The Book Lady

In an unprecedented — and totally warranted — act of aggression, I am about to use my current computer to purchase its replacement. We require little in a new system. In addition to the very basics, we’d settle for the following features, none of which our current beast has:

1) A monitor that does not make heavy breathing sounds.
2) Volume control that does not sweep up and down at the computer’s whim.
3) The ability to turn it on more than once a week.

Unfortunately, comparison shopping is tough because none of the above qualities are listed as options. I am hoping that means they are now standard, along with enormous hard drives, high-tech flat-screen monitors, and Vista, none of which we need but it seems we’re going to end up with anyway because all but the lowest-quality computers seem to have them now. (Note to self-appointed Mac missionaries: We are not getting one, so don’t bother suggesting it. Thank you.)

Alas, this means new couch for us for a while, since that would make for a pretty scary credit card bill, but the Couch of Death affects me most when I’m also suffering from other allergies (way to kick me when I’m down), so things should get better here soon, and I’ll aim for finding a replacement by next spring instead.

And while we’re more or less still on the subject of computers (Ha! How’s that for a segue?), I have broken down and started another blog, because I quite CLEARLY do not have enough to do. See, much as I like to write, I have other hobbies, too. One of them is sleeping in. Another is eating cookies. And yet another is photography. Since the first two do not make for an interesting series of blog posts, I decided to create a photoblog. After all, as anyone who’s ever known a proud grandparent has learned, photos are more fun when you share them with strangers. Not having any grandkids, I’ve had to settle for taking photos of landscapes, flowers, and other elements of nature. As a nod to my inner grandparent, I’ve even indulged in a few cat photos, although I promise not to overwhelm.

I have eight or nine images on there right now, just to get started and give people an idea of what they’ll see, but I’ve scheduled many more; a new one will appear each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which is really a good deal compared to the biweekly updates on here.

If you’re curious, you can check out the blog, Playing with Pixels, at http://carynsphotos.wordpress.com. To navigate, just click on the right-hand side of the picture to move through to the end of the album, or use the left and right arrows below. You can even subscribe to the RSS feed or receive email updates, just like for this blog, because I like to get fancy like that.

Good afternoon, class. Today’s lesson is on the importance of looking at your food before consuming it. To illustrate, we have a special guest appearance. This cheerful green pepper was sliced open by one of my coworkers during dinner preparations last autumn. Like the Virgin Mary Toast, all evidence of this miraculous occurrence would have been lost had she tossed the pepper core without a glance. Let us all have a moment to pause and reflect on the tragedy and waste so narrowly averted.

Thank you. I hope each and every one of you now understands why it is important to always look before you eat, or slice, or throw away your food. Any questions? Good. Class dismissed.

Now the details, since I know some will ask. First of all, I can vouch for the picture, since I’m the one who took it. That’s my desk underneath it, and my Christmas cactus blooming in the background. How could I not capture it on, uh, pixels, when presented with such a spectacle on a day when I happened to have my camera at work with me? The only retouching consisted of adjusting the lighting (too dark), sharpening (too blurry), rotating (too vertical), cropping (too big), and resizing (again, too big). You can trust me. I’m a writer. I may exaggerate, but I never lie. And, finally, if you’re having trouble getting your bearings, click here for a larger version of the above photo, or here to see the opposite side of the slice.

It has come to my attention that I am now allergic to our couch. This is not wholly unexpected. Spring is in the air, which means if you look at me wrong, I sneeze. With pollens already irritating my sensitivities, it doesn’t take much for anything else to send me over the edge into a reaction — in this case, a couch I purchased for fifty bucks from my ex-boyfriend’s ex-roommate’s ex-girlfriend (really) twelve years ago when she moved to another apartment and didn’t want to take it with her. In addition to a fold-out bed so treacherous it could mangle the strongest back, it houses an assortment of writing implements, several handfuls of change, and enough fur to make a full-grown cat.

Adding another allergen to my repertoire was not one of my goals for this year, no matter how worthy the specimen may be. To be honest, I’m still trying to get used to having allergies in the first place. Thanks to good luck in the lottery we call genetics, penicillin, strawberries, bees, and even poison ivy have never given me so much as a rash, sneeze, cough, or itch.

And then by chance I moved to the desert — the climate that physicians in Ohio (where I grew up) recommended for those sensitive to pollens and the like. Now I gleefully spend every spring sneezing. Which is where the couch comes in (again). When springtime rolls around, and the pollens are at their worst, something in or on the couch, knowing that I am temporarily weak, joins in and gives me hives. Since my husband’s not moving back east, and I won’t move without him, the couch has to be the one to go, because I can handle spring in the desert or I can handle ancient upholstery, but it turns out that I can’t handle both.

This is not a decision to be made lightly, however. I’ve had my sofa over a third of my life — longer than I’ve owned any item of clothing, three times longer than my husband and I have been married, and twenty-four times longer than I’ve had my car. Shabbiness and reaction-inducing upholstery aside, there are some serious attachment issues here. Which means I must a) learn to hate the thing so much I must be rid of it or b) find a replacement I like even better. Since the latter has turned out to be nigh unto impossible, it looks like I’m fully relying on choice number one. Once the Couch of Death (See? I’m trying.) is properly vilified in my mind, maybe it will be easier to send it to the great furniture warehouse in the sky and invite a younger, prettier model into our family room. I’ll even try not to feel too guilty about it, but I’m making no guarantees.

Closeup: Couch of Death + Minion (for scale)
Click on photo for enlarged villainy. It’s probably worth it.

I am in love with my tulips. It was a pre-meditated emotion, although I never expected it to be so strong. Last fall I loaded up a new audio book on my iPod, dumped three hundred dried and ugly bulbs into a large bowl, stirred them, then stepped outside into the cold, windy October day. As the clouds spit occasional drops of rain at my neighborhood, I hacked at the chilled dirt around our house with an ancient trowel and carefully placed bulb after bulb into the loosened soil. This better be worth it, I thought as an icy drop of rain struck the back of my neck, followed immediately by a gust of wind.

Later, after my aching muscles healed and the last lines of the story I’d been listening to faded away, I began to forget which types of plants I’d so carefully buried in the fall-caked soil. I did not try to keep this information, but let it drift along on the same rivers of forgetfulness that have carried away far more important details — friends’ birthdays, state capitals, the proper spelling of hors d’ovouers. ( <– This is not it.)

All winter I eyed the patches of dirt, waiting for signs of stirring. A few days ago we finally had foliage. And today we have these:

I knew I had tulips, but I did not know they would so far surpass the ordinary varietals. They are flanked by grape hyacinths and other purple flowers whose name I’m certain I’ve never known. Other greenery has begun to emerge from the ground all around them. They will soon bear their own flowers, and I will be surprised all over again.

I do so love spring. Especially when I plant ahead for it.

There are three things you should know about my day:

1) It’s Friday.

2) I got to go into work late.

3) While at work, I had to assemble a piece of furniture.

The first is universal, the second is lucky, and the third is capable of canceling out the pleasure of the other two. Oh, the project started out just fine, as all bad ideas do. I sliced open the box, pulled everything out, and got cozy on the floor with all the necessary ingredients: a rubber mallet, a screwdriver, and the recently unboxed parts — including the deceptively labeled ‘Assembly Instructions’. Which is where the project hit the skids. Because as it turns out a job illustrating for this particular company does not require an actual working knowledge of basic drawing skills. My friend Christa has freshman art students who can draw better diagrams than these. Let’s take the ‘cord management system’, for example. Despite the fancy name, which must have required at least mild ingenuity on the part of the writers, the illustrators did not deem it necessary to actually label it on the assembly diagram, which is just not fair. This left me to guess, and guessing + me + hardware = trouble. Which is why it took me over an hour and assistance from a friend with an engineering degree to finally get the thing fully built. Even he was bemused by a few of the directives, so I finally ended up skipping several of the more confusing ones. So far the cart is still standing and the world has crashed to a halt, so I think I’m safe.

Okay, I know I’ve been known to hyperbolize on occasion and I sense that you think I’m doing so now, but I assure you I’m not. And so, for your viewing pleasure, I’ve scanned step one. There are seven more where that came from, but I think this one gets the point across nicely. Just click on the photo if you’d like a larger version. It still won’t make sense, but at least you can say you tried. You can even attempt to find where the elusive ‘cord management system’ is if you’re feeling ambitious.

The good news is that sharing this with you has cheered me up considerably. Indeed, now that I’ve begun to move past the irritation-at-self-and-others stage of this trauma and the cart is fully assembled, I have started to develop a little affection for these instructions — even if the illustrators did cheat. I can even appreciate the fact that no one was injured during the cart-building process.

This will never be my favorite company communique, however, despite its total lack of sense. No, that honor is reserved for the single sheet my husband pulled from a box before assembling the simple wooden magazine rack contained within. The page has resided on our refrigerator ever since:

Yesterday I managed once again to be on the receiving end of a wound of unknown origin. Random injuries are a daily thing for me. If I haven’t managed to hurt myself, break something, or stain a piece of clothing, I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. I am currently in possession of the aforementioned cut (a scratch embedded in the fleshy part of my palm, rendering the comfort of Bandaids impractical), as well as at least four others. I won’t catalogue them for you (because who wants to read a list of cuts, bangs, bruises, and abrasions?), but in the interest of full disclosure I’ll admit that two shirts have also been harmed in the making of this weekend: one last night, splattered by spaghetti sauce (another good reason I don’t often cook) and the second this morning, dipped into my peanut butter toast breakfast.

I’ve resigned myself to this fate and I can’t say it even bothers me all that much, once the initial pain and throbbing reminders are doused by time, medicine, or — in the case of the stained clothing — laundry detergent. There are even a few advantages to a life of accident pronness. (Another thing I’m prone to doing: creating new words.) For one thing, there’s hope that my minor daily pains are a hedge against occasional catastrophic ones. This may be flawed logic — after all, one of my first actions upon this Earth was to undergo open-heart surgery — but I’m optimistic. Other advantages include the bonding that occurs when swapping tales of injuries past, and ever-increasing background knowledge for my writing. Flimsy, yes. But they’re all I’ve got, and since I’ve had this penchant for accidental pain for over thirty years, I’ve learned to appreciate the good points and try not to wonder about tomorrow.

Oh, dear. You’ve really done it, haven’t you? You just fell prey to one of consumerism’s biggest myths — the resealable bag — and now you’re staring at your new purchase, wondering how to get the thing open. What was it? Cheese? Cereal? Doggie treats? Come on, you can confide in me.

Well, no matter what it was, let me tell you a little secret. You are not alone. Those so-called easy-open/easy-close bags? Yeah. They aren’t. And the directions? Ignore them; they encompass only a fraction of the steps you’ll have to take in order to use your product. But I’ll tell you what. I like you, I really do. And so I’ll give you a hand. I’ve been duped, too, after all. I understand. And so, for your tutelage, I will provide sample package directions, followed by the actual steps for opening, and then closing, such bags. Advanced users may wish to skip to steps seven and ten, respectively. Oh, and one more thing, from me to you: next time don’t believe the hype. Okay? No more buying products just because of the package’s ingenious engineering.

What the directions say:

1. To open bag, tear along dotted line.

What the directions mean:

1. Search in vain for mythological pre-torn notch said to enhance tearing power.
2. Give up. Use force in attempt to create notch.
3. Bandage bleeding finger.
4. Attempt to break into bag with teeth.
5. Make appointment with dentist to have chipped tooth repaired.
6. Study bag, looking once more for notorious notch or tear strip. NOTE: The red dashed line along the top is not a clue. It is only there to taunt you.
7. Use scissors.
8. Pull bag open.
9. Perform victory dance.

What the directions say:

1. To seal bag, press closed.

What the directions mean:

1. Clear seal strip of any obstructions, such as product residue, fingers, and air.
2. Line up both sides of strip.
3. Press strip closed.
4. Tug package opening gently to ensure that seal worked.
5. Repeat steps 1-4
6. Vow not to let a simple plastic bag defeat you.
7. Line up both sides of strip.
8. In surge of pragmatism (or is it despair?) press along just two inches of strip, so you haven’t wasted energy when seal continues not to function.
9. Test to ensure seal.*
10. Give up and tape, staple, or clothespin the @&*% thing closed.

*In the unlikely event that the seal works on the smaller section, continue as follows: Finish pressing along strip. Test seal. Realize you forgot to squeeze out all the air. Attempt to open only a small section of strip. Fail. Pick up spilled cheese, cereal, dog treats, etc. Discard. Squeeze air out of bag and begin again from step one above. Repeat as necessary until bag is sealed. NOTE: You may wish to simply skip to step ten.

Blogging memes are like recommendation letters: I’m flattered when someone asks me to write one, but the execution of said assignment is usually more difficult — and often more tedious — than it at first seems. Which is why I never do them. Memes, at least. I’ll still write a recommendation letter, and take a horrifying amount of time making sure that every phrase is perfect and every comma is in its proper position. If you don’t get the job or the college admission, I’d rather not have that on my conscience. A meme, though? I usually just read everybody else’s answers and hope the person who assigned it soon forgets that they tagged me. If I can’t make it interesting, I don’t address it.

Because of this I’ve gained a reputation for lack of follow-through when it comes to blogging memes and email forwards. My friend Katie recently sent around an internet questionnaire in which she answered the question “Which of the recipients of this message is least likely to pass it on?” with, of course, my name. And she was right, because while I read all her answers and even intended to answer them, I never actually brought myself to follow the rules and send it on. Soon it was buried under all the new fodder in my inbox — and, until this very moment, it was buried in my memory, too. (Sorry, Katie.)

This is why when my friend Natalie tagged me for the meme in which I describe my life in six words, it’s no surprise that I vowed to do it and then promptly (almost) forgot about it. But when thoughts of it floated into my mind this afternoon as I was driving home from work, and I realized that the following sentence had exactly six words, I knew I had to follow through. It was too easy not to. Plus, I also don’t like to break promises, even though I knew Natalie was too nice to keep score. So here you go. My life in six words:

Memes and forwards end with me.

And, yes, for such a short meme, I managed to write a lot of words about it. But my task is officially almost over. I’ve done it. And if I can, you can, too. If you’re lucky, maybe you already have. And if you’re unlucky, you’re one of the following people, and have now been given the task of defining your life in six or fewer words: Katie (it’s only fair), Robin, Christa, Emily, Mel. If I didn’t tag you, it’s not because I don’t love you. I do. But I had to stop before I got tag-happy.

Okay, go to it, ladies! If you want. After all, who am I to retaliate if you don’t? Here are the guidelines:

1. Write your own six-word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4. Tag five more blogs with links.
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play. (This last step is optional.)

By the way, if you enjoy six-word memoirs, you check out the book Not Quite What I Had in Mind. It’s a collection of six-word memoirs by some famous — and some not-so-famous — people. I haven’t read it yet, but it sounds intriguing.

For the past week our neighborhood watch program has included a cluster of eight to ten turkey vultures in mid-migration. They hunch in the topmost branches of nearby cottonwood trees, surveying the streets and, I assume, tallying all the cats and small dogs in the area. Every hour or two they fling themselves from the still-bare branches, circle in the air for a time, and then choose another perch a block or two from the previous one, where they then rest, as still and studious as understudies for the role of gargoyle on a French cathedral.

I first saw them last week as I raked my garden patch before planting this year’s set of sugar snap peas. At the time they were circling ominously over the next block of houses, apparently waiting for something to die. Now they lie in wait in our next-to-next-door neighbor’s cottonwood, forty feet in the air, facing our house. If they didn’t portend death and destruction, I’d enjoy how seriously they take themselves, all the while looking like giants at a tea party, over-sized and out-of-place on the thin, bent branches on which they’ve chosen to balance.

Instead, I’m becoming nervous. You see, this has been quite the week, and a wake of buzzards* watching over my vicinity does not help. I’m certain that they know these last few days have weakened me and are just waiting for me to keel over and provide their next meal. Indeed, by Wednesday I felt as if I’d been hit by a truck and left for the predators. By Thursday I almost envied that fate. Late yesterday afternoon I slogged in the door, arms full of work I’d dragged home from the office, and immediately collapsed on the living room couch, hoping the vultures wouldn’t think I’d finally bought the farm and come for the celebratory feast. The first half of next week is looking like more of the same. I know they’re not killers and a human is some pretty big prey, but I’m afraid to sleep now, lest they misinterpret my actions as death and I become buzzard food.

In other news, a few days ago I did manage to stomp this spider in its first encore performance in over two months, so there is that. And, no, there’s no proof that this is the very same one that terrorized me lo these many months ago, but this is what I choose to believe, so speculation and actual facts are not necessary. This, by the way, is a different incident from the one in the previous post. (In addition to attracting vultures, tourists, and yippy dogs, our town is a haven for spiders of all stripes and sizes. It’s truly delightful — if you happen to be an entomologist.) No, in fact, my cats wouldn’t touch the one I killed, even after it was dead.

The vultures might, though. If things get really bad next week, maybe I’ll find the spider’s body in the trash and toss it outside to distract them while I limp away in the opposite direction. That may give me a little time to recover. Seeing as they know where I live, sticking around here may not be the best of plans.

*Yes, a flock of buzzards is really called a “wake”. I loves that oh, so very much.

Well, we are now nearly three full months into 2008, and guess which one of the following I still have not done? Go on, circle one:

a) Licked an envelope and received a paper cut on my tongue.

b) Roasted Peeps over an open campfire.

c) Started my diet yet again.

d) Stood under a dripping eave to photograph the snow covering my newly-hatched crocuses, just like a photojournalist in a war zone.

e) Used my cat’s paw to kill a spider when he wouldn’t get around to killing it himself.

If you guessed c you are, unfortunately, correct. And I did so well last year, losing twenty pounds, developing a rather scary craving for veggies, and upping my exercise tolerance by a factor of ten. Turns out such habits take maintenance — unlike a habit of scarfing chocolate and lounging on the couch, which comes naturally.

Oh, no. I just realized where this post is going. See, now, this is the problem with blogging. I start out with an innocent little quiz about my ever-increasing girth, and suddenly I realize that I now must promise to improve, since there’s little point to baseless whining. (Okay, there is — it makes me feel better — but I do try not to subject you to it. Which means I need a point.)

Fine, then. Here’s my vow: By the middle of July I will lose those seven stubborn pounds that sneaked back over the winter. And since I’m announcing it to these here internets and, more specifically, to you, that means I’ve got some accountability. Okay. That’s fine. I can take it. You now have permission to ask me at any time how my healthful lifestyle goal is going, and I promise to try to answer nicely. In the meantime, I’m slinking back to Sparkpeople to begin my diet and exercise regime again. Here’s hoping they’ll take me back.