It Wasn't Meant to Be a Joke

My friend just emailed and asked if I could come over and help her with some internet research (which she knows I can't resist: I located a long-lost relative for her once in 90 minutes flat) - I answered (yes, in all caps)

She replied that it was the funniest email I have ever sent and that she was doubled over laughing.

But the only part I was joking about was the exorcist.

Don't Assume Your Friends Are Blog-Literate

My friend Pinecone got quite irate at me recently because she hadn't heard from me for so long.

But you saw my blog, I protested. You knew about Lucy's surgery, my fence problems, Monty's escaping, having to cancel Sundance, the inauguration ...

In the ensuing conversation, eventually I realized that she didn't know what a blog was - I'd sent her a link, she'd clicked on it and read, and thought that was it. Which means we'd essentially been out of touch since I'd returned from Australia mid-summer, other than a quick non-specific email or two.

You mean it's like a journal? she asked.

So I apologized (profusely) and signed her up for email updates. And she loves it. She sent condolences and advice about Emma's cancerous growth (who still gets called Yem-Yem because that's what her daughter at age 4 called her); plans to order some LittleMissMatched socks for her daughter, now 11; and, after reading about all the loot I got at Circuit City, knows that my proclivities for thriftiness haven't changed.

Other than the Emma news, most of this stuff I'd never mention in an email or phone chat, but they're integral slices of my life that Pinecone probably would have known if I still lived across town from her. Yet another reason I love blogging - it's an easy, unobtrusive way to keep up with people I care about.

Once they realize what a blog is.

Note: A few years back Pinecone's daughter told her her hair style resembled a pinecone, so it's a fitting sobriquet. Because it does, a little.

The Usefulness of Elephant Font

I've figured how to rewrite really troublesome chapters - all the stuff that's not working I put in Elephant font, which is heavy and pretty ugly, and almost impossible to read when you have large blocks of it, because it's so dense.

So the old passages are there to refer to, but I'm not tempted to keep trying to rework them - I just write fresh copy, and move up the few bits that do work. And switch them back to Palatino.

You folks who write in Courier, don't know how you do it. I couldn't stand Courier when it was on a typewriter - I'd always opt for Elite instead of Pica, because it was sleeker (12 characters per inch versus 10).

Picking over the Bones at Circuit City

Circuit City is dead, and I was at the wake.

I had a $65 credit from a malfunctioning VCR. With an extended warranty, silly me, I had thought it would be repaired or replaced. Instead I got a store credit, which wouldn't cover the cost of a new VCR player. I tried for a year to use up that damned credit, but I could always find what I wanted elsewhere (hello, Staples!) for far less.

So I found myself at Circuit City in its final, closing days, picking through the bones.

I did well: six DVDs, an MP3 player and case, two computer games, and, okay, a box of chocolate-covered raisins, plus a combination lock, 100 shipping envelopes, and enough paper clips to last a lifetime - they were selling off all their office supplies.

We pretty much know why Circuit City failed: lack of service. You could never find anyone in the store to help you who knew anything, and without customer service, you may as well scour the internet for the cheapest prices.

So as the store was being dismantled and the shellshocked soon-to-be-unemployed workers were going through the motions, we were looking for bargains, picking through the departed one's belongings.

It was depressing as hell.

Why I Watched the Oscars: Hugh Jackman

And there wasn't nearly enough of him.



It was one of those years where I, like many folks, saw very few of the nominated films or performances.

I can count them on the fingers of ... well, three fingers.

Slumdog Millionaire, The Dark Knight, and Tropic Thunder.

I had good intentions, specifically to see Frank Langella, whom I've adored since his seamless, striking performance in 2007's Starting Out in the Evening (which should have gotten a prize for most awkward title) and Anne Hathaway - but persistently found myself veering toward lighter, cheerier fare.

It's been that kind of year.

Who Says Socks Should Match?

I love these socks. Who makes socks that don't match - intentionally - and sells them in packages of three? Three socks, that is, not three pairs. A company called (here you can stifle a wince) LittleMissMatched. It's nuts, and I love it.

Note: Finally located the Jen on the Edge blog entry that led me to these socks!

What's Good About Getting Smacked in the Eye with a Branch

You can pretend that your injured eye is watering, and not that you're crying because you just found out that the growth in your beloved dog Emma's mouth was cancerous.

Which you sort of knew when the vet said "We need to take this out today" and "Let's just wait on her heartworm test and shots." Dr. Dave is a great guy, but subterfuge is not his strong point.

Apparently Dogs Don't Digest Pineapple

Don't ask how I know.

Why You Should Always Take Rejection Graciously

Last night American Idol showed the selection of its final 36 contestants, ones who will actually perform on the show at least once. One of the 36 whose selection was featured on last night's show was Joanne Pacitti.

This morning she is gone from the 36, vanished. Replaced by a previous "reject," Felicia Barton from Virginia Beach.

And I'm betting that right about now, those who stalked away angrily or took their rejection less than graciously are really regretting it.

Because it ain't over til it's over.

Apparently I've Been Blowing My Nose Wrong

All these years, I've been doing it wrong. Who knew?

The New York Times reports research that pretty much confirms that (especially when we have colds) we should be blowing just one nostril at a time.

Geek Humor

You pull out your broken laptop computer, the one that had gone completely dead and would not turn on, to try once more to get it running. You leave it charging overnight, then press the start button. Amazingly, it starts, but you get the error message Hard drive not found, which usually signals a failed hard drive. You try a few more times without success (computers being the one exception to the axiom of Crazy is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result). Then you decide to check the seating of the hard drive. You flip the computer over, remove the screws and take off the hard drive cover.

The slot is empty - completely. There IS no hard drive.

You have forgotten that you removed the hard drive to try it in another computer.

Geek that you are, you find this enormously funny.

Postscript: The hard drive, once installed, has disk errors, so you're going to try to access the data through a complex contraption that lets you harness it to a working computer.

The Ice Dam Cometh ... and Goeth Away

The ice dam arrives - because Sara didn't keep the snow removed from her roof.


The ice dam and backed-up snow disappears (it was melting through the living room ceiling), thanks to Handyperson with a hatchet.

I Am an Accent Sponge

This morning I got a report of possibly fraudulent activity on my credit card ($110 at a service station in Alexandria at 2 AM, 600 miles from me - ya think?). The woman I spoke to in fraud services was apparently Canadian, because when I talked to SO immediately afterward I was in full Canuck mode, speaking perfect Canadian (it's somewhat like Minnesotan, but with slightly different vowel sounds).

To say I soak up accents is putting it mildly. It's as if you hit a switch and suddenly I am Canadian. I can drive toward Canada, completely American, and the moment that customs inspector opens his mouth and says Where are you from? I become Canadian, in inflection, tone, and expressions.

But I don't have to actually be in another country to switch accents. Apparently at some point in my past or in a former life I encountered a proper British woman who served food and an outspoken Irish nanny, because when I speak of food, I become British, and lapse into Irish when I scold.

Sometimes I become East Indian, sounding like Rajesh on The Big Bang Theory, and sometimes vaguely Scandinavian (SO calls this my Ikea accent). When startled, I shriek in what sounds like Chinese, and mixed in my speech, at random, is street Brooklyn I picked up from a New York friend.

Because I often begin to speak just like whomever I'm talking to, I live in dread that someone will think I am mocking them. I'm not - I'm just an accent sponge.

Note: Three specific words are dead giveaways of my Tennessee roots, whose pronunciation I can alter only with great effort. (Can you guess them? It's relatively easy If you're inventive you can use them all in one sentence [but not without adding at least five other words].)

Best Book Pitch I've Heard in a While

I cannot resist flogging this not-yet-published book: "the first-ever comprehensive submarine cookbook to be marketed to the general public."

What a tagline! I love it.

Of course I have no idea why or how recipes served aboard a submarine are different from those for the rest of us - altitude? pressure? lack of ingredients? movement of the vessel? - nor why we would need them or when we would use them.

But I do want to find out.

Things I Wish I Hadn't Learned

that some people, instead of getting better or smarter as they get older, get unhappier and meaner and more narrow-minded

that some people you thought innocent have layer upon layer of unpleasant motives

that some people you thought victims are exactly where they want to be

that some people who have acted as if they are your friends aren't

that some people you simply have to walk away from

And Now I'm in Writer Heaven

A spacious house, well stocked with food, with heat that flicks on with the touch of a switch. A roomy office overlooking a lovely valley. High-speed internet. Warm enough that the dogs will spend most of their time outdoors, in the big fenced yard. Few people know where I am. Two weeks to complete this revision.

Life is good.

Why Fish Oil Reminds Me of Australia

I arrived in Australia last May three weeks after breaking my fifth right metatarsal (the long bone that connects to your little toe) and having surgery to repair it.

To minimize the scar from the four-inch long incision, I rubbed fish oil into it every night.

So the smell of fish oil takes me back there, to my Australian adventure, the old bookshops I found, learning to navigate on crutches, picking fresh grapefruit every morning, riding the train, discovering that Sydney movie theaters have assigned seats, visiting friends in Canberra, seeing a field of kangaroos, meeting with the wonderfully generous author Michael Robotham, and learning, in my cold little bedroom in a Sydney suburb, how to rewrite.