Better Like This, or Like This?

Just had an eye doctor visit... the usual, annual thing that those of us chronically myopic bookworms have to have. I need new contacts cause I have 1 expired left lens left, and 2 rights. So. Not a matched pair.

What's funny is how competitive I can be. In the "is A or B better?" I really really want to get the answer right. Anxiously, I try not to squint, to blink to make sure the clarity is right. I mean, if I do it wrong, my vision will be all screwed up cause the prescription will be wrong. The very nice eye doctor compliments me "you're doing great." I feel a high five coming on. YES! I can read the last line. I'm just not sure that's a "Q" or an "O" but hey, what's a small san serif curly between good friends. "Look here at my ear while I shine this small light the intensity of the sun right in your eyeball." No blinking! "Good job." Yes. I can keep my eyes wide open while someone is puffing blasts of air in them. I am a fabulous eye-doctor patient.

And then there's the other stuff. "Your optic nerves are nice and pink" she says. That makes me feel smug. Hah! MY optic nerves are superior to, well, someone's, I'm sure. And that matters. Cause pink optic nerves are the new big boobs. Next thing you know, there will be (my) sexy optic nerves gracing the covers of magazines, headlines reading "You Know You Want Em" and "Check Out those Peepers."

Cranky

I had creepy dreams, am anxious about my dissertation intro on which I still haven't gotten any feedback from my chair, and generally cranky. I was cranky yesterday too cause I had a headache all day. Therefore, any cool things the blog is supposed to be doing are postponed till later.

It's not a major earth-shattering issue. I will get over it-- I rarely stay cranky long. But for now, I'm just going to go have a good latte, and watch a movie with my hubby when he gets home from work in a while. Maybe that will cheer me up.

But a mental note on something to write about later: this call for papers which included the bizarre statement: "writing on the internet is in the public domain". SO NOT TRUE!! But more later on that.

Mass Email Forwards

Just a little tip from me to the few folks who stumble here on a regular and/or random basis.

If you're going to forward an email to everyone on your list, try the "BCC" or "blind carbon copy" function in your email program. And if someone forwards you an email with tons of email addresses listed at the top of the email, edit it slightly to remove all those addresses.

Why am I telling you this? Am I just being a grumpy gus cause I have a little bit of a headache and have a "girl's night out" to attend & I think the headache will reduce my pleasure at said girl's night?

No.**

Three reasons.
1. it does decrease the amount of junk on the email. We can scan it quickly if we don't have to see everyone's email.
2. Sometimes, all those mass addresses our spam filters do not recognize make your email pop into the spam folder. It could make it take a while for us to get that email.
3. SPAM!!! If you forward emails with lots of email addresses, all those friends and family's email addresses can be easily verified as "real" addresses if a spambot gets ahold of it. And then, we're all added to crap email lists.

So please. Do this. Use the "BCC" button. Thataway not everyone and everyone's half sister gets the email addresses of everyone you know. It's for our own good! Really!

**although I am a bit grumpy. Hang on PF Chang's, I'm gonna need a GOOD MARTINI. Could you get one ready for me?

Ding Dong the witch is dead

The chick who was plagiarizing people's blog appears to be GONE. It's unclear whether she yanked it herself because of the forthcoming wave of wrath or if Blogger removed her because of TOS violations. Either way... there is much rejoicing in munchkin land today.

But just to be wary, I may once in a while keep a look out for something like that again. Not that I think my tiny little corner of the world will be plagiarized, but it bears noting it happens.

What You Can Find in Your Own Backyard

I was thinking-- sure, you can get great pictures of cool things if you go someplace special, like Europe. But what about closer to home? This is the first in a series I hope to do of photos close to home. Cool things that I can see every single day. Literally in my own back yard.


Go there.

Favorite Things

AH! I've been finding ideas on Stephanie Klein. Yes, I am an eavesdropper, listening in on other people's conversations. All writers are. I think she'll find it in her heart to forgive me should she ever look in my blog.

She has the meme "Favorite Things" on her blog here.

This is my list. It's been much harder to write than I thought it would be when I started it back August 3rd-- I don't know, perhaps my favorite things seem so banal compared to others, but that's not very fair of me to me. Piffle.

• Cats. Especially black ones.
• Clean sheets warm from the dryer.
• Silk pajamas.
• Lavender.
• Miss Piggy.
• Louisa May Alcott.
• Sean Stewart & Neil Gaiman.
• The Gashleycrumb Tinies.
• Bellydance-- the clothes, the dancing, the women power vibe.
• My husband's eyes.
• Tarot.
• Barbie. Especially this one and this one.
• Vampire books.
• Halloween!! Parties especially!!
• Martha Stewart. Still.
• Mixing CDs with eclectic mixes.
• Rainstorms with the windows open. Napping during them.
• Gargoyles. Especially this one.
• writing, even when it doesn't work.
• doing something well, and that happy accomplished feeling that you get afterwards.
• books. All of them!
• my friends. hanging out doing something pointless with them, perhaps tubing on the river with a thermos full of martinis.
• blueberry yogurt.
• Indian food. Greek food. Italian food. Hmmm. Ethnic foods of all kinds I've tried.
• Dancing.
• visiting best friends who I haven't gotten to see much.
• that anticipation at a great restaurant, just before you get your food.
• feeling smart, even when I've done something stupid.
• the deep red 100% cashmere sweater I bought for 30 bucks, but then which I went and shrunk. I still mourn its loss.
• visiting someplace new, seeing sights I've never seen, meeting cool people.
• that when I went to Boston and had to leave my bags somewhere for several hours before my friend could pick me up caus he was working, I stopped in at the Plaza and left my bags there with the concierge. And when he said "Are you staying at the hotel" I said without blinking "yes." Meaning: "someday." Heck, I tipped the guys 10 bucks in the long run. That's gotta count for something.
• espresso with that perfect creamy crema.
• baking for others. heck, cooking for them in general.
• Wagamama Noodle Bar in London.
• the trip to Paris on the chunnel train. getting Vevue Cliquot champagne & Godiva chocolates for the ride back.
• My passport.
• Being able to talk to anyone about pretty much anything. Not always doing it-- sometimes keeping my mouth shut instead.
• Hot chocolate with Grand Marinier & whipped cream.
• Swimming in the Gulf of Mexico near my mother's home in Florida.
• waterbeds.
• chocolate chip cookies. The soft kind. The crunchy kind if I've got coffee to dip them in.
• laughing till tears come helpless to your eyes and you get a stomach ache.
• the shiver up the center of your back when you hear incredible music. Beethoven's Ode to Joy in particular.
• sleeping in the sun, but having it be still cool enough to be comfortable but not sunburn. that time on the grassy hill at college in Bellingham when I fell asleep reading Passage to India.
• long flowy gypsy skirts.

I think I'll keep doing this list later. Maybe have a part 2. For now, this is enough.

Kill Bill 2

We watched the movie last night at "Uncle B's" place. He has a big screen Hi-Def TV. I really hadn't felt that much urgency to see the movie, for two reasons. The first one was good, and I liked it, but it was awfully violent. Over the summer, at the lakehouse, the children (between 4-10) put Kill Bill 1 into the DVD player and watched it, like, twice. I thought it was inappropriate for kids, but their parents apparently did not. Eventually, someone said "look, kids, turn that crap off. Watch Finding Nemo or something*."

But after having that long bloody violent murder porn on the TV forever, and having seen it in random moments as I walked through, frowning at the rapt attention on the little faces of the five and eight year olds, and not seeing it all the way through so you get caught up in the narrative, I did think that it was a. kinda gross b. not something I really enjoyed.

So the other reason I wasn't really looking forward to watching the sequel was Mary Ann Johanson's review of it. I don't always agree with the Flick Filosopher... but often, her reviews make me go "Oh! Yeah! That's what I couldn't put my finger on about that movie that vaguely annoyed me." So her review was not positive, and she got a lot of flack in her reader mail**, which made me realize that Kill Bill 2 was one of those kinds of movies. You know, the ones that rabid fans are not going to hear any critique of but which might have a weakness here or there that a critical eye could find disturbing....

Anyway. What was my final opinion? I liked the second movie better than the first. I thought the lesser level of ultra violence was better, made for a much more interesting movie. I was disturbed by the range of viciousness to weepy tears that Uma Thurman went through. There seemed to be something about women's "innate emotional state" in that--you just can't trust a woman, it seems to imply, cause you never know when she'll go from cuddling your kid while watching a movie to pounding your heart into stopping. I liked the sepia scene at the beginning where we see more about the "wedding" and what "The Bride" was up to. I liked the scenes with the "Master" martial arts guy, the way he kept flipping his beard up in a sort of parody of himself. All in all, it was a movie to see. Just not more than once for me. (Hey! That rhymed!) Extra bonus!

But I'm really glad we didn't watch the first one again, which had been the initial plan. Not only am I not up for that many sheer hours of sitting in front of the soul-sucking device known as TV, but watching that much gore disguised as "empowerment" just doesn't appeal to me. I agree with Johansen that it's NOT a feminist movie, despite having strong female characters. I like it that women can explore every range of morality-- that in itself is feminist-- but it's not something that improves the condition of women just because there are women in it.

Anyway. There's my two cents. And since it's Sunday, and I like you, I'll give it to you for half off-- the new low low price of 1 cent only, payable by check, major credit cards, or aluminum can recycling tickets.

---

*and yes, I would prefer a fifteenth showing of Nemo to either of these two "superhip" movies. "Just keep swimming swimming swimming." "Ooooh. I wish I spoke whale." Gets me every. single. time! Did I ever mention that in the "Which Finding Nemo character are you" quiz I come out as Dory? Yes. I think I did.

**now with added snarkiness for your dietary needs....

Weekend Blogging

Have you ever noticed that on the weekend blogging just seems less easy? I guess it's cause the hubby is home, and we're usually out doing something or other, and I just don't have time to sit at the computer for hours reading other people's blogs & playing around with mine. Today I played with all the photos from the week's bellydance at the retirement home. That means taking out the ones I hated (of which there were a bunch this time because of a mis-communication and a grumpy husband taking pictures). It also means playing around with the ones I like to make them better. Yes, I "supermodel" my pictures. Shiny nose? Gone. Eye looks a little bloodshot? Hmmm. Yes. I can fix that too. Red eyes cause of camera flash? Usually fixable. Then I send them to ofoto and eventually get prints of the ones that I really want. I have a little bellydancing scrapbook.
I did a bunch of pictures with filters this time because they were such bad pictures of me "basic" that I played just to see what I could do. Some of the filters produced a really cool effect. I like doing that artsy fartsy stuff. It made me think of what Andy Warhol was doing with the silkscreens of people like Marilyn Monroe & Jackie Kennedy.... something to do with emphasizing the lines of the face and taking out other features. Kinda cool.
One of these days I'm going to get my teacher, D., who is also a photographer, to take "professional" studio photos of me all gussied up. Then we're talking "stuck on myself much?" But I really like looking at other people's photos on blogs, so I figure people who like me will also like that sort of thing.

Anyway. I'll post a link when I get the photo album all uploaded. It's got 28 minutes to go as I write this.

Another picture

Cause I'm very narcissicistic. And love Photoshop filters.

Okay, so there was this camel....

So we did the bellydance thing at the Retirement home on Wednesday night. They really loved it-- it's an easy audience, though, cause they pretty much love anything that's interesting. This is one of the pix, which I gave a quick preview for last night:


The photoshop filter is called "glowing edges." I think I might have also frescoed it a little bit... This is why I photoshopped the picture-- it was one with the most potential for looking cool, but I had poochy tummy from camel rolls.

Anyways, that's it. And all apologies to whoever it was whose blog I drunkenly commented in last night. I cannot recall who it was, but I remember I thought it was very funny to not spell things correctly.

Previews

I know I promised to do the "spam fiction" thing today. But I was promised (hey Terry!) fiction I didn't yet get. So I was waiting.

But in case youse were wondering, what I did yesterday was bellydance at a retirement home. Here's a preview picture, slightly photoshopped for fun & amusement.


The background is this cool work done by one of the home's employees. It was "Egyptian Night" which made for some cool pix. Other than the fact that the hubby apparently caught me each photo doing a camel roll, which makes the tummy poke out a bit more than it normally does. Ah well. Think GODDESS.

Intellectual Theft

I don't know if you guys here in my tiny corner of the world have been following the theft of the chick who has no life of people's blog posts. It looks like this "Emu" Carolyn Dwyer chick has stolen every single blog post on her website from someone else. Maybe there's one or two that are her original thoughts, but other than that, she is lifting entire blog entries from other writers with no credit, claiming them as her own. It's OUTRAGEOUS. I am really offended, and ticked off, and all those things. I was alerted of this yesterday in reading one of my daily favorites, This Fish Needs a Bicycle. I will not give a link to the Emu site-- she does not deserve the traffic--but you can see for yourself by getting there through the Fish essay if you really want to read it. But there are two email addresses that appear to be active if you want to participate in encouraging Carolyn to stop her ridiculous theft:

cld_1980@hotmail.com
aussieinchicago@yahoo.com (email addy's courtesy of this article).

Look, Tequila Mockingbird says it better than I can: You do not have to have a blog. If you can't write something original, don't write one! Don't steal someone else's ideas! It matters, it is theft, it is wrong, and you are not impressing anyone. ANYONE. Sour Bob is apparently on this, though. I get little shivers down my back when I see the wrath of Bob potential.

To quote my own comment on Fish's blog:

YAY! I'm so glad to see Sour Bob on the case!

The issue sometimes my students don't understand about intellectual property theft.

Plagiarism is that. It steals someone else's ideas. Sure, on a blog, or a poem, or whatever, it's not an idea that right now is making a million bucks or something. But what if I took my computer software, scribbled out Bill Gates' address and said "Kim Wells Microsore ScreenDoors". And tried to say "well, yeah, I invented this. And my copy is only 5.99." Then everyone would see what was wrong with that-- you're stealing people's livelihood, money right out of their pocket.

Writers make a living with their words, their ideas, their clever turns of phrase. It DOES matter when and if someone steals it. It matters just as much as if they walk into your house and take your checkbook, taking all the money out of your bank account. If stealing is wrong, and we pretty much all say it is, then stealing IDEAS is wrong too.

Quite clearly, it matters, because otherwise, why would 85 people (give or take the few trolls) be commenting? There are usually between 10 & 20 comments on this blog. I keep checking back because it gives me a sick feeling to see that smug face on the cheater stealer liar's website "getting away with it." And I want her to take the damn thing down! . . . It's not like someone has a gun to your head and forces you to put together this entity known as an internet diary/journal. You don't have to steal someone else's life to post on a blog you claim as your own. Why do it? It IS sick in that Single White Female sort of way. Sick. Sick. And if you don't get that, then imagine someone knocking you on the head and taking your life away from you. Your thoughts, your livelihood, etc. Taking whatever is your most precious possession away. That is what our thoughts are to writers-- one of our most precious possessions. If you don't get that-- then there's little hope you'll understand. But those of us who do are all for this Emu chick getting her comeuppance.

Let the public tomato-throwing festival begin.

Tara's Obfuscation Reward Story

Okay, so based on gleanings from Tara's blog, I have a distinct impression that she shares my love of quirky 80s bands and music. (Not to mention a grrrrrr-for John Cusack!) So I thought for my reward nostalgia story for Tara, I'd write about my first ever "grownup" concert attendance.

Rick Springfield's Cathode Ray tour in 1985. So I was 15, and didn't have much money, or a job, so when my friend Cathy wanted to go to the concert, which was in Pensacola (we lived in Fort Walton Beach) it meant I had to figure out some way to get the twenty bucks free and clear. Her mom was willing to drive us, but where to get the money? 'Til Tuesday was the opening act, and that was a cool extra.

Down the street from my house was a laundromat owned/run by this older guy. I have NO idea where I got the idea, but for some reason, I proposed to him that I work for him for a day or two to get the funds to pay for my ticket. Maybe cause he also had this other younger boy who sometimes would work there, handing out quarters & cleaning up any major messes. He said sure, and I "worked" there for a few hours for two days. Now as I think back, I think it was a very nice thing for him to do, basically, to give me the cash to go to this concert. It seems a little on the creepy side, too-- why would some middle-aged guy want to do this? But anyway-- no creepiness allowed.

So Cathy & I were set. Concert attendance was a MUST. We got all dolled up, and headed over. While we waited in the seats, which weren't really too bad, watching the scurry and shuffle of the roadies & the "floor" seating people down in the pit, we listened to the Beatles play over the speakers. I snottily mentioned that I didn't like the Beatles. (I know, I know-- I was 15, and I said it was snotty). The kid next to me, a teen a little older than us (so probably 17, tops) expressed his amazement at my snotty little declaration.

We grooved nicely to the songs of 'Til Tuesday, and I was a perfectly normal girl. After the open, the lights went up and we chatted with the guy next to us a bit, and just waited for the main event, happy, relaxed, sipping a soda. The lights went out in that sudden pitch black way you only get just before a concert. Hysteria ensued. Screaming, crying, more screaming. I swear, I have no idea why-- I didn't really like Rick that much before the concert, but something in that crowd-think teen girl pop-star cutie vibe really got to both me & Cathy-- who was also an otherwise levelheaded girl. The kid next to me even asked me at one time if I "was allright"... I remember I was annoyed with him for asking. But I really was hysterical for a time. Yes. I have been that girl. Hysterical teen freak girl.

The concert was not bad-- he sang a song about his father, who had recently died, while sitting on the edge of the stage, all lit up with white light with the background totally dark, holding a "portable" keyboard on his lap. There was some song about nuclear destruction or something where this giant rocket shaped balloon thing was batted around by the people in the pits. Of course he sang "Jesse's Girl."

Cathy & I went halvsies on a t-shirt. Since Cathy was considerably more well-endowed than I was, she ended up keeping the shirt cause it did not really fit me all that well after she wore it. :)

I've been to a lot of fabulous concerts since then, including some Prince concerts that caused major enthusiastic yelling. But never that screaming hysteria. The funny thing about it is that just before the concert I had dissed on the Beatles, and then I went and acted like one of those lunatic girls that used to faint cause the Beatles shook a mop out of a window. I can understand something about group hysteria because of that experience, and I tell you, I never want to be somewhere that mob mentality turns ugly cause in that place, all the group mind/hive thinking was focused on happy cute boy thoughts.

And for the record, I do like the Beatles now. Who wouldn't?? I don't know WHY I was so snotty about it, except to be contrary. Thank God for that part of the memory cause otherwise I'd have had to write myself off as a total numbskull for falling for the teen-idol crap so hard. What's a cynical girl to do with a memory like that to blush over?

Randomizers

Nowadays I don't get so much spam cause I have a spam program and a new email address. I'm sure those bastids will catch up with me eventually, but for now I'm good. But my hubby gets a LOT. He recently installed a new spam guard program which is pretty good--you have to pay for it, which of course makes me suspect the entire spam industry is out to get us. They took lessons from the drug dealers--saturate the market, then make them PAY.

Anyway, how the heck does this apply to you, dear reader? I have frequently had to help Andrew through the process of finding and deleting the spam the program above shuffles off to a special folder. In the process, I've noticed some really cute email subject headings. I kept meaning to make a blog entry out of them. Then this morning we got these lovely offerings:

"Tea party bodice rippers inside 66" and "was she wrong monk cat call?"

So here's the deal. I challenge you fabulous readers to a contest. Write me a story that includes those two elements of SPAM as a plot device or important theme. (It can be a short one. I already hear some of you complaining "But I'm not a good writer!" Baloney, I say. I re-emphasize, adding "Horse Hockey!"). Either post your story here in the comments, or post it to your own blog and make sure you post a link to the story here in comments. You have 24 hours. (I know!! I'm a stinker for deadlines).

The winner gets a free book. Seriously. It's called Millard Fillmore, Mon Amour by John Blumenthal. I'll have to have your street address to mail it to you, but I will even spring for the postage. It looks like kind of a cool book, by the way, so get thinking. If you don't want the free book, think of what else you might like instead. I actually have other books I could send you-- I get lots of them and never know exactly what to do with them. Another one that I'd be glad to send someone is a hardback copy of a book called Be Not Afraid For You Have Sons in America about the war in Kosovo. So if you're more a non-fiction history buff, that's what I have to lure you into the story-telling business.

Don't let someone win by default that there's only one person posting. Post away! Write something clever! Free Free Free totally free!

Oh, and later, I myself will post the second story in the Obfuscation contest winners. This one'll be dedicated to Tara. I think it's a story she'll like, based on my vast and extensive knowledge of her, gleaned from her blog. :)

And did I mention that I love my new office furniture? ::does happy dance::

I shake my fist at you, entropy!

Okay, so. Guess what I just spent the last several hours doing? I went to Target, found a cool new computer desk, hutch and side bookshelf ON SALE!. Some assembly was required, which of course required some cursing and smashing of various fingers. The desk made it through this process fairly intact with barely any smashed things and only a few "extra" parts to be thrown away after.

The office is sparkly clean now and the desk we have now is smaller than the old, broken one, so it seems that there is more room in the office; it's not nearly as cramped feeling. My Barbie collection is now perched happily on top of the desk set, much more prominent than they were before.

I did blow off bellydance class, though. Sorry Nissa!! I really really meant to go, but I just wasn't done yet. I will dance tomorrow at the special old folks home visit though.

Entropy

Okay, it's really irritating. We're just getting everything in our house organized. I've even cleaned my freakin' closet. Today's plan was to clean the office. I JUST finished writing the last post, and, as I was hitting the "Publish" button, my computer desk broke. The other day our freakin' dishwasher broke. Do you have any idea what to sacrafice to the Gods of Entropy to get them to leave you the Hell alone?

Obfuscation Reward Stories

Okay, here is the first story reward for the contest winners.... late, but better that than never, right? I'll post the other one tomorrow.

Fierce, Beautiful & Strong

The first time I remember seeing the person who would become my best friend was when we were in junior high school. She used to like to wear this Greek Fisherman's hat over her long, curly-like-I-wanted-my-hair-to-be chestnut waves. She had on a ruby colored sweater, and just looked like an exotic, cool person. I didn't get to know her for a long time after that, really. The next year, though, we both went to high school and I would see her around here and there--I wasn't exactly stalking her, but she had a unique look and seemed interesting. My sophomore year, I took French classes for the first time and joined the French club. We had a day, somewhere around Hallowe'en, where we had to be "initiated"-- which meant wearing a goofy costume to school and performing silly acts whenever an older member of the club demanded. Our costume that year was to be a clown. I donned clown makeup, a fuzzy rainbow wig, striped pants, and a big white shirt. Another group that year also did clowns-- so there were a lot of us wandering around the halls contributing to the chaos of a high school day filled with jocks rolling pencils down the hall with their noses to "Keyettes" (i.e., cheerleaders) singing loudly whatever song was the cool thing of the time.

I was stopped by the girl who had worn the Greek fisherman's hat, and she asked me "was I being initiated for French club or Drama?" I figured she was a drama chick, so relieved, answered "French club." But my relief was short lived. She demanded, as an older member of the club, that I sing Frere Jaqcues. I think she made me do it while walking backwards down the hallway. That was the first time we ever really talked.

Then, Junior year, she was in my American History class. I got to know her sense of humor in class, where I sat behind the guy I had a crush on, who I swore looked like Simon LeBon and who I never got the courage to date. She sat behind me, in the back row, and she and her friends were funny, deadly so. She had a penchant at that time for wearing oversized lumberjack shirts and faded jeans with a hole ripped in the knee-- the shirts were plaid, often red. They looked like they belonged to a boyfriend (which I think I remember they did.) Our friendship grew when we both got jobs at the same K-Mart and one of us would drive the other to work. We bonded over an odd experience at the beach with an older guy named "Howard" who tried to date me (it seemed gross at the time and we mockingly called him Howard the Duck.)

I have been there when she has been having the worst yet moment of her life, providing bad liquor swiped from the pantry and 7-Up to wash it down, and drive her home later. She was there to drive me home, fiercely silent yet planning his ultimate doom, when the evil ex broke my heart and she drove, me sobbing in that way that comes from deep deep down inside your chest, and makes you hoarse. Later, she and another red-headed good friend drove to his dorm and put superglue and other things in his car, as partial repayment for his evil ways (it wasn't enough, really). When he demanded she pay for the damage, she defiantly chirped "I don't think I want to do that." I loved her, even then, in an awkward position, for that. Now I love her even more for it. Evil ex is a bad memory-- she is still wonderfully here.

There are tons of memories I could describe about our friendship, from my wedding and her drawing the little silver broom charm from the cake that was supposed to mean she would be an "old maid" to me being at her wedding telling a long toast and replacing that mean old charm with a much better one. She is one of the bravest people I know-- strong in convictions, fiercely loyal, but gentle when necessary and always kind.

When we hang up the phone nowadays, from several thousand miles away where grown-up lives have taken us, we always tell each other "I love you." It seems a little weird, when you think of it, for people who aren't related to each other, aren't dating, or whatever, to say this, but really, I do love her, and want her to know what an important part of my life she is. And, since she reads this blog, I'm fairly sure she's both scowling and smiling as she reads, thinking "What a big sap" but also happy to be busted for being a fabulous person.

One of these days soon, very soon, we will both be done with our endless years of college, and we'll spend a vacation wandering about calling each other Doctor. She promises to help me with my goal of, after said momentous event, being "drunk now for over two weeks" like in the Jimmy Buffet song, even though she hates Jimmy Buffet. This may happen in Key West. It may happen on a "girls-only" cruise of the Med. It may even happen in one of our backyards. But when it does, it won't just be the liquor talking when I tell her "I love you".

The Most Unhelpful Help System Ever

I just spent twenty minutes trying to figure out how to reset my "forward" email system for my University Email, that I never use, but which the University sends out all "official" announcements to. It used to forward automatically to my regular email account, but having changed that email address, it now forwards to an address I no longer use (it was being spammed out!) I know that somehow you can set the forward preference. The "Main" menu of the university email helpfully tells me that the email forwards to that account that doesn't exist anymore, but NOT how to reset the address to my new address. There's NO info, anywhere. If you click on "help" at the top of the screen it tells you such useful info as:

Help:This is the Help feature. It is designed to be a quick way of getting information on using the various features of TWIG. For more information on how to use this feature, select "Using Help" from the Subtopic menu above.

But there is NO info on anything else. There are no options to, say, ask "help" about specific topics. Only the "help" about "what help is." Isn't that nice? Then, when you click on a different spot, you get this helpful message: "Help is not yet available on this topic."

And there's no place anywhere to email some tech support person. Sigh. I hate computers sometimes. Mostly I just hate those folks who make it IMPOSSIBLE for regular people to figure things out. I'm quite sure that if I drove the 2.5 hours to a computer lab on campus, I'd get someone there annoyed and busy to tell me something really helpful like "oh, you can only do that by standing on one foot while sacrificing a newborn rooster with an orange speckled feather on the night of the third full moon in May".

Groan. Sigh. Complain. Gnash teeth.

In other news, I've thought of the stories I will tell as reward to the two lucky winners of the Obfuscation contest. Those should come later today. I will also possibly post pictures of my newly repainted, newly redecorated bedroom. But I need to do a few things (like fold laundry-- I hate folding laundry) and then head to World Market to get a credit for the 20% off prices that appeared the day after I bought my bedding. So. Things to do. People to scowl at. Also, I heard from the Dissertation Director that she will be "Reading" my draft soon. Yay! Whether that is good news or bad will remain to be seen.

NKOTB!!

I'm still trying to decide on a good story to tell the winners of the Obfuscation contest... I had something yesterday and now I've forgotten what it is. So, in the meantime, here is an entry I'm sure you just never ever expected.

This morning, I was minding my own business watching VH1's "Best Week Ever" where I learned such valuable things as what "krumping" is, (which officially and totally ends the phenomenon as cool if a white chick in Texas can learn about it on VH1 while eating breakfast and drinking a latte) and that Paris Hilton's dog Tinkerbell was found safe. Whew! Things that were important to my well-being. I can sleep at night again.

Then, right after the show, on the channel that features "music for the slightly older MTV crowd" there was this strange thing. Music videos! Where were my TV shows? Surreal Life? A to Z? What is this "Music video?"

And then, there it was. New Kids On the Block's "The Right Stuff" video. Those young boys were just so dreamy. Now wait-- that came out wrong--it's not nearly as "coo coo ca choo Mrs. Robinson" as it sounds. Especially since all the NKOTB are now OKOTB.* I was almost their age back when the NKOTB were hot and burning up the concert venues. Now, I watch the video and feel very old. What is it with those outfits? Ragamuffin chic was apparently the thing. And Donnie-- his hair was long and sort of stringy. With a Molly Ringwald circa 1985 hat. And then there's that little scissor leg dance they did. To Die For. I'm totally serious. Donnie is undoubtedly my favorite. Mark Wahlberg's brother. What a sexy DNA chain that family has.

---

*Old Kids... you know.
(This entry was written by my inner child. Official age of my inner child has been established as 16. So it's not nearly as creepy as you think.)

Quizzes for the Weekend

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

Links courtesy Farbled....

Charlotte's Web

Do you remember reading Charlotte's Web when you were a kid? Or at the very least, watching the fab movie they made of it? I love the movie-- I love it when Templeton sings "A Fair is a Veritable Smorgesbord".

Last night, we babysat a friend's 8 year old little girl. They were going to see Madame Butterfly and their babysitters (four of them!) fell through, one by one. So they called us. Since our Friday night plans had been tentative anyway, we figured we'd stay in and be parental.

We watched the new version of Peter Pan, which was very good, and I don't think did very well in the theater. But then we read the first five chapters of Charlotte's Web.

I own the book because I saw it once at Sam's, in a "big giant" version, and had to buy it for the future Wells kids. As we read the story, the cute little girl on one side of me, Andrew on the other, and the cat on my tummy, really and truly seeming to listen too, I remembered my own days of reading this story. God knows, I have to have read this story about twenty times. I have always liked to read stories more than once, and Charlotte's Web has always been a favorite. Reading it aloud to a young kid is interesting. I do "the voices"-- which sometimes made the cat stare at me, startled, but which is fun. You can do a "baaaaa voice" when the sheep are talking, and of course, the goose has to be loud and old lady-ish. She's a goose, for Heaven's sake, and she's a terrible influence on Wilbur. Charlotte has to have a very soft, mellow voice. Wilbur, of course, the ultimate whiner, has to have a "poor little old me" voice.

Wilbur makes me think of something, though. In the first pages of the story, Wilbur is destined for, shall we say, bad things. Fern saves him because that's what little girls do-- save pathetic, pitiful animals. Wilbur's entire life depends upon the kindness of strangers. I mean, he would be Winter Cracklin's without Charlotte's intervention. He wouldn't have even made it to there without Fern. Yet, Wilbur often feels very put upon, very sad and lonely and like no one is there for him.

You knew some sort of comparison with human nature was coming, didn't you? Or have you not been here long? :) I think of all those times when we are stumbling along, feeling like the world is picking on us, when we may not even be aware of what fate might have had in store for us were it not for the help of someone else-- perhaps someone who loves us, but perhaps just some random stranger who doesn't even owe us anything. In my life, probably the biggest debt I owe to anyone is to those people and organizations who donate books to public libraries. If it weren't for places like the Vermillion Parrish Library in Abbeville, La, I would not have had the childhood resources that I had. The librarians there were kind, and let me check out way more books than I was supposed to, and let me take books to my mother in the big giant baskets on the back of my bicycle. And I read, and read, and read, and read.

So are we Wilbur, or are we Charlotte? Or the goose, perhaps? Or are we Fern? I think at times I've been a bit of each character. I'd like to strive in my life to be more like Fern-- someone who fights to end "injustice" before breakfast, who thinks of others just for the sake of having someone to take care of. I know, there's an awful lot of "stereotyped femininity" in Fern-- she nurses the little pig next to her dollies, and her brother is stereotyped masculinity, too. But there are good, useful traits in there to keep.

And one day, when I read this story to my own little kid, with his or her red head resting on my tummy and his or her little breath snorting through what will invariably be a runny, stuffed up nose covered with freckles, I can't wait to tell him/her about the Charlottes and Ferns in my life-- and to look out for those future ones in his/hers.

Friday Mexican Food

MMMM. I just had the best Mexican lunch.

You know how any larger town with a "tourist trade" always has one of those places you take people when they come to visit, but rarely go any other time? In San Antonio, one of those places is Mi Tierras, a Mexican place downtown, in the Mexican Market. (El Marcado). It's usually very touristy, and at lunch time, (about now probably) it's full of folks from Minnesota asking what the heck Pico De Gallo is (is there really rooster beak in it?) The Mariachi bands are roaming around hawking another round of "La Bamba" for five dollars a pop.

But an early lunch? What a great idea. My overnight houseguest, a San Antonio native who lives out of town now cause he's a pilot, came by and wanted to go the El Marcado where you can get a giant bottle of Mexican Vanilla for 8.99. So we also popped into Mi Tierras, which has, in addition to great Mexican lunch specials, great Pan Du Dulce-- sweetbreads. Mexican Donuts is what the WalMart calls them. MMMMM. Empanadas with pumpkin inside, these crunchy little brown cinnamon things. I had the Pollo y Calabacita-- chicken with squash. It was incredible.

K., (the houseguest) paid for the Mariachis to sing. I usually do not-- they are almost always singing things I don't care to hear AGAIN. But he requested a specific song-- a Malaguena. (if you go to the link, do the guitar version).

The one we heard wasn't nearly as long as the one at the link, and it had lyrics that this version I've linked doesn't have, but it was pretty great. This one singer, an older man, held this high, sweet, long tone for longer than you could imagine, several times. When one of the other singers, with a much lower voice, sang, his throat vibrated like a big old bullfrog's (not that he would probably welcome the comparison, but that's what it was like!)

As I said, I generally avoid the bands cause they don't get to pull out the good stuff often. But this, man, this was the best I've ever heard. K ended up giving them ten bucks instead of five. It was really really worth it. And most of the other patrons kind of ignored it, but it was a virtuoso performance.

Then we got the Pan du Dulce. We let the girl behind the counter pick out "six of her favorite items" for us. She was happy because it made her feel special to tell us what she liked, and we were happy because she knew what the good stuff was. We now have a cakestand full of good stuff for the weekend, and had a couple when we got home with a latte.

The back room at Mi Tierras is my favorite-- they have this incredible wall mural with pictures of local celebrities, as well as people important to San Antonio history and family members of the restaurant's owners. There was a picture of Sandra Cisneros-- one of our local famous authors, that I hadn't seen before. I don't know if it's new, or because it's sort of tucked behind the kitchen door. But it was a perfect likeness of her, and exactly what she looked like the time I met her at a conference downtown. She has this penchant for long flowy fringed scarves, and this picture had her wrapped in a blue one. Very very cool.

All in all, a reason to go visit those "touristy" but great places you never go to. Just go when the tourists are still in bed, or at your local equivalent to the Alamo. By the time the tour buses make it to your great restaurant, all the locals will be home, and La Bamba will ring from the muraled walls.

Obfuscation Answers

I know, it's late in the day and I promised! I had to do other stuff this morning, and had to wait till the hubby got out of the house to spend tons of time reading and composing blogs.

So the answers. Most of you guessed wrong. And those who got it right I think did so just to be contrary. The first two were true. The third was false. Explanations:

1. I thought I'd fool ya with the lack of detail. The others were very fleshed out, but this one was so short and choppy. But it's true! I don't have many stories about my dad, but this is one of them. Toodles was one name my mom used to call me all the time. Perhaps if I had ever actually been serious about my 18 year old threat to get a blond wig and get a job as a stripper I would have called myself that. Toodles Le Trix, the Stripper. And no, it wasn't last week. I've not been drinking for six weeks, so no shenanigans really have been happening in these parts. I was on a diet of sorts, trying to rid myself of the 10 or so pounds that had made my pants tight. I didn't really weigh myself, but I think I lost what I needed to lose cause the pants are back to fitting. So there. But I am back to margaritaville this week! Yay!

2. No one guessed this one as false. I wish I had thought to make it a little different, and you guys would have totally fallen for it. I mean, the idea that me, a person who writes all the time, and is kind of long winded, could pull off an "A" paper without really even following the argument myself.... I think, based on being a teacher nowadays, that the Professor didn't read it all that carefully. At the end of the semester, you have these students who have been A students all semester. And you expect them to remain that way. So barring weird, "ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY" sorts of papers, you're pretty much set to keep the A. You didn't hear this from me, by the way. And I always try to fight the urge, grading as tough on the last assignment as I do on the first-- for the sake of fairness. But I will admit there is a tendency to think "aw... she/he must have meant to say....." cause you give them the benefit of the doubt as a good student.

3. This one was guessed by my best friend J (good work Miss Has-Known-Me-For-20-years!) as a lie, and Tara (how'd you know?).

You're both right!! I guess what I can do is let either of you pick the kind of story you want me to tell, from the list below:

1. School memories, good or bad?
2. Love & Heartache
3. Love and Happiness-- sickeningly sweet
4. Creepy Adventures of the Poor Homeless Kid
5. Ghost Stories I have Lived
6. My favorite books, and Why
7. What the Heck is the Red-Headed Baboon Story About?

So, J and Tara, pick one of those above. I'm willing to write two of them if you both choose differently.

Oh. Details about number three: it was, as all good fiction, based in truth. I DID TA for Mark Hansen my first teaching gig at SWT, in a class on Sci-Fi novels into film, and young female students DID used to "suck suggestively on lollypops" while he lectured (and he didn't even notice, the silly). My co-TA's name was Emily. She & I are still friends, although she lives far away now & has a lovely little girl. I did lecture about 100 students or so. The main lecture I gave was on Madonna's "Express Yourself" video, and how it is heavily based on the movie Metropolis by Fritz Lange. We played the video and I got up with the microphone, butterflies in my tummy, and talked about it. It was my first big teaching moment. It went pretty well, actually. I love talking in front of people now-- it's hard to shut me up, actually. And I don't get very nervous anymore, either. You want me to give a speech at your function? Cause I'm very cheap. (Um. Inexpensive.) I've given one "professional speech" already, actually. :) It's online here, if you wanna read it.

But knock on wood, I've never had a "wardrobe malfunction" while teaching. I do wear flowy hippy skirts all the time, and while writing that story, was thinking of this particular one that would be prone to ripping if it were caught on anything, cause it's very thin.

So that was sorta fun, if a little bit late on the timing thing. I may have to do more little events like that. I'd be curious to know why many of you voted for #1. Was it the lack of detail? Or what?

College Campuses

At this time of the year, the early college campus flurry has begun. New students-- first-year wet behind the ear just out of high schoolers and their parents-- are making their way to campuses for "orientation day." They wander through the bookstores, excited about the textbooks, thinking of what they're going to learn, who they're going to meet, what they're going to do with their lives. Their parents are excited too-- partly they remember their own days of college, or, if they didn't attend, their own desires to do so or their own struggles to get here (paying for their kids to attend, make themselves more prosperous).

There's this sense of wonder that will fade after just a semester for most of them. When I teach college first-year students, they are so happy those first few days, eager. Their eyes look at you--their professor-- with awe-- wow. You made it-- you're not an old fart who they can't relate to. You're a young teacher, and that means that life isn't that far away from them now. After just one semester, you'll start getting excuses--the dog ate my floppy disc; you're a bad teacher for not telling me to read the syllabus more carefully; my Grandma is really sick. Grandmas don't do so well during final exam period. If you yourself are a Grandma, it's probably best you don't leave the house when your Grandkids have finals, or last papers to write. It's a dangerous time.

I love college campuses. This is why I have made it my life to work on them for the rest of my career. I haven't been a grad student for this long just because I'm procrastinating. That's part of it-- but it only adds a year or two to the quest. I love the sense of ideas in the air. I love hearing people discuss politics, or history, or art, with that fervor you only get from the young. Older students tend to sound different-- they are a little more cautious as a rule, cause they know how hard it was to get there. Their fervors are for other things.

I miss this right now. Since I'm not teaching, and I rarely go to campus because my research & writing is all "remote campus" I don't see this very often. I went to campus today to return a dozen books that have been overdue for a lonnnnng time before the library police came with their German Shepards and big black flashlights and jackboots kicking in doors in the middle of the night. I thought how cool it will be when I am finally done with my PhD and my campus time this time of year will be in my own office, with syllabi and "committee meetings." And those eager young eyes waiting to learn. It's not far now. And I'm really getting there. So perhaps I'm just as eager and excited as those first year kids and their parents. Even if I don't look it, look jaded to them as I walk along briskly, not gaping at every new thing, not taking the brochure/flyer from the campus group hawking something.

We're all freshman of a sort. Even if we aren't on campus doing it. Perhaps we should try really hard to retain that sense of wonder. I know today I will.

Sense Memories

The best smells that really evoke a visceral response for me:

• the wet-green smell of freshly mowed grass, especially if there are wild green onions mixed in;
• the peppery-hot smell of gunpowder from, say, fireworks;
• freshly baking chocolate chip cookies;
• the beginning smell of rain on concrete after it's been really hot-- that copper penny earthy electric hot lightning and wet smell;
• baking Thanksgiving Turkey;
• freshly ground coffee;
• coconut-suntan oil and sand and salty water that has a slightly fishy seaweed tinge;
• sour-apple jolly ranchers;
• that pastey glue you used when you were five--the kind some kids would eat, and its partner: construction paper;
• crayons.

What are your triggers?

What I Find Interesting

Yesterday, I posted the info about the sex offender databases, as anyone who reads me knows. The thing I have found both interesting and, if not disturbing, maybe just puzzling, is the reactions of some folks to me sharing the info that the databases are out there and my urging of people to look it up in their own state. I did NOT urge anyone to take any action regarding the info other than knowing it. I would not at all condone someone hurting someone else, or, in particular, the family of someone who had been convicted of such an offense and lived with them now. I think the worst thing we could do is further cut someone who has committed a crime off from society even more, cause then they have nothing more to lose if they re-offend.

In my post, and the email I sent to a few folks, I said that these databases exist, and I was shocked to see how many offenders were in my neighborhood. I told folks to check and see their own neighborhood because they ought to know this info.

I've gotten a lot of folks offering comments like "keep in mind that these aren't all rapists" and to remind me to not judge them too harshly. Someone said that maybe they could even be some woman busted for sunbathing topless. There was ONE woman out of the list I saw. She was listed as having committed a crime against a young child. I don't know if that meant some kid saw her topless, but I doubt it.

The thing I wanted to say in this post, though-- it's not like these are people ACCUSED of sexual offenses against others. They are convicted. I realize they have served their time and should, if actually reforming, be free to live as normal a life as they can. But statistically, most sex offenders offend again. And they aren't innocents here who I am maligning by pointing out they have a record. I didn't' name any particular people. I didn't say "go throw flaming dog poop at their doors." Do NOT do things like that, because that makes you a criminal too.

I get the distinct impression that people are apologizing for someone being in this database, and assuming that knowing the folks exist means you are going to start firebombing their houses. Some people even seem offended that I pointed it out, like me saying "hey, did you know this happens" means I am saying these folks have no right to exist. These people acting offended makes me sort of mad. As I wrote in a post not too long ago, I believe I narrowly escaped being molested as a child by an ex-con who had been a rapist, who worked with my step-dad, who we did not consider a stranger. The divine intervention of my dog alone probably saved me. It's possible that knowing the guy had raped someone in the past would have made my family a bit more cautious about him. Kept me away from him. I didn't say "go out and tie the guy to a whipping post for the rest of his life." But it seems that's what these folks who are "cautioning" me for telling you about it are implying I am saying, merely by pointing out that these databases exist and one should check to see if anyone you live near is listed in them.

I do understand that this info could be used by people to persecute someone rightly trying to reform. I also realize that in some events, (probably very rarely) people got on the list through something like a statutory rape law that meant an 18 year old could be prosecuted for being with his 16 year old girlfriend in a consensual situation. I knew that. I never implied otherwise. But I did see when I clicked the "details" of all the people I clicked, (and I didn't spend that much time in my database; just knowing it was there was enough for me), that the majority of the people listed were "offenses against children." And no one I saw was an 18 year old with the victim's age listed as 15. They were mostly older men-- old enough to be grandfathers to the kids listed as victims. That's not a "youthful indiscretion." It's rape. And while I don't think that ANYONE therefore has a right to go harass the guy for his actions, I do think that people have the right to be informed that he lives on the same block as you.

A few people have said "be careful with this info." I did not post the info; I merely told people it existed and they ought to check it out, be informed. The state did, because there has been proven to be a public interest in knowing this information, because folks who commit pedophilia, in particular, tend to offend again when exposed to "high risk" situations. (Like getting a job as a janitor at an elementary school-- something that happened recently in my hometown.) I think it's possible that there have been cases of unfair persecution of a person honestly trying to reform, having paid their debt to society and being hounded by people out to be jerks and using this as an excuse.

But finally, and here's where I am puzzled. Why are we apologizing for people who have been proven, in a court of law, to be guilty of a crime, by saying we should judge them too harshly? Of course I judge them very harshly. They were not forced by anyone at gunpoint to commit what everyone knows is a crime and immoral act. (I'm not talking about merely flashing your boobs at someone.) Just because I judge them harshly does not mean I do not forgive them. If they are genuinely trying to reform, I'd even go out of my way to say I'd be willing to help them do so. But I wouldn't trust them with my child. Anymore than I would trust someone who had stolen money from me in the past with my bank card.

Feministe posted a commentary on a "No Pity. No Shame. No Silence" thread where there are a lot of survivors coming "out of the closet" about their experiences. And on Feministe, the woman who posted also put a link to a stunning poem about forgiveness. But at the same time, I want those who are apologizing for the people on the list of sexual offenders to think not so much of the harassment of someone on a database but on the life of the person who that sexual offender changed forever.

Another perspective

on the sex offender issue yesterday-- here's a link from a New Jersey newspaper that I think sums it all up better than I can.

I certainly believe some of these folks are probably harassed, and trying to be good. Some of them might be some 19 year old guy who had sex with his 15 year old girlfriend but that's not the same as an 80 year old man who had sex with a 9 year old. It's just important to know.

Better Cause It's New

I got new bedding yesterday. It's absolutely gorgeous. Here's a link, but the photo doesn't do justice to the glorious ruby color, nor to the really great gold sheets that I got to go with it.

The hubby & I had been unhappy with our bedroom for a while. We tried to re-do it by painting all the crappy furniture white, a la Trading Spaces, but it still just didn't work. The wall in front of our bed had too much crap on it, and the dresser always ended up being a place to pile more junk. So yesterday's activities included removing wall stuff. I'm going to paint that wall gold with darker gold sponge-flecks this weekend. (Then I promise I'll stop blabbering about home-improvement endlessly). I am also, maybe, going to try to freehand (this is still a maybe) some symbols for things like "peace" or "love"-- you know, like folks get tatooed on themselves? Kanji I think it is.

Once more, don't forget to vote on the "obfuscation game". I think I have to reveal tomorrow, for the whole thing to be right--the other one was Friday, Sat, Sun reveal Mon, so that's Mon, Tues, Wed, reveal Thurs. So there. :)

Sex Offender Databases

Okay, I'm a little bit creeped out. On Janelle's page, she has this post where she found a map of the sex offenders in her neighborhood. I never thought to look this up. I have assumed that you would just somehow KNOW if some registered sex offender moved in next door. (I know. Stupid assumption.)

So on Janelle's suggestion, I googled "Texas Sex Offenders" and got this lovely database. Putting in my zip code got me 18 EIGHTEEN reg sex offenders in my general neighborhood!!!!!

On the Texas page, they have photos of the person (I guess it's their mugshot.) And their address. And the crime they were convicted of. Several that I clicked on were offenses against minors. The one I clicked on last had the lovely note that his risk level was HIGH, which I guess means he will probably offend AGAIN. And his last offense was this March. With a 15 year old kid.

It's not like I want to go out and picket these people's front lawn with a big red "PERVERT" sign. I know that people can reform (usually, I don't think sex offenders are very good at reforming, though).

But I am freaked! I am not exactly naive, but I did not think there would be this many. Check it out for your state. Google "your state" plus "sex offender" and see what you find. Especially if you have kids. You should know this information.

And What's More, I Don't Like IT!....

Long ago and far away, when I began blogging, I paid a little fee to upgrade my blog here at blogger to remove those ads that hover above most free blogs. I was happy to pay the 12 bucks a year it cost to get rid of the ad. I had been wondering, since Blogger was bought by Google earlier this year, if that 12 bucks still applied. I thought it did, especially yesterday after I put in a "call" at Blogger help to fix a problem my blog has and they said "as a paying customer" in the reply email. Well, then, this morning I get that darn "searchbar" at the top of the blog. For those of you who used to have ads, I'll bet it's an improvement to the old irritating ad. But for me, who used to have smooth little graphics, it was a pain in the butt. I had to figure out how to get around the stupid thing screwing up my graphics and covering half of it. I did figure that out, but I still DON'T LIKE IT. Hold on, folks, cause it's possible I may have to move my blog. So far I have liked & appreciated the changes Blogger has made to the interface & other things. I don't want a "frame" for my blog. I want it back the way it was. And "as a paying customer" I ought to be able to get rid of it. POOEY!!

I told you this was going to be my Monday.

Today is my Monday I think

My fingers are sore. One is from spraying the aluminum table & chairs their nice pristine white color. I used 2.5 cans of spray paint. Those buttons on top of the can are really hard to hold down that long. My right index finger is now numb and tingly, for the last two days! I may have done permanent damage. Where's a personal injury attorney when you need one?

Now my right middle finger is also sore. Yesterday, while washing the cabinets & fridge in the kitchen with bleech I found a tiny little pinhole boo boo in the center of the finger.

These two major, life-altering injuries are making it very difficult to type. I keep typing the wrong letters as my fingers refuse to cooperate.

So now I get to go in my bedroom and get rid of a bunch of old clothes I never wear. I'm going to be ruthless-- if I haven't worn it in a year, it's toast. But I'm having a sneezing attack & I predict a majorly annoying day ahead. So now I've shared this with you and you can go about your day with a calm, zenlike mood knowing that today you have already gotten through your Monday (yesterday, duh!) and I'm smack dab in the middle of mine.

Don't forget to vote on the contest from yesterday.

Late Obfuscation

Okay. I don't know why I didn't see this blog meme/stuff on Friday. But I was kinda busy, anyway, so I'm posting it today ANYWAY. I'll give you guys three days to guess and speculate, as though there were a weekend in between the stories. So the point is this, the game is called Obfuscation, and it comes to us via Debbie via Patricia. I'm going to tell two true stories and one lie, and you are supposed to guess which story is made up from what you've learned about me through reading my weblog.

I'll tell the truth on Thursday. If you're my mom, you can't give away these stories. Everyone else feel free to speculate in the comments.

---

Story #1: When I was a little girl, I used to like to take off all my clothes and run naked and shrieking down the street. My parents would have to chase me, catch me, and apologize to the neighbors for my freckley white behind exposure. My dad's nickname for me because of this habit was "Toodles leTrix the Stripper."

Story #2: Once, during my senior year of college in Washington State, I wrote a paper on Virginia Woolf's Orlando and Doris Lessing's Memoirs of a Survivor while I had a very bad head cold, and heavily medicated on antihistimines. As I wrote the paper, sitting at my computer, I had several moments where I sort of dozed off as I wrote, not really even stopping typing as it happened. I found a couple of letters "typed" to the end of the sentences I had fallen asleep on, actually. I finally finished the paper and went to bed without really reading it. The next day, clearheaded again, I tried and tried to read the paper to edit and make sure it was good. Each time I tried to read it, my head fogged up and I fell asleep again. I turned it in without really ever reading it all the way through. I got an "A." The funny part of the story is that both books are about alternate reality, reality-bending, truth being possibly stretched, and the paper was about the shifting nature of time in those stories. I still don't really remember much about the paper, but I finally did read it once later and it was actually pretty good.

Story #3: One of my most embarrassing "teaching moments" was a few years ago when I was teaching one of my first classes at Southwest Texas State University. As I stood up to lecture in my first TA gig (a class on the novel into Film, taught by a guy named Mark Hansen and featuring Sci-Fi) my long flowy hippy skirt caught on the lecture thingy (what are those things called-- podium)and ripped audibly up the back. Split right down the middle. I was holding the microphone, standing in front of about 100 students who had heard the rip and could see by the horrified look on my face that something had happened, even if they couldn't tell exactly what. Mark Hansen (the professor, who was a hunky cute young prof who used to have young female students constantly sucking on lollypops while he was lecturing, true!), and later got a new job at some Ivy League school and was a great mentor) stood behind me, laughing. The other TA, a woman who is still a good friend (Emily) walked behind me as I fled the room to the bathroom, right across the hall, and helped me until I could get some safety pins to temporarily fix the skirt. Once I got the pins from the departmental secretary (Karen!) I went back to teaching. Several sarcastic little brats from the front row of the class clapped as I came back. I stuck my tongue out at them. :)

Okay. So which two are the true ones, and which the fakety fake faker?

Notes From My Younger Self

I just read a very old journal/diary that I wrote when I was 21, just after I had met Andrew, before I actually started college, when I was waiting tables and living with my mother & sister in Florida. It's filled with poems (some quite good, in a way) and speculations on what will come and what had been. Things I have totally forgotten. Things I wish I had forgotten.

The journal was in a box of books that had been slated to be thrown away, out in the garage, which we cleaned up yesterday. (Yes! Amazingly we can both park in it again and there's a pile of junk waiting for the garbage men who I plan to bribe with a cash tip so they'll take it all!) I sat and read it for a while, despite the cat yelling at me, and having tons of things to do today, and needing to get dressed before the garbage men get here or have to "tip" them wearing my "wife beater" t-shirt & pj pants, (wife beater shirt being a tiny bit see-through and "nippley" would make it very embarassing to be caught in....)

And I wonder. Did I deliberately try to throw that thing away? I don't think I would have! I wonder how it got in the pile of junk books! I know that the box was filled up around the time we redid the floors in our house, so it's possible that the book accidentally made its way into the junk books box and I didn't notice it. But I looked for its companion book, a blue one to this one's red silk Oriental cover. And so far I haven't seen it. I hope it didn't get thrown out! I believe the blue one was the period before I met Andrew, during the whole angst-ridden evil ex boyfriend years. It would be sad if I had lost that! I don't know what would have possessed me to throw it out. I also know that no one else would have done it--Andrew would have said "Hey, is this yours?"

Whatever happens in life, it's always interesting to get a letter from yourself. That's the point of this blog, in a way, a digital journal. I save all the posts, and am happy because I haven't written in a journal regularly since that little red satin book I found this morning. Oh, there are a few random books lying about with one or two entries in them. But the blog has reopened a part of my own self-expression that I haven't explored in ages. And it's so much easier because digital. But you don't get the scrawly cartoon drawings I pepper most writing with (not very often, anyway.) Probably lucky for you. :)

Re-memories

When we went to England in 02, Andrew's parents & I flew over together and Andrew followed a few days later. A little background: Andrew's dad is a Texan with a big, loud voice and a pronounced accent which gets more pronounced when he's uncomfortable. Since he feels a bit awkward in travel, well, he was uncomfortable a lot of the time (read: loud). Andrew's mom is also tall, has bright red hair, and is enthusiastic about gardening and literary type things, and assumes others share her interests too. Since Jim is slightly hard of hearing and his hearing aid is a piece of crap (why is it that everyone I know who has a hearing aid has a crappy one?) Joanne generally speaks very loudly to Jim, right in his ear. Since he still makes no appearance of hearing her, she usually repeats herself several times. I don't know if he really doesn't hear her or is just ignoring her. It's truly a mystery.

The trip began quite annoyingly. We were supposed to be at the airport at 7 am-- knowing that this was the first leg of an international flight, with large luggage, and in the days following 9/11 when security was still tight but hadn't quite smoothed into routine. Andrew got me to the airport right on time. But Jim & Joanne were very very late--about 7:50, actually. We had to rush through security with something like 20 minutes till we were supposed to board. Joanne got "sniffed" by the chemical sniffer machine. Jim had to take his belt off, which meant his pants, which he belts under his sizable tummy, were in danger of falling down his non-existent hips as he juggled his pants, belt, watch and fanny pack. But we made it, without seeing anyone's butt (thankfully).

On the international leg, we flew Virgin Airlines. It was a good flight, in many ways, because Jim had charmed the Brooklyn-girl gate agent in New York with his Texas accent and she had stuck us in a more-comfortable-for Jim's very long legs exit row seat. (He's 6'4"). Virgin had given us these little bags full of useful, helpful things-- toothpaste and a little toothbrush, warm fuzzy socks, mints, an eye-cover for sleeping when the lights are on, headset for watching TV or listening to the music (including one channel with a "fear of flying" hypnotist-type with mellow relaxing techniques). Very cool.

Nearing the end of the flight, the young twentysomething flight attendants were seated in front of us, chatting a bit about the sorts of things twentysomething flight attendants on their way home after a weekend in New York will chat about. They were both from small towns north of London. Don't ask me the names, cause I don't remember the cities, but it was quite obvious they weren't "big city" girls, and they had accents themselves. (Everyone always thinks their own accent is normal and everyone else's is "quaint"). You could tell they were different from each other, if you have a good ear for accents. I realize that not all English accents are the same; not everyone sounds like the Queen. :)

Joanne asked the young women if they'd read this series of books from the 1950s about flight attendants, The Vickie Barr Series*, assuming, I guess, as a lot of people do, that if you're English, you're automatically more sophisticated and educated. In fact, she assumed they'd read them, saying "You've of course read the Vickie Barr books," implying that they are regular reading for all flight-attendants. (I think the girls actually sort of believed about themselves that they were very sophisticated too, as you'll see in a sec). They had the grace to look a little embarrassed that they weren't big readers and had never heard of these obscure books Joanne was talking about (they're always obscure books with Joanne; I got over that a long time ago...). They said something dismissive like "We only read fashion mags". Well, duh! They're young women, and that's what young women do! Care about 1950s mystery-solving stewardess? Well, no, but look at the new Manolo Blahnicks! And the new botox in a jar!

But later, Joanne or Jim, someone, asked them about getting to London from the airport (which, if you don't know, is quite far from the city and even further from our hotel in Islington). I had planned for us to take the train at Heathrow, but wasn't quite sure where in the airport the train was, and after a long day of Jim getting progressively crankier, and Joanne yelling in his ear, I was debating ditching the train idea (we did have absurdly large baggage-- we were going to be there three weeks!) and taking a Black Taxi. The flight attendants assured us that we would be ripped off on a taxi ride. That it would be a much better idea to take the train. (Well, I knew that!) They also said, basically (and here is where the idea that they thought themselves superior comes in) that "we were quite loud, and would be instantly taken as tourists" and assumed, it was obvious to me, because of that, to be idiots. (For the record-- we were ripped off by the taxi, but only in that it was very expensive to drive through traffic-bound London, and it took forever! Especially when we were very tired.)

Well Jeez. Let me see. 70 year old man, out of his element, on a loud airplane right next to the wing and the engines. Wife who is sick of the husband never hearing her (and/or ignoring her) yelling in his ear. Slightly embarrassed daughter-in-law who is going along for the ride for the sake of not being a jerk. Stuck with them. A bit embarrassed and wishing to be a more graceful guest in someone else's country, but stuck with the old farts anyway. Still, let me ask-- do you think there might be some "quite loud" Englishmen who are in their 70s? Hmmm.

In travel, people are out of their element. They are in unfamiliar places, with unfamiliar customs. London is one of the largest cities on the whole planet. San Antonio is a big city for the U.S. (8th largest!) but we don't have public transportation to speak of cause we ARE so large that it's impractical. So we drive our own vehicles. We don't have to deal with cabs, or trains, or buses.

So the moral of this rather long-winded story is this. Sophistication is relative. I may have been headed for England for my very first ever trip off the U.S. continent. I may have been with two folks who were enthusiastically every stereotype there is about Americans (loud, big, Texan, overly friendly, talkative). But I probably know more about English history and culture than those two flight attendants who only "read fashion mags." As well as Manolo, and other "fashion mag" sort of things. And am way more sophisticated in many ways, thank you very much. And I'm quite certain, gentle reader, that those young ladies have at a minimum an embarrassing uncle or two. We all do.

*essentially, Nancy Drew with a career.

Painty Fresh

Recipe for weekend plus+:

• Begin when spouse asks you to "primer" the quarterround that will go around the base of the bar (which is looking pretty spiffy).
• While on the back porch with the paintbrush, think, "Hey. Why not touch up those two or three spots on the white wrought aluminum patio table where the paint is peeling?"
• So. Dab a bit of white primer on the spots. Notice that the white bits make the rest of the table look shabby.
• Primer rest of table. Notice that table being all white and happy makes chairs look shabby.
• Primer chairs.
• Plan to spray paint with white "outdoor paint" later, after primer dries.
• While primering, notice really pretty detailing on chairs that is not seen because all of it is white.
• Plan to add slight "off white" touches to detailing to bring it out. Should make it look cool, "shabby chic."
• Get covered with paint. Fingernails painty-white. Clothing speckled. Hair has paint in it too. (Attractive, no?)

Damn those home-improvement urges. Curse you Home Depot and your cluttered shelves of handy-dandy paint swatches!! Now I want to redo the bedroom, too. (I am, after all, going to be waiting at least a week till Dissertation Director gets back to me on the draft I turned in last Tuesday.) I am thinking of "harem chic" for the bedroom. All luxury and shiny and tassles and flowy satin. In rich purples and reds, I think.

But you know what that means, don't you? Later this week, my fingers will be covered in deep golds (which is the color I want to do the walls in the bedroom.) Wanna come help? There will be "Sponge brushing" going on. (On the walls, dear. Keep it clean, this is a family blog).

What Are You Doing With YOUR life?

Nothing like a visit to Home Depot on a Saturday to make you feel like you're just not doing anything with your life. Didn't you know that there are projects to do?

Things that will make your life significantly better.

Other people are doing wonderful things-- they are making their bathrooms better, wallpapering, grouting, hammering. Hammer hammer. Installing fans. And doors. And shelving units that will organize their entire house.

And you. Sitting there on your couch with a full glass of Merlot. Watching Ice Age and petting your cat. You lazy bum. Go paint something!

Blog Dreams & Indian Justice

You know, I have great ideas for blog entries when I'm in that twilight zone between really being asleep and really being awake. "Oh, yeah" I think. "That'll be interesting, and I can write it like this or that, and I'll definitely remember such a good idea when I sit down at the computer tomorrow."

Sure. It always comes back to me.

I really think about you folks all the time, you know. But then, the cat wakes us up demanding her breakfast, and there's french toast with fresh blueberries to be made (and two entire slices of bacon each!) And by the time I have time to come in here and chase the husband off of the computer where he's looking at barstools for the new bar, I have totally forgotten that cool idea for a blog entry that I had this morning. So you get stuck with yet another lame attempt to write every day.

But, I did surf an interesting women's website this morning and found this news story about a crowd of women & children who burst into an Indian court where a man was being tried for rape and they killed him. They then escaped the court. The news story didn't say whether they were pursuing finding out who the crowd consisted of. Interesting news! I suppose these women & children did not believe that they were going to get justice from the courts, and took it into their own hands. The man was "facing 24 counts of molestation and rape " and there were only 14 people in the crowd who killed him. Where, I wonder, were the other ten? Maybe they were in the crowd outside keeping the police busy.

Friday the 13th

AH! That's what I should have written about! That long wait-staff rant was just another one. Here is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the.... enough already! On Friday the 13th. NOT unlucky. Unless you're so freaked out about the day that you make it unlucky by being freaked out and causing bad luck in a freakish self-fulfilling prophecy of doom.

Friday 13th is a special, wonderful, happy day. It's Wednesday the 3rd that you should REALLY be worried about. (Ominous music swells).

To Serve

Have you ever worked in a "Service" occupation? Like waiting tables, hairdresser, bartender, retail sales, maid, etc? I have. I worked in some sort of service job from the time I was 15 till I was a graduate student in college (at around 30something!). Most of us probably have worked this kind of job, maybe in college. I know a lot of the people I would work with were college students, out to make money for "fun" but not really supporting themselves on the money. There were a few college kids working their way through by tips, but most of them have other sources of income too. Granted, some of those "other sources" were things like student loans which they eventually have to pay back, but even some people who have worked service don't realize that there are people out there making so little money that they would consider being "at the poverty line" of $18,850 dollars for a family of four (that's mom, dad, two kids) A STEP UP! I know I would have for most of my life until I was married.

And that is what the US government considers IN POVERTY. There are people working to be beneath that level. Lots of them.

The reason I was thinking about this is that getting my hair done today meant, of course, that I would have to tip the hair dresser. I tip at least 20% for my hairdresser, and I even will tip that much if I happen to buy products which "boost" the receipt a bit. I also tip waitstaff between 15 and 20%, ALWAYS.* Even with the cost of a simple hairstyle/blowdry being outrageous (20 bucks! At a cheap place! Just to dry and style my hair! Cause I was feeling really lazy & wanted good hair with no work on my part!)

But I know a lot of people who resent having to tip, or tip really badly. My father-in-law, for example, figures $5.00 is a pretty darn good tip-- even if the check is 500.00. (Which is TOTALLY wrong!!) I often either scold him into tipping better, take the credit card slip AWAY from him and write a good tip on there, or afterwards sneak over to the server and give them more of my own money. Many times when I was a waitress someone who I worked my butt off for would give me ZERO tip. Once, this Colonel in the Air Force (I know what he was cause my hubby is in the military and I know the insignia) stiffed me on four checks he offered to "pick up" for his buddies. Those folks MIGHT have tipped me. So for being nice to his coworkers, he totally screwed me. Nice, huh? And I was a GOOD waitress, I guarantee.

My father in law's "figuring" of what is a good tip comes from the past when money was worth more. You could buy an expensive suit for 50.00 back then--something we'd pay hundreds for today. And so, many people have no clue who is supposed to be tipped. Did you know that if you stay in a hotel for an extended period of time and the same maid works on your room, you should tip them? Especially if you've made quite a mess once or twice? Beyond the typical "make bed, give towels" thing.

And I have had arguments with people who have said "I shouldn't be responsible for these folks' paycheck. They ought to be paid better so I don't have to tip them."

Guess what folks? If the people we tip WERE paid better, the owner would pass on the price to you. That five dollar hamburger at the local Sports Bar would be 8.00. And the wait-staff would not get all of the three dollar increase, I can promise that. So you're paying one way or another.

And the main way you pay, especially with people like a hairstylist, or someone at a restaurant you go to frequently, is in service. If you are a good tipper, your hairstylist will love to see you. S/he will go out of his/her way to fit you in. S/he will do the best work on you, because S/he wants you to like the work and come back again. If you're a crappy tipper, the staff will fight over who has to take your table. They will resent waiting on you. You will get bad service. (Of course, this will justify your crappy tipping to you, but think of how nice it would be to get GOOD service!)

I did not put myself through college, pay for fun stuff, with my tips. I paid the bills. Even when I was 15 years old and bussing tables at the fancy Cajun restaurant where the waitstaff made hundreds a night in tips, the money I made (a portion of the waiters' tips) went to pay the rent, or the power bill, or for food. My family was not doing so well, and every single penny was pinched. It wasn't that I was out buying the latest Madonna CD or a cute shirt to wear to school. I was helping so that we would not be evicted for not paying the rent. Lots of people who wait tables or cut hair are raising children on the meager minimum wage (or less, for wait staff-- did you know that? Wait staff gets paid LESS than minimum wage?) Or keeping themselves off of welfare.

And guess what else? At a nice restaurant, you're not just tipping the waiter who takes care of you when you tip. A waiter has to tip his/her busperson. And the bartender. And maybe others who helped. So of the 20% you tip the waiter, they have to tip others. Or they get a bad rep at the place they worked. And they have to tip their helpers even if you don't tip them. So then, they basically have to PAY for the privilege of bringing you stuff. Nice, huh? When I got left a crappy tip, say, a dollar off a 20 dollar check, I would say "Yay! Now I can buy that candy bar I've been saving up for!"

Part of why this is an issue is that there are people out there who say "F-them. They should have studied harder in high school." (Yes, dear readers, this is an EXACT quote from a clueless jerk who used to work with my husband.) And a lot of people say "Oh, they make lots of money. They're all union workers anyway." (Not in the South dears. There are not any waitstaff unions in the south, which includes all of the Gulf Coast, your tourist dollars and you.)

So you can work a 15 hour day, regularly, not get ANY breaks (yes! you can!) and barely enough time to sit for twenty minutes and eat a meal between shifts. So when you're figuring up that tip, think of how you would feel to have worked hard to bring someone their food hot, their drinks cold, and their silverware polished. To make the table nice & clean when you sit down. To be there when you need something else. It's damn hard work. And unappreciated by an awful lot of people. Sometimes, the difference between a "mediocre", so-so tip and a good one is a dollar. A measley dollar, that you're going to blow on a soda pop, or a candy bar at the movies, anyway. And it could make that person's day. I once got a 20 dollar tip on a check that was only 20 dollars. It was an old man, and I think he must have thought I was cute and friendly and it brightened his day for me to joke with him. What do you think that did for my day?

I once had a table of 15 people in a back room of the Mexican place I worked. Big tables are hard-- the kitchen is overtasked, and it's difficult to make 15 drinks at a time, etc. Think of how much effort it takes you just to make your own dinner, then multiply it by however many extra people. The place we were at had concrete floors. And paper menus. These folks dropped a bottle of ketchup on the floor. They stuck one of the paper menus on top of the spill, which was under the table, and didn't mention it to me. Several hours later, as I was cleaning my section, tired, 10 pm, ready to get off my aching feet and go home, I found the ketchup-stuck-menu and had to peel it off of the floor. It came up in strips because the ketchup had dried and had the effect of plastering the paper menu to the floor. And I couldn't go home till it was clean. Do you think I earned the 20% of that table? IF they tipped that much, because big groups tend to take it out on the wait-person that the food comes slow (it's the kitchen, by the way, not usually the waiter.)

Anyway. Rant over. Lecture finished. Just think about this next time you're at a place and have to fill out that little tip slot. If the person who waited on you was kind, and smiley, and brought you your extra stuff when you asked for it, and the food was hot, and fast, and the check came early before you even thought to ask for it, and the place was clean enough that you didn't worry about the cooties in the food, think of how much it is worth it to be able to enjoy your night. And then add 20% to that number. Just because.

*Of course, this is in the U.S. The rules of tipping are different in other countries.
**ewwww. As I was writing this the cat just came in and left me a lovely "tip." Time to get the papertowels.

Best Step Class Yet

DJ Fafir from New York rocks. He mixes special aerobics mixes with the right kind of counts and stuff for the routines. I bought two mixes from him, and today was the first day I've used one. The class was great-- very very sweaty, and the students were very happy. I still have a few things bugs/kinks to work out in my teaching but I'm getting pretty good. :) Fun!

Today we have a party to attend for Andrew's work. It's at the horse track. They have a special tent down by the track that we'll get to hang out in and pretend we're VIPs. People at this race don't get all dressed up in hats and stuff, and I don't think anyone drinks mint juleps. Although I would adore a Mojito. MMMMMM. I'm still on my "6 weeks with no liquor" bootcamp, though. I will think about whether I want to cheat with one drink. I had a glass of champagne last night (Moet & Chandon--so yummy). We were watching the Sorpranos on DVD and they kept drinking and I couldn't take it anymore. :)

Anyway. This is a very banal post. But I'll try to think of something literary to write later. Now it's time for lunch, an eyebrow waxing, and maybe a hairdo. If I'm feeling splurgey. (I've already shopped today, new workout clothes.... bad girl!)

Fun With Graphics

I know some of you really like the rotating head script I put in that changes the heading art every day. I try to make up new graphics at least every two weeks or so, long enough so that you can see all of them, but not so long that you get bored. It doesn't take tooo tooooo long, but it does take a bit of time. Which is why it's sad when a graphic I really like disappears forever.

But wait! Order now and you can receive....

A gallery of all the headers I've used already, or am about to use. I will add new ones here as they go. The gallery also includes a little bit of detail on most of the graphics, plus the "rationale" for them being used on the site.

Clipart. mmmmmmm. Cliparty goodness. Now, fat free! Under new management! Atkins Friendly! 4 out of 5 dentists prefer! Sale! Prices Slashed! Rollback! Minty White! With 40% extra filler! FDA Approval Pending.

Friday!*

I'm tempted to do something like what Steve does and have a special for "Friday"... I think he does the Friday Five (no, it's Wednesday Weird Ones....) But I can't think of such clever quirky questions.

So, instead, I'm going to post five things I want to do this weekend. The Friday Five. (Not catchy. Must think of better title.)
(not necessarily in this order)

1. Go to P.F. Chang's for dinner
   I really wanted to do this last night but derelict friends called and demanded we go to this Mexican place instead. I'm dying for some of the CANTONESE CHOW FUN. And I love the big giant horse statues. I do still want to steal their lucky cat statue, though. Do you think I could make it out the door without a waiter clobbering me? I could take one of the hostesses, I think, but if one of the waiters got me, I would give it up.
2. Find and buy the decor for our bar area
   This is not at all exciting. But we've been trying to decide on barstools,** and artwork, and the basic layout for our new bar. It's a cool bar. You're welcome to come to the big party we're going to have to kick it off. Think up a quirky new martini recipe. There's going to be a contest. We aren't sure what you'll win, but it'll be the best. damn. thing. ever. Maybe a date with Eric Estrada. We're talking to his people now. (Really.) (No. Not really.) (Yes, really.) (Don't you trust me?) (No, you're not at all trustworthy, and Eric is a big star since the Surreal Life.) (Fine. Don't believe me. We're also talking to Tammy Faye's people.) (No You're Not.) (Uh huh). (Nuh uh). (Uh huh uh huh times infinity)
3. Go to Bellydance class on Saturday.
   But we usually have long leisurely mornings on the weekend, and Andrew hasn't been home on the weekend in like three weeks. So this might be out already.
4. I really can't think of any more options. And they're not funny, either. Despite that lame attempt at humor on number 2. So I'm making a command decision and cutting this SHORT! Who were the ad wizards who thought this idea up? (the Donald Steps In) You're fired.

*Okay. I know it's not Friday. I didn't realize this till halfway through the post. So I'm leaving it anyway.

**Do you like this one? This (in black) is what is in the "Lead."