what could be.

There are so many things I considered doing with my life. In the end, I was pulled in so many different and opposing directions that I remained quite stationary, and am still at a loss.

One of the things I love is astronomy. I get a dull and persistent ache in my heart every time I think about my inability to commit to the science. At least with my backyard telescope and a general knowledge of the night sky, I can see beautiful and inspiring things.

But I know my way around a sky map well enough that we aren't seeing the whole picture.

A while ago, a couple of images were taken that changed the way we think of the universe. We took the Hubble Telescope and picked a tiny point of space (and I mean TINY), and took a photograph. For no scientific reason - we just wanted to know what was there. Because we were curious. We pointed a telescope at a spot we thought was empty, and what we got was astounding.

The Hubble Deep Field:


Each one of these tiny points and oblong swirly bits is an individual galaxy. Each one contains billions of stars, and each of those stars could support several planets. The Ultra Deep Field contains even more:

I would encourage you to click on these images, and take a look at them in a higher resolution. Look at them for a long time. Let the magnitude of each image sink in. It's impossible, of course, for us to grasp the full importance of these photographs. But maybe we can get a hint of just how vast our universe is, and how far we have to go.

Watch this in full screen if you can:

oh hai!

Lookit! Posting! Daily!

So I work in an office. With cubicles. And I can hear EVERYONE sniffle and cough and sneeze, and then reach for their tissues. I think it's sort of hilarious, and I really want to pull pranks on people. For example, how much better would it be if there was suddenly a kitten under that last tissue you pulled:

It would make my day, anyway. I leave you with a Lolcat.

daily posts? meh.

I seem to have trouble blogging on a regular basis. (See: procrastination.)

But my dear gingery friend Cindy is doing a blog-a-day, and dammit, she is the QUEEN of procrastination. If she can do it, so can I.

I think.

...Maybe not.

Update: I now officially work for a certain non-profit organization which shall not be named herein. I actually like it. (I even get paid!) It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside to work with high school and college students on starting new events in their schools. Which means my blog may be less snarky in the future. It depends entirely on Barack Obama's approval ratings.

In the attempt to beat Cindy in our (non-) Non-Competitive competition to see who can actually do it (that she doesn't know about yet), I shall follow her lead and post random facts ON A DAILY BASIS. Watch out, world.

Fun fact #1: My mom reads my Tweets. Also my blog. Hi Mom!

Fun fact #2: While clueless and potentially dangerously politically apathetic, Jill is super cool and has a blog. That I didn't know about. Go read it and bask in the awesome. She also loves adverbs, seriously, but not as much as Topher, who loves them adverbally. (But don't make fun of Jill's grammar. It won't do any good anyway. And watch out for Topher's GIFs.)

Fun fact #3: This is the kind of thing I look at when I'm feeling uncomfortable with my level of Star Trek fanaticism. It makes me feel cool.

a cautionary tale.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who didn't watch the news. She was a happy teenager, as teenagers go, and carefree, and able to be kind to the people around her.

But then, one day, she found something called a Remote Control. Lost for centuries, somewhere within the Sea of Crumbs and Change that rests deep beneath the Couch Cushions, the Remote Control was said of old to be a powerful device that could cause lethargy, loss of willpower, and end meaningful relationships. It was said to be able to show its Master nearly anything through the use of its evil puppet, the Television. But this particular Remote Control was especially adept at showing the viewer the doings of other Peoples. Specifically, the People of a land called Washington D. C.

When the girl found the Remote Control, and saw what the People did in the place called Washington, the girl began to change. She became restless, frustrated, angry. Her friends did not understand what she saw, and became alarmed, and warned her not to view what the Remote Control showed her. She tried to resist its power, and spent hours screaming her head off at the dreaded Television, but it was all for naught. The Remote Control had her in its evil clutches.

In an effort to help the girl, an ancient Healer told her about a purging technique that used something called a Blog. The girl began to Blog, and it seemed to help. But soon, even the Blog lost its power, and the Remote Control beckoned again. She was trapped, sucked into the world of the People of Washington, forever to lament and bemoan the doings of its inhabitants. Their pull was too strong, and her friends fear she may never escape.

And so, children, when you next find yourself floating on the Cushions above the Seas of Crumbs and Change, resist the temptation to seek the power of the Remote Control, lest you find yourself trapped in vistas of a land even more hideous than Washington D. C. You could end up trapped forever in a story like.... Twilight.

(EEEEEEEK!)

a short note about wodka.

THERE'S TOO MUCH VODKA IN MY VODKA.

Slowly, I'm trying to convince myself that vodka is worth drinking. So far... it's Zamir to my Bourdain. Without the fangirls, and with the Turkish massage.

People have been trying to convince me of the virtues of this slimy offense to the senses (albeit with chameleon-like properties) since freshman year. At times, the chorus has been rather desperate: "It doesn't taste like anything, Jess, here, take a shot!" "It's better than whiskey, I promise!" "My god! Don't you like Bloody Marys?!?" "You can make it from potatoes! YOU'RE IRISH, YOU'LL LOVE IT!"

All through the conveyor belt pressures of college drinking culture, I stoutly refused to accept it as fit for human consumption. I have chosen instead the much more macho whiskey and rum families, and oh what a welcome they provided.

But, here I am, sipping a Bloody Mary cautiously. Maybe it's the vodka fangirls ("Bartender, make me a shot! I don't care what, something that tastes good! I want to get wasted and dance badly!"), maybe I feel like I missed out on the Luce Brunch Experience (and the subsequent vodka/tomato induced afternoon comas), maybe it was Chekov. Who always drank Wodka.


("Scotch? T'was inwented by a little old lady from Leningrad.)

adventures with cat.

I have written a short play. I call it: That Time Cat Ate My Sandwich.

CAT: *peeks over couch cushion*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *waits patiently for human to return*

CAT: *smells chicken and mayonnaise*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *waits patiently for human to return*

CAT: Well hello, chicken salad sandwich. You contain many of my favorite protein- and milk-based ingredients. I have not eaten for several minutes. PREPARE TO MEET YOUR DOOM! *leaps onto couch*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *sways gently with the couch cushion*

CAT: ZOMG! It smells even better up here! I shall bat at it! *bats*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *falls apart all over couch*

CAT: Aha! Victory! Who's laughing now, chicken salad sandwich! Now I shall carefully pick away at your contents before inevitably deciding you aren't worth eating after all! *NOMS*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *is missing a teensy piece of chicken*

ME: *returns* WTF??? CAT! GET AWAY FROM MY CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH!

CAT: *looks up* Was this yours?

ME: *is bigger than Cat*

CAT: *notes size difference*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *is pathetic*

ME: *throws cat*

CAT: *is nonchalant*

ME: Poor sandwich, I shall reassemble and eat you, even though you are now tainted with kitty germs.

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *gets eaten*

CAT: *waits patiently*

ME: *takes plate to kitchen*

CAT: The tyrant has left! I shall claim my rightful domain at last! *leaps into favorite spot*

ME: *returns* Cat, you're in my spot.

CAT: You are mistaken. This spot is clearly mine. *sheds*

I also drown puppies.

I would just like to point out that tomorrow is September 1st. I have the sudden and intense urge to go buy pencils and paper. And perhaps a calculator, with lots of space on the screen, so that I can find out exactly how many zeroes are in a trillion (with a 't').

It should also be time, in my head, for me to buy books. Lots and lots of books. And then go to class and discuss them. Those discussions should naturally progress into lofty dialogues and passionate debates about the nature of humanity and the course of human events. It is a time for us to write dissertations on the greatest efforts of our race, to discuss them intelligently, sensitively, and honestly. And then, after all that is done, someone will say the 'B' word.

'Bush.'


...And then (there are now exactly fourteen minutes remaining of the first day of the second week of class)... the conversation promptly digress and degenerates into a useless sniping bitch-fest-o-rama of politically entrenched college students.

Oh how I miss it.

I liked to sit back and listen (I have since lost this ability), not having made up my mind quite yet. I'd get incensed and enraged, but oh so quietly.

...Okay, I sometimes make faces.

But then, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I would mutter something about having a background of conservative leanings, and maybe they should all shut up and get back to Marlowe.

And all Hell broke loose.

"What?!? Why the fuck would you vote for those slimy bastards? How can you stand to see all those innocent young men go to war? Don't you want the homeless to have homes? Don't you think everyone deserves health care? Don't you want everyone to eat? Don't you want to save the planet? FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T YOU LOVE BABIES?!"

...um.

This continues with the health care debate. It happens less to me now, possibly because I'm slightly more prepared for those kinds of outbursts, and I quickly use my phaser of logic (on stun). But I see it happen to other people all the time. People who like their health care, people who own guns, people who don't want to answer all the census questions because WHY THE HELL DOES THE GOVERNMENT WANT TO KNOW HOW MUCH I DRINK. (uh... more on that later.)

Conservatives are attacked with a particular brand of vitriol because they don't like welfare programs, they don't want the government to GIVE anyone anything. (Well, most conservatives. There are a few groups who don't match this card. I do.)

And this means, apparently, that we want your children to STARVE, to live OUTSIDE, we want union workers to be FIRED, and the Earth to EXPLODE already so that we can get on with our plans for the Death Star.


It's a ludicrous tactic. No, I'm not holding an anti-war sign. I must be pro-war. I don't support the health care bill. Clearly, were I a doctor, I would treat only millionaires and very pretty people. I don't think we should have bailed out the banks. I MUST think that all those workers deserved to lose their jobs. I've voted Republican, so I must agree with everything George Bush did OMG EVAR. I'm not completely opposed to sending troops overseas, I MUST want them all to die so I can keep driving my truck.

There is no other explanation. I couldn't possibly have an alternate plan involving world peace and prosperity, because I'm too busy building the Death Star in order to rule the galaxy.

I also drown puppies.

ghastly greetings

Halloween may be a couple months off, but my monstrous enthusiasm for the holiday has crept eerily over the pages of my weekly planner and is now lurking quietly in the middle of August like some sort of weird, quivering ooze in the binding. This isn't as crazy as it sounds, since the craft market is in full Halloween swing and I'm hoping to get some projects done and on the internet for potential buyers.

But this post is not about crafting. It's about postcards. Halloween postcards.

Vintage postcards are fantastic, but the designers and artists really outdid themselves 'round All Hallows Eve. Cute little rhymes, neat little sparkly bits, and completely inappropriate and horrifying art. Not to mention the ridiculous.

For example:Nothing says friendly greetings like happy children about to be kidnapped and eaten. And then there's this one:


Um... no? What the hell? Some creep with a pumpkin on his head is stealing cats? And where's the question mark? And... why?

Ah yes, the classic Acorn of Despair. Not to be confused with the Acorns of Uncertainly, Hope, and Happy ever after (not Happily Ever After), the Acorn of Despair has long been associated with traditional Halloween greetings, as has the Lettuce Head of Unrequited Love:

And then of course there's the blatantly racist but much beloved Jolly [blanketyblank] series. This little guy pops up in a variety of mediums (I'm distinctly remembering a certain cookie jar) from the mid-1800's through the 1950's, depicted at various ages:

Oh man. Nothing says class like a black joke. A couple other creepers...

This might have to be part one of a long series of ridiculous Halloween paraphernalia. There are few holidays that allow such... er... creativity.

something completely unhelpful.

Hollywood was once a very different place. Not that it matters in the slightest, mind you. I just wanted to put Bob Hope in a post.

a note about knitting

About two years ago, a friend of mine talked me into learning to knit. (Hi Cheryl!) Given my post-punk attitude toward most things crafty, I took to it like a goth teen to nail polish. I've made lots of things, mostly for other people, in an effort to prove that conservatives have hearts, too. (But maybe that you need a scarf and mittens to stand next to this one.)

My most recent project is... well, huge. My little bro (who is actually only 2 years younger and about a foot taller than me, so 'little' is hardly warranted) is going to be a senior in college this year, and HE'S GETTING MARRIED. And so I'm making a blanket for his future household. But not just any blanket, oh no...

It's a double-knit monster of a blanket.


Yes, that's my copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and yes, it is double-sided. The pattern is the opposite on the other side. For colors, Don requested something bright and happy, like orange, and my migraine-prone brain requested a neutral.


The pattern itself is something that I created to mimic the Nazca lines in Peru, which we hope to visit sometime. (They're interesting to read about, Google them if you've never heard of them.) The one I chose is a pattern they believe to be a Condor, and looks like this from the air:


The blanket itself is huge. Its width stretches from my feet to my shoulders comfortably and with room to spare, and it will be significantly taller than it is wide. Since it's double-knitted, it's unbelievably warm, and sometimes I wonder why on earth I'm knitting this in August. It's so big I've taken to carrying it around in a tub thing, so that it looks like some sort of creepy sea monster with poisonous (knitting) needles sticking out. Nevermind that the tub is a reassuring pink. This blanket will eat you alive, man.

Nom.