Deviant Dispatches

There is a Charlie Brown tree at work. You know the kind. Source It's in a room neither my coworkers nor I spend much time in, but we do go in there to get coffee or tea, or use the microflave. The tree is close enough to that corner of the room that every time I pour myself hot water, I bump the tree. Unfortunately, despite everyone's fairly close proximity to it, we often forget to water the poor thing; it's been looking a bit crispy. One coworker stepped into the editing office this week, leaned against the door frame, and muttered, "I think I killed the ficus ." I must confess: Charlie Brown's utterance of "I killed it" was the first thing that came to mind when she uttered that phrase. We assured her that if it was dead, we were all responsible for not watering it; it was not solely her responsibility to care for it. But it was only in relaying this story to Spousal Unit that I realized how poorly off the poor tree was

For all the knitting and crochet projects that I finish with flying colors and immense pride, there are 20 others that see light for a moment on the drawing board and are hopelessly crushed. I often have trouble figuring out what I want to make, what to make it with, which craft to use, and what pattern to follow (or whether to use one at all). Most of these attempts are unraveled (frogged) before long. I use the same yarn to create something worth working on, something that will satisfy my momentary desires. Unfortunately, some of those end up getting nowhere, too. You know a couple of them by name: the Neverending Quilt and the Sweater That the Universe Denied . It's been ages since I worked on the quilt; it's been longer for the sweater. Here are a few others. They may not have been sitting around for four years, but they certainly have been collecting dust. I started this topsy-turvy watermelon scarf last summer, when it was warm and gorgeous and this yarn was y

Some nights are like that. The cats won't stop begging for release from their evening sleep spot. They meow and fight and scratch pitifully at the door. Just as they're starting to quiet down and you're starting to fall asleep, sirens drive by, remarkably close, and loud through the poorly designed windows. Then the cats start freaking out again, as if black riders are on their trail and they have to escape in order to throw their collars into the factories from whence they came. Some nights are like that. It's too warm in the bedroom, but you don't have the energy to go digging for that lighter spring blanket that you know is probably in one of the closets, but you're not sure where. So you sweat and wake up and half-sleep restlessly, waking once every hour or two with a neck ache because your memory foam pillow has developed Alzheimer's. In the wee hours of the morning, you just want ten more minutes of sleep after the alarm goes off; but between the sun

One of my pet peeves is the phrase "the real world." People use it all the time in casual conversation, as though some people live in a strange alternate dimension where things are fluffy and happy 24-7. As if just by not having a measured amount of responsibility, bills, or grim outlook on life, we are separate from the world, rather than part of it. I've hated this phrase for a long time - in part because someone once told me I wouldn't make it once I entered the "real" world. (Look at me now, beeyotch.) I guess the thing that bothers me most about it, though, is how the phrase typically is used toward kids. Now that I'm in this strange realm called "adulthood," I really and truly don't get how people could possibly forget what it was like to be a kid, because I still know it as clear as anything. Children are just like adults, but they are clean slates. They are learning about the world around them. They are not separate from it; th

I made bread from my new Pillsbury Healthy Baking Book . This particular recipe was for refrigerated yeast dough that can be used in four different recipes. I made herb biscuits. One set, I shaped with my own personal method: roll till they're round.  The other, I shaped using Julia Child's method: pull extra dough to the bottom, so that the bottom looks a little weird and lumpy, but the top has extra tension. (She explains it better, of course.) Skip to 51:50 for the segment on creating surface tension for dough. Among other things, I recently discovered awesome tree roots. I started a crochet project. I photographed some flowers. I photographed some sister. And I made a card for my niece's birthday. The swan decal comes from an old book poster that I cut up and saved, knowing Sophia would love a pink swan card when she got older. The "love" bit at the bottom is from a set of stamps. She is now five, which makes me

I found the strangest book yesterday, at Paul's Bookstore on State Street. It's an illustrated copy of  The Vicar of Wakefield  by Oliver Goldsmith. That's not the strange part - the strange part is that it's in "the style of phonography" and is completely illegible to me. Page after page just has these little squiggles instead of nice Roman letters. The cover says the book is in Pitman's shorthand (Pitman is the publisher); it's the title page that says phonography. If I remember right, the publishing date was abbreviated to the '60s, which must be the 1860s, based on the apparent age of the book and the fact that Pitman was alive then. Phonography, or Pitman's shorthand , is a phonetic version of English, written in those little squiggles, which emphasize particular sounds. Gregg shorthand is now more common (at least in the U.S.).

This weekend, Spousal Unit and I went adventuring. We drove out on Highway 18, with the overall goal of somewhere on the Mississippi, but moving at a snail's pace compared to our usual holy-crap-why-aren't-we-there-yet speed. On the way, we stopped at the Rural Route 1 popcorn emporium, where you can get a bag of the delicious stuff for 75 cents. We also brought a couple of pounds home with us - there's nothing like a bowl of popcorn to satisfy a mild hunger or make it feel like the weekend on a Tuesday. We saw this rather magical tree, all by its lonesome. Once we reached Prairie du Chien, we found Narnia. Narnia turned out to be a place called Villa Louis . We didn't get to visit, because it was closed for the winter. Visiting places that are closed seems to be our thing. We also saw this lovely old building. There's something about the way things fall apart that is very poetic sometimes - especially with such a different facade beneath.

Yesterday morning, my mom texted, "Do you remember what happened 24 years ago today?" "No, you don't," Spousal Unit insisted. "You were four." But I do. It was the day of my preschool Valentine's party. I was probably bursting out of my skin with excitement, as Mom had made a cake for the party. She's an amazing decorator of all things, cakes included. She made them for everyone's birthdays, for anniversaries, for weddings, and they looked like a professional (who actually gave a damn) had made them. This wee round Valentine's cake was the same. If I remember right, it was two tiers, placed on a silver cake board with scalloped edges. The cake itself was on the small side (because preschoolers don't need much sugar to be rendered gibbering masses of energy), but the decorations were stunning: handmade roses and lots of those silver leaf decorations so popular in the '80s. In short, it was gorgeous, and four-year-old me

I know I did one of these posts recently, but this one has multiple layers to it. And it cannot wait, because I am excited, and I really hope someone out there can enjoy the hell out of this, too. I borrowed  The Happiness Project  by Gretchen Rubin from a friend, and it's taken me an astoundingly long time to get halfway through. That's not a comment on its readability, but rather the fact that with every five pages I read, I'm inspired to go do something that will make my day-to-day life a tiny bit happier. That, to me, is the mark of a good book. Rubin's book began as a decision to become a happier person over the course of a year. The book is divided by months of the year, and each month features a special focus, like vitality and organization, friendship, or romance. Reading someone else's indefatigable drive to improve, revitalize, and expand is very contagious, and her ideas are well researched and succinctly described. Her simple statements make you real

On Saturday, in a fit of restlessness, I headed out to the nearest department store. It wasn't that I'd been inside all day; on the contrary, I'd been to the Madison physics museum and the grocery store earlier. It was more of a desire to get out on my own for a bit while Spousal Unit engaged with video games and action movies I wasn't thrilled with at the moment. And so I went on a meager adventure. I'd not planned to buy much; after all, that was not the point of the trip. As long as I was there, however, we did need a tablecloth to conceal the unsightly mess below the living room table. We also needed a second set of sheets (yes, we only have one). And then, I somehow ended up in the makeup aisle. I've been noticing my age, lately. Not to say I'm getting old; I don't believe that at all. But the cells in my body are slowing their rejuvenation , and along with that come aches I never used to have, a desire to stay in when it's snowy out, and

My favorite picture of Titania so far: It's not one of Oberon's more flattering shots. Or Titania's, I guess. But look at that wide-open cat mouth full of teeth! She's a kitty!

It's been far too long since I discussed books here. Not working in a bookstore anymore, I don't have ready access to advance copies, and I don't get to be the first to trace jagged pages, hear the creak as I fold back the cover, smell the fresh ink buried within. I miss that part of my retail work. Luckily, Publishers Weekly posts the Most Anticipated Books of the season, so I at least get to see a limited selection of the wonder to come. It's better than being entirely removed from books most of the time. I saw two on that list from PW that really caught my eye. One is The Golem and the Jinni  by Helene Wecker. This is the story of immigrants to the U.S. - supernatural  immigrants. The golem comes from Yiddish folktales, and the jinni from Arabic. They wind up in New York at the turn of the century - sorry, the 20th century. (It feels weird to have to specify that.) Both are trying to avoid being discovered for what they truly are, taking commonplace

We've entered the home of what we can only assume to be a person of strange moods and tastes. Our reception was warm and welcoming, but the Lieutenant and I were a bit disconcerted at the state of the local fauna. Many of them, as with this African violet, appear to be thriving in this hostile environment. I would be inclined to choose different language to describe the territory, if not for the presence of this ... former plant. Clearly, the latter has been deceased for many days, if not weeks, yet it remains as is, in a pot in a corner. The room is scattered with various other greenery as well; I can only be led to believe some tyrant believes herself the Angel of Death and has left the deceased as a warning to other plants. She must have a heart drier than Earth's Nairobi desert. That, or we've encountered our first chlorophyll vampire.

In the last couple of days, I've been connecting two songs in my mind, for no apparent reason. (Full disclosure: I've also had Kiss by a Rose stuck in my head, thanks to Spousal Unit's evil ways.) The songs are Wisconsin by Whitehorse and Change by Churchill.  Wisconsin is rather folksy, with a hint of country twang in the guitar and almost lackadaisical singing in the lyrics at the beginning, despite talking about union busting. The lead singers intertwine their harmonies throughout the song, and the drum set plods along methodically, setting a kind of "marching to our death" tone. My favorite line is tied between "All our pirates are Johnny, not Somali" and "They're keeping Science in the basement/Speaking tongues and making fools." Change only seems folksy due to the use of a mandolin instead of a guitar - the song is much more pop-driven than anything else. The lead singer goes solo for the first few verses, not enlisting

...without having properly met him. 1. Based on the number of shoes in front of his door at any given time, he either has two or six children. 2. Based on the number of coats in front of his door last night, his apartment has recently developed a selective black hole, which sucked away his hall closet. 3. He can't hear very well, to the point that his music must be loud enough to rattle my floors for him to hear it properly. 4. He only likes very loud, very bad heavy metal and Gagnam Style. All other music is sub-par. 5. His reaction to my presence suggests that he's often been asked to "turn it down a little." 6. He only plays his drum kit immediately after showering. This leads me to believe he has a sterilized drum kit in a  clean room . 7. Today, I learned that yelling at 5 a.m. is his favorite. His kids' too.