Break time
January 6, 2011
Other than eggs to make breakfast, I don’t really break things. The only thing I’ve broken recently—and that was six months ago—was a glass dinner plate. That wasn’t a big deal, because it was plain, clear glass—generic and easy to replace should I choose to do so. It was much more of a crisis when I finally finished breaking my iPhone 1.
This happened in April, just shortly before the iPhone 4 was even announced. I had been pondering the possibility of upgrading to iPhone 4 anyway because who wouldn’t want to from iPhone 1? At the same time, my iPhone 1 was a little bit of a badge of honor, that I still had the original (even though I held out for nine months after it was originally released).
I was intrigued by the better camera on iPhone 4 and thought that it would be nice to have it for my then-upcoming vacation to London. A camera in my back pocket was much more appealing than carrying around some huge thing slung over my shoulder. At an early season Minnesota Twins baseball game, my hand was forced.
I had already flung my iPhone 1 to the ground several times and the glass had been cracked in a few places for quite some time. I had gotten smart and sealed the shatter at the bottom of the screen (pictured below) with clear nail polish. That area was obviously impaired so I gave it some attention.
The cracks on the upper part of the screen (pictured top) seemed more innocuous because although cracked, the surface still felt smooth. I guess I was in denial, or at least not paying attention. In addition, I got a kick out of casually, conveniently, riding the thing around in my back pants pocket while other people encased theirs in bullet-proof cases or old socks. Who’s laughing now?
Well, at that fateful Twins game, there was a rain delay. I had planned ahead. I sat confidently in my seat in my baseball cap and rain poncho, feeling superior to those who ran for the shelter of the concourses. To amuse myself, I took self-portraits of the situation and went about uploading them to the social networks. Trouble was, although my rain poncho was clear plastic, it was getting steamed up inside and I couldn’t see through it to work on my iPhone. So what did I do? Why, I adjusted its position so that my view was no longer obstructed. I put it out in the open, outside of my rain poncho. I could see again!
I’m smart, but sometimes I’m a dope. I was a dope that night. What did I think was going to happen? Raindrops penetrated through the upper cracks and from then on, the top half of the touchscreen ceased to function. I held my breath for a week until iPhone 4 was announced, and then gave a big sigh of relief that I could get it two days before I left on my trip. I was glad that by that time, iTunes had the capability of rearranging iPhone screens on computer and then syncing, so I could move all of my heavy-use apps to the bottom halves of the windows.
I limped along like that for almost two months. I was ecstatic when I picked up my shiny new iPhone 4. I took immediate advantage of Apple’s offer for a free case. That rubber bumper has already saved iPhone 4 from several perilous situations.
Predicting the future
January 5, 2011
Today I will ponder the other subject that people do around the turn of the year, the future. I will travel to the future and imagine what might be going on.
Fantasy future
Anyone who’s been reading along knows that my ideal future would be the one in which I’m living happily in London. I’d find an affordable flat somewhere in central London. I liked the Camden area a lot, a neighborhood that has diversity and all types. Maybe I’d find a place above a neighborhood pub like the Spread Eagle. I’d tappy-tap-tap on my MacBook, writing all day and earning enough to keep it going. Or maybe I’d have to go to my office job in central London, walking a few blocks to the nearest Underground station for my ride. If I did go to an office, there’d be a nice little pub like the Cheshire Cheese at which to stop for a pint with my mates after work. It would be a Bridget Jones existance, minus the halfwits, fuckwits, perverts, alcoholics, workaholics, etc.
I guess this has already gone from prediction to fantasy. Oh well, I’ll run with it.
If I had to live a slightly further out, maybe I’d live in a terraced house like the one my friend Dan lives in. No, that probably wouldn’t be the case because I’m sure that the only way I’d afford a place like that would be to have roommates, which will never happen. Well, whatever it ended up being, I’d love it because I’d be in London and that would be good enough for me, because for ten years I’ve been convinced that my life’s happiness is dependent upon my being in London, however it happens.
Realistic future
Now we shall return to reality. I probably won’t make it out in time.
My rabbit will live just a little too long (I’ve noted before that he’s getting a little older, and although he’s in good health, I wouldn’t want to subject him to trans-continental stress), and I’ll spend a year or two too many waiting for the housing market to recover before I try to sell my place for only a moderate loss rather than the large loss I’d take today. That will give one or both of my parents just enough time to have some fluke deterioration in their health (they, too, are getting a little older and are in quite good shape), and then I, as their only child, will be wracked with guilt at the notion of leaving them, country, and continent behind in order to pursue my own selfish happiness and fulfillment. In fact, I will probably have to move back to their small city in Wisconsin to be closer to them. (That’s how we ended up there thirty years ago–for one set of grandparents.) If it ended up being the case that I had to look after them, maybe, just maybe, I could get them to come here to Minneapolis instead. They like it here and there’s a lot more going on, though as small towns go, theirs (ours) really is quite nice.
Well, it is the new year. If ever there were a time to pretend to be motivated about making my London future happen, now would be it. Stay tuned.
I won???t take the blame
January 4, 2011
“And the steps of this old church are peppered with confetti hearts
Like a million little love affairs waiting to fall apart”
Ah, Justin Currie, wordsmith to the cynics. This has always been one of my favorite Del Amitri lyrics, perhaps because I myself am cynical and largely uninterested when it comes to relationships. I can probably trace that back to interactions that happened during my formative years, between me, my parents, and my first two boyfriends in high school. And sorry, I’m going to leave you hanging on the details.
I was set on a course of believing that no boyfriend would measure up to other people’s expectations which were established early on. I didn’t realize this for a long time and spent many years having short relationships that went nowhere. I did have two engagements in my early twenties but broke those off. The first one never stood a chance, which fortunately I recognized. The second one might have lasted for a while, but by then I was completely flakey about relationships, unbeknownst to myself.
Over time, there were longer and longer spans between boyfriends. I said (and still say) that I wasn’t actively looking but that if something presented itself, I’d always be open to the possibility. I had a friend in my college dorm whose whole existence was wrapped up in having a boyfriend. If she didn’t, it was a panic situation. I was never like that. One of the byproducts of my parents raising an only child to be independent and self-sufficient is that I’m independent and self-sufficient. Of course sometimes I think it would be nice to have someone to cuddle with, but not that often. Not often enough to make being in a relationship overridingly important.
As the gaps between associations got longer and longer, I have gotten more and more used to being on my own, to the point where now I strongly prefer it. The level of excellence required to turn my head goes up, up, up. I’ve had a good experience in the last few years, but I’m more and more reluctant to relinquish my independence. I have a hard time thinking I’d want to have to take someone else into consideration all the time. Yes, I’m selfish. I want myself all to myself.
So when I hear Justin Currie’s lyrics about the perils of love, I smile wryly and nod my head. I know what you mean, sir.
“I Won’t Take the Blame” © Del Amitri
Yesterday you talked of love and now you want to leave
But don’t expect me to stand in your way
I am powerless to alter any action you might take And I won’t take the blame
I was not the one who played the joker in this game
I was not the one who feels nothing anymore
So if you walk out that door, I won’t take the blame And as I look at the girl I once adored
You tell me that I hold you back you tell me that you’re bored
So like a pair of clowns we stand around and fight
Why can’t you get it over with and walk out of my life? And I won’t take the blame
I was not the one who played the joker in this game
I was not the one who feels nothing anymore
So if you walk out that door, I won’t take the blame And the steps of this old church are peppered with confetti hearts
Like a million little love affairs waiting to fall apart
Dasie and the Birds
January 2, 2011
One of the by-products of all the snow we had in December is that the lilac bush next to my front window is half-buried. So the little birdies that like to hang out in it have been forced to make use of the snowbank. The cats, naturally, are fascinated. A few times I have exacerbated the situation by tossing birdseed around.
Dasie in particular—my crazy Dasie—loves the birdies. On sunny afternoons, the birds’ shadows on the mini-blinds drive her nuts, probably because they seem closer and attainable. In fact, more than once I’ve seen Dasie leaping for a shadow. After Christmas weekend, I had to repair significant tears and slashes in the plastic covering the window. That kind of bummed me out, because that front window was the smoothest, tightest installation I’ve done in the 15 windows I’ve covered over the years. Oh well. If you look closely in the movie, you can see the clear packing tape I used for the patch job.
Anyway, today was not sunny, so the bird watching was a much calmer affair.
Resolve to be resolute, sort of
January 2, 2011
Coincidentally, on this weekend that we change years, I have ended up pondering two things that come up at this time of year–calories (ergo, dieting) and envisioning the future. Tonight we’ll address calories.
A couple of days ago, I dug through my cupboards in search of the food item that contained the highest number of calories per serving. I chose to abide by the serving size listed on the packages even though those are often quite different than what is actually consumed. Except for the brie.
For the most part, I don’t keep junk around. Several people had naughty desserts but the worst I thought I could do was olive oil. But that only has 126 calories per tablespoon serving. No, it turned out that the whole wheat spaghetti was the worst at 210 calories per serving. The only other dry foods I have are various beans, canned tomatoes, and sugar-free Jell-O.
That it was the spaghetti surprised me, but when I got into my refrigerator, there was nothing unexpected. I didn’t figure it would be butter (102 calories per tablespoon) or any of the various cheeses I keep around (100 calories per ounce, give or take). No, I knew the beer would be the biggest calorie offender.
I don’t mess around with these 55 or 64 calorie “beers.” I like the chewy stuff. Unfortunately, my beloved India pale ales pack a punch. They hover around or just under 200 calories per 12 ounces. My seasonal favorite, Celebration Ale by Sierra Nevada, checks in at 214. And my new favorite which I was introduced to at Thanksgiving, Three Philosophers by Ommegang, weighs in at a hefty 294 though, in its defense, it is 9.8% ABV.
Honorable mention does go to the brie cheese. A couple of weeks ago, I got a two-pound wheel on sale for $10. I only wanted one wedge, but when the wedges of other brands were anywhere from $5 to $7, it seemed silly not to go for the big wheel. So although an ounce is about 100 calories, I’ve not been wasting any time eating it up before it spoils, and each time I have some brie I also have some lower-fat Triscuits, seven of which are 120 additional calories. So for sheer consumption at the moment, the brie and crackers wins, regardless of what one actual serving is noted to be.
However, in the long run, it is beer that does me in. As an American woman, it is only natural for me to lament my too-large size. As a beer drinker, it is entirely within my power to do something about it—if only I didn’t love it so much and had more willpower.
I stopped making New Year’s resolutions long ago (the last two I remember were to eat my Five A Day and to never buy white underwear again) and I don’t intend to try to make one today. Every night I go to bed thinking that tomorrow I will exhibit moderation. Just about every day it doesn’t work out, and if it does it’s more by accident than by design.
So yes, tomorrow I shall endeavor to consume fewer calories, but not because of a New Year’s resolution. I will try because I know it would be good for me, and one of these days I will accomplish it, and then I will accomplish it for a second day in a row, and then a third …
December 24, 2010, December 30, 2010
Get off my lawn
December 30, 2010
Somewhere along the line, I became a curmudgeon. I did and I didn’t. I’m pretty sure I don’t act my age, but at the same time I’m pretty crusty about a lot of stuff. I don’t exactly mean to be. Does that just come with getting older?
I almost climbed a tree tonight. If it hadn’t been winter with a foot and a half of snow hanging around I would have. Maybe. The kids across the street do, why shouldn’t I? When I was a kid, I spent a notable amount of time in trees. There was a woods at the end of our street, and as I recall, there was one old, large tree that we climbed. Sometimes I went with a friend or two, sometimes I went by myself with a book.
My parents visited for the Christmas weekend. I always find it challenging when people—yes, even my loving mother and father—invade my space. I’ve been concluding recently that I’m an actual introvert, especially after reading this article (via mstori). I used to say that deep down I was shy, though anyone who’s spent any amount of time around me knows that I can get chit-chatty with the best of them—if I’m in the right mood and/or have enjoyed my favorite libation.
Now I realize that the reason that I can talk to people quite comfortably—even complete strangers under the right circumstances—all hail the m-dash—is because I’m not actually shy. I just choose not to want to be around other people quite a lot of the time. (Sorry, friends, nothing personal. I know some of you understand.)
My choosing to want to be by myself, aka not deal with other people—even my loving mother and father—I’m sure is perceived by outsiders as being curmudgeonly. And perhaps so even by my mother. My dad’s the quiet one.
A few posts ago I wrote about three of my favorite movies, whose characters I could identify with. One of those was “Under the Tuscan Sun.” In the other context, I was admiring the main character, Frances, because she just up and stayed in a place where she was traveling for a random reason. I would like to do that. But that’s not where the similarities end, if I’m honest.
In this context, I must note that Frances is kind of uptight—sort of like me! Here again, I am and I’m not. In addition to the spontaneous geographical change she experiences, Frances receives several sage wisdoms from a woman who befriends her, Katherine. One by one, Frances embraces those wisdoms and her life gradually turns around.
One of the wisdoms Katherine expounds (not a particularly original one) is to never lose your childlike enthusiasm. For a number of reasons (this is not one of them), I always weep like a baby for much of this movie. Tonight I did not weep but I did get ever so slightly choked up when I was perusing a London map, when I realized how much I was enjoying this Lily Allen album, and when I was moved to tell my online friends how I feel about them—and I do!
And, for a third time tonight, I have and I haven’t. I am crustier than I used to be, it’s true. But these days I give myself permission not to fake it if I’m not really into it. Do you allow yourself to admit that you might not want to do what everyone else expects you should? Do you allow yourself to sit tight on that lack of desire to conform?
I do. I’m not trying to be superior. In fact, I feel rather inferior tonight. And I’m not pleased that I’m envious of my mom about something. Nobody wants to be like their parent, do they? And you really don’t want to admit that they seem younger than you—their offspring—in some ways.
My mom wouldn’t have climbed the tree tonight because she has two fake knees and one fake hip. I was just worried about what the neighbors would think, so I only stood below it. There’s a difference, not in my favor.
“Take What You Take” © Lily Allen
The rabbit in the kitchen with a knife
December 29, 2010
My first thought was to make this a 3-D zucchini sculpture, but as soon as I picked up the knife I knew that would be overly ambitious. So instead I made a simple, woodcut-like carving. Now what?
The alien quietly kicked the electronic dead body. It was dead. It didn’t react. The alien thought for a moment. Maybe the body simply needed some hydrotherapy to restore it, but it was unready to make the decision. The alien thought for thirty seconds longer. Then, with one boisterous gesture, it grabbed the electronic dead body and plunged it into the pot of boiling water. And waited. While it waited, it poured itself a small aperitif of sherry.
The water bubbled in anger, the alien sipped, and gradually, those two things conspired to make the alien’s stomach itself burble. The alien was quite hungry. It gazed longingly into the pot at the electronic dead body. Although the boiling water was splashy, the alien could see that a transformation was taking place in the cauldron. The protracted hydrotherapy had caused the electronic dead body to transform into an edible zucchini.
The alien’s revery was interrupted by the doorbell.
Phrases and words in bold came from random generators. I went where they took me, for better and for worse. The initial sentence came from here. Subsequent words were generated here. Another fun creative writing mini-exercise.
Hug a tree, in winter
December 21, 2010
I am no tree hugger—well, maybe I am more than some people—but there are no fake plastic trees in my neighborhood! I will start you with this gratuitous rabbit shot. I have come to know that a rabbit lives around these outbuildings beside my home train station. As I am leaving the platform, I stop to locate the rabbit. Tonight, it was snowing again and the pine tree was dressed up for a picture postcard, and the rabbit was giving me a nice, rabbity profile.
It is a few days before Christmas and some have been moaning about all the snow we’ve gotten already this season and about how kind of cold it’s mostly been. Well, I say, if it’s going to be cold (which it is), it may as well snow (I realized tonight after posting a different missive that I probably use “might” and “may” incorrectly in the context of statements such as the previous. I shall endeavor to do better). Unfortunately, that tripped me up with regard to getting to bowling tonight.
Last Monday, after the roads were well cleared from the seventeen inches of snow we had over the weekend, it took me an hour to make a drive that usually takes me twenty minutes, tops. So today, as five to eight new inches were predicted, with the accumulation culminating during rush hour, aka drive to bowling time, I made the decision early not to drive my four-cylinder, lightweight, manual-transmission econobox in less than ideal conditions.
On the other hand, the snow provides for wonderful visions of Mother Nature at her most beautiful, like in the opening photo, or in the photo above, from this year’s first snow in mid-November. For a day, it was a gorgeous winter wonderland. This is the lovely maple tree that’s in my front yard. It’s a beautiful tree, but it does throw a little too much shade on my gardening efforts in the warm season.
Other than the driving of my own car, which I only have to do twice a week for bowling, not commuting to work, you will be hard-pressed to get me to say negative things about winter. I like it.
I will end by coming full-circle, with what you probably knew would have to creep in at some point. This is one of my two favorite shots I’ve produced so far with Instagram, the latest apply-a-filter app. These are other pine trees next to the train station, taken after the snow we had the first week of December.
Winter is beautiful. Oh, and one time only, I hugged a tree.
MacGyver: bunny style
December 19, 2010
Do you have a little MacGyver in you? I do not. I can be handy with normal screwdrivers, hammers, and wrenches, and I have pretty good common sense, but I’m not sure how much of a maker I’d ever be able to be.
If I had enough time, maybe I could think through combining gum wrappers and rubber bands. But under pressure I’m no good. That’s why I’ve always preferred writing when I need to express myself in an erudite way. I’m perfectly good at babbling, but if it should be meaningful, the written word is my game.
The best I can do with regard to coming up with a MacGyverism is what you see above. Take one household pet, my rabbit Robbin, and combine him with the common household bottle opener, and you get the Bottle Bunny Opener.
The Bottle Bunny Opener was actually an awesome present from my friend Rob, in case you were wondering.
The night in bus ride: home from work
December 18, 2010
I was supposed to ride a route from start point to end point and document, but I misunderstood. So instead, I simply got home from work.
I wanted to take the 7 because it picks me up right outside of work and lets me off right outside of home. Unfortunately, I went to this stop which was half a block away from the office in the wrong direction from where the 7 actually stops. At first (second), I thought I’d get on this 50 but there were too many other people getting on.
Besides, a 3 was right behind it, which goes the same way as far as I needed to take it.
So I got on it instead.
There were fewer people. That made me happy.
The 3 and I parted ways at the Metrodome. The poor, deflated Metrodome. Ah, now you’re paying attention. There’s no puff on the top, is there.
Unfortunately, neither the 50 nor the 3 go right to my mid-ride stop, so I had to walk about a quarter mile to get to Sorella for an informal wine tasting.
The wine tasting didn’t really take that long, so I had a while to wait for my transfer, which would now be the 7, or the 22. Either one deposits me satisfactorily close to home. Here comes a 22.
There were a few more people on the 22 …
… including me!
And, home. Astute friends will notice Palmer’s Bar just ahead.
Kelly’s Unnecessary Blog 