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I can't remember whether one of my protagonists lost his right or left kidney. Oops.
Also: AAAAAARRRRRRRRRGH. And, ::facepalm::
Also: AAAAAARRRRRRRRRGH. And, ::facepalm::
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Look! The U.S. Democratic party has a new symbol!
I gather this is meant to show stuff like a dynamic directness of spirit; noble, forthright and forward-thinking, lack of obfuscation etc. etc. etc. And it's entirely possible that this is indeed what it does, for most people. Some people, anyway. Like the Democratic party members who approved it.
Unfortunately, I think they might have missed the target--excuse the pun. I'm certain I'm not the only one who was instantly reminded of all kinds of things that have little or nothing to do with Democrats:
( I think Natasha Obama wants her protractor back )
None of which would actually inspire me to vote Democrat if I wasn't going to do it already. I mean, seriously--it's a blue circle with a 'D' in it. There's simplicity, and then there's, well, blue circles with 'D's in them. That's not a logo, that's something you doodle on a notepad while you're on the phone.
Of course, the new slogan is even worse: Change that Matters. As if there could be any other kind of change. As if anything here has really changed at all.
Not that I'm feeling cynical at the moment or anything, but it seems to me that the new Democratic party symbol is a little too much like the party itself right now. Not terribly impressive, and ultimately meaningless.
I gather this is meant to show stuff like a dynamic directness of spirit; noble, forthright and forward-thinking, lack of obfuscation etc. etc. etc. And it's entirely possible that this is indeed what it does, for most people. Some people, anyway. Like the Democratic party members who approved it.
Unfortunately, I think they might have missed the target--excuse the pun. I'm certain I'm not the only one who was instantly reminded of all kinds of things that have little or nothing to do with Democrats:
( I think Natasha Obama wants her protractor back )
None of which would actually inspire me to vote Democrat if I wasn't going to do it already. I mean, seriously--it's a blue circle with a 'D' in it. There's simplicity, and then there's, well, blue circles with 'D's in them. That's not a logo, that's something you doodle on a notepad while you're on the phone.
Of course, the new slogan is even worse: Change that Matters. As if there could be any other kind of change. As if anything here has really changed at all.
Not that I'm feeling cynical at the moment or anything, but it seems to me that the new Democratic party symbol is a little too much like the party itself right now. Not terribly impressive, and ultimately meaningless.
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And THAT, Alanis, is Irony.
2/7/10 14:38It's also serendipity. But the serendipity comes before the irony. It's a saga, I tell you.
Around Christmas time last year one of my lovely FListers by the name of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fish_echo sent me ( this epic graphic novel of love and sacrifice: )
Which, naturally, was so awesome that I made my darling husband take me to Hobby Lobby so I could get a frame for it. Because of the torn notepage edge, the surly Hobby Lobby Picture Framing person (as far as I can tell you're not allowed to work in the Framing Department unless you're permanently disgruntled) told me I should use a 'floating' frame, which meant basically to sandwich the artwork between two pieces of glass.
Or, in this case, one piece of glass and one piece of plastic. I was also required to do this myself in the comfort of my own home. Nor did the frame actually come with instructions. I guess it's the iPhone of the framing world--so intuitive you can figure it out by yourself. Or at least I'm certain that the majority of humanity could probably figure it out by themselves.
Anyway, I came home with my frame and put it on the kitchen counter, and then kind of ignored its existence for five months. Hey, I waslazy forgetful lazy busy.
But yesterday when I was tidying up the house, I decided that lo, today would be the day when I actually putfish_echo's gift up on the wall. So I took the frame and the picture to the living room, carefully unwrapped everything, exclaimed in pleased surprise over the fact that the frame included ways to hang it vertically and horizontally, and then spent the next hour trying to get the picture straight and centered in the frame.
Yeah, an hour. Which I'm going to blame on my dyslexia.
I'll get to the looming tragedy in a moment, but first the serendipity part. And not just because I like typing 'serendipity'. Naturally, because I was looking at her present after hiding it from myself for five months, I started thinking aboutfish_echo and what had become of her after all this time and how she was doing etcetera. And she left a comment in my most recent LJ post that very same evening! How awesome is that?
And hey, Fishy! Good to hear from you! I still love that picture!
But now we need to get back to the irony part.
Finally, finally, it was done. The picture was as even and centered as it was ever going to get. I carreeeeeefulllly placed the glass panel over it, slowly slid the metal frame edges on to hold the glass and plastic together to trap the paper in between, took a moment to admire my handiwork, then flipped the frame over to see how large a nail I'd need to hang it.
And realized I'd put the picture in upside down.
(That's not actually the ironic part. The ironic part is coming. That was just pathetically hilarious.)
There was no way in hell I was going to frame the picture again, so Iluckily brilliantly figured out a way to hang the picture properly anyway. This involved glue, so I left the framed picture on the coffee table until this morning.
(Here comes the irony. Get ready.)
This morning I pick up the frame to showfish_echo's awesome present to my husband.
"That frame looks really fragile," my husband says.
"It's fine," I say. "It's a piece of glass over a piece of plastic." And I turn it over in my hands to adjust one of the metal frame pieces and promptly drop the whole thing on the living room floor.
Our living room is carpeted, but that made no difference. The glass frame shattered. Even the plastic back of the frame had a crack in it.
And I just burst out laughing. Because at that point, how couldn't I?
Around Christmas time last year one of my lovely FListers by the name of
fish_echo sent me ( this epic graphic novel of love and sacrifice: )Which, naturally, was so awesome that I made my darling husband take me to Hobby Lobby so I could get a frame for it. Because of the torn notepage edge, the surly Hobby Lobby Picture Framing person (as far as I can tell you're not allowed to work in the Framing Department unless you're permanently disgruntled) told me I should use a 'floating' frame, which meant basically to sandwich the artwork between two pieces of glass.
Or, in this case, one piece of glass and one piece of plastic. I was also required to do this myself in the comfort of my own home. Nor did the frame actually come with instructions. I guess it's the iPhone of the framing world--so intuitive you can figure it out by yourself. Or at least I'm certain that the majority of humanity could probably figure it out by themselves.
Anyway, I came home with my frame and put it on the kitchen counter, and then kind of ignored its existence for five months. Hey, I was
But yesterday when I was tidying up the house, I decided that lo, today would be the day when I actually put
fish_echo's gift up on the wall. So I took the frame and the picture to the living room, carefully unwrapped everything, exclaimed in pleased surprise over the fact that the frame included ways to hang it vertically and horizontally, and then spent the next hour trying to get the picture straight and centered in the frame. Yeah, an hour. Which I'm going to blame on my dyslexia.
I'll get to the looming tragedy in a moment, but first the serendipity part. And not just because I like typing 'serendipity'. Naturally, because I was looking at her present after hiding it from myself for five months, I started thinking about
fish_echo and what had become of her after all this time and how she was doing etcetera. And she left a comment in my most recent LJ post that very same evening! How awesome is that?And hey, Fishy! Good to hear from you! I still love that picture!
But now we need to get back to the irony part.
Finally, finally, it was done. The picture was as even and centered as it was ever going to get. I carreeeeeefulllly placed the glass panel over it, slowly slid the metal frame edges on to hold the glass and plastic together to trap the paper in between, took a moment to admire my handiwork, then flipped the frame over to see how large a nail I'd need to hang it.
And realized I'd put the picture in upside down.
(That's not actually the ironic part. The ironic part is coming. That was just pathetically hilarious.)
There was no way in hell I was going to frame the picture again, so I
(Here comes the irony. Get ready.)
This morning I pick up the frame to show
fish_echo's awesome present to my husband."That frame looks really fragile," my husband says.
"It's fine," I say. "It's a piece of glass over a piece of plastic." And I turn it over in my hands to adjust one of the metal frame pieces and promptly drop the whole thing on the living room floor.
Our living room is carpeted, but that made no difference. The glass frame shattered. Even the plastic back of the frame had a crack in it.
And I just burst out laughing. Because at that point, how couldn't I?
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I use the word 'almost' almost a million times in three hundred pages. I swear. Everything is 'almost'. 'Almost painfully'; 'almost laughed'; 'almost screamed'. Almost, almost, almost. Except when I use 'nearly'.
Jesus Christ. It's like I can't commit to anything. It's almost enough to make me want to cry. Nearly.
Okay, back to editing. Only 94 pages to go! Almost!
Jesus Christ. It's like I can't commit to anything. It's almost enough to make me want to cry. Nearly.
Okay, back to editing. Only 94 pages to go! Almost!
Cookie Flurries Explained!
7/12/09 21:00Since my last post, I've gotten even more cookies, from winter_elf, the_moonmoth, caras_galadhon, wpadmirer and reedfem! And to wash all the cookies down with, some kind stranger sent me hot cocoa.
Apparently the cookiebombs were a result of an LJ glitch. They were marked as free on the virtual gift page, so naturally people had fun with the largess before LJ realized they had a problem and fixed it. Too much to hope that free virtual snowflake cookies might have been part of LJ's Christmas spirit, obviously.
I was beginning to wonder if I'd somehow missed membership in a secret LJ cookie gifting community, so I was pleased to find out I hadn't, because I would have enjoyed being a member of that. :)
Free or not, I'm still really touched that so many people who were giving cookies thought of me. Thank you so much, everyone. :D
winter_elf, the_moonmoth, caras_galadhon, wpadmirer and reedfem! And to wash all the cookies down with, some kind stranger sent me hot cocoa.Apparently the cookiebombs were a result of an LJ glitch. They were marked as free on the virtual gift page, so naturally people had fun with the largess before LJ realized they had a problem and fixed it. Too much to hope that free virtual snowflake cookies might have been part of LJ's Christmas spirit, obviously.
I was beginning to wonder if I'd somehow missed membership in a secret LJ cookie gifting community, so I was pleased to find out I hadn't, because I would have enjoyed being a member of that. :)
Free or not, I'm still really touched that so many people who were giving cookies thought of me. Thank you so much, everyone. :D
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Health warning of the week, O best-beloveds: be careful about using baking soda when you run out of 'Tums'.
This came up because ( of the epic fail )
This came up because ( of the epic fail )
Y'all know that my darling husband is disabled by now, right? I thought so. :)
Continental Airlines should also know this. Not that they read my LJ of course, but Dom is indeed in their computer system as having special requirements. You'd think this would make a difference when, for example, our flight plan would require going by bus from one terminal at Newark-Liberty (in New Jersey, by the way, but serving New York). Or getting into an airplane that isn't connected to a boarding ramp.
I could explain the comedy of errors that commenced nearly the second we got off the airplane from Houston, but I'm just going to post the letter I sent to Continental Customer Service about it. I swear I'm not making any of this up.
( Dear Continental: You Suck )
Continental Airlines should also know this. Not that they read my LJ of course, but Dom is indeed in their computer system as having special requirements. You'd think this would make a difference when, for example, our flight plan would require going by bus from one terminal at Newark-Liberty (in New Jersey, by the way, but serving New York). Or getting into an airplane that isn't connected to a boarding ramp.
I could explain the comedy of errors that commenced nearly the second we got off the airplane from Houston, but I'm just going to post the letter I sent to Continental Customer Service about it. I swear I'm not making any of this up.
( Dear Continental: You Suck )
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I may have slid a disposable safety razor across my forearm to see if it was possible to cut yourself deliberately doing that.
Guess what? You can! Not very deeply, but it sure stings. Took a few seconds for the blood to well up, too. But there was blood, and that's what I needed to find out.
I am not planning on becoming a cutter, by the way (wpadmirer couldn't stand two of them. Heh), just in case any of you were wondering if I'd lost my mind. Nope, this was just pure research. Though perhaps a tad ill-planned. Just a tad.
I kind of didn't think it would work. Or I wouldn't have done it. Most likely.
But hey--authenticity in fiction is what makes it great, eh? Right? Right?
::coughs:: I'll just be over there. Getting a Band-aid.
Guess what? You can! Not very deeply, but it sure stings. Took a few seconds for the blood to well up, too. But there was blood, and that's what I needed to find out.
I am not planning on becoming a cutter, by the way (
wpadmirer couldn't stand two of them. Heh), just in case any of you were wondering I kind of didn't think it would work. Or I wouldn't have done it. Most likely.
But hey--authenticity in fiction is what makes it great, eh? Right? Right?
::coughs:: I'll just be over there. Getting a Band-aid.
Does it count as stalking if the idiot in question thinks he's calling someone else?
Last Thursday night, while I was trying to get to sleep early because I had a fever, some moron with the same area code called my cell phone twice. The second time he left a slurring message asking, where are you, Baby? Then he sent a text message saying, 'why dont u pick up?'
I was a little fed up at this point, so I called him back and when he answered I told him he had the wrong number. Our conversation went something very much like this, though I don't remember exactly:
Me: Hi. I'm not your girlfriend. You've called the wrong number three times.
Drunken Idiot: No I didn't.
Me: Yes you did! I'm not your girlfriend! I have no idea who you are! I'm sorry.
Drunken Idiot: ::click::
Yes, he hung up on me. Whether out of embarrassment or misdirected rage I cannot say, but I was comfortably certain I'd never hear from him again.
Not so.
About five minutes ago I just got another text message: 'wat up?' from the same local number.
I called him back, but got voice mail. Interestingly enough, the guy sounds just as drunk in his answering message as he did when I was speaking to him, so maybe I misjudged him and he's genuinely stupid and/or astonishingly unobservant even when sober. The message I left lacked a certain amount of grace or charm I have to admit, but I did tell him in no uncertain terms that I'm not his girlfriend, my number is X and I didn't know what he thought he was dialing but I really am not his girlfriend--I have a husband and a son and everything. And there was no point in sending messages to this number because I wouldn't respond. Because I'm not his girlfriend.
I hope he gets the point. If he does it again, I'm seriously considering either calling him back or texting him that I want to break up. That seems unfair to his actual girlfriend, though, who might actually love him dearly and find his occasional inability to dial endearing.
Or maybe she's pissed off at him because he never calls her anymore. Which would be because he's calling me.
Last Thursday night, while I was trying to get to sleep early because I had a fever, some moron with the same area code called my cell phone twice. The second time he left a slurring message asking, where are you, Baby? Then he sent a text message saying, 'why dont u pick up?'
I was a little fed up at this point, so I called him back and when he answered I told him he had the wrong number. Our conversation went something very much like this, though I don't remember exactly:
Me: Hi. I'm not your girlfriend. You've called the wrong number three times.
Drunken Idiot: No I didn't.
Me: Yes you did! I'm not your girlfriend! I have no idea who you are! I'm sorry.
Drunken Idiot: ::click::
Yes, he hung up on me. Whether out of embarrassment or misdirected rage I cannot say, but I was comfortably certain I'd never hear from him again.
Not so.
About five minutes ago I just got another text message: 'wat up?' from the same local number.
I called him back, but got voice mail. Interestingly enough, the guy sounds just as drunk in his answering message as he did when I was speaking to him, so maybe I misjudged him and he's genuinely stupid and/or astonishingly unobservant even when sober. The message I left lacked a certain amount of grace or charm I have to admit, but I did tell him in no uncertain terms that I'm not his girlfriend, my number is X and I didn't know what he thought he was dialing but I really am not his girlfriend--I have a husband and a son and everything. And there was no point in sending messages to this number because I wouldn't respond. Because I'm not his girlfriend.
I hope he gets the point. If he does it again, I'm seriously considering either calling him back or texting him that I want to break up. That seems unfair to his actual girlfriend, though, who might actually love him dearly and find his occasional inability to dial endearing.
Or maybe she's pissed off at him because he never calls her anymore. Which would be because he's calling me.
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kh'Wen screamed in anger and pain, then hammered her feet like hammers into u'Taita's belly.
::facepalm:: You have no idea how many freaking times I've been over this scene. No idea.
Hammered her feet like hammers. Now that's some talent! Yee-hah!
::slinks off in shame::
::facepalm:: You have no idea how many freaking times I've been over this scene. No idea.
Hammered her feet like hammers. Now that's some talent! Yee-hah!
::slinks off in shame::
My doctor's office, where both my son and I are followed by the same doctor, has apparently implemented a new thing where patients are informed of normal test results via sealed postcards.
So far, so good. I can see how a few thirty-five cent stamps are worth the saved time for a phone call, especially as the nurses almost never give 'personal' information such as test results to voice mail or to other family to pass on. (I use quotes because while I can definitely understand that there are some situations where you might not want other family members to know a test result, I do think the doctor's office is able to use either their own judgment based on A) the kind of test and B) if the patient has already told them she doesn't mind learning about test results from voice mail.)
As it happens, I got a pap smear and my little boy got his standard test for Iron deficiency anemia within a week of each other, and I'd already been called and informed that everything was normal with me. So when I got a little sealed postcard addressed to my son, I happily--and not unreasonably, I think--figured that I was going to find out that my son's iron levels are fine.
Except that on the inside of the card, in the blank space for the test results, 'Pap Smear' was written in warm, precise handwriting.
My favourite part--other than being able to tell my doctor's assistant how happy I was to learn that my son was safe from cervical cancer--was that the front of the card has a picture of a tree and the words, 'because we care'.
Not enough to make sure the test matches the patient, apparently, but I'm sure it's the thought that counts.
P.S.: The nurse called back and apologized, and my son is indeed fine, which rocks. But still, sometimes that place makes my eyes roll so hard one day they'll just fall right out of my head.
So far, so good. I can see how a few thirty-five cent stamps are worth the saved time for a phone call, especially as the nurses almost never give 'personal' information such as test results to voice mail or to other family to pass on. (I use quotes because while I can definitely understand that there are some situations where you might not want other family members to know a test result, I do think the doctor's office is able to use either their own judgment based on A) the kind of test and B) if the patient has already told them she doesn't mind learning about test results from voice mail.)
As it happens, I got a pap smear and my little boy got his standard test for Iron deficiency anemia within a week of each other, and I'd already been called and informed that everything was normal with me. So when I got a little sealed postcard addressed to my son, I happily--and not unreasonably, I think--figured that I was going to find out that my son's iron levels are fine.
Except that on the inside of the card, in the blank space for the test results, 'Pap Smear' was written in warm, precise handwriting.
My favourite part--other than being able to tell my doctor's assistant how happy I was to learn that my son was safe from cervical cancer--was that the front of the card has a picture of a tree and the words, 'because we care'.
Not enough to make sure the test matches the patient, apparently, but I'm sure it's the thought that counts.
P.S.: The nurse called back and apologized, and my son is indeed fine, which rocks. But still, sometimes that place makes my eyes roll so hard one day they'll just fall right out of my head.
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