Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Shoes full of flowers!
I am helping with my grandmother's 90th birthday this summer, and because shoes are "her thing," I came up with the clever idea of floral arrangements in heels as center pieces. Below are some early trials.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
How big?
At work, a man was describing the size of a speaker. Trying to convey that it was not overly large and would not be obtrusive, he gestured the height and shape with his hands, and said, “It’s about the size of, you know, a small robot.”
Friday, March 25, 2011
Life's Surprises
Ken did not know that pregnancy causes weight gain.
Concluding one of our many conversations on what a great couple we are, Ken said, "I just need to make sure I don't get fat."
"Me too," I said, "Especially after having children. That will totally screw me."
"Wait, why?"
Poor Ken.
Anyway, enjoy your Friday, and please listen to Rebecca Black's take on the day. That is what I will be doing! I have the song on my ipod.
Concluding one of our many conversations on what a great couple we are, Ken said, "I just need to make sure I don't get fat."
"Me too," I said, "Especially after having children. That will totally screw me."
"Wait, why?"
Poor Ken.
Anyway, enjoy your Friday, and please listen to Rebecca Black's take on the day. That is what I will be doing! I have the song on my ipod.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wedding Bells and DIY Magazines
One of my girl friends is getting married (and I do literally mean that exactly one of my girl friends is getting married, not “one of my (many) girlfriends, who is getting married, among others also getting married”), and I had recently gone down for a visit. I brought down a few bridal magazines, and the two of us thought it would be fun to see what we could do ourselves. She was coming to visit Long Island the following weekend, and I told her that I would get some Do It Yourself wedding magazines or books for inspiration.
Ken went to Borders and called me to see if I needed anything. I did! Wedding magazines.
“Yeah, I do, but you aren’t going to like buying it,” I told him. “Will you buy me a few Do It Yourself wedding magazines?”
“Sure.” Surprisingly, he had no problem doing this. I could probably get him to buy tampons as well.
Ken went to Borders and called me to see if I needed anything. I did! Wedding magazines.
“Yeah, I do, but you aren’t going to like buying it,” I told him. “Will you buy me a few Do It Yourself wedding magazines?”
“Sure.” Surprisingly, he had no problem doing this. I could probably get him to buy tampons as well.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Concert Etiquette in the Face of Advanced Technology
I went to see a James Galway/Emerson String Quartet concert with my mother two weekends ago. During intermission, we discussed what we often discuss—potential vacations. Ever since my mother first went to the Caribbean when I was in middle school, she has been on a travel kick that has only gotten better with age (because with age, I am old enough to be amazing company and get to join her).
The talk this particular evening focused on Mexico and when my work schedule would allow a luxurious stay. Becoming excited, my mom used her phone to check out the timeshare website and see what weeks are available for next fall or winter. Of course, websites don’t work all that well on the phone and it took longer than intermission.
When the concert started back up, my mother stayed on her phone, trying to find open dates. I was offended, and felt that she should pay attention because I had gotten her the tickets as her Christmas present, and while I know thinking about Mexico is more exciting, let’s focus on what we are actually doing for once instead of keep planning, planning, planning. But aside from the issue of enjoying your present plans, I wanted her to enjoy the music.
Why? And is it rude to text or consult your phone while at a concert? One’s immediate response is, “Yes, it’s rude.” But how rude is it really.
The concert hall itself is not dark enough that the light from the phone would disrupt anyone. The phone makes no noise. In fact, it is much quieter than reading a program during the concert, which is completely acceptable. Texts and translations are printed so that audiences can follow along while a performer sings. Reading a program is more disruptive than reading a phone, so what is the problem with the phone?
One would say that the phone reader is not engaged in the performance. True, but is the program reader any more so? Reading libretto is a distraction. Yes, you are able to follow what the words mean, but you are no longer listening to the actual words emitted from the singer. Do you hear the German lyrics while reading the translation? Do you pay attention to the nuances (in facial expressions, for examples) that are occurring on stage? While you gain insight into the meaning, you certainly miss out on what is actually being expressed by concentrating on the program.
Further, people read other parts of the program during the pieces, not only the texts and translations. I never thought that this was proper concert etiquette—one should read the program notes in advance. By reading in advance, you prepare yourself for what is to come and you distract no one—neither yourself with thoughts nor your fellow patrons with sounds of page-turning. However, I once took a survey about concert experiences. One of the questions asked, “When do you read the program notes?” and one of the answers was, “During the program.” While this is only one institution’s take on concert etiquette, it leads me to believe that reading the program during the music is not as unacceptable as I had believed it to be.
Finally, I confess I hardly ever pay complete attention to a piece, let along a whole concert. I saw the NHK Symphony Orchestra, again with my mother, this past Monday night. Kiri Te Kanawa, our reason for attending, sang Strauss’s Vier letzte Lieder (Four Last Songs), and aside from a few notes that particularly impressed me, all I came away with after her performance was what her dress looked like. (It was a fancy dress. White with ornate black flowers under a dazzling white cape adorned with diamond-like jewels.) I was in my own head for almost the entire performance, which is not an unusual occurrence for me during concerts or other long non-interactive presentations, such as speeches or church services. Concerts, specifically classical concerts, challenge us to pay attention, but often we cannot live up to the challenge and they end up as a background for our thoughts. Even though my phone isn’t out, I may not be paying any more attention.
The talk this particular evening focused on Mexico and when my work schedule would allow a luxurious stay. Becoming excited, my mom used her phone to check out the timeshare website and see what weeks are available for next fall or winter. Of course, websites don’t work all that well on the phone and it took longer than intermission.
When the concert started back up, my mother stayed on her phone, trying to find open dates. I was offended, and felt that she should pay attention because I had gotten her the tickets as her Christmas present, and while I know thinking about Mexico is more exciting, let’s focus on what we are actually doing for once instead of keep planning, planning, planning. But aside from the issue of enjoying your present plans, I wanted her to enjoy the music.
Why? And is it rude to text or consult your phone while at a concert? One’s immediate response is, “Yes, it’s rude.” But how rude is it really.
The concert hall itself is not dark enough that the light from the phone would disrupt anyone. The phone makes no noise. In fact, it is much quieter than reading a program during the concert, which is completely acceptable. Texts and translations are printed so that audiences can follow along while a performer sings. Reading a program is more disruptive than reading a phone, so what is the problem with the phone?
One would say that the phone reader is not engaged in the performance. True, but is the program reader any more so? Reading libretto is a distraction. Yes, you are able to follow what the words mean, but you are no longer listening to the actual words emitted from the singer. Do you hear the German lyrics while reading the translation? Do you pay attention to the nuances (in facial expressions, for examples) that are occurring on stage? While you gain insight into the meaning, you certainly miss out on what is actually being expressed by concentrating on the program.
Further, people read other parts of the program during the pieces, not only the texts and translations. I never thought that this was proper concert etiquette—one should read the program notes in advance. By reading in advance, you prepare yourself for what is to come and you distract no one—neither yourself with thoughts nor your fellow patrons with sounds of page-turning. However, I once took a survey about concert experiences. One of the questions asked, “When do you read the program notes?” and one of the answers was, “During the program.” While this is only one institution’s take on concert etiquette, it leads me to believe that reading the program during the music is not as unacceptable as I had believed it to be.
Finally, I confess I hardly ever pay complete attention to a piece, let along a whole concert. I saw the NHK Symphony Orchestra, again with my mother, this past Monday night. Kiri Te Kanawa, our reason for attending, sang Strauss’s Vier letzte Lieder (Four Last Songs), and aside from a few notes that particularly impressed me, all I came away with after her performance was what her dress looked like. (It was a fancy dress. White with ornate black flowers under a dazzling white cape adorned with diamond-like jewels.) I was in my own head for almost the entire performance, which is not an unusual occurrence for me during concerts or other long non-interactive presentations, such as speeches or church services. Concerts, specifically classical concerts, challenge us to pay attention, but often we cannot live up to the challenge and they end up as a background for our thoughts. Even though my phone isn’t out, I may not be paying any more attention.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Canada and its Provinces
One morning before heading to work, the conversation Ken and I were having over espresso (made with our machine graciously provided by my grandmother) turned to Canada whether or not we could name all the provinces. I shan’t keep you in suspense. We could not name all of the provinces.
Quebec, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, British Columbia, Yukon, Northwest Territory (“Is that really a province?” we wondered, “Or was that the territory of land the US owned jointly with the British that contained what is now known as Oregon, Washington, and Idaho?”), Newfoundland, Ontario, and an island. Neither of us were sure if all of these were truly provinces (we also threw out a number of city’s names, thinking that they might be provinces as well, but in the end, decided the Ottowa, among others, was not the name of both a city and a province). Well, we knew there were nine provinces, so we thought we hit them all and just didn’t know the exact name of one.
Wrong. Firstly, we were off on our numbers. There are 10 provinces and three territories. We missed Alberta (forgot it), Nova Scotia and New Brunswick (know of them, but didn’t realize that it qualified as a provinces), and Prince Edward Island (the island we didn’t know the name of). The territories are Yukon, Northwest Territories, and Nunuvat.
“Nunuvat? What is that?” I asked. Ken knew nothing of it either. I had never heard of this supposed territory, and I had paid attention in our fifth grade’s geography section on Canada.
“I wonder if it’s new…” Though it seemed odd that western countries were still subdividing, I could think of no other explanation of why this name was appearing in my life for the first time now.
Well, some of you (like Becca, an honorary Canadian) may already be aware of this, but Nunuvat split from the Northwest Territories in 1999. To Ken and I, this came as a complete shock, as we were in the seventh grade when this occurred, and 1997 was the last I heard anything about Canadian geography.
Quebec, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, British Columbia, Yukon, Northwest Territory (“Is that really a province?” we wondered, “Or was that the territory of land the US owned jointly with the British that contained what is now known as Oregon, Washington, and Idaho?”), Newfoundland, Ontario, and an island. Neither of us were sure if all of these were truly provinces (we also threw out a number of city’s names, thinking that they might be provinces as well, but in the end, decided the Ottowa, among others, was not the name of both a city and a province). Well, we knew there were nine provinces, so we thought we hit them all and just didn’t know the exact name of one.
Wrong. Firstly, we were off on our numbers. There are 10 provinces and three territories. We missed Alberta (forgot it), Nova Scotia and New Brunswick (know of them, but didn’t realize that it qualified as a provinces), and Prince Edward Island (the island we didn’t know the name of). The territories are Yukon, Northwest Territories, and Nunuvat.
“Nunuvat? What is that?” I asked. Ken knew nothing of it either. I had never heard of this supposed territory, and I had paid attention in our fifth grade’s geography section on Canada.
“I wonder if it’s new…” Though it seemed odd that western countries were still subdividing, I could think of no other explanation of why this name was appearing in my life for the first time now.
Well, some of you (like Becca, an honorary Canadian) may already be aware of this, but Nunuvat split from the Northwest Territories in 1999. To Ken and I, this came as a complete shock, as we were in the seventh grade when this occurred, and 1997 was the last I heard anything about Canadian geography.
Monday, March 21, 2011
And about the Zoo children
I completely forgot to mention a strange phenomenon I witnessed at the Zoo two weekends ago. The children had somehow gotten out of their cages, and were trying desperately to see the other animals. With no mind for manners, they cut in front of me at just about every exhibit. I remember when I was a child, I also felt this entitlement to most things. For instance, if there was a long line for food or for a bathroom, especially in a private rather than public setting, I felt that being an adorable and fragile child, I deserved to go first. At parades or firework displays, I deserved to stand in the position with the best view. And any establishment that charged an admission fee should charge my parents significantly less for my ticket.
As I became older, my attitudes changed. As a paying customer and as someone who enjoys taking time out of her stressful and obligation-filled life, I feel that I should benefit from entitlement. Children can stand on the subway—they have energy! We twenty-year olds deserve a break!
Now, these escaped zoo children—they stopped at nothing to see the animals, which they would no doubt forget having seen within an hour. (From my understanding, memory does not develop until the age of 14, and then ceases to function after the age of 42.) They would push in front of me, a paying customer (which is such a lie. I didn’t pay to get into the Zoo, my mother purchased me a zoo membership last summer), to see the animals that I was enjoying! Nothing special, I know. Children push, but the peculiar phenomenon was this: they shouted “Excuse me, excuse me!” as they pushed past, thinking that this was acceptable behavior and an acceptable use of the phrase “excuse me.” I heard only one parent correct the behavior.
I will learn from the mistakes of the failed parents preceding me. My children will be perfectly behaved. They will always offer their seats to the hard-working 20-50 year-olds, and will pay full price for movies and museums admission, footing the bill for the impoverished college students. What angels. When they say “excuse me,” it will not be to push an adult, but rather to say to them, “excuse me, please take this spot, I believe you were here first and you deserve it.”
As I became older, my attitudes changed. As a paying customer and as someone who enjoys taking time out of her stressful and obligation-filled life, I feel that I should benefit from entitlement. Children can stand on the subway—they have energy! We twenty-year olds deserve a break!
Now, these escaped zoo children—they stopped at nothing to see the animals, which they would no doubt forget having seen within an hour. (From my understanding, memory does not develop until the age of 14, and then ceases to function after the age of 42.) They would push in front of me, a paying customer (which is such a lie. I didn’t pay to get into the Zoo, my mother purchased me a zoo membership last summer), to see the animals that I was enjoying! Nothing special, I know. Children push, but the peculiar phenomenon was this: they shouted “Excuse me, excuse me!” as they pushed past, thinking that this was acceptable behavior and an acceptable use of the phrase “excuse me.” I heard only one parent correct the behavior.
I will learn from the mistakes of the failed parents preceding me. My children will be perfectly behaved. They will always offer their seats to the hard-working 20-50 year-olds, and will pay full price for movies and museums admission, footing the bill for the impoverished college students. What angels. When they say “excuse me,” it will not be to push an adult, but rather to say to them, “excuse me, please take this spot, I believe you were here first and you deserve it.”
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Harlem Walking Tour
I occasionally see tour groups in my neighborhood, which I find very strange. Except for the nearby historic Apollo Theatre, I don't what a tour group hopes to see or why they would walk down Frederick Douglass Boulevard, the area's main thoroughfare.
Today I saw a group of young people lead by a foreign woman. She guided them with a sparkly flower-shaped bit of foam on the end of a stick and spoke in a French accent. Of course, it may have been an entirely different accent, but I think it was likely European. I can tell you, I do not excel at distinguishing other accents any more than I do other races. For instance, in a college seminar, I mistook a German accent for deafness. It wasn't until about three weeks into the semester that I realized it was highly unlikely for a deaf woman to be in a Contemporary Music seminar and that she was simply a foreigner. More interestingly, though, I discovered about three weeks before the end of the semester that the woman was dating (and lived with!) the professor. That discovery took some clever sleuthing—their secret was more well-hidden than the woman’s nation of birth.
French or otherwise, the tour guide on Frederick Douglass walked backwards, telling the group of eager tourists, "People are trying to move here because there is no room in Midtown." She nailed that housing issue right on the head. It's exactly what Ken and I experienced when we were looking for apartments. We found this great place in Midtown, but were then told that there was no room and we fled to Harlem.
Today I saw a group of young people lead by a foreign woman. She guided them with a sparkly flower-shaped bit of foam on the end of a stick and spoke in a French accent. Of course, it may have been an entirely different accent, but I think it was likely European. I can tell you, I do not excel at distinguishing other accents any more than I do other races. For instance, in a college seminar, I mistook a German accent for deafness. It wasn't until about three weeks into the semester that I realized it was highly unlikely for a deaf woman to be in a Contemporary Music seminar and that she was simply a foreigner. More interestingly, though, I discovered about three weeks before the end of the semester that the woman was dating (and lived with!) the professor. That discovery took some clever sleuthing—their secret was more well-hidden than the woman’s nation of birth.
French or otherwise, the tour guide on Frederick Douglass walked backwards, telling the group of eager tourists, "People are trying to move here because there is no room in Midtown." She nailed that housing issue right on the head. It's exactly what Ken and I experienced when we were looking for apartments. We found this great place in Midtown, but were then told that there was no room and we fled to Harlem.
Friday, March 18, 2011
The people were just as curious as the animals
Ken, my mother, and I went to the Bronx Zoo last Saturday. I am the proud owner of a zoo membership, which means that I and one guest get in FOR FREE! We saw quite a few animals that day, my favorites were the river otters and the porcupine. However, what I remember far more distinctly was a. the girl with no pants, b. the overweight woman throwing sticks at the snow leopard, and c. the supervised children terrorizing the peacocks.
The Pantsless:
I imagine she was in her late teens or early twenties, and under her short blue coat she wore black stockings, not leggings, and nothing else visible.
Stick-Tosser:
She was awful. In her late twenties to late thirties, she wore a shabby, inside-out gray pilly sweatshirt; thick, caked makeup two shades too dark and three shades too orange, and cropped cotton pants. Her flabby buttocks sagged into two points, completely unsupported by the thin black yoga pants. She and a young boy, whose relationship to the woman was unidentifiable and aged approximately 13, picked up sticks from the ground and threw them through the fence at the snow leopard.
Devil Children:
While their mothers sat nearby talking, three boys chased the peacocks around the "Asia" courtyard in until another mother with a sheltered-looking son chastized them. The uninvolved mothers appeared to notice nothing.
The Pantsless:
I imagine she was in her late teens or early twenties, and under her short blue coat she wore black stockings, not leggings, and nothing else visible.
Stick-Tosser:
She was awful. In her late twenties to late thirties, she wore a shabby, inside-out gray pilly sweatshirt; thick, caked makeup two shades too dark and three shades too orange, and cropped cotton pants. Her flabby buttocks sagged into two points, completely unsupported by the thin black yoga pants. She and a young boy, whose relationship to the woman was unidentifiable and aged approximately 13, picked up sticks from the ground and threw them through the fence at the snow leopard.
Devil Children:
While their mothers sat nearby talking, three boys chased the peacocks around the "Asia" courtyard in until another mother with a sheltered-looking son chastized them. The uninvolved mothers appeared to notice nothing.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
A little backup
For those few readers who are not my mother or older sister, I will fill you in with a basic overview of my life.
I life on Morningside Avenue, which is the lower-rent side of Morningside Park, not to be confused with (but often is by cab drivers) Morningside Drive, which is the higher rent side and more commonly referred to as Morningside Heights. Where we live is more commonly referred to as Harlem. Or "Where?"
And the "We" in question is my boyfriend Ken and I. We moved into Manhattan together in July after only seven months of dating. That's how in love we were, and how incapable of paying rent alone.
But let me assure you, if you think we moved in together too quickly, you are wrong. We dated in high school from Pearl Harbor Day until about Memorial Day, so that adds another five plus months to our relationship, which means we dated for over a year and knew each other since the tenth grade.
Our apartment is small, but enviously decorated. We are very clean, and the occasional cockroach is not our fault. (I have encountered only three.) We live in a fifth floor walk-up, so our legs are in impeccable shape. In fact, Ken's calf muscles are so sharp and defined that we were able to throw out all of our knifes. We have no need for them.
During the day, I attend a thing called "work." It is challenging, stimulating, and takes place in an office building. When I am not working, I divide my time between my many mature interests and activities--cooking, botany, yachting, antiquing, hiking in the Catskills, and an early bed time.
I life on Morningside Avenue, which is the lower-rent side of Morningside Park, not to be confused with (but often is by cab drivers) Morningside Drive, which is the higher rent side and more commonly referred to as Morningside Heights. Where we live is more commonly referred to as Harlem. Or "Where?"
And the "We" in question is my boyfriend Ken and I. We moved into Manhattan together in July after only seven months of dating. That's how in love we were, and how incapable of paying rent alone.
But let me assure you, if you think we moved in together too quickly, you are wrong. We dated in high school from Pearl Harbor Day until about Memorial Day, so that adds another five plus months to our relationship, which means we dated for over a year and knew each other since the tenth grade.
Our apartment is small, but enviously decorated. We are very clean, and the occasional cockroach is not our fault. (I have encountered only three.) We live in a fifth floor walk-up, so our legs are in impeccable shape. In fact, Ken's calf muscles are so sharp and defined that we were able to throw out all of our knifes. We have no need for them.
During the day, I attend a thing called "work." It is challenging, stimulating, and takes place in an office building. When I am not working, I divide my time between my many mature interests and activities--cooking, botany, yachting, antiquing, hiking in the Catskills, and an early bed time.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Home Invasion
I noticed something on the wall as I lay on my couch, watching my all-time-favorite TV show, Pretty Little Liars on ABC family (not only do I buy every episode on Amazon.com, I have read the entire book series, which I borrowed from my 17-year-old cousin). I saw the something scuttle from above the TV set (just kidding, we don't have a TV set! We have a computer.) to the kitchen (again, I kid. We have kitchen area, or a kitchenette). As much as I wanted to ignore it and hope that it would find it's way out, I knew I couldn't.
If it were just a spider, in the absolute worst-case scenario I could possibly imagine, I would wake up in the middle of the night with a spider on my face (and most likely trying to get into my mouth or nose), and you know what? I can live with that. However, this was no spider. It was a larger-than-life cockroach, and in a worst-case scenario, I would wake up with a cockroach on my face.
I had to do something.
My first inclination was to wait for Ken to come home. He was at a movie screening for a friend of his. I actually had almost gone (in fact, I had walked in the door), but really didn't want to and apparently was whining enough that Ken finally said (after I was through the door), "Fine, you can leave." I bolted.
Anyway, I texted Ken that I was under attack by a giant cockroach, and he did not offer to leave the party and come to my rescue. Some boyfriend. Plan A was out.
The bug was moving fast. Too fast to be caught using the ordinary cup-over-bug method. I had to think of something better, and preferably something that would allow me to stay far away from the horrifying creature. I found a broom, and prepared myself to fight back.
I followed it into a ceiling corner (I, standing on the peninsula-shaped counter of my kitchen-area) and swung. And missed. I know that I didn't give it my all. I was still hoping Ken would come home, and if I could avoid squashing a bug against my white kitchen-area walls and then scraping off its remains, I would. The bug ran for cover onto my counter and into my fruit bowl. I tried to put a pan over it so that I could trap him until Ken came home, but the bowl was too full and the pan wouldn't lie flat.
Retreating to the couch, I again debated whether or not I could simply ignore the beast, but I knew I couldn't--I might wake up in the middle of the night to find it on my face. Or I might squish it into my shoe the following morning as I put my shoes on, not knowing he was lurking inside. Or he might attack me while I tried to finish Pretty Little Liars in peace. No, there was no waiting. I had to destroy him.
I regained composure and went in for the kill. I startled him out of the fruit bowl, and he retreated behind the ipod dock. Slowly, I nudged the ipod dock over until the devil was exposed, and SMASH. I broomed him. He wasn't dead (as far as I know, cockroaches cannot die), but stunned and mangled, so I covered him with a glass and waited until my nerves were calm. By the time I was ready, he was revitalizing and trying to escape the glass! I'm sure he would of had I given him a few more minutes, but I scooped him up and deposited him in the toilet. I flushed and watched him disappear. When the tank refilled, I flushed again (as far as I know, cockroaches cannot die, and they can swim up-pipe in drainage systems. Half drowned and mangled, he would crawl back out of my toilet and attack me in my sleep).
I counted to ten to make sure he did not resurface, and declared victory.
If it were just a spider, in the absolute worst-case scenario I could possibly imagine, I would wake up in the middle of the night with a spider on my face (and most likely trying to get into my mouth or nose), and you know what? I can live with that. However, this was no spider. It was a larger-than-life cockroach, and in a worst-case scenario, I would wake up with a cockroach on my face.
I had to do something.
My first inclination was to wait for Ken to come home. He was at a movie screening for a friend of his. I actually had almost gone (in fact, I had walked in the door), but really didn't want to and apparently was whining enough that Ken finally said (after I was through the door), "Fine, you can leave." I bolted.
Anyway, I texted Ken that I was under attack by a giant cockroach, and he did not offer to leave the party and come to my rescue. Some boyfriend. Plan A was out.
The bug was moving fast. Too fast to be caught using the ordinary cup-over-bug method. I had to think of something better, and preferably something that would allow me to stay far away from the horrifying creature. I found a broom, and prepared myself to fight back.
I followed it into a ceiling corner (I, standing on the peninsula-shaped counter of my kitchen-area) and swung. And missed. I know that I didn't give it my all. I was still hoping Ken would come home, and if I could avoid squashing a bug against my white kitchen-area walls and then scraping off its remains, I would. The bug ran for cover onto my counter and into my fruit bowl. I tried to put a pan over it so that I could trap him until Ken came home, but the bowl was too full and the pan wouldn't lie flat.
Retreating to the couch, I again debated whether or not I could simply ignore the beast, but I knew I couldn't--I might wake up in the middle of the night to find it on my face. Or I might squish it into my shoe the following morning as I put my shoes on, not knowing he was lurking inside. Or he might attack me while I tried to finish Pretty Little Liars in peace. No, there was no waiting. I had to destroy him.
I regained composure and went in for the kill. I startled him out of the fruit bowl, and he retreated behind the ipod dock. Slowly, I nudged the ipod dock over until the devil was exposed, and SMASH. I broomed him. He wasn't dead (as far as I know, cockroaches cannot die), but stunned and mangled, so I covered him with a glass and waited until my nerves were calm. By the time I was ready, he was revitalizing and trying to escape the glass! I'm sure he would of had I given him a few more minutes, but I scooped him up and deposited him in the toilet. I flushed and watched him disappear. When the tank refilled, I flushed again (as far as I know, cockroaches cannot die, and they can swim up-pipe in drainage systems. Half drowned and mangled, he would crawl back out of my toilet and attack me in my sleep).
I counted to ten to make sure he did not resurface, and declared victory.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Decisions, decisions
Due to my recent internet acquisition, I stayed up late last night and did not make it to the gym this morning. I had dinner plans for the evening, but figured I could go to the gym on my way home from dinner.
However, the restaurant I am going to offers 1/2 price bottles of wine on Monday's.
It is a difficult decision, but I think I might go with...
However, the restaurant I am going to offers 1/2 price bottles of wine on Monday's.
It is a difficult decision, but I think I might go with...
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Good Morningside!
Amazing news!! We finally acquired internet and I can finally start a blog. We have lived in our new apartment since July, but have not had real access to or ownership of internet. The reason for this is because we decided to grow it ourselves (trying to stay green!) and wow, it is a lot more difficult that I thought it would be. After two false starts, it took five whole months to grow--and then harvest--the internet, but now it's here and serving us well!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)