We’re all about the Dinosaur Train at our house,* and lately Sunny had been pretending she’s Tiny Pteranodon,** who, when she gets upset or there are predators about, hides in her “Tiny Place.”
Sunny decided she wanted a tiny place of her very own to hide from her big sister predators, too. So she built this Monday and has been spending most of her waking moments in it every since:
You can’t see it, but she has a a baby blanket, a huge stuffed sheep, a picture book, and a cereal bowlful of grapes in there.
It all fits because she’s so tiny. Get it?
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The Odds are Good, But the Goods are Odd . . .
A while back, Ali Binazir, author and Harvard man, attended a talk in which the speaker mentioned that scientists believe the odds of a specific individual being born as that specific individual to be one in 400 trillion (4×1014).
That number makes the national debt of the US look like pocket change. From my pockets.
Mr. Binazir—who is clearly not at Harvard because a rich relative bribed the Governing Board***—streamlined the math in one hilarious and thought-provoking blog post, and someone made a chart from it (click to enlarge):
So . . . Should we buy lottery tickets, or did we use up all my luck just getting here?
(Thanks to Cha Cha for the chart!)
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Mommy’s Tiny Place
I told Sunny that I wished I had a tiny place.
“You do!” she said, and pointed.
This, according to the resident expert, is my tiny place:
Please note that it is not safe from predators. Or distractions. Or random writing instruments. Or anything, really.
My ideal tiny place looks more like this:
Or this (the image isn’t tiny, but the place is):
Or even the upper level of this:
But I guess I’ll settle for this—because it’s bigger on the inside. I hope:
What’s your tiny place like?
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*I can’t begin to tell you how high I have to crank my suspension of disbelief for this show. I realize I’m not the targeted demographic, but if you decide to try this out, please for the sake of your sanity and your kids’ enjoyment, don’t start asking any questions about the train or the laying of the track or opposable thumbs or the flippin’ Time Tunnels, or what all those carnivores are probably doing off-screen. Just let it all wash over you like an anachronistic breeze and enjoy the songs.
**I get to be Mrs. Pteranondon, which is good, because I can’t pronounce Gigonotosaurus to The Sunny’s satisfaction.
***Not that I’m implying that the Governing Board of Harvard can be bribed—or at least not until I can’t get my brilliant offspring accepted any other way . . . though hypothetically, this would entail a considerable upgrade to my pockets.
On the first of November, our library patrons will have the option of receiving automatic notices—about available reserves and overdue notices—via text instead of e-mail or phone.
Our e-mails go out at 6am, so the question was whether the issuing of text messages could be adjusted to a more reasonable time.
It can . . . which made me wonder about the possibilities—and the subjective definition of reasonable:
“This is the Public Library. How may I help you?”
“You people texted me at two-thirty this morning!”
“I see. May I have your library card number please? Thank you. Ah, yes, sir. You appear to have several books that are months overdue. I’m afraid we’ll be calling you bright and early each and every morning until they’re returned, or you pay to have them replaced.”
“You can’t do that!”
“It’s in the terms and conditions you signed when you registered for our texting notification service, sir, right under the warning that your carrier’s usual text fees will apply.”
“I never agreed to that!”
“You initialed both boxes, sir.”
“But . . . but this is harrassment!”
“You could always return the books, sir.”
“My taxes paid for those books—and they pay your salary, too!”
“I see. Well, I suppose we could make an exception in your case. How’s this—you return three of the five books and pay all of your fines, and we’ll move up your daily reminder to one am. Agreed?”
Library Principles for Students, from the Old Testament
(adapted from Ian Frazier’s “Lamentations of the Father,” by librarian extraordinaire, Jim Farrington)
Of the beasts of the field, and of the fishes of the sea, and of all foods that are acceptable in my sight you may eat, but not in the Library.
Of the hoofed animals, broiled or ground into burgers, you may eat, but not in the Library.
Of the cloven-hoofed animal, plain or with cheese, you may eat, but not in the Library.
Of the cereal grains, of the corn and of the wheat and of the oats, and of all the cereals that are of bright color and unknown provenance you may eat, but not in the Library.
Of the round pies of baked dough, topped variously and wondrously with goodness of the Earth, especially with extra garlic and double cheese, you may eat, but not in the Library, neither may you carry such therein.
Of quiescently frozen dessert and of all frozen after-meal treats you may eat, but not in the Library.
Of the juices and other beverages, you may drink, but not in the Library, unless it is that drink of two parts hydrogen and one of oxygen and only then should the mixture be held in a container of the prescribed shape and nature that miraculously do not spill even when uprighted.
Indeed, when you reach the place where the Library carpet begins, of any food or beverage there you may not eat, neither may you drink.
Laws When at Table, in Carrel, or in Wingback
And if you are seated in your comfy chair, keep your legs and feet below you as they were. Neither raise up your knees, nor place your feet upon the table, for that is an abomination to me. Yes, even though this might be something you would do in confines of your own domicile, your feet upon the table are an abomination, and worthy of rebuke.
Draw not with your pens or pencils or other implements of writing upon the table or the books before you, even in pretend, for we do not do that; that is why. Yours shall not be the last eyes to gaze understandably upon the words so written, and they should be as fresh for your followers as for you and your antecedents.
On Vocal Discourse
Do not speak loudly with thy neighbor or study mate within the Library; for it is as if you scream all the time. If you find a troubling idea foisted upon your eyes between the bindings of a book, your voice rises up even to the ceiling, while you point to the offense with the finger of your right hand; but I say to you, scream not; only remonstrate gently with a knowing nod, that you may correct the fault of the author in your own essay.
Likewise, if you find your mind wandering from the soulfulness of your studies, again I say, refrain from conversing with whoever be at hand so that others might not be so distracted.
Play not the electronic gadgets fitted to your ears at such a volume as to cause others to march to your drum machine.
Though the need will eventually arise that you must give in to your ignorance of a matter bibliographic and throw yourself prostrate to the all-knowing ones behind the Great Oaken Desk in the Campbell Reference Center, wail not despairingly nor gnash the teeth loudly, for the sound carries great and far in that part of the Library, and then many of your peers will know of your misfortune; behold, I whisper myself, yet do not die.
Various Other Laws, Statutes, and Ordinances
Attempt not to repair broken word carriers with your own tape, for these are matters better left to our specialists.
Forget not that to steal is one of the original sins, and you will be punished woefully, if not now then in the fullness of time.
Although the Library’s computers are capable of seeing many wondrous sites in the World, look not upon the lascivious or unscholarly among them, nor print endless reams of things of which those who pay your bills would not approve.
Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’d put on Twitter if she could tweet at work and if tweets could be over 900 characters long and if she had twelve hours a day to spend tweeting and following, which is why she doesn’t have a Twitter account in the first place. Or a phone that does more than make phone calls. Being responsible is boring . . .
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First order of business, bragging on my kid:
This past weekend, my husband took Janie and Sunny to this enormous Health Fair near the riverfront. One of the activities they had for the kids was the NFL Pass, Punt & Kick Program, in which kids in different age groups compete against each other by, as one might expect, passing, punting and kicking a football.
Yesterday, Jane received a huge envelope in the mail. Inside was a certificate for participating in the NFL-PPK . . . and a blue ribbon. She won her division and has been invited to the sectional competition next month!
Janie was beside herself—she would have nailed a free-jumping competition for sure—my husband immediately set up a practice schedule, and I was floored.
My kid—mine—coming in first in a football contest. Seriously?
I mean, sure, she’s the image of my mother, who was a gym teacher once upon a lifetime ago and never misses a Miami University home game* . . . but surely nurture would overcome whatever recessive genes skipped a generation to land on my daughter?
Upon reflection, I hope not.
But however she managed it, I’m very proud of her!
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Part of my job is indexing the city newspaper for our in-house database, and I had a week’s worth waiting for me when I returned to work yesterday. My fingers are black and I’m pretty sure I have a stripe of red ink on my cheek from my pen, but I’m all caught up.
I concentrate on items of local interest, but one of the perks is reading the celebrity birthday list in each issue. Call me shallow, but it’s somehow comforting to know that I’m younger than Scott Baio and Joan Jett and that Sophia Loren and Adam West are still with us.
Lauren Bacall is, too—she turned 87 today, and she’s still got the look that made her famous:
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I managed to wrench my upper back, for a change, on Monday,**and ignoring it didn’t work. It rarely does, but I remain hopeful.
The pain has died down a bit— I’m still wearing a shrug made of sore muscles,*** but at least it no longer feels as though someone is trying to yank out my shoulder blades with a pair of plumbing wrenches every time I do something stupid, like get out of bed.
The difference, I’ve found, between a strained lower back and a strained upper back is that with the latter it actually feels better when I hunch over a keyboard.
So I don’t even have an excuse to avoid working on that one misfit chapter that’s been driving me up a tree. . . . Why do I even bother being accident prone any more?
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David McCallum turned 80 on Monday. I first fell in love with his Man From U.N.C.L.E. persona, Illya Kuryakin, and was delighted when he returned to television on NCIS.
Yeah, still in love with him. I’m shallow, not fickle.
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I’m halfway through Blood Oath by Christopher Farnsworth, and it’s the finest political vampire thriller I’ve ever read—and I believe it would still be the best if there were several other political vampire thrillers out there and I’d read them all.
There’s weight to this story–the backstory is beautifully done. And the characters are so well drawn that I can’t help but be frightened for my favorites and hope that they stop their enemies before something happens to them.
I’ll write a better—or longer, anyway—review after I finish it, but if all political thrillers were as well written as this one, I would read more of them, vampires or not.
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And finally, Aldis Hodge, aka superhacker Alec Hardison on Leverage, celebrated his 25th birthday on Tuesday.
Yes, I’m old enough to be his . . . aunt, but I forgive him.
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*Though that’s for the marching band, not the football team.
**We have a front loading washer, and all the socks like to clump up at the back where I can’t . . quite . . . reach them . . . SNAP. I usually just whack the back of my head on the edge of the drum, but my pain center apparently felt the need for something new.
**Oh, ugh, sorry—sounds like something Lady Gaga would wear to the Tonys.
And now, for something completely different . . .
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This makes me happy.
I’m not sure why.
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The past, present, and future walk into a bar.
It was tense.
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My husband has played in an Adult Sandlot Baseball League for two seasons, and a few days ago they played an evening game in a real baseball stadium.
Looks good, doesn’t he? And his team won by eight.
Janie took this photo—note the absence of my right thumb—because, naturally, it was my one late night this month at the library, so I missed the whole thing.
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Knock Knock.
Who’s there?
To.
To who?
Tsk, tsk . . . To whom.
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Spike heels, for reals:
What are the odds I could wear these for more than three minutes without twisting an ankle, snapping a calf muscle, or perforating something vital?
Yeah . . . that’s what I thought.
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Fifty-one jokes in four minutes.
You have four minutes to spare, right?
The management is not responsible for any further time lost by viewing any (or all) of the vlogbrother’s joke marathons.
This random Thursday is going to be relatively brief and even more scattershot than usual, since my parents will be arriving in two hours, and I still need to clean the kitchen and memorize yesterday’s poem.*
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One of our branch libraries is revamping their children’s area. They just added an alphabet mural and a new bench, both created by local artists:
How amazing is that? All the letters are animals– O is for Octopus, P is for Parrot . . . Not sure about N . . .
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Yes. Yes I do—but I’m still putting one letter in front of the other. You?
By the by, I may be posting a short sample of one of my crappy first drafts—perhaps from Pigeon, perhaps not—in the comments over at The Intern’s place tomorrow, in honor of International Sh!tty First Draft Week.
I haven’t quite decided if I’m channeling enough of Ben Jonson’s chutzpah to actually do it . . .
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My kids have decided that they want to room together.
Anyone else hearing the theme from Jaws? Or is that Fight Club?
Sunny’s current bedroom, which is smaller, but closer to the bathroom, will be for sleeping, and Janie’s current bedroom, which is where they usually spend most of their time, anyway, will be the playroom. The idea is that Sunny will sleep better, and the majority of the mess will be confined behind one door.
We’ve laid some basic ground rules:
No one will be able to say, This is really my room, so you have to/can’t/won’t/will/etc.;
No one will refuse to allow her sister in or out of either room;
Both children are responsible for tidying both rooms, which will be half an hour minimum per week; and
If it doesn’t work out, we’ll change it back—but only once.
(Psst: Am I missing anything obvious?)
This will give me a chance to organize all the toys and books and miscellaneous stuff—and perhaps make some of it disappear—without interference.
It helps that Janie is going back home with my folks for a week . . . we should have it all sorted by then.
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And finally, someone else’s version of jazz hands!
