Your burning questions answered!

I'll try to answer as many questions as I can in this entry, but I'm a wordy thang and would feel responsible if your eyes crossed from reading a looooooong entry. Also, I'm a Libra and can't answer questions simply because doing so would involve making a decision (eeeek). So in the order in which I received them:

Which should you trust more--your head or your heart? I should have known Greg would ask a question that requires pondering instead of blithely dashing off "Why, my favorite color is turquoise!" Heh. By the way, check out the site he mentioned as the source of his question. I got lost for quite a while reading some interesting essays.

So to answer the question . . . I want--with all my heart, even--to say you should always trust your heart, and 20 years ago, I would have answered that way without hesitating. In a heartbeat, even. Since then, I've learned that my instincts can lead me to make some bad choices. For a while, that lesson made me bitter, and I vowed I'd rely only on cold, hard logic. I'd be sensible! I'd make decisions rationally, with a mature amount of consideration and thought! Surely my intellect wouldn't betray me, right?

Wrong. I refused to take some risks because they weren't logical and didn't ensure a known outcome; as a result, I missed opportunities for happiness that I regret now. Sometimes you do have to take a leap of faith, whether it makes sense or not and no matter what warnings your head might be screaming at you. Although my answer sounds like typical Libran waffling, I have to say that trying to balance trusting my head and my heart is what works best for me.

Neargem said: Well, I for one would love to know more about your furballs (age, how you got them, funny personality traits, etc.).

I won't include pictures because I've posted some recently, and there's a set on Flickr here. In order of when I acquired them:

Cairo: Shortly after my ex-husband and I separated in 1996, a theater friend called to say he'd found a stray cat with kittens and invited me over to see them. Daniel and I fell in love with a sleek little gray kitten who he swore was an Egyptian cat (hee)--hence her name. We brought her home, and she promptly began bossing around my elderly beagle, Bridgette. She also seemed to think Bridgette was her mother and occasionally tried to nurse from her. When Bridgette was hit by a car, Cairo paced around crying mournfully for a few months, until Holly (next up) came to join us. Now 11, she's a talkative cat and adept at seething looks of hatred until she's in the mood to cuddle. I realize she's neurotic and bitchy as all hell, but I adore her, and she has the silkiest fur in the world. She and Charlie tease each other mercilessly, and I swear I've caught them playing tag.

Holly: A few months after Bridgette died, my sister, who was volunteering at an animal shelter while in vet school, called to tell me a pregnant beagle there had a litter of puppies. I asked her to save one for me, and my parents took care of Holly until Christmas, when she became Daniel's surprise present. My parents had been calling her Molly, but Daniel decided Holly was a better name for a Christmas gift. She turns 10 this year and is a portly, lazy floor ham, unless she senses the possibility of escaping to run around the neighborhood scarfing up fine cuisine from trashcans. At that point, she's capable of ninja-like stealth and speed. Charlie can still prompt Holly into puppy-like running and playing with toys, but she's starting to show her age. She has occasional mild seizures and moves slowly and stiffly in the mornings, and she's developed a snore that would wake the dead. She's a sweet, affectionate dog who would probably lick an intruder to death.

Picard: Soon after we got Holly, the same kitten pusher I got Cairo from called to tell me about another stray litter. Being the suckers we are, Daniel and I went to his house and again fell instantly in love with a tiny black-and-white kitten. Daniel had just started his fascination with all things Star Trek and decided to name the kitten Picard. That tiny ball of fur is now a 9-year-old, 20-plus-pound behemoth. He's definitely a gentle giant, though. He's so laid-back and sweet--except when he's attacking the water jug, that is. The only other time he gets frantic is when his food bowl seems to be getting empty.

Charlie: Last and smallest, but certainly not least, is Charlie the chihuahua. Our next-door neighbor asked if we wanted him because he felt guilty about leaving three-month-old Charlie alone all day while he was at work. Daniel started the begging and groveling immediately, but I'd never been fond of small dogs, and besides, we had three pets already. Charlie's cute act was hard to resist, as were Daniel's promises to train and take care of him, so I caved. About six months later, Charlie became very sick with a mysterious illness and came close to dying. Worrying about him and caring for him during that time changed my casual affection for a cute puppy into . . . well, let's just say I'm absolutely crazy about that damn dog. I wouldn't go so far as to call him "my child"--I'm not that nuts yet--but I had no idea I could love a dog so much. He turns 4 this year and is cuddly, bossy, and thoroughly spoiled. His favorite game is herding the cats out of the room like a sheepdog, and he's convinced he's the size of a Great Dane.

Carol said: Not really a question but I would love to see more photos of the arts and crafts that you and Kevin do. I haven't done much artistically in a while, although I really want to. Kevin and I used to work on projects together in the art room upstairs quite often, and I miss doing that. Part of the problem is that room has gotten out of control because too many interests are crammed into one space. Kevin started creating electronic music a few years ago, so all that equipment is in there, and now he has projects for his artist-in-residence gig taking up space, too. A major cleaning and reorganizing is in the works so that I can work on some collage and rubber stamp projects again. In the meantime, I added some pictures to another Flickr set here, Carol.

And I said I didn't want to be long-winded! Janet, you dirty-minded girl, I'm going to have to save your question for the next entry, along with any new ones. There's still time to get a question in! Just leave it in the comments.

In the news

This headline is one of the funniest I've seen in ages. CNN better watch its back, though; some Tony Soprano types might take it as a sign of disrespect at being called the "source of a stench."

That story amused me. Who expects a bad smell in New York? Wow. This story from yesterday, however, is downright bizarre. City officials kept insisting no environmental danger or gas leak existed, but what could cause that many birds to die suddenly and in such a precisely bounded space? An undetected EM pulse? I don't see how a viral infection or poisoning could make 60-plus birds of different species drop dead at once. Doesn't the story sound like the opening of a Michael Crichton novel?

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Tomorrow Daniel's Brain Game team is traveling to a private college in Indianapolis, where their match will be taped for TV! I'm so excited; I can't wait to see it. He informed me last night that he has to wear a suit jacket and tie. Good thing for him he HAS an outfit already because if I had to run out and buy something with that little notice, he might not have lived to 18. Over his Christmas break, he kept in Brain Game "training" by watching Jeopardy! with me, and if that show allowed teams, he and I would obliterate any competition, I'm telling you. Heh. Poor Kevin almost has to leave the room to escape the intensity when we yell answers at the TV screen. Keep your fingers crossed Daniel's team does well tomorrow, will you?

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Holly is snoring so loudly in the living room that I can't hear myself think! So instead of babbling on incoherently, I'm going to pull a Robyn and say I'll answer any questions in my next entry that you leave in the comments. Uh, questions about me, that is. I don't mean questions such as "What's the capital of North Dakota?" (Bismarck) or "What's the square root of 458?" (um, a rectangle?). I'll answer just about anything, as long as it doesn't make me blush!

My trip to Mt. Pilot

Getting the hell out of Mayberry has such a positive effect on my mood and outlook that I really need to do it more often. Kevin and I decided to make the 1:00 movie in Indianapolis yesterday (and a big raspberry to AMC Theater's 4:00 matinee cut-off policy), and then browsed at Half-Price Books for a while. Oh, and we found a new thrift store next to HPB, run by the Jewish Women's something-or-other club, that's full of great clothes (all clean and in nice shape) and assorted housewares. I scored a caramel-colored corduroy jacket with a gorgeous striped silk lining for EIGHT BUCKS, and Kevin found a Dilbert tie for Daniel for 99 cents.

We debated between Dreamgirls and The Good Shepherd and finally settled on Dreamgirls, figuring it would be more fun to see on a big screen. I'm so happy we picked that movie because Oh. My. God. I adore musicals and splashy Broadway shows, and as some of you know, few things make me happier than Motown, so having the two combined with a fantastic cast would have been worth even the full ticket price. Beyonce and Jamie Foxx were okay--about what you'd expect--but Eddie Murphy truly surprised me. Honestly, I didn't think he had that kind of emotional performance in him.

Jennifer Hudson, however, knocked my socks off. I remembered her from American Idol two seasons ago as a woman with a big voice but definite crazy eyes, a sort of diva-in-training. Whew. She's way more than that. Amazing, powerful voice, but even better than that, girlfriend can act. I can't remember the last time I actually got chills watching someone in a movie; she was absolutely riveting every time she was onscreen. Beyonce who? What about Jamie Foxx in Ray? Point the camera back at Jennifer! About halfway through her big number ("And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going"), I had tears running down my face. I couldn't help it; every time I thought I'd gotten myself under control, I'd well up again. The entire theater broke into applause at the end of that song, so I'm only a little embarrassed to admit her singing affected me that deeply. If she doesn't break your heart, too, well, I'm sorry, but you have the emotional capacity of the Grinch before hearing the Whos sing on Christmas morning.

Storywise, I think the movie loses a little steam after that point, and some characters aren't as well developed as they could be. Also, if you're not a fan of musicals, some of the form's cliches might bug you, such as people singing dialogue at each other. Despite the few drawbacks, go see it for Jennifer Hudson. Just be better prepared than I was, and take a kleenex. Maybe several.

I bet I can fit a whole bag of popcorn in my purse

Of a four-author team, how many do you think showed up for yesterday's conference call about the book being 6 weeks behind schedule? That's right: one. ARRGGHH. One who didn't show is dealing with his father, who's very ill; besides, he's one of the most responsible authors, so I'm not worried about him. Mr. Conflict of Interest didn't show, of course, and the fourth guy just . . . who knows? He never responded to Kid Manager's e-mail about the meeting.

Six weeks might not sound critical, but the problem is the publication date. With the original schedule, the book would have been published July 1, which is good positioning to sell to colleges for the fall semester (also the biggest time for sales). Making that July 1 pub date now is doubtful. August 1 might be possible, but not if these authors continue turning everything in late. Of course, their dragging their feet puts more pressure on me to turn work around way faster than normal to try to make up for lost time. Thanks! Love you authors, too!

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How much does an intercom system cost? Through some freakish combination of architecture and sound waves, you can't hear a thing from downstairs when you're upstairs in my house, unless you're standing next to a heating vent. A Shriner parade complete with tiny motorcycles and a high school marching band could tromp through the downstairs, and I'd never know it if I were upstairs. I'm usually downstairs, but Kevin and Daniel are often upstairs, Daniel in his room and Kevin in the art room. So when they get a phone call or I need them for something, I have to yell up the stairs for them because I'm not going to hike up and down that damn spiral staircase 40 times a day (although I'd have thighs of steel if I did). I've about had it with yelling, waiting, bellowing louder, waiting some more, and repeating ad nauseum. (On the plus side, if anyone holds a Ma Kettle contest, I'm a shoe-in to win.) I can't afford to install a professional intercom, but surely Radio Shack has a fairly inexpensive gadget? I need to look into that before my vocal cords give out.

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I just checked movie listings for the theater we usually go to in Indianapolis and noticed that matinee prices are good only until 4:00. Don't most theaters offer matinee prices until 6:00, or has that changed? Money-grubbing bastards. Of course, both movies I want to see start at 4:05. Hmmmph! See if I feel guilty for sneaking my own snacks in.

Bad cats and authors

I took a day off from updating to let poor Sasha acclimate; I understand that at her age, getting used to change is much more difficult (ahem). I don't know what got me in the mood for updating more regularly. Partly it's because work has been slower the past few months, so I actually have time to sit here in the mornings with my coffee and think about what to write. The bigger reason is, I think, that time seems to be slipping by faster and faster--sometimes careening out of control--and writing an entry is a way to grab time and force it to slow down a little. Also, if all the crossword and logic puzzles I do to ward off The Alzheimer's don't work, maybe I can print out and read old entries to remember the past.

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Maybe you cat people can tell me what the hell has gotten into my cat Picard. I have a houseful of spoiled or neurotic pets, but he's always been my good boy--sweet, laidback, undemanding. Several months ago, Kevin bought one of those water jugs for animals; you know, it looks like a miniature version of an office water cooler? He was tired of refilling the old water dish several times a day, and this water jug can last for a few days, even with four pets drinking from it. I knew Picard was fascinated by water; he loves to watch me run water in the bathtub, and sometimes he runs into the bathroom when he hears me brushing my teeth, hops into the tub, and looks at me expectantly, like I'm going to run a nice bubble bath for him.

Lately, however, he's gotten downright freakish about water--specifically the water in the water jug. When you fill the jug up and turn it upside down into the tray, the water bubbles loudly a few times until it settles down and starts flowing. Over the past few weeks, I'd heard some strange thumping noises occasionally and noticed the kitchen floor around the water jug was damp. I thought Holly was getting impatient with how fast the water came out and was nudging it with her nose, knocking some water out into the floor. The other night, I decide to catch her in the act, so when I heard the thumping, I ran into the kitchen--and saw Picard attacking the bubbling water jug! That damn cat is convinced an evil water creature is causing the bubbling, I think, and he's going to make damn sure he kills it. He glares at the jug for a minute, slinking up to it slowly, and then pounces, thwacking the jug with both front paws like Rocky Balboa working over a side of beef. He's whapped the jug so hard sometimes that he's knocked it over, and then all that water spills onto the floor. I hate to scold him every time he goes near the water jug because I don't want to make him afraid of drinking from it normally. I can't have a constant puddle of water on my kitchen floor, though. Any ideas?

Speaking of my very bad pets, I added a few pictures of them on Flickr. There's a link over there to the left; I'm not awake enough yet to link to them here. It's 6:30, people, and I've had only cup of coffee. Not fully functional yet.

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I have a conference call this afternoon with Kid Manager and the authors of the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Late book (my apologies to Judith Viorst). I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to that! Kid Manager has been nagging the authors via e-mail all week, trying to get them to commit to a time this afternoon. They all live near Seattle, and finding a compromise between EST and PST hours isn't always easy. Finally, KM settled on 3 p.m. EST, but she still hadn't heard from one author as of yesterday. This guy is, in general, a pain in the ass. He won't return phone calls or respond to e-mails, he ignores instructions on submission criteria, and he turns in sloppy and incomplete work. He also writes the most cryptic e-mails I've ever read in my life. Half the time, I can't figure out what the hell he's talking about. In response to Kid Manager's notice of the meeting time and call-in number, he wrote the following:

by the time I get home from work it is usually after 7pm PST.... M-F

We just fired an investigator for a conflict of interest issue... I'll have to read the updates via email

OK, so I assume that means he can't make the meeting at noon his time, but why didn't he say so earlier this week?? And what does that investigator have to do with ANYTHING? Is attending this meeting a conflict of interest for him?? What updates is he going to read? Updates about the investigator? From whom?

Arrrrggghhhhh. Wish me luck, yes?

Taco power: Resistance is futile

Daniel has a blog on a gaming site. I haven't asked to see it (partly because it's on a gaming site and, therefore, mostly about topics that make me yawn with excruciating boredom), but he left a Word document on my computer the other day that he'd copied to his blog. It cracked me up, so I'm including it here--unedited, which as you know, killed me--because I really don't think he'd mind:

"I enjoy the delicious taste of tacos. Why, you may ask? They combine the awesomeness of ground beef, the chesseiness of cheese, the dubious nutrutional value of a few strands of lettuce, the delicious spiciness of taco sauce combined with the coolness of sour cream, all wrapped in a crunchy (or soft) tortilla. Whether or not you like the taco, you must acknowledge that it is the supreme accomplishment of mankind, the culmination of all we've strived to create. Art, technology, literature, even video games, all must bow to the awesome POWER of the taco. Please feel free to post both pro and against comments regarding this, but know that you cannot deny the truth. All hail Taco."

The boy does love tacos, I can tell you that. He likes trying different salsas each time; last night, I think he used mango salsa, which he pronounced "interesting." I can't believe he's the same kid who used to have a list of five foods he deemed acceptable to eat. His tastes have definitely broadened. So take heart, parents of picky eaters: There's hope!

Kevin's been doing some writing lately, too. For his artist-in-residence gig, he had to outline the projects he plans to work on this year as well as a summary of his philosophy on art and its role in, uh . . . I don't know. Society? The community? Something like that. He jotted down several ideas in bullet form and asked me to take a look to see whether he was on the right track for his philosophy. I love him, but his spelling is nearly as creative as his art. Oy. Anyway, he had some interesting ideas about what art is, and he believes the notion of "fine art" stymies a lot of creativity. He's working on a theory of "everyday art" and getting ordinary people--that is, people who don't consider themselves artists or to have any talent or creative ability--to attempt artistic expression, particularly with nontraditional media. I suggested an idea that I think could be effective: a class combining school-age children with adults. Kids, up to a certain age, don't censor themselves as adults do. Ask them to draw a picture, and you'll rarely hear them say "But I can't draw!" Kids just assume they can. So including them in a class might inspire the adults to loosen up a little on their self-criticism.

The only "creative" endeavor I have planned for today is digging through junk in the closet and trying to find my Silver Screen edition of Trivial Pursuit. One of the Curv3s employees comes up with new trivia questions or scrambled words every month, and then prints them in big letters and tapes them to the floor in front of each aerobic station so that you have something to occupy your mind while you're jogging or doing jumping jacks or whatever. For me, it helps cut down on the boredom of exercising, too. I was talking to her the other day about what she's planned for this month, and she said she'd used a ton of questions from the original Trivial Pursuit game and needed a new source of questions. So if I can find my Silver Screen game, I'll bring those questions in for her, maybe as a tie-in with the Oscars? What month are the Academy Awards aired, anyway?

Like my plum lipgloss?

It's only the second day of January, and already I have a repair guy in my house because something broke down. Arrrghhhhh. The igniter on my furnace cracked, and my ductwork needs to be cleaned out. (Hush.) I was just getting caught up on bills, too. Figures, right?

Who knows what the repair guy thinks of me. It was too cold in the house this morning to shower, so I have some wild-ass hair going on, and I'm dressed like a bag lady in layers and layers of clothes, but I HAVE LIPSTICK ON, by God. I am my mother's daughter, after all. The surgical nurses had to fight her to get her lipstick off the last time she had surgery. When the anesthesia wore off, the first words she croaked were "Jeff, find my lipstick and a mirror--and don't look at me until you do!" Bless her heart.

I'd better go down to the basement and hover helpfully while the repair guy sucks out 40 pounds of dust and pet hair from the furnace ducts. I'm sure he couldn't do his job unless I were peering over his shoulder and making lame attempts at furnace humor. On the other hand, see no showering above. Perhaps staying upstairs would be kinder.