Archive for June 2000

Just because I haven't posted

Just because I haven't posted doesn't mean I don't have a lot to say.

Oh my, this Open Letter

Oh my, this Open Letter to Dr. Laura is so good in so many ways, I'm not sure where to begin the complimenting.

overcast day = snoozing sneezy

overcast day = snoozing sneezy stuffy slow to move eyes half-closed brain half-off start

Sometimes I get tired of

Sometimes I get tired of making decisions. I need something like pb's eat generator for life. Since I seem to be having such luck lately receiving things that I mention on megnut, I'm hoping someone could oblige? I'd like to post a question to an app that will pop out the best answer after diligently weighing the pros and cons. You can just email it to me. Thanks, and of course, I appreciate it.

I thought I read someplace

I thought I read someplace that the word opsomania meant love of a specific food, but now that I've looked it up, it doesn't seem to exist. Perhaps I'm mis-remembering the word? Let's pretend that I'm not. Let's pretend that I'm right, and that is wrong. Good, now that that's settled, let me tell you about the opsomania that I possess for microwave popcorn.

Microwave popcorn is my comfort food. When I'm tired, feeling blue, feeling lazy, sick, or in need of a pick-me-up, I eat microwave popcorn. Not just any microwave popcorn, but Newman's Own Oldstyle Picture Show Popcorn® All Natural Flavor. (You should know the picture on the site doesn't look like the box I have sitting before me, I think Paul hasn't updated to reflect the new packaging for his popcorn products.) I don't just eat it as a snack, I eat it for dinner. The whole bag. Mmm...mmm...good. It fills me up, and I usually top it off with a glass of oj (Tropicana Pure Premium with calcium and extra vitamin C), and it makes a damn fine meal. I eat it about once a week, sometimes twice if I've got it around. One week when I was really feeling down, I had it three times for dinner. Why am I telling you this? I have no idea. Perhaps I am recommending that you have microwave popcorn for dinner as well. Especially if you want to be more like me.

Nick writes with this definition,

Nick writes with this definition, culled from the beta of the online OED: opsomania, n. A morbid longing for dainties, or for some particular food. Ha ha, so I was right, and was wrong. Great, just what my ego needs, more inflation.

I'm looking for a favor.

I'm looking for a favor. Do you have access to SQL Server 6.5 and 7.0? I've got a 6.5 backup that I'd really really like restored and upsized to 7.0. Problem is, I no longer have (easy) access to 6.5. If you could help me out, I'm sure the whole megnut community would be grateful. See, this lil' ol' file contains about six months of megnut content which pre-dates Blogger (well, it predates my use of Blogger), and I'd love to get it back online. Thank you in advance.

The soft gooey center—that innermost,

The soft gooey center—that innermost, tightly wound heart—of the cinnamon role is the tastiest.

Eleven years ago today, June

Eleven years ago today, June 4, 1989, I graduated from high school. It was a Sunday, like today. It was sunny, like today. (huh, did you ever think about Sunday and realize that it contains the word sun, and wonder whether there's some connection between the word sun and the concept of God, then get to thinking of Louis XIV, the Sun King, and ponder the relationship of monarchs to God, and wonder whether it's all connected in some way that you never learned about in school?)

Looking back on that day, I don't recall all of its details. I don't remember feeling that it was eventful at the time, and its memory carries no substantial weight for me. I don't remember waking up that morning, or how I got to graduation. I don't recall receiving my diploma, but I can close my eyes and see the photographer's small proof of a photo of the headmaster handing me my diploma, and from there I can concoct a memory of the event. And into that fabricated memory, I can paste the three emotions that remain with me to this day:

frustration: attempting to pin that awkward bright blue mortarboard to my head, I jabbed myself with bobby pins. It wouldn't sit right, it slid off, it tugged at my hair, it angled itself, no matter how I tried, in such a way as to make me appear ugly, stupid, dumb. All the things you don't want to look when everyone's watching you. All the thing you don't want to look on this big day, your High School Graduation.

confusion: as Liz Walker, news anchor for WBZ TV, channel 4, walked to the podium to address our class, and someone yelled out "Digger!" or, as she heard it, "Nigger!" The story whispered hurriedly between us in our seats was that Digger was ______'s nickname (whose, I now forget) and that he was finally graduating after seven years. The fact that he was taking his seat, and his friends saw fit to yell to him, at the exact moment that Ms. Walker took the stage, was merely coincidental, and unfortunate. Ms. Walker did not see it that way, and abandoned her prepared words to rail against racism and encourage the class of '89 to rise above this sort of behavior and mentality.

mortification: the next morning when I awoke to the morning news cast detailing the racist attack on Liz Walker at my graduation. And the radio announcer said it over and over again, Brookline High School, class of '89, for all the radio listeners to hear, all over eastern Massachusetts. My class, after four years, summed up simply as a class of racists.

My senior spring in college,

My senior spring in college, I took an English class (Short Fiction) with my then-boyfriend, and we would spend a big portion of the class tearing off little sheets of paper from our notebooks, and writing messages to one another. Most of the messages were silly, things like, "do you want to get lunch at the campus center after this?" and "do you want to go to Jake's party tonight?" But once in a while, they'd be pretty good. And one note in particular I remember to this day.

I was feeling really overwhelmed, I had only a few weeks until graduation, I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life after college, it seemed like I'd never survive the final weeks of the semester and exams and all the work it entailed. In retrospect, it seems like silly stuff to have been so stressed out about, but at the time, it seemed like a really big deal. And for some reason, I guess I started to cry in the middle of Short Fiction. Actually, it wasn't crying so much as tears started to come out of the corners of my eyes. And John passed me a little torn-off corner of his notebook page with a message reminding me of how far I'd come, reminding me of how much I'd accomplished, reminding me that I'd been successful at everything I'd attempted. He told me there was no reason to feel badly about things. And that little slip of paper made me feel a whole lot better. I kept it for a long time, in my wallet, and whenever I'd feel down, or lacking confidence, I'd carefully unfold it and re-read its encouraging contents.

Two years ago I lost my wallet, and I lost that slip of paper. It's funny that of all the things I've lost in my life, that is one of the things that pains me the most: a silly little piece of paper. But it does. Some days I really miss it, I miss having something that tells me I can do anything, and that it's going to be alright.

In English, we say dream

In English, we say dream about but in Spanish the expression is dream with, as in, "I dreamt with you last night." That sounds so much nicer to me, and it seems a much more authentic way to convey the experience. I'm often amazed at how close someone feels when I dream with them, and the sadness when they're not with me the next day is so very real. Join me, won't you, as I attempt to have my way with English and get everyone saying dream with instead?

Um, I'm all for the

Um, I'm all for the new economy and the web and technology and bladdie blah blah, but isn't a little odd for someone to take pictures of me, and without my knowledge or permission, offer them for sale on their web site? Shouldn't I be notified? Better yet, shouldn't I be getting royalties or something? I mean, come on, this face doesn't come cheap! (Ok, please don't point out that it's available right now for free updated every 30 seconds for the whole world on my webcam, that would kinda ruin my point, wouldn't it?)

Ever wonder what your cat

Ever wonder what your cat is trying to say to you? With all the translation services available today, I'm surprised we haven't come up with a better system for understanding the communication between humans and animals. In an attempt to further our comprehension in this area, I've begun the compilation of a Cat to English dictionary. While in no way representative of the compendium I ultimately hope to produce, I thought I'd share my work to date:

  meow v. - it's 3:50 am and I'm here, I'm awake.
  meow v. - it's 3:51 am now, and I wanted to let you know, I'm still up.
  meow v. - just checking in here, 3:55 am. All's well at the foot of your bed.
  meow v. - 4:10 am, I've checked around the living room, not much going on in there.
  meow v. - Hey! Hey! Did you go back to sleep? It's 4:27 am, and I think I heard a bird outside.
  meow v. - I'm bored. Can we play? Are you going to get up yet? It's almost 5. I think you should get up.
  meow v. - 5:50 am and you're still in bed? Lazy lazy. Guess I'll curl up and sleep for a bit.

I've felt sick and crappy

I've felt sick and crappy all day, and now I can't find the Hogarth for my Iron Giant. I've lost Hogarth! I feel like such a little kid: I'm about to cry.

Yippee!! I found Hogarth. He

Yippee!! I found Hogarth. He wasn't, I swear he wasn't, beneath my chair when I looked before. He must have travelled to another dimension briefly, but he's returned now.

Why oh why does Hollywood

Why oh why does Hollywood insist on adapting a book for film and twisting in such a manner that the original work is barely discernable in the end product? I always thought books were made into movies because they contained certain compelling plot elements that transferred well to screen, e.g. dramatic espionage involving Russians, romance involving girl who falls for guy who doesn't like girl but does in the end, etc. etc. What's the point of taking the title, the names of the characters, and the vaguest general premise of a book and turning it into a film "based on the book"? I read Girl, Interrupted last fall and found it both disturbing and fascinating at the same time. And while I can say I found the film disturbing, I'd hardly call it fascinating. And it was just plain irritating to me that almost nothing that happened in the book happened in the movie. Nothing. I mean, yeah, in the book the girl goes crazy and is sent to a hospital, in the movie the girl goes crazy and is sent to the hospital. That's it. I don't get it. Do Hollywood writers have a really hard time coming up with titles and character names, so they steal those from books, then use their creative powers to fill in the details? Grrr...The Perfect Storm better be better or I'll be upset. Not only did I read the book, but I remember the storm itself, vividly. I remember walking across the campus at school the next day and staring in amazement at all the downed trees. Huge branches were strewn about everywhere. And I remember reading on the front page of the Boston Globe that a fishing boat from Gloucester was feared lost.

Hey you out there that

Hey you out there that likes to honk your horn all the time! Yeah, I'm talking to you. Don't you think, at 8:02 am when there are four lanes of traffic waiting for the light to turn green, if the first car doesn't tear immediately into the intersection, there's a reason? Like perhaps they've stalled? Like perhaps there's someone crossing the street, yes against the light, but crossing nonetheless? Who are you to honk from way in the back? You can't see what's going on. Why don't you assume that something is happening that's preventing us all from pulling out, and stop assuming that you're more important than everyone, and in more of a rush. Everyone knows the light is green. We don't need you to point it out. Lay off the horn and breathe a little. We're all going to get there eventually.

I am sending you're

I am sending you're just not getting them.

Sunday mornings are so lazy,

Sunday mornings are so lazy, what better way to spend one's time than by calculating one's bra size? Slight problem though, the calculator is inaccurate. I mean, I think I would have realized before now if I were a 38 C. Oh well, maybe I mis-measured. [via the breast chronicles]

Three years in California: I'm

Three years in California: I'm beginning to miss the seasons. Lately I've been craving hot. I've been craving days when it's so hot your shirt sticks to your back. When it's so hot that you wear t-shirts and shorts for days on end, when all you want to do is sit in the shade and sip something cool. When it's so hot, you just wait for the ice cream truck to come by so you can get an italian ice and race to finish it before it's consumed by the heat. When it's so hot that you don't ever worry about whether it will get chilly once the sun goes down.

I updated my about page tonight. It's not complete, just different. Writing it made me realize how entwined the seasons are with my memories and my senses. And I realized that I'm beginning to miss the extremes of New England: the so-hot-you-can't-breathe summer, the so-cold-I'm-not-going-outside-again winter, the perfect cloudless autumn days when you realize there are more shades of orange in one tree than you ever thought possible. California is spectacular, and when I stand on the beach and look up the coast at the jagged cliffs and the frothy surf, I think there's no where I'd rather live. But some nights, I'd like to have my window open with a thick dewy breeze blowing across my face. I'd like to look out and see fireflies circling, I'd like to strain my ear for the sounds of a summer thunderstorm, instead of sitting at my desk in June with the windows closed, in a wool sweater, with the heater blowing.

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