Well huzzah, huzzah. I'll just throw back my legs and pollute my britches with delight.

I find it amusing, after I've posted a whole bunch of JU-hu-uNK, that I started this blog so I would force myself to write. Yet here I am posting three successive posts of things to waste my time with. I should write. But what? I (lamely) found this site of writing prompts, which include:

Write a 24-line poem as if you were a pirate searching for buried treasure. Unfortunately, the treasure wasn't exactly what you expected. Somewhere in your poem you must use the line: But inside the chest was (fill in the blank).

Seriously?! But inside the chest was a giant steaming cup of coffee and a donut. A chocolate glazed cake donut. Who knew all I really needed to diminish my lust for treasure was a sinfully delicious breakfast. Or... but inside the chest was a half pack of Marlboros and three nickels. Some asshole spent all the gold on cigarettes and didn't have the decency to leave a whole pack. Or... but inside the chest was another chest in another chest in another chest that held twenty five half-naked pictures of a 17-year-old. (By the way, the same evil mother who continues to be quoted about not letting her child see another Harry Potter movie is an utter spaz. Clearly the creepy allusions of the Moaning Myrtle bathtub scene went right over this woman's head. Give the kid a break, stupid people!)

Beyond my unexplained anger problem of a few days ago, nothing too exciting has been happening. I am quite boring, really. I found myself on the phone apologizing for my utter lack of news to report on. "That's okay," replied the other end, "I don't hold you to a minimum standard of entertainment." But when it goes so far as I am finding myself stale, what do I do? Because if I were bread, I'd be tossing myself in the trash right about now.

When my mother called and I told her I was knitting a sock, the most entertaining event of that particular day, she responded with laughter and accusations of me being pathetic. Although this may be true, one, I am not sitting here knitting socks for myself or my imaginary cat, they are for someone else who is neither imaginary nor feline, and two, I am also not putting together a jigsaw puzzle I cannot even see because my eyesight is failing because I am an old old woman, mother!

It's true though, the most exciting things I've got going for me are my socks, a new season of Jack Bauer, and a not-even-quite-a-sex dream about a male co-worker. And I have purchased a book entitled Yarn Harlot, which comes recommended, so I will have that to report on. Oh, and I'm currently devising a plot to document for my lurkers the wonder that is my roommate cycling in tight shorts in the middle of the living room. Exciting stuff, I know you are enthralled.

In all truthfulness, I am lying. I leave town Sunday for an all-expenses-paid-ala-your-good-tax-money-for-science trip to New Mexico. I haven't had the chance to be interesting in the past week because I've been too preoccupied with my presentation (that was raped mercilessly with red ink this very morning by the boss lady, but is now quite stunning if I may say so) and thoughts of hiking, photographing the desert, eating at restaurants for a week, biking around Santa Fe learning about the fantastic current science that is going on in the world out there. It will be nice to get away. If nothing else, I'm hoping the man who only wears skirts will be at this conference to provide me with a weeks worth of amusement.

the best (and worst) idea I've ever seen

I got this in an email called "new redneck theme park ride."

Smeagol wants one.

In honor of the poster-palooza I'm going to next week...

...I give you picture-palooza! Not really "in honor of." Mostly I just wanted to say palooza. Three times.

Winter In Pennsylvania:

Courtesy of brother #1.

Courtesy of me mum.

Winter In Atlanta:

Notice the utter contrast - lots of snow versus no snow, no sun vs lots of sun. Don't mistake me, I am not happy about this. I miss snow.

Things I Made:

I finished the marathon scarf.

The other day I burnt rice.
Today I am goddess of the macaroni and cheese.

While I'm at it, the baby blanket I finished back in October.

My latest phytoplankton mural.
Weak, yes. But after all, not many can survive in the snow.

Oh yes, I did! I made this map of my favorite phytoplankton and where they came from, just for fun, of course!

They look like this:

A Bad Idea:

This is to illustrate why it is a bad idea to use an OPENED bag of peas as an ice pack. And yes, I ate those peas for dinner. If you don't hear from me ever again, you'll know that I caught a disease from the peas on my bed.

This concludes the picture-palooza. Please enjoy the coffee and other delicious refreshments you can find at tonight's mixer.

The Internet Is For Porn...

...and scavenger hunts! Did you know your mom's on the internet? Come help us find her!

Is this your mom? I hear she goes to college.

sometimes I do too

I love PostSecret. I especially love it when Frank publishes secrets that don't make me want to slash my wrists along with the artist. Like the one a couple months ago that said "I'm a lesbian, but I'd do Jack Bauer in a heartbeat." That I can relate to. Sort of. The latter part of that statement, I mean. And the one above (my one image to link you to the website).

My mom LOVES action movies about destruction, especially if it's about weather. These are the kind of movies we watch together. And secretly, I like them too. Because I've always wondered, if the world was to end - be it by super storm, unbeatable plague, or alien invasion - would I survive? Would I have the guts and brains to keep myself alive? If I knew I could stop New York City from being nuked by stealing a sword from the Met, would I do it? I wonder....

My Dearest James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser -

My friend, never fear. Your assistance is not needed (though your willingness appreciated) in the matter of the hostilities against me. I have found a warrior more than fit for slaying this beast. As always...

Your humble servant,
Beag Air Bheag


My barbaric and loathsome work machine, the dreaded LC-MS, is no match for Highland warrior Dunk MacKenzie, whom is about to deliver a fatal blow.

Liquid Chromatography-schmography. Mass Spectrometry-schmometry. More like "Lucifer Consumes My Soul." Little by little. I dub thee, you bastard LC-MS, Black Jack Randall. Why? Because you are the enemy and you would like nothing better than to fuck me up the ass.

The Rock Lobster, my genius laboratorian counterpart at the university downtown, and I were discussing our respective assy lab machines and our shared work-related angst and we have decided we shall get said machines into the same room, blow said equipment up (thus literally blowing tens of thousands of dollars - I actually realized I could come up with the money to buy a condo before I could find enough to purchase my very own Black Jack), but we wouldn't run away. We would stand there, exploding in the glory of it all in a suicide pact to, one, off ourselves before anything else could and, two, rid the world of such offenses as acronymed instrumentation.


Addendum: No acronymed instrumentation or Domokuns were harmed in the making of this post.

Bastard coated bastards with bastard filling.

I am about to start on my third cup of coffee and it's only 11:40am. I need this third cup for comfort. Things are not going my way. Last week, the gods were on my side. This week, they've very obviously forsaken me. The machine I use at work, after several weeks of error-free operations, is on the fritz again. Not to mention, I have been fucking up the simplest of tasks and crapping all over experiments. My roommate has been driving me up a wall, or more accurately, into the seclusion of my room. I talked myself into going to a party alone, then at the last minute chickened out like the loner loser I am, but not until AFTER I walked by the giant window between their fun and my shame. My face has suddenly refused to stop cultivating giant puss volcanoes. And most annoyingly, I spent my Christmas money to go to the chiropractor twice a week for a month and yet my neck feels just as twisted and contorted as it does when I don't go at all. So yes, I am going to drink this third cup of coffee. Coffee never lets me down, oh tried and true friend of mine it is!

Oh my god, what the fuck did I just put in my mouth?! This coffee is awful. Sludge in a cup. Burnt sludge with creamer in an attempt to cover up the sludginess. Maybe I should just off myself before something else gets the chance.

I compiled a soundtrack for days like these, days where every little thing is a purposeful ploy to ruin your day, appropriately titled "I Hate Everything." I made it for a friend, who then recommended it back to me, saying "It really helps. My day is shitty and then I listen to it and I feel better." So I have been listening to the soundtrack-o-hate, perhaps a bit too much. Because, much like caffeine, I've built up resistance to its magical powers.

So here I am. Coffee has abandoned me and my hate music has betrayed me. I am left with nothing but anger. Pure, bubbling, vehement, white hot anger. I've been having a Dr. Cox-like problem with that lately. (First let me take a moment to enjoy the fact that, not only IS Dr. Cox on wikipedia, but if you google "Dr. Cox", the wikipedia entry is the first item you get. AAAAAHAHA!!) It's there, constantly, just under the surface, lurking until something trivial causes it to erupt, much like my face. Maybe I should start drinking lots of scotch, telling people they're going to die, and calling all the ladies by men's names (because I don't know any boys - eww grody!). I REE-hee-HEE-hee-HEALLY think that just might make my day a bit brighter, Charlotte!


PSSST! The Rock Lobster and I are totally playing internet scavenger hunt here. Come join!

PSSST PSSST! For more hilarious catball and clowngirl comics, go here.

Dad-Grandma-Fish

I cannot for the life of me put together a coherent story, and so I leave you with this (because it makes me happy):

LONG LIVE THE PAISLEY LADY.

A jumbo/LARGE from back in the day when onelostmoth and I played internet scavenger hunts. Oh yes, at the Billy Boyd Board.

And now I leave you. For my knitting. Because that is the only thing I can muster enough brain power for.

my life on a croft

There was nothing wrong with today. In fact, today was a perfectly good day as far as days go. I didn't sleep in, but I took my time getting to work. I ate my breakfast, checked my email, listened to the weather channel read from their book of silly weather puns. I was in a good mood even though Heather Tesch was "keeping a close watch on the freezing rain in downtown Atlanta." At work, I did everything I had set out to do. And when I stopped at the market on my way home, my grocery bill was ninety-three cents under budget. Yet I couldn't help but be overwhelmed by this feeling that I have been misplaced.

I went through this period of unrest not too long ago, during which I simply could not think of a single thing that didn't sound entirely pointless. Science? Pointless. Relationships? Pointless. Even TV was starting to feel pointless. I was walking down a very dark road, you see. I have since snapped out of my disquietude, thanks to nothing in particular, but the other day my friend described to me a future for herself that sounded every bit as pointed as I could ever wish a plan to be. It wasn't my dream, but it was the first thing I'd heard in months that I could say, "That's it, I want to do THAT!"

My friend was going to acquire a sheep and llama farm. She would have sheep and llamas that would never be killed, only hugged and sheered, and then she'd turn their hair into yarn and sell it. Happy sheep. Happy llamas. Happy yarn. I hardly gave her a chance to finish her plan before I was begging her for a job. Would I drop everything to go live on a farm and hug llamas? Heck yes, I would!

Then yesterday, I happened upon this , a photo journal on the BBC website about life on a croft. For anyone unawares, crofting came about around the turn of the 19th century as a result of the Highland Clearances in Scotland. Tenants on clan land were no longer needed for clan armies, as they were outlawed by the Crown, and were no longer as profitable as sheep. Many emigrated, but those who did not, took up small plots of farm land (crofts) near the coast. Crofting communities still exist.

After looking through this photo journal, I've decided I am a misplaced farmer in a scientific world. On a day-to-day basis I see such things as this:


A toolbox workshop? And a "no no nano" seminar? This is not me, this is not my thing. What do I want to see? This. Every day.

So all day today, I was on that croft. Looking out over the sea as I fed my sheep. Sitting by the peat fire, learning how to spin wool from Grannie as she told tales in Gaelic. Collecting seaweed from the shore to fertilize the garden. I'm wondering, can one get a 'job' on a croft? If I said "Hey, need help for three months? Got a bed?" would anyone take me up on it?

It's nice to dream about a life like that. It would be inappropriate to call it a simple life. Perhaps less complicated would be more apropos. Perhaps not, what do I know. It has a similar romantic draw to it as life as a lighthouse keeper - something that not many people do or have the fortitude to do. On perfectly good days like today, it just seems more worth it than what I'm doing.

The Dead Zone (CMT Part Two)

Here I am, I've hit rock bottom in the dating game. I am filling out a profile for an internet dating website.

"Question #5: What is your favorite color?"

If I answer wrong will I be thrown off a bridge? Too bad I'm not watching Monty Python. It might be a better use of my time. Speaking of, I wonder if John Cleese is available. He's British. He's funny. And I'm just going to pretend he isn't old enough to be my grandfather. I bet we'd have a fantastic time together. I bet John Cleese doesn't need internet dating.

John, my favorite color is lilac, I love short walks on the beach, and I yearn for you tragically. Take me now.

There. Case closed. Me and John Cleese live happily ever after. For the entire two years left of his life.

Okay, okay. I am just finding this very difficult to take seriously knowing it's going to fail. I've heard stories. Bad ones. Then again, I've heard bad regular dating stories too. I need to remind myself why I'm doing this in the first place, to get myself in a positive mindset for creating a profile.

May I present exhibit number one. Derek.

I met Derek at a party. Or rather, Derek met me. I wasn't my vibrant and witty self that night and ended up standing in a corner alone, sipping my fourth vodka with a splash of orange juice, when Derek saved me from my heated debate with the empty Doritos bowl. He talked and talked. And I laughed, occasionally said something incoherent, and laughed some more. Next thing I know, he's picking me up for dinner. Sober, with no Doritos as distraction, I realized all the guy did was talk. And talk. And TALK. Not only could I not get but a word in here and there, Derek was under the impression I was interested in dairy cows.

Something you should know about me is that I'm a kidder. Why ruin a good story with the truth, eh? But when I say Derek spent thirty minutes describing the inner workings of life on a dairy farm, I am not joking. I humored him for about ten of those precious wasted minutes. I got bored around fifteen and started breaking knots I'd tied in my straw wrapper and imagined all the people I'd rather have thinking of me than my present company. After seventeen I had acquiesced to the idea that he would never stop and decided to see just. How. Long. HE'D. GO.... It was as if he had left the farm for the first time in his life and I was the first encountered life form that could not be milked.

Maybe I should have another go at those questions.

"Question #47: What is more important to you in a mate? Good hygiene, financial stability, sense of humor, or spontaneity?"

I have to choose? But I want all of those. Especially teeth. I suppose it'll be sense of humor. If he can't make me laugh, I don't care how pearly his whites are.

Exhibit number two. Pete.

Pete was Janet's new roommate. Her third roommate since her divorce - she kept having to relocate to hide from Evan, who had taken up a serious career in stalking. Pete on the other hand seemed to be a nice enough guy. I had met him a few times before Janet informed me he had been asking about me. It was in that moment that Janet had the brilliant idea of setting us up.

One night, Janet cooked dinner for the three of us. We were all sitting indian-style about the coffee table, when I started telling a joke, in hopes of steering the evening away from the inappropriate topic of the failure of Janet's marriage....

"So a whale swims into an underwater bar, right, and the bartender asks, 'What'll it be, guy?' and the whale says 'OOOOOOOooooooooooAAAAAAAAAA
uuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIII'..."

Just after I paused for an exaggerated breath before resuming my whale moaning, Janet busted up laughing, thus launching a substantial bite of chicken panang she had been chewing in a projectile path at Pete's face. Not only was Pete not amused by my hilarious whale joke, he was so repulsed by Janet's masticated food hanging from his face, he stormed away from the table in a huff, muttering under his breath as he picked rice grains off his face. He went straight into his room, slammed the door, and was not seen for the rest of the evening. Clearly, Pete and I were not reading the same funny pages.

"Question #206: Describe, in 200 words or less, your perfect mate."

How about three: Not this guy.

Exhibit number three. Shawn.

Shawn was a friend of a friend of a friend whom I honestly thought could be the mythical 'one'. For three months we had a fantastic time hanging out. He had the same personality, same sense of humor, same taste in music as me. Then it dawned on me as I was finally about to lean in to kiss him after one particularly entertaining dinner date, perhaps we also had the same taste in men. Because no matter how many obvious signals I tossed his way, he was utterly impervious. He would however make random Golden Girls references. I had polled the last of my friends, all unanimously agreeing Shawn was gay, when I got a call from him. "Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go to a concert this Friday... with me and my girlfriend." I told him I had plans. For the next two years. John Cleese wasn't getting any younger.

Man, I do need help. Here am I, Cassandra Maxine Twitty, admitting that I need help. Okay, Online Dating, I'm taking a chance on you. I am whole-heartedly surrendering to your whoring potentials. Do me good. I'm pressing the "submit profile" button now....

"Meet-a-Mate found no matches within the 100-mile area you specified."

WHAT?!? After spending three hours answering questions about nearly everything short of when I was potty trained and how often I pick my nose, I get nothing?! Oh cruel, cruel world, how you mock me!

Carrrrrrrbridge

There exists a place in Scotland that goes by the name of Carrbridge. You never would have guessed it, but it is thusly named for a bridge. It's a very old and stony bridge, next to the much newer functional concrete bridge. The other day, my friend informed me this happened:



I'm hoping it's still standing. I like that bridge. I liked it so much when I was there, I took many many pictures of it. None so exciting as the one above, which I hacked from here.

My friend and I spent a lot of time in the river, with our camera equipment. I can hardly call my camera "equipment" but my friend had his tripod on the rocks capturing elapsed time shots of the river. I was jealous. I wonder how those shots turned out....



I was in Carrbridge in the fall, and the colors where fantastic. I like this shot a lot. It reminds me how peaceful and still Carrbridge was.



It's as if the sun is setting inside the house.

I'm a knitter, it's true!

From one knitter to another... and then on to you.

What Not To Knit.

Peruse through their archives and find such awesomeness as this and this and THIS! AAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!

I never thought knitting could cause such anger. So many swear words, so many fugly projects. Absolutely hysterical.

How big is it? HOW BIG IS IT?!

"It's just funny when things are really big."

comet mcNOT

I tried to get shots of Comet McNaught the other night and had no luck.

Sunset over Atlanta.

The idiot's comet.

The comet was supposed to be brighter than Venus. But I found venus, and still no comet.

Skyline.

The only half-decent shot I got.

maybe you should get a venereal disease

This morning proved to be nothing short of craptastic. The worst bit is that I saw it coming. I knew the moment I got out of bed, I shouldn't have. It would be one of those days where deciding what to wear and putting on my shoes would be every bit a struggle as trying to joke with the Chinese guy I work with.

As I mentioned before, I walk to work. It was freezing this morning, so when I got near work, I decided to pick up the bus that takes me the last bit of the way to my building. Much like my decision to get out of bed, I knew this was a bad choice from the moment I began to wait for the next bus. I had a feeling I was going to have to wait longer than it would to walk the rest of the way. But it was too late to walk, because the second I left that stop, the bus would pull up and pass me. So I waited, I would not be defeated.

Only I was, because there were nine thousand hundred gazillion people on the bus. I thought I would be smart to be the first one on. Oh no, because nine thousand hundred gazillion more people got on after me. Thus me, crammed in the middle, my breasts in someone's face fortunate to get a seat and someone else's elbow crammed into my back. The second I got to my stop and made a move toward the door, the girl whose elbow had been so pleasantly wedged between my twelfth and thirteenth ribs (Yes, I am a freak of nature. Most humans only have twelve.) said to me in quite a snotty tone, "Oh, you're leaving? Thank God!" as if I were the reason she was packed in like cattle off to be slaughtered.

Like I said, I was having a shitty morning. Then I get to work and I am pelted with the gnawed bit of a carrot top as I'm enjoying a peaceful moment in my own office. The culprit was, of course, the only one you could suspect in such an instance - the goofball who works on my hall. One might normally be annoyed by being pelted by a masticated hunk of rubbish, but after my morning, it only made me laugh. It's hard to get pissed at a guy with such a devilish smile. Also, I chucked it back at him and did not miss.

This got me thinking about all the other random crap he's pulled...

At least once a week, he's in my office asking if I have any pretzels. More than once, I've been standing at the elevator, only to have my knee kicked from behind. One day, he called me a chuman, and another, he randomly told me I should get gonorrhea... the giant microbe.

My all-time favorite run in with him is, hands down, the day I went to talk to my boss and her and I met outside his office. My boss and I were conversing for a minute or so before I noticed her staring in horror at my chest. I thought for a second I'd had a wardrobe malfunction until I heard a snicker coming from the goofball's office. He had been shining a laser pointer at my bosom. Shocked, I said "What the heck are you doing?!" His response was "practicing."

now I know

I've been walking to work and back for over a year now. Over the course of that time period, there have been several peculiar occurrences. I've been whistled at, hassled for money, and I've been most annoyingly honked at. I've been asked for directions, yelled at for not knowing, and ridiculed for not having a car. I've suffered the fate of having conversations with familiar people going the same direction. I've stepped in dog shit multiple times. I've helped a blind man cross the street. I've unknowingly walked through a movie set, only to be physically dragged off it. But nothing so bizarre has happened as what I saw today.

Occasionally there are strange smells along my route. Typically those smells emanate from the sewers or dumpsters. But in a freak moment, when the breeze is just right, I catch the smell of urine. This has continued to puzzle me until today when I saw a man walking up the street, away from me, with a stream of fluid exuding from his crotch area into the bushes. I thought for sure it was not what I thought it was. After all, he was walking, the bushes were beside him, and it was broad daylight on a busy street during morning rush hour. That was what I thought until he turned around a corner and I saw him stuffing his stuff back into his pants.

How naive of me to think one would only urinate in the bushes under cover of darkness.

I'm (slowly) working on the next part of my story. But like the never-ending, very late, homemade Christmas present for my friend, so goes this part of the story. Mostly I just feel tired. Maybe I have mono.

For now, I leave you with this. Perhaps when Scrubs wraps up and the writers finish ruining Gilmore Girls, these guys can do a show together. A fast-talking, pop-culture-referencing, fantastic super comedy.

what?!?!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! A friend told me about this. Not quite as funny as the dick in the box, but close!



This one was brought to my attention by my brothers, whose obsession with cats persists...

hop aboard the guilt express

Time. We are all obsessed with it. Or maybe I just speak for myself, all the personalities in my head. I make out lists, I set goals, and I judge myself on how fast I can get them all accomplished. Tick tock, check and scratch. But there's never enough time, is there? The list is never entirely blackened out, is it? There's always something looming overhead, something I had all intentions of doing, all intentions of addressing. But then time ran out. Or I got distracted. Or something more important or more exciting popped up.

I'm sitting here at the airport, waiting for the vehicle that will end my vacation, and I can't help but feel a bit guilty for the boxes left unchecked and the T's left uncrossed. I didn't spend enough time with so-and-so. I didn't even visit such-and-such. I meant to have that conversation with X. I meant to have that lunch with Y. If only there had been more time....

But the guilt is meaningless to everyone with the exception of me. Just a small stone in the pit of my stomach that I have to live with. So-and-so can't feel it. Such-and-such can't see it. My face might break out and my nails may get bitten, but no one knows the real reasons.

So I beg you, what's the point? I'll let it go and forget about it by the time I get back to my own life. For now though, I'll sit here and mourn the things that didn't happen, the crap I didn't get to, the time I lost by filling it with other agendas. I may never get to them all. I may never finish everything I set out to do. But I tried my best, and I suppose that's all that matters.

Some people practice photography with their kids.

Some people practice with their stuffed toys.