National Grid, you asses!

Dear Ms. Ferrante, Mr. Tarr, and the "lucky" staffers who will hopefully have answers for me:

First of all, let me warn you, I am new to Massachusetts - I've lived here for less than a year, and I've only been in Gloucester since September. I did not find anything specific to my question on the internet, no doubt because I don't have a particularly well-formed question. So, I resort to the age-old solution to nearly every problem - write to my legislators!

Last night, I experienced a particularly unpleasant situation. I arrived home from work (in Watertown) just before 7 pm. While on my drive home, I had planned out dinner - a nice little pasta dish with roasted chicken, sauteed tomatoes and asparagus, with a modified alfredo sauce - not that the menu is terribly relevant to the story. By the time I had entered my apartment, changed into comfortable shoes (who am I kidding - I changed into bare feet), and chopped tomatoes into tiny pieces while pretending to listen as my boyfriend rambled on about his coworkers and their antics, it was nearly 7:30. I turned to light the burner on my stove, and to my abject disappointment tinged with horror, it would not light - there was no gas being dispensed. I attempted to light the other burners, but the sinking feeling in my stomach (that I would not be eating my pasta dish that evening) was proven correct - none of the burners had gas, either.

As I had paid my gas bill, and there was no notice of shut-off on the door, I assumed that my stove somehow managed to die a quiet, yet mysterious and extraordinary death. I decided that since dinner was off the table, I would take a nice, hot shower while mentally composing an e-mail to my landlady. I intended to ponder the most tactful way of saying, "FIX IT. FIX IT NOW." My ponderings proved to be unnecessary - the lukewarm water gradually gave way to bone-chillingly cold water, as opposed to my shower's usual scalding offering.

At this point, I became less concerned with tact.

While I believe in many strange and improbable things, like democracy and the Great Pumpkin, I am simply incapable of of believing that the only two gas-fed appliances in my apartment could experience unremarked demises within hours of each other.

I called National Grid, my gas supplier. My first call, to their customer service line (at 7:38 pm, by my call log) picked up to a recording that announced they were closed, and disconnected me. As I have said, I was no longer concerned with tact. I called the emergency line (at 7:42 pm, again, according to my log).

After a few minutes of listening to menus, I was transferred to a human being, I told her I was calling to report a service outage. I gave her (with some difficulty) my address. She informed me that my service had been cut off, due to non-payment. I gave here the date and amount of my last payment, and she suddenly decided that my service had not been terminated due to nonpayment, and that she would have a technician out to re-connect my gas that evening. We gave up and ordered take-out from Ocean Garden.

Shortly after 9pm, a tired-looking technician arrived and announced that he needed access to the basement (it is through our apartment) to re-connect our gas. We then learned that gas service to all three units in our building had been disconnect. He managed (with some difficulty that I did not quite comprehend) to turn our gas back on. He then ascended to our apartment to relight our pilot lights. After an extended discussion with the thermocouple on the water heater, he announced that we were all set. This was at 9:30 pm.

My question is, are utility companies here allowed to arbitrarily disconnect their victims, I mean, customers, like that? I can understand the usual outages, but disconnecting an entire building because one unit didn't pay their bill (and not telling us) seems somewhat mafia-esque to me. I realize that taking a glacier-fresh shower and having to pay for dinner instead fixing it myself is hardly a tragedy, but given the economic climate, I prefer to save money where I can. (The shower didn't affect my pocketbook, it just put me in a bad mood.)

Does Massachusetts have any laws in place to protect residents, as we are more or less at the mercy of the utility company?

Thank you for you time,
Aynsley

A Modest Plan to Reduce Gun-Facilitated Violence

Dear New York,

I'm writing to tell you that you suck.

As it turns out, I can come up with a better plan to curb gun-facilitated violence in five minutes of glibness than you can in a month of hand-wringing.

This is based on the fact that making something illegal in the US counts for shit when it comes to discouraging criminal use - we have between 7 and 20 million illegal aliens in the USA. I would try and find statistics about illegal drug use, but frankly, I don't want to get depressed. It's only Wednesday. Suffice it to say, unless you're Amish or otherwise completely cut off from society, I would bet my next paycheck that you know someone who regularly uses marijuana.

Note that I would like to distinguish between use and criminal use. Killing another human being with no provocation is criminal use of a weapon. Although some of my vegan friends may disagree, hunting with a weapon is simply use. Taking a Lortab because you just had oral surgery - use. Taking a handful of Lortabs every day because you're a satirist and your fans are dumb enough to think you're serious (and that you have good ideas) - criminal use, although I think I can empathize.

Anyway, I digress in my logical exercise. Onto the plan.

Gun registration is a completely flawed system. I propose to scrap it entirely. After all, sure, we register cars, but hey, we register drivers, first! Why don't we just register gun owners?

Here is my proposed ownership licensure process:

Step 1) You must complete a regulated firearms safety course. Whether it's hunter safety, CCW, etc doesn't really matter. Legislators will decide what's important for the area. I say area, because I truly believe that gun ownership licenses should be state - not federally - regulated. Let's face it, typical gun use in Vermont is worlds away from typical gun use in Atlanta.

Note: Due to the massive clusterfuck that implementation of any system causes, current gun owners don't actually have to take a class, as long as they can pass the test. Trying to tell someone who has been shooting his or her own dinner for 30 years how to place a trigger lock just leads down a road I'm not willing to traverse.

Step 2) You have to visit a head-shrinker. A psychologist must complete an evaluation and agree that you are firing on all four cylinders. If you and the psychologist don't get along, you can go see another, but if you get negative evaluations from three different therapists, you have to complete a course of treatment before you can re-apply.

Some people might not think this is fair, that it's ramming mental health care down the throats of people who don't want it. I think mental health is overlooked far too much in this day and age, except for when a scapegoat is needed. This is critical. Guns don't kill people, any more than cars driven by drunk drivers kill people. You know what kills people? Poor and impaired decision making. If you are mentally ill, your ability to make decisions is compromised and you should not be in a situation where your decision may cause harm to another human.

Step 3) Background check. You know, the one you're supposed to have done every time you buy a gun? The current NICS system isn't always instant. Things fall through the cracks. Let's have one extensive background check for licensure, and then you're set to go buy your arsenal.

Step 4) Gun ownership license. You get a shiny new piece of license, that you can stick behind (or in front of) your driver's license, and voila! Going to a gun show and see something you just have to have? Show the vendor your license and s/he knows that you're allowed to buy it. It could be that easy.

Step 5) Renewal. You're going to have to go for a check-up every renewal period, be it every year or four. When you submit for your renewal, the clerk will also make sure that you're still allowed to have a license.

Irresponsible use. In the same way the reckless and drunken drivers have their license revoked and vehicles impounded, licenses for gun ownership will be revoked as needed. Committing a felony, domestic violence, irresponsible use and any action that would will all lose you your license, in addition to your other penalties. Depending on the locality, your firearms will be confiscated, and you may or may not be able to get the auction price of them back.

So, New York? Isn't fun how once you make something illegal, the only way for folks to get it is to go through illegal sources, which have no regulatory measures whatsoever? Isn't that awesome?

Is Alive

Apparently, I should have alerted you that I am alive and in New York. Posts about the trip next week.

A Little More Red Rock

Salutable Shorts - Cancelled

Apparently, it was not meant to be. Thank you anyway.

Salutable Shorts

As of 7:30 am, the entrants are:

Stormy Westside

Bethany Peters

Aleksandr Kretic

Will two more brave souls join their ranks? Will the contest be saved? Stay tuned to find out!

My Road Trip

So, this here's my currently planned trip back to New York for next month.

View Eastward, ho! in a larger map

If I'm driving by your neck of the woods and you'd like me stop, let me know!

Red Rock Search

I went out to Red Rock Canyon (well, technically, east of Red Rock Canyon) today as part of a search for a hiker who has been missing for almost three weeks. We didn't find him, or any trace, really, but we did find a few other things. A backpack stuffed with a mental patient's paperwork (seriously), lots of broken beer bottles, a pallet of telephone books (some of which had been set on fire), and this endorsement from an obviously satisfied customer:

Obviously, I didn't get a chance to take a picture of everything I saw out there. I was actually looking for a missing hiker. That we didn't find. So, to avoid being a complete downer, here are pictures of some of the spectacular sunsets we've had lately...

Vote for ME for DICTATOR OF THE WORLD!!!

(I promise to be benevolent. Mostly.)

Here are all of this year's campaign promises. Please remember to vote for me for dictator of the world in your upcoming civic election.

My first act, if elected dictator of the world, will be to remove school zones and crossing guards around all middle and high schools. While it is indeed a tragedy when a dumbass 13-year-old gets run the hell over because his eyes are glued to the screen of an electronic gadget that cost more than half of my friends' cars, the true tragedy is that he may one day breed more dumbass children.

My second act, if elected as dictator of the world, will be to eliminate all maximum speed limits, institute minimum speed limits, and quadruple the penalties for reckless driving.

My third act, when elected dictator of the world, will be to ban any and all forms of reality television. News programs will be allowed to apply for an exception permit.

My fourth act, for when I'm elected dictator of the world, will be to get rid of airport security people and just issue all stewardesses a shotgun.

Since I'm busy with the SOTU drinking game, today's campaign promise is a platform that I've been standing on for years and will not flip flop on: I promise penal reform, in the form of heads on sticks.

My (whichever, I think I'm up to five) act as dictator of the world will be to outlaw oversensitivity, and require all those who are offended by words to be publicly beaten with a live lobster - to thicken their skin.

Today's campaign promise involves children. I vow, that as dictator, all parents who do not remove screaming/crying children from public places that have a reasonable expectation of adult behavior (churches, theaters, restaurants that aren't Chuck E. Cheese, etc) will be forced to surrender their children to CPS.

I almost forgot a campaign promise for today! I guess today's promise is to decriminalize assisted suicide. And marijuana, too. They both get a bad rap.

And for your special bonus campaign promise: I promise to legalize dueling, so that the idiots who want to shoot each other can voluntarily be removed from the gene pool.

That's all until the next time this perpetual campaign pisses me off. Thank you and remember to vote for me as dictator of the world!

Drinking Games

So it appears that what people actually want from me are more drinking games. And since I'm a slave to public opinion, I'll try for a new one every week. I'll continue to link them here so that it's even easier to find something to drink to.

Movies

Empire Records

Political

2012 State of the Union

2012 State of the Union Drinking Game

Good Evening, Ladies, Gentlemen, and Liberals! (Just kidding, guys)

Welcome to Aynsley's 2012 SOTU Drinking Game!

I'll be watching the SOTU here, and tweeting when to drink here (in case I was way too accurate and it becomes difficult to keep up).

Before we begin, I'd like to recommend my Julius Punch for this drinking game. I make it with a can of concentrated orange juice and 80 proof vanilla rum. To prepare the punch, make your juice as normal, but substitute 1 can of rum for 1 can of water. This delicious beverage is refreshing, and unlikely to give you alcohol poisoning.

On to the rules:

Take one drink every time BO says any of the following:
"Sustainable" (or sustainability, etc)
"Occupy"
"Generations"
"Accountability"
"Bipartisan"
"Expand"

Take one drink if:
The camera pans past your representative or either of your senators
You see anyone playing with their cell phone, tablet, or other PDA
BO name-checks anyone
The camera catches Biden making a silly face

Take two drinks every time BO says any of the following:
"Fair share"
"Enhance"
"Redistribute"
"Stabilize"
"Partnership"
or mentions his father

Drain the glass and pour another if:
BO mentions the "socialist mop"
Any of the congressfolk yell during the speech
The camera catches John Boehnor or Harry Reid rolling his eyes
BO mentions Charlie Sheen

Forget the juice and just finish the bottle if:
BO announces he will not seek a second term and endorses Hillary Clinton as a Democratic candidate.

The Land of Sunsets

In the land of sunsets, I sit with my father and my grandmother drinking iced tea out of very tall glasses from a pitcher that we never can manage to finish.

They both think I am a little strange for drinking my tea unsweetened, never mind that neither of them put sugar in their tea, either, so it saves us from making two pitchers anyway. They don't even use the same artificial sweetener. My father likes the kind that comes in the pink packets, and my grandmother prefers the kind in the blue. Never mind that they do not actually have to skip the sugar anymore, habits are habits. I am still the odd duck, but some things never change.

The glass table we sit at in white wicker chairs is cool to the touch. It somehow matches the drinking glasses, although not the pitcher. The pitcher is one I have often seen in my father's mother's kitchen, filled with iced tea. Whoever made the tea brewed it perfectly - plenty of flavor, and not even slightly bitter. It is refreshing.

My grandmother, not his mother, waits for me with my father. She is friendly and cheerful with him, like she is with everybody - she could make friends with a rabid dog, as long as he agreed not to bite her or much drool on her pants. My father, not her son, is relaxed and amicable with her, like he is with everybody. People tend to like my dad - he makes friends easily and often. You have to be a real son of a bitch for him not to like you.

They are not the only ones there, but they get first crack. I occasionally see others, and those that I know nod to me from time to time, acknowledging without interrupting. One friend winks at me, to remind me that he is as patient as I am not. His smirk is mocking encouragement and gentle admonishment, all at once. I briefly consider excusing myself to sock him in the gut before deciding not to prove his point. We will have plenty of time to discuss his facial expressions later.

My grandmother asks me if I am okay. I give her an honest answer, the only one I have, that I am not. My father continues by assuring me that I will be, after all, that is my specialty. He pronounces the word with a British accent, adding an extra syllable. I do not know why.

I call it the land of sunsets because it is. When I arrived, the sun was sinking below the horizon. Not the remote and dessicated horizon from my desert, or the green, hilly horizon from my forest, but something in between. I pour myself a glass and sink back into my chair, watching the last rays of the sunset fade while I intently dig my toes into the grass.

They have a few questions, but I am not sure I have the answers. I'm not even sure that I understand. They tell me that it is okay if I don't understand, the necessary thing is to try. And I do.

I love the grass here, simply because it is green and soft and fragrant and I am not allergic to it. My father asks me a question, and I look up to answer him, shielding my eyes from the sun setting behind him. The sun is not particularly bright, but habits are habits. I pause to take another drink of tea. I never sip it.

I comprehend more than they expect, but less than they hoped. I take it as a happy medium. I am, after all, only human. I watch another sun set behind my grandmother, relaxing into her voice. I sense that my time to sit with my father and grandmother is drawing to a close.

I'd like to pull each of them into a hug that could crack a rib, but that sort of thing is not done here. The body is vulgar. Instead, I sit quietly and fuss with the hem of my sundress. Grand displays are the sort of thing that ensures one will not be invited back. I compromise and reach across the table to squeeze my grandmother's hand, as hard as I can. She grimaces at my freshly-painted, dark blue nails, and then smiles, anyway. Habits are habits.

It is time to leave. I stand, unsure of what happens next. My father stands and surprises me with a quick embrace. We were never very good at affection after I grew up. It is as comforting as it is unexpected.

I miss them.

Stock the Shelves

to the tune of "Deck the Halls"

Stock the shelves with food and water
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!
'Tis the season for the slaughter,
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!
Don we now our gay flak jackets
Agh-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah!
Grab the grenade and shrapnel packets
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!

See the fearsome beast before us,
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!
At least it's not a tyrannosaurus
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!
Follow me, in deft markmanship
Agh-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah!
While I use my bargaining chip
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!

Fast away they run, they pass us,
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!
What is that, ye lads and lasses?
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!
Sing we joyous, all together,
Agh-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah!
Heedless of the wind and weather,
Agh-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah!

Let It Glow

to the tune of "Let It Snow"

Oh the raptors outside are frightful,
But my pyre is so delightful,
And since we've no place to go,
Let it glow, let it glow, let it glow.

They show no signs of stopping,
And their heads are all a-bopping.
We need to stay way down low,
Let it glow, let it glow, let it glow.

When they finally leave for the night,
It's time to go out and find the holes
And if we really plug them tight,
We'll be safe on the morning patrols!

The pyre is slowly dying,
The victims, still are crying.
But as long as they've turned to go,
Let it glow, let it glow, let it glow.

Warning Bells

Warning Bells
(to the tune of "Jingle Bells")

Oh, warning bells, warning bells
Shrieking through the town
Run and hide, get out of sight
And don't dare make a sound
Warning bells, warning bells
Klaxons all resound
Here they come! Go, now, and hide
And don't dare make a sound.

Chomping through the snow
Raptor blitzkreig is this day
O'er the fence they go
Snarling all the way
Bells on triplines ring,
Making children cry
What hell it is to hope and pray
We don't all die tonight!

Oh, warning bells, warning bells
Shrieking through the town
Run and hide, get out of sight
And don't dare make a sound
Warning bells, warning bells
Klaxons all resound
Here they come! Go, now, and hide
And don't dare make a sound.

Raptormas will continue on Monday.

Up on the Rooftop

Up on the rooftop, raptor claws
Along with teeth and gaping maws
Tear throught the ceiling with lots of joy
With just one intent, to destroy!

Chorus
Oh, God, no! Who wouldn’t go?
Oh, God, no! Who wouldn’t go!
Up on the rooftop, quick, quick, quick!
Hand me some ammo, and my ice pick!

First comes a snout, then baleful eyes.
Gnashing teeth, I'm not surprised
Give me a chainsaw, or a propane torch
If they come close - What's on the porch?!

Repeat Chorus

Now through the window, (heart be still)
Three more creatures we'll have to kill!
Here is a grenade and some nerve gas
Hope it works and scream, "You shall not pass!"

Repeat Chorus

Monkeying around

I bought a monkey mask on a stick while I was at Joann's on Saturday. Since it was a whole buck, and it kept me entertained while I waited for my friend to drag herself out of the cross-stitch section (I ended up dragging her out instead), I decided to splurge. So far, I have had more fun with the mask than with the cross-stitch kit or silicone mold I bought.

Be forewarned, I can now make chocolate hearts.

But this monkey mask is totally awesome. Especially given that I will take the mask with me somewhere and hide it behind my back. After I start chattering with someone, I wait for them to look away and then whip it out (the mask). The reactions are awesome. If I cared more, I might start trying to video this process, but for now, it's a private pleasure. Unless you try it yourself. Pictures may follow.

Also, I may have to go do this out at Red Rock, soon, because if Jim Rhodes gets his way, it will shortly become nigh impossible to drive out to Red Rock Canyon, as he is trying to build a community on top of the old gypsum mine (side note, does building things on top of an old mine sound like a good idea to you?). The Clark County Planning Commission will be meeting on Wednesday to decide if they are are to change the rules to accomodate a developer that filed for bankruptcy last year. I hate to break it to you Jimmy-boy, but the economy has not turned around yet. I don't think people are looking for luxury homes with a view of Red Rock quite yet.

Particularly when there are a pile of foreclosed homes you can pick up cheap these days.

In case you think Jimmy-boy is an ass, feel free to sign the petition telling the CCPC what you think. I'm going to the meeting Wednesday to view the spectacle, hopefully I won't go crazy watching.

Argument Form That I am Sick of

Still working on the health care bill. Damn, that thing is long.

Anyway, I heard this a lot in college, and I still hear it now. And it irritates the shit out of me.

Person A: Argument A.

Person B: Actually, Argument B. I know that you're wrong, because I used to be Argument A, and I was really self-righteous about it. Then, I had Experience B, which changed my perspective, and I am now Argument B. Don't worry, I understand how you feel. I don't judge you for it, but sooner or later, you'll Experience B, or something similar, and you'll change, too.

Post Mortem

June has been a rough month for deaths.

A handful of celebrities and a few other notable people have passed, including my favorite author, David Eddings.

It's not that I am sad at his death (it is inevitable), or "the waste" (he was just shy of 78), or that "his voice was silenced" (His last novel was published shortly before his wife and collaborator died two years ago.).

I'm not sad, exactly. When I found out that he had died, I started thinking about my memories of his books. I started reading them a bit earlier than most people, although that might have been mostly due to my mother's frustration.

I'm not sure exactly when I learned to read. I know that I was doing word searches before I was in school, and I could sight-read (and sound out parts of) a lot of those words. (My grandmother used to cut out the children's word searches out of the newspaper for me.)

I know that I was reading in kindergarten, because I remember sitting with my teacher and her helping me with the words I didn't know. The school district I grew up in used phonics to supplement regular reading and language arts lessons, and by second grade, I had a good grasp on how to sound words out, and we used the classroom set of dictionaries often enough that I could look up any word was unsure of.

I think our language arts lessons might have been skewed towards the practical--we learned fairly early how to use context clues to guess at the meaning of unfamiliar words, but I do not know what the parts of speech are beyond noun, verb, adverb, and adjective. I'm sure there are more, but as I am not an English teacher, I don't let it keep me up at night.

The early lessons in context clues were extremely useful. A grade-school child can easily become frustrated with flipping through a dictionary every few paragraphs, but being able to think "Oh, that's a color...that's an emotion" makes dictionaries optional to understanding the story. Of course, when you understand the meaning of the word, sometimes your pronunciation falls short. My parents still tease me about some of my verbal mishaps. It turns out that the way it sounds in your head doesn't always match with the rest of the world.

The first time I really started reading was in second grade, when my aunt bought me a beautifully illustrated book of fairytales for Christmas. There was not a picture on every page, but all of them were lovely. The stories themselves were about halfway between Disney and Grimm. There weren't a lot of gory details, but not all of the endings were that happy, and some fairly awful things happened to the characters. This was definitely not the Little Mermaid who was chased around by a guppy and a crab. I was entranced. I finished the fairly thick book, and wanted to read more.

I started reading, a lot.

I went through the American Girls series's. I tore through Boxcar Children and Babysitter's Club. I didn't like Nancy Drew. As the town library was small, and not overly stocked, buying new books was the only way to keep in fresh reading material. My family was far from rich, so my mother started picking and choosing which of her books I was allowed to read. The bodice-rippers ended up in one pile, and everything else in the other.

My mother read me the first chapter of The Hobbit (it was too boring), the first chapter of Watership Down (it didn't make sense to me), and finally, the prologue of Pawn of Prophecy. That one got my attention. While I was only 8 at the time, I could see the similarities between that world and my Sunday School lessons. They were different, but there were similarities. I thought it was interesting.

I dived, headfirst, into Garion's world.

The themes fascinated me. The storytelling kept my attention. Eddings's somewhat dry wit and narrative voice appealed to me enormously (which might explain my occasionally odd sense of humor).

It took me almost a year to finish the first volume (the first three books) of The Belgariad. I wanted to read the second volume, but my mother didn't know where it was. I went back to the Babysitter's Club, but ideas about justice, morality, evil, and the power of the mind simmered in the back of my head.

That year, the same aunt who infected me with the reading bug in the first place, tracked down the last two books the series, and gave them to me for my birthday. She is still my favorite aunt to this day. Sacrifice and redemption were added to the ideas that were floating in the back of my mind.

As I grew up, I learned how to get the books I wanted, and I eventually collected the entire saga of Garion. I started to read Sparhawk's story, but it didn't interest me. Sparhawk was a crabby, middle-aged knight, while Garion was raised on a farm, and wasn't much older than me.

I ended up reading The Losers.

I thought it was awful. For some reason, I read it again. And a few more times. It was different. In the Belgariad, everything was laid out, rather simply. Understanding the Raphael's story was like pulling teeth. And yet, I wanted to figure it out. The message I finally pulled from the book shaped my general morality, to this day.

I eventually got back to Sparhawk, and the rest of his books, but I could see the flaws in them, and appreciate them anyway. The storytelling was comforting. The style and voice were like and old T-shirt that fits just right.

When Eddings died, his obituary (on a book website) listed his published works. I had read all but his first novel. Since it was completely out of print, I went to the library, to track it down by ILL if necessary.

The librarian who helped me with my request was upset when I told her that Eddings had died; it turned out that she and her husband hit it off on their first date when they discovered they were both fans.

I understood her sorrow, but I didn't really feel the same way. It's not that I'm glad he died, but come on: he was pretty old, his wife had died, and it's not like he promised to stick around forever.

I finished High Hunt a few days ago. The story was...something else, but the narration was nearly identical to the voice I remembered. And that's what I miss.

It wasn't the stories, it was the storyteller that made the difference all along.

Operation Catch-a-Creep

I found out today that my landlord likes to snoop while I'm at work.

This is very, very far from okay.

I have just configured my webcam to kick on and record when the motion sensor is activated. I have a feeling that I will have incriminating recordings in another month.

The only question left is, "What should I do with this video evidence of illegal activity?"

And since I fixed my webcam, one picture, for Amanda.

I have a new goal.

I used to be so ...effluent... I'm not even sure that's the word I want to use. Nope, it's not. I just looked it up, it's totally not the word, since the definition is "water mixed with waste matter". The second definition is "that is flowing outward", so maybe I wasn't completely out of my mind. I know a few writer-types that are rolling their eyes as they read this, which just showcases their talent. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to roll your eyes while you are actually reading?

The point is that I used to write longish, occasionally funny and interesting articles, at least once a week. Now, if I write once a month, it's remarkable. Which is my new goal, by the way. To post once a month. I was originally going to shoot for once a week, but, yeah, right. Just so we're clear, this counts for May.

So, my recent projects include: the quilt from Hell, my first pair of baby booties, still unpacking, and fixing furniture. The furniture is my priority project, which means I work on it until I get bored, then I go do something else. That doesn't really sound like it's a priority, but when it's the first thing I do when I get home from work, it actually gets the most work done on it. Except for the booties, but they only took me an hour, and therefore do not count.

The quilt from Hell slowly earned its name by failing at everything. Since I've started, I have coincidentally taken my sewing machine apart three times to fix it. Now, this really isn't the quilt's fault, because the stress on the machine is my fault for using the materials I chose. But I wanted it to be perfect and special, and I have learned my lesson. I would post pictures, but this isn't the project site, and I don't want my cousin to see it before I finish it. She already knows of its existence, which is bad enough, but I don't want to reveal what it actually looks like until I hand her a peculiarly-shaped package. I am optimistic, based on the currert rate of production, that I will finish before May of 2015.

A friend of mine from high school just had a baby, and I decided to make a pair of booties for her. They are green and super-cute, at least they will be, when I grab some more lady-bug buttons since mine are not to be found. I would post pictures, but they are not finished.

I moved, over a month ago, now, and I am still not completely unpacked. Part of it is a storage problem, and part of it is I don't care anymore. At my last apartment, I had plenty of storage space, never mind that I created it. In addition to having less closet space, my bathroom is smaller (That means all of the "bathroom cabinet stuff" is in my linen closet, which now has 2 out of 6 shelves allocated to actual linens. Girly fail.) and I got rid of my desk. My apartment is pretty small, and there really wasn't room for a kid-desk. Plus, a guy at work just got two teenage fosters, and he sort of needed it. So, most of the unpacked stuff is actually waiting on furniture to hold it. I would post pictures, but who cares?

Lastly, in the furniture department: I received a dresser, a coffee table, an entertainment center, and a sewing table. The dresser is old, and it took me almost a month to clean and fix it. I had to re-assemble the back, reattach the drawer runners, re-assemble the drawers, and fix the bottom. I actually gave up on fixing the bottom (decorative feet with little to no hope of being load-bearing) and just propped it up on old textbooks that I dis-like. (Hint: one of these was used as a doorstop. While I was actually in the class.)

The coffee table is huge, and I already have one, so it's my last in queue project, because I'm not sure that I'll keep it when I finish it. It depends on how big it is with the room actually finished.

The entertainment center was originally going to be a quick fix: I was going to slap a coat of green paint on it, since I detest red, which is its current color. And then my aunt told me that it was oak underneath the paint. Due to that, I have been laboriously sanding off red paint for...forever, it seems like. When I finish, it will get a coat of stain and laquer, and I will be middle-aged.

Lastly, the sewing table was taken apart by someone who wanted to refinish it and put it back together, but wasn't capable of the "put it back together" phase. C'est la vie. When I finish the entertainment center, I'll work on it.

Was there anything I forgot? Probably. But I'm sure I'll mention it sooner or later, either that or it wasn't important.

I had to cave sometime.

Last night, Lucifer gave me an Apple.

How is this okay?

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/asia/article6022878.ece

I have no problem with burqas. To be precise, I have no problem with women who want to wear a burqa. Or hijab in general, if it's a choice. Hell, I tend to wear looser fitting clothes and higher necklines to work to avoid the eyes of creepy learing guy.

What I have a problem with is this scenario:

Old dude: Hey, wow, you're young enough to be my granddaughter and, damn, you are hot. Let's get married so that I can rape you and call it God's will.

17-year-old-girl: Like, no thanks.

One week later:

Old dude: She's an adulterer, I know she is! I will beat her, according to God's will! She will repent! (And I get off on it, since the bitch turned me down.)

If you want to live under Muslim law, that's fine. Good for you. You're a better person than me. But any place that has laws like this should have a choice: Either allow women who don't want this to leave peacefully, or never receive any foreign aid. It's a simple choice, respect human rights, or figure your shit out on your own.

I feel.

I try to avoid being a link-o-saurus, but...

If you have any interest in human emotion and perception, and expression thereof, you should check this out. I played with it for an hour last night. It is...fascinating.

http://www.wefeelfine.org/

In which I am clumsy.

Also, I went to the ER today. Whoops, I put a knitting needle through my foot. It didn't really hurt when I went (Endorphins are groovy), so I declined pain medicine. So, I'm on crutches, and the pain is starting to begin. Thankfully, the rum has already begun. I'm supposed to use the crutches until there is no pain whatsoever from putting my foot on the ground. Oh, and classes start tomorrow. Yippee.

In which I muse unprofitably.

I'm a bad friend.

I rarely update, and I respond to LiveJournal posts weeks late. It's not that I don't care, it's that I don't care.

Maybe that makes less sense.

The first issue: my failure to update. Every so often, I get a bee in my ear, and start typing hell-fire and brimstone, and after I fact-check (I always try to do this) about half-way through, I suddenly don't really care. 

For example, on Election Night, I didn't stay up to watch returns or speeches. About 7 pm, I saw that Obama was going to win, so I went to bed. So, I didn't see their speeches. Melanie posted Obama's though, and as I read it, the Bob the Builder song started playing in my head. I popped open my new-post window, and started typing. I tabbed back over to read it again, went back to my posting window, and didn't care anymore. 

I think my problems with posting have a source: My life is pretty boring now. I have a pretty decent job in my field. I am content. Also, what with the boring, I have no content. (Like the pun? Shut up, punning is a primary source of excitement in Aynsleyland.) I have no boundless frustration that needs an outlet. I'm happy. Also, funny stories from where I work are mostly nerdy in-jokes, that aren't really funny to anyone else. Except when the other Browncoat and I walked around in nitrile gloves, chanting "Two by two, hands of blue."

This apathy has spread to my checking of LiveJournal updates as well. I read my feeds from Google when they pop up, and I think that has made me slightly lazy. My e-mail tells me when Something*Positive updates. Checking LiveJournal requires me to log in, scroll through new updates until I find the last one I read, then scroll up. There is a solution, checking every day, but you people don't always update every day. And, I apologize in advance, but I don't count the updates primarily concerned with fanfic as updates, mostly because I don't have a clue what the hell ya'll are talking about. Not that I'm not glad that you have a hobby, it's just not important to me. 

Where was I? I'm fighting the urge to just delete this and go watch Narnia. Also, I think some of the melodrama problems that people sometimes have are catered to by the nature of Livejounal. The friending and commenting systems very much feed into melodrama, as do some communities. 

And, content? Over here. I don't feel the urge to get mixed in with all of that. I'm just kind of happy. I don't actually know who is reading this, other than Michelle and Rose. So there is no need to direct my rhetoric in any direction. I am not talking to people. I'm just talking, and maybe someone is listening. Maybe that's why I'm not talking so much.

It's official.

It has been confirmed:

When I speak Lithuanian, I have an American accent.

I am thankful for:

I have acquired an espresso machine. The world should consider itself warned.

Also, I got to carve the turkey this year. They gave me a knife that plugs into the wall.

Today, the Best Week Ever begins.

My closet is too small, part II

So, I finally got un-lazy enough to take some more pictures. Whee, drills, whee!

The first time I put this shelf up, it was beautiful. I put all my clothes up, and just... admired it. Then I ran downstairs to grab one more pair of jeans (I am dead serious...this is not made up at all.), hung them up, and sat down to do some homework. Three minutes later, it collapsed. I found parts of the screws, still in the wall. The force of the fall actually broke them. So I went and got some longer screws...and put it back up, two inches higher. I found the other parts of the screws when I was hanging everything back up.

My desk, unmoved.

My bookshelf, with a pretty picture of butterflies, given to me by a pretty smart 6-year-old. I've had my name misspelled a lot of different ways, but if you think about it, "A6le" makes a lot of sense.

My closet is too small.

So I turned my office into a closet.

Here are some pictures of how my office looked before I got out my drill.

Notice that the bookshelf is full. So, no matter how much I obsess about my clothing, you can see which bit of unpacking was more important to me.