Let there be lemmings

Hey, y’all!  I bet you thought you would NEVER hear from me again. No such luck, sucks to be you!!  I sort of wondered if you would ever hear from me again too; it has been a while since I had any ideas to write about at all. Well, I mean, I had a FEW ideas.  Just piddly little things, really, like the one where I was thinking I could stuff footballs with wine to take to work, because people there like sports and they might not notice someone drinking from a football. Not very practical, because those things taste terrible on the outside, plus I can’t even take full credit- it was a collaboration with some of my more twisted coworkers.  But now I think I might be getting my mojo back for real! See, I took this remote vacation BY MYSELF! There was not even any internet, can you believe such a crazy thing? I couldn’t even text! I know, I wasn’t sure I would survive either, but not only did I not shrivel up into a teeny tiny dried up husk of skin and die, I had at least a jillion brand new ideas! I would go running on the beach and the notions would just cascade into my brain like little suicidal lemmings.  I had to hurry back to my room and write them down before they crushed each other into a big squishy heap of brilliance!

It sounds pretty easy, doesn’t it? This taking a vacation by myself thing. And it would have been, too, if it hadn’t been for those darn meddling chickens. Oh, you didn’t know about the chickens? Right, I guess not, because I haven’t written anything for what feels like a million years.  We have chickens! We started with five, and are sadly down to three, because RACCOONS. So, until we figure out a chicken sleeping solution that is raccoon-proof, they have to be locked in at night and left out in the morning. EVERY night, and EVERY morning. This, as you might suspect, completely negates the advantages to having chickens, and there are many: delicious fresh eggs, high quality poop/compost, and peaceful clucking. Not being willing to abandon the girls to take their chances with prowling predators, I scooped them up into cat carriers and transported them with their accoutrements to Grandpa’s house to get chickensat.  That sounds pretty easy, doesn’t it? HA! You might not know this, but chickens are quite wily. And fast. Really, you have to hold them with both hands.  Which is fine, and not problematic at all, unless you are laying on the mud and chicken poop covered ground because you fell trying to catch one, and now you caught one only you are laying on the ground holding a chicken with both hands. I think I invented a new yoga move; I call it ‘chicken up’. I hope there’s not already one called that. I wouldn’t know because I don’t do yoga. It’s boring. Also, it hurts. If I need exercise I can just go collect chickens.

Finally with chickens satisfactorily collected, we set off for Grandpa’s house.  I mean satisfactorily to me, of course; I’m not sure the chickens would agree. I would ask them but they aren’t talking to me.  My car smelled like a barn for a while, but it aired out in time, and I was off to collect lemmings. The chickens are definitely easier, but the lemmings smell better. To me, I mean; I’m not sure the raccoons would agree.

Fork!

So, how was YOUR day? I am getting mixed reports from all my friends. One reports that her teenager locked his keys in his running car for the second day in a row, her dog chewed up her phone, and her own car wouldn't start. Another friend, on the other hand, enjoyed a close-up view of a bunch of otters playing in the wild.

As for me, hmmmmmm......... my day at work had its usual ups and downs. Trust me, you don't want to hear about them. When I got home, I discovered that Weston can multiply two three digit numbers together and Shane can do front walkovers. Then I had to go to the dreaded swimming lessons, followed by a stop at the store for wine and various other necessities. Sadly, my shopping skills were severely degraded because I was doing what I like to call multi-tasking but what you might call gossiping or chitchatting. In fact, I was busily receiving the all-important daily reports about poodles and otters from my pals and as a result I neglected to bring home the most important bag: the one with the wine and breakfasting supplies for my two small children. One can't go without wine, now can one? Well, maybe another one can, but not this one. In any case, I had to trek back to the store, most definitely a forkable moment.

Oh, wait, I bet you don't know about the fork rating system yet. You will, though, because everyone definitely needs to read about it. It was invented by Leah, one of my most stunning, brilliant and funny friends from Korea. She is writing a new guest blog at girlfriendology.com, so please go check it out; you won't be sorry! Comments would be greatly appreciated, so let her know what you think. Maybe even share your own fork story! She also has some fantastic advice for when your friends are having those fork-worthy days. It might surprise you, or not, to know that she highly recommends chocolates and margaritas. You can adapt her system to your own needs, though. For example, say your friend goes shopping and accidentally leaves her wine at the store. I'm pretty sure you know how to help her. Want to come over?? Please? And don't forget the chocolates! Good night, my friends, I hope your day was great, wherever you are!

The Past Comes Back to Haunt me, and a Turkey in a Dress

Yes, that is a turkey in a dress. No, I do not know why, thank you for asking. I could try to explain it but I would probably not be successful, so I will just say that in my family, we do things like put dresses on turkeys. Seriously, I don't know why. But I do think that particular shade of blue is not that turkey's color and next time we should go for more of a forest green or some other jewel tone. Or a plaid, perhaps- that red and blue and green one. Come on, you know what I'm talking about, admit it.

There is, however, a reason for the turkey itself. The boys and I went to my dad's house today to have dinner with the cousins and the aunts. My dad has been sorting through pictures and other assorted items and there is always a bag or box (or both!) with my name on it. Sometimes I just set the whole thing on fire but once in a while there is some good stuff in there. Today I hit the jackpot with some letters I wrote to my parents from college in 1988. I scanned one of them so you could see the art work. I'm not going to transcribe them, but here are my favorite excerpts:

Letter 1: ....it's really boring here. I even cleaned my whole apartment. I made my bed this morning too WOW!!!!!!!..... it should be another fun weekend. Somebody put a toilet in the middle of the fountain and it wasn't me, and I don't know who it was. Aren't you impressed?

Letter 2: Susannah is going to stay with us over Memorial Day, ok? Her family moved to Alaska and she has no home. Can I have some money? I need to eat. All I have is condiments.

That is some classic literature right there, people... And speaking of classic literature, also in the box today were two college texts on cat anatomy. Interestingly enough, when we got home Shane asked, 'What's the inside of a cat look like?' I'm not sure if he knew about the books in advance or if it was just a freakish coincidence, but either way it worked out well for Shane. The cats, not so much.

Overall, it was an excellent day. The kids played outside for hours- it was freezing cold and they wouldn't even put coats on. They had some awesomely questionable game about grizzlies, guns and dinosaurs. Here, you can see a snippet for yourself:

Then Jennifer and the aunts and I had an argument about the advisability of small children peeing outside. Strangely, I found myself in alone in a minority of one but I PREFER that they pee outside. The bathroom stays way cleaner that way. Who can argue with logic like that? Plus it saves valuable playing time. And even if you don't have a preference, why would you care? I WOULD rather they not pee in parking lots, or at least not when I'm with them, but what are you going to do, right? I will not back down on this one, my friends. Who's with me?

I also got in a good thrifting trip. Good thing, too, because I really needed some wine glasses. I break about one a week; that's probably how I'll tell time after the earthquake. I found six new ones for 69 cents each, but I broke one on the kitchen floor when I got home. It was still wrapped in the paper, though, so the cleanup was super easy.

So that was my day; I hope you are having a fantastic weekend!

Suckers

Haha, suckers! I am totally only writing today so I don't bust up my awesome consecutive string of posts. I might have cobbled together this many in a row before, maybe, in about 2009, back before I hit forty, when the fire could still fly from my fingertips on a regular basis, but it's pretty much unprecedented in the recent past. Dammit. That's all I've got. Well, I'll see what I can do. I might have to resort to pictures of brussels sprouts again. I'm not proud.

Work SUCKED today; I accidentally insulted this crusty old ex-colonel and then crashed the travel program on my computer after I spent approximately twelve hours planning a trip I'm not super enthusiastic about to start with. When I got home I saw on facebook I missed the birthday of one of my favorite people ever. Because I never, ever look at facebook at work. Sorry, Janelle! Actually, you know what? I never remember birthdays. It's one of my character flaws. I think it has to do with my whole Jehovah's Witness/Holiday aversion thing. That might be an excellent topic for another day, but I'm too tired and cranky to go there today.

Oh, I know! Once again, I need to address the issue of lies on here. Yesterday, at our early Thanksgiving party, one of my charming aunts informed me that sometimes she just skims my blog because she knows it's full of lies. It's just too outrageous to be true, she said. MY OWN AUNT! Can you believe that? I have talked about this before, multiple times, but a nice refresher is always good. Everything I put on here is basically true. Things will usually fall into one of several categories. Reports of events are always mostly true, but might be slightly exaggerated or embellished for effect. Hare-brained schemes, which are labeled with that category, are always straight out of my imagination, but are most often based on something that actually happened. Flat out lies are pretty obvious, like above where I said I never look at facebook at work. Also, if you'll notice, I have categories called 'lies' and 'true'. If you're wondering, you can always check the label. And, of course, you can always ask in the comments or email me at womanwithadeadcat (at) gmaildotcom.

And, finally, here's an example of a typical exaggeration, for future reference: After I posted this I received this question: 'Did they really lock you in your apartment when the President flew into Osan??' Now, the answer is no, they didn't really lock me in my apartment. Instead, they shot chloroform into my ductwork so I was unconscious for the whole event. But see, that's not quite as funny.

So there you have it, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, from a woman with a dead cat in her purse.

Busted

Oh, I have so much to say! Sometimes the stuff to say is just oozing out of my ears and I don't get it down, and then I forget about it. Or, more likely, I'm just flat-out too lazy to sit down and write it. All the typing, and thinking, it's a lot of work, you know.

I had an interesting conversation with Weston the other day- we were driving to the Goodwill (where he found a Fur Real cat that looked brand new, to his everlasting delight, for $2.99) and we passed some of those people with flags and 'Support Our Troops' signs. He asked what that was all about so I explained that troops are military members and many of them are fighting wars overseas, and that some people think they should stay, and some think they should come home. He asked more about the wars so I tried to explain they aren't really battlefield wars against countries like we see in books, and that the enemy doesn't have boats and planes, but mostly just people and they try to be sneaky and blow things up. 'Oh,' he said, 'You mean guerilla warfare?' He went on to ask if they also used camouflage and sabotage. Surprised because Lloyd usually leaves the tricky conversations to me, I said, 'Did Daddy explain that to you?' 'No,' he said, 'It was on Underdog'. So now I'm frantically scouring our cartoon collection for the episode about the birds and the bees, and the one where Underdog's mommy's blog pokes good-natured fun at his daddy.

Yes, he told me this morning that my blog says mean things and makes fun of people. I told him that I am always very careful about what I write and that sometimes I exaggerate just the tiniest bit, to make a story funnier. I'm not sure he got it, though. Geez, where is Underdog when you need him? Or, as Polly Purebred would sing, 'Where, oh where has my Underdog gone??' Here's an interesting tidbit: Sweet Polly was voiced by Norma Macmillan, who is the mother of Alison Arngrim. Alison, as we all know, played the fabulously evil Nellie Oleson on Little House on the Prairie. If you have not read Alison's book, 'Confessions of a Prairie Bitch', you simply must. Melissa Gilbert, who of course played Laura, also has a fairly recent book out, called 'Prairie Tale: A Memoir'. It, also, is worth the read. She was engaged to Rob Lowe before he became VERY famous and has some extremely good old school gossip to share. Did I write about those two books? I meant to. The writing, it's a lot of work and I'm lazy; have I mentioned that?

Wow, that was a tangent. Anyway, speaking of mocking Lloyd* and exaggerating, he's off getting some stuff for his upcoming hunting trip. He's very excited about bringing home large quantities of lean, organic meat. I'd be thrilled too, only according to my calculations, the cost per pound is about $867. The bullets, the new pants, socks and boots, the special food, more giant coolers, tags and licenses, the gear for Weston, the gas, it adds up. But it's cheaper than fishing. Those beautiful big fat salmon I posted pictures of this summer? That penciled out to about $2372/lb. Lloyd doesn't care, though. He just says I should throw my pencil away. That's a good idea, because if we spend any more on that crap I'll need to replace it with an adding machine.

Well, that's it for now. I have to get ready for work. We're moving, you know. If you missed the post called 'Doom' that was up over the weekend and want to see it, email me at womanwithadeadcat@gmail.com and I'll send it to you. I thought it was only slightly questionable but my judgement's not that good, so I try to be extra careful.

*in case you were wondering, Lloyd thinks I am BRILLIANT and HILARIOUS when I tease him on here. Okay, fine, I'm exaggerating again. He mostly just doesn't care what anyone thinks, and that's good, too.

Anniversary

****updated to add this link to a publication that describes the Corps response****

So, ten years. That is a long time, and yet, not long at all. I was thinking about reposting some writing I did way back then, but I decided not to; it's not my best work. That would DEFINITELY be this piece on boogers, which garnered me much acclaim from my many readers. Especially my mother; she LOVED it, and you won't hear her say any different, now will you? I considered reworking my original ground zero essay but decided not to because it was true to me then and I didn't want to monkey with it. Besides, I don't even like reading it; it's a little too melodramatic. It's still there, somewhere, in the archives at Stories from Korea, if you want to see it. Instead, I decided to just start over from scratch and share some pictures.

Ten years ago I was working for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in Seattle. On that Tuesday morning, I was teaching a class on emergency construction. A few days later, I was standing on the West Side Highway, looking at the reeking, burning pile that used to be the World Trade Center. It was night, and the bright beams from the light plants shone through the rising, curling smoke. I will never, ever forget my first look at it. Surreal.

Gradually, though, the place became home-ish. It was just like you'd imagine a post-apocalypse city, with everything repurposed. The lower Manhattan Brooks Brothers store, for example, was now a morgue, while the Burger King was a medical clinic. The best restaurant in town was called the Green Tarp Restaurant, for the green tarp that covered the entrance, pictured below. Celebrities would come in and serve up the grub, which was catered by the fanciest chefs around. Seriously, it was good stuff. I gained at least fifteen pounds while I was there because of the free food on every corner and the McDonald's people that came around every afternoon with quarter pounders.

I was on a logistics team (I am MULTI-TALENTED, y'all!), and we worked out of the Corps' DTOS (Deployable Tactical Operations System) units. You can see one in one of the pictures. They are portable offices with satellite communications, and we had them set up on all four corners of the site for us, FEMA and FDNY. We had nice neighbors; there were rows and rows of tents and trailers set up for all kinds of organizations: search and rescue teams from all over the world, NYPD, EPA, FBI, Justice Department, ATF, utility companies, you name it, and they were there.

Anything you can think of that a regular city would have was there, in that tightly enclosed 16 acre site: offices, food, medical services, vets for the search dogs, places to sleep, masseuses, clothes, supplies of every kind, counselors, and all free and available for whomever had a need. It would have been a happy little commune if it hadn't been dreary beyond words, and reminds me of a book I recommended not too long ago, called 'A Paradise Built in Hell', by Rebecca Solnit. Everyone should read it; it will completely change your perspective on disaster response and human behavior.

You may be noticing that I'm not saying anything about loss, grief, terrorism, war, retaliation, or politics. All I can do is reflect on my own little piece of paradise in hell and hope that it never happens again, to anyone, anywhere.

photos courtesy U.S. Army Corps of Engineers

Circuitous

I feel like I need to write something; we've had a pretty eventful week or two, and there's a lot coming up, too. But I don't usually like to write just to report just the facts; I get cross with myself unless I actually have a point of some kind. Dumb, I suppose. I've noticed I never just post on facebook about just what's going on, either- I always have to have some smartass remark or I won't even bother. I feel like I have a million things I COULD write, and sort of want to, but I don't know if I have the energy for it. Plus, no one wants to read a bunch of dreary crap here; you can get that anywhere. I mean, the only reason to come here is for funny stories and the occasional rant, right? You can get your depressing garbage 24/7 on CNN. Or Fox, if you're not boycotting them. I am. Too bad, too, because while I despise their toxic right wing slant, they are consistently ahead of the pack on breaking news. That's probably what Rupert Murdoch got in exchange when he sold his soul to the devil. Up until pretty recently it was working out pretty well for him, too, yes?

Well, since I'm here, clicking away, I might as well make a report. I guess if you don't like it, you don't have to read it; it's a free country and all that.

Want to know something weird? I have had the preceding paragraphs written for DAYS, and all this blank white space has just been sitting here waiting. Waiting, waiting..... I just couldn't make myself spit it out. Sometimes, though, if you can't do something by barreling straight through, you can come at it from the side. I have to do that all the time at work; it's usually pretty successful, if annoyingly and unnecessarily circuitous.

So! We are going to the beach next week. It will be super fun. First, though, we have to stop by the cemetery for my mother's burial service, and my grandmother's. Also my grandmother's dog, but that's not quite so traumatic. They've been cremated, of course, so no need to get all creeped out. The relatives will be out in full force; feel free to get all creeped out! Since all three of the decedents will be buried at the same cemetery but in different spots, only Grandma and Tiger will be buried at that time. We'll stop back by on the way back for my mother's actual burial. I have to say, I wouldn't recommend this dragging out of the festivities. The next time I have a shopping bag filled with friends, relatives, pets, or any combination thereof, I am definitely getting rid of it as soon as possible.

Speaking of dead people, there is also some depressing business going on at my office with some co-workers. It's not my story to tell, but it has been quite distressing for the entire staff, and the response has been underwhelming at best. Hmmmm, I guess that is all I have to say about that.

There, look! I did it. I only left out a few things, like our recent visit to the ER. Everyone is fine now, not to worry. Everyone except me, that is. Weston weighs 68 pounds; I know this because the only time I put him down was to place him on the scale, so they could figure out how much to dose him for the excruciating and inexplicable neck pain he was experiencing. It's gone now, but I still haven't figured out how to dose myself for the excruciating lower back pain I will probably be experiencing for the next month.

See? Circuitous. But done.

Again with the gastropods

I swear to you, I am not trying to copy shitmykidsruined.com; lately it just seems that every time I turn around my kids have ruined some more shit. Right now there is a big pile of wet dirt on the front walk, the unattractive remains of a vinegar/baking soda/red kool-aid volcano on the porch, a web of fishing line strung around the living room, mud spattered on the front window, and a snail running wild in the kitchen. Currently, it is clinging to the corner where the cabinet meets the ceiling. I have no idea where it came from. I don't even WANT to know, because it probably has friends and a large extended family.

Truly, I have a million other things to write about, and some of them are even important. Well, okay, that's probably a lie. But you never know; don't count me out! I might surprise you yet with a deep thoughtful analysis of some serious, timely issue. Fine, another lie. So sue me. But do it quick, before the debt ceiling default because about 23 milliseconds after that my net worth will consist solely of gastropods, empty kool-aid packets and wine bottles. That'll learn you. Either way, I even get tired of myself if I post too much of the yuk, yuk, look what my crazy kids did now/I'm a bad mommy schtick. It's just that it's so, so easy: this stuff writes itself. And also boggles the mind. Look, here's a video! Just a short that chronicles one of the afternoon's approximately 43 googol similarly insane activities:

See what I mean? What's a girl to do, right? Sigh.

Obituary

After a long battle with lymphoma, Carol Ann McNeely died peacefully at home on September 18^th, 2010. Carol was born on March 15^th, 1938 and grew up on her family’s homestead farm in Rainier, Oregon. She attended Oregon State University and then worked in public service for a variety of agencies in Europe and the US, retiring from the Federal Aviation Administration's Renton Office. She began her public service career with the U.S. Army in Europe’s Judge Advocate Division in Heidelberg, West Germany in 1962. Later there were stops at General Service Administration in Auburn, Washington, and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers in Seattle. There were also brief stints at Boeing and Auburn Hospital.

She was an avid gardener and was always delighted to share her knowledge, some good compost or a few bulbs with her friends and neighbors. Her flowers regularly garner compliments from the neighbors and passersby.

One of Carol's passions, second (or perhaps not) only to her love of gardening was 'rooting' out and writing about her family history. Her accomplishments in this arena were impressive, and she spent several years painstakingly compiling a comprehensive history of her family, resulting in a 400 page book that details the Hackenberg family in Europe, their immigration to the U.S., the trip west across the Oregon Trail and their life on the homestead, which is still in the family. While she spent all her adult years in the Seattle area, the homestead farm was never far from her thoughts and she visited there with her ‘Washington’ family often.

Carol was an enthusiastic music lover and accordion player and friends and family were always prepared for an impromptu concert; sometimes they would have to sing, sometimes they got lucky. She was a country music fan and knew all the old tunes, to sing or to play.

Carol was an intrepid traveler in her early years, leaving Oregon State University and her family for a job in Germany for the U.S. Army. She visited much of Europe during this time, even touring the U.S.S.R. during the cold war, when not many Americans had been there. Her stories from this time were legendary, like when she turned the wrong way down a one-way street and found herself surrounded by about a thousand Spanish soldiers on horseback, coming down the street the proper way. In a parade. During some of these foreign travels, Carol became an early critic of the ‘Ugly American’ syndrome when she was frequently embarrassed by the behavior of her fellow tourists. Her favorite spots to visit, though, were Cannon Beach on the Oregon Coast and Vinegar Mountain, in Eastern Oregon.

She was a great baker and a bit of a health food nut. She won a prize for her sourdough rye bread, but tried to slip her kids ‘comfrey milkshakes’ consisting of comfrey, castor oil and wheat bran. She was interested in social issues and was always looking out for the underdog; she was always the first one to offer help to anyone who needed it.

Carol was devoted to her family and loved baking with her grandkids and teaching them garden tricks: the best way to kill a slug or how to propagate a rose. She was married to Cyrus ‘Mike’ on June 4^th, 1966 in church with same day receptions at the farm in Rainier, Oregon and at the family home in Renton. In lieu of flowers, remembrances may be made in her name to the Oregon Historical Society (http://www.ohs.org).

Dead

So, my mother is dead. You probably know that. You might even know how much it sucks. I didn't, not until about a week ago. The handy websites devoted to the 'grieving process' serenely assure me that I'm in shock right now, but that in a few weeks that will wear off, leaving me in almost unbearable pain. Then, they all advise, be sure not to self-medicate, as this will ultimately make it WORSE. HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA, MORONS! Oh, sorry: I am finding that this whole dead mother thing is really rubbing my nerves raw. EVERYTHING is annoying. Today, I hate fruit flies, the fake Duke Boys, and those multi-colored goldfish crackers, just to name a few.

Anyway, if you don't want to read the forthcoming Dead Mother Chronicles, you might want to avert your eyes for a while. It could get ugly around here.

Really, Pat Conroy?

I know, I'm the worst blogger EVER. It's so pathetic that Lauren with her newborn can churn out the posts while I sit here and molder like a mildewy pile of laundry. 'Course, she can't drive so I guess she doesn't have anything better to do, but still, it's sad... very, very sad. I do have plenty of good excuses: it's hard to be me, ya'all! The list of things that are suppressing my natural charm and optimistic outlook is long and epic, rendering me unable to blog, cook, clean.... Normally, my house and children would be spotless and I'd have a clever post every damn day. As it is, however, I just sit around drinking coffee or wine (depending on what the clock says; I only get confused in the hours between 6 and 8) and trying to bury my pesky consciousness in books. I'm not even kidding.

So, anywho, the other day I was all psyched when I saw 'South of Broad', Pat Conroy's latest novel, at the library. That should be good for some escapism, I thought. And his characters are always way more screwed up than me; that should be cheery! Man, what a disappointment! It's like he went to Stereotypes R Us and picked out a buggy (like that? It's my southern touch!) full of characters: arrogant white lawyer dude; plucky and smart black folks (two, please!); a couple of junior leaguers with a wild side; a coarse, rawboned mountain family with hearts of gold; and of course, the brilliant, damaged protagonist. In this book, his name is Leo King. In other, much better books, this guy's name is Ben Meacham, Tom Wingo or Will McLean. In this one, his name is.... hold on a minute, I can't remember, and I'm not even done with it yet. Oh yeah, Leo King, that's it.

He must have hired the actual writing out to someone who took a writing workshop from Danielle Steele, because the action and the dialogue is pretty much just jackhammered into your head without any hint of sublety whatsoever. It's so bad that if I didn't know better, I'd think it was Steele herself. I'd give you some examples but I can't bear to even type them. And here's the worst part so far: Leo and his shopworn collection of pals travel from Charleston to San Francisco to find one of their friends who is missing and presumed dying of A.I.D.S in the seedy part of town. They search and search, encountering all kinds of ham-handed ridiculousness, to no avail, until they meet a guy on the trolley trying to rob them. Turns out he's an ex-NFL player that they knew back in SC, fallen on hard times, and guess what? He knows where their friend is! Oh, happy day! Naturally, after they find their friend, they get this poor hapless clown into rehab and promise him a good job back home where he belongs.

Really, Pat Conroy? This is the best you can do? I don't think so. I don't know what's going on with you, but if you're tired of writing, for God's sake, do something else! As for me, I'm totally going to finish this book, that's how bad off I am. I have to go to bed now, but first thing in the morning, with my coffee. Or my wine, whichever.

BIG FAT LIES

Hmph. I was just sitting here, killing some time before I go to bed, minding my own beeswax, and I came across this link to a website called Typealyzer. You plug in your blog address and it claims to analyze your personality based on your writing. I have always thought that people totally give themselves away in their writing, even when they think they are being sneaky. This is what makes Facebook so dangerous. Well, one of the things, anyway; vodka and narcissism are also right up there at the top of the list.

Because of this belief, I thought I would get an accurate result when I put my blog in there, but all I got was a bunch of BIG FAT LIES. Here, you can read it for yourself. I got the same spiel from typealyzing both this blog and Stories from Korea:

ESFP- the performer. The entertaining and friendly type. They are especially attuned to pleasure and beauty and like to fill their surroundings with soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells. They live in the present moment and don't like to plan ahead- they are always at risk of exhausting themselves.

They enjoy work that makes them able to help others in a concrete and visible way. They tend to avoid conflicts and rarely initiate confrontations- qualities that can make it hard for them in management positions.

Come on! Almost every part of that is WRONG, WRONG, WRONG! Right? Then, they showed this little graphic that says that while writing, I use the 'feeling' rear part of my brain instead of the 'logical' frontal portion. What a crock, man. One only has to read a few posts to realize that my writing is completely, totally logical at all times. Like the turban shaped bicycle helmet! You can't get any more logical than that, people! Try it on your blog and tell me what you think.... I'm starting to get a little nervous that I'll never be a highly compensated CEO, or worse, that I'll swathe myself in brightly colored silks and go around smelling sweet. Ickola.

Dopey

So. I'm not quite sure where to start with this one. My mother has been hounding me FOREVER to go through some old junk I have at her house: letters, pictures and assorted detritus. I finally looked through it and was astounded at the letters from my freshman year of college. I must have been quite the little writer, because there are stacks of letters from tons of different people. The funny thing is that some of them I can barely remember knowing that well, like Dopey from the letter below. Also interesting to me is that I don't have contact with any of them and with a few exceptions, I have no idea how or where any of them ended up.

I chose the Dopey letter to post for its sheer entertainment value, more than for any deep insights. It does have its intriguing points, some of which I might dive into sometime, just for funsies. Maybe I'll get all introspective and boring on here, what do you think? I can write long and badly punctuated missives on all my innermost thoughts and feelings, doesn't that sound AWESOME?

I have fought off the urge to make a bunch of preemptive disclaimers in my own defense, like how I am not now, nor have I ever been,either a snob or a pot smoker. Oops, sorry! Couldn't help it. And also, it's sort of a lie. I was possibly a snob for a short time. But believe me when I say I have some other letters from Dopey that make him sound even WORSE. Like, so bad that I would have felt guilty posting them even though no one could possibly have any idea who this person is. Names have been changed to protect the complacent.

Dear Anna,

Now that Sneezy and his printer have moved out I have to hand write my letters. What a drag. Oh well, at least I have my own room now.

I did it: I smoked pot every day last quarter and got 4.0's in all my classes. Now I'm giving my body a much-needed rest from drugs. I'll abstain at least until my birthday (about a week) but even after that I won't smoke as much as last quarter- when you get high all the time your tolerance builds up and it costs too much to stay high.

Sleepy's life is progressing at its normal pace of misfortune: he is just one of those guys that lives a fast and free life. It's a choice he makes and every once in a while he gets caught and has to deal with the consequences. It's hard to decide if he lives an enviable life or not. Sure he has a lot of free time, money and fun; but let's see where he is in ten or twenty years.

It's too bad about your decision to go to WSU. What made you make that decision? Every time you go there or come back here you will have to make that long drive through desolate desert or over snow clad mountain passes. You will live in a depressing and small agricultural town with few distractions capable of entertaining your sophisticated mind. You really deserve better than WSU.

That's all for now.

Signed, Dopey

I really, really wish I knew what happened to Sleepy.