What if you're a bad actor? Perhaps they are offering acting lessons?

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How to get ahead

I've decided I need to work on being more clueless and ignorant so someone will let me be in charge of something.

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We'd better come up with some edgy punctuation

Me: Why would they hyphenate "spice up?"
Friend: Because they wanted to put quotes around it but it didn't feel right.

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Monday morning mantra

rocking back and forth
"Homocide's against the law. Homocide's against the law."

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Hirsute creature spotted in bulkhead row

This image was captured by a passenger on an American Airlines flight flying from the East Coast. Scientists are unable to identify the creature, but eyewitnesses describe it as unusually pale in complexion with what appears to be makeup applied with a trowel. Its hair was estimated at roughly four times the width of its head, and extended in equal directions up and back from the cranium. Eyewitnesses guess that perhaps the creature hailed somewhere from the West Coast, perhaps the Los Angeles area. One passenger claimed to have seen three small children emerge from its hair and proceed to the rear of the airplane. The same passenger also surmised that the creature likely had an assortment of luncheon items hidden in the coiffure. Neither claim can be evaluated for veracity.

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Somebody find me a Payless

So, I'm in an unnamed East Coast city, staying in a part of the city that one brochure referred to as "The Rodeo Drive of the East." Needless to say, it's a bit hard for this chainsaw-hefting, pickup-driving Alaska diva to blend in. And I have to say, the whole shopping this is more than a little disturbing.

Pretentious doesn't even begin to touch the two nearby malls. Most of the stores are what I would call understocked. That means they are very brightly lit, staffed by snooty-looking women and adorned with wall-sized images of emaciated women sucking in their cheeks so they look even more skeletal than they are. And that's about it. If you look really, really close, you'll spot the merchandise hidden among the mirrored shelves and techno mannequins. By merchandise, I mean 12 purses, four pairs of shoes and 10 shirts. Oh, and did I mention that the price tag on those four pairs of shoes would feed a family in Guatemala for three years, at least?

I want to shop. I am a diva, after all. But, damn, this place is like some sort of museum of modern pretention. I need to get on a subway, stat.

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He was a little too ostentatious to be a spy

This just in from one of my workshops today:

The Central Intelligence Agency, fondly known as the CIA, apparently has a person who serves a very vital role to the safety and security of our American way of life. Folks, I feel so much better knowing that the CIA's entertainment liaison is on the job.

Yep. You read that correctly. The spooks are advising the kooks. Woo Hoo!

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Ummm, is this wise?

I'm sitting in the Seattle airport putting the finishing touches on my homework and getting ready to send it to my professor. The thing is, half the assignment involves an article on suicide bombers. And it does give me a bit of pause that I am Googling "suicide bombers" in an airport. Wonder if the TSA is going to come get me. Hope not.

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Waiting for the other shoe...

In both my personal and professional life, as of late, I have come across situations where I begin to glimpse at least a temporary light at the end of the tunnel. When I first realize it is there, I am, of course, happy and excited at the prospect of something positive in the near future. Shortly thereafter, the nerves set in, and I find myself more-than-slightly stressed at yet another prospect: that somehow, something will come along and muck up the entire thing, that all of the sudden, that light will disappear.

I have heard others voice similar concerns. But some folks just seem to be able to look optimistically into the future and not become distracted by the "what-ifs." And at times, I really wish I were more like them. Instead, I am afflicted with a terrible case of cynicism and an outlook that is akin to "I'll believe it when I see it."

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I'm a schoolgirl again

Braid my hair and find me some knee socks and a plaid skirt, 'cause I'm officially a student. I have a textbook. I have a notebook. I have homework. I proclaimed all of these things to my kids when I got home yesterday, and they just rolled their eyes. Killjoys!

I'll have to be careful that I don't get carried away with this whole thing, though. I'm learning how to properly do social science research. Aside from the frameworks of the thing, scientific method and such, it appears the basic premise involves spending a great deal of time peering at people and things. And that, folks, is always big fun, especially for a people-watcher like me. As a journalist, I got paid to be nosy and then write about it. Near as I can tell, this whole research gig is about the same thing:

Man on bus: Lady, why the heck are you staring at me and scribbling in that notebook?
Me: (all official sounding) Do not worry, sir. It's for science.

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Germophobe's nightmare

So, if bacteria, by their nature, multiply very quickly, and antibacterial cleaners kill 99.99 percent of bacteria, I have to wonder: What's the point? That .01 percent of bacteria will just multiply again and we'll all be back to our creepy-crawly baseline in no time. C'mon folks, find me a disinfectant, aside from napalm and a match, that'll kill 100 percent and then maybe I'll be impressed. Touting 99.99 percent is just pointless.

I'm just sayin'.

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WOW! THIS IS EXCITING!

I know the message in my e-mail inbox is exciting because the person tells me, in the very first sentence that it is exciting. I also know it is exciting because the entire rest of the message is in
LARGE, BOLD, ALL CAPS.
That or this person is really, really irritated with me. Hmm ...

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Close eyes, plug nose, jump

I am either highly motivated or completely out of my mind. Seems I have talked myself into signing up for the first class in a master's program. Let's see:

High-stress job that pays the bills and little else?
Check

Three kids at home?
Check

Deadbeat ex who hasn't worked in years and who thinks child support is something you do to keep them from falling over?
Check

Voluteer board work that can sometimes be a giant sucking sound?
Check

Neglected friendships?
Check

Well, hell, I suppose I ought to add a little coursework to the mix.

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New heights of high maintenance

Man: I'm heading home from work now after a long, long day.
Woman: I didn't feel like driving today. Come pick me up and run me on my errands.
Man: Yes, dear.

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If you've gotta end it ...

I have two very dear friends who have been in a serious relationship for several years now. They recently decided, mutually, to end the romantic side of their relationship. Apparently, they are both fine with it, which is really my chief concern. However, I have to say that their manner of calling it ranks up there in the top 10 best of all time and proves, once and for all, that they are two of the most awesome people on Earth.

Some people break up over the phone.
Some people break up in a fancy restaurant.
And some, well, they go to New Zealand and break up in the shadow of Mount Doom. "...only there can it be unmade."

Perhaps I should have said that they are the most awesome people in Middle Earth.

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Rugged Alaska woman-in-training

After inches and inches of snow last week, my skiing partner and I had only one thought on our minds: Time for the first crack at the longer trails. 'Course, things are a bit different this year, namely that said partner now has a tiny baby. The solution? Strap her in the backpack, clip the boots in the bindings and shove off. Nearly four miles and only a single butt plant later, the little one had survived some cold toes and was well entrenched in learning what it takes to be a true Alaska girl. And Mom? She officially earned the right to call herself "The Machine."

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Darwinian destiny

The story: A woman looks outside the house on a snowy morning as she prepares to step into her SUV and go to work. It snowed six inches the night before. What does she do? Does she put it in four-wheel-drive and punch it? Does she grab a snow shovel? Does she call a plow company? Nope. She cries. And cries and cries and calls her spouse in the middle of his work day, sobbing, to come save her.

Astute observation: In nature, there is something called survival of the fittest. It's a good thing some of us are human beings and not gazelles.

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Preschool politico

A friend's 3-year-old son was listening to candidate Clinton speak on the radio after losing in Iowa. At the moment she started to sniffle, he burst into song:

"I want you to want me.
I need you to need me.
I'd love you to love me.
I beg you to beg me.
Didn't I, didn't I, didn't I ... see you cryin'?"

Kid has a future in campaign management. I think that's much more apropos than any other campaign theme song I have ever heard.

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My confession

Yes, folks, it's true. Up until just about a week ago, I was still *sob* on dial-up. I am working through the steps to reform and concentrating on those green, blinking lights on my new cable modem.

What? You were looking for something more sordid?

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Thanksgiving weekend

A weekend out of town does wonders for mental health.

Food helps. I take full credit for the mound of mashed potatoes in the middle of the table. Must have been something akin to driving fatigue, except with potatoes. I just kept peeling and peeling and before I knew it the entire stock pot was full. Oops.


The next day, all the girls ventured forth on four-wheelers.



We ended our journey at the Nenana River, where we stopped for a snack and a feeble attempt at fishing. We held onto said snacks for dear life, as the wind tends to blow a bit in our corner of the globe. By "a bit," I mean "screaming down the valley so fast that we were in danger of becoming human tumbleweeds."


Fun anyway though, red noses and all.




















Stay tuned. A fascinating discussion on the merits of face-first arctic fish calling is soon to come.

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Could it be ... Satan?

Bumper sticker:
"If money is the root of all evil, why do churches beg for it?"

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Fairly sparkly

Halloween for me this year was a veritable orgy of organza and sparkles.












Did I mention the sparkles? Did I mention that, for the first time since I was five, it was OK to color all over my arms, chest and face with a crayon.


My partner in crime went more for the riding crop look.

















The result: sort of a good fairy/bad fairy effect. We terrorized the town for several hours before retiring our wings for another year.



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Saucy science

A note to any of you who may be contemplating adding a bit of fish to your homemade alfredo sauce (because we all contemplate such things periodically, no?): Proceed with caution. Repeat after me: Add cheese first, then add the fish.

Apparently, parmesan cheese has a stronger chemical or physical attraction to salmon than it does to noodles. I put the fish in with the milk and butter and then added the noodles. The result: glob-o-cheesy-salmon and watery, milk-flavored "sauce" that necessitated a bit of corn starch to make it palatable. A smooth, creamy alfredo sauce was noticeably absent.

My culinary heartbreak aside, I do wonder: Is it physics or chemistry that makes the cheese cling to the salmon like a groupie to a glam rocker? And more importantly, do you think I could find some way to turn that into a master's thesis?

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Insta-suck

Overheard:
"When are they going to get instant lipo? I'm uncomfortable."

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Of purple spruce trees

I had the strangest experience today at a meeting. Several people were telling me something that simply isn't and then looking at me like I was highly offensive and slightly crazy for pointing that out. And then they asked me to justify what I would do to make the thing that isn't right with the world. It was like some alternate universe or something:

Setting - In the woods, next to a towering spruce tree
Cast - Me, Person 1, Person 2

Me: Wow. That's an amazing tree.
Person 1: Yes, that purple spruce tree is just gorgeous.
Person 2: (with emphasis) I am just blown away by the beautiful purple color of that spruce tree.
Me: (laughing at their joke) Yeah! That spruce tree's just the perfect grape color. (winks and elbows Person 2.)
Person 2: (glaring) What's so funny? I really do think it's a pretty purple spruce tree.
Person 1: Yeah, why are you laughing? It really is a lovely shade of purple.
Me: (brows furrowed in a puzzled way) Umm. Yeah, but the tree is green. It's a spruce tree. They are green.
Person 1: No, it is NOT green. It's purple.
Me: But ... But ... (points to tree) It's green. Can't you see it? It's a perfectly lovely, perfectly green, spruce tree.
Person 2: (shakes head) Why do you have to be so negative?
Person 1: (shakes head and walks away with Person 2) Yeah. You just don't know anything about spruce trees. Why do you always have to argue about these things. We know that spruce trees are purple.
Me: (softly and looking at the tree with a baffled expression) I don't understand. The tree is green.

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What is this stuff you speak of?

Overheard: "I love my husband, but he can't be in charge of ... like ... stuff."

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Overheard

Woman 1: So it's just after the orgasm that everything goes to shit?
Woman 2: That pretty much sums up my first marriage.

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Is that a carrot in your pocket?

There really isn't much I can add to this one:



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That’s a helluva spider

I’m really starting to wonder if somebody upstairs is messing with my head, if perhaps he or she who rules the universe is perhaps engaging in one of those games where you try to connect a bunch of dots by only passing over each dot once. The result is a web where every dot is connected, but yet not.

Bear with me for a moment.

Now I live in a small town in a small state, so feeling like I know everyone and everyone knows me is a common thing. But lately, the connections have been sprouting up at an almost alarming rate and in the strangest of circumstances. If people are the dots on the page, it’s almost like each time I touch one of the dots, four or five new lines sprout out and connect to other dots.

At any rate, if I have any more strange coincidences, conversations with friends and acquaintances that begin, “Oh, I know so-and-so, we used to work together” or “Oh yeah, she’s the sister of my best friend’s mother” I think I may just come unhinged. This has happened, in one way or the other, on multiple occasions just in the last week. And each time it seems to be in a very odd context. It hasn’t been a pleasant, “Oh yay, another friend sort of thing” but rather an uncomfortable sort of context, a context that makes me uneasy and worry that the next connection could be one that makes my life very difficult.

Damn tangled web. Somebody needs to step on this spider

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Why do volcanos erupt?

The Spoof, an online news satire site, has the following story that offers the real reason for Alaska's geologic unrest:

Volcano's pavlovian reaction to Corrupt Bastards Club furor
Anchorage, Alaska - (Armageddon Press): One of Alaska's most active volcanos appears to be having what scientists have described as an 'anthropomorphic pavlovian reaction' to the furor surrounding the Corrupt Bastards Club and is begining to blow its lid this weekend. Read the rest of the "story" here.

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No explanation required

Another police report item. Adding comment to this would just be like saying "there is air," but it reflects something pretty ugly.

Fairbanks police were called to the Rabinowitz Courthouse on Thursday on a report of a Middle Eastern looking man taking pictures of the building. The person was contacted by an officer and produced a Bulgarian passport. The man works at a local hotel and is in Fairbanks on a working vacation, he told the officer.

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You put your weed in there

Here's a below-the-belt twist on the classic SNL skit with Rob Schneider, courtesy of our local police report:

A woman was arrested on suspicion of second-degree robbery early Saturday after she beat another woman at a party and stole her bottle of Vicodin. The 38-year-old suspect hid the pill bottle in an intimate place and jail guards had to retrieve it via a strip search.

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I crack me up

I tend to mix metaphors. I'll start talking about the sands of time blowing over
stormy seas and all we'll have is mud.

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Too careful?

In my years as a journalist and an avid watcher of current events, I have witnesses the beauty of the human spirit. I have also seen us at our worst. I have spoken to killers and have listened to child molesters. I have seen people lie and cheat and exploit their friends and family members in order to get what they want. I have watched families go through unbearable pain and heard many of them utter the words, “if only.” If only we would have been more careful. If only we would have checked things out more completely. To say that journalism can leave one skeptical would be an understatement.

However, someone held a mirror to me this afternoon and it made me a little sad because that skepticism is also part of my personal life now. I never want to be that person saying, “if only,” and I do what I can to avoid that scenario. I check out new people that come into my life, especially if I know they will have contact with my children or if they will be someone I may spend a great deal of time with. It’s nothing intrusive, just a quick courthouse records check and a run through a couple of search engines and databases. Still, I suspect that most of the world doesn’t do it. Despite the fact that our sense of privacy is a bit of a fallacy, in my opinion, people don’t like the idea of big brother or their friends checking up on them. It comes across as a little creepy.

Today, I told someone I checked them out, and it bothered this person, hurt them a little, I suspect. And this is someone who I absolutely do not want to hurt. This person wondered why I would trust so little, why I would be unable to take what they say at face value and evaluate their character on my own, without the aid of my search engines. And I didn’t have a good answer for that, other than I have seen the worst and want to be careful. It sounds pragmatic on paper, and it is. But interpersonal relationships are often not built on the practical. They are not business deals. And when you’re speaking to someone, and they say, with a tinge of anger or sadness in their voice, “Have I not been honest with you? Why don’t you trust what I tell you?” it’s difficult to say anything but, “I apologize.”

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Moral relativism

I'm feeling a little overcome with said relativism these days for a couple of reasons, but one in particular, and it scares me a little. I won't go into details, but it suffices to say that the situation is causing me some degree of pause. Throughout my life, I've always been sure of what is right and what is wrong. And my insticts always matched that morality, for the most part. Furthermore, I can recall moments in my life where I ignored those insticts and listened more to my brain and my logic, and that got me into trouble. My marriage was a prime example of that. From the very beginning, my instincts, in concert with my moral compass, were screaming, "Leave that one alone. Do not commit yourself to that." However, my brain and my logic, together with some external pressures, told me that it was what I was supposed to do, what I was expected to do. So I ignored the gut and went with logic. It cost me nine years of my life and did a great deal of damage to my psyche and those of my children.

Now I find myself in an incredibly odd situation. My instincts are telling me to do one thing, screaming at me that I need to go down this particular path. My brain and logic are saying "Bad idea." Seems an easy choice, yes? Go with your instincts, they are there for a reason. Except in this case, my instincts do not match at all with what I would consider the morally correct thing to do. This is perhaps the first time in my life that this has happened. So, what is the correct path? Does one ignore instincts at their own peril to follow the course that morality says is the correct one? Or does one follow those instincts at the risk of somehow compromising those morals?

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Beware Flipper

This beyond-awesome headline from the Richmond Times-Dispatch:

Cute-looking dolphins can be pretty mean
Read the full story here. Quote in the third graf is pretty awesome too,

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Duck the sentimental landslide

Make a note of this, folks: Two weddings in as many weeks can cause unexplainable bouts of sighing to the accompaniment of country music, as well as periodic daydreams of cowboys/knights or other strong male figures on white horses galloping across windy prairies.

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HR by me

Most employers offer sick leave. What about "sick of it" leave? I think we need special leave for those days when life, either work or personal, is too utterly irritating or miserable to allow any productivity.

If we were being honest, we'd say, "You know, I could sit here and do my best to get something done, but the reality is that my mind is really stewing about that stupid thing my husband did and the enormous altercation that will ensue at the first moment I see him, so any work I do will be, at best, substandard."

I can just see it in every employee handbook:

Sick-of-it leave: Every employee receives three sick-of-it leave days each year, to be used when an employee's mind cannot be focused on work due to the irritating actions of a family member, friend or significant other; a home improvement project that is impossibly out-of-control; or any other life event that is utterly FUBAR.

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Who’s oppressing who

In the midst of a discussion about politics a few weeks ago, one of the participants, who is a self-proclaimed conservative, says something to the effect of, “ The Democratic ideologies are the reason that lower-income people continue to remain under the thumb of the aristocracy.”

This person was referring, of course, to the effect that social welfare programs, such as food stamps or housing assistance, has on the masses. I won’t argue that giving people everything they need to survive, and asking for no work in return, is a good thing. I agree that such things can tend to breed lack of motivation. Why work when you can do nothing and still survive? I would also point out that the causes of poverty in the United States are rooted in many things, some historical, some personal, some political. The cycle is far too complicated to explain or solve with a simple, “If we made them work, they would be more prosperous.”

It’s difficult to ignore the fact that the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. Most of us who live in the middle are not getting any closer to that dream of prosperity. Do a Google search to find out how the growth of CEO’s salaries compares to the growth of the average workers’. In some ways, I would say that the “American dream” of gaining riches through hard work is at best the exception rather than the rule. Lots of people work hard throughout their entire lives. They aren’t getting rich doing it.

The reason low-income people, at least those who work, remain poor, is because they are not paid a living wage by the leaders of these large companies, leaders who make more in a single year than 97 percent of us will make in a lifetime. Now they will say that the reason they must pay people so poorly is that consumers, including middle-class consumers, demand low prices for their goods. Fair enough. Except, I wonder, if theses CEOs and boards of directors allowed even half of their top salaries to trickle down to the middle-income-earning employees, would those employees still demand such low prices?

Capitalism and the free market are wonderful things. At the most basic level, they have the ability to let one person, one business owner, create prosperity for multiple others. This is why things like microloans make such a big difference in developing countries. That one startup business provides jobs, which provide money to spend at other businesses, which in turn can hire more employees. It’s an amazing and powerful thing.

However, like anything, it can be taken to extremes. I think perhaps that is what has happened in the United States. In many cases, the leaders of today’s largest employers are so far removed from the business, and its employees, that the wages they are paying people are little more than a ledger note. In a relatively small business, the owner can see, first hand, the effects of his or her decisions. Not giving people raises this year? You’ll hear in the hallways how employees won’t be able to buy as many school clothes or Christmas presents. It makes it hard to take a $2 million bonus at the end of the year, as payment for upping the profit margin, when you have to look in the eyes of those who gave up braces for their kids to get you there.

Why are lower-income people stuck where they are? Many reasons. But we cannot depend on the consciences of CEOs and boards of directors to somehow see the light and start paying people a living wage. It’s not that any of them are bad or uncaring people. It’s just that they are so far removed from those who are affected by their decisions. The eyes they look into every day are those of their most influential shareholders, not those of the night stocker making $8 an hour. They cannot be wholly blamed for ignoring something they cannot see. However, in such cases, it becomes the responsibility of a government of the people to take steps to show them what they cannot see. A living minimum wage is a good first step. A limit on compensation for the CEOs of publicly traded companies might be another. The wealth is not trickling down. Our market needs some assistance in order to work as it was intended.

I would contend that eliminating all social programs will not eliminate poverty. We have a better chance of doing so if we find a way to make a day’s work worth something more than simply being able to barely make it from paycheck to paycheck. If we want people to work hard for prosperity, we have to make that American dream something more than a symbol of some bygone reality. It has to be more than two words that our mouths say with idealistic fervor while our minds struggle to apply it to the world at hand.

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Yeah! Um ... yeah.

Overheard:
"If you can't talk smack in checkers, what can you do?"

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Rugged Alaska woman in training

Me: Dang it, my front signal light housing on the truck is broken. I'll have to order a new part,
My 7-year-old daughter (with authority): No Mom! Duct tape!

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A wonderful word

cockalorum n. - 1 a little man with an exaggerated idea of his own importance 2 boastful talk; crowing

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All wholesome & stuff

I'm in an unnamed midwest city, a very large one, as evidenced in the very thick yellow pages. But here's the thing: I don't think this town has a single alternative business of any type. I looked. My fingers walked all over those robust yellow pages. I looked under "adult." Nothing. I looked under "pornography." Nothing. I looked under "bookstores, adult" and not only did I find nothing, the ratio of Christian bookstores to regular bookstores was, frankly, a little scary. Strip clubs. Nothing under than entry. Also nothing under "marital aids" or "gay"--or any iteration of the word. I know there must be places where people buy their porn and things that go buzz in the night. And c'mon, everybody likes a good drag show now and again. But I'll be damned if I know what the code words are to find these places in the yellow pages.

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Goodbye cape

From a bumper sticker:
"I used to have superhuman powers, but my therapist took them away."

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Exposed nerves

At times, the words and actions of those in the world around me resemble a sandblaster, capable of stripping even the thickest of skins.

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Finger pointing in stereo

From a bumper sticker:

"Errors have been made. Others will be blamed."

This is beautiful both for its literal meaning, chiefly that the buzzing bureaucrats of the world love nothing more than to parcel out blame to someone else, and for its use of passive voice, a favorite tool of those who wish to never take responsibility for any action, ever. Think "a decision was made ..." Who made that decision?

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Everyone needs a little Spanking!

This on the tag of a black neoprene zippered case from Japan, one about the size of a makeup bag:

"Spanking!
Size-Case
Nomadic Inc.
You can find "it" up
completely at any time,
at any purpose
in your lifestyle.
That's something like."

Something. Yes. It is something.

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A religious experience

Um. Yeah. Maybe not.

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Sob

It's a tragic day in the land of Onion, folks. A living legend of "representin' at the company picnic" fame, Herbert Kornfeld, has passed, a victim of senseless copier-related violence. Who will keep those beeyatchs in accounts payable at bay now? Who, I ask you?

Find the police report here.

In honor of his bad-ass self, I offer one of his signature works, the ever-inspiring piece "I Gots To Represent At Tha Muthafuckin' Company Picnic"

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A touch of diva

Perhaps it's the sunshine outside and the budding leaves, but I've been stricken with the desire to be a girl as of late. I usually fall more along the lines of yard work, fishing and Home Depot in my leisure time. Except, in the last 72 hours, this rugged Alaska woman has painted her fingernails and toenails, bought some fabulous, strappy, high-heeled sandals and a spring dress, worn pantyhose, drank purple pomegranate martinis at an afternoon ladies' party, attended a women's fundraiser, purchased and wore two gold toe rings, given three "housewife's tarot" readings, crossed my arms in a petulant fashion, and loudly vocalized my displeasure when I felt a man wasn't properly indulging my wants and whims.

Perhaps rugged Alaska diva is more accurate.

'Course it could be that I am just drowning my angst in sparkly things and flowing fabrics.

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A question of etiquette

Is there a polite way to tell another adult, someone who is ostensibly a professional person, that they should stop capitalizing every word in a sentence? I mean, is it just me, or does the following sound snarky?

"Dear colleague,
I was reading through your item and noted a couple of typos. Just a reminder that we only capitalize the first word of every sentence.
Sincerely,
Your co-worker"

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Look in the mirror

My oldest friend asked me to take an online quiz yesterday. It involved word association and a rather complicated exercise in hand-eye coordination. The result, in my case, was that I apparently slightly prefer European Americans to African Americans. Though I have some doubt as to the validity of the methodology, I suppose it makes some sense, given that I am white. My friend, who is African American, also took it and said the results showed a slight preference for African Americans.

My 13-year-old son offered a simple explanation: He said that it is natural for human beings to have an affinity for other humans that look similar to themselves. And his point is well taken, I suppose. A while ago, I read about a study that showed that men and women, when asked to pick the most attractive person of the opposite gender from a collection of photos, overwhelmingly chose a photo of themselves, morphed to be the opposite gender.

Yet, there must be more. My two oldest children, ages 13 and 10, also took the same quiz. They both showed no preference toward either race. My children are white. Using the aforementioned logic, they should have both scored as I did. But they didn’t.

That fact both gives me some hope and some pause about my own prejudices, even if they are not part of my conscious thought. My upbringing was not one surrounded by diversity. Until I was a sophomore in high school and moved to a larger community, I could count my African American classmates on one finger. And even in this larger community, the racial lines were bright. It wasn’t that relations felt acrimonious, at least they didn’t feel that way from my perspective; it was just that the white people didn’t mix with the black people. It was self-segregated or, perhaps more accurately, socially segregated. And I remember acutely the degree of whispering that accompanied anyone who stepped over the bright line: the girl who dated a black boy and vice-versa, the white kid who liked to hang out in that section of the hallway.

I told this story to my son, and he just shook his head. “That’s just messed up, Mom,” he said. Yet despite this and despite that I know he has friends of all ethnic and racial backgrounds, I also have heard him talk of what sounds to me like racial tension in his school. He isn’t sure what to make of it. I think it puzzles him greatly. I can’t help but worry that his neutral stance now, and that of his sister, is more a factor of the blank slate of childhood. Will the world ruin them?

I suppose that the best place to start is to recognize our own biases and to acknowledge that most of us have them, even if they are unconscious. It’s not a comfortable place to be, I suspect because, at some level, we all must know how factually absurd racial bias really is. War, injustice, oppression: all over something that boils down to pigment.

No saving the world tonight. Just the vague sense of unease brought on by the harsh light of a mirror to the subconscious.

It’s worth your time to give it a try. The link is here.

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Stressed?

Some people are strung tighter than a piano wire.

I am more inclined to remove the piano wire and use it for various nefarious deeds.

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How many people does it take?

An employee of a government entity discovers that the print shop has discontinued the paper that is used for the single-sheet, photocopied employee newsletter. Now this newsletter comes out with relative frequency, so the time to choose a new color is at hand. So, what is the logical next step? Why, of course it’s to send a memo around to nine different colleagues, with three paper samples neatly attached, so people in two departments can weigh in on this very important issue of the newsletter color. This is especially important because, after all, this newsletter is a source of information for all of the employees in the organization. We wouldn’t want it to be a color that people find overly garish or offensive.

It is, for this reason, that having the thoughtful comment from nine people is vital. Their wise counsel will ensure that the paper choice adequately meets the communication needs of the organization. It is important to choose the correct one.

Oh wait. Did I forget to mention the choices?

Ivory, tan or buff.

And they wonder why bureaucracies are so slow.

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Surviving adolescence

I must confess that I’m starting to wonder whether my 13-year-old son will be allowed to survive to see his 14th birthday, let alone make it to adulthood.

In all seriousness, it’s interesting to watch this adolescent-awakenings phase from the adult perspective. The thing I remember most about my middle school years is that everything, and I do mean everything, seemed incredibly intense and larger-than-life. Every crush, every argument with a friend or my parents, every decision, seemed to be the end-all of everything.

Now, as I watch my son, I see that same intensity manifest itself in some of the most annoying behavior I have ever witnessed. It seems like he’s never middle-of-the-road. When he’s happy, he’s happy to the nth degree, making this “YEEAING!” noise and throwing his body around like a two-year-old who drank the sugar bowl. When he’s mad, he’s prone to tossing things around in his room with angry abandon. And don’t even get me started on the degree to which he tries to push every boundary I can think of, and many that I haven’t.

All I can say is, “It’s a wonder my parents didn’t off me as soon as I hit 13.”

I suppose the only thing that saves him is that, at times, I can see a glimpse of the man who lives beneath this big, strange, swirling mass of hormones. And that man is kind and compassionate, intelligent and responsible.

Perhaps I’ll let him live, after all.

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Block ‘o chop

Note to self: Putting a three-pound block of pork chops into the oven at 7 p.m. is likely not the most effective way to create an evening meal and may result in scrounging around the fridge for leftovers at 9 p.m. because, after all, the kids have to eat.

I’m just sayin’.

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No weed required

Time: 11:30 p.m.
Scene: Two women up talking all night.
Woman 1 to Woman 2: "I want to put some of that government cheese on these chips."

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Truth at 8:30 a.m.

Overheard from a male colleague:

"If I don't care so much, it doesn't hurt so bad."

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When verbs fly

If I am writing with Prince playing in the background, does that mean I will likely have undulating prose?

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The flak's mantra

"Why couldn't that have fallen in my junk box?"

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Does this mean I'm a grown up?

Apparently, I am now officially the parent of a teenager. And here I am still getting used to the idea that I am anyone's mother. I suppose now I have to start acting all mature and stuff. Geez.

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Flirtin’ with ... somethin’

Is it bad when I start to think my song, as reference below, might be the Molly Hatchet anthem?

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Honey ... you’re fired.

Add this to the strange marketing hall of fame:

As the shopper walks down the aisle of Fred Meyer, she is drawn to the powder-blue cardboard display jutting into the aisle. “As seen on ‘The Apprentice’” the words on the side proudly and loudly proclaim. Being the well-trained consumer that she is, the shopper immediately starts to think, “Wow. That’s intriguing. I mean, it’s such a wonderful, if a little naughty, show. So entertaining. And think of the status I could achieve if I were to use the same product they use on this show. My friends would be so impressed.” Her heart skips a beat when she picks up the product from the display. There, on the label, is a teeny-tiny picture of “The Donald” on the label, looking all cutthroat businessman-like. “Oh man,” she thinks, “I could actually have the one and only Donald Trump staring at me in the kitchen. I don’t care what you say, you mean ol’ Rosie O’Donnell, that Mr. Trump is simply fantastic.”

That’s it, she’s hooked. Mission accomplished. Goodbye store-brand. You’re fired, FMV. She’s moved on.

From here on out, it’s Sue Bee honey in the 12-ounce squeeze bottle with a flip-top lid. As seen on “The Apprentice.”

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Hit the dirt!

This just in: New Jerusalem Church of God in Christ is hosting a "Soul Winning Explosion" this week. Lift your head at your own peril. It could be lopped off by exploding soul shrapnel. And that, folks, is a very scary thing.

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Profound. Really.

"Lead, lunch and children are a perilous mix."
-Connecticut Attorney General Richard Blumenthal

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If you were a song...

A very wise friend of mine recently likened a person's life to a song, with its accompanying changes in tune and pitch and volume. This was in the midst of some relatively serious soul-searching on my part about whether certain actions define a person and/or their relationships with other people.

Seriousness aside, however, that prompted an amusing thought in my brain. If I were a song, what would I be? It probably changes from day to day.

Today? I think it's a "Da Da Da," sort of day. How 'bout you?

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Life in a bureaucracy

Have an idea for a project.
Write down your idea.
Make a list of all ideas and determine where your idea falls in the list.
Form a committee to study the idea.
Revise the idea and resubmit to the committee.
Help the committee determine who will carry out the project.
Have that person write the project down on a list.
Have that person's supervisor determine, in concert with his or her entire office, where that project falls on the person's list of priorities.
Person does project work.
* Have supervisor review the work.
Submit work to the committee.
Committee revises work and sends back to supervisor.
Supervisor, in concert with the entire office, directs the person to make the revisions.
Repeat from * five times.
Complete project.
Put project on a list of accomplishments.
Repeat entire process to generate a report to tell "Them" what you are doing with your time.

Now toss yourself out the window. AAAAA! *Thud*

This, folks, is what is meant by the term "self-licking ice cream cone."

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Um ... is it OK to, like, take money?

I really have to wonder about our elected officials when one of them, who shall remain nameless, is quoted in a radio news program saying something to the effect of, "We all want to be ethical if someone will just tell us what is and is not ethical."

*slaps forehead*

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Bubbliscious

It must have been one of those days at work where I was struck by the utter absurdity and redundancy of some of the things around me. This link pretty much sums it up and had me nearly in tears of laughter when I discovered it midway through the day. Or were they tears of despair? You be the judge.

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The Good, the Bad and the Really Flippin’ Bad

Good: “Hmm. I think I remember filling up the fuel tank about this time last year. I have used a good bit of wood this year, so I should be fine, but I had better go measure the tank. Good thing I thought about this. Better safe than sorry.”

Bad: “Nice, the fuel company screwed my cap on so tight, I can’t get it off to measure the tank. Strap wrench? Nope, too cold. It slides. Channel locks? Nope. Too small. Surely the pipe wrench will be big enough. Nope. Too small. And they want $25 for a wrench that might be big enough? Oh forget it. I’ll just call next week.”

Really Flippin’ Bad: “Time to turn up the heat. It’s 40 below outside. What the...? Nice. No fuel. It’s 7 p.m. Guess I’ll be getting up in the middle of the night to add more wood to the woodstove. It’s gonna be a chilly morning, for sure.

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Life without kids

Kids were with dad for a week. I got a glimpse of my life in a dozen years and I think I am likely to go insane:

8 a.m. Get up and get ready for work
9 a.m.- 6 p.m. Work
6:15 p.m. Stop at grocery store and buy a bag of Caesar salad and a chicken breast
6:45 p.m. Eat dinner
7:30 p.m. Finish dishes, all five of them
10:30 p.m. Finish reading novel
10:35 p.m. Wonder what the heck to do next
10:40 p.m. Clean something
11 p.m. Wonder what the heck to do now
11:03 p.m. Look at the ceiling. Maybe I should paint it. Maybe I should paint it now.
11:06 p.m. Ephipany. So this is why single people have such organized houses. What the heck else are you supposed to do? If I had an entire year without children, I think I just might be able to completely gut and remodel my home and still have time to read three or four books a week.

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Good morning fruitcake

And I'm not talking the variety with nuts and candied fruits.

I probably shouldn't have answered my phone at 7 a.m. during my Christmas break, but what the hell. I did.

And now I have officially undergone a rite of passage for every woman in our society: the pervert prank caller.

I suppose some people might have been outraged or highly flustered to have someone they don't know whisper, "What kind of panties are you wearing?" at 7 a.m. over the phone. I was more having to hold back all sorts of colorful comments, things like, "It's flippin' 7 a.m., what the hell do you think I am wearing?" or "No man, what are YOU wearing?"

And to make matters worse, I was immediatly transported to that scene in Mel Brooks' "High Anxiety," when Madeline Kahn thinks someone has made a similar call to her. "I know a lot of the other girls are turned on by these sort of kinky phone calls, but I really couldn't care less ... what are you wearing? Jeans? I bet they're tight."

Of course, good judgement prevailed and I said nothing and hung up. I eventually had to unplug the phone because he kept calling. The dude must have been really desperate for some phone sex or something. Like, has he never heard of the Internet?

I now feel I am finally part of the common experience. Wow. Thanks pervert dude.

;-)

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Holiday midway

Past Christmas and not quite New Year's. Sounds like the perfect time for a greeting.

Happy holidays, all!

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Wisdom of a Whitney mix

I always find something that fits.

"This is hell, this is hell
I am sorry to tell you
It never gets better or worse
But you get used to it after a spell
For heaven is hell in reverse."
-Elvis Costello, "This is hell"

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Monday

Alarm buzzing.
Eyeballs open.
Shower too short.
Kids fighting.
Cold car.
Late for school.
Windy walk to the office.
Irritating e-mails.

It's not even noon and already my jaw hurts from clenching. This could be a loooong week.

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Happy llama-days!

Sing along! You know you want to.
Llama Song

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Sucks having a Satan mother

I've finally reached the end of my proverbial rope with my middle child, who has had a week to clean her room. Today, after six hours of time to clean her room and do what amounted to one sink full of dishes, I was dismayed to find that she had accomplished almost nothing. So I made good on my promise and now every one of her toys and other belongings is in plastic garbage bags. No crap. No crap to pick up, right? Alas, instead of being thrilled with this wonderful reprieve from cleaning she has received, her only response was two words (punctuated with lots of screaming and crying):

"You suck."

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Chocolate casualty

I am perhaps the only person I know who can injure themselves while making candy. Note to self: Using your full body weight to bust a bar of dipping chocolate in half is extraordinarly painful when said bar breaks and said full body weight is brought down on the tip of your thumbnail.

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Some people watch football

Not my family. Our holiday traditions involve lower temperatures and more clothing. Lots more clothing. Add this to the file that proves my rugged Alaska womanhood. Or something like that.

No, we aren’t dead. No, we haven’t fallen and can’t get up.

No, I am not an extreme example of that kid in elementary school that licked the monkey bars. Mmmm. Lake ice. You see, underneath our faces is a hole in the ice. We are simply paying very close attention to our baited hooks, waiting for the big strike ...

Aha! Victory at last.
The boy fared a little better, though I still say that in fishing, the gross weight of the fish isn’t the true measure of success. Nope. The fun’s in the catching, right? So every fish counts, right? Right? So, according to my calculations, I caught exactly 50 percent of the fish that day.

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I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and doggone it, people like me!

My 12-year-old son pointed out my pinochle shortcomings this weekend with the following phrase, uttered at the beginning of what would go on to be the sixth or seventh game in a row that my sister creamed my dad and me:

"Failure to succeed will commence."

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I can’t take the suspense

The above appears on the roof of a local coffee stand.

How can they do such a thing to all of us. Bagel sandwich’s what? How can we go on not knowing the rest of the sentence? It could be something scandalous like, “Now serving bagel sandwich’s secret desires.” It could be valuable information that could change my life, a la “Now serving bagel sandwich’s easy ways to get rich quick. No punctuation required.” The words “bagel sandwich’s” could be more than just the simple personification of baked goods. What if “bagel sandwich” is really a code word for some super -secret important person?

How can I go on not knowing? I curse you, damned bagel sandwich. Your secrets shall remain forever unknown.

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The Big (virtual) I

Cocktails

Looking for results? Visit the Division of Elections online. Not quite as fun as multicolored copies in a wire basket, but pretty darn close.

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Is it just me, or is everything buzzing?

The recipe
One triple-shot vanilla latte
One grande chai latte
One 16-ounce caramel latte
One Diet Pepsi

The result
Blogging at warp speed. Like, akin to Beavis. Heh hehehehe. Fire! Fire! Fire!

And you thought it was impossible to mix Star Trek and that infamous MTV animated classic.

“Hey Beavis ... Engage.”

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What’s a voter to do?

I’m just a mess about Election Day. It’s a nearly impossible scenario:

We have one D, one R and one I (for independent).

So, say your worst fear is that Candidate D wins. You would ordinarily lean toward the Candidate R, but you also really like many of the things Candidate I has to say. Still, you know Candidate I, being outside our lovely two-party system, will not likely win and will instead serve as a spoiler either for Candidate R or Candidate D. But the problem is, Candidate I used to be part of the R party, but in some ways speaks like a D.

In order to ensure that Candidate D doesn’t win, whom do you vote for? Do you vote for Candidate I, who perhaps would be the best choice of the three? If you do that, and every vote for Candidate I takes a vote away from Candidate R--your second choice--then you are helping to elect Candidate D. But if you vote for Candidate R, are you missing the chance to elect the person you think would really be best for the job?

I predict that many people will be very angst-ridden at the ballot box, myself included, whether they favor Candidate D, R or I. That or I am overanalyzing things again.

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Too much past blast

Be warned that my young adult life had a decidedly daytime-drama air to it, but my visits from the ghosts of upheavals past this evening were a bit more than I can process at once.

First, it’s pick my kids up at the ex’s trailer, where he lives with the woman who worked for me in high school, who he was dating before we met and who was, for a while after we were married, driving by our house at odd hours.

And if that’s not bad enough, I’m happily standing at the UScan checking out my small basket of groceries when a friendly “how are you doing” reaches my ears. I look up and see the friendly, smiling faces of two people, a couple, I knew when we were all teens. Awww. Nice. Sweet. Yeah, except the deal is that I know him because I had a six-month-long torrid relationship with him. I know her because she is the girlfriend he was “in the process of breaking up with” the whole time. (Note that these two are married now.) I know both of them because they are the ones who eventually ended with misdemeanor convictions for beating the crap out of me after school.

Hi, how are you doing? Whoa! Overload. I mumbled something pleasant and laughed nervously and then left. What the heck are you supposed to say? “Hi! How are the kids? You still wearing those strange, shiny underwear?”

Yeah. I always think of the best things to say after the fact.

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Mergers, diversification and other secrets of romance

I have a dear friend who would argue that relationships between two people--marriage, for instance--are more business deals than anything else. And we have delightful verbal tangos on the issue, with him telling me that I’m a sap (I am) and me telling him he often has the romantic inclinations of a fencepost (he does).

Now in many ways, this friend is correct. From a financial standpoint, a married couple will almost always have more potential for income than a single person. They live together in one house, pay one set of the expenses of living, and generally take advantage of that proven truth of business known as economy of scale. Though it isn’t in any written contract, many of the interactions of marriage resemble what one might see in a relationship between two businesses. If you cook dinner, I’ll do the dishes. If you work full time, I’ll work part time and take care of all of the household duties. It even enters into the most intimate parts of a relationship. Almost every couple who has been together for any length of time is familiar with bedroom bargaining.

So you have financial incentives, de facto contracts and heated bargaining. Sounds like business, no?

It does. But there’s one thing you throw into the equation and it taints the brew, so to speak, and calls into question the businesslike appearances of many relationships: love.

Go ahead, get all the eye-rolling and the “yep, she’s a sap,” stuff out of your system. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

OK, here’s my point:

In my opinion, love is solitary in nature and therefore independent of any business deal. You either love someone or you don’t. Love may grow or fade over time, but it either is or it isn’t. And it is not part of any reciprocal arrangement. There is no, “I’ll love you this much if you love me in return to an equal degree.” If you love someone, it really doesn’t matter whether they love you back or not. Their ability to do so has absolutely nothing to do with your own feelings. I think most people would agree that the statement, “I love you because you love me,” is loaded with all sorts of psychological dysfunction and is not something any of us would strive for. No, the best we can do is to say, “I love you regardless” and then hope for the best. That’s why loving relationships--whether they be a marriage or a friendship or a family--can be frightening at times. That’s why they are so rewarding when they work. That’s why their demise is so traumatic.

In the end, despite all of the wheeling and dealing, we are left only with the enormity of our unconditional love for another human being and the realization that we alone must deal with all that follows. You can’t hire out that task.

Bottom line: Business is dependent on reciprocity. The core of human relationships isn't.

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Friday morning poetry

Sometimes, the spam in my inbox is nearly poetic in its oddity:

Everything grows: your body, experience,
sexual desire but not your penis. Advanced Gain Pro
will make the last one grow too.
Advanced Gain Pro can enlarge your dick so
much that you won’t be scared of ruler anymore.
Try Now very cool


Sexual innuendo, random capitalization, badly translated language. What's not to love?

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History in the making?

A while back, I watched an online animation about the future of the press. You can watch it here.

The basic gist is that several mergers of online giants like Google and Amazon, combined with technology that allows people to create their own news portals, basically made the concept of news a self-selecting enterprise. For example, if you wanted to select, say, only information about pro wrestling and the latest on Pamela Anderson, then that is what would show up each day as the top news. Nothing about Korea. Nothing about a national election. Nothing about crime rates in your town skyrocketing. Only pseudo-athletes and big breasts.

In this futuristic world, what we now know as the giants of the fourth estate have become bankrupt and obsolete. Nobody reads the New York Times or listens to APRN. They simply get their “news” spoon-fed to them via the billions of self-proclaimed “journalists” across the Web. There is not even a baseline assurance that the things that you read are true or well-researched or created with any eye toward basic journalistic ethics. Everyone creates the news. The line between the journalist and the wingnut down the street is gone. The concept of balanced reporting is gone. If you want to hear only that all gay people are evil perverts, then you can set your channels to feed you gobs and gobs of diatribes to reinforce your bigotry on a daily basis.

I can’t help but wonder how close we are getting to this place. And I should state up front that I am a journalist by training and may be a bit snobbish about the journalist’s role in society. Still, the bottom line to this scenario, and to a certain degree this holds true even today, is that people seem to be growing less and less informed. And the scary thing is that they seem to be choosing to become that way. It’s ironic that in this age of so much information, people seem to have less information about things that are important. Perhaps it’s a consequence of information overload.

At any rate, I wonder if this scenario has ever played out in modern human history. What happens to a society that chooses to be ignorant of the things that allow it to govern itself wisely? Certainly we have plenty of examples of authoritarian regimes that block out their citizens’ access to information, but has there ever been a country where the people actually chose to simply look away, where people, even though they could learn about the important things in their society, simply say, “You know, I don’t really feel like it.”

Are we choosing the path to our own destruction?

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Innocence slipping

My 12-year-old son has always been a lot more insightful about human behavior than he ought to be at his age, so I guess our conversation tonight shouldn’t come as a huge surprise to me. Still, it says a lot about all of us when a seventh-grader picks up on the hypocrisy around him.

Our conversation began with him bemoaning the fact that some of the kids on his basketball team were giving him a hard time, telling him he is no good, etc. That was hard enough to hear, since I remember how damn hard middle school was. The worst thing was hearing him say, “The thing is Mom, is if you tell on them or they get caught, it really doesn’t do any good, because they don’t care about the consequences. They probably do get in-school suspension, but they don’t care. Their parents all just come in and say, ‘it was some other kid’s fault’ and the principal maybe believes them. And even if the principal doesn’t believe them, the kids don’t get into any trouble from their parents because their parents believe that their kid didn’t do it.”

What the heck do you say to that last statement? I make it a practice not to lie to my kids about the way the world works and I have to say that, in a lot of cases, he is spot on. I did mention the whole, “You have to live with yourself and your behavior at the end of the day” thing, which I believe strongly in, being a great avoider of guilt. Still, pretty sad that a 12-year-old observes this phenomenon that so many adults are blind to.

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'Its' just hilarious

What do you think it says about someone that said person thinks it's amusing to stand in front of a fridge rearranging the magnetic words and inserting apostrophes where they don't belong a la "It's hinges are so rusted its difficult to open."

Hee hee hee. I mean, that person is just sick. Sick, I tell you. And so is my--I mean that person's--copy editor friend. Freaks.

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No undergrad left behind

I have this uneasy feeling that higher education is about to go the way of K-12.

By that I mean, “Hello, I’m from the federal Department of Education and I’m here to make sure that YOU are accountable.”

And when I say “accountable,” I mean, “Let’s see how much money we can suck away from the classroom to create a huge bureaucracy to administer tests that we have engineered to tell us absolutely nothing.”

Hmm, not sure where that vitriolic rant came from. Years of repressing my true feelings in print, I suspect.

Anyway. “All Things Considered” had an interesting interview with Education Secretary Margaret Spellings this evening. In it, she spoke about a recently released report from the Commission on the Future of Higher Education. You can hear the full interview here but the message I got out of it was that higher education needed a few things, among them more money for scholarships, more information for parents and students about the education they are purchasing and more accountability for the money the federal government puts into higher education.

All of these things sound fine on their face, just as they did when officials said similar things during the genesis of NCLB. I mean, really, who can oppose things like students learning and public entities spending our money wisely?

But, a couple of things she said made me shudder. First, Michele Norris asked her whether she was advocating testing in higher education. Her answer was to say that she wouldn’t advocate a one-size-fits-all test. The inference here was that the universities or states should decide what type of evaluation system works best for them.

Then later in the interview she said that the federal government needed to offer higher education “incentives and assistance” to meet the challenges detailed in the report.

I’ll go out on a limb here and translate. Keep in mind this is my opinion and is filtered through my more-cynical-than-is-healthy brain, but try this one on for size:

Dear Higher Education (I capitalized that because people in higher ed REALLY like to capitalize things);

Since our recent report found that you are lacking in several areas, we are here to offer you some incentives and assistance to move to a new and exciting age in education.

First, we want you to develop a set of assessments. We’ll tell you what to include in them, what it takes to pass them and how often you have to give them, but we DO NOT want a one-size-fits-all test.

Please develop a large and expensive bureaucracy to administer this new testing system. We can’t afford to give you all the money to pay for this new department, but I’m sure you can find some money in your budget somewhere. Just so you won’t feel alone, we’ll do the same.

Once the testing system is in place, we’ll move on to how to bring every student up to 100 percent proficiency, but that’s a memo for another day.

Oh yes, I did mention incentives, didn’t I? Of course, we wouldn’t expect you to do this without some incentive. How’s this: Do it or we‘ll jerk your funding.

Love and kisses,
U.S. Department of Education

Whack me upside the head with a piece of celery if I’m wrong. I even have one you can borrow. I smell a changing tide in higher education, and if it’s anything like what NCLB is doing to K-12, it’s low tide in Ketchikan when the humpies are running. (Just ask someone who has lived there.)

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Attack of the killer ...

Well, celery, actually. I am now the proud possessor of an absurd amount of celery. As the mercury drops here in Fairbanks, those of us with gardens kick into holy-crap-I-had-better-pick-everything-before-I have-the-low-budget-version-of-flash-frozen-vegetables mode. (Most gardeners, however, probably don’t hyphenate quite as much as I do, though I believe that at least AP style would say that’s correct, no matter how over-the-top.)

But I digress. About these wily, green stalks. Apparently celery thrives on neglect and abuse--great, I have masochistic veggies--because I ignored it for most of the summer and didn’t really even bother to remove the chickweed from around it. The result of my black thumb was an armload of the stuff.

Now I’m soaked from washing all of it and about had to use my feet to stuff it into the bottom shelf of the fridge. What the heck am I going to do with a 10-pound, white-garbage-bag-encased brick of celery?

Perhaps I should fill every stalk with delicately seasoned cream cheese and head out on the town in search of a fancy soiree to crash. Of course I’d need a forklift to carry the trays.

OOO! OOO! I know. I’ll make 20 gallons of cream of celery soup. Yeah, and we can have it for dinner every night. I can freeze it and ... Oh wait. If I do that, a certain 6-year-old in my family will cry because she has to eat green soup and every night the strains of “Mommy, you make yucky food,” will haunt my dreams. Hmm. Scratch that idea. Better just do what I do with everything else I can’t find a use for right away.

Chop it up and throw it in the freezer.

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Shaggy mania

Mushroom saga, part deux: I went just a tad crazy last weekend. I found a field of shaggy mane mushrooms and the owners kindly allowed me to go pick them. I left with two brown shopping bags full and could have filled a couple more. This grassy lawn was just littered with the things. It was amazing. ‘Course, when I got home, I had to clean and process all of them, right away. See, there’s a bit of fine print with these mushrooms. They look all pretty and white in the field, but if you leave them uncooked overnight you will have a stinky black mess. (Shaggy manes belong to a group of mushrooms known as “inky caps.”)

So, the result was four hours of washing, chopping, cooking and freezing. It was, I must say, exhausting work. Still, I’ll have enough for soups and sauces for the winter, which is a good thing. Now if I can only get some ducks to go with it. Mmmm. Duck.

Anyway, as a bonus to this little excursion to someone else’s lawn, I ran across huge bunches of what I believe to be fried chicken mushrooms, shown below, which are also supposed to be a good edible.


The deal with these is you have to be careful because they supposedly resemble some other poisonous varieties. One test, which goes along with a few other things, is to take a spore print. Pink spores=bad. White spores=good. My mother also notes that she has never heard of a poisonous mushroom that actually tastes good. Of course, that’s a little bit more risky.

At any rate, I was elated to find a white spore print and so now will try a tiny bit and see whether I keel over or not. *grin* So if I’m not back within a couple of weeks, I probably offed myself with a mushroom. Kidding. Kidding.

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Equal opportunity elite

For those of us who are feeling left out of the inner circle of power in Alaska politics, Cafe Press now offers a lovely assortment of items for purchase that allow wearers to proudly proclaim that they too are among the esteemed leaders of our great state who, for the past year (at least), have been guiding our government with morality and strength of character.

Er. Yeah.

Check it out here.

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I'll sleep better

This from the "about us" section of the English online version of "People's Daily" in Beijing:

"People's Daily brings you the latest news dispatches of policy
information and resolutions of the Chinese Government and major
domestic news and international news releases from China. It reflects
the views of the Chinese people, expounds on justice and lambasts
various forms of malpractice."

You know, I feel better knowing that someone out there is expounding on justice, because in my opinion, there is just too much silence out there on the topic of justice. And good for them for lambasting malpractice. It's even better that they make sure to practice equal-opportunity lambasting of various forms of malpractice. It would be a shame to focus one's lambasting on just a single sort of malpractice. I mean, really, what good is it to only lambaste, say, the dairy farmer who sells you sour milk when there are lawyers and mechanics and shopkeepers and doctors that are all equally deserving of lambasting? Where's the justice there, I ask you. Where indeed?

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In search of the king

I spent half a day on Sunday wandering in the woods picking mushrooms and now am feeling just a bit obsessed. The sun was shining in my office window this afternoon and what was I thinking? It would be cool to be lounging in the yard? I wish I could go for a long drive with the top down? Nope. I was thinking, "I bet if I could just spend a little time back in the trails I could find some more tasty mushrooms."

I found a small number of regular boletus on Sunday, enough for one meal with steak, along with a few other things that, after looking at the spore prints and the book, to be either poisonous or inedible. Alas, my most prized quarry, the king bolete, has thus far eluded me. These large 'shrooms resemble their cousins, with a reddish/tan cap and spongy-looking gills. But they are much larger and--here's the best part--don't bruise dark when you cut them. They are oh so tasty.

Now if I can just find a place where the dang things are growing, it would simply make my fall, especially since I've been out of the state for most of berry season.

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Hellfire and dumbnation

Here's an amusing exercise:

Let's see who can come up with the best euphamism, expression, metaphor or simile to describe utter stupidity. Hell, I'll even take plain old synonyms, made up or not. A colleague and I had great fun in just five minutes of brainstorming, so I'm sure that, with the eternity that the blogosphere offers, we can come up with some great ones. Now let's see, what did we come up with today...

Dumb as a box of rocks
Not the brightest bulb
Not the sharpest tool
Dipstick
Shallow pool
Sheeple

And, in honor of my love for mixing metaphors:
Can't see the forest for the fog of stupidity
or its variation
Can't see the forest for the tree that fell on his head

I'll add more as I think of them. Now come on people. Let's work together in the name of the dumb.

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It never goes away

It's election night. It's quarter to midnight. I actually know what percentage of precincts have reported results: 66.97 percent. I have the division of elections Web site in the background and have been refreshing it way more than is useful. I know exactly how I would be rewriting my lead to make deadline, because it doesn't look like results will be in on time. Phrases like, "as of midnight" and "was the apparent victor" come to mind. I'm reluctant to go to bed, because I really want to know now.

This is the second election since I left the paper, the first major one. And I do miss the excitement of election night, that and the fun at the Big I afterward. Don't think that will ever go away.

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Belated patriotic mourning

My 6-year-old daughter was questioning me this morning about my recent trip to D.C.

She asked me, "Did you see Washington?"

I said, "Yes, I went to Washington and saw some of the city."

"No," she said. "Did you see that guy. Washington."

I smiled, "You mean the monument?"

"No," she said, a bit frustrated. "Did you see him?"

"You mean the first president?" I asked. "He's dead, sweetie."

"WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?" she exclaimed. "He's dead?"

"Yeah," I said. "He's been dead for more than 100 years."

Her response?

"Oh man."

Just goes to show the context of a 6-year-old's life. ;)

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But ... I was there.

Here's a really strange sensation:

I'm standing talking to my former spouse this evening and mention some not-so-lovely things that happened while we were married. He replies that they never happened. Now, I was there. He was there. We both know the stuff happened. Then how does someone look another person in the eye, knowing they know the truth, and say something like this? And better yet, what the heck is the appropriate response to such a thing? Probably leaving, I guess. Some folks just aren't in touch with reality.

And no, this isn't related to my former post.

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