Being Sick

MP is sick this week. He was sick last week, too. Actually, he’s been sick ever since we went to NYC – too much drinking and shouting and dry air in airplanes. Then he had to go to Minnesota, which finished him off.

He has a cough. Sort of.

“What kind of cough do you have?” I ask.

“I dunno. I only cough in the morning.”

“Is it productive?”

“No.”

“Do you want anything for it? An expectorant or something?”

“I guess. I don’t want anything liquid. That stuff tastes like crap.”

And armed only with this cryptic knowledge (morning cough) and specific instructions (nothing that tastes like crap), I go out to find him some medicine. I make a mental note to ask the pharmacist for some laudanum. That way we’ll both be happy.

Different people are sick differently, and you have to understand and respect that in a relationship or some bad moments will ensue. For example, when MP first feels sick, he takes two Advil and passes out on the couch for four hours. This cures him of most everything – which is how I know that he’s really sick this time and needs drugs. But I didn’t understand this when we first met. At the first sign of him feeling a bit phlegmmy, I treated him like I wanted to be treated.

“Do you need a blankie?” I softly asked.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

“You look cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“Would you like some chamomile tea?”

“Yuck.”

“Have you gargled with salt water?”

“No. My throat isn’t sore. It’s my nose.”

“How about a decongestant? Maybe an antihistamine? Here, have a Kleenex.”

“I’m fine, Sweetie.”

“I can get some Puffs. Do you like Puffs?”

“I’m fine, Sweetie.”

“Your nose looks really sore. Rub this on it.”

“Go away, Sweetie.”

And all my ministrations rejected, I slunk away to play computer solitaire. When MP is sick, he wants to die alone on his couch with dignity. He does not want to be coddled and irritated.

Of course, when I got sick early on in our relationship, things didn’t go any better. MP treated me like he wanted to be treated:

“I feel terrible MP… (sniff) My throat hurts. My nose is sore from blowing it. I want to die… (sniff, sniff)”

“That’s too bad, Sweetie. Go lie down.”

“Thanks… (sniff) I think I will.”

And then he left me in the bedroom. Alone. In the dark with my Puffs. Four hours later I stagger out, purblind, and he’s on the couch playing videogames.

“Whoa. You look terrible. What’s wrong, Sweetie?”

“You left me in there!”

“I thought you needed rest.”

“I didn’t need four hours of it! You didn’t come check on me to see if I needed anything!”

“I thought you were sleeping?”

“I could have died in there! Don’t you love me?” (It’s very difficult to love a pale and whining woman who has Carmex slathered all over her upper-lip in what I call “cow-nose,” but somehow MP managed.) When I am sick, I want to die with my loved ones bending over me offering fragrant teas and soft tissues. I do not want to be left alone on the ice floe like a wounded dog.

Now when MP passes out on the couch, I poke him at about 6 PM and ask if I’m responsible for my own dinner. When I am too quiet for too long, MP creeps around looking for me, and if he finds me staring at him with one bleary eye, he asks if he can do anything. And thus we learned: Do unto others what they want done to themselves.

Update: Science

Well, MP's hair seems to trump feline urinary practices -- SO FAR. Clearly MP can only refresh the deterrent on a limited, 3 week basis.

And yes, the cats have changed their location, but at least it's not the front walkway anymore.

Experiment: MP vs. Stray Cat

There is a black and white feral cat that's been digging in the front flowerbed. Oh who are we kidding here -- he's using it as a litterbox. I've decided to try deterring him from this habit by scattering MP's hair clippings around the bushes (MP has a very distinctive hairstyle, and I cut it. This is worthy of its own post.) Cats are supposedly picky about where they do business, so the introduction of something new and weird (i.e. - MP's hair) will make him go elsewhere (probably the next flowerbed over, but let's take it one bed at a time).

If this experiment is successful, I don't know what we can draw conclusions about -- cats' urinary habits or the smell of MP's head.

I love science.

Adaptability Revisited

Our house was built by crack-smoking monkeys. The upstairs ground fault switch is in the hall bathroom, but when it goes out, it doesn't shut off the lights in that bathroom, but the lights in the master bathroom. But only on one side, because the end of the circuit is at the ground floor outdoor receptacle on the back deck.

Crack. Monkeys. Believe it.

I know all of this because for a long time, when it rained I would end up taking showers in the dark, and after I tried to deal with the problem myself, tasting 120 volts in the process (In the last words of every dead electrician, "but I turned it off at the junction box!"), I had a long conversation with an electrician, who informed me that the wiring in my house had monkey-prints all over it.

Well, it rained and the lights went out in the bathroom – on the Friday night beginning Labor Day weekend. No matter what we did, the ground fault switch would not stay set. You never ever want to call a union contractor during a holiday weekend if you can help it, so I tried to think of the bathroom's new look as "mood lighting."

All of this, by the way, is prologue, which is why this post is called "Adaptability Revisited" and not "Crack Smoking Monkeys," which is a good title that I will probably use someday. I wanted to call this post "Adaptability," but I see I already have a post by that name. Strange how events involving MP lead to musing upon this elastic quality of mind...

MP decided he wanted to smoke a pork shoulder for Labor Day, the first one this year. He's been working on ribs, with fabulous results, but he misses doing shoulder. More to the point, he misses smoked pork shoulder leftovers. Doing a pork shoulder is something of a commitment. A 7-8 lb shoulder takes about 12 hours to smoke, which means MP has to *gasp*... get up early! Like, say, 8 AM.

Let me be fair. There are Morning People and there are... What are they, Zombies? You never hear "Night People," what...? Oh yes, "Night Owls." I am a Lark, and MP is Night Owl. He never willingly goes to bed before 12:30 AM, so 8 AM does not find him... fully refreshed. Actually, MP is seldom fully refreshed before 8 oz of coffee, and 20 oz is safer.

So. Pork shoulder. MP decides to get up “early.” I'm up toodling around by 7 AM, fluffing the garden, watering the yard... And it occurs to me to wonder if MP actually set an alarm clock or if I'm supposed to be the alarm clock. What if I was supposed to wake him and I don't? What if I wake him at 8 AM, and he doesn't want to get up until 8:30 AM?

At 8 AM I remove the shoulder from the refrigerator and make a pot of coffee. At 8:15 AM I flitter softly into the bedroom.

I am a terrible flitterer. MP grunts and raises his head immediately.

“Um yes, uh... Hi Sweetie. Was I the alarm clock?”

“No,” MP moans, “I'm waking myself up.” (Translation: fifteen more minutes and get the hell out of the room.)

At 8:30 AM he comes down fully dressed with shoes on, but I am not fooled. He still has pillow lines on his face.

As he transfers his equipment out to the back deck, I have a horrible thought – the lights are tripped in the bathroom, and since the end of the circuit is on the back deck, there's no way the electric smoker will work. Why neither one of us thought of this earlier, I don't know. I mean, you can intuitively grasp the logical connection between the upstairs bathroom lights and the back deck, right?

“What?” said MP.

“Don't worry about it. There's another outlet down in the yard.”

MP stares at the cord of the electric smoker. It's 3 feet long. He stares at me.

“Have some coffee!” I sing out as I trot out to the garage for the 100 ft extension cord. Problem solved.

Or not. Fifteen minutes later MP is still staring foggily at the coils of the smoker. “Isn't it hot yet?” I ask.

He reaches out and wraps his hand around the coil, ““No,” he replies, “I don't think so.”

And wouldn't you know, the receptacle on the front porch is out, too. Son of a Gun. Curse those monkeys. “Well, you can use the outlet in the garage and smoke it out on the cement pad in front of the driveway,” I suggest.

“No, I can't,” MP says as he props himself against the countertop. “I don't want to do it out in front. I don't want anyone to see me. I don't know why, but I don't.”

Barbecue Performance Anxiety? I ponder this. I mean, is he worried about uninvited neighbors looking for handouts, asking questions? It's not like you can hide what you're doing. Big puffs of smoke, cooking meat. It smells. And it's not like MP wears anything stupid when he cooks; no “Kiss the Cook” aprons. He does drink beer, but it's nice beer. And it's stupid to get drunk and play with burning hot metal, he knows that. No, clearly this was a “thing” he just had. There was no talking abut it or convincing him otherwise; it was just one of those “things.”

I popped out of my reverie. MP was staring at me, awaiting Truth. He had not blinked.

“Out one of the windows?”

“Smoke in the house.”

“Good point. Well, if the wind blows south, we can use the north window. Of course, if the wind bows north, then we should use the south window. I wonder what the weather is supposed to be like. Have you seen a weather report? Because I thought maybe it might rain later in the afternoon, but that might hold off till tomorrow –”

MP stood against the countertop with eyes like those of a shot and bleeding deer. Despite being out of bed for 45 minutes, he had not had coffee.

There are times to Think and times to simply Do. “Stand here,” I said, and put him in front of an east facing window. I went outside and knocked on the window with the plug. “Hello? Take this.” MP plugged the cord into an inside socket and the smoker at last had charge. An hour late, maybe, but he was off and... crawling. He still desperately needed coffee.

Adaptability. You wake up thinking you're gonna do one thing and end up doing another. It's too easy to get scope lock and not see the other possibilities, to to end up focused on what you don't have rather than utilizing what you do have. I am a terrible one for getting scope lock. But even when you're trying to avoid fixed-mindedness, you still have limitations. That's why you've got to be honest, and hopefully surround yourself with people who can shore you up when you need it.

MP had his coffee and the pork smoked. Unfortunately, starting an hour later meant everything came in an hour later, which meant we were standing in the kitchen at 11 PM pulling pork. MP was fully awake and singing the praises of his spice rub, and I was trying not to snore in the pork. The only reason I kept eating what I was supposed to be pulling apart was to stay awake. Seriously. After we were through, MP pried the two forks from my hands and gently pushed me off to bed.

You gotta love a man who will smoke pork and clean the kitchen.

An Analysis of the Literary Merit of Reviews of the Panasonic ER421KC Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer

MP’s nose hair trimmer died last month in a spectacular death of crystallized battery guts. I suppose he could have scraped the contacts with dental tools and tried to salvage it, but MP just isn’t that kind of guy. He requested I put an order in for a new nose hair trimmer, because MP isn’t that kind of a guy, either. “I don’t need one with a giant LED,” he told me. “RPMs. I want RPMs.” (That’s the kind of guy MP is.)

Now, what did I say in the neti pot post? Nobody is interested in me talking about pouring saline solution in one nostril and out the other. So it doesn’t take a great mental leap to conclude that nobody is particularly interested in talking about nose hairs or how to trim them, either.

Except that I have definitive proof that people are interested in talking about nose hairs and how to trim them, and I absolutely must share this fascinating topic with you, because this is why I opened Café Tor in the first place.

I stumbled across the proof in this way: Having received MP's mandate to “go for RPMs,” I realized I needed information to make an informed consumer decision. For a fact, some of these gizmos have LEDs like Christmas tree lights, and vacuums so that your delicate fingers never touch the nose hair clippings. Are they really worth $30 or $40? I went to some sites and read the reviews, and that is how I discovered this untapped source of literary wealth.

Here’s a review of the Panasonic ER421KC Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer, Wet/Dry, Lighted nose-hair trimmer from Leonard in Arizona: “Whatcan I say... it trimmed my nose hair. Inly challenge is that you need a battery. Works well though.” (Direct quote, his typing).

I love this. No shilly-shallying. Brief. Manly.

Here’s one on Amazon from Richard in Oakland, CA: “Had this about 4 weeks and no problems so far. I haven't dropped it/run over it with a car/fished it out of the toilet, so I can't vouch for its durability. The light is completely useless, unless you need an emergency trim during a blackout. The cheaper Panasonic is probably just as good. Final word to potential purchasers - nose hair stubble is a completely new experience.”

My friends, I am not being sarcastic when I say that I am in awe of these men’s writings. They have taken a customer review form, a tiny RTF block typically associated with dry clipped sentences, and turned it into a literary genre filled with humor and sparkling prose. On Amazon.com there were 164 reviews for the Panasonic ER421KC Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer alone – that’s 17 pages! What is even more fascinating/terrifying is that Amazon allows the user to post a review video, although no one has done this for this particular trimmer (so far).

And there was controversy! The little light, described by one use as having a corona “the size of a freckle” was the make or break feature of the product’s overall review:

“First, the light actually is useful...just not when you've got it stuck in your nose cutting hair. Its use is when you periodically need to examine inside to see how you're doing. So spend the big bucks for the lighted model, otherwise you'll have to keep a flashlight around.”

“Perhaps my nostrils are abnormal, but I found the light useless.”

Most of these reviews are signed with screen names or first names, but my absolute favorite was signed with a real name that I was able to track down to an email address. I sent him (well actually, I had to send it to his wife, because that was the contact info from his blog profile) an email requesting permission to post his review on this blog. (Fred the Editor is looking at me, as he often does, like I have lost my mind. Well Fred, I was acting in the spirit of journalistic integrity, and sometimes you just gotta put yourself on the line.)

Mr. Gene Twilley’s 350 word review was not only hysterically funny, but was also actually useful in describing and rating the product. For example, his usage tips:

“I've found that this trimmer works best when you cut as if you’re trimming bushes, not as if you were cutting grass. What I mean is that it would be best if you refrain from just cramming it up your nose. Granted, if you're purchasing this device, you're probably used to just yanking hairs anyways (hence, you're also used to the associated pain). Trust me, if you take it a little at a time, the pain is greatly diminished and the effectiveness of the trimmer is enhanced.”

His review, in its entirety, can be found here on Amazon. I would point out that Mr. Twilley is in the “Use the Light” camp. (I also recommend searching his other product/literary/movie reviews. While perhaps not as amusing his nose hair trimmer review [what could be?], they are all useful and insightful. For even more of the Mind of Mr. Twilley, http://twilleythoughts.blogspot.com)

This is the link to the Amazon page for the Panasonic ER421KC Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer, with the reviews at the bottom. I urge you to flip all the way back, as some of the best ones are buried, and decide for yourselves whether or not the product review is the up and coming literary genre of the new millennium. As for me, the reviews were too much to resist – this is what I purchased for MP.

Now I’m inspired to go write my own review of the product. Of course, that would mean using MP’s nose hair trimmer…

Huh. This could take our relationship to a whole new level.

Food Snobs

Yesterday I tried a flax bread recipe that was truly awful. At 2 cups flax meal to 5 eggs, it was a toss-up between an overpoweringly flax challah or a really gritty omelet.

The sad part is, it didn’t have to be that bad. It could easily be done with only two eggs (enough to bind and replace the gluten) 2 teaspoons of baking powder (stop trying to thicken it using the first action of the baking powder and just use fewer eggs!) and some added herbs (Italian blend, herbes de Provence, or even an apple pie spice blend for something sweeter).

The whole experience was enough to make me think, “Did this woman even taste this before she published it?” Or maybe she did, and thought it was “good enough.”

But I don’t want “good enough” food. I want good food. And it’s all MP’s fault.

(What a strange pairing of words. It just occurred to me that it should be pronounced either “güd füd” or “gōōd fōōd,” but not the strange combination we have.)

MP cooks. I bake. I can read a recipe and know if it will work. MP can read a recipe and know when it needs to be changed. But MP has one up on me in that the spices in the cabinet talk to him. Yes, people think he’s nuts. And then they eat his food, and they shut up about it.

(For the record, I knew the flax recipe was not right when I started, but I wanted to know what the author’s original vision was. Apparently, she was hallucinating.)

Last year MP read Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal Vegetable Miracle: A Year of Food Life and is now focused on fresh and local. (This is the only thing that could possibly have gotten him interested in my gardening, because there are spiders out there, dammit.) It really does make a flavor difference to go down to the farmer’s market and eat what was grown in your county or state. But I think more than that, MP wants to meet these people. He wants to see the face behind the squash and meet the people who feed the chicken he’s making into soup. He’s the only guy I ever heard of who goes to the butcher to “hang out.”

Some people, particularly family members, say that MP is a “food snob.” And though he wouldn’t say it outright, I think it hurts and offends him that people don’t understand.

Last week the New York Times published an article describing the necessity of guanciale -- cured, unsmoked pig jowl -- for creating a true pasta all'amatriciana. The butcher told MP that this article resulted in a spike of customers coming in to find this rare in the US product (she was proud to say that she not only carried it, but made her own).

MP asked me, “How can somebody read something in the Times and then decide they have to have this?”

“Because it’s fashionable," I replied, “It’s one-upmanship. In some circles it’s like your jewelry or car – just another way to show your status.”

MP snorted. I will not be getting a Prada handbag anytime soon. (But if I ask nicely I might get a duck confit…)

And this is what I think irritates MP about being called a food snob: to him, a food snob eats what someone else says is fashionable or worthy, then asserts his superiority over others who don’t eat the same. In short, a food snob expresses bad manners through culinary subjects. (Worst case scenario: buying expensive appliances/knives/pans to decorate the kitchen and then not knowing how to use or care for them.)

To MP, it’s very simple: Does it taste good? And “good” is many things – fresh, simply prepared, or well-composed play between flavors and textures. But it can also mean “fitting” – because miles from home there is nothing better than a beer and a cheeseburger in a dive bar for comfort, and a barbecue joint off a two-lane read that smokes pork-butt in the parking lot using hickory logs and their own Carolina sauce, but only has a “B” license, is worth a look-see.

I have sat on the floor in Grand Central Station eating street gyros with the man – he’s no snob (though I confess, the reason we were there was because the night before we’d eaten at Le Cirque, and after Berkshire pork in three cuts (cheek, belly, and tenderloin) with apple-rhubarb ravioli and a port wine reduction, plus a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, we needed something soothing to ground us in reality). Oh, he’s definitely exacting, demanding of himself when he’s trying to express one of his food visions, but he does recognize that the key ingredient of any good food is passion – the love that went into the creation of it.

Shoot. Now I’m hungry.

(And just as I set out to publish this, MP sent me an email titled “OMG it’s a Spice Weasel.” Not a Snob, but such a Geek…)

Hamtaro pwned by The Man; Ham-Hams fight back!

After I threw the creepy people out of the café, but before I tinkered with the il Pavoni to find out if it was still alive, I needed something soothing and safe to occupy my time. So I replayed Hamtaro: Ham-Hams Unite! on the GBA.

Or tried to.

My game wouldn’t save. I’d be playing along, find Bijou at Acorn shrine, learn some hamchat and score a few acorns, and then I’d have to get back to my real life (curse MP and his dirty socks!). A few hours later, I’d flip the GBA on and… Nothing. Have to start of from scratch.

It was then that MP informed me of something so shocking that I rate it on par with finding out that pro-wrestling is fake: game cartridges contain small watch batteries that allow you to save your game. When those batteries die, usually in 5-7 years, you can no longer save your game.

I said, "Excuse me?”

“Your battery is dead. Change it.”

I flipped the cartridge over and saw a six-sided screw that looked like a flower. I didn’t have the tools for this.

“How am I supposed to open this?”

“You’re not. They don’t want you to.”

“But you said the battery was dead!”

“They don’t want you to open it. You’re supposed to buy a new game.”

“Let me get this straight: I bought this game for thirty bucks, but it turns out I was really only renting it for five years?”

MP thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, actually, that’s a good way of putting it.”

At which point I used a few “hamchat” words not found in an E rated game and went online to Google some search terms.

I have to admire these guys’ skillz and ingenuity even as I cringe at their grammar and non-politically correct similes (“risky like a cheap-a** hooker” is vulgar, but vivid). Racketboy was clear, detailed, and correct (although I did have a different battery type, as he was looking at SNES cartridges, while I had a GBA). I purchased a 3.8mm security bit, soldering iron, X-Acto knife, and duct tape, and in an hour was playing tack-Q bowling, trying to get the shogun wig for Cappy. Never underestimate the power of duct tape.

Somewhere in the middle of sliding a molten-hot X-Acto knife between the circuit board and tabs in an attempt to break the soldering joints on the battery, MP stopped by to see what I was up to. He stared at me for a minute or two, then said without a hint of sarcasm, “You are really sexy.”

So ladies, be proud of your soldering skills, because you just never know what makes a geek schmubby-wubby.

Of course by the time I bought all the stuff I needed, I'd spent as much as if I’d bought another copy of the game -- but that it entirely beside the point. I am posting Racketboy’s directions for how to change a cartridge battery because I think we must show the Man that we are blash-T about being taken advantage of, and we nopookie being treated like mindless idiots. We see through their scams and we will not chukchuk our rights as consumers, but will cramcram until we find ways to subvert their pooie design flaws. We can hamteam or hamspar – the choice is up to them.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to go collect enough seeds to buy the bunny costume. Bye-Q!

"This childhood sponsored by..."

It's kind of hard to type when your editor is staring at you. He has rather unblinking eyes... And I think that's because he is seriously lacking in coffee. Let me see... Yep, I'm typing, his eyes are wide open, and he can't see a thing beyond the next cup of coffee. Let us take a moment and send a cosmic gift of psychic love to editors everywhere, who desperately need both love and coffee... Okay, that's it; don't overdo it.

MP is gone this week. He's 3 time zones away doing something desperately important for the government, leaving me to cook for myself, oh God... Now Fred the Editor is laughing at me. Thanks, Fred.

Well... I was thinking about my childhood and all those happy little Saturday morning cartoons, that warm friendly feeling in the morning before you needed coffee to get you up, and I wondered, where are those cartoons now? Because believe it or not, some have made a resurgence, and some have never been away. I decided to do a bit of digging.

And in my detective work, I made one of those discoveries that I suppose I've always known, but didn't need thrust in my face at 11:30 pm when I'm alone and have only had pepperoni with tater-tots and cocktail sauce for dinner: All these characters, save one, were created by greeting card or toy companies with the sole purpose of marketing products.

Then, as now, I am naive.

Rainbow Brite was a product of Hallmark in 1984. I think the last cartoon was '85 or so, but you can still find some Rainbow Brite stuff marketed. She also survives as a Halloween costume. (You follow this link at your own risk, because this is the stuff that kinky fantasies are made of.)

The Care Bears were an American Greetings creation from 1981. There are definitely still around, having undergone radical procedures to shave 10-15 years of their ages, plus tummy-tucks. You can find the new ones here. However, it's not the same if they can't do the "Care Bear Stare."

Jem and the Holograms is probably the most buried of the cartoons, but I did find some Jem and the Holograms stuff at Hot Topic recently. That ran from 1985-1988 and tied into almost as many girl fetishes as My Pretty Pony (rock star/fashion/ makeup vs. ponies/hair) The original songs that came with the dolls can be downloaded from here, in case you've had "Universal Appeal" running through your head for 20 years.

Strawberry Shortcake has had a resurgence after a major makeover, but the original was from American Greeting in 1977. As far as I know, they were the first scented dolls. She's just a hop skip and a jump away from the Care Bears now, along with Holly Hobbie. (Let's face it -- AG totally dominated kids programming in the early '80s)

Here's the one I didn't expect: The Smurfs are celebrating their 50th anniversary this year. Created by a Belgian cartoonist, they are lauded in countries across the globe. They too, are experiencing a resurgence in the US (I saw Smurfs at Ben Franklin and freaked) but when you read the history, you realize that they've never actually left.

Children are conveniently able to overlook really crappy animation (watch Speed Racer Lately?) and be drawn wholly into another world. I admire them for that, as well as their ability to ignore corporate marketing policies. So let's hear it for Saturday cartoons -- where a kid can be a kid!_TM

Neti Pots

It's Monday. I'm doing a "coffee facial," which is essentially hanging your head over a large mug of coffee and absorbing caffeine through your pores while you try to wake up. It's a specialty here at Café Tor.

I was awakened today by a chuckling robin out in the yard. It's January, friends, and there are robins everywhere. While I admit that I dwell in a place not known for its skiing potential, it is nevertheless too early for any songbird to sit on my porch railing and announce its sexual intentions (the romantic exploits of birds on my porch railing is actually fodder for a whole other post, but nobody has had enough coffee for that yet, so let us move on). Rumor has it that it will actually reach seventy-three degrees in the next few days -- but only to plummet cruelly back into the forties by next week.

Which is to say, this mercurial weather really plays havoc with your sinuses.

I always viewed my neti pot as a sort of personal thing. I don't know why, it just never occurred to me that, standing around at a cocktail party, anyone would want to hear how I pour salt water in one nostril and out the other. But it appears that I'm wrong and everyone wants to talk about neti pots and how fab they are. Oprah has been talking about it. The New York Times had an article last week about the whole concept of the thing as well as all the pretty colors they come in (hey, it was the Fashion & Style section).

I mention this now for two reasons: One, I really thing that with the changing weather and humidity, I'll want to start using the neti pot again so my poor sinuses don't go nuts, and Two, I'm wondering if caffeine can be absorbed through the nasal membranes, because I really need the inspiration.

(No, seriously, don't try that. I mean, it sounds good and probably works, but seriously, don't try that. Just read the Times article and drink the coffee.)

Well. I'm off to run fifty million errands. I'll be back later, so brew a fresh pot -- I'll need it.

[FOLLOW UP: In case you were awake all weekend wondering what happened to him, MP is fine and got to and from his gig. $500 later my car is also fine, with shiny new wires and a distributor cap. I'm not happy about that part, because $500 is a really nice pair of shoes, and I'm not exactly going to open my hood for all my girlfriends and show off shiny new wires.

If it had been my sister's car, it would have cost $1000 dollars and she would have contemplated holding a bake sale to raise the funds, because it would be either have a car or pay the rent, but of course, you can't go to the job that pays the rent if you don't have a car...]

Adaptability

Philosophers, physicists, and intellectual pundits throughout history have long pondered a Unified Theory of Everything. If they would put down the particle accelerator and show up at Café Tor I would tell them what they wanted to know:

The cosmic love-honey that holds everything together is adaptability!

I mention this now because I had this one idea for a post all mapped out, and then Things Happened yesterday, and now I'm not in the mood. So the Muse will have to wait and sip her chai latte, because I will not be a slave to a List of Things to Write About ( I don't think she cares; she's found an old copy of People Magazine and is tapping her foot to Dizzy Gillespie).

This is an example of Adaptability in Action:

MP left for another gig yesterday. He does that all the time; it's nothing new, but this time he wanted to take my car because he had other people and things to take with him. So I clean out my CDs, fluff my car, and he takes off with it (leaving me with his car, a quarter of a tank of gas and a tire pressure of 15 psi. MP is going to have a real swell homecoming, I promise)

Five minutes later, I get a call on my cell. In the seconds it takes to actually answer the call, I have a terrifying vision of MP stranded by the side of the road in the bitter cold. "Tut-tut, Marianne!" I say to myself, "You worry too much."

It's MP. "I'm stranded by the side of the road in the bitter cold. Your car won't start."

Before I answered the phone, I was worried about him. After I answered the phone and it was confirmed that he was in fact stranded by the side of the road in the bitter cold, I was not worried at all. It was more like, "It's been five minutes -- How did you screw up my car in five minutes?"

MP managed to leave the car in a decent spot where it wouldn't cause trouble and got a ride with someone else. I stopped by later and, sure enough, the car wouldn't start. It's being towed somewhere by someone who can hopefully do something to fix it. Meanwhile, I have MP's crappy car, so I'm not stranded. It could have been a lot worse -- no one was greatly inconvenienced, the tow truck only has to go a mile to get to the garage, and no body parts were frozen.

Adaptability.

(If this had been my sister, she would have been stranded in Fairbanks with the baby crying, no cell, and not a dime in her pocket. She would have last eaten four grapes seven hours previously and a pack of tundra wolves would be closing in. That, in a nutshell, is the difference between my sister and me.)

This entire gig of MP's has been one long exercise in adaptability, so I imagine he's rolling with it and is doing fine. As for myself, I can't wait to find out what happened to the car. I'm also mildly interested to know when I'll get back into the mood to complete the post I had originally planned... But the Muse appears to have begun a chess game with her sometimes-lover, Procrastination, so it may be a while.

Super-Powers

That looks so political...

No, I want to talk about good old-fashioned super-powers, like invisibility, x-ray vision, and all that. Because everyone has super-powers. Seriously. They're just not all really cool super-powers.

For example, MP (MP is my guy; you'll hear a lot about him [poor fellow]) swears that his super-power is Cold. Okay, I thought, a sort of Silver Surfer thing going on... No. He means Cold as in being cold -- cold hands, cold feet. While I agree that MP does indeed have unusually cold feet, it makes for a pretty lame super-power. The crime fighting possibilities are narrowed, as it were. What's a little more unusual about MP's super-power of Cold is that he also has... Well, a very cold butt. I've never actually heard of having a cold butt unless you were ice fishing or something. MP tells me that his butt is sort of like cooling fins for his computational brain... And yes, that's right about the part where my mind shuts down, too.

There's an anime, Outlaw Star, in which one of the satellite characters has the special talent of "space fighting with cats." Hello? How do you find out you have that skill? And how do you market that?

I actually have two super-powers, but they're passive; I have no control over either, it's just what happens in my universe. The first is that people tell me everything and anything. The second is space-time bending.

I've had the first super-power for as long as I can remember, and frankly, I'm still working through what it actually is. Am I invisible, so people just talk like I'm not there? Do I have some Bene Gesserit mind-control trick to force people to reveal things that they later regret? Perhaps I just have an understanding face that says, "go ahead -- you can tell me all about that little personal habit of saving your scabs and I'll understand perfectly."

It isn't that I listen without judgment. Oh yes, I have my opinions. Perhaps it's that I reserve that judgment for myself, later, after I've had time to think about it. In the meantime, I'm just gonna keep asking you questions and nodding my head. It's a nice talent for a writer to have, except that if I write what I know, I'm gonna get sued -- not to mention hurt a lot of people's feelings. One must never abuse one's talents. I am sworn only to use my Evil powers in the cause of Good. In the meantime, I guess I wait for everyone I know to die off or something.

The space-time thing happens a lot while people are busy revealing their inner-lives to me (and both happen a lot at Café Tor, now that I think of it). They sort of look up and say, "Wow, it's only seven thirty? Huh. Where was I?" I can expand time really well, but I'm not so hot at compression. We can spend a fascinating hour together, but I can't help your workday fly by.

Useful talents, true, but I'm still working on the space fighting with cats. I want to be well-rounded.