First, I had no idea a lunar eclipse was going on right at this moment. (You can’t see it from the US, unfortunately.) I went to Google, saw the Doodle, and clicked on it to get the links.
Gotta love the Doodle
Apparently, there’s a lunar eclipse happening. It might be over now. But one link in particular jumped out at me.
Let’s look at that a little closer.
The moon is going to turn black and explode?!? When? Today? HOLY SHIT! (I may be exaggerating my reaction.) I clicked the link and was sent to the Wikipedia article. It doesn’t mention the moon exploding even once.
Where did that blurb come from? How did it get there? Is anyone going to investigate this irresponsible misuse of Google? The Internet has run amok!
Update: Google is fixed. Please return to your regular programming.
Update again: Apparently, it was a Wikipedia prank from earlier today. Wikipedia fixed it, but it was still in Google’s cache for a while.
John and I met a guy this weekend who quit his job to work on his big idea. It sounds so cool and so scary and we’re totally jealous. If only we had a big idea. Help? As we all know, I have no ideas. There are days I can barely put words on paper. (Or on the screen. Imagine how long it would take me to post if I wrote drafts in a notebook first.)
This inability to come up with an idea is making me think about the similarity to writer’s block, which seems to be causing writer’s block, and can I just say I don’t want to have writer’s block? Maybe I’ll write about writer’s block. Maybe I’ll just keep typing writer’s block. Writer’s block.
Writer’s block could be a toy. Like little wooden blocks with letters on them, except instead of just one letter per side, they have whole keyboards on each side, and you can press the letters to make words that would appear where? On top of the block? I think I’ve just described a computer in the shape of a cube, and I’ll shut up now ’cause that’s kind of dumb.
Yesterday, I went to the mall. (Cue the screechy violins.) I had an Ann Taylor LOFT gift card (my mother who loves me sent it for my birthday), and they were having a 30% off everything sale, and I found an outfit. Went to the counter, asked about my gift card, and found I can’t use it in the store. It’s an e-gift card, and I can only use it while e-shopping. Not a big deal – I wrote down exactly what I planned to buy and continued my shopping (Target, Home Depot, other stores in the mall to find shoes for this new outfit I couldn’t buy, etc). When I got home, I hopped online, found the website (30% and free shipping on the website!), put the skirt in my shopping cart, found the top, and that’s where I got stuck. Turns out the top isn’t available online. In stores only. Really? REALLY? SO irritating. I ordered the skirt anyway. Today, I went back to the store. I was in and out of the mall in less than 10 minutes, maybe less than five.
But just because my return trip was relatively painless doesn’t excuse Ann Taylor’s behavior. Why would any retailer NOT sell everything online? Yes, I know malls are endangered, and yes, they got me to visit their physical location TWICE in two days, but they also made me a tad less likely to order from them again. A tad. A teeny tad. That was a good sale. And free shipping. Who am I kidding? I’m still irritated, though.
I heard something a little (a lot) ridiculous that made my mall visit more palatable. On my way out, I went through the shoe department in Nordstrom and listened to the pianist by the escalators. I heard the opening chords of something familiar, but I couldn’t place it for a minute. Then he got to the chorus and all of a sudden I recognized it. Why would anyone bother to arrange a piano-only version of Justin Bieber’s “Baby”?
Why do I still ask these questions? A quick search on YouTube found lots of piano versions of it.
I need a vacation. A home vacation. The kind where you stay home for a week and get things done. It’s not necessarily relaxing, but it’s good for your peace of mind because all those little home projects that have been driving you crazy while undone can finally get done. But I don’t want to use up precious vacation days. I don’t see a solution. Nope, no possible solution. None at all. Sorry, can’t be done. I’ll just have to live with it. All or nothing. Now or never. Looks like the end of the line. No light at the end of the tunnel. Carpal tunnel. Carpe diem. Seize the carp! I don’t want a fish pond in my backyard. I’d be inviting all the mosquitoes to move in, get drunk, and have lots of mosquito babies. Running water would be better. I could totally live with a babbling brook. As long as I couldn’t hear it from my bedroom at night. You know you have to pee in the middle of the night when your dreams involve frantic searches for toilets.
They’re all in a row, one after the other, and that’s not even counting the page before the FIRST title page that basically works like the back of the dust jacket, with the title and author AGAIN (and a short bio). I don’t understand. Why so many? Does Random House think I’m going to forget what book I just picked up? Every one and a half seconds?
I don’t get it. But I do think Random House is a cool name for a company. Maybe I’ll call my bookstore Random Books. Or Random Reads. Random Readers. Random Shop. Maybe just Random. Maybe not.
Wanna see the worst haircut I’ve ever gotten? I hated it. It was the summer after my freshman year in college. I was going for a pixie cut, something really short, something I’d never done before (and have never tried since), but that Mom and Mindy do really well. If they can do it, I can, right? Maybe I wasn’t clear enough with the stylist. She gave me something that looked kinda like Julia Roberts as Tinkerbell in Hook. With a mullet.
With a mullet. And not so many layers, I think. I don't remember. I've blocked it out.
It was awful. I got home, cried, and went somewhere else the next day to try to get it fixed. Which wasn’t really possible. So I hated my hair that whole summer. I recently came across a picture of me from later that summer, and while I still don’t think it’s a good haircut, I don’t think it was quite as bad as it seemed at the time.
It’s not something I’d do again, though.
And to bribe you into saying nice things about this old picture of me (or at least non-commital not-mean things), here’s Mr. Toad.
Link #2: By way of nn.c (and yesterday’s post, no less – I’m a little late), here’s a video both amazing and adorable. It’s making me wish for a really good video camera so I can do the same thing with Riley racing at full speed around the yard.
Yeah, yeah, it’s less a link and more an embedded video, but I think you’ll forgive me.
#)(*$%^&*%#!
I would choose to use a mouse over a touchpad any day of the week. If I’m sitting at a desk or a table or a coffee table or any flat surface. If my laptop is actually in my lap, a mouse is more of a hindrance. I mention this because I’m sitting at my little desk between the dining room and the kitchen, and I reached over with my right hand to move the mouse. The mouse that isn’t there. But my hand made the mouse shape and tensed to hold it under my palm. Weird feeling to tense for a mouse and miss. It’s very much like going upstairs while carrying something that’s blocking your view so you can’t tell when you’ve reached the top and your foot looks for the next step only to find nothing but air so you stumble a little as your foot misses and hits the floor. It’s like that.
I’ve never put much thought into how many spaces I put between sentences. I mean, I always used two, but it never occurred to me to wonder why. I certainly had no idea people felt so strongly about it (although that shouldn’t surprise me – people get worked up about everything else, so why not sentence spacing?), and I don’t really see a difference aesthetically. I’m willing to convert to one space (I imagine it’ll become second nature eventually, but right now it’s slowing me down), if only because it’s logical.
Not in the last-minute nerves sense. In the I-should-be-wearing-slippers sense. The Wales Tales (I called it a saga earlier, but Mom pointed out that saga is Icelandic, not Welsh. Not that it matters. But this is better.) will continue tomorrow. I needed a break. I also needed to visit all my blog friends and catch up on what I missed. I was almost two weeks behind! That’s like 10 years in internet time. Of course, an hour and a half in one evening is not long enough to completely catch up, but I’ve made a start. Now I’m going to take my chilly toes to bed.
Chilly toes, chilly toes
Why so cold? Nobody knows.
If they could stretch, they might touch your nose.
Chilly toes.
What tune am I singing that to? Guess right and I’ll send you a book. What book? It’s a surprise.
Thanks to Bridget, I just found out I’m not a Pisces anymore. I’m an Aquarius. My sense of self is totally screwed up now. Like, OMG. For reals. I’d better call my BFF.
I’m not allowed to blow my nose. Ridiculous? Yes. Am I following that rule? Yes, because the oral surgeon convinced me that if I blow my nose before the hole in my gums has healed, my head might explode. Or something. But being forced to sniffle for a week is seriously irritating. And I keep forgetting. I’ve found myself on the brink of blowing my nose at least four times, and I’ve actually done it three times. Followed by “SHIT! I’m not supposed to do that!”
On top of that, work is getting on my nerves (look at your own damn calendar) ,and it’s COLD outside.
And no, Jell-O, frown is NOT a four-letter word. Now leave me the hell alone. (That was directed to Jell-O, whose pudding and gelatin products I’m thoroughly tired of, of course. Not you. I didn’t realize that was possible. Of whose pudding and gelatin products I am thoroughly tired. And up with which I will not put. Anymore. Likewise. Never mind the furthermore, the plea is self defense.)
I would like to write something that doesn’t involve complaining. Or whining. I don’t remember how. That sounds like whining. Don’t read that.
Today was my first day back on my feet, and I think I handled it okay. I felt like I got punched in the mouth (which is kinda what happened – fact, not complaint), but that didn’t keep me from doing my work. I could use an early bedtime, though. The band is rehearsing, but tonight they’re more of a jazz trio than a rock band, so it’s more soothing than usual. Soothing-er. I should trademark that. Soothingers – the blankets/pacifiers/musical mobiles that put your baby to sleep.
Speaking of babies, I CANNOT leave this hole in my head alone. I know I’m not supposed to poke and prod, but my tongue keeps finding its way over there and the next thing I know, I’m trying to count the stitches. But I can’t count with my tongue, so I have no idea. More than one, less than 10. I read somewhere (long time ago) that human beings can’t take in more than four things (it might have been three) at a glance. Once there are more than four (or three) of something in a pile, you classify it as many and you have to actually count to see how many there are. I’m pretty sure I read that and I’m not making it up, but I’m totally guessing at the details. And it may not be true (or it may have been discredited).
I just did a quick search and didn’t come up with anything conclusive. Couple of forum discussions, but nothing helpful.
The big bad wolf is trying to blow down my house. Made of siding. I’m in trouble.
I could eat my weight in pepperoni and pineapple pizza. And chicken tikka masala.
I wonder if Riley or Roxy would try to defend me if I were attacked.
Why does it have to be so cold? And windy? One of those I can handle, but both? Not fair.
I am in need of bookshelves. And books. Bookshelves first.
I should re-read the Harry Potter books before the last movie. And watch all of the movies.
Oh my god, my brain is boring. Why do you people keep coming back? Don’t misunderstand me – I’m thrilled that you do. And a little puzzled by the spike in visits I had over the weekend, all related to searches for Road Runner. Who knew that guy was so popular?
You know who needs more work? John Hannah.
What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?
My blog is exactly what it looks like. I make no promises to say anything profound. I read, I write, and I try to figure out what I really need to be happy. Isn't that what you do?
Let’s look at that a little closer.
