A Roll in the Universe

Yesterday evening I was zipping along, messing around with some photos, figuring out a clever way to update a website I am webmaster for, and had about two zillion programs and windows open on my computer, and about the same amount of electrical appliances blazing in my apartment. And there went the lights. When I finally got the fusebox to cooperate again, my iMac ("lampfoot" type) faithfully started up - without the familiar Mac start-up chime, and without anything happening on the screen except for a very pretty light blue color. Several attempts were made to get my iMac to start from its hard disk. Finally, I ran hardware diagnostics and it hiccupped at one of my RAM chips. My baby is sick. Very, very sick. Not even a reinstall of the OS will fix it. I am without my computer, without regular surfing, e-mailing, Usenetting, etc. Oh. God. Abstinence. Oh. God. Panic. Luckily, there's a Mac repair shop right here in town. Goody. That takes care of the pani

I'll bet you thought we no longer live in the dark ages, that we are intelligent and enlightened beings who understand how the world works and are not afraid of the dark. Wrong. To my great satisfaction. because it finally gives me a word for a phenomenon I've been seeing, an essay in today's local newspaper ( Bergens Tidende ) states in reference to the current scare about avian flu: "Modern anxiety is not due to bad experience, but that we are afraid of something we don't know what is. In the old days, we called that superstition." (My translation.) Ah, yes, man will insist that there are monsters under the bed, but like modern special effects, the details are more realistic and believable. Modern man know what causes illness and it isn't due to being cursed or building over a grave. But that is our problem: We know so much, we panic. We panic about flu season (hasn't arrived yet), we panic about the avian flu (hasn't arrived yet), and we

No, this is not about Australia. This is about feet. My feet. If you do not want to read about my feet (complete with photo), go check out my profile instead. Yeah, I finally decided to tell you what my favorite movies are. I have way too much time on my hands. But now: Feet. I have two feet. One left, one right. I have never named them, but have no trouble telling them apart, because the big toes have different shaped toenails, and they don't hit the floor when I walk the same way, so they make different sounds. Until now. I discovered a new beauty salon at the local mall, and booked myself for a pedicure today at noon. I have never had a pedicure before in my life, and was doing it mainly because I thought that after 45 years of faithful, uncomplaining service (I am so blessed), I decided to treat my two unnamed feet to some professional kindness. They didn't tell me about the scalpel. They didn't tell me about the filing down of the tops of the nails. I'm not

Jussi and his rider placed 4th. There were dozens and dozens to compete against, so 4th is no small feat. Congrats!

I was invited to take a look at a world I discovered I know nothing about: Riding shows. The daughter of a friend of mine, like many girls her age, is virtually in love with a horse. Her friend was going to be competition riding on a fjording (Norwegian fjord horse) named Jussi. In the days before tractors, fjordings pulled the hay wagons and the plows, and being sure-footed and well-adapted to their steep surroundings, also functioned as mules for mountain farmers. They are a docile but spirited breed of pony (Jussi is actually as tall as a horse). The most striking thing about them is their coloring: a fawn-colored coat with a blonder mane with a brown stripe down its middle continuing narrowly along the animals back and adding a brown stripe to the blond tail. The horse in the picture has been shaved, so his regular furry color can be seen on his face and legs, while his neck and body show his skin color. There were some odd shaving jobs on some other horses, and on one there wa

But once again, I'm not sure if the change is due to actual weight fluctuation or just months of drying jeans in the drier. At any rate, the pants aren't sitting where I want them to on my body, so today during lunch, I made a foray into a local clothing store, which offers slacks in three different lengths. I grabbed three pants, all the same size, and all marked "short", and went to try them on. What I like about winter: I don't have to shave my legs. What I didn't like about this store: With my pants off and their changing room curtains stopping a good foot above the floor, everybody can see my furry shins. I changed pants fast! All fit, all were bought, and I almost gasped at the price, because I hadn't looked at the price tags. I was just so happy to find pants that fit and that don't require hemming before I can wear them. And my little Buddha belly means I don't need a belt (that's both good and bad news). After blowing the equival

Some folks fill out the "questionaire" on their Blogger profil. I have some very bare essentials, including my Sun sign (because of the origins of this blog) in my profile, but Blogger does offer more to fill out: Interests, About Me, Favorite Movies, Favorite Books, and Random Question (currently "How do you pronounce the 'g' in bologna" (I don't)). I never fill these things out. If I am able to nail myself down long enough to actually figure out what my interests, favorite movies and books are, not to mention who am I and how much do I want to tell you and how paranoid am I going to feel about giving you such information, I find myself editing myself and not being entirely satisfied, and if I do settle down for an answer, it'll be out of date within a month. For example, my favorite food has for years been spaghetti with tomato sauce. Haven't had any in months and haven't missed it, and don't know when next I'll have it. My aver

A meme elsewhere poses the question about what one was doing 10 years ago. Oddly, I can no more imagine that than where I want to be 10 years from now. 1996/age 35 does not stand out in my head. If I'm able to dig up some photos or something, it'll probably jog my memory. I know where I was working, at a different department than where I am now, but again, nothing stands out. No moves, no illness, no boyfriend. The drama, what drama there was, was in 1994 and 1997. But if who I was 10 years ago could see me now, see me still at the same company, in the same home, sans Grandma and cat, and a few other people, and also without some old anger issues, what would she think? I think she'd think it was all a bit scary but also cool. Who I am now is far happier, stronger and aware than the 35-year-old me. I see progress even if I'm still at the same company and in the same apartment. So 10 years from now? More of the same. More happiness, more strength, more awareness. I thi

A while I go, I shared this view of a local stream with you. Today I walked past it on my detour home, and was amazed at how swollen the stream had gotten after last night's deluge. The water was rushing, pushing against the little wooden bridge I was standing on, battling noisily with itself to make it under and through to the other side. I took out my PDA and shot this unfocused picture, but it's good enough to show the change in water level.

My friend Sravana has a good summary about what Betty Friedan has meant to many women (and men), directly and indirectly.

It's raining. It's so wet out, that every attempt I made to take a picture first involved collecting raindrops on the camera's lens, viewer, etc. But not so wet that a female black thrush didn't enjoy a good bath in a puddle. I didn't walk through that puddle, but I did let my red rubber boots wade through some other puddles, and I had a nice walk over to Grandma and Grandpa's grave. It was my first visit since they had added Grandma's name to the headstone. I had to have a talk with her about that. It looked weird, seeing her first and middle Christian names on the stone, knowing that she had used her maiden name as a middle name for most of her adult life. But the right part was seeing both their names on the stone. Grandma and Grandpa are truly together now, also in writing. I got a clear sense of happiness from beneath my feet there. I have a delicious cup of café au lait at my side as I write this, purchased on my way home.

Yes, even blogdom is getting tired of four things . And I'm feeling quite vindicated for not playing along in the first place. Now for a walk in crappy weather for a café au lait. And maybe a picture or two.

I read Dooce's blog daily and she's (an) original, but today even Dooce is meming the four of everything. Am I destined to be the only one who won't tell you four places I've lived?

So there's this thing among bloggers called tagging. And that's how memes get around. Kind of like germs. If I come across a meme I like, I'll do it, for my own sake, because it interests me. But the act of tagging that some bloggers do, is way too much like chain letters. And as I just told a blogging friend who tagged me , I hate chain letters. Yeah, she accidentally pushed a button, poor sweety. Now, I did write a little bit about memes and chain letters in 2004 . Here's more about why I have an aversion to the things: When I was a kid, chain letters were a source of desperation for the kid who was sort of left out. We girls would have chain letters like passing on postcards to each other or something. Or some "good luck" letter pleading you to please, please , do not break the chain as it's been unbroken since a little girl wrote it during World War I in India. So guilted into not breaking the chain, and also happy that some girl had actually incl