Month: September 2002 Page 1 of 3

Project. Why? I don’t know. It’s just one of those things, you wake up and you know. I had a dream that I was cross-stitching a nudie picture. I haven’t cross-stitched in over a decade, I guess. Nevertheless. The’s an ant crawling over my pen box. Why is there an ant crawling over my pen box? Now it’s on the monitor. So after some fruitful webcrawling, I have a trial version of PC stitch, which will allow you to design your own cross-stitch patters, including importing graphics and converting them to a pattern — ready-made, convertible to whatever floss system you use, you set the number of colors, the stitches per inch, etc. At 24 inches across and a proportionate number of inches high, I’m starting on the Maxfield Parrish painting that is the two kids (I know, not a nudie picture, but the same sensuality of delight is there — the lighting is sexy, if you will), the two pillars, the trees, and a lake with moutains…and mostly sky.

Only a cross-stitcher would know how nuts this project is. And no, I’m not going to put “Home Sweet Home” right in the middle, with pastel curlicue letters and backstitching. And definitely no cute little kitties wearing Santa hats. And If I Ever Finish It, Lee Will Get It Professionally Framed For Me. He said.

I bought the canvas and some of the thread today (DMC. Fifty colors. JoAnne’s Fabrics was out of white. White. White? How can you be out of WHITE?). And a roller frame, so I don’t have to try to work my way around all that fabric. I have high hopes for the roller frame.

If I ever do this again, I’m going to get the full version of the software. You can’t save on the trial version. Damn bastards, making me take all those screen shots. Just as well. I have pictures of the rulers on each page, so if I lost my place, I only have 12 square inches to search. Trivial.

Anniversary redux. Familiarity breeds. Content.

(No, I’m still on depo.)

Review. Anthem, Ayn Rand.

Given a choice between Anthem and Atlas Shrugged, which would you pick? I know, I know, I make the same choices when it comes to Bartleby the Scrivner and Moby Dick, and Finnegan’s Wake and Ulysses. I read the slim volume that isn’t the masterpiece. And in some cases I’m probably the better woman for it.

Anthem was worth the time it took to read, but I don’t think Atlas Shrugged would have been. I don’t buy the philosophy behind Ayn Rand’s work, apparently. I accept that collectivism tends to go bad. Check out the remains of the Soviet Union; ask students in China. Nevertheless, the opposite of something bad is not something good. Good and evil, as strange as it may seem, are not the opposite ends of the spectrum. Extremes tend to cause suffering, pain — for example, alcoholism is hell. Contrariwise, puritanical teetotalling is its own hell. Both can be satisfying traps — nevertheless.

The opposite of collectivism is pure selfishness. Pure selfishness, fully considered, can be paradoxically generous — “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Pure selfishness, driven to its extreme, is just as bad as collectivism. Imagine capitalism unsullied by democracy, and you have it. Even the selfish (individual, non-collective) love sketched out in Anthem is petty: the main character, eventually calling himself “Prometheus,” gets jealous and possessive, and chooses the her name for her (“Gaea”)rather than allowing her to choose her name for herself. Hypocrite.

The reason I say that reading Anthem wasn’t a waste of time was contextual. While Anthem strikes me as extremist, bigoted, sparsely written, and inferior to We and 1984, it’s like a philosophical juggernaut unsullied by the things that make fiction worth reading — it’s more like well-written political propoganda than anything else. Which makes sense, given the title.

But give me The Unbearable Lightness of Being any day, if you want to protest communism.

New toofer. Ray’s working on a new tooth. It must hurt worse than the other ones did — what a grouch! (I catch myself thinking that from time to time and have to laugh. Grouch? Ray? At her worst all you need to do is pick her up and snuggle. Or dance a little. Or bang things together. Just pay attention. What a wonderful child.)

Feel good. I’ve been meaning to send a copy of “Lanes of the Living Dead” to the tabloid the Sun, which publishes short, pulp-type stories. Submit and go forth! I got the address from a friend of mine at work, but it was the address to a similarly-titled magazine. Luckily I checked out the website and decided that the Sun Publications Co., Inc., was not the place to submit “Lanes.” Too much class, or something.

I had a couple of extra copies of the story sitting around, though, so I took them in to work. And made a couple of people laugh.

I feel good.

Joke of the Week.

Every week, I put a joke in the dept. newsletter. They have been bad and worse. I feel no shame in stealing Lee’s jokes, either.

Last Monday’s:

What do you call a big group of short elves with a terrible disease?







…A Leper-con.

Anniversary.

So, yesterday Lee looks me deeply in the eyes (OUCH!) and says, “Uh, did we pass our anniversary?”

I said, “You know what, I think it’s tomorrow.”

“How long has it been, three years?”

“There’s that thing on the wall that says ’98. Four years.”

“Four years? That’s kind of scary.”

“Well, we’ve been dating for six.”

“True.”

Time flies when you’re…uh…what the heck have we been doing?

All self-depreciation aside, woo hoo! Here’s to exchanging every year with someone I love for the rest of my life — a sufficient gift of itself. Thank you, Lee.

Surprise.

Last Saturday, some kind of miraculous day off that we both had off (!), Lee gave me a surprise. First, he disappeared for a few hours with the bebe. Then, he reappeared (with the bebe), and disappeared for several hours downstairs. Finally, he reappeared again. With a pinata.

Very cute, purple dinosaur (not that purple dinosaur) pinata. We still haven’t busted it open. Not to say that we didn’t try. I whacked the dang thing, Lee whacked the dang thing; eventually he stabbed it a couple of times with his sword. Aiieee, take that, ROUS!

Ray got scared, I got sick of whacking it, I eventually just begged Lee to let us pull stuff out of it. Pinatas, as it turns out, are not made of any kind of wussy paper mache. No, it’s layered cardboard. Cultures that partake in pinata customs must turn out children who are well placed to step into the world of professional wrestling. Or something.

It was filled with chocolate and goodies. The goodies were small, plastic toys that you get out of vending machines. God! There must have been upwards of twenty-five of the little buggers. My favorite…hm…probably the little decks of cards with Halloween backs. Grossest: you know the material you make fake boogers out of, the stuff that kids fling at the walls? It sticks to stuff, feels disgusting, doesn’t really leave behind any residue? Yeah. Anyway, taking the prize was a convincingly narsty eyeball. Glow in the dark, by the way, so you can stick it on someone’s face after midnight and scare the piss out of ’em.

And inside each one was another gift, a piece of paper with a “freebie,” many of them…sexual.

Very nice. Mixing both my favorite kinds of sheer delight.

Thank you, Love.

Review. Kung Pow.

Hee hee hee hee hee hee!

I haven’t laughed this hard since Spaceballs.

Feet don’t fail me now.

Quick! Before Ray hits the power button…again!

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