Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s acquired during the week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as actually sitting down and creating real content.
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Swan Lake Extreme
Never in a million, trillion years would I be able to do this, even if the human race evolved into sentient rubber bands who still enjoyed the ballet. Even if I was that guy whose only job was to wear that head thingie and not drop her. My spine fuses at the very thought.
I’m not sure this really needed to be done—if you ask me, Swan Lake doesn’t need gimmicks—but it is astounding and quite beautiful.
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International Delurking Week!!
I found out this morning over at Sherry Stanfa-Stanley’s blog that it’s International Blog Delurking Week, the week in which bloggers try to coax the people who are reading by not commenting to do so.
A few people prefer to send me e-mail comments—thank you, guys!—but there are always a few post hits around here that I can’t attribute to spam or referrerbots.*
So if you’re a regular reader around here but haven’t commented because my brilliance—or abject ignorance—renders you speechless, or you just dropped by to find cider recipes or ear fetishes or to look at that danged baby polar bear image I put up almost a year ago as an instead-of-post that still gets four hits a day,** I encourage you to leave a comment or drop me an e-mail or tweet to prove you’re nether spammer nor ‘bot.
Use an alias, if you prefer not to be seen here—a lot of my friends do. I’m sure they have good reasons . . .
And if all those extra hits are only from just one lovely person hitting the reload button several times for each post to make me feel happy, and you are that lovely person, please leave a comment—I want to thank you.
‘Cause it worked.
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Let it Snow, My @$$
At the writing of this particular bit, it’s snowing. Has been since about 4am this morning.
We were supposed to get five inches between now and Sunday, a little at a time. A few pretty showers of tasteful, feathery flakes, easily cleaned up with a shovel, that’s what we were told. Heck, Sunny could probably do the driveway herself.
Instead, we’ve got five inches of wet stuff on the ground, about four to go, and I’m ten miles and a slushie-covered bridge away from home. I know this because my husband picked up Jane for me, about an hour ago, as there’s no way I’ll make the three miles from the library to her school in the thirty minute I have on these roads in the dark.
One day, I will not have to leave the house when it snows. I’m looking forward to that day more than I am to menopause—you’ll just have to trust me on the intensity of that statement, as I have no intention of expounding. You’re welcome.
By the time this is posted, I’ll be going fifteen miles an hour along a choppy river the color of an angry bruise.
Wish me luck—and that Rocinante’s brakes do what they’re supposed to do all the way home.***
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The Secret Life of Dancing Books
A friend sent me this the other day, and since then I’ve been seeing it everywhere, so chances are, you’ve seen it, too. But you can’t seriously be tired of it yet—I’m not—so here it is:
This must have taken weeks, if not months, of moving books back and forth and up and down like Sisyphus with a camera and the Fury of Continuity breathing down his neck while holding a very large whip. . . But the first thing I thought when I saw it was, “I knew it!”
‘Fess up^—didn’t you?
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*That I take the time to do the math makes me sound totally obsessed over my blog stats, which is absolutely true.
**Am I bitter that it’s my third most popular post? Possibly. But not enough to take it down and lose the hits. See? Obsessed.
*** Why not do so in the comments?
^ In the comments, if you wouldn’t mind, just this once?
Earful of Cider 