My WiFi is not letting me upload photos for today’s post,
and these are my I.T. guys:
(my backup plan is to rely on global warming)
I will have a an amazing story to tell you,
another mountain made outta my molehill life.
When I start a blog post, I usually put a “place-holder” title on it because great titles don’t just pop into my head (I still have no title for The Damn Garden Book) so I have to wait until the end of the writing to squeeze something appropriate out of my brain. But today I’m leaving my place-holder title in place. Another Winter storm is heading our way. And it’s the first day of Spring.
And cardinals really are quite stupid.
The predicted snow fall will not make life hard for small woodland creatures. However, the predicted 4 inches will make me, a lesser form of squirrely, really pouty.
These pictures are from the last blizzard of (technically) Winter, on March 4, 2015.
I did not care for that blizzard. But at least Winter has a personality — with all the depths and beauty of a fully-formed season: wordlessly wonderful snowscapes, tingly cold, demon slush, etc. Same with Summer: she keeps you enthralled, from the first firefly, to the scent of the shade of an elm tree, to the last thunderstorm. And Fall! Fall is bursting with personality! Color! Mood! Harvest!
But Spring? Spring starts as a wimpy-ass end of Winter, continues as a sloppy mud fest of thaw, drags its feet getting to warm weather, and flounces around with a few weeks of buds that die and become botanical litter. The best you can say about Spring are those days when you think it looks the most like Summer. It has no real personality of its own, it’s all for show, and it’s mucky.
Spring. The Kim Kardashian of seasons.
So on March 4, I surveyed the situation, which was not to my liking, and predicted that there was no way all that snow could melt by the first day of Spring.
This is my patio on the afternoon of March 5:
This is what my patio looked like on March 18:
This is what that trash can looked like on the morning of March 5:
So big deal. For the first half of the first day of Spring, our patio was snow free. By tomorrow it will be covered with 4 inches of snow.
This is our cardinal, three days ago, hopping amidst the left-over birdseed from the dearly departed snow on the patio:
He’s thinking, Didn’t there used to be food here? Where did it go??? I’m looking everywhere, and it’s gone! Where????
He never did find that tray of fresh birdseed that I had cleverly hidden from him in plain sight.
True story. I watched that cardinal search the whole patio.
This is the back fence stick pile o/a February 20:
This was it on the last Wednesday of Winter:
Yesterday I took this picture of the new hot spot on our patio:
It doesn’t look like much, for now. But wait for it:
This is one happy, Spring-flinging kitty cat.
I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s going to snow today.
This was going to be so much fun. As you know, I lost the London chapter of my Damn Garden Book last week, and it was still lost even after I’d done a middling-thorough search of my workroom. I concluded that the London chapter had been accidentally buried deep within one of the piles and files (thanks for that, Gigi) that surround me in my workroom.
So, last Saturday morning I made myself a cup of tea (I also brought a back-up beverage in case the going got really tough) and I began my down-to-the-studs search. This was going to be such fun because, as I documented the piles and files of my room [with these photos] you and I, Dear Readers, were going to laugh, and laugh, and laugh when we finally unearthed the London chapter from one of these unsuspecting piles or files.
I was just about to do my chant: Tony, Tony, look around
Something’s lost that must be found (thank you, Rachel!)
And then Top Cat called to me from his man cave, “Honey, I found the London chapter.”
Seems to me that I had had the London chapter in my hand one day when I must have been distracted by either a cat or a bird at the feeder at the picture window and set down those damn pages on Top Cat’s coffee table / feet-putting-up apparatus, upon which he had subsequently piled junk mail and To Do Lists atop. This is what the London chapter looks like:
WHEW. Top Cat’s timing is always perfect. I thank DoG that he found it before I’d torn all my piles and files apart to no avail. I spent the past Mon-Fri writing the London chapter and it was a non-stop delight. WHEW.
Anyhoo, now that the London chapter was found, I was able to spend my weekend rescuing this:
This was a full-page (9 inches high, 8 inches wide) illustration I had done for the London chapter back in April of 2012, back when the London chapter was just a figment of my imagination.
I thought it was OK…but I looked at it again and thought it might work better as a half-page pic so I cropped it thusly:
I also thought that I’d make the lines of my drawing more artsy by using a fun new brush/pen gizmo I’d just bought but, as you can see, that technique only highlighted my inability to draw architecture. This pic was toast.
But I never throw out my mistakes, because you never know, you know?. So I put this in the file where I store all my bad ideas and there it sat, for about three years.
And then it came time to start writing the London chapter for reals, so I pulled out this old piece of toast and gave it a good thinking.
I needed a full-page (see 9″ x 8″ sheet of Canson 90lb. above) illustration for the title page of the London chapter, a picture that said, in a glance:
Walled backyard gardens in the city
This pic was on the right track. It just needed a tiny rescue to make it work.
The first thing I had to do was figure out what to cut out of the old pic. Tracing paper was my main tool:
Then I had to position the fragment into the composition that was in my mind:
Then I drew the composition that was in my mind:
And then I re-drew it because my first attempt looked stupid (did I mention that, as an illustrator, architecture is my kryponite?) :
I began to draw the proposed comp onto the Canson 90lb working surface.
It needed re-doing, which I did, even tho the erasures made the working surface unusable:
Well, as you can see, after working for three and a half hours on this I still could not figure out the perspective or the architecture, so I decided to sleep on it and start over the next day.
Here’s the reason (other than my total lack of drafting skill) why this side of the illustration was so hard to get right:
I took this photo from the third floor balcony of the Chelsea/Knightsbridge flat of a friend. This was on one of my Summer visits, back in the days of the late ’90s and early ’00s when I would go to London for long weekends. London was where I would get into mischief, back in the late ’90s and early ’00s.
I also have a Winter version of the same scene:
I also have sunset and dusk versions, nighttime versions, stormy weather sky versions, etc. I loved that view. I loved those walled backyards and the private forests contained within.
When I first illustrated this view, I used the whole photo but (see above) that Edwardian town house facing on the left side of this pic is more architecture than I can handle. I also wanted to emphasize the walled gardens more, that is, I wanted to elongate the verdure and turn the Ed. town house around…all of which I had to make up.
And the quasi-bird’s eye perspective is very tricky.
So, I started all over again the next morning:
Yes, the perspective is still wonky (I forgot to tell you that researching typical London buildings so I could imagine them in place in this composition takes hours or, at least, more than one). But I hope to disguise that by distracting the viewer with lots of other cool things going on in the pic.
After I had the framework pencilled onto the Canson 90lb. work surface, I went to work on the background that had to scream LONDON:
This, too, took hours to research on the inter webs. I knew that most of the landmarks just ad to suggest St. Paul’s, or the Tower Bridge, or the Tower, or castles… but I had to get Big Ben 100% right, and Big Ben was murder to get right.
From here on in, the rest of the pic was a breeze. Note here how I am beginning to rescue the cut-out:
Without the direct sunlight shadowing it, the cut-out is an easy rescue:
I might have to kill a few bits of the background. I think it’s too much London.
Altogether, this rescue took two days and 8 hours. Are you wondering why, considering how little of the original pic I kept, why I didn’t just re-do the whole kit and caboodle? It’s because re-drawing the buildings on the right would have been unbearably boring for me, and I’ve come to suspect that I just like the challenge of a rescue.
It’s not my usual style, to combine a line drawing with watercolor like this, but I think it works as a way to make the pic more fantastical (and so hide my poor architectural drafting) and to highlight the walled gardens — painting the buildings, even with a light wash, would make the pic too busy.
The blank space at the bottom is where the chapter title and sub-title go.
I think the pic works.
My on-line relationship with my blog went shits-creek-o last week and I and have been trying to fix it for days, and these guys were no help.
As of 8 o’clock pm on Thursday before I take a break to watch The Big Bang Theory, I am still trying to fix it BUT …
…if you are reading this it means that I am STILL working on the damn thing Friday morning.
I will have a post for you as soon as I can get all my visual aids uploaded onto my regularly schedules post.
Check back later in the day.
It snowed on Sunday.
And then it snowed on Tuesday. It’s a wonder that I still have all my, uh, what do you call ‘em, those round thingies that roll smoothly from one synapse to the other in a sequential and thought-provoking manner.
And then it snowed all the live long day Thursday. Marbles.
I measure bird feed by the pitcher.
I throw out three to four pitchers of bird feed a day. The kind you make iced tea in.
Broadcasting the bird feed o’er the land gives our birdies wing-space.
The blue jays are a bit wary of the squirrels but the cardinals are downright cowards.
Mrs. Cardinal has a tad more chutzpah than the old spherical object tied around the tarsus. ( That’s him, peering over the shoulder of an about-to-pounce-on-a-sunflower seed blue jay.)
And this is him, opting for the better part of valor.
This is from the back patio feeding ground.
Awww, squirrels are so cute.
Come on! That’s cute!
But maybe not as cute as this:
Dear Readers, I am in a mood today. Not the kind of mood that makes you want to take a twirl in the twilight or whip up a batch of champagne marmalade. The other kind of mood. The one that makes you feel as if fate has thrown a meat cleaver directly into the heart of your peace of mind.
On Monday I amazed myself by hitting FINAL on the last re-write of the next-to-last chapter of the Damn Garden Book. The End was Sooooooooooo Near. Sooooooo near. The nearest it has ever been in the three years I’ve been writing this Damn Book. The weight of deadlines and trial and errors and writing the wrong Damn Book over and over again was almost off my shoulders. I had at last got it right! I wrote good stuff! Any day now I could open the special Prosecco that has been on my dining room shelf waiting to celebrate The End of the Damn Garden Book!
All I had to do was write the London chapter, a chapter that I have put off writing for two years because I knew it would be “easy” to write. I did piles of research, read a whole book about the history of apothecary gardens, written pages and pages of notes, gone over the notes and pulled out whatever seemed too digressive, shaped up 14 pages of narrative — all so the writing would be a breeze. A breeze.
This is how organized I am: this is what the data base for the DGB looks like:
See? Everything in place, at my fingertips.
To refresh your memory, this is what the London Chapter look like:
The only thing between me and the end of 3 years of 7-day work weeks is the London chapter. And I can’t find it.
It’s not lost in the black hole of the internet, or in the one-way labyrinth of my hard drive. It’s lost in my house.
I have lost the hard copy of all my notes-taken and outlines plotted and fun fact shoehorned. I can’t find my London pile of notes.
My editor at Bloomsbury is OK with getting 8 our of 9 chapters from me on Friday (the wished-for deadline was last Monday). She will look over the flow and the sentences and the potholes of the text while I start assembling the layouts for 208 pages of book. After the text has been content edited, line edited, and proofread, I will drop the perfection of prose that will forever be Vivian Swift’s Last Damn Book into the blank spots between illustrations.
And then I can life like a normal person.
But I can’t do that until I find the London chapter. After a few days of moping, I started a down-to-the-floorboards search starting i my workroom. If you are reading this as a normally scheduled post, then I haven’t found it yet.
If I had found the damn London chapter, I would have posted this:
This is a picture of the neighborhood walled gardens of London (Knightsbridge — you watched me paint it in the post called It’s True. I Paint Like a Writer under the category London Gardens).
Shortly after I painted this, I ruined it. I added questionable line enhancements and I cropped off the sidewalk. I am a few illustrations short in the London chapter, so I recently took another gander at this and realized that I still like the idea of the pic so much that I want to rescue it. I want to correct my mistakes and turn it into the full-page (8 inch by 9 inch) title page for the London chapter.
I am very sorry for not replying to all of your Comments last week. I just haven’t had the heart. But I will — I hope you keep checking.
I hope by next week I will have found the London chapter along with all those tiny globular containers of mindfulness that fire the concept of a person I call “Me”.
Whoever is in charge of naming new paint colors: Bravo!
I know macarons have been all the rage in Paris lately, but are they all that well known in the U. S. of A.?
I do love the art direction of paint brochures — the photos capture an entire mood and sense of place and socio-economic aspiration. I get lost in entertaining digressive thoughts when I contemplate the story of each paint brochure photo, but my happiest time is going through the paint chips on display:
Within this array of color there are hues with the names of Blanket, Off Broadway, Inhale (and an Exhale), Luxury Linen, Poetry in the Park, Modern History, Corner Pub, and Porcelain Pear. Sad to say, but the lovely-sounding Porcelain Pear is the color of thrown up lima beans. If you can correctly guess the hue of any of these other color names, I will be very impressed indeed. Because frankly, I’m not sure that the color-namers are even in the same room as the colors they are naming. But still, for these evocative mini-poems to be found in Lowe’s Paint Dept., I say Bravo!
However, today, the only color we are exploring in-depth is gray. Hand-made gray.
I make my own grays because I think the hand-made grays have more personality than store-boughten ones.
I start by mixing Umber and Cyan Blue. I’m using my cheap, powdery Grumbacher paints because I like the texture of them, and I love the way they interact with water. Until Carol Gillott of ParisBreakfasts told me to up-grade my tools two years ago, I only used Grumbacher. I know their properties very well, and still like them for certain applications — but I don’t use the greens and yellows much at all anymore. Windsor-Newton is better.
Now it’s time to make a bottle cap of gray (because I work small), using bottle caps from quart bottles of Gatorade . I start by making a puddle of brown paint:
Mix together and Voila! I’ve got a bottle cap of one-of-a-kind gray:
Now, you remember the problem from last week:
I have to get rid of those wonky railing shadows and, while I’m at it, I might as well re-do the cat so that it looks more like “cat” and less like “orange blob”.
So I cut out the offending bits…
…and started over. First, I re-drew the offending railing shadows, which ought to have looked like this in the first place:
Quick digestion shot of my railing sketch illuminated on the light box to show you the trial-and-error of my ways:
Whenever I draw a stinky line, I cut it out and tape in a new bit of tracing paper and draw it correctly — I hope you can see that my “sketch” is actually a collage of about seven scraps of stop-and-start-again tracing paper. I’m not smart enough to get it right in one swell foop, so I give myself a break and destroy the bad while keeping the good — all without guilt.
I used tracing paper for this sketch not because I was tracing it (I WISH) but because I will be painting this picture on the light box, so I need a light-weight paper to let the light shine through it so I can paint the pic without drawing pencil lines on the art work. I never paint on a lift box because I’m a girl who loves outlines, but as this is an illustration of shadows, and shadows, in nature, don’t have outlines, I have to paint “painterly”, for once.
Well, here’s the tricky part. I have to adjust my bottle cap of gray paint by adding more blue, or a different blue, or more water, or maybe a molecule of black, to get the matching hue that I need to pick up where I left off in this pic. It’s the matching that is a bitch.
I started out with this too-greenish gray:
It needed more blue. After a few tries, I got it. It might not look like it in this photo (below), but this gray tone was a very good match:
I forgot to tell you that, in order to make bottle cap of home-made gray, you have to keep loading your brush with slurries of brown and blue and white pigment, and then you have to squeeze out those loads, from the paint brush’s brushes, into the bottle cap. It’s rather messy:
Anyhoo, I began to paint the replacement part of this illustration and I was very pleased with its matching-ness until I got this far…
…and then I said to myself:”Oh shit. I forgot the cat.”
Well, I was losing the afternoon light anyway because it had started snowing again, so I packed up [put everything out of a nosey cat’s paw reach] and called it a day.
I began again the next morning. I forgot to take a photo of it, but overnight the bottle cap of gray had totally dried out, so I had a bottle cap of dry pigment ready to be water-activated. This is absolutely the BEST way to paint from a bottle cap! When you’re starting with a solid pigment it’s very easy to control the very small adjustments it takes to lighten or darken a color, IMHO.
But I had to put off playing with the bottle cap of gray because first, I had to draw a cat. I thought that a crouching cat might look good on this shady Key West porch, so I drew one and taped my new kitty over the tracing-paper sketch like so:
But I didn’t like the position of the cat, so I had to peel it of the sketch, like this:
YES, with a tweezer. And not just any tweezer — that’s my old diamond-grading tweezer, designed with a long needle nose for ease of picking up dropped diamonds from the floor. THAT’s THE KIND OF PAINTER I AM. If anybody else works this way, I would love to chat. Main topic of conversation: Are we mad genius self-taught users of scotch tape, or what?!?!?
So I re-positioned the cat to be more forward-leaning:
But now I didn’t like the cat at all, mostly because I did not like how the tip of the rocking chair’s arm did this:
So I drew a new new cat, one that wouldn’t go anywhere near the rocking chair’s space:
But then the new new cat did this:
No problem, not for me (world champion of Making Pictures Work No Matter How Long It Takes). I just cut away a few of those cat-overlapping floor boards, re-mixed a correct shade of gray, and began to paint the first layer of shadow:
Then I painted the correct railing shadows. Every time I needed a new brush full of paint, I had to re-mix the paint and turn off the light box to compare that the grays were still compatible — it’s hideously time-consuming. But finally I got this:
Cut to DONE:
Top Cat wishes my posts didn’t go this long, but I know that some of you, Dear Readers, don’t mind watching me save my professional watercoloring ass step by step.
Color me Got Away With It One More Time.
This is what our back patio looked like three snowstorms ago.:
Since then the snow has gotten deeper and icier and depressinger and I didn’t feel like taking pictures of it. It’s really ugly out there. 50% of the human residents in my house have no desire to venture out of doors EVER. The other 50% is Top Cat, who had to clear a mountain of icy snow from the driveway with an axe.
The only tracks you’ll see in my backyard are made by little birdie feet.
We are dumping great quantities of bird seed out there to help the cardinals and chickadees etc make it through this horrible Winter.
In spite of all this misery I knew that I would make it to Groundhog Day with my sanity in tact because, come Groundhog Day, I was going to be in KEY WEST.
Ah, Key West. What do I like the most about Key West?
It might be the organic cocktail glasses:
Maybe it’s the local “color”:
Hey, look! I said to Top Cat, Majorelle Bleu! (At the time I thought it was exactly the color of the house in the Jardin Majorelle that I went to see in Marrakech.)
I think I’ll take A picture! I said to Top Cat.
The cat had other ideas:
Yeah, the cats of Key West are in a class all their own.
But mostly, I like Key West because of the Australian Pines on the beach at Fort Zachary Taylor.
You see, I had business to do in Key West; I had to get in touch with the wonderful people who won the right to preserve this delightful grove of shade trees, against some civic and governmental hysteria over invasive species.
Long story short, I am in love with this grove of trees and I’m writing about it in my Damn Garden Book. The Save Our Pines people and I had a lovely conversation about the issue and I now feel well-informed enough about the whole controversy and history of this beach to do it justice in the DGB.
And, having refreshed my memory about the delicate and wonderful presence of these pines, I had to go home and re-do an almost 2-year old illustration I had made when I first wrote about this place:
P.S. This is another illustration of Australian Pines that I did about a year ago…but this grove is not in Florida:
It’s not even in this century.
But this is all that I am contractually permitted to discuss about the DGB.
I also decided that I had to do something about this:
This is another Key West illustration that I did a while back. The shadows from the railing are a problem. Those shadows look as if they came from a different picture. Or a different time of day. They certainly don’t belong here. Also, I painted this a little too honestly — from a photo of a porch of the guest house Top Cat and I rented the last time we were in Key West that included an orange cat that was ignoring me while I took the snapshot. I think it would be a better illustration if the cat weren’t cleaning itself because I’m not sure that, as is, that blob of orange makes sense. And yeah, the cat’s shadow is all wrong too.
I must make corrections. So far, the picture looks like this:
I mixed those grey colors from scratch: a little brown, a little blue, a smidge of white. The challenge will be to get that recipe right again when I collage the right railing (and cat) back into this illustration.
And on this pic…
…I have to do something about that nasty-looking tree in the right foreground.
This is why it’s been taking me years to get this Damn Garden Book done.
But not today! It’s Friday! Time to make a Mai Tai and take a mental vacation back to Key West!
P.S. This is my backyard:
It’s going to take a lot of Mai Tais.
Once, in my life, I received a dozen red roses on Valentine’s Day.
I was 20, and the delivery of roses to my house was one of the few times in my minority years that my life felt just right, just like it was supposed to be. You know; as seen on TV.
But for me, when it comes to the delivery of a dozen red roses, once in my lifetime is enough. I understand that red roses are the symbol of luuuuuuuv, and I do love roses as my second-favorite flower, but cut roses are a shame, and the red ones are so “Eh”. And painting them is not much of a treat either.
It takes a bit of experimenting — with vermillion, fuchsia, and various brands of paint called “red” — to get the correct hue:
I am painting a specific kind of red rose here, and from the get-go I do not like the looks of it:
The black shading is not my thing, and at this point:
I think the rose looks capital-U Ugly.
It also looks Ugly (to me) at this point:
But I am painting this rose for the One I Love, and the One I Love loves this rose, so I must paint on.
Because the One I Love is kind:
This rose is for the One I Love.
But the One I Love is also playful:
…and I am painting these one-of-a-kind (made up) butterflies…
… for the air, earth, and fire of my love’s merry brightness of being:
The One I Love is like the waters of the oceans — patient, deep, and thoughtful:
An Everest of honor…
…and wise in the ways of never and always, is the One I Love:
I paint this eagle feather…
…because the One I Love is true-hearted and brave:
In all the world — of plants, and birds, and rocks, and things — blue is the color most rare…
…and the color most romantic:
The One I Love is all that, too.
And then there’s this:
The love of the One I Love.
The love of the One I Love is as every-day a thing as atoms, and gravity…
… and photons, and electrons;
the love of the One I Love is as commonplace as day, or night…
…or even quarks, and tea:
In other words,
it might as well be magic.
This is dedicated to The One I Love.
Please feel free to lift any part of this image that suits your Valentine too.
And if you don’t have anyone you want to call the One I Love this Valentine’s Day, I am right there with you, pouring the Pinot Grigio and reaching for a box of Kleenex.
I never thought I’d be saying this, but NPR and I are getting a divorce. And it’s all because of vocal fry. For those of you Dear Readers who are not familiar with this monstrously annoying affectation in the speech pattern of American youth, this short viddie will explain (guess who just figured out how to embed You Tube!):
For years vocal fry has been seeping into the news and entertainment shows that are broadcast by National Public Radio (AKA: NPR). I loathe it, of course, and in hindsight I can see that NPR and I were already on a camel/straw footing, but the straw that broke this camel’s back was when Ira Glass, American public radio personality and NPR-ish producer of This American Life, set out to defend vocal fry from grouches like me in the most deliberately insulting way. On his program o/a January 23, 2015, he put it this way:
Listeners have always complained about young women reporting on our show. They used to complain about reporters using the word like and about upspeak, which is when you put a question mark at the end of a sentence and talk like this? But we don’t get many emails like that anymore. People who don’t like listening to young women on the radio have moved on to vocal fry.
And then he said that if vocal fry drives people like me crazy, it’s because:
1. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t like listening to young women on the radio anyway (see: above) because I’m too stuck in the past times (that is, indoctrinated by the patriarchy).
2. I’m too OLD to get with it and know that that’s just the way that young folk “naturally” speak these-a-days.
His advice to haters of vocal fry? Get over it.
Well, ha ha, Ira Glass, guess wha —wait just a sec, tho. This actually does make me laugh:
(Are embedded viddies annoying or not? Opinions, please.)
So anyway, Ira Glass, ha ha. The same people who can’t stand vocal fry are the same people who have enough disposable income (because they are OLD) to give to NPR so, as I cancel my monthly-sustainer membership (because I’m OLD), see how you like it when you have to rely on vocal-fried hipster not-OLD people to pitch in to pay for your radio program, OKaaaaaaaaaaay?
Because we are through.
(I’m not really listening to NPR all that much anyway these days, what with me turing the radio OFF as soon as one of their new hires goes into vocal fry mode.)
But it’s not just vocal fry that gets me riled up. Last week a dental hygienist also really pissed me off.
Well, thank DoG that I live in the era of Yelp, an interwebs site that publishes crowd-sourced reviews about local businesses. Yelp is my dream come true.
I would show their trademark, but people these days are very litigious about using copyrighted stuff and I don’t have time to get Yelp‘s written permission to use their logo in my blog post, but the logo is very colorful.
P.S. If anyone wants to use any of my rightfully copyrighted pix, be my guest. I’m not like some grubby, third-rate, low-rent, entrapment sue-happy copyright-holders lurking out there in the inter webs.
Note: One of the things I did on my year off from blogging was get sued for copyright infringement. I’ll have to tell you that story some time.
Anyway, thank DoG there is Yelp …
…because Yelp gives disgruntled customers a place to diss. So last week, after my tiff with the dental hygienist, I hastened over to Yelp to get myself registered and then I put in writing my disgruntlement with a certain dental practice.
You can read it here.
So now that I have a platform, disgruntlers everywhere should watch their step when conducting business with one Vivian Swift. It’s the fact that I don’t crave the approval of strangers that makes me so dangerous.
(Courtesy of www.Keep Calm O Matic.co.uk , a great website that lets you create your very own Keep Calm poster. The funny thing is, I did not make this one (above) — it was already in the ether. I wish I could be best friends with whoever thought up this poster.)
As much as I can’t stand vocal fry, I am also annoyed that the way people (even OLD ones) these-a-days try to sound smart is by using the word “prior” when they mean “previous” (THERE’S A DIFFERENCE!!!!).
Destination weddings; and the smell, texture, and taste of cucumbers — can’t stand either of them.
I’m so over Rock Operas, Rock Operas based on the Book of Revelations, and the Book of Revelations.
Love locks on the Pont des Arts, dreadlocks on white people, and co-workers who tell you they are too smart to be working here — they should all be outlawed. Or punched in the face.
I can’t stand people like me, who do not know how to “nest” their replies to Comments on their WordPress blog; but I figured it out yesterday and all my replies to your lovely Boogie Girl comments are properly nested and now I don’t hate myself any more.
But don’t get me started on the way the morning news will break your heart six times before breakfast, or the fact that Giselle Bundchen makes 47 million dollars a year for parading in her undies while a park ranger in Virunga makes 47 dollars a year for saving the mountain gorilla from extinction. (Hey! I just figured out where all my NPR money will go now!)
I also despise Auto Correct.
Retail shop assistants who tell me If you have any questions, just ask me drive me nuts. Do they think I’d be confused about where to go if I had a question about the item on the middle shelf? Do they think I’d wander across the street to ask the deli guy? Do they think I’d end up standing in the middle of the shop having a nervous breakdown because I had questions, O, so many questions, and had no idea where to go to find answers??? I mean, really: Who the hell else am I going to ask? Dear Abby?
Also on my Shit List is the way people to whom I’ve just told that I have eight cats will then tell me every last reason why they hate cats; ditto being a Bruce Springsteen fan, watching Judge Judy every day, and joining the Peace Corps to go to West Africa. ( I’ve been holding onto that last one for quite a while. The guy I told it to came right back with: I’ve never traveled outside the United States but if I did, I wouldn’t go to Africa. I still hate that guy with all my heart.)
I think I’ve proved my point.
I am not the nicest person in the world.
But I’m OK with that.
(This is ONE of TWO posts today — immediately following is a post all about My First Ever DoG — I don’t want you to miss it.)The Blizzard of the Century, they said it was — a doomsday storm heading our way with the mighty wrath of a really vengeful supernatural being that was really, really pissed off by Long Island vocal fry.
But I could be projecting, just a teeny bit.
In the ten years I have lived on Long Island we’ve had, oh, ten Blizzards of the Century. I didn’t get all het up about this one, but the Gummint did, and how. Roads, trains, public transport — all shut down. The New York State Thruway’s closed, man.
On Sunday night we had overnight snowfall, which looked like this, Champagne-O-meter-wise:
Monday afternoon was the worst, with lots of fast-falling snow and white-out winds. In one powerful gust I heard the walls of the den creak in unison, which did not please me. Top Cat came home from work in Manhattan early and we hunkered down with cats, cocktails, and made-from-scratch macaroni and cheese and we watched The Interview. Two thumbs UP UP UP. Who knew Eminem could be so hilarious?
Most of the snow fell and fell overnight, and on Tuesday morning the C-O-M looked like this:
Tuesday was a SNOW DAY.
And then it was Wednesday and everyone back to their lives, but on a Sunday schedule.
So, basically, it’s been Sunday since Wednesday and Sunday is not my favorite day of the week.
So last night I popped the C-O-M and poured like it was Saturday.
Now I wish every Thursday could be Saturday.