Flotsam

Obviously, the Nearly needs a new name. Because I am a fool, I told him he could choose one himself. He thought for a moment, furrowing his noble brow, and then said:

“Susan.”
“What?”
“Susan.”
“No. Be serious, please.”

He thought for another moment.

“Sharon.”
“A boy’s name, asshole.”
“Why does it have to be a boy’s name?”
“Because you’re a boy, and I don’t want to confuse new readers by talking about Sharon’s sperm analysis results.”
“That’s a whole other issue right there, isn’t it.”
“Just pick a goddamn name.”
“Can’t you just call me Susan but make it clear that I am a man? You could call me Mr. Susan.”
“Or Man-Susan,” I said sarcastically.
“Man-Susan would be fine.”
“How about Asshat?” I snarled. “Or Mr. Asshat?”
“I’ll think of something.”

A few hours later, he announced that he had thought of something:

“Callisthenic Carl and the Let’s Warm Up!”
“Excuse me?”
“Callisthenic Carl and the Let’s Warm Up—only you have to use the whole name every time you mention me. No shortening it to ‘Carl.’”

I was, uncharacteristically, speechless. Then I pulled myself together, and reminded the Nearly that he was not starting a band, he was choosing a pseudonym. He seemed to have some trouble distinguishing these two concepts, but I soldiered on.

The next suggestion was “Whiskers,” which is a play on the first two phonemes of his last name. Cute, but not without problems. If the Nearly and I were to get into a fight, it would be difficult to whip my readers into a frenzy of righteous indignation on my behalf, because Awww…who can be mad at Whiskers? Also, sentences like “Whiskers and I are going away for a romantic weekend,” would inevitably have a whiff of bestiality about them with which I am not comfortable.

As of this writing, we are out of ideas.

In other news, the mere act of becoming engaged has transformed the commitment ring I have been wearing for months into an official Engagement Ring. Same piece of jewelry, but instantly less likely to make our families confused and uncomfortable!
Really, I cannot count the number of times I had this snippet of conversation over the winter holidays:

“So, you’re engaged!”
“No, it’s a commitment ring.”
“It’s a what?”

Here’s a picture, courtesy of the camera built right in to my new MacBook:

I look kind of hardcore, like I’m making a fist and should maybe be growling, but this is unintentional.

Prepare to be bored senseless, because today? I got a new digital camera. I would like to thank the federal government for the student loan that financed this purchase. I am out of money, now, but look at this picture of my sexy girl-cat, Willie!

Grrrowwl!

As you may remember, I recently moved. Here is a picture of our new duplex (we have the second floor):

And a few more, with annotations:

You may have noticed odd blog-happenings here over the past few days. Sidebars disappearing, only to reappear (unformatted) moments later. My new “about me” page converted into a difficult-to-read font called Appalachian Tongues for an hour or so. Links migrating to the bottom of the page.
You see, I am teaching myself html. I have just mastered template tags–I got my list of infertility blogs to display a new set of randomly chosen links each time my page is opened or refreshed (which is actually becoming a bit annoying, as I can’t find certain links when I want them, and I am getting email from people wondering why I have suddenly stopped linking to them—which, of course, I haven’t)–and I am dabbling in CSS. None of the changes are permanent, I am just mucking about because I am hoping to redesign my blog next month. I spent last night alternately cursing and dosing myself with wine as I attempted to create a new banner with Photoshop. No, I don’t have any Photoshop experience. No, I didn’t read the instructions. Instead I randomly clicked on buttons that looked like they might do what I needed, then inadvertently ruined my picture, shouted COCKSUCKER! a few times, poured myself another drink, and started over. The wine was meant to fortify me, but instead merely impeded my understanding of the tech-y websites I trolled for advice.

I am good at most things I try to do, as long as they are not sports-related. Also, provided they do not require manual labor. Or teamwork. Or, you know, specialized knowledge.
Anyway, most many some things come easily to me. Computers used to be one of those things, back in…oh, 1985. I even entered a computer programming competition in the second grade, on a team with two boys from my elementary school, boys with large, button-heavy digital watches and vast amounts of scorn for the computing abilities of the fairer sex. Little did they know I had a manic depressive father who spent the time other fathers spent sleeping writing code—(my favorite was a program he wrote called “Escher-sketch” that took any doodle and turned it into an MC Escher-esque pattern) and who taught me Logo before I read my first chapter book.
At the competition these boys, concerned about the performance of our “team,” gave me one problem to work on while they took the other four—you know, so A Girl wouldn’t ruin their chances of geeky glory. Happily, when the judges ran our programs, mine was the ONLY ONE THAT WORKED. Also? One of the boys broke his elbow on the monkey bars later that school year, which gave me great (and evil, I know) pleasure.

Where was I?
Ah yes—computers! I blame my current lack of computer savvy on my parents’ divorce, which coincided with the release of the Apple IIGS, which had a COLOR! SCREEN! After that, I didn’t own or use a computer until college.

The years during which I had nothing to do with computers? 1987 to 1998.

Yeah. I missed some important developments. Like, oh, the Internet.
Anyway, computers now baffle me entirely. And patience may be a virtue, but it is not one that I currently possess. Because I am used to things coming easily to me, I have an unattractive tendency to react like a frustrated toddler when they do not. Also? Coding now makes my head hurt like it does when I attempt to imagine what existed before the universe.
But god help me, I am going to do this redesign myself. Besides, I have four papers for school due this coming Sunday, which makes now the perfect time to teach myself web design!

EDITED TO ADD: Great. The vast pictures in this post have forced the sidebar to the bottom of the page. How delightful. If anyone knows how to fix this…
EDITED TO ADD SOMETHING ELSE: Fixed! Smaller pictures, but they should click through to the larger version. Thanks, Laura!

I have been at a loss for words this week, because potentially earth-shifting developments are taking place here at Flotsam, and the Nearly has forbidden me to talk about them until the situation is “finalized.” How’s that for cryptic? Also: The crow flies at midnight.
Anyway, you just try having BIG NEWS* you cannot share and then attempting to write your customary trivial blog entry. It is not easy. But I am doing it anyway, because I care.

Trivial Item #1: Recent Toe Injury.
At first I thought it was broken, because it hurt so terribly, but I couldn’t figure out how I might have broken it. Then I remembered that I had fallen off my backless shoes six times the weekend before–three of those times within seconds of each other on the same stretch of sidewalk, in front of passersby who probably thought I was drunk. Which, come to think of it, I was, a little. But it seemed likely that if I had broken my toe then, I would have been in pain severe enough to penetrate even my litchi-scented Gewürztraminer haze. So the logical explanation, naturally, was that I was developing Morton’s Neuroma, an ailment I discovered by Googling “toe pain” a few days later. I had just gotten myself worked into a lather about my potentially disabling new problem when the pain went away.

Trivial Item #2: Insect Stalker.
Mosquitos find me irresistible. They are, in fact, the only group of organisms that does, unless you count Persons Loitering Near Courthouses (Defendant sub-phylum). The last time I visited a courthouse, a large gentleman on the courthouse steps invited me to accompany him back to his car to fornicate. I declined. He assured me that his car was parked nearby, in the parking ramp across the street—walking there would be but the work of a moment! Again I demurred, informing him that I had a boyfriend who would probably look askance at my accepting such a proposition. He thought about this for a moment, and then his face brightened.
“He don’t have to know,” he murmured.
But this is all beside the point. The point is, mosquitos simply cannot get enough of me. Put me and the Nearly outside near a lake, and he will emerge with half a dozen bites, while every exposed inch of my skin will be rapidly mottled with welts. I am not sure what, besides my obvious charm, attracts mosquitos to me. I have read that they are more likely to bite those who have recently eaten bananas. They are fond of potassium, apparently. However, while I like a nice banana as much as the next girl (Ha!), I purposely refrain from consuming them during mosquito season. So the allure remains a mystery.
Anyway, outside my front door there lives a mosquito the size of a spaniel. A Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, to be exact, a breed which, while small for a dog, surely you agree is overlarge for an insect. This mosquito has set up a sort of stakeout near the entrance to my home, and every morning when I leave for work, it attacks me. Much of my time this past week has been spent in constructing elaborate ways to avoid being bitten each morning. So far the most effective methods appear to be 1) wearing a long winter coat out to my car and 2) running down the steps shimmying and waving my hands about. Both attract considerable attention from the neighbors.

Trivial Item #3: My Head Hurts.
I have had a migraine for days now. Days! It hurts.

Trivial Item #4: Reader Assistance Requested.
I will be going on my traditional annual vacation at the end of the summer, with a passel of my relations, to visit other relations in North Dakota. Besides the usual fishing, drinking, and card playing, there will be a contest this year, a contest to guess how many pairs of shoes my eldest cousin owns.
Now, my eldest cousin feels about shoes the way I feel about handbags. She is a financial analyst, married to another financial something or other, meaning she has troughs of money. In addition, she gets a 50% discount at Cole Haan because her sister-in-law does something marketing related for them, and said discount leads to a tremendous amount of shoe buying. ALSO, Eldest Cousin works near Saks Off 5th, where you can purchase a pair of Prada pumps for a pittance. She insists she has only “around 50” pairs of shoes, but this statement is patently ridiculous.
Anyway, the winner of this shoe-guessing contest will be taken shopping for a new pair of shoes of their own, and people are taking this whole thing quite seriously. Witness the following, taken from my email correspondence:

***
From: Eldest Cousin
Subject: Rendezvous Shoe Count
Participants,
In response to your questions/concerns regarding the Rendezvous Shoe Count:
“Shoe” shall be defined as “an outer covering for the foot, made of leather, fabric, or plastic, with a stiff sole.” Eligible shoes include but are not limited to slip-ons, sandals, pumps, boots, mules, slippers and flip-flops. Socks or hosiery are not considered eligible. I am unsure of the inclusion of my cycling shoes, as they are composed of some super slippery composite and have metal clips on the bottom – as such, they are hazardous to walk in and are not truly wearable as a “shoe.”
I await feedback regarding your thoughts on the above.
Best regards & XOXOX,
M.

From: Alexa
Subject: Re: Rendezvous Shoe Count
Hmmm. The adjective “stiff” seems misleadingly restrictive, as it would exclude moccasins, of which you have at least one pair. Please advise.

From: Other Cousin
Subject: Re: Rendezvous Shoe Count
Hear hear. I was also concerned about the “stiff” limiter, but glad to see that this has been sorted out.
I believe the cycling shoes should be included as not ALL shoes really are made to allow walking, some are merely decorative in nature. For example, I have at least two pairs of “sitting” shoes that require wedging flipper sized feet into petite pointy torture devices. They really allow walking of no more than a city block. Also, English riding boots, which have previously been voted in by consensus, actually deteriorate in quality when walked in, rather than ridden in. As such, I believe the whole walkability quotient should be dismissed.
***

This exchange eventually resulted in Official Contest Rules:

***
From: Eldest Cousin
Subject: Rules–Rendezvous Shoe Count–Second Draft

1) Official Results. The count will be tallied by shoe’s owner, Eldest Cousin. McGladrey or Price Waterhouse Coopers will audit the official shoe count. In the event they are unable to undertake the shoe audit, a participant elected by majority vote of the other participants shall be allowed to audit the count. In addition to the total, a breakout of major shoe categories will accompany the results. The official results will be revealed at the 2006 Fall Rendezvous, currently scheduled for September 22, 2006 through September 24, 2006. The participant with the guess closest to the actual number of shoes owned will win a pair of shoes.
2) Eligible Shoes. “Shoes” shall be defined as “an outer covering for the foot, made of leather, fabric, or plastic, with a stiff sole”. Eligible shoes include but are not limited to loafers, sandals, pumps, boots, mules, sneakers, slippers, flip-flops, and moccasins. Socks or hosiery are not considered eligible. Shoes must specifically belong to Eldest Cousin. Shoes that are the property of other residents of the Eldest Cousin household, or visitors and guests of the Eldest Cousin household, will be considered ineligible.
3) Wearability Issues. Currently, several pairs of inventoried shoes are un-wearable, but await repair and resuscitation by the Shoe Man. As these shoes will presumably be wearable again in the near future (whether it be on or after the effective date), they will be considered eligible for the purpose of the count. Other lack of wearability issues, including but not limited to blisters, pain (severe or otherwise), twisted ankles, bunions, bone spurs, Chinese foot binding, or other foot mutilating conditions requiring varying levels of medical treatment, will not render an otherwise eligible shoe ineligible. Similarly, accelerated depreciation of an eligible shoe if worn and walked in, will not cause it to be classified ineligible.
4) Ineligible Shoes. Approximately 5 pairs of shoes currently in the goodwill pile will also be considered ineligible for the count.
5) Effective Date. Shoe count will be completed as of June 30, 2006
***

Now, I MUST win this contest. Since the growth crumpet, I have grown out of all my shoes save two pair, one of which is the treacherous backless pair referenced in Trivial Item #1. My mother has entered the contest, and god knows SHE doesn’t need more shoes. Unfortunately, my need is irrelevant, and I must put in my guess by the 30th.
So, as most of my readers are women, I am asking: how many pairs of shoes do you have**?
I will tally the results and post them here, in the spirit of triviality.

*No, I am NOT pregnant.
**Manuela, this means you!

I am moved. Sort of. More or less. Our books are still mostly in piles on the floor, giving our apartment a charming “literary hovel” feel. The cats have turned this into a game, and amuse themselves by attempting to move from room to room without touching the floor. Of course, the situation is complicated by the fact that the local library had a book fair last weekend, at which all books were priced UNDER ONE DOLLAR. I think you all have the requisite math skills to figure the sum of Alexa + Bookfair, so I will not go into the gory details. Suffice it to say we need more bookshelves. And possibly a crane of some kind to assist us in our next move.

Which, if you believe the Nearly, will be in a matter of months. His job recently ended, and he has not yet found another.
So he is at home. All. Day. Long.
The Nearly does not do well with inactivity, and so I am having a lot of conversations like this:
MY WORK PHONE: Brring! Brrriiing!
ME: This is Alexa…
NEARLY: The goddamn downstairs neighbors have their cocksuckingmotherfucking car in the driveway. This is ridiculous. I hate them.
ME: Maybe you could ask them to move their car?
NEARLY: Fine. (Hangs up)

{20 minutes later}

MY WORK PHONE: Brring! Brrriiing!
ME: This is Alexa…
NEARLY: We can’t live here with a kid.
ME: Excuse me?
NEARLY: It’s filthy. You should see the space between the tub and the sink.
ME: Well, it’s an old house, and we just moved in. We can clean it.
NEARLY: No, we can’t.
ME (being sarcastic): Great, I guess I’ll start looking for a new place.
NEARLY (failing to notice sarcasm): You don’t have to look right now.

He is also concerned about the fireplace being dirty. Sooty, you might even say.
Obviously this is unsuitable for a house with infants, as everyone knows that there is nothing babies like better than lolling about in fireplaces. At least when they aren’t scrabbling in the dust under the radiator—located INSIDE A LATCHING CABINET. Because they are so dexterous, babies. And mobile. And unsupervised.

I want to reach through the phone and shake the Nearly, but instead I spend my lunch hour searching the want ads for jobs and sending out his resume. We do not even have internet yet at home, thanks to the asshats professionals at our phone company (we’ll call them Pylgrimage), so there is really very little the Nearly can do save clean and brood.

Speaking of cleaning (and brooding, I suppose), the Nearly removed an old air conditioner and found a nest of baby birds. The window unit was there when we moved in, and was spectacularly ineffective, cooling only the eight inches immediately in front of its vent. Also, it made a noise like this: WhirrrrrKACHUNKawhirrrkachunkawhirrrkachunka. Only louder. And with more vibrating of the walls. So, the Nearly removed it and learned two things—1) that this particular air conditioner is the size of an Oldsmobile, and 2) that the CHIRPCHIRPCHIRP we hear in the mornings is coming from our windowsill.
Once the air conditioner was out, we were faced with a problem: We couldn’t close the window, and risk smooshing one of the three babies, but neither could we leave it open, because the cats were yowling and pawing through recipe books: Sparrow Souffle, Birds of a Feather Stuck Together With Egg Batter and Wrapped In Bacon, etc. So we constructed an elaborate fortress of cardboard for the window, and the Nearly grieviously injured himself in an attempt to get the (leaking) air conditioner downstairs to the basement.

Here is where I would put pictures if we had unearthed the digital camera:

BABY BIRDS—>

AIR CONDITIONER—>

See how cute the birds are? With their wee yellow beaks? And their tiny, tiny pin feathers?
And isn’t that the biggest appliance you have ever SEEN?