Blame twitter. Not that I think anyone is checking here for new content - but due to twitter and it's amazing ability to let me drain my noggin's chatter-pan more regularly, I find myself posting "big posts, official ones" to the blog much less often.
And even if it didn't exist or I weren't using it? There wouldn't be much here lately anyway. Bout all I have is a new found hatred for the sound a plastic spoon makes when it scrapes the bottom of a yogurt cup. For some reason this JUST started bothering me. One of my co-workers eats yogurt daily at her desk, has been for as long as I can remember. Yet, this audio event has just started to bother me.
We Zooms recently got to play a game called Apples to Apples with some friends of ours. Despite the fact that it isn't a drinking or eating game, I liked it!! The brief description of the game is that you have to pick a word you are given and match it to a word the "judge" gives you. Something you think will be seen by the judge as a match. As someone who can create a link between two or more events/things/etc., this game felt like it was made for me. Although I didn't come close to winning but once, and only then after I started shutting down my special kind of logic.
Zoom: "What do you mean toasters aren't shocking?"
Judge: "Well I'm not taking it into the bath with me!"
Zoom: *pout*
The after effect on Mr. Zoom is that when he says things to me now, I like to latch onto a word and fling "matching" words at it. Only nobody really knows what word will trigger me, or what I'm even talking about until deep resentment has set in.
Mr. Zoom: "I'm going to the market today."
Zoom: "ORANGES! glassware. MITTENS! Cake. Nooooo. Cash. WHY?!"
Mr. Zoom: *sigh*
Awesome.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Wax On... Why Are You Crying?
Recently I discovered the certificate I was issued when I obtained a yellow belt in some flim flammy karate class. When I was 10, the year 1979. YIKES!
I can totally remember when my Dad and two older brothers decided to take karate classes for the exact same reason that everyone else at the time wanted them. They all wanted to be Bruce Lee. And I wanted to be and do whatever my brothers were doing - the fact that I was a girl and they were boys didn't mean a thing to me. I should have known from the lack of hesitation [upon my joining the class] on their part that it was an incredibly bad idea. For me.
We were 3 latch key kids. When my brothers weren't spending time locking me out of the house, they were using me as a target for home made darts or just beating me up in the way that only brothers can do. Enrolling all of us in a class where they were not only allowed, but encouraged to beat on their sister was the ultimate get out of jail free card.
When the teacher informed us that karate was only to be used to protect oneself, and that it was downright improper to use it solely to show off or whack your sister in the head, I had hope. Hope that my brothers wouldn't roundhouse my ass just for fun. It is one of the clearest memories I have of complete and utter dismay at the difference of life "on paper" and "in reality". It was the down payment on my helmet for life. Because what do 12 and 14 year old boys care about improper? Only that the forbidden nature of it was the exact fuel they needed to put operation pummel-your-sister into action.
My Dad was in the class with us. That slightly cut down on the number of "sparring" sessions I had to endure. That - and the fact that I learned to cry sooner rather than later, which I believe got on their nerves more than anything.
Memories of those individual lessons are lost to me at this point. A blurry image here and there, mostly of my trying to remember my Forms. Or Form. Or whatever that maniacal dance routine was that they assigned to us at each level and that we were expected to memorize and perform on demand. One particular lesson I remember the class being introduced to a room - not unlike one of those super bounce things at kid parties - but it was an actual room in the building where the lights were turned out, we were placed inside, and the idea was for us to use our spidey senses to spar with our classmates. That might have been considered a great teaching technique if I didn't immediately curl up in a ball in the corner and just hope that nobody tripped over me. Much more turtle than spider.
I remember testing for the yellow belt, and quitting the classes the very night I got it. I was NOT going to stick around for nunchucks and throwing stars. Those items might not have been on the teacher's agenda, but that wouldn't have mattered to my brothers. There was already a pond in our courtyard filled with plastic army men who had been tied to bottle rockets and shot into the pond from the roof of our two story home - and cleaned out again before our parents got home. I didn't need much encouragement to believe that I would soon be forced to "hold this for a second, I want to see if I can make a throwing star stick in the wood while I run through the yard like a ninja."
I can totally remember when my Dad and two older brothers decided to take karate classes for the exact same reason that everyone else at the time wanted them. They all wanted to be Bruce Lee. And I wanted to be and do whatever my brothers were doing - the fact that I was a girl and they were boys didn't mean a thing to me. I should have known from the lack of hesitation [upon my joining the class] on their part that it was an incredibly bad idea. For me.
We were 3 latch key kids. When my brothers weren't spending time locking me out of the house, they were using me as a target for home made darts or just beating me up in the way that only brothers can do. Enrolling all of us in a class where they were not only allowed, but encouraged to beat on their sister was the ultimate get out of jail free card.
When the teacher informed us that karate was only to be used to protect oneself, and that it was downright improper to use it solely to show off or whack your sister in the head, I had hope. Hope that my brothers wouldn't roundhouse my ass just for fun. It is one of the clearest memories I have of complete and utter dismay at the difference of life "on paper" and "in reality". It was the down payment on my helmet for life. Because what do 12 and 14 year old boys care about improper? Only that the forbidden nature of it was the exact fuel they needed to put operation pummel-your-sister into action.
My Dad was in the class with us. That slightly cut down on the number of "sparring" sessions I had to endure. That - and the fact that I learned to cry sooner rather than later, which I believe got on their nerves more than anything.
Memories of those individual lessons are lost to me at this point. A blurry image here and there, mostly of my trying to remember my Forms. Or Form. Or whatever that maniacal dance routine was that they assigned to us at each level and that we were expected to memorize and perform on demand. One particular lesson I remember the class being introduced to a room - not unlike one of those super bounce things at kid parties - but it was an actual room in the building where the lights were turned out, we were placed inside, and the idea was for us to use our spidey senses to spar with our classmates. That might have been considered a great teaching technique if I didn't immediately curl up in a ball in the corner and just hope that nobody tripped over me. Much more turtle than spider.
I remember testing for the yellow belt, and quitting the classes the very night I got it. I was NOT going to stick around for nunchucks and throwing stars. Those items might not have been on the teacher's agenda, but that wouldn't have mattered to my brothers. There was already a pond in our courtyard filled with plastic army men who had been tied to bottle rockets and shot into the pond from the roof of our two story home - and cleaned out again before our parents got home. I didn't need much encouragement to believe that I would soon be forced to "hold this for a second, I want to see if I can make a throwing star stick in the wood while I run through the yard like a ninja."
I'll tell you what though. I was the best crier in the class.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
No Really. It Wasn't From the Circus.
So what's the last thing you expect to see on the sidewalk as you drive home from YOUR work day? No really. Think of all the things you would never expect to see.
Is one of them a unicycle being ridden down the road? Because it should be.
When Mr. Zoom and I drive home, this is what we normally see, and what we expect to see. Sure, throw a random person walking their dog in there. We can handle that.
I am a clown, I am here for Earth's amusement. I have to be. How else can you explain that several times now, Mr. Zoom and I have been driving down that road and seen an honest to goodness UNICYCLE WITH A RIDER ON IT just toolin down the street like it's perfectly normal?
And the worst part? I can NEVER get a picture. NEVER. Even if I drove home with the camera on and pointed out the window, the speed at which both we are driving and the unicycle is going the other way makes it impossible for me to capture proof on ... digital camera.
And this keeps me up at night. Because who believes you when you say you've spotted an actual unicycle with rider just going down the street as if that's perfectly ok? And there's no circus around. The fair hasn't even been in town when the thing shows up every summer.
So guess what you all get. You get a really crappy artist's rendering of what Mr. Zoom and I have to see once in a while. Just like court cases where media can't come in. Only I'm spectacularly inept at drawing in general and I have not the slightest clue how to work the photoshop on our computers.
Is one of them a unicycle being ridden down the road? Because it should be.
When Mr. Zoom and I drive home, this is what we normally see, and what we expect to see. Sure, throw a random person walking their dog in there. We can handle that.
I am a clown, I am here for Earth's amusement. I have to be. How else can you explain that several times now, Mr. Zoom and I have been driving down that road and seen an honest to goodness UNICYCLE WITH A RIDER ON IT just toolin down the street like it's perfectly normal?
And the worst part? I can NEVER get a picture. NEVER. Even if I drove home with the camera on and pointed out the window, the speed at which both we are driving and the unicycle is going the other way makes it impossible for me to capture proof on ... digital camera.
And this keeps me up at night. Because who believes you when you say you've spotted an actual unicycle with rider just going down the street as if that's perfectly ok? And there's no circus around. The fair hasn't even been in town when the thing shows up every summer.
So guess what you all get. You get a really crappy artist's rendering of what Mr. Zoom and I have to see once in a while. Just like court cases where media can't come in. Only I'm spectacularly inept at drawing in general and I have not the slightest clue how to work the photoshop on our computers.
See that? Do you think you could keep your collective sh*t together if YOU were driving down the street and saw that?
I didn't think so.
FINALLY, after like 2 years of fretting over the fact that that I'm never going to get photographic proof of the existence of this thing, I can let.it.go.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Defending My Nit-Wit Title
Poor Mr. Zoom. Anytime now he will wake up in our house, and once more, wonder how I can possibly claim I wasn't raised/trained by lunatic hippies. With a straight face.
Mr. Zoom has come down with a horrible cold. The way he deals with ill is nearly identical to how he deals with the realization he's married to a woman who will do and say just about anything if it makes sense to her - and only her, the rest of the world is welcome to get on board but if not - oh well that's what insurance is for. Only the trained eye of the wife can tell the difference between "you've got to be kidding me" and "sick". When sick, he takes some cold relief medicine, and then curls up in a ball for a 4 day sleep in the guest bedroom. One doesn't wake him. One doesn't try to feed him. One only checks to be sure he's still breathing throughout the day.
I leave sick friendly food offerings in the fridge. I leave little notes around for him to call me if he needs something (but he never ever would).
Today though, here's what he's going to find when he wakes up and makes his way to the kitchen. A fresh loaf of bread I bought for him last night (for toast. He loves toast when he's not feeling great), a note that I love him, and oh yeah, a note that there's A WASP IN THE BATHROOM. Be careful.
What he'll see when he goes to the loo to check it out is another huge note on the bathroom mirror "WASP!! on the floor!! CAREFUL". He will then look down to see a brown paper lunch size sack taped over an upside down high-ball glass, which is covering a wasp I found in our loo last night. The sack says "stoopid Wasp".
I think I carried the bee into the house on my clothes. For some reason bees literally try to stick themselves to me. One time I went to lunch at work, came back to my desk and couldn't figure out why my hair was buzzing. I'd brought a bee all the way from outside and up 14 floors to my desk and didn't even know it. Just a month or so ago, a huge bumble bee followed me from our yard and all the way out to my truck. I was positive it was going to kill me and then drag me back to its house for the family to feed on. It finally flew away, but not until after much whimpering and adrenaline leaked out of my body.
So last night after I get out of the shower (had gone to the gym), I see the wasp on the floor. He's barely alive. Normal people would take care of it by vacuum or broom and dustpan. But I can't. I can't I can't I can't. Normally Mr. Zoom can recognize a spider squeal out of me and will be there within seconds to deal with it. But this time he was already down in the sick sleep and I wasn't going to wake him up.
The solution was for me to grab a glass and turn it over on the bee. And even that gave me the worst case of the willies. The glass landed over it's target and I shot backwards going "woeeididd eee ooo eeeiiieeee". I was afraid later that Mr. Zoom would wander in there and not see the glass or bee, and might kick it. So I took the lunch sack I found in a drawer and some packaging tape, and I taped the bag over the glass and onto the floor (cement acid washed floors, no carpet).
I'm pretty sure a giant spider will show up in the shower tomorrow morning. That's usually how this works. Worst time possible for critter interaction? Great. Everybody swarm.
Mr. Zoom has come down with a horrible cold. The way he deals with ill is nearly identical to how he deals with the realization he's married to a woman who will do and say just about anything if it makes sense to her - and only her, the rest of the world is welcome to get on board but if not - oh well that's what insurance is for. Only the trained eye of the wife can tell the difference between "you've got to be kidding me" and "sick". When sick, he takes some cold relief medicine, and then curls up in a ball for a 4 day sleep in the guest bedroom. One doesn't wake him. One doesn't try to feed him. One only checks to be sure he's still breathing throughout the day.
I leave sick friendly food offerings in the fridge. I leave little notes around for him to call me if he needs something (but he never ever would).
Today though, here's what he's going to find when he wakes up and makes his way to the kitchen. A fresh loaf of bread I bought for him last night (for toast. He loves toast when he's not feeling great), a note that I love him, and oh yeah, a note that there's A WASP IN THE BATHROOM. Be careful.
What he'll see when he goes to the loo to check it out is another huge note on the bathroom mirror "WASP!! on the floor!! CAREFUL". He will then look down to see a brown paper lunch size sack taped over an upside down high-ball glass, which is covering a wasp I found in our loo last night. The sack says "stoopid Wasp".
I think I carried the bee into the house on my clothes. For some reason bees literally try to stick themselves to me. One time I went to lunch at work, came back to my desk and couldn't figure out why my hair was buzzing. I'd brought a bee all the way from outside and up 14 floors to my desk and didn't even know it. Just a month or so ago, a huge bumble bee followed me from our yard and all the way out to my truck. I was positive it was going to kill me and then drag me back to its house for the family to feed on. It finally flew away, but not until after much whimpering and adrenaline leaked out of my body.
So last night after I get out of the shower (had gone to the gym), I see the wasp on the floor. He's barely alive. Normal people would take care of it by vacuum or broom and dustpan. But I can't. I can't I can't I can't. Normally Mr. Zoom can recognize a spider squeal out of me and will be there within seconds to deal with it. But this time he was already down in the sick sleep and I wasn't going to wake him up.
The solution was for me to grab a glass and turn it over on the bee. And even that gave me the worst case of the willies. The glass landed over it's target and I shot backwards going "woeeididd eee ooo eeeiiieeee". I was afraid later that Mr. Zoom would wander in there and not see the glass or bee, and might kick it. So I took the lunch sack I found in a drawer and some packaging tape, and I taped the bag over the glass and onto the floor (cement acid washed floors, no carpet).
I'm pretty sure a giant spider will show up in the shower tomorrow morning. That's usually how this works. Worst time possible for critter interaction? Great. Everybody swarm.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Fire Safety by Tag-Team
P Touch labelers are the best invention ever.
There are times when I hate living in a neighborhood full of college kids. Then there are the times they make me laugh and they make me thankful that our house isn't at the end of the block.
Managed to get a better picture of one of our office falcons this week.
There are times when I hate living in a neighborhood full of college kids. Then there are the times they make me laugh and they make me thankful that our house isn't at the end of the block.
Managed to get a better picture of one of our office falcons this week.
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