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June 30, 2003
Cross Those Legs, Ladies
This is kind of creepy to me.
Let me say now: I'm okay with virgins. You haven't had sex? Never plan to have sex? Waiting till marriage/the right person/the next appearance of Haley's Comet? Had sex, decided it wasn't for you, giving it up? No problem; to each his or her own.
But, these people: they seem to have some strange ideas. There are a lot of facets to the abstinence promotion movement, and I'm not megalomaniacal enough to think that you want to hear what I think about them all. I'll let you check out the sites of The National Abstinence Clearinghouse and True Love Waits, two of the organizations represented at the Las Vegas virginity conference, in order to draw your own conclusions if you wish.
The small thing that I am having my small ideas about is the concept that these out-n-proud virgins seem to have about their virginity. A few of the things they do to get "the kids" to spread the message are just kind of disturbing. From the article:
Convention exhibitors displayed various abstinence items, including "Keep It" underwear depicting a large red stop sign with the message "No Trespassing."
Okay, sure, ha-ha. These panties and boxers, with their twee self-deprecating silliness and their twisted message, are so ineffectual as to be hilarious. It's always painful to see someone trying too hard, "talking to the kids in their own language," joking around to show that they're cool. If this product could talk, it would use just the kind of misguided, desperate tone that I remember the elementary school guidance counselor employing as he and a dolphin puppet tried to enlighten an auditorium full of stony-faced kids about the importance of street safety.
But, funny as they are from a snarky outsider's perspective, imagine for a moment that this message is serious and meaningful to you: "Keep It." "No Trespassing." Kind of makes you feel that virginity is a commodity, property to be protected, doesn't it? The sites referenced above make this point even more explicitly: in A Special Date a parent writes about exhorting his daughters not to have sex before marriage so that they can give their future husbands "the best gift [they] could ever receive from a person."
Virginity, you see, makes you more valuable. This, I assume, is why "the virgin brigade passed out about 5,000 "Good Girl Cards" to mostly female passerbys (sic)." Now, I agree that virgins could use a little positive word-of-mouth: when I was in high school, "virgin" was a dirty word, even for the girls, who had to walk the shifting and treacherous line between prude and slut. But this is rather loaded terminology. If avowed virgins are "Good Girls," then what exactly are the rest of us? Well, that's really not too tough to figure out. Is it always essential to boost your own identity by slamming another? Couldn't we have, oh, "Being a Virgin Works For Me!" cards instead?
The Abstinence Clearinghouse (which, while it claims to be secular, seems to talk about God and throw around words like "pure" with great frequency) has a lot to say about the benefits of abstinence. Under its Abstinence Statistics and Studies section, you can find many articles (although not a whole lot of actual statistics or studies) telling of the positives of abstinence and the dangers of sexual activity. Titles like "Study Links Teen Sex with Suicide" and "The sexual abstinence message causes positive changes in adolescent behavior" make great claims for virginity, despite the frequent need to qualify their findings. "Correlation is not causation, but there's enough of a link between teen sex and depression to draw nods from most young women I've shown this study," is the highly scientific conclusion from the author of the alarmingly titled "Sexually Active Girls' Lament: Why didn't I wait?" On the other hand, those who remain virgins until marriage are more likely to stay married, less likely to attempt suicide, and more satisfied with their sex lives.
While I have a number of issues with the way the Clearinghouse's authors draw their conclusions, my purpose is not to analyze the logical fallacies and misleading interpretations found in many of their articles. What I find curious about the view of Virginity As Free Pass is that it doesn't seem far removed from the trap that these groups claim awaits teenage girls who do give it up. The argument is that girls often have sex in order to hang onto guys, who think nothing of manipulating them into doing things they're not ready for (no word on the damaging effect of premarital sex on the boys, by the way ? in time-honored tradition, virginity is primarily the responsibility and potential downfall of the girls). So, apparently, virginity is also a commodity for these lost souls ? but it's one that they're willing to trade for the lesser prize of momentary attention from a heartless male, instead of the "sure thing" of marriage (divorce is a topic rarely discussed at the Abstinence Clearinghouse, unless it's to note how much more often it occurs among people who practice premarital sex).
I don't want to imply that abstinence isn't right for many people, or that teenagers don't often have sex for unhealthy reasons or find themselves unready to handle the emotional fallout from it. Although I have some problems with the abstinence movement, especially when it is proposed as a replacement for sex education, I don't disagree with all of their points. But if there is a problem with teens and sex, it seems to me that encouraging them to think of sex as a form of currency, and of their virginity as property that needs to be protected from marauding trespassers; to imply to young girls that the only way for them to be "good" is to be untouched; to enforce the idea that once you cross that line you're damaged goods, is the wrong way to go about it. Whether you come out on the save-it or spend-it side, isn't this an unhealthy attitude?
Sex or lack thereof is not a status symbol, a badge of dishonor, a one-way ticket to hell, or a gift to save for a lucky husband. It's an act. Sex has consequences: joyful release, procreation and emotional connection on the one hand, and unwanted pregnancy, disease, and emotional upheaval on the other. But no matter how high the stakes are, it doesn't change the fact that attaching a currency value to this act will only make the problem worse and the decisions tougher for virgins and non-virgins alike. Teenagers have enough trouble negotiating the demands of their morals, families, social rules and raging hormones as it is. There's no need for groups that claim to have their best interests at heart to turn this into an issue of moral one-upmanship.
Posted by hilatron at 09:15 PM | Comments (5)
Blech.
I am actually working on something longer and blatherier, but just for the moment I would like to note, for posterity, that no one who uses that much aftershave is allowed to use my phone for "just a minute" ever again.
It won't go away.
Has it become socially acceptable to burn sage in the workplace yet?
Posted by hilatron at 11:08 AM | Comments (2)
June 29, 2003
My two-word review of "28 Days Later:"
Hell, yeah.
I haven't felt so pleased with a new horror movie in a long time. This is the kind of movie I hold close to my bosom; I love and protect it; I scream insults at my computer screen when I read the bad reviews on Rotten Tomatoes. They just don't get it, man.
Warning: you won't like this movie if you a) are a dumbass, b) don't like gory horror flicks, or c) don't like paying close attention to, or thinking about, your movies. It's the kind of movie that is more pleasing if you notice clues and implications and elaborate on them in your own mind, or over a beer and french fries with good friends after the show. As you wish.
Posted by hilatron at 09:19 AM | Comments (1)
June 28, 2003
Dear Searcher:
Posted by hilatron at 01:06 PM
June 26, 2003
If You Believe in Omens
This morning I saw not one, but two, snapping turtles. Big ones, dark brown all over, leathery and self-confident in the way that only a slow-moving animal with a hard shell and jaws that can smash bones can be. The first one was standing in the middle of the path that passes by the river, a trail of swooshy imprints showing its circular, but not aimless, route. I wondered if it was okay - always feeling that wild things, given the choice, avoid human areas - until it blinked and moved its muscular head.
The second turtle had just emerged from the reeds next to the river, right by the end of my jogging trail. It paused in its turtly errand and considered me thoughtfully as I ran by. Its jaw flexed, twice, reflectively, as if it were considering whether I'd make a good snack. I was too fast for eating, even if I am slower than all the other morning joggers, my feet thumping faster than a turtle's heart beats.
It's hard to feel superior though, face to face with a turtle, because it's clear that the turtle's standards of excellence are entirely different from your own. Speed and style and pants that fit matter little in the face of this slow assuredness. The turtle takes its time; if you watch the turtle walk, you see that each step is chosen with care and attention. The turtle would rather be late than stumble along the way.
The turtle, were it able, would probably choose not to wax poetic about all this anyway. The turtle's motto is probably something like "That's That, Then" or "We'll Get There When We Get There." I sense that the turtle has little need for symbolism. So in honor of turtles, in the hope that my steps will be as well-considered as theirs, I'll just observe that a day that starts with two turtles, even those encountered while one is panting and sweating and otherwise compromising one's dignity, is bound to be a good day.
Posted by hilatron at 11:19 AM | Comments (3)
June 23, 2003
Things, things, and more things
Hello there,
Another Monday finds me slack-jawed, tired, bereft of ambition, despairing of the hope that I might ever better myself. Lists are the refuge of the hopeless:
THINGS I DID THIS WEEKEND
-Hosted a barbeque for co-workers
-Thought "What was I thinking?" at least twenty-seven times
-Washed the laundry that time forgot
-Figured out a way to close the closet door
-Cleaned a century of dirt off the top of the fridge
-Increased the profits of the Boca Burger corporation by 25%
-Wore the ladybug dress
-Discovered that twenty people can, too, fit in the house
-Bought beer, drank beer, broke even thanks to party guests leaving beer behind
THINGS I "DID NOT DO" THIS WEEKEND
-Ate pie for breakfast
-Went two days without putting on socks
-Ate brownies for lunch
-Watched Space Truckers
-Tied dandelion stems together with fishing wire (don't ask)
THINGS I DID NOT DO THIS WEEKEND
-Writing
-Bill paying
-Yogaing
-Running
-Going to bed on time
-Reality TV avoiding
-Responsible citizen being
Posted by hilatron at 10:05 PM | Comments (12)
June 20, 2003
This Is Not My Sports Bra, These Are Not My Ergonomic Shoes
I am wearing a watch, which is, in itself, peculiar. I haven't worn a watch for several years, since the battery on my oh-so-cool watch with a spring-loaded cover over the face died, and I realized that I liked the freedom I felt without it.
What's even stranger is the reason for the watch. Due to my growing concern over the ill-fitting pants problem, I found myself last week taking a tour of the fitness center in the building where I work. It's great - free classes with your membership, nice showers, a discount for people who work in the building, a location so convenient that even I would have a hard time finding an excuse to avoid it. And, oh, good exercise equipment.
But I decided to postpone that commitment. One, the money is tight, as I am sure you are aware from the constant carping. Two, I went from "Hmm let's see about this" to "Would you like to sign up today?" in about fifteen minutes, and that's dangerous. Surely the fitness center membership is the worst kind of impulse buy: if it doesn't work out, not only are you out a lot of money, but the usual moral taint of having spent on something you're not using is intensified by the feeling that it was a waste only because you are a big lazy. No need for all that pressure.
So I decided to implement Plan Wear Favorite Jeans Without Hoochie Bulge* with a radical and daring solo strategy. It is radical because it involves major changes, and daring because it touches directly on my weaknesses. Its main elements are simple: 1) get up early in the mornings; 2) go outside the house and run around. This plan flies in the face of two things I consider integral to my nature: a love of sleep, and a tendency to either remain at rest or get from motion to there as fast as possible.
The watch was purchased so that I would know when to stop running and come home. My other investments: a pair of sneakers, a supply of batteries for the walkman. I will also surely need to supplement my current exercise wardrobe (one pair of yoga pants, two ratty t-shirts, a rather revealing tank top) in the near future. This is how we save money, Hilatron-style.
So I've been doing this thing, this running thing, this actually mostly walking thing, since Monday. I skipped Wednesday, so I have done this thing four times. The feelings experienced as a result of the thing are numerous and varied. Hope, for the glorious-pantsed future; fear, that I may fail; pain. Pain especially in the muscles that take me up and down stairs, it would seem, if one can judge from all the screaming and stiff-legged lurching that accompanied my every movement this week.
Those are just the surface emotions, though. Deeper down, there is a complex series of events unfolding. My attitude towards jogging, and by extension, those who do it, has not been very positive in the past. Rather than deal with the fact that I was just too lazy to move around a lot, I chose to heap scorn upon the very idea. Running - it was the ultimate jock thing, the ultimate all-American thing, the ultimate stupid luxury: look at me, I have enough money and free time to torture myself so that I can feel superior to you! I was not lethargic; I was too cool for all that sweating. I stayed up too late; I slept in; I was groggy and surly and last-minute in the mornings, not bouncy and healthy.
So now, as I jog, trudge, or stumble along, strange things happen. When I pass other runners, the usual thought mechanisms kick in: "Pfeh! Look at her! What a dork! Who does she think she is, anyway? What kind of a way to pass the time is that?" and then realization sets in: oh, yeah. I'm one of them now. Just one step closer to yuppiedom, just one more piece of a package I used to summarily dismiss embraced.
In order to salvage my rebellious counter-culture identity, I have made a couple of vows to myself. 1) I will never do that thing that joggers do where they shove in front of you at intersections and bounce around, waiting for the light to change, as if they are just! so! energetic! they! can't! stop! moving, and by the way, you are blocking the sidewalk with your lazy ass, how dare you be in front of them? Talk to me all you want about how it keeps your heart rate up or your muscles warm or whatever, it's obnoxious. I'll stick to the car-free trail near my house, or risk the danger of slowing and cooling. 2) I will never stretch in public. It just looks silly. 3) I will never tell people about how I have so much more energy now that I'm running, it's great, they should really try it, the endorphins are amazing. The people who make these statements are clearly protesting too much. Let's face it, running just isn't that much fun. There might be good reasons for exercise, but then there are good reasons to go to the dentist, and you don't hear anyone trying to convince you how much fun that is.
Let's get this straight: I'm doing this running thing for one reason and one reason only, and that's pants.
*hoochie bulge, noun. The effect of wearing pants that are too tight in the waist band area, causing a lollop of extra flesh to bulge out over the top, especially on the sides. So named after the habit of certain young women to wear midriff-baring tops with pants that are slightly too tight, seemingly unaware that this tends to detract from, rather than enhance, their charms. See also: yeast infection pants, old fogey.
Posted by hilatron at 08:27 AM | Comments (6)
June 19, 2003
Elsewhere
Me Head was kind enough to post something of mine, although the line breaks are distractingly messed up so that it looks like it's trying to be poetry or something. I believe the sin was mine, in sending it as an e-mail message. (I ain't saying nothing, just in case that's why they liked it.)
(ETA: Of course this is a filthy lie. I of course said something right after I got done posting this entry, because I am neurotic and do not trust people to be able to love me despite funny line breaks. It is to be hoped, also, that the Me Head Editors can still love me despite my tendency to poke things.)
Posted by hilatron at 05:51 PM
Tip
Madam: when you respond to the question "May I help you?" with "Oh, I hope so," in that particular plaintive, martyred tone, it marks you as a troublemaker right from the start. Historically, ohIhopesos have always been people who cannot be helped, no matter how hard one tries.
You may want to try a different tactic the next time you call people up, trying to get services they don't provide, for free, with a bow on top.
Posted by hilatron at 12:27 PM
June 18, 2003
Oops, My Bad.
I just double-checked my job description, and nowhere under my list of duties does it state "Synthesize carelessness, inefficiency, and the tendency to make copies before getting approval from all necessary parties, in order to waste ridiculous quantities of paper, enough to boggle the human mind, every single day."
Next year's evaluation is going to be rough.
Sorry, trees.
Posted by hilatron at 11:00 AM
June 16, 2003
Who Put This Big Block Here?
I'd love to post after all this time, but I've got nothing, people. I guess this is why people do the Friday Five, right? Unfortunately, I have personal problems with the Friday Five, so that's out. Here's a snippet to keep you all going until the old brain cranks up again:
Do you ever have those moments where you step outside yourself and observe whatever it is you are doing as though looking at a stranger?
This morning in the shower, I had one of those moments. I realized as I was scrubbing away that I was humming to myself. The song in my head? That would be the Mr. Clean jingle.
"Mr. Clean gets rid of dirt and grime and grease in just a minute! Mr. Clean works stronger longer 'cause there's Ultra power in it!" I realize it's a catchy ditty, but does this strike anyone else as a trifle...odd? Does anyone else envision the scene from the movie where the crazy protagonist has finally snapped, and she's cleaning up the blood?
Right after the thought about the movie I had a moment about the moment, a meta-moment if you will, and I thought, hmmm. It's kind of odd that I would even conceive of that, actually. I mean, Mr. Clean = crazy-cleaning-up-blood? That's not right. Maybe I really am messed up.
Now I am thinking, how many people are that self-conscious about thinking about thinking about something they were doing? What's that all about?
And now I am thinking, where will it all end? I could be adding layers to this neurosis for weeks here.
Posted by hilatron at 02:28 PM | Comments (4)
June 12, 2003
What the hell is going on in there?
So, my brain and I are engaged in peace talks; last night I managed to vacuum and today I actually did some work at work and oh my god, I bet you are so bored, I'll shut up now.
Anyway, my brain is doing better, but things are still a little shaky. Upon viewing the headline "NASA Investigators Discover New Threat to Space Shuttles," it supplied without a moment's hesitation the possibility "space monkeys!"
Uh, okay. That's not the problem, anyhow. Which is kind of sad, because it means that the universe is still without free-floating space monkeys, but good, because I would like to think that space monkeys and NASA could get along.
In other news, ugh. What is with the whole luxury SUV thing anyway? The whole thing about the SUV is that it's supposed to be, you know, utilitarian. You're supposed to be hauling lumber around in that thing, not going to prom.* The application of leather seats and a freaking video game system to such a framework seems unnatural and wrong to me, like a skunk wearing deodorant.
Besides, if you're going to drop the cost of a small house on a giant gas-guzzling vehicle that handles like a tank, wouldn't you rather get this?
Other modes of transportation are very appealing, but some are less than efficient and some do not provide opportunities for the accessorizing and style-making that humans seem to prefer. This has potential, I think. What kind of stereo system can one install, I wonder?
--
More links for the night, brought to you by phrases my brain has produced today:
-Space monkeys. (Apparently they're a band, too. And Fight Club uberfans. Whatever makes you happy, I guess.)
-This strange artifact is the sole result for robot in a jar.
-When you Google "bleep bloop blop blip," it asks you, "Did you mean to search for 'bleep blop blop blip?'" So I gave it a whirl, and I got a bunch of math problems and this list of words. No secret messages from the Robot Underground!
-Speaking of which, oooooh.
--
*My resentment has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I was nearly run over by a white stretch behemoth containing forty-seven screaming taffeta-clad girls and their itchy dates on the corner of Astoria Boulevard and 33rd Street in Queens in May, 2001. Not a thing.
Posted by hilatron at 06:06 PM | Comments (3)
June 11, 2003
Brain, Brain, Go Away
This is turning out to be one of those weeks where my brain refuses to accept that I need to work for a living. "You mean we have to go again?!" it cries. "We were just there!" My brain is likewise disinterested in the harsh realities of laundry, dishes, and dirty floors. It is altogether over all this mortal shit. It wishes to know just when I plan on getting around to winning the lottery, already, because it has had quite enough of the responsible member of society gig, thank you. It does not know what it wants for dinner, nor does it care unless that dinner is brought to the door in a paper bag carried by a minimum-wage-earner to whom my brain can give a generous tip.
"No takeout for lunch? No new t-shirts? No vacation?" says my brain. "Fine! Then I am going on strike. See if you can concentrate at work now, bitch.
"Oh, and don't think I'm going to let you get anything else accomplished while you're slacking. No writing or job seeking for you! I'm going to flit hither and thither to no purpose, making you unreasonably cranky and restless. Occasionally, I'll go into a spasm of worry about finances and/or the future, but under no circumstances will I do anything to make those worries less pressing. Now let's check those site stats again!"
"Coffee-Coolatta- Coffee-Coolatta- Coffee-Coolatta- Coffee-Coolatta- Coffee-Coolatta!" shrieks my brain all afternoon, knowing perfectly well that the pants I am wearing, a perfect fit last summer, are unattractively bulgy as it is. "No way," I tell it firmly. Later, at Dunkin Donuts, I whisper "Skim milk, please," while my brain is distracted by the close stander behind me. "You'll pay for this," hisses my brain.
"But, brain," I protest, "don't you see that this is a vicious circle? If you don't help me out here, we will only be more distraught and less able to afford lunches and vacations. Our credit card debt will rise, our stress levels will peak, our sense of humor will vanish ? "
"Shut up," snaps my brain. "You couldn't even spell 'vicious circle' without me. I'm holding all the cards here, and you know it. Now call in sick or I'll give you another headache!"
Lying on the couch at night, filled with malaise, draped in ennui, I click through all six channels that come in. "There's nothing oooon!" whines my brain. "Well, then why don't we do something else? We have all sorts of things we could do! Go for a walk, clean the bathroom, work on that column idea some more?"
"No way! I don't wanna do any of that stuff. I'm tired. Leave me alone!"
"Look, if you don't like any of my ideas, then stop complaining about being bored!"
"Fine! Maybe I just won't talk to you at all then!"
"Fine, lazy!"
"Fine, naggy!"
"Fine, then shut up already, why don't you!"
"Fine!"
so me an my brain are taking a brake for now i bet it comes crawling back haha! but dont worry I will totally keep blogging for you!!! I will try to entertain you with my thoughts?hmmm?what can i talk about?? ?theres not much to say. today i went to work, it totally sucked, my job is so borring! then i had to come home and do dishes and stuff and i was so tired i just wanted to watch America's Next Top Model...it sucked so hard! i hate chores!! i wish i was rich and could afford to eat out ever night wouldn?t that rock???? -Anyway i better go, i need to eat dinner Tonight we are having vegie (sp?) burgers and potato chips, mmmm i luuuuuv potato chips dont you? -Anyway, talk to you tomorrow oh...haha its so funny i forgot, i am posting this Wed. morning not Tues. night, so i allready ate dinner! But now i have something else to blog about because now i can tell you what i had for b'fast, sweet! i had a bagel and tea...yummy! i love it when i can write a long entry i know it's what you guys want, more of me! LOL :-P
Well, i better go cause i'm late for work. i hate work anyway, so i dont really care haha!
Posted by hilatron at 07:25 AM | Comments (3)
June 10, 2003
Weekend Update
So, the reunion. The reunion was a bit anticlimactic, my friends, a fact for which I lay the blame squarely at the disorganized feet of my alma mater. It's a good thing they don't offer a degree in event planning, because that would just be a sad and misleading thing to do.
It turns out that the problem was not that I was not fabulous enough for my reunion. The problem was that my reunion was not fabulous enough for me. The Captain and I looked ever so great, and we were surely appreciated by the SIX OTHER PEOPLE, I shit you not, who showed up from our graduating class. It turns out that an event which is promoted by a single vague and murky save-the-date postcard, with a promise of more information to follow, and then a series of pleas for donations, and then a registration packet which arrives about three weeks before the event itself, does not result in a high turnout. Who knew?
Here is an example of how the reunion was handled: after carrying our large bags of cosmetics up the big hill from the train station to our school in the eighty degree sunshine on Friday, the Captain and I sweatily arrived at the reunion registration desk and were handed informational packets which included a sheet of paper which explained that, for our convenience, there was a shuttle from the train station to school. Hmm. Thanks. When we were leaving the next day, we were told that the shuttle left from the school's main gate "every so often." Hmm. Thanks.
All bitching aside, however, it was nice to go to New York and to see the few people I did, even if I would have seen a large portion of those people on any trip to New York. An unscientific dirt-dishing on absent classmates revealed that an alarming number of them are getting married and having babies and receiving advanced degrees. Attention peer group members: you are not allowed to grow up until I decide I am ready! A little consideration, if you please!
Posted by hilatron at 12:49 PM | Comments (2)
Low Expectations
Last night I dreamed about being tired. Think about that for a moment, if you will: tired in my sleep.
I don't have high hopes for today after a start like that.
Posted by hilatron at 08:38 AM | Comments (2)
June 06, 2003
Say "beep!"
In about two hours, I will hoist upon my back a giant bag containing more cosmetics than the entire city of Las Vegas uses in a week, backup pantyhose, fancy shoes, and various and sundry photographic devices, and haul my high-maintenance ass to the Big Apple for college reunion fun. If you think my main goal is not to look nice in the pictures, then clearly you don't know me very well at all. Have a reminiscent weekend, y'all.
P.S. Since there's not much going on here, let me send you over there to read SJ's post about hair removal, which will make you pee or something, it's that funny.
Posted by hilatron at 08:03 AM | Comments (2)
June 05, 2003
Sometimes I Wonder About You Humans.
Agent Courtney sent me the unfortunate news this afternoon:
"So this morning, on the way to work, I saw a group of people holding signs saying things like "God Hates Fags" and "No Dyke Marriage." My mind was full of questions. Who are these people? Is this still Boston? Am I wearing fighting clothes?However, rather than jump them in the street, I did some research. Stupid me, I hadn't even realized that, much as they did in the last state election, anti-gay groups in Massachusetts are trying to pass a "defense of marriage" amendment to the Massachusetts constitution - basically would make all legal protections for same-sex couples and their kids unconstitutional here (even domestic partner benefits and simple decencies like unquestioned hospital visitation and bereavement leave)."
It is my opinion that the actions of the "people" supporting this amendment require no further comment...at least not one that I am legally allowed, or technically equipped, to make at this time. Massachusetts residents, please click here to register your disapproval of this hate legislation.
Posted by hilatron at 02:04 PM | Comments (3)
June 04, 2003
The Yin, the Yang
Reasons to be grumpy:
Due to the ill-timed disintegration of multiple shoe wardrobe essentials, currently breaking in two new pairs which cause two completely different sets of blisters and aches.
Data entry.
Still have not returned to pre-suburban pants size after, like, FOUR WHOLE DAYS of resisting between-meal snacks. (Mostly.)
The fire marshall has seen the fire exit plans. The fire marshall has approved the fire exit plans. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP MAKING CHANGES TO THE FIRE EXIT PLANS EVERY TIME I PRINT OUT A FRESH COPY!
Sneaking suspicion that I will not be glamorous enough at the infamous college reunion to make all the woohaw and dress-buying worthwhile.
Reasons to be full of cheer:
Search referral for "surreal pictures of dead trees." Hee.
Just data-entered contact information for someone named "Heller Schoop." Heehee.
Had major dorky breakthrough in FileMaker which has opened up a whole new world of list-sorting and group-making.
Invented superfly new dance to celebrate FileMaker triumph.
College reunion = trip to New York!
Posted by hilatron at 10:00 AM | Comments (2)
June 03, 2003
What do I pay you people for?
Gah!
I'm reading through old entries this morning, making sure I have everything backed up properly, and what do I see in The Dog Lady of Henniker? I see this:
"All I know is, I feel lucky that I'm hear to tell you about it."
Well I am just so embarrassed. "Hear?" Augh! If there's one thing that makes my lip curl like Billy Idol's, it's a malapropism. And yet there one is, glaring at me from the pages of my own site, sitting there making me look like an idiot for more than a month.
And did one single person give me a gentle hint? No you did not. You guys would probably let a girl walk around with spinach in her teeth, wouldn't you?
Now I'm all paranoid. What else aren't you telling me? What misspellings, inaccuracies, grammar sins are lurking here that I don't even know about? No, really, tell me, please.
Posted by hilatron at 09:33 AM | Comments (5)
June 02, 2003
I'm just, I'm just Murray in a box
Anyone who knows cats knows that cats love boxes. Put a cardboard box down on the floor and it's love at first sight: it's a rare cat that won't spend a great deal of his or her day purring at, rubbing against, or chewing on a cardboard box, given the opportunity.
Murray conforms to this rule in the extreme, if it's possible to conform in the extreme. Put anything made of brown paper in his vicinity, and he's all over it. It started with his scratchie thing, a pad of corrugated cardboard which sits on the floor next to the couch; Murray loves this more than anything in the world. It's not just for keeping his claws trim; it acts as touchstone, aggression releaser, dignity restorer, and home base. When Murray feels threatened, he runs for his scratchie thing first, only fleeing to one of his Major Emergency Hidey Holes if things get really grim (as in cases of vacuuming or loud metallic noises). Murray's feelings about the scratchie thing are strong. Woe unto him who touches the scratchie thing, or dangles his foot over the edge of the couch and gets too close to it. Only the most reckless person would ever do something as foolish as, say, dangling one's butt over the scratchie thing and chanting "Muuuurrraayyy...I'm siiiiting on your scraaaaaaaatchie thing..." in a sing-song voice.
One day, after a particularly draining trip to Trader Joe's, I flopped down on the couch without putting all the paper grocery bags under the sink like I usually do. This was the beginning of Murray's tumultuous love affair with one of the bags, a relationship that began with stalking, proceeded at a fast clip through pouncing, chewing and flattening, and has now settled down into its "marriage" phase under my desk. What remains of the paper bag lives there next to the trash can, alternately adored and attacked, and acts as Murray's home-away-from-scratchie-thing until I cough or move my desk chair slightly and send him dashing for safety.
Recently, things have developed further. A box ended up on the floor next to my desk.* No sooner had it hit the carpet than Murray was right on it, sniffing every inch of delicious USPS-infused cardboard, rubbing his cheeks against the flaps, purring like mad.
A word on sizes is in order at this point. Murray is a large cat. Where most cats have heads the size of your fist, Murray's is more like a softball. Murray could encompass three normal-sized cats and have room left over for a mouse or two. When lifting Murray, it is advisable to bend your knees and use both hands. Although Murray is somewhat fat and round, his size is due largely to bone structure. In short, Murray is a behemoth, a tank of a cat.
The box that sits on the floor next to my desk is not Murray-sized. It's small, perhaps 12 inches long by 8 inches wide. If you put it next to a reclining Murray for comparison, the answer would be "certainly not."
Nevertheless, the appearance of the box unleashed something deep and primal in Murray's soul, something which mere physics could not deny. After the initial rubbing and purring session, Murray climbed right into the box and sat upright, looking around with an immensely self-satisfied expression which sent us into paroxysms of "awwww." There's something about Murray in a box which is infinitely cuter than plain Murray; maybe it's his air of contentedness or the feeling you get that he thinks he's in a little room of his own, untouchable. Maybe it's how he immediately put one of his fur mousies into the box like he was moving in. Who can say?
However, things would only get better. Saturday morning, I was sitting at my computer making my morning rounds of blogs and forums, when Murray trotted over and got into his box. I tried not to pay attention, knowing that if I looked too closely I'd spend the morning cooing at him like an idiot instead of getting my reading done. As I clicked away, it seemed to me that I was hearing a lot of noise coming from down there: *thump* *creak* *shift* *skrooch* etc. It went on for minutes. Finally, my curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked down.
I promptly drooled, fell over, and momentarily blacked out, overwhelmed at the vision of cuteness that lay before me. Somehow, with much wriggling and tucking, Murray had managed to curl himself up into a teeny tiny ball and wedge himself into a sleeping position in the box. One paw hung over the edge; excess belly, with nowhere else to go, bulged in an upward arc from shoulder to haunch; the rim of the box was at just the right height for him to rest his chin on. His eyes were blissfully closed; his face bore an unparalleled expression of rapture. Best of all though: the fur mousie now rested on one of the box flaps, which was folded so as to be parallel to the floor. Like he...like he made a little shelf for his belongings! I'm telling you, I almost died right there.
Since Murray discovered his wedging power, it's been pretty ridiculous around our house. Josh and I spend our days making status reports ("He's in the box! He's turned around! Come look!"), taking picture after picture, and inventing rules and rituals for the Murray-in-a-box cult: 1. When Murray is in the box, it is necessary to insert 'in a box' into each sentence; 2. When Murray is in the box, it is okay to scratch his ears, but not okay to open the kitchen cupboard with his food in it, because that prompts him to get out of the box; and so on. I'm not sure if it's possible for Murray to get any cuter than this, but if it is, don't expect to hear from me again. I'll be too busy building the shrine.
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Here are some pictures of Murray in a box. Please note that these do not even do justice to the ridiculous cuteness of Murray in a box in real life, but they're a good approximation.
Murray getting settled
Murray in a box! So cute!
*This box MOST ASSUREDLY DID NOT contain any Buffy DVDs ordered from Amazon. I'm on a budget here! What do you think I am, completely fiscally irresponsible?
Posted by hilatron at 11:16 AM | Comments (11)