Music holds the answers

Stolen from Smacky, who stole it from someone else...

[Open your favorite computerized music player, set it to shuffle, and then ask each of these questions.]

What do you think of me, iPod?
"I Wanna Be Sedated," The Ramones (How does one sedate an iPod?)

Will I have a happy life?
"We're Dancing With Wags the Dog," The Wiggles (Dancing, dogs, The Wiggles... I guess that constitutes a happy life, maybe...)

What do my friends really think of me?
"Dig My Grave," They Might Be Giants (It's all because I wouldn't buy Carrie a blanket, right?)

Do people secretly lust after me?
"TNT for the Brain," Enigma (Mindjob?)

How can I make myself happy?
"Little Plastic Castle," Ani DiFranco (So I should buy a goldfish?)

What should I do with my life?
"Never Let You Go," Third Eye Blind (Rut ro ... looks like Paul's stuck with a fish-owning mindjob dancing to The Wiggles.)

Why must life be so full of pain?
"Carbon Monoxide," Cake (Actually, I thought that was a pretty painless way to go...)

How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
"Post Office, Nice Postmaster (Pelly)," Animal Crossing (At least it's not that crabby old hag Phyllis, amirite?)

Will I ever have children?
"Seven Years," Norah Jones (I'll be 32. Let me pencil in "Get Pregnant" on my 2012 calendar.)

Will I die happy?
"No Dope, No Drugs," Mr. T (I won't OD? Maybe I WILL go the carbon monoxide route!)

Can you give me some advice?
"Hold On," Good Charlotte (As in "Hold on, I'll get back to you on that?")

What do you think happiness is?
"Parallel Universe," Red Hot Chili Peppers (Max Tegmark, Scientific American, May 2003)

What's my favorite fetish?
"Little Abigail and the Beautiful Pony," Shel Silverstein (Ew... dirty dirty dirty.)

Yes, yes ... eclectic taste in music. Even got a CD by that Jewish reggae dude. Now it's your turn.

Cold, hard cash

Carrie thinks it's too cold in Casa Simone. (We keep it at 66F in here, thankyouverymuch.) But it's all good: The utility bill I received today was $100 less than normal. What should we do with the extra cash?

No, I won't use it to buy a blanket for Carrie.

Let the bidding wars begin

Don't really know how I feel about this one ...

Memphis Circuit Court Judge D'Army Bailey is auctioning off the bathtub in which James Earl Ray stood when he shot Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. It's Bailey's third time listing the tub on eBay, and the auction is set to end Thursday, March 30, at 3:01 p.m. CST.

Something about the whole deal seems off to me. I mean, I've bought lots of things on eBay: lipstick, a clucking Cadbury bunny, more jewelry than I'd like to admit. But I have my limit, and that includes accessories used in the murder of historical figures.

Also, besides the 10% of proceeds being donated to Big Brothers/Big Sisters, where's the money going?

I don't make a big fuss over local politics — or politics in general, for that matter — because of my job. But if you want to learn more about D'Army Bailey, you can check out his Circuit Court profile here and his IMDB movie listing here.

And the tub isn't the only Memphis artifact headed for eBay. Elvis Presley's former home hits the auction block April 14-May 14. And my guess is that the house has much better karma than the tub. :)

Do I hear one dolla?

You put your left foot in, you take your left foot out...

I got pretty stressed out at work this afternoon ... so I came home in a royal blue funk (that's somewhere between an aqua funk and a navy funk), sat on the couch, and tried to come up with a non-Klonopin way of relaxing. The solution: yoga.

I haven't done yoga in about a year, ever since I stopped going to the free yoga classes paid for by the company. I miss my yogini, but at the time, I felt the more advanced students were being held back by my complete inability to balance on one foot while holding the other one backwards over my head.

I still have a couple of DVDs and my yoga mat at home, so Paul hooked up a small TV in a sparsely furnished room and we were off to the races.

For ten whole minutes, we tripped over our feet — and each other — attempting to shift between Adho Mukha Svanasana (Downward-Facing Dog) and Virabhadrasana II (Warrior II). I suck at Downward-Facing Dog but I'm very steady in Warrior II. My yogini told me this is because I have exceptionally open hips. Go ahead and laugh. My mother did.

After ten minutes, Paul and I just kind of sat there in Sweaty Lounging Slacker pose. We're both quite good at it after years of practice. Tomorrow, we'll attempt at least 12 minutes of yoga, and before you know it, Paul will be able to twist his six-foot-five-inch frame into a rather sizable knot. I can't wait.

Cue up Simon & Garfunkel's "Homeward Bound"

I know I'm going to catch hell for this picture. ::grins::

Carrie went home today. How could a week go by so fast?! There's something that sucks about driving home alone that makes me kind of queasy. Last year, Jeremy met me at the terminal when Carrie left so I wouldn't have to cry alone. This year, it was just me. I got lost on the way to the airport and on the way home. How's that for "upset to the point of oblivion"?

I messaged Jeremy on the way home. "Why is it so hard?" I asked him. "Because for the past week, you've remembered what it's like to have her around, to have a friendship that's not emotionally trying. And now it's gone again," he said. I gritted my teeth at the little jab in his words — he must have read my post the other night — and admitted he was right. Carrie and I can say the same thing at the same time. She can finish my sentences and laugh at my off-the-wall jokes. And for a week, it was like she'd never moved away.

Also, she's forgiven Jeremy for dumping her at prom eight years ago ... which is a good thing, since they spent most of the past week together and had to share a bathroom at my house. (It takes a patient woman to live with me and Paul ... and whatever random houseguests drop by.)

This week, wild woman drank half a shot of rum and vodka (!), learned how to make hemp necklaces, bought a jar of hot chocolate and new sunglasses, and ate more than any 90-pound woman should be able to hold in her body. And she found out that grape Pez taste like ass.

It sucks that now I'm back to best-friend-lesssness, but at least we're always on AIM and the phone. And I'll head down to Jacksonhell — err, Jacksonville — in the next few months to bother her and hang out on the beach. Or maybe I can just force her to fly back to Memphis to pick up the cell phone charger and R2D2 Pez dispenser she left behind. If I were nice, I'd just FedEx them back to her ... but that's no fun, now is it?

Painting the town blue and gray

<-- Those are the Memphis Tigers. We shut out Bradley last night 80-64 to advance to the Elite Eight. And we're going to kick some butts there, too. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, UCLA. :-)

Actually, the Memphis-Bradley matchup was probably the least interesting game I watched last night. We got ahead, stayed ahead, and sealed the deal with a 14-point win. It's the other games (LSU/Duke, Texas/WVU, and UCLA/Gonzaga) that had some amazing moments. In fact, if you didn't catch the last 10 minutes or so of the UCLA/Gonzaga game, find the replay online or on ESPN. It's just ... wow.

Poor Jeremy ... I TiVoed Lost for him two nights ago and haven't let him watch it so that I can catch the games. Other Lost fans: Is that cruel and unusual punishment??

"I can not save you; I can't even save myself."

I'm sitting in a movie theater parking lot a mile from home, posting to my blog. I'm not sure how I ended up here ... I remember being here on Christmas Day, angry at hubby for some minor infraction of which I couldn't let go. I think I'm here because sitting outside a movie theater at night does not arouse suspiscion. Plenty of people are inside; theoretically, I could be waiting for any of them.

I'm cold. Really Fucking Cold. It's 40 degrees, and I'm in a t-shirt. I was angry and forgot to grab a jacket. Why can't I breathe normally?

The other day, I received a private message from someone who witnessed The Summer From Hell. His broken wing appears to be mended. He says he's spiritual; he has a daughter. I don't think he remembers all the drama -- I apologized for flipping out and he asked what I was talking about. He's moved far away from New York ... from everything, I guess.

I think I've unnecessarily placed too much blame on him. It's not his fault I became so emotionally vested. It's not his fault I tried to fix him. Lord, I hope he -- we -- are over that bridge.

Now it's Jeremy. He can't help where he ended up; nobody can turn back time. Hell, how often have I wished for that power? He lets his long-distance girlfriend rule his life and his schedule. I get angry and try not to let it show. Tonight, it seeped out. I was snippy... and I turned the music up way too loud in the car. He put on his headphones, so I turned the music up louder. He tells me to be angry if I'm angry, so why didn't he endure me just once -- just tonight, when I needed that acknowledgement?

I went home and screamed at Paul. I was too kind to pile any more on Jer, since his needy Internet girlfriend was (is) having a crisis. I'd be more understanding (Shit, should I be? Have I called this all wrong?), but he won't admit that he's only her shoulder. I don't even know her, but I know what's going on. I've been on both sides of that equation.

Paul yelled back, told me that I shouldn't help him anymore. But I've become my mother in that regard, and I'm proud of it. Yes, I've had it blow up in my face. But I live by the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would HAVE them do unto you... Not necessarily as they actually do unto you.

Carrie's been so patient. And stable. We still click, and it's still so special to me that's she's around.

I've forgiven Jeremy ("So many years under bridges with dirty water") for leaving when I needed him. But I swear I won't leave him while he needs that support. I won't hurt him the way he hurt me.

I should drive home. Maybe I'll smile. Maybe I'll do something obnoxiously fun because I feel better. I'll make a mug of tea because I'm cold and my hurt wrist is painfully stiff. (Also, I'm thumb-disabled: I slammed one in the hinge of the bathroom door; I burned the other in the oven while trying to be domestic.)

I don't know why I give, be, am, do anything. Maybe it tickles some deep nerve that never forgave my birth parents for giving me up (or giving up on me?). I give but cannot take. It frustrates Paul.

::sighs:: Time to go home. It's been 45 minutes. Forgive typos due to mental blocks and SideKick keyboard. <3

-- kate@katesink.com via the SideKick --
"The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas." -- Linus Pauling

Fred told her friends about us

Every time I see Carrie, it rains.

Over the July 4th weekend, I drove to Jacksonville to visit her. (Remember? I had Paul, Jeremy, and The Bitch in tow.) It started raining the day we got there; it stopped raining the day we left.

Likewise, it's been raining since she arrived in Memphis Saturday night. (It looks like it might clear up today – knock on wood.)

On the way home from Starbucks last night, Carrie and I drove past Fred walking down my street in the rain. I'd just bought new cat food for her (no more Science Diet, thanks), and I wanted to coax her inside to try it out.

I stood in the middle of the street and called for Fred ... and I was surprised when two cats came running. Paul let me bring both inside — he had no choice, really — and Carrie popped open a can of Fancy Feast for each. Just as I surmised, it didn't take long for Paul to fall in love with the little furballs. He's told me they can come inside as long as they don't stay the night.

So now I've got two cute kitty-girlies: Fred and Bob. Yay, Fred and Bob! :)

P.S. Speaking of cats, check out Stuff On My Cat, where users submit photos of ... stuff on their cat. You can browse the archives by category, e.g. "Housewares On My Cat," "Business On My Cat," and "Nature On My Cat."

Truth in advertising

Why buy Crispix when you can buy...

I'll Buck your Star anytime!

Carrie, Jeremy, Paul and I killed some time at Starbucks tonight.

Carrie said she wants to get a rise out of Jeremy. We'll see where it
goes from here.
--katesink

Just what are YOU looking at?

Women: Are men looking at your eyes instead of your chest? Men: Do you want to advertise your wife's magnificent rack so they don't notice her hideous face?

If so, drop everything you're doing and buy one of Enlighted's light-up bras. For a mere $500, you can advertise your assets with swirling wires or blinking lights...

...or you could take a more direct approach:

Some people don't talk no good

Book recommendations: Anguished English and More Anguished English by Richard Lederer.

I've been dining alone while Paul's out of town, so More Anguished English entertained me over turkey and dressing at the restaurant last night. I tried my best to stifle my giggles ... but I still got a few stares from the people sitting near me.

Lederer got his info from real-life Grammar Police (e.g. court reporters, folks who read college admissions essays, etc.). That the stories are true makes them even funnier — for editors and non-editors alike.

Also, the books serve as proof that no matter how many English rules I break when blogging, my writing doesn't suck too bad in the grand scheme of things. So there.

Here's my favorite entry so far, an essay written by a New Zealand pupil:

Birds and Beasts

The bird I am going to write about is the Owl. The owl cannot see at all in the day and is blind as a bat at night. I do not know much about the owl so I will go on to the Beast which I am going to choose.

It is the Cow. The Cow is a mammal and it is tame. It has six sides: right, left, fore, back, upper, and below. At the back it has a tail in which is hanging a bush. With this it sends the flies away so they do not fall in the milk. The head is for the purpose of growing horns and so the mouth can be somewhere. They are to butt with. The mouth is to moo with.

Under the cow hangs the milk. It is arranged for milking. When the people milk the cow the milk comes and there is never any end to the supply. How the cow does it I have not learned but it makes more and more.

The man cow is called the ox. It is not a mammal. The cow does not eat much but what it eats it eats twice, so it gets enough. When it is hungry it moos and when it doesn't say anything it is because its insides is full of grass.

The cow has a fine sense of smell and you can smell it far away. That is the reason for the fresh air in the country.

Teachers, your near-infinite patience amazes me. :)

Talk about your family heirloom

I came across an unusual name when I was editing yesterday.

I mean, I'm used to seeing some weird stuff — for example, you wouldn't believe the number of guys whose names are pronounced (I assume) "de-mahn," but are spelled "Demon."
If I ever meet a Demon in real life, I'm going to ask him what his parents were thinking.

But, in my opinion, the name I came across yesterday took the cake. It was downright excessive. Obviously, I can't print it here, but it was "Mr. So-and-So IX."

The ninth?? This name has been passed down the line for nine generations, and nobody's sick of it yet? How many years ago was that — at least a couple hundred, right?

I can't imagine the hilarity that ensues at family reunions.

Everybody say hi to Fred ...

Monstee said: "We am going to tell that you letting cat into house!"

Yeah, okay, it happened. But not on purpose — I swear. When I walked down the driveway to pick up the mail after getting home from work today, Fred came bounding down the street, into the garage and ...

... into the house.

At this point, I found out that:

(1.) Fred hates Science Diet. (So much for Paul's theory that anything with Science in its name is, by nature, a superior product.)

(2.) Fred loves phone cords, comfy piles of clothes, my teddy bear, and gnawing on my fingers.

(3.) Fred is a Frederica. Kind of funny, actually, because Frederica is Germanic for "peaceful ruler," and within five minutes, it was clear that this was her house and that my duty was to serve as tour guide and impromptu scratching post. (No matter that I was wearing my favorite jeans, either.)

Anyway, what started out as "Ha ha, a cat followed me into the house and my hubby doesn't know about it," soon turned into "Oh crap, a cat followed me into the house and I can't get rid of her."

I broke down and called Paul. "Um, sweetie, we have a situation," I said. "Fred is laying in your duffel bag. She won't leave." To his credit, he didn't freak out. He told let her follow me outside, at which point I could run into the house and shut the door. I'd already tried that. It didn't work.

Finally, I managed to lure her outside with a pouch of Whisker Lickins, then took the opportunity to press the garage door button. Now our garage door sounds something like a cross between a monster truck and a Yeti. So predictably, as soon as she heard it, she started running ...

... which tripped the sensor, sending the garage door back up, leaving me at Square One. So I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I put the garage door up a few inches so she could come and go as she pleases.

I haven't sneezed once. Yet. (So there, Paul.)

Next choice from Monstee's Home Alone Suggestion Guide: yoga. Maybe even adult yoga.

But I'll wait until Carrie gets here Saturday to make an appointment at the local dairy, and I'm quite sure she'd be much better suited for butcher-flirting, too.

And thus we discover I'm not well-suited for the single life

Paul left at 4 a.m. for Orlando. It's always a rough ride with him gone. I tend to hole up in the house after work, watching cartoons and eating expired pasta. I've been told I need to take better care of myself when he's gone. Assuming that involves activities outside my front door, where should I go and what should I do?

The grand ol' party outside my door

Two blocks from the office, 2,000 Republicans from 26 states have converged to discuss politics and presidential nominees. For the next four days, GOPpers will swarm to hear the likes of Sens. John McCain and Trent Lott, Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert, and the governors of four states.

And besides the politirati, The Peabody has been overrun by people from the NYT, Bloomberg, the Washington Post, Newsweek and — of course — FOX.

Hardball's Chris Matthews, who'll be broadcasting live from the conference this weekend, has been tapped as Honorary Duckmaster. See, down here, we pay someone big bucks to lead a bunch of ducks onto an elevator and down a red-carpet procession, where they climb into a fountain and swim all day. (Okay, okay ... the truth is that the March of the Ducks is quite cute, and I highly recommend checking out the little quacks if you're in the area.)

[Edit for clarification: "Little quacks" refers to the ducks, not the Republicans. Thanks.]

I know the SRLC is great for the Memphis economy. But the sum of 2,000 Republicans, police motorcades, on-site security, reporters, camera crews, tourists AND ducks means one huge clusterfuck for commuters...

... and I'm headed out the office door.

Yippee.

Huh?

The office has hired a contractor to work on the ventilation around the office. Finally, I'll have functional air conditioning in The Closet!

Some work is also going into the bathroom across the hall because the intake vent (the thing that sucks up all the bathroom stinkiness) was assembled backwards by the last contractor. That means the vent has been blowing instead of sucking ...

... which means that all the pleasant (ahem!) bathroom odors have been blowing right out the doorway and into my office three feet away.

Today, one of the contractors was walking by a coworker's desk, and my coworker said, "I heard the bathroom vent was put on backwards." The contractor replied, "Ma'am, that's nothing. At this restaurant I was doing some work at a while back, the cook was cooking the beans backwards!"

... Uh ...

What the hell does that mean?

Here kitty, kitty...

Reason to pout: Paul won't let me have a cat.

The intellectual part of my brain says, "Hey Kate, you're insanely allergic to cats, and it's so nice of your uber-smart husband to look out for your health like that!"

Meanwhile, the emotional part of my brain throws a temper tantrum that would put a four-year-old to shame: "If you don't buy me a cat, I'll hold my breath until I die!" (See Shel Silverstein's "Little Abigail and the Beautiful Pony" for more information.)

But it seems that my problems are solved now, as Paul and I have come to an agreement: We will feed the fuzzy black-and-white stray cat that wanders through our back yard almost every morning.

To cement the deal, I've named the stray "Fred," and from this day forward, I declare that Fred is a part of the family, even if he's not allowed to come in the house ... Yet. I'm fairly certain that as Paul and Fred become better friends, Paul won't be so opposed to letting Fred stay over once in a while.

Last night, I asked Paul to pick up some Fred-type food. He came home with a small bag of premium Science Diet.

"You went all out, didn't you?" I asked him, eyeing the tiny $10 bag.

"Well, my choices were Science Diet, Purina and Eukanuba ... and this has SCIENCE in the name!"

Lordy. I'm not sure Fred knows what he's getting himself into.

It's HER Big Break

Meet Johanna.

Johanna has a national bestselling book titled "The Next Big Thing." This is incredibly annoying because Johanna is only 27 years old and ... oops, there I go comparing myself to other people again.

Anyway, Johanna has a new book coming out tomorrow titled "Your Big Break," and you should buy it for no other reason than she's an awesome writer, a really down-to-earth chick, a fellow blogger, and a real-life friend of mine.

Locals: She's signing books Wednesday at 6 p.m. at Davis Kidd, 387 Perkins Ext., and Saturday at 2 p.m. at Barnes & Noble - Cordova, 2774 N. Germantown Parkway.

And if you're too far away to get to the signing, check out this post on her blog: Redrawing the map. Had me giggling a little too loudly at my desk (one of the few times I'm glad I'm hidden away in The Closet).

So today, my boss was at a conference and another coworker was off due to a family emergency. I had a temp come in and help some, so I guess I wasn't doing the work of three women, but I'm fairly certain I was doing the work of at least two. I'm tuckered out!

Overall, things went really well (except for having to fix the damn date: "What do you mean tomorrow's not Wednesday?"), but I made it through without panicking, stressing, crying, or bitching. I'm very proud of myself, and will most likely reward myself with a non-diet Coke at dinner! ^_^

Carrie comes to town in two weeks, and I can't tell you how badly I need the vacation. Maybe I need to put nose to grindstone, write the Great American Novel a la Johanna, and then make good use of the resulting huge wads of cash to take a permanent vacation north of the border.

And I worry I'll end up just like him...

This afternoon, I saw one of my old bosses from my internship days. He looked haggared and tired, like a ghost of the guy I used to know. It was eerie, as if during some point in the last five years, something had sucked the life out of him, leaving him pale and gaunt and worn down.

And, you know, it worries me a bit. When I mentioned how work was kicking my butt, I meant it in a mental, emotional sense. But now I'm afraid that I'm going to end up like him (like most of them): lonely and frustrated, living for my work ... and not realizing I'm becoming tired and old before my time.

Many of those editors were wonderful to me; they built me up and helped me hone my abilities. But their myriad eccentricities have turned them into caricatures in my mind, the epitome of what I don't want to become. Am I destined to end up like that?

Space-time, screensavers, and scarabs

Meet my latest distributed computing attachment: Einstein@Home. Yes, Virginia, it is like the much-publicized SETI@Home ... but without all the aliens.

Now, I don't know who's an armchair physicist and who's still a smidge confused about that whole "gravity thing," but here's the nut graf:

There's a theory that gravitational waves (read: ripples in space-time) are set off by big cosmic events, but nobody's detected them yet. So via DC, researchers are studying spinning pulsars for signs of gravitational waves.

... And if that doesn't mean a thing to you, look at the nifty screensaver that comes with it. Isn't that pretty? ::grins::

In other news, while I was on the hunt for news-related puns today (who signed me up for that?), I came across a list of bugs with interesting scientific names. I looked a few of these up on other sites and confirmed they were real. Scroll down to "'Strange' Names" for the eyebrow-raisers, like the scarab named Enema Pan, and the beetles named Ytu Brutus and Colon Rectum.

I love of scientists with a sense of humor. That's why I married one.

You know it's true...

Why debate living wage issues today when I can post something I know we all agree on...


Oh, come on. You know it's true. ::grins::