it's always jokey time

Bent Objects. Genius.

Here's a seasonable bad joke I made up:

How do residents of Panama greet each other this time of year? (Click here to find out!)

Merry Christhmus!

. . .

skijor

Skijor is a weird word that is Alaskans pronounce not, as I imagined, "ski-yer", but phonetically, "ski-jur." So that's weird. And the gear's weird too. There are straps that go this way and that way around me, and that way and this way around Lulu. And then, in another world where Lulu doesn't don't bop back and forth like a pinball, and I have skis, she could pull me on my skis. But that's contrary to fact, and instead we have a grand old time: she bopping about, and I, b/c of the construction of the harness, not getting my arm yanked off. Many thanks to the Arctic Outpost for its contribution to my wellbeing.

Here's a picture of skijoring I found on the tubes:



Maybe someday when Lulu and I get more coordinated, we'll try this out.

...

hard core

It was zero degrees in North Platte this morning and we have about 6 inches of snow now. However, a local told me that the city council does not budget for plowing any less than a foot o' snow. This means that the streets become sheets of snow, and then, after a thaw and refreeze, ice. But the Platters don't care. They and their SUVs are too tough to care about that. Too tough.

Lulu and I have been fighting the great walking wars of 2007. She pulls, I pull back, my joints ache. But now I have the Gentle Leader (tm) on my side. The Gentle Leader and I will win this thing. We will win a yank-free doggy. We will! Otherwise I will hire someone else to walk her.

Xmas and JEC approach. JEC will be my first visitor since September, I think, and high time.

. . .

and if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out

Without having studied that phrase at all, I have always, when I have heard it, wondered for about three seconds whether it means --if your eye sees stuff that offends you, pluck it out, or if it's the eye itself that's offensive. Maybe a scratched cornea or something. Or a twitch. Either way, it seems pretty extreme.

Whatever its meaning, it is a recurring theme in my thoughts over the past few weeks. I got a twitch right before my first trial (don't ask) and mine eye has been offended by the despicable combination of two often-terrible-on-their-own stylistic motifs: country and christmas. People, it's country christmas out here and I am constantly fighting the urge to vomit.

In other news--my formerly generous anonymous internet provider needs to get "linksys" fixed. I am writing this from a small purple but comfortable NP coffee cafe with the forgettable name of Winfield's. Anyway--that's why no posts. Although work hasn't been very worky in the past couple weeks, it's hard to feel settled enough there to reflect enough to write something about something.

Here's the Lulu news (I spend more time with her than anybody, so she's a recurring topic. hope it doesn't bore anybody too much): she loves the snow. She bounds about and dips her face in it a lot. She gets snow all over her face and then licks it off her nose, so it's the one spot w/o snow. The snow melts between her toes (yet more about her toes, I know) and then turns to ice, which after about 20 minutes becomes uncomfortable. This is a problem I never anticipated. However, 20 minutes is about the extent of my desire to romp around in the snow anyway, so it works out ok. She and I have been working on some new tricks. She can now wave goodbye, and will roll over every once in a while.

There are people singing along with a bad rock'n'roll version of Santa Claus is Comin' to Town here in Winfield's. It's time to go.

. . .

in which I am wrong

Oh how wrong I can be. Today was a doozy of wrongness. I was wrong about the due date of my student loan payment. I was wrong to think that the New York State Department of Money wouldn't bother to audit a person whose 2006 income totaled approximately $5000. I was wrong to think that if they did, I would not somehow owe them $230. But the real kicker was really when I found out that, contrary to my wrong teen beliefs, algebra really is useful in later life. Turns out that if you want to know how many 41 cent stamps and how many 17 cent stamps you can buy using a $225 check without any cents left over, algebra's your friend. But me and the post office guy, we managed with guess and check. Amazingly, we got it to work out evenly. But it would have been faster w/ algebra, no doubt.

. . .

one sixth of 2007

My gallery is taking a much needed break. But that doesn't mean that you and I can't like us some pictures. Here are (parts of) October and November, 2007.

My across-the-street neighbor, an estimated octogenarian retired railroad man, Dale, gave me this dahlia from his beautiful, too-tropical-for-this-climate-so-he-has-to-dig-up-the-bulbs-every-fall garden.


Lulu at SWT's.



SWT, followed by HDL & me, at 9 Mile Prairie, outside of Lincoln.


HDL looking for the bee-striped fly.





Sunrise, sunset. O, how the little babies grow up.



My grandmother's measuring spoons. The plastic is so old they've started to fall apart. Now they are for admiring.


My not-entirely-successful papier-mache bowls.



SWT's very successful and, to me, dearly beloved paint can painting.




A typical sight at chez PDDD. She likes it under the coffee table.


Men in Hats.


RLY getting ready for the fete of the year, the EG-SP nuptials.


TJC ready to go.


The view from the fete.


Some Fs and an R, at said fete.


The pet cemetery in the alley next to my house. I believe Sniffles and Buddy were hamsters (or guinea pigs).






People have these in their yards here in the Platter. If only it were hooked up to some energy-producing machine or well or something.


A few more projects. The first is a scarf TtF and I began last winter. It's not clear what its future is: another skein? or a cast-off?



another project.
My new flag, care of CMcCMcS


A house-warming rubber plant, from the inside. I believe the stripes come from the window screen.


Another birthday present, from JAMcS. You can't see them from here, but sticking in it are lots of flower-shaped pins marking my past.


Yet another new project: a recycled t-shirt rug. I taught myself to crochet for this. It is much easier than knitting.


Morning in the kitchen.


A much-needed November! Party! at the House! of! Lounge!

SWT & friends:


HDL & SWT preparing the party mix.


Me & Tiny Dabbers.


J&J.

Good times.

. . .

in which I use a thesaurus and the series of tubes

DMB posed me the following: "what is the word for people who live in north platt [sic.]?"

I had no idea. So I asked my colleagues, both of whom were born in NP, attended high school here, and are around 50 years old. One has lived here pretty much her whole life, the other moved down the road to Ogallala for a while and is looking to move back. Neither of them had any idea either. The best guess was "Flat Rockers?" Apparently Flat Rock is a nickname for NP, for reasons unknown. (The mystery deepens. Platte, I believe, is french for flat, but the rock part remains obscure.) Conversation on this topic led us to NP's other nickname, which is, of course, Little Chicago. My colleagues couldn't enlighten me regarding the provenance of that moniker either, but Wikipedia could: "During the 1930s, high crime rates and corruption caused North Platte to be infamously known as 'Little Chicago." This is ludicrous. Of course, that leaves "Little Chicagoans" as an option, but no one would ever know that it referred to North Platters (as I choose to call them, and as the receptionist at the North Platte Convention and Visitor's Bureau reluctantly suggested). The last alternative is just to refer to them all as the afore-blogged Bulldawgs. This cognomen, like "Little Chicagoans", does not obviously identify the denizens, but it at least retains some of the local flavor.

In other NP news, NP has graced the lyrics of at least two songs. Here are the lyrics to one, Superslab Showdown, by C.W. McCall, complete with interpretation. And here are the lyrics to another, A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left (originally called to my attention by HDL).

Yesterday, my trusty sidekick, Lulu, and I took a beautiful drive through midwestern Nebraska. I found the first few towns quaint (in an entirely un-Annapolis way) though smelly. Later I discovered that my trusty sidekick had barfed on the backseat. So they are probably merely quaint. Anyhow, I do have photos to show for it, but it's hard to post them w/o internet access at home. Maybe next weekend. At that point I will give more detail on our trip.

This was our route:


View Larger Map

I can't speak highly enough the beauty of the Nebraska sandhills. If you don't take the opportunity to visit me while I'm here, you perusers of the series of tubes, you will have forgone a wonderful, and uncommon, opportunity.

bonne soir,

. . .

the series of tubes has been rerouted

I don't have the series of tubes at my house right now. I don't know when I will again. This means less blog. It also means that my primary source of reference material is gone-o. I have many questions (e.g. What to do w/ leftover salad? hmm) that I like to pose to the tubes on the fly. I rarely remember the questions when I get to work, and besides, I'm supposed to work at work. So no fly answers to my fly questions (e.g. What is a molly bolt?). I just have to hope that someone in the neighborhood decides to give me some more free tubes for xmas, I guess.

. . .

counting crowds

From an AP snippet quoted in the Omaha World Herald: "Journalists estimated there were about 20,000 protesters, but pro-Chávez lawmakers said there were far fewer." I've always wondered how people estimate crowds. Sentences like the one I've just quoted seem pretty common in newspaper articles involving crowds, and particularly about protest crowds, since, of course, the number of people attending is itself a political statement. A little web research reveals there's really no good way to estimate them. There are various methods, but none without significant detractors, or at least significant margins of error (e.g., 20%). The major problem seems to be density--there's no way to evaluate density accurately in all parts of the crowd (unless they're seated in an auditorium or stadium or similar arena). This article from the Seattle Times outlines the problem pretty well.

. . .

doo doo dooby doo good thing

As many of you know, by winning National Public Radio's game show, Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, you can get eminent voice Carl Kasell on your answering machine. Here are some of the ones he's done. (You have to play them on Realplayer, I think.) A lot of them are boring/stupid/probably annoying to listen to more than once. I am trying to think of what a good one would be. Maybe just having him say "Hi, this is Anne! please leave a message." or something simple.

Also, here's this weird coffee beer. As MH has pointed out, it might be hard to know when to drink it.



. . .

mountains levelled

(This is mostly an excuse to use the webdings font.)
Mountain #1: the recycling in my laundry room. a
Mountain #2: thank you notes. a
Mountain #3: dirty dishes. a
Mountain #4: laundry. l
Mountain #5: the dining room table.a (mostly)

I'm slowly spanking this place into shape. My birthday provided a lot of inspiration, actually. Among the wondrous bounty I received are a painting, two framed photographs, and a big map plus I bought myself a birthday painting too. They need hanging, and it seems shameful to hang them in the box of clutter that is my house. I'm really truly attempting to clear out some of that silly detritus (a nod to MVA and the faraway days at 7 College Ave.) that I've been hauling and storing for years and years. I'll never be a minimalist, but I can try to avoid being trashist too. I'm too tired to think of what kind of ist that leaves me. Maybe a goodist?

. . .

cherry

I made my first appearance ever "in front" of an Article 3* Judge today, this very day. For family reasons, my colleague was unexpectedly out of the office this morning, and, well, he had a hearing at 11:30 to terminate our client's grandparents' guardianship of her child. Attorney #23665 to the rescue! I appeared by telephone (hence the quotation marks around "in front") and sounded like the utter newbie I am, but I didn't screw it up and our client has regained custody of her child. (It would have been hard to screw it up--the other side agreed and did most of the talking.)

*An Article 3 judge is one provided for in Article 3 of the Constitution. Administrative law judges, such at those that adjudicate social security hearings, are not Article 3 judges. They are part of the executive branch, and besides, they have nowhere near the power and prestige, and they wear suits instead of robes (at least the one I've seen did).

. . .

make this recipe as soon as you possibly can

No joke. You got to do it while there are still sugar pumpkins in the grocery stores (they're much smaller than the carving kind).

It's called Kaddo Bourani, it's Afghani, they serve it at my favorite restaurant in Boston, Helmand, and here's the recipe. The dish's got a pumpkin wedge base, with a cold mint-garlic yogurt sauce and a meat sauce. If you don't eat meat, make it with TVP. I've tried it both ways, and while the meat version is better, the TVP version is still amazing. You might add a little more oil, since the meat contributes part of the fat. The pumpkin prep takes quite a while, but it is really truly worth it. You could probably cut down on the sugar in the pumpkin a little, and I didn't happen to have a tomato when I made the TVP sauce the second time, so I used a red pepper and it was still delicious. I also had coriander seeds instead of ground coriander, so I ground some up with my mortar and pestle. I highly recommend doing this, if you have the seeds and M&P. It just takes a few seconds to grind and it smells heavenly. Oh, and I used olive oil and grapeseed oil instead of corn oil and that was fine too. I think the next time I make it I'm going to bake the pumpkins a little first so that they're easier to peel. And then freeze it so I can have it in the coming winter deeps.

Let me know if you make it.

. . .

p.s. I ate mine too fast to take any pictures, so that picture is from the site with the recipe.

test

testing out that google reader sharer over there. hope it works out ok.
. . .

on the russian caravan of a cold wet saturday

A long walk with Lulu on paths following the South Platte River, stippled with stops to pull the evil burrs from prancing feet, followed by:

A toot around town, garage saling (no spectactular finds, alas) and finally tasting the homemade cinnamon rolls from Skelly's Inn, complete with sign rather insistently reading "This establishment is a smoking area in its entirety." It makes one feel as if one is not only disobeying the rules by not smoking, but is utterly unwelcome as a nonsmoker. Venturing into the entirely smoking Skelly's for even 10 minutes to await my donut's cinnamoning seems to triple the mental and physical exertion required to stop there. Something about the smoke's complete permeation of an establishment engaged to feed people boggles me. Nevertheless, the homemade baked goods receive high praise, and in this town of little-to-no-homemade-baked-goods and in-general-less-than-stellar eating opportunities, I felt I must give them a go. I had tried to get my hot little hands on a Skelly's cinnamon roll twice before, only to find them sold out (the most believable kind of high praise). I now know that the homemade donuts are better--less goo overdo. Anyway, this toot, followed by:

Endless tea drinking, a long-overdue return to reading, and possibly a little sewing. No cleanings or sortings or puttings-away, if possible. If possible. And let this be the end of my computering for the day.

Ciao.

. . .

"it's first and ten with 20 yards to go"

I went to my first high school football game in, oh, say, 13 years tonight. Unfortunately, the NP Bulldogs (or 'Dawgs, as they're more commonly called) spent a lot of their time with 20 yards to go, usually as a result of "illegal procedures" (a fine term that leaves much to the imagination). The Dawgs are now 4-4, while the Kearney Bearcats are now 8-0. I asked the friendly folks (unbelievably friendly--by the end, Mr. Folks asked me if I had gotten to know people in NP, and I made some vague reply, and he then asked if I had someone to call if my car wouldn't start, just to make sure I did) sitting in front of me if they knew what a bearcat was (I didn't). At first they were both like, yeah, it's like a bobcat--but then I asked if they had ever heard of one outside the context of Kearney sports, and both admitted not. But here it is, people, the fearsome bearcat:


You'd think this lil' beastie could hardly stand up to a 'Dawg. For comparison, here is a bulldog:



Well, not so, friends, not so. Turns out, that bearcat, she's a vicious fighter that can throw amazing passes, catch them, and tackle anything. Hats off to the Fightin' Bearcats' fightin' ways. (For good times, search google images for bulldog. In the photographs, the bulldogs all look pained, bemused, or sleepy. In the drawings, they all wear spiky collars and seem to be about to rip something to shreds.)

It was the last home game of the season, so I guess that's it for the Friday night lights. I might try to catch a volleyball game or a basketball game later in the season. Mr. and Mrs. Folks were fake-insulted when I innocently asked if NP had a basketball team (it wasn't mentioned on the program, which talked about lots of other teams). Anyway, it does. Go 'Dawgs.

. . .

being

Why I like the North Platte Telegraph: a front-page article titled "School libraries being transformed" is continued on page 2 under the header "BEING, from page A1".

. . .

news to me

Things I have learned in the past month:

• having one's hands/feet/jeans/chin licked is not as gross as it appears to people who have never had dogs.
• picking up poop in plastic bags swiftly becomes routine and also not as gross as it seems at first.
  
• those little burrs in grass this time of year that are merely annoying to people are vicious to dogs. they get caught everywhere, but most evilly between toes. I am considering making Lulu some felted knitted booties to protect her from the lurking burrs. I doubt she would tolerate them, however.
  
• dogs have toes.
  
• processed (don't know how) bull penises are the most preferred chewing implement (by Lulu at least).
• processed bull penises do not become less gross with familiarity. once chewed upon, they have a disgusting smell, pallor, wetness, stickyness, and texture.
• I have a growing, already-very-strong, loathing for irresponsible dog owners.
• it is very hard to tell when my clients are lying to me.
• I dislike suspecting that my clients are lying to me.
• an amazing number of poor people (in America even!) do not have phones.
• an amazing number of poor people somehow live on no income at all (or so they tell me, and they can't all be lying).
• Thus far, my limits are taxed more by my job's aspect of general life manager/problem-solver than by its truly legal aspects.

. . .

lulu unleashed

. . .

awkward

A few weeks ago, HDL, SWT and I had a conversation in which we all agreed that it was unusual for us to form the sort of chatty intimacy with baristas that some others seem to find routine. Not long afterward, I told them about how I seemed to have accidentally fallen into a relationship of exactly that type with the barista at the coffee shop I frequent. Part of the chattiness derives from the barista (we have not gotten as far as names) guessing what I want. This isn't a particularly difficult feat--I always get a latte, and with temperature the only variation. When it's hot outside, I get it iced; when cold, hot.

This morning I went drove through the drive through right before work--usually I go later in the afternoon. I was surprised to see two baristas--one whom I think is the owner, and the chatty one. I suppose they're probably busier in the morning. Anyway, after the owner barista took my order (a regular latte) and went to make it, Chatty McChattersons came by to take my money, and blithely commented, "Soooo, getting it hot this morning?" I just stared at him and said, "Excuse me?!" He repeated himself: "You getting it hot this morning?" It will probably seem exceedingly evident to all readers that this comment referred to the coffee. It did not seem so to me, and the only meaning I could ascertain, after frantically searching my brain for any other possibilities, was very, very dirty. Thinking to myself that although I did pick out quite a fine outfit this morning, such comments were nevertheless inexplicable, surprising, rather unprofessional, and quite beyond the level of the chattiness we'd already established. So all I could say was "What?!?" and look very confused. At this point I think he figured out what I'd thought he meant, and he also got very surprised and said, of course, "The latte. You want it hot?" And then I understood and started laughing like crazy and he said my mind was in the gutter. I had to agree. Perhaps it's best that I just maintain my cool distance with baristas in the future.

. . .