Anyone who knows me knows that I loooooove my Honda, Bernard. He is a beautiful white 1998 Honda EX. I named him after Bernard from The Rescuers and The Rescuers Down Under.
After the winter of 2015-2016, Bernard's issues trickled away. However, in 2017, they ramped up again. While my mechanic's service has been...less than satisfactory in recent times, a large part of things was that Bernard is just getting old. He turned 20 in May.
Anyway, during December and January, he was in and out of the shop. Every cold morning that he wouldn't start or didn't drive well was a sore blow to me. I had to get to work. Taking the bus was freezing, added one to two hours to my commute time each day, and required planning so that I could get up suuuper early and leave work a bit early, too. Taking one of my parents' cars was only possible on the days that their spare car would start (said spare car doesn't do well in the cold).
It was frustrating. I was not happy. And one January morning when my parents were kind enough to take Bernard to the mechanic for me, they called me to tell me that he needed $900 worth of repairs to fix his radiator and keep him from overheating.
Now, Bernard's not worth very much these days. We stopped insuring him shortly before this. So hearing that he needed repairs that far exceeded his own value made my radiator break down. In a matter of speaking. I was certainly overheating from irritation and a bit of anger. This was the fifth or sixth time I'd brought Bernard to the mechanic in the space of not very many weeks, and I was tired of pouring money into my beloved but dying car.
In a moment of impulsiveness, I burst out, "Then tell them not to go ahead with the repairs, because I will be buying a new car!"
I will tell you more about the car-buying process later, but for now, I will merely say that I miraculously managed to obtain a new car that same week. It's the quickest turn-around I've ever had on a big life decision.
Once I had a new car, the next natural step was to get rid of Bernard, right? Well...I really didn't want to! I had plans to donate him to a high school shop program (since his resell value wasn't enough to try to find a buyer, although in November I'd bought him new snow tires, which I had removed since they were worth more than the entire car). But the shop teacher was rather busy/flaky—I was pretty busy/flaky besides being reluctant—so it took four months to finally part with my sweet, sweet Bernard. He's only been gone a couple of weeks, and I miss him dearly.
Goodbye, my beautiful Bernard. We had many good times together. I'll never, ever forget you!
Showing posts with label talking to inanimate objects. Show all posts
Showing posts with label talking to inanimate objects. Show all posts
Thursday, June 7, 2018
Monday, March 5, 2018
Tales of My Appendix
I ended this post by saying I was going to bed.
But I didn't. I laid awake for two more hours, feeling crummy and discouraged. Eventually, I forced myself to get up and get ready for bed...because my stomach hurt and I had to use the restroom.
Like most people, my stomach hurts from time to time. Sometimes I wake up with a stomach issue and have to medicate. It's usually not a big deal. This time, though, I decided not to medicate. I just went to bed like I'd promised my blog audience I would...albeit belatedly.
Two hours later, I woke up. Because nausea. I went to the restroom, thinking that if I used the toilet or threw up, I'd feel a lot better and everything would be okay. But it turned out that I couldn't use the toilet or throw up...not for lack of trying. I was on my knees on the cold tile, forcing myself to dry heave over the toilet bowl, when I realized that I wasn't nauseated anymore. My stomach just really...hurt.
I thought back over the last few hours. Come to think of it, eating dinner had been a chore because I wasn't hungry. I'd assumed that was because I'd eaten the same thing for every meal for a week straight (one of the joys of cooking for one and having leftovers), but maybe I'd actually been sick? Food poisoning? After eating the same thing for every meal, it seemed unlikely that food poisoning would be striking now. And food poisoning usually meant vomiting, not intense pain...
I grabbed my phone and entered "intense stomach pain below belly button." A few results came up, but only one caught my eye: "appendicitis."
And for some reason, I was like, "Yup. That's it. That's the one. I'm going to have to get my appendix out."
Cool as a cucumber with intense stomach pain (which is not that cool, tbh), I called my mom. It was three a.m., but she still answered.
I explained my symptoms and said something like, "What if I have appendicitis?"
She told me to go back to bed and that if I still felt the pain in the morning, she'd take me to her clinic for some tests.
"What do you mean by morning?" It was, after all, three a.m.
"Whatever time you normally get up." She told me not to eat or drink anything. Not that I was going to do that, anyway. Once again, medicating did not seem like the right course of action, and the only reason I'd eat or drink was to medicate. I was distinctly not hungry.
I hung up and, calmly, lay back down. I was in too much pain to sleep. After about forty-five minutes, I texted my mom to let her know that the pain had moved exclusively to the right side of my stomach. After an hour and fifteen minutes, I realized that I wasn't tired at all and that the temple would be open in the next forty-five minutes or so. I'd desperately wanted to go to the temple all week (re: feeling crummy and discouraged), but I wasn't sure I'd be able to. This could be the perfect time! I excitedly got to my feet to get ready and then realized that standing was a mistake. I got back into bed and realized that was a mistake, too. Any time I moved positions, I hurt. The only thing I could do was lie on my back quietly and hold very still. Nix to the temple.
Eventually, I drifted off for an hour or so. Then it was time to get up.
I'm blessed with a rather hyperactive imagination. I wouldn't say I'm a dramatic person, but I do sometimes entertain extremes, probably because extremes are far more interesting than moderation. Because I know this about myself, I have a habit of counterbalancing my extremes. As I got ready to leave the house, I reminded myself that I didn't know if I had appendicitis, that this could just be a bad stomachache, that I could be jumping to conclusions, and so on and so forth. When I emailed work to let them know I wasn't coming, I said nothing about my appendix. When I dropped my car at the mechanic's (as I'd been planning to do that day for a week), I explained that I would probably be unavailable as I was going to the doctor and possibly the emergency room. It was only after the mechanic pressed me for details that I said I might have appendicitis. When I got to my parents' house, I listened to my mother's medical spiel.
"Hmmm," said my mom. "You don't have any release pain, which is unusual for appendicitis." She mentioned a couple other symptoms I was lacking or that I had but which didn't jive with appendicitis.
I listened to her, because she was the medical professional. But I was surprised by her commentary. I still had a feeling that I couldn't shake that told me I was suffering from appendicitis.
I went to my mom's clinic as soon as it opened. As the nurse on duty, she ran some tests. She also made me put on a hospital gown, which was a new thing that has never happened to me.
The doctor then showed up to poke a little and prod a little and tell me what my tests said. The tests did not say, "You have appendicitis and should go to the ER." They said, "Normal. Normal. You're completely normal. Your white blood cell count is at 11, which is at the high end of normal. The only slightly abnormal thing is that 85% of the white blood cells in your body are cells for fighting infection."
Again, I was taken aback. Because my gut feeling still told me (in more ways than one) that appendicitis was the answer. But maybe I was crazy? Or just not a doctor. Maybe I was just being a big ol' wimp about a big ol' stomachache.
The doctor said, "You have two options. You can go to the ER now and just have them double check things. Or you can go home and see if your pain gets any worse and then go to the ER if it does. Are you okay with that plan?"
And I was all, "Sorry, but which one of those things did you want me to do?"
The doctor hesitated. I've met some of the doctors my mom works with. Let me tell you, they are not humble people. This doctor seemed different, because he opened his mouth and said something not at all based on medical science: "If it were my daughter, I'd want her to go to the ER just to be safe."
So off I went to the ER, frantically texting along the way. Letting all interested parties that I had to go to the emergency room. Still not saying anything for sure but dropping phrases like "suspected appendicitis" just to prepare everybody in case my feelings were right.
I got to the ER and checked in. They give me a nifty little ER bracelet. My dad, who'd left work to come with me, didn't get a bracelet. But he didn't have to put on a hospital gown, either. Or get hooked up to 10,000 different machines. Or have to answer a lot of invasive and repetitive questions about health issues. Happily, I was able to say that apart from an abnormal year of migraines, ankle deformities, and UTIs, I am spectacularly healthy.
The questions unearthed a few things. Namely that it still looked like I didn't have appendicitis. There were the underwhelming blood test results...the lack of release pain...the fact that I endured the pain quite well without meds...the fact that the pain was ebbing and flowing somewhat...no fever...huh.
But I was in the ER, where they pinpoint a diagnosis at all costs, so they tucked me under a warm blanket, gave me some morphine, and told me to wait because I was going to have a CT scan in the near future.
Some people like narcotics because they make them happy. I knew from experience (wisdom teeth removal) that narcotics do not make me happy. All the morphine did was give me some kind of throat-swelling panic attack (?) and then make me slightly groggy. It didn't even seem to help much with the pain. It also made the CT scan feel a little surreal. I remember being wheeled in my hospital bed to the CT scan room (it was like a roller coaster! but in a bed!), but the CT scan itself is something I can't recount with confidence.
I do remember that not long after, the doctor came and said, "I hope you're not too attached to your appendix!"
The CT scan confirmed: it was inflamed and had to come out!
I don't know how to explain how I knew I had to get my appendix out long before medical science showed it. It was unlike any other spiritual impression I've ever had. It didn't come because I'd inquired of the Lord, and it didn't come with warm fuzzies. It was just...there. It didn't even really feel very spiritual. My mom said she had a similar experience. While my dad was sitting with me in the ER, my mom was making arrangements to leave work and come take his place. She wanted to be with me when I went in to surgery.
In any case, if I'd waited until my pain was more symptomatic of appendicitis to seek treatment, my appendix probably would have ruptured. I would then have had to be rushed to the ER and may not have made it through. I was definitely being watched out for.
So there I was, miraculously already in the ER to be treated preemptively. I had also miraculously not eaten anything since the night before, so I was ready for surgery whenever they could squeeze me in. The downside was that since I'd come in before the danger was imminent, my emergency surgery was not-so-emergency. I ended up waiting a good fourish hours, and they were loooooong. I passed the time by texting (almost) everyone I knew and by getting up to speed on the surgery, which was laparoscopic. Which sounds kind of like a Christian denomination and not a surgery. But it really just means that instead of giving me one long incision, they were going to cut me open in three places and insert a camera for visibility. I was informed that it should be clean and quick since my appendix was unruptured. Also that the surgeon was going to adjust the anesthesia since the drug usually used had a marginal relationship to a drug I'm allergic to.
They were very nice to me while I waited. They moved me to a private room and assigned me some nice staff members. Mom and I were both bored out of our minds, but presently I was wheeled down to surgery. I was introduced to my surgeon and the anesthesiologist, whom I liked and trusted immediately. I didn't have too much anxiety about the surgery itself...until we went to go do it. Then I was seriously reconsidering whether I could just live with an inflamed appendix. (Medical science says I probably couldn't have. Medical science doesn't know how I am when I set my mind to something.) Anyway, the anesthesiologist said it was his job to watch me the whole time and keep me safe, and I felt okay about commending my life into his hands.
They wheeled me to the operating room and helped me move onto the operating "bed" (a squishy table covered with paper and two pillows, one under my head and one under my knees). They started hooking me up to things.
The anesthesiologist put an oxygen mask over my face. I remember thinking that I did not feel tired at all and wondering when the anesthesia would kick in. That's the last thing I remember before the surgery took place.
But I didn't. I laid awake for two more hours, feeling crummy and discouraged. Eventually, I forced myself to get up and get ready for bed...because my stomach hurt and I had to use the restroom.
Like most people, my stomach hurts from time to time. Sometimes I wake up with a stomach issue and have to medicate. It's usually not a big deal. This time, though, I decided not to medicate. I just went to bed like I'd promised my blog audience I would...albeit belatedly.
Two hours later, I woke up. Because nausea. I went to the restroom, thinking that if I used the toilet or threw up, I'd feel a lot better and everything would be okay. But it turned out that I couldn't use the toilet or throw up...not for lack of trying. I was on my knees on the cold tile, forcing myself to dry heave over the toilet bowl, when I realized that I wasn't nauseated anymore. My stomach just really...hurt.
I thought back over the last few hours. Come to think of it, eating dinner had been a chore because I wasn't hungry. I'd assumed that was because I'd eaten the same thing for every meal for a week straight (one of the joys of cooking for one and having leftovers), but maybe I'd actually been sick? Food poisoning? After eating the same thing for every meal, it seemed unlikely that food poisoning would be striking now. And food poisoning usually meant vomiting, not intense pain...
I grabbed my phone and entered "intense stomach pain below belly button." A few results came up, but only one caught my eye: "appendicitis."
And for some reason, I was like, "Yup. That's it. That's the one. I'm going to have to get my appendix out."
Cool as a cucumber with intense stomach pain (which is not that cool, tbh), I called my mom. It was three a.m., but she still answered.
I explained my symptoms and said something like, "What if I have appendicitis?"
She told me to go back to bed and that if I still felt the pain in the morning, she'd take me to her clinic for some tests.
"What do you mean by morning?" It was, after all, three a.m.
"Whatever time you normally get up." She told me not to eat or drink anything. Not that I was going to do that, anyway. Once again, medicating did not seem like the right course of action, and the only reason I'd eat or drink was to medicate. I was distinctly not hungry.
I hung up and, calmly, lay back down. I was in too much pain to sleep. After about forty-five minutes, I texted my mom to let her know that the pain had moved exclusively to the right side of my stomach. After an hour and fifteen minutes, I realized that I wasn't tired at all and that the temple would be open in the next forty-five minutes or so. I'd desperately wanted to go to the temple all week (re: feeling crummy and discouraged), but I wasn't sure I'd be able to. This could be the perfect time! I excitedly got to my feet to get ready and then realized that standing was a mistake. I got back into bed and realized that was a mistake, too. Any time I moved positions, I hurt. The only thing I could do was lie on my back quietly and hold very still. Nix to the temple.
Eventually, I drifted off for an hour or so. Then it was time to get up.
I'm blessed with a rather hyperactive imagination. I wouldn't say I'm a dramatic person, but I do sometimes entertain extremes, probably because extremes are far more interesting than moderation. Because I know this about myself, I have a habit of counterbalancing my extremes. As I got ready to leave the house, I reminded myself that I didn't know if I had appendicitis, that this could just be a bad stomachache, that I could be jumping to conclusions, and so on and so forth. When I emailed work to let them know I wasn't coming, I said nothing about my appendix. When I dropped my car at the mechanic's (as I'd been planning to do that day for a week), I explained that I would probably be unavailable as I was going to the doctor and possibly the emergency room. It was only after the mechanic pressed me for details that I said I might have appendicitis. When I got to my parents' house, I listened to my mother's medical spiel.
"Hmmm," said my mom. "You don't have any release pain, which is unusual for appendicitis." She mentioned a couple other symptoms I was lacking or that I had but which didn't jive with appendicitis.
I listened to her, because she was the medical professional. But I was surprised by her commentary. I still had a feeling that I couldn't shake that told me I was suffering from appendicitis.
I went to my mom's clinic as soon as it opened. As the nurse on duty, she ran some tests. She also made me put on a hospital gown, which was a new thing that has never happened to me.
The doctor then showed up to poke a little and prod a little and tell me what my tests said. The tests did not say, "You have appendicitis and should go to the ER." They said, "Normal. Normal. You're completely normal. Your white blood cell count is at 11, which is at the high end of normal. The only slightly abnormal thing is that 85% of the white blood cells in your body are cells for fighting infection."
Again, I was taken aback. Because my gut feeling still told me (in more ways than one) that appendicitis was the answer. But maybe I was crazy? Or just not a doctor. Maybe I was just being a big ol' wimp about a big ol' stomachache.
The doctor said, "You have two options. You can go to the ER now and just have them double check things. Or you can go home and see if your pain gets any worse and then go to the ER if it does. Are you okay with that plan?"
And I was all, "Sorry, but which one of those things did you want me to do?"
The doctor hesitated. I've met some of the doctors my mom works with. Let me tell you, they are not humble people. This doctor seemed different, because he opened his mouth and said something not at all based on medical science: "If it were my daughter, I'd want her to go to the ER just to be safe."
So off I went to the ER, frantically texting along the way. Letting all interested parties that I had to go to the emergency room. Still not saying anything for sure but dropping phrases like "suspected appendicitis" just to prepare everybody in case my feelings were right.
I got to the ER and checked in. They give me a nifty little ER bracelet. My dad, who'd left work to come with me, didn't get a bracelet. But he didn't have to put on a hospital gown, either. Or get hooked up to 10,000 different machines. Or have to answer a lot of invasive and repetitive questions about health issues. Happily, I was able to say that apart from an abnormal year of migraines, ankle deformities, and UTIs, I am spectacularly healthy.
The questions unearthed a few things. Namely that it still looked like I didn't have appendicitis. There were the underwhelming blood test results...the lack of release pain...the fact that I endured the pain quite well without meds...the fact that the pain was ebbing and flowing somewhat...no fever...huh.
But I was in the ER, where they pinpoint a diagnosis at all costs, so they tucked me under a warm blanket, gave me some morphine, and told me to wait because I was going to have a CT scan in the near future.
Some people like narcotics because they make them happy. I knew from experience (wisdom teeth removal) that narcotics do not make me happy. All the morphine did was give me some kind of throat-swelling panic attack (?) and then make me slightly groggy. It didn't even seem to help much with the pain. It also made the CT scan feel a little surreal. I remember being wheeled in my hospital bed to the CT scan room (it was like a roller coaster! but in a bed!), but the CT scan itself is something I can't recount with confidence.
I do remember that not long after, the doctor came and said, "I hope you're not too attached to your appendix!"
The CT scan confirmed: it was inflamed and had to come out!
I don't know how to explain how I knew I had to get my appendix out long before medical science showed it. It was unlike any other spiritual impression I've ever had. It didn't come because I'd inquired of the Lord, and it didn't come with warm fuzzies. It was just...there. It didn't even really feel very spiritual. My mom said she had a similar experience. While my dad was sitting with me in the ER, my mom was making arrangements to leave work and come take his place. She wanted to be with me when I went in to surgery.
In any case, if I'd waited until my pain was more symptomatic of appendicitis to seek treatment, my appendix probably would have ruptured. I would then have had to be rushed to the ER and may not have made it through. I was definitely being watched out for.
So there I was, miraculously already in the ER to be treated preemptively. I had also miraculously not eaten anything since the night before, so I was ready for surgery whenever they could squeeze me in. The downside was that since I'd come in before the danger was imminent, my emergency surgery was not-so-emergency. I ended up waiting a good fourish hours, and they were loooooong. I passed the time by texting (almost) everyone I knew and by getting up to speed on the surgery, which was laparoscopic. Which sounds kind of like a Christian denomination and not a surgery. But it really just means that instead of giving me one long incision, they were going to cut me open in three places and insert a camera for visibility. I was informed that it should be clean and quick since my appendix was unruptured. Also that the surgeon was going to adjust the anesthesia since the drug usually used had a marginal relationship to a drug I'm allergic to.
They were very nice to me while I waited. They moved me to a private room and assigned me some nice staff members. Mom and I were both bored out of our minds, but presently I was wheeled down to surgery. I was introduced to my surgeon and the anesthesiologist, whom I liked and trusted immediately. I didn't have too much anxiety about the surgery itself...until we went to go do it. Then I was seriously reconsidering whether I could just live with an inflamed appendix. (Medical science says I probably couldn't have. Medical science doesn't know how I am when I set my mind to something.) Anyway, the anesthesiologist said it was his job to watch me the whole time and keep me safe, and I felt okay about commending my life into his hands.
They wheeled me to the operating room and helped me move onto the operating "bed" (a squishy table covered with paper and two pillows, one under my head and one under my knees). They started hooking me up to things.
The anesthesiologist put an oxygen mask over my face. I remember thinking that I did not feel tired at all and wondering when the anesthesia would kick in. That's the last thing I remember before the surgery took place.
Thursday, June 29, 2017
Blogger and Bliss
My laptop, Bliss, has lived up to her name reasonably well.
She hasn't had any unexpected battery issues. She doesn't take 20 minutes to load up, either. She is rather low on storage space, though, and also she came equipped with this disembodied voice called Cortana who's kind of like Siri except that every time I log onto Bliss, Cortana, like, offers to make me dinner reservations and stuff.
It's a nice gesture, but I've repeatedly told her that I don't need her to make me any reservations. Girlfriend just can't take a hint.
All those issues aside, Bliss and Blogger are apparently in a feud.
Since yesterday, Bliss has refused to load the part of my Blogger dashboard from which I write posts. At first I just thought that Blogger's engineers had finally given up. They seemed to have stopped updating the site long ago. They did come up with the Blogger app, but my iPhone keeps informing me that the Blogger app hasn't been updated in a while and will be incompatible with the next version of iOS. I don't know what, exactly, is keeping the site hobbling along like it is. However, I soon discovered that I could still post to the blog—just not, apparently, from Bliss.
Now, in some instances I have used technical issues as an excuse to not be diligent about posting. But in this instance, I am going to commit myself to getting the following blog posts out over the next two weeks (that is, between now and Saturday the 15th):
-Little Sister's Wedding (already underway)
-Escapé
-In Which I Sleep in the Back Seat of a Car
There will probably also be something about the Fourth of July in there, but I'm not going to commit that much.
She hasn't had any unexpected battery issues. She doesn't take 20 minutes to load up, either. She is rather low on storage space, though, and also she came equipped with this disembodied voice called Cortana who's kind of like Siri except that every time I log onto Bliss, Cortana, like, offers to make me dinner reservations and stuff.
It's a nice gesture, but I've repeatedly told her that I don't need her to make me any reservations. Girlfriend just can't take a hint.
All those issues aside, Bliss and Blogger are apparently in a feud.
Since yesterday, Bliss has refused to load the part of my Blogger dashboard from which I write posts. At first I just thought that Blogger's engineers had finally given up. They seemed to have stopped updating the site long ago. They did come up with the Blogger app, but my iPhone keeps informing me that the Blogger app hasn't been updated in a while and will be incompatible with the next version of iOS. I don't know what, exactly, is keeping the site hobbling along like it is. However, I soon discovered that I could still post to the blog—just not, apparently, from Bliss.
Now, in some instances I have used technical issues as an excuse to not be diligent about posting. But in this instance, I am going to commit myself to getting the following blog posts out over the next two weeks (that is, between now and Saturday the 15th):
-Little Sister's Wedding (already underway)
-Escapé
-In Which I Sleep in the Back Seat of a Car
There will probably also be something about the Fourth of July in there, but I'm not going to commit that much.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
No Go Snow
My weather app is very eager to please, but also very wrong.
WEATHER APP: It's snowing! Right now! Look out for the snow!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Gosh! (goes outside) Um...weather app...it's not snowing.
WEATHER APP: Snowing!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...no.
WEATHER APP: Right now!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...no.
WEATHER APP: Oh.
...
...
...
WEATHER APP: In one hour!
In short, I woke up 5 a.m. the other day, thinking I would have ride the bus to work to avoid the winter storm my weather app eagerly promised.
Did it snow? No. No, it did not. Not when I woke up. Not when I went back to sleep due to a lack of snow. Not when I ate breakfast two hours later. Not when I left my apartment at 7:40. Not on my way to work. Not while I was working (I sit near a window). Not when I left work at 5 p.m.
WEATHER APP: Snowing! Snowing soon!
An hour later...still nothing.
Finally, late that night, it started snowing. I set my alarm for 5:00 a.m. again and checked my app when I got up. The app said it had stopped snowing, so I went back to sleep.
When I did get up and went to work, I discovered that even though it hadn't snowed for hours, most of the roads were not sufficiently cleared, and it was Snowcopalypse. Everyone drove to work in a manner reminiscent of Bambi learning to skate.
Now, in addition to the weather app, I'm constantly checking road conditions and traffic times, trying to accurately gauge what kind of fate I'll meet whenever I step outside.
In short, winter is no fun.
WEATHER APP: It's snowing! Right now! Look out for the snow!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Gosh! (goes outside) Um...weather app...it's not snowing.
WEATHER APP: Snowing!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...no.
WEATHER APP: Right now!
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: ...no.
WEATHER APP: Oh.
...
...
...
WEATHER APP: In one hour!
In short, I woke up 5 a.m. the other day, thinking I would have ride the bus to work to avoid the winter storm my weather app eagerly promised.
Did it snow? No. No, it did not. Not when I woke up. Not when I went back to sleep due to a lack of snow. Not when I ate breakfast two hours later. Not when I left my apartment at 7:40. Not on my way to work. Not while I was working (I sit near a window). Not when I left work at 5 p.m.
WEATHER APP: Snowing! Snowing soon!
An hour later...still nothing.
Finally, late that night, it started snowing. I set my alarm for 5:00 a.m. again and checked my app when I got up. The app said it had stopped snowing, so I went back to sleep.
When I did get up and went to work, I discovered that even though it hadn't snowed for hours, most of the roads were not sufficiently cleared, and it was Snowcopalypse. Everyone drove to work in a manner reminiscent of Bambi learning to skate.
Now, in addition to the weather app, I'm constantly checking road conditions and traffic times, trying to accurately gauge what kind of fate I'll meet whenever I step outside.
In short, winter is no fun.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
It's Locked
Over the past several months, I've had several conversations where I've mentioned Nancy Drew computer games, and the people I'm talking to are like, "What?"
Apparently, there are a lot of people who don't know about these wonderful PC games. My parents didn't have a gaming system when I was growing up. So while my peers were playing Nintendo games where a plumber and his brother drive race cars with a dinosaur and a princess, I was solving mysteries and fighting crime with Nancy Drew, girl detective. And when I say, "me," I mean, "me and my little sisters who were watching me play."
So, lest you be unfamiliar with the ways of Nancy Drew, here are a few things you should know about these amazing games:
1. Nancy's always in danger.
Which you already know if you know anything about Nancy Drew. Girl's a danger magnet. Just look at these Nancy Drew game titles:
#2: Stay Tuned for Danger
#9: Danger on Deception Island
#14: Danger by Design
I'm just waiting for the game titled Danger. Or more descriptive, Dangerous Danger.
2. There's always unexpected entertainment.
Nancy says weird stuff. Like, really weird stuff. And she talks to herself a lot. And to inanimate objects. And every time she finds a locked door, there's this jiggling-lock noise. And then Nancy says, in this dreary monotone voice, "It's locked."
She does that every. Single. Time. She finds a locked door. Which is a lot of times. And as far as I can tell, they use the exact same sound clip in all 30+ games, so she says it with the exact same inflection every time.
Also, in one game, whenever you sent Nancy into the bathroom to wash her hands, she would quote another game. Or sing a song about a guy named Mystico.
3. You will be challenged.
When you're Nancy "Danger" Drew, you have to do all sorts of challenging stuff. Some of the challenges are things that the game provides resources to help you with, like organizing ancient Mayan artifacts or translating French words using a tourist dictionary. But some challenges come with zero instructions, like that time in Stay Tuned for Danger where you have to defuse a bomb. You have to figure out what tools to use to defuse the bomb, and how to defuse the bomb without blowing it up, and you have to do those things before the bomb explodes in your (well, Nancy's) face.
Also, sometimes the clues you need are extremely well-hidden. Once, we couldn't find a clue to help Nancy open an electric panel, so I decided to write out all the possible combinations that could be entered in the lock. We then tried each one of them until we found the one that opened the panel. The process was an exquisite mixture of agony and accomplishment.
4. You will feel smart.
The structure of the game allows you to try ridiculous things. Like putting poisoned jellyfish on other people's sandwiches. Or untying a chandelier and watching it break into a bazillion pieces. Sometimes, Little Sister and I will try something unbelievably ridiculous, only to discover that it actually is a good move. Once we clicked on a pair of chattering teeth like a hundred times. Imagine our surprise when we heard a clucking sound and found an Easter egg in our inventory! And yes, in Nancy Drew, Easter eggs are literally Easter eggs.
Also, at the end of every game, you confront and defeat the villain. Little Sister and I are quite fond of predicting how Nancy will beat the villain. We've gotten very good at it. Last time we predicted that a marshmallow-eating alligator, which was correct, but did not predict that said alligator would swallow the very valuable crystal skull, which happened. Well, you can't win 'em all.
5. But you will become even smarter.
Because Nancy Drew games are set in the real world, they contain all sorts of interesting information that actually isn't as useless as you might think. In the Nancy Drew games, I've learned information about world history, regions, and cultures that has helped me in school classes and in my travels. Which further emphasizes the truth that learning can be fun. And/or you can force people to learn stuff as long as you put it in computer games.
6. You will get creeped out.
The first several Nancy Drew games share most of the same soundtrack. The theme song, which plays in the background of several scenes in those games, goes something like this: "Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. DOO doo, Doo doo, DOO doo doo doo-oo-oo."
And now that you perfectly understand my lyrical rendition of said theme song, you can agree that it's a bit creepy. It always made me and my sisters feel a little...uneasy. But we knew that Nancy was really in danger when the music would get really fast and wild with a lot of percussion and crescendo!
The summer that Baby Brother was born, Bessie stayed with us for two weeks while her parents were in South America. She watched us play Secret of the Haunted Mansion.
"There's a ghost that sometimes appears in that mirror," Little Sister and I told Bessie, "and it's really scary."
Older Sister was skeptical. "These games aren't that scary."
Then the ghost appeared in the mirror. Everyone, including Older Sister, screamed.
Well, there you have it. I hope I've convinced you of the wonderfulness of Nancy Drew computer games. Because they truly are wonderful. In fact, they are so wonderful that I feel about ready to do some sleuthing in real life.
Earlier this week, Little Sister and I had this conversation:
If we ever end up doing it, the first thing I'm going to do is test the lock and then announce drearily, "It's locked."
Apparently, there are a lot of people who don't know about these wonderful PC games. My parents didn't have a gaming system when I was growing up. So while my peers were playing Nintendo games where a plumber and his brother drive race cars with a dinosaur and a princess, I was solving mysteries and fighting crime with Nancy Drew, girl detective. And when I say, "me," I mean, "me and my little sisters who were watching me play."
So, lest you be unfamiliar with the ways of Nancy Drew, here are a few things you should know about these amazing games:
1. Nancy's always in danger.
Which you already know if you know anything about Nancy Drew. Girl's a danger magnet. Just look at these Nancy Drew game titles:
#2: Stay Tuned for Danger
#9: Danger on Deception Island
#14: Danger by Design
I'm just waiting for the game titled Danger. Or more descriptive, Dangerous Danger.
2. There's always unexpected entertainment.
Nancy says weird stuff. Like, really weird stuff. And she talks to herself a lot. And to inanimate objects. And every time she finds a locked door, there's this jiggling-lock noise. And then Nancy says, in this dreary monotone voice, "It's locked."
She does that every. Single. Time. She finds a locked door. Which is a lot of times. And as far as I can tell, they use the exact same sound clip in all 30+ games, so she says it with the exact same inflection every time.
Also, in one game, whenever you sent Nancy into the bathroom to wash her hands, she would quote another game. Or sing a song about a guy named Mystico.
3. You will be challenged.
When you're Nancy "Danger" Drew, you have to do all sorts of challenging stuff. Some of the challenges are things that the game provides resources to help you with, like organizing ancient Mayan artifacts or translating French words using a tourist dictionary. But some challenges come with zero instructions, like that time in Stay Tuned for Danger where you have to defuse a bomb. You have to figure out what tools to use to defuse the bomb, and how to defuse the bomb without blowing it up, and you have to do those things before the bomb explodes in your (well, Nancy's) face.
Also, sometimes the clues you need are extremely well-hidden. Once, we couldn't find a clue to help Nancy open an electric panel, so I decided to write out all the possible combinations that could be entered in the lock. We then tried each one of them until we found the one that opened the panel. The process was an exquisite mixture of agony and accomplishment.
4. You will feel smart.
The structure of the game allows you to try ridiculous things. Like putting poisoned jellyfish on other people's sandwiches. Or untying a chandelier and watching it break into a bazillion pieces. Sometimes, Little Sister and I will try something unbelievably ridiculous, only to discover that it actually is a good move. Once we clicked on a pair of chattering teeth like a hundred times. Imagine our surprise when we heard a clucking sound and found an Easter egg in our inventory! And yes, in Nancy Drew, Easter eggs are literally Easter eggs.
Also, at the end of every game, you confront and defeat the villain. Little Sister and I are quite fond of predicting how Nancy will beat the villain. We've gotten very good at it. Last time we predicted that a marshmallow-eating alligator, which was correct, but did not predict that said alligator would swallow the very valuable crystal skull, which happened. Well, you can't win 'em all.
5. But you will become even smarter.
Because Nancy Drew games are set in the real world, they contain all sorts of interesting information that actually isn't as useless as you might think. In the Nancy Drew games, I've learned information about world history, regions, and cultures that has helped me in school classes and in my travels. Which further emphasizes the truth that learning can be fun. And/or you can force people to learn stuff as long as you put it in computer games.
6. You will get creeped out.
The first several Nancy Drew games share most of the same soundtrack. The theme song, which plays in the background of several scenes in those games, goes something like this: "Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. Doo-doo-doo-doo doo-doo-doo-doo. DOO doo, Doo doo, DOO doo doo doo-oo-oo."
And now that you perfectly understand my lyrical rendition of said theme song, you can agree that it's a bit creepy. It always made me and my sisters feel a little...uneasy. But we knew that Nancy was really in danger when the music would get really fast and wild with a lot of percussion and crescendo!
The summer that Baby Brother was born, Bessie stayed with us for two weeks while her parents were in South America. She watched us play Secret of the Haunted Mansion.
"There's a ghost that sometimes appears in that mirror," Little Sister and I told Bessie, "and it's really scary."
Older Sister was skeptical. "These games aren't that scary."
Then the ghost appeared in the mirror. Everyone, including Older Sister, screamed.
Well, there you have it. I hope I've convinced you of the wonderfulness of Nancy Drew computer games. Because they truly are wonderful. In fact, they are so wonderful that I feel about ready to do some sleuthing in real life.
Earlier this week, Little Sister and I had this conversation:
Saturday, February 21, 2015
The Slaughter of the Clams
First off, please be aware of the difference between mussels:
and muscles:
Otherwise, you will be very confused by this post.
Since moving out, I have taken advantage of my status as a single working person with exclusive rights to one-third of a kitchen to learn to cook all the things I've always wanted to cook, but never had the time or money to do so. I've tried my hand at various kinds of meat, fish, appetizers, pasta, rice, and soups. So far, it's been a successful experience. (The more notable exception was a casserole I made using a cookbook written the year my parents married. My parents married in the eighties. The casserole tasted exactly like I imagine the eighties would taste, except I couldn't taste the Fraggle Rock. In any case, I should have known better than to use a cookbook in which MSG was a prescribed ingredient.)
My local grocery store often stocks fresh mussels, so last week, I decided to try my hand at cooking mussels.
Again, mussels:
I looked up a recipe that looked simple, yet delicious, and set off for the grocery store.
At the grocery store, I picked up white grape juice and shallots in which to cook the mussels. Then I went to the seafood counter to purchase my seafood.
Plot twist! For the first time in several weeks, the grocery store was not selling mussels. They were, however, selling clams.
Since I already had all the ingredients for mussels in my cart, and since mussels and clams are not dissimilar, I decided to purchase some clams and cook them as if they were mussels.
Just to make sure that this plan was a reasonable one, I began to peruse the facts of cooking clams versus cooking mussels. As I did, I noticed one thing: the recipes all said that the shellfish are cooked when they're dead.
And I was all, "Excuse me?"
I have eaten many clams and a fair amount of mussels in my time, but I have never thought about how the whole process works. As it turns out, fresh shellfish of this sort has a muscle:
that keeps its shell tightly closed. To access the actual meat, one would have to wrench open the shell with something pointy and unpleasant. So instead, what one does is one cooks the shellfish alive. Once the shellfish passes, the muscle automatically releases in death and the shell will open up. Which seems rather unfair. How would you like it if your last act before death was to yield up your body to be devoured by your murderer?
Armed with this knowledge of the shellfish life cycle, I chopped the shallots and then took the bag of clams out of the fridge.
As I removed the clams from the bag, it became clear to me that had I touched them before, I would have known they were alive. They bore the curious weight of a living thing. It was like I could feel their little clam souls pulsing inside the shells.
I gently scrubbed the clams' shells with soap and water, talking to them all the while. "Time for a little bath," I said. "Time for one last-"
Suddenly, I felt like a jerk.
One of the clams was already slightly open, which meant it was dead.
"Sorry," I said as I threw it in the garbage can, "but you aren't fit to eat." Then I wondered why I was apologizing for that.
I cooked the shallots in butter, then added the white grape juice and some parsley. Then I placed the clams in the saucepan and put on a lid to let them steam.
The lid was see-through, and so I watched as, one by one, each clam opened wide in a silent death scream. All except for one stoic clam, who opened only wide enough to have a casual conversation.
When the clams were done, I placed them in a bowl and gazed at them. I thought about explaining the circle of life and/or the food chain to them before I ate them, but they were dead, so what did they care?
I ate my violently-gained dinner, then went to the laundry room for what can best be termed the Battle of the Washing Machine. But that's a story for another day.
In the meantime, I recommend this poem by Shel Silverstein.
Since moving out, I have taken advantage of my status as a single working person with exclusive rights to one-third of a kitchen to learn to cook all the things I've always wanted to cook, but never had the time or money to do so. I've tried my hand at various kinds of meat, fish, appetizers, pasta, rice, and soups. So far, it's been a successful experience. (The more notable exception was a casserole I made using a cookbook written the year my parents married. My parents married in the eighties. The casserole tasted exactly like I imagine the eighties would taste, except I couldn't taste the Fraggle Rock. In any case, I should have known better than to use a cookbook in which MSG was a prescribed ingredient.)
My local grocery store often stocks fresh mussels, so last week, I decided to try my hand at cooking mussels.
Again, mussels:
At the grocery store, I picked up white grape juice and shallots in which to cook the mussels. Then I went to the seafood counter to purchase my seafood.
Plot twist! For the first time in several weeks, the grocery store was not selling mussels. They were, however, selling clams.
Since I already had all the ingredients for mussels in my cart, and since mussels and clams are not dissimilar, I decided to purchase some clams and cook them as if they were mussels.
Just to make sure that this plan was a reasonable one, I began to peruse the facts of cooking clams versus cooking mussels. As I did, I noticed one thing: the recipes all said that the shellfish are cooked when they're dead.
And I was all, "Excuse me?"
I have eaten many clams and a fair amount of mussels in my time, but I have never thought about how the whole process works. As it turns out, fresh shellfish of this sort has a muscle:
Armed with this knowledge of the shellfish life cycle, I chopped the shallots and then took the bag of clams out of the fridge.
As I removed the clams from the bag, it became clear to me that had I touched them before, I would have known they were alive. They bore the curious weight of a living thing. It was like I could feel their little clam souls pulsing inside the shells.
I gently scrubbed the clams' shells with soap and water, talking to them all the while. "Time for a little bath," I said. "Time for one last-"
Suddenly, I felt like a jerk.
One of the clams was already slightly open, which meant it was dead.
"Sorry," I said as I threw it in the garbage can, "but you aren't fit to eat." Then I wondered why I was apologizing for that.
I cooked the shallots in butter, then added the white grape juice and some parsley. Then I placed the clams in the saucepan and put on a lid to let them steam.
The lid was see-through, and so I watched as, one by one, each clam opened wide in a silent death scream. All except for one stoic clam, who opened only wide enough to have a casual conversation.
When the clams were done, I placed them in a bowl and gazed at them. I thought about explaining the circle of life and/or the food chain to them before I ate them, but they were dead, so what did they care?
I ate my violently-gained dinner, then went to the laundry room for what can best be termed the Battle of the Washing Machine. But that's a story for another day.
In the meantime, I recommend this poem by Shel Silverstein.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Voice-to-Text Tacos
I have no less than three blog posts in development right now, but I haven't been able to complete any of them. It takes time to get things right (or write. Ba-dum-ching!), and time is precisely what I lack.
Because I have been such a busy bee, I have been looking for ways to write more efficiently. Among other things, I downloaded a voice-to-text app for my iPod. The idea was that I could talk through a rough draft of a post and then go back and edit it later.
Tonight I told the app an exciting story about a taco stand. Apparently, the app is not a good listener, because this is what it thought I said:
Tatopoulos and some coworkers I was the only one who had never been to taco stand for
So everyone knew how to taco stand but me
Really awkward because I really speak Spanish
Speak Spanish lesson Roud Ceragon speak Spanish that was silly because Reiwnd 90 Vengay don't
Ways I got a chicken fajita burrito and it was delicious except the chili-n-beans Showcas Vernoe Bienskie heading so that I had to
Yep this is Yearsley Monavie meurtre Poseidas Aggerate NEnd Hunting Kouzes going anywhere so have a nice life and all that in force be with you good night
Voice app = no go. I don't know what route I'll try next. Maybe a stenographer?
Because I have been such a busy bee, I have been looking for ways to write more efficiently. Among other things, I downloaded a voice-to-text app for my iPod. The idea was that I could talk through a rough draft of a post and then go back and edit it later.
Tonight I told the app an exciting story about a taco stand. Apparently, the app is not a good listener, because this is what it thought I said:
Tatopoulos and some coworkers I was the only one who had never been to taco stand for
So everyone knew how to taco stand but me
Really awkward because I really speak Spanish
Speak Spanish lesson Roud Ceragon speak Spanish that was silly because Reiwnd 90 Vengay don't
Ways I got a chicken fajita burrito and it was delicious except the chili-n-beans Showcas Vernoe Bienskie heading so that I had to
Yep this is Yearsley Monavie meurtre Poseidas Aggerate NEnd Hunting Kouzes going anywhere so have a nice life and all that in force be with you good night
Voice app = no go. I don't know what route I'll try next. Maybe a stenographer?
Thursday, April 3, 2014
It's Fantastic
Little Sister brought me a decorative fan from Chinatown in San Francisco. Add this to the two fans Porch gave me this past summer, and I have a rather nice collection of fans.
Burning Question: What is it about me that makes people want to give me fans?
Not-So-Burning Answer: My secret Asian-ness, of course.
Other Burning Question: What can I do with these fans, anyways?
Besides the obvious use of fanning myself, or wafting oxygen over a fire, or using it as a defense mechanism against the Huns, that is.
-Write a FANtasy story about it: it's FANfiction.
-Show it the segment of Zoom about how FANnee Doollee loves apples but not grapes. And puffins but not penguins. And Harry Potter but not Ron Weasley.
-When it whines, tell it to stop being a baby--an inFANt.
-Buy it a nice drink of orange FANta.
 |
| A fan. |
Burning Question: What is it about me that makes people want to give me fans?
Not-So-Burning Answer: My secret Asian-ness, of course.
Other Burning Question: What can I do with these fans, anyways?
Besides the obvious use of fanning myself, or wafting oxygen over a fire, or using it as a defense mechanism against the Huns, that is.
Apart from those things, what can I do with a fan?
I thought long and hard about this question, and came up with a rather exhaustive list of things I can do with a fan.
-Watch FANtasia with it.
-Bring it on the bus and insist on paying its FANfare.
-Take it to the opera. Now it's the FANtom of the opera.
-Write a FANtasy story about it: it's FANfiction.
-Show it the segment of Zoom about how FANnee Doollee loves apples but not grapes. And puffins but not penguins. And Harry Potter but not Ron Weasley.
-Take it for a ride on an eleFANt.
-Kill its parents and make it an orFAN.
-When it whines, tell it to stop being a baby--an inFANt.
-Teach it to dance the FANdango.
-Put it in a little dress and tell it that it looks FANcy.
-Put it in a little suit and tell it that it looks FANdsome.
-Watch a movie together that stars Dick FAN Dyke.
-Bring it a fruit basket with FANteloupe and FANgerines.
-Throw it in the air and yell, "You can fly, Peter FAN!"
-Get it a religious television show. Now it's a televised EFANgelist.
-Recruit it for a gang and give it a gangster FANdana.
-Apply for a scholarship for it because it's a disadFANtaged student.
-Tell it to make me a FANdwich.
-Take it on a steep hike up a mountain and chant, "I think I FAN, I think I FAN!"
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
College Quotes
Here are some funny and/or insightful things I heard in my various college classes freshman year, as lifted from the margins of my notes:
"That's why I don't live in the real world. It's boring."
"Go to the second floor... no, the next one up..."
"The third floor?"
"The third floor."
"I hope you didn't do any homework."
"Victorian popular culture's a riot."
"I wonder if it would help if I banged on the wall." *bangs on wall*
"If you wanna rule the universe, be a good writer. If you don't wanna rule the universe, be a good writer so you can get out of it."
"It's your class. I mean, I'm your mentor and I'm God, but it's your class."
"I celebrate Columbus Day by going to other people's houses and telling them I live there now."
*lying across the desk* "No! Go away! Go away! You're disrespecting your professor!"
"It's so embarrassing, though. The box is full of... shame."
"Sometimes it's good not to meet all the people you admire. My strategy is to avoid all of them so I can still admire them."
"I call them nonsonnet sonnets, which irritates some..."
"You know, I have a brother who is now a retired Marine corps... and... well... he can't... never mind."
"There are poets that are couples, but they don't last very long."
Of Harry Potter: "If you think about it, this last movie is the end of our generation."
"The problem is what?"
"The problem is that you're a socialist."
"If you're gonna be so audacious, at least use Spellcheck."
"How does wireless network work? 'Cause it kinda freaks me out."
"How familiar are you with Oompa-Loompas?"
"She stole your tangle."
"He lets his wife die for him, and then he just can't get over it."
"He's coming to take away somebody's life. Generally that's not funny."
"I'm thinking of superheroes."
"Socrates, Hamlet-style, and then Plato wakes up in the end."
"Why is there lightning? Why did it hit my house? Why am I on fire?"
"It's not just, 'I need to get some Fritos. I'll die if I don't have Fritos today,' which I've had that thought actually..."
"I don't know how many of you think you have an immortal soul."
"I do."
"What is it?"
"I have a picture of it in my diary. I can bring it in if you really want me to."
"Sounds like an Indiana Jones movie: Oedipus Rex and the Search for the Truth."
1: "She's the queen, Oedipus's wife. And his mother, I guess."
2: "You guess?"
1: "Well, the text proves it, but it's weird to think about."
2: "What's weird about it?"
1: " Well."
3: "What's not weird about it?"
"Ow, I stabbed my eyes out."
"It's not a tragedy."
"Well, two kids do get killed..."
Of Medea: "She has this whole Gollum thing going on..."
"I'm not being flip."
"[Student] will fall, so that the rest of us can live."
"I wouldn't want to be thought of as a sheep... They're stupid... just follow people around..."
"They're also warm and fluffy."
"If I was a sheep, I'd feel pretty safe."
"What happens when the shepherd is gone?"
"Well, he comes back after three days."
"I'm confused now what you're asking me."
"Yeah, me too."
Of "The Wanderer": "epic poem without the epic part."
"I think the difference between having the questions and not having them for me was when I lost all hope."
"I don't know what it's like to have my head cut off."
"It hurts."
"God wanted to go shopping one day because he was lonely."
"So he went to Soul Depot?"
"First of all, dish soap is bad for your trumpet. Secondly, I would very much like to take a shower right now."
"Truth with a capital Tree... T."
"Oh... that sounds like God."
"Other duties may require your arm, or being alive."
"It was very French. I liked it."
"Next thing you know he's at the chimney throwing rocks at it, and... yeah."
"What a story."
"Really intense... my mother."
"I'm not saying that Communists are divine."
"Oh, they're killing each other. Sacrifice something."
"'Cause it's Shakespeare and you can't do that."
"I'm gonna die soon, so... I'm crazy now. Just for fun."
"Does anyone else have a hovering problem?"
"It didn't bother me til my brother got taller than me."
"You don't want to write your paper as a drama with a surprise at the end."
"Wrap it up differently? How? By singing?"
"He starts insulting him: 'I'll put you in a tree!'"
"So this is like a magical hangover?"
"I really had no idea that he was that ignorant."
"He decided to conquer vast portions of Asia in his spare time."
"And that scared everyone, obviously."
"No bashing on heads with rocks, not even when honey is involved."
"Oh my gosh, is he a pre-Hobbesian?"
"Your idea is thrown on the trash heap of history."
"You've all shown that this is being more complicated than I thought."
"She's big in the history of history."
"The relationship between slaughter houses and... ah, execution. I thought it was education."
"I think it will help the snowboarding nation to have better snowboards with better graphical designs."
"Apparently we only had to read 302."
"He waited like three seconds and then he said, 'Family! I'm creating an institution called family! You can use it as a model for your kingdoms!'"
"Put that in normal language."
"To become king you have to be a backstabbing, scumsucking jerk."
"He's generally melancholy and despairing, so he's not a chipper person."
"We've got a crazy guy telling a crazy guy a story. This should be interesting."
Renaming Frankenstein: "How I Became a Fiend."
"Mulling is excellent. I recommend it highly."
"It's just reciprocal nonpain causing..."
"Just ignore everything I said."
"Who do you get who has a silver trump and calls people?"
"Well, I was thinking of great jazz musicians..."
"Let's say you have ten rocks of dignity..."
"So pity comes when you have no rocks in your bowl?"
"Notice that that's not a question."
"It was a question."
"All right, sorry, I dequestioned it."
"Dad, I used to drive this car."
"Oh yeah? Did it have floor mats?"
"No."
"Well, neither does this one."
"America's favorite entertainment: Other people getting hurt."
"There's forty of you, theoretically against a continent."
"Boy, is she white."
"I wonder what the country's view of pioneers was. Did they think they were courageous... or retarded?"
"This is a great era of people, just, you know, claiming things."
"You know what's funny about that? Well, nothing's funny about that."
"'Cause if you wrap a 6'4" guy in a shawl, nobody's going to recognize him."
"Don't get any ideas about shooting cannons at your old professors. Bad idea."
"If it's a no, then it's a no, ya know?"
The Confederacy: "We're too busy losing to write things down."
"So he's not regarded as a fool?"
"He is by me."
"Can't talk like Yoda. Can't put question marks in your titles."
"Can you talk like Yoda in your title?"
"The Machine will talk to you. It will say, 'You are now part of the Machine' and you will say 'Thank you.'"
"Whatever you just said, forget it. Just remember what I said."
"In my family, we call that rhyming."
"I teach everything from Beowulf to Virginia Woolf around here."
"It looks a little bit like it's having a migraine."
"Several people in this college must be rewind-challenged."
"Intelligence is no guarantee of morality or congeniality."
"The Guillotine is a lot quicker than lethal injection."
"Plus you don't have to have a needle in you."
"That's right. So if you don't like needles... ask for the Guillotine."
"Quebec and Texas should just become Quebexas. They'd speak French with a Texan accent."
"Does eating grass make you docile?"
"That's a nondocile cow. A resistant cow. Possibly a rebellious cow."
"What eats whales? I don't know."
"We had to withdraw my defense 'cause it failed."
"I never make mistakes when drawing an octopus."
"Prompts are an instrument of psychological torture."
"That sounds just like a man. That's just a man talking. Oh man."
Harry Potter: "Is that the only connection you people have with trains?"
"Inferiorating- ooh. That's probably a non-word."
"Good job. You referred to yourself."
"We only use rifles because we don't shoot people."
"What a rule."
"Yeah, but there are also laws, you know."
"Can we leave the world of fantasy for a moment and have real examples from actual life?"
"I actually find you despicable."
"What does this say about her?"
"She's terrifying. Just listen to the music."
"That's why I don't live in the real world. It's boring."
"Go to the second floor... no, the next one up..."
"The third floor?"
"The third floor."
"I hope you didn't do any homework."
"Victorian popular culture's a riot."
"I wonder if it would help if I banged on the wall." *bangs on wall*
"If you wanna rule the universe, be a good writer. If you don't wanna rule the universe, be a good writer so you can get out of it."
"It's your class. I mean, I'm your mentor and I'm God, but it's your class."
"I celebrate Columbus Day by going to other people's houses and telling them I live there now."
*lying across the desk* "No! Go away! Go away! You're disrespecting your professor!"
"It's so embarrassing, though. The box is full of... shame."
"Sometimes it's good not to meet all the people you admire. My strategy is to avoid all of them so I can still admire them."
"I call them nonsonnet sonnets, which irritates some..."
"You know, I have a brother who is now a retired Marine corps... and... well... he can't... never mind."
"There are poets that are couples, but they don't last very long."
Of Harry Potter: "If you think about it, this last movie is the end of our generation."
"The problem is what?"
"The problem is that you're a socialist."
"If you're gonna be so audacious, at least use Spellcheck."
"How does wireless network work? 'Cause it kinda freaks me out."
"How familiar are you with Oompa-Loompas?"
"She stole your tangle."
"He lets his wife die for him, and then he just can't get over it."
"He's coming to take away somebody's life. Generally that's not funny."
"I'm thinking of superheroes."
"Socrates, Hamlet-style, and then Plato wakes up in the end."
"Why is there lightning? Why did it hit my house? Why am I on fire?"
"It's not just, 'I need to get some Fritos. I'll die if I don't have Fritos today,' which I've had that thought actually..."
"I don't know how many of you think you have an immortal soul."
"I do."
"What is it?"
"I have a picture of it in my diary. I can bring it in if you really want me to."
"Sounds like an Indiana Jones movie: Oedipus Rex and the Search for the Truth."
1: "She's the queen, Oedipus's wife. And his mother, I guess."
2: "You guess?"
1: "Well, the text proves it, but it's weird to think about."
2: "What's weird about it?"
1: " Well."
3: "What's not weird about it?"
"Ow, I stabbed my eyes out."
"It's not a tragedy."
"Well, two kids do get killed..."
Of Medea: "She has this whole Gollum thing going on..."
"I'm not being flip."
"[Student] will fall, so that the rest of us can live."
"I wouldn't want to be thought of as a sheep... They're stupid... just follow people around..."
"They're also warm and fluffy."
"If I was a sheep, I'd feel pretty safe."
"What happens when the shepherd is gone?"
"Well, he comes back after three days."
"I'm confused now what you're asking me."
"Yeah, me too."
Of "The Wanderer": "epic poem without the epic part."
"I think the difference between having the questions and not having them for me was when I lost all hope."
"I don't know what it's like to have my head cut off."
"It hurts."
"God wanted to go shopping one day because he was lonely."
"So he went to Soul Depot?"
"First of all, dish soap is bad for your trumpet. Secondly, I would very much like to take a shower right now."
"Truth with a capital Tree... T."
"Oh... that sounds like God."
"Other duties may require your arm, or being alive."
"It was very French. I liked it."
"Next thing you know he's at the chimney throwing rocks at it, and... yeah."
"What a story."
"Really intense... my mother."
"I'm not saying that Communists are divine."
"Oh, they're killing each other. Sacrifice something."
"'Cause it's Shakespeare and you can't do that."
"I'm gonna die soon, so... I'm crazy now. Just for fun."
"Does anyone else have a hovering problem?"
"It didn't bother me til my brother got taller than me."
"You don't want to write your paper as a drama with a surprise at the end."
"Wrap it up differently? How? By singing?"
"He starts insulting him: 'I'll put you in a tree!'"
"So this is like a magical hangover?"
"I really had no idea that he was that ignorant."
"He decided to conquer vast portions of Asia in his spare time."
"And that scared everyone, obviously."
"No bashing on heads with rocks, not even when honey is involved."
"Oh my gosh, is he a pre-Hobbesian?"
"Your idea is thrown on the trash heap of history."
"You've all shown that this is being more complicated than I thought."
"She's big in the history of history."
"The relationship between slaughter houses and... ah, execution. I thought it was education."
"I think it will help the snowboarding nation to have better snowboards with better graphical designs."
"Apparently we only had to read 302."
"He waited like three seconds and then he said, 'Family! I'm creating an institution called family! You can use it as a model for your kingdoms!'"
"Put that in normal language."
"To become king you have to be a backstabbing, scumsucking jerk."
"He's generally melancholy and despairing, so he's not a chipper person."
"We've got a crazy guy telling a crazy guy a story. This should be interesting."
Renaming Frankenstein: "How I Became a Fiend."
"Mulling is excellent. I recommend it highly."
"It's just reciprocal nonpain causing..."
"Just ignore everything I said."
"Who do you get who has a silver trump and calls people?"
"Well, I was thinking of great jazz musicians..."
"Let's say you have ten rocks of dignity..."
"So pity comes when you have no rocks in your bowl?"
"Notice that that's not a question."
"It was a question."
"All right, sorry, I dequestioned it."
"Dad, I used to drive this car."
"Oh yeah? Did it have floor mats?"
"No."
"Well, neither does this one."
"America's favorite entertainment: Other people getting hurt."
"There's forty of you, theoretically against a continent."
"Boy, is she white."
"I wonder what the country's view of pioneers was. Did they think they were courageous... or retarded?"
"This is a great era of people, just, you know, claiming things."
"You know what's funny about that? Well, nothing's funny about that."
"'Cause if you wrap a 6'4" guy in a shawl, nobody's going to recognize him."
"Don't get any ideas about shooting cannons at your old professors. Bad idea."
"If it's a no, then it's a no, ya know?"
The Confederacy: "We're too busy losing to write things down."
"So he's not regarded as a fool?"
"He is by me."
"Can't talk like Yoda. Can't put question marks in your titles."
"Can you talk like Yoda in your title?"
"The Machine will talk to you. It will say, 'You are now part of the Machine' and you will say 'Thank you.'"
"Whatever you just said, forget it. Just remember what I said."
"In my family, we call that rhyming."
"I teach everything from Beowulf to Virginia Woolf around here."
"It looks a little bit like it's having a migraine."
"Several people in this college must be rewind-challenged."
"Intelligence is no guarantee of morality or congeniality."
"The Guillotine is a lot quicker than lethal injection."
"Plus you don't have to have a needle in you."
"That's right. So if you don't like needles... ask for the Guillotine."
"Quebec and Texas should just become Quebexas. They'd speak French with a Texan accent."
"Does eating grass make you docile?"
"That's a nondocile cow. A resistant cow. Possibly a rebellious cow."
"What eats whales? I don't know."
"We had to withdraw my defense 'cause it failed."
"I never make mistakes when drawing an octopus."
"Prompts are an instrument of psychological torture."
"That sounds just like a man. That's just a man talking. Oh man."
Harry Potter: "Is that the only connection you people have with trains?"
"Inferiorating- ooh. That's probably a non-word."
"Good job. You referred to yourself."
"We only use rifles because we don't shoot people."
"What a rule."
"Yeah, but there are also laws, you know."
"Can we leave the world of fantasy for a moment and have real examples from actual life?"
"I actually find you despicable."
"What does this say about her?"
"She's terrifying. Just listen to the music."
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Asymptotes
I'm a geometry sort of person myself. Geometry sends thrills of joy through my body.
And equations? Well, they're not so bad, really. Solving one has always given me immense satisfaction.
Of all math concepts, the one that I particularly disliked in high school was graphing points. Sometimes I would mix up the x-axis and y-axis (rather like I sometimes mix up left and right) and then my graphs would be a mess. Add to that all the shifting and reflecting of functions and whatnot and the whole thing just became like a hopelessly tangled ball of yarn in my head.
Yesterday the Fearless One reminded me that I once wrote a poem about a graph concept that was particularly frustrating to me: asymptotes. Here it is, for your viewing pleasure.
Asymptotes
If I ever met an asymptote, do you know what I'd say?
It's likely I would tell that useless thing to go away.
Asymptotes aren't helpful, for they muddle up my brain.
A graph with one becomes a thing that I cannot explain.
In a function, they're supposed to show the balances and checks,
but all they do for me is help me to misplace each x.
They say that asymptotes make sense, but that is just a lie.
Why should there ever have to be a limit to this y?
Numbers are just things that should be lined up in a line.
To any other way of thought I find I'm not inclined,
and therefore, it is hard for me to see this in my mind:
that two puny dotted straits would keep some points confined?
Points on a graph can't run away; they stay within their space.
Confining them is fruitless, a fact you've got to face.
If those stagnant points should truly wish to move about,
I doubt those skinny asymptotes could really keep them out.
Yes, asymptotes are useless, no matter where one roams.
So I won't do my Pre-Calc homework, I'll just sit here writing poems.
And equations? Well, they're not so bad, really. Solving one has always given me immense satisfaction.
Of all math concepts, the one that I particularly disliked in high school was graphing points. Sometimes I would mix up the x-axis and y-axis (rather like I sometimes mix up left and right) and then my graphs would be a mess. Add to that all the shifting and reflecting of functions and whatnot and the whole thing just became like a hopelessly tangled ball of yarn in my head.
Yesterday the Fearless One reminded me that I once wrote a poem about a graph concept that was particularly frustrating to me: asymptotes. Here it is, for your viewing pleasure.
If I ever met an asymptote, do you know what I'd say?
It's likely I would tell that useless thing to go away.
Asymptotes aren't helpful, for they muddle up my brain.
A graph with one becomes a thing that I cannot explain.
In a function, they're supposed to show the balances and checks,
but all they do for me is help me to misplace each x.
They say that asymptotes make sense, but that is just a lie.
Why should there ever have to be a limit to this y?
Numbers are just things that should be lined up in a line.
To any other way of thought I find I'm not inclined,
and therefore, it is hard for me to see this in my mind:
that two puny dotted straits would keep some points confined?
Points on a graph can't run away; they stay within their space.
Confining them is fruitless, a fact you've got to face.
If those stagnant points should truly wish to move about,
I doubt those skinny asymptotes could really keep them out.
Yes, asymptotes are useless, no matter where one roams.
So I won't do my Pre-Calc homework, I'll just sit here writing poems.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Vehicular Homicide and Other Things I Try to Avoid
I was almost hit by a bike in Verona.
Well, bikes in the plural, really. The bikers would ring these little bells to warn me and my brain would be all, "Oh, a little bell. That's nice" never equating the sound with DANGER. After a couple times of my almost getting hit this girl in the group gave herself the specific assignment of yelling "AWKWARD MORMON GIRL!" every time a bike bore down on me. That got my attention.
Barely.
Then there was the time my family was in a Twenty-Fourth of July parade. We all wore pioneer clothes. Dad pulled a handcart with Little Sister and Baby Sister inside. Mom and Older Sister and I walked.
I was so excited by the experience, waving at the crowds and making my cloth doll wave too, that I wasn't paying attention. I stepped in the handcart's path. Dad pulled it over my foot.
Mom rushed to my aid. She was convinced I was maimed. (I wasn't.) She was swearing up and down and all around. Of course, the stake president was sitting with his family on that particular stretch of street.
Things got awkward.
In spite of these near-disasters, and in spite of the fact that Mom has always been convinced that I would be hit by a car long before now (she feels that in addition to being highly distractible, I never paid enough attention to the Barney song, "Stop, Look, and Listen"), I haven't even come close. Not even when I jaywalked with the Chess Master after track... by which sentence I mean that I am a law-abiding citizen who has never jaywalked, not even as an impressionable fifteen-year-old who wanted to impress a boy she liked. Capisce?
I definitely wasn't jaywalking the other day when a car simply didn't see me.
I was using a crosswalk near Nameless Utah College. The little stick figure person on the crosswalk light shone brightly. "Place your fate in my stick figure hands," it said. "Step into the street," it said.
"Okay," I said. "I trust you, little stick figure person."
Alas, my trust was misplaced. The stick figure person didn't know that the driver of a car making a right turn wasn't paying attention.
The right-turning car came to an abrupt halt just before the crosswalk. I also halted--luckily I'd seen the car before it saw me. Had I gone any farther I would have stepped straight into its path.
An awkward impasse ensued. The car didn't move. Neither did I. 'Cause, I mean, what are the rules of etiquette in this situation? Nobody taught me the proper way to handle this in Driver's Ed. Or Pedestrian's Ed aka "Stop, Look, and Listen" (which by the way, I did actually pay attention to. Enough attention to appreciate the catchy tune, anyways).
Still no moving.
After a few seconds of this confusion, I moved forward. So did the car.
It didn't hit me...but when it braked its bumper was about to get pretty fresh with my leg. So to speak.
If crosswalks are this dangerous, then maybe I should just go back to jaywalking.
If I had ever jaywalked.
Which I haven't.
Move along, people. Nothing to see here.
Well, bikes in the plural, really. The bikers would ring these little bells to warn me and my brain would be all, "Oh, a little bell. That's nice" never equating the sound with DANGER. After a couple times of my almost getting hit this girl in the group gave herself the specific assignment of yelling "AWKWARD MORMON GIRL!" every time a bike bore down on me. That got my attention.
Barely.
Then there was the time my family was in a Twenty-Fourth of July parade. We all wore pioneer clothes. Dad pulled a handcart with Little Sister and Baby Sister inside. Mom and Older Sister and I walked.
I was so excited by the experience, waving at the crowds and making my cloth doll wave too, that I wasn't paying attention. I stepped in the handcart's path. Dad pulled it over my foot.
Mom rushed to my aid. She was convinced I was maimed. (I wasn't.) She was swearing up and down and all around. Of course, the stake president was sitting with his family on that particular stretch of street.
Things got awkward.
 |
| The Beatles, crossing the street with grace, speed, and style. A car would never dare hit them. Not even if they were jaywalking. |
I definitely wasn't jaywalking the other day when a car simply didn't see me.
I was using a crosswalk near Nameless Utah College. The little stick figure person on the crosswalk light shone brightly. "Place your fate in my stick figure hands," it said. "Step into the street," it said.
"Okay," I said. "I trust you, little stick figure person."
Alas, my trust was misplaced. The stick figure person didn't know that the driver of a car making a right turn wasn't paying attention.
The right-turning car came to an abrupt halt just before the crosswalk. I also halted--luckily I'd seen the car before it saw me. Had I gone any farther I would have stepped straight into its path.
An awkward impasse ensued. The car didn't move. Neither did I. 'Cause, I mean, what are the rules of etiquette in this situation? Nobody taught me the proper way to handle this in Driver's Ed. Or Pedestrian's Ed aka "Stop, Look, and Listen" (which by the way, I did actually pay attention to. Enough attention to appreciate the catchy tune, anyways).
Still no moving.
After a few seconds of this confusion, I moved forward. So did the car.
It didn't hit me...but when it braked its bumper was about to get pretty fresh with my leg. So to speak.
If crosswalks are this dangerous, then maybe I should just go back to jaywalking.
If I had ever jaywalked.
Which I haven't.
Move along, people. Nothing to see here.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Freudian Discourse
We're reading Freud in class now, something I've never done before.
"Oh Freud," I say to my book as I read, "poor, poor Freud." Because obviously the guy had no idea how ridiculous some of the things he said are.
You know that guy who just shows up at social events and starts talking about things no one cares about/which make everybody uncomfortable? That was probably Freud, back in the day. Like, at those early-twentieth-century Austrian dinner parties, after everyone finished their schnitzel and their spaetzle and was quite comfortable drinking Austrian tea and eating Austrian pastries, Freud would probably open his mouth and say, "About psychosexuality-" or "On the matter of the id-"
And then the butler, per his pre-party instructions, would say quite loudly, "Would any of the gentlemen care to come into the drawing room for a rousing game of Guitar Hero?" or whatever they did at early-twentieth-century Austrian parties.
When his nieces and nephews got married, they would fret over where to put Uncle Sigmund on the seating chart, because of course they were the sort of people who use place cards at wedding dinners which I think is a bit silly but some couples seem to find them necessary because they want to separate certain relatives in order to avoid an abundance of awkwardness. Now that I think of it, Freud was probably the reason place cards were invented in the first place.
Had Freud's contemporaries written children's books on how they felt about him, they probably would have written books entitled such things as No, Freud!
And Don't Let Freud Drive the Bus!
And If You Give a Freud Encouragement.
I'm learning a lot at college.
"Oh Freud," I say to my book as I read, "poor, poor Freud." Because obviously the guy had no idea how ridiculous some of the things he said are.
You know that guy who just shows up at social events and starts talking about things no one cares about/which make everybody uncomfortable? That was probably Freud, back in the day. Like, at those early-twentieth-century Austrian dinner parties, after everyone finished their schnitzel and their spaetzle and was quite comfortable drinking Austrian tea and eating Austrian pastries, Freud would probably open his mouth and say, "About psychosexuality-" or "On the matter of the id-"
And then the butler, per his pre-party instructions, would say quite loudly, "Would any of the gentlemen care to come into the drawing room for a rousing game of Guitar Hero?" or whatever they did at early-twentieth-century Austrian parties.
When his nieces and nephews got married, they would fret over where to put Uncle Sigmund on the seating chart, because of course they were the sort of people who use place cards at wedding dinners which I think is a bit silly but some couples seem to find them necessary because they want to separate certain relatives in order to avoid an abundance of awkwardness. Now that I think of it, Freud was probably the reason place cards were invented in the first place.
Had Freud's contemporaries written children's books on how they felt about him, they probably would have written books entitled such things as No, Freud!
Sample text: "If you give a Freud encouragement, he's going to ask you some invasive psychological questions. When you answer the questions, he'll probably write a case study about you. When he's finished, he'll publish it. Then he'll want to turn his observations of your behavior into a book. He'll start writing a draft. He might get carried away and turn his observations into a universal theory that isn't sufficiently justified and may or may not involve words of Greek and vague insults towards America."
I'm learning a lot at college.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Sweet Tooth
Today I was out buying a birthday present for Ginger Cousin. Whilst in the checkout line, my eye was drawn to the assortment of candy bars on sale near the register.
Some of the candy bars were on sale for sixty-nine cents. Sixty-nine cents. And those candy bars were all, "We're cheap! We're delicious! Buy us!"
And I was all, "You're cheap! You're delicious! I'll buy you!" I was in the midst of deciding which candy bar was lucky enough to come home with me when I interrupted myself.
ME: Are you kidding me?! Don't buy a candy bar!
ALSO ME: But they're on sale. Sixty-nine cents!
ME: You don't need a candy bar. You don't need the sugar.
ALSO ME: Chocolate. Delicious. Sixty-nine cents. And I deserve a treat once in a while. I haven't had a treat for, like, a whole twenty-four hours.
ME: You ate cake for breakfast.
ALSO ME: ...oh. Oh, yeah. Okay. I won't buy a candy bar. You're right, I definitely don't need the sugar.
I definitely did not need the sugar. Which is why I went straight home and ate some more cake, and why I'm drinking a Jarritos right now.
Well. At least it's zucchini cake. That has to count for something.
Some of the candy bars were on sale for sixty-nine cents. Sixty-nine cents. And those candy bars were all, "We're cheap! We're delicious! Buy us!"
And I was all, "You're cheap! You're delicious! I'll buy you!" I was in the midst of deciding which candy bar was lucky enough to come home with me when I interrupted myself.
ME: Are you kidding me?! Don't buy a candy bar!
ALSO ME: But they're on sale. Sixty-nine cents!
ME: You don't need a candy bar. You don't need the sugar.
ALSO ME: Chocolate. Delicious. Sixty-nine cents. And I deserve a treat once in a while. I haven't had a treat for, like, a whole twenty-four hours.
ME: You ate cake for breakfast.
ALSO ME: ...oh. Oh, yeah. Okay. I won't buy a candy bar. You're right, I definitely don't need the sugar.
I definitely did not need the sugar. Which is why I went straight home and ate some more cake, and why I'm drinking a Jarritos right now.
Well. At least it's zucchini cake. That has to count for something.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
The Windows Do Not Clean Themselves
Once I read this story called "The End Sings Itself." By the denouement of the story, the apocalyptic setting is suffering from an epidemic that makes it impossible for people to sing. So the end has to sing itself, because there's no one else around to do the job.
I've never been able to decide if I find that title clever in a lyrical way, or just really, really pretentious. Among other things, it's a story, not a song, and why does the end have to be sung anyways? Answer: Because that's the way things are done in Writer Land. And Writer Land also has a fine balance between cleverness and pretentiousness.
Pretentious or clever, the end sings itself. You know what don't sing themselves?
Windows. And they sure don't clean themselves, either.
Okay, okay. Lots of things don't clean themselves. Dishes. My family's house. My hair. All those things have to be cleaned. So I clean them... some more than others.
The reason windows are way more frustrating than dishes or a house or my hair is because they are impossible to clean.
No joke. The other day I saw a dirty window. I cleaned it. Both sides, all nice with Windex. I finished the job, stepped back, and-
-it was still dirty.
I got more Windex. I scrubbed harder. Good? Nope, still dirty.
I looked at the window from several distances and angles, making sure I took note of every little smudge. Then I sprayed those spots with a ton of Windex and scrubbed hard enough to descale a reptile.
In spite of all the reptiles that would have lost their scales under my hands, the window still retained its dirt.
I ask you, how is this possible? Is window dirt super-specially-resistant? Does Windex make it multiply? Does window glass regenerate its smudges every time someone endeavours to remove them?
Anyone who comes across me in the next few days may well hear me muttering to myself, "Windows, why do you always have to be so difficult?" They'll either conclude that I'm insane because I'm talking to an inanimate object or that I have a rather frustrating, but completely unrelated-to-housework, problem with my computer's operating system.
I've never been able to decide if I find that title clever in a lyrical way, or just really, really pretentious. Among other things, it's a story, not a song, and why does the end have to be sung anyways? Answer: Because that's the way things are done in Writer Land. And Writer Land also has a fine balance between cleverness and pretentiousness.
Pretentious or clever, the end sings itself. You know what don't sing themselves?
Windows. And they sure don't clean themselves, either.
Okay, okay. Lots of things don't clean themselves. Dishes. My family's house. My hair. All those things have to be cleaned. So I clean them... some more than others.
The reason windows are way more frustrating than dishes or a house or my hair is because they are impossible to clean.
No joke. The other day I saw a dirty window. I cleaned it. Both sides, all nice with Windex. I finished the job, stepped back, and-
-it was still dirty.
I got more Windex. I scrubbed harder. Good? Nope, still dirty.
I looked at the window from several distances and angles, making sure I took note of every little smudge. Then I sprayed those spots with a ton of Windex and scrubbed hard enough to descale a reptile.
In spite of all the reptiles that would have lost their scales under my hands, the window still retained its dirt.
I ask you, how is this possible? Is window dirt super-specially-resistant? Does Windex make it multiply? Does window glass regenerate its smudges every time someone endeavours to remove them?
Anyone who comes across me in the next few days may well hear me muttering to myself, "Windows, why do you always have to be so difficult?" They'll either conclude that I'm insane because I'm talking to an inanimate object or that I have a rather frustrating, but completely unrelated-to-housework, problem with my computer's operating system.
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