Worst Blog Post Ever

Tonight, I sat down to do a little Halloween blogging of my own. I knew it wouldn't be anything to compare to "Dolyn"s mega countdown marathon, but I thought I'd whip up a nice, quaint little number, brimming with good ol' autumn cheer. My plan was to create a virtual representation of the costumes I've been planning for me and Sam using the "Paint" program on my computer. I even came up with the brilliant idea to paste actual photographs of us to the techno-easel and then create a likeness of my costume ideas on top of those photos using that little paint dot tool. I thought that way, I could create a version of my own creative dreams that my friends could see, even halfway across the globe. Instead, I created this:



Now, before you even comment on the image itself, please let me explain the utter HELL I went through even to get it onto this stupid blog o' mine. It is apparently impossible to save a file from the Paint program into a working JPEG. I found this out after saving it as every comprehensible file type known to man, and having Blogger tell me, in a very pleasantly-worded short paragraph, to go screw myself. I then thought, by jove, why don't I just take a snapshot of the Paint image on my computer screen using my digital camera? But no. My camera has decided that focus is an unnecessary component of picture-taking, and insists on making everything just blurry enough to really infuriate me. So then I remembered that, in true web-nerd fashion, I have an iSight webcam. So I tried to take a picture with that. But it created a TIFF file and not a JPEG, and Blogger does NOT like that, oh no. Eventually, I had to send the Paint file as an attachment to Sam's email so he could print it out on his color printer, and then I took a picture (with my defunct digital camera) of the poor quality printed image, hoping that it might be slightly less blurry if taken from a sheet of paper than from a computer screen. So that's why it looks like complete crap.

And oh yeah, the image itself was meant to be Sam as Gromit, the dog (see "Gromit" post, below). Note, if you will, those big poo-like appendages protruding on either side of his head. Those are meant to be ears. Needless to say, I didn't even bother going through with my own Wallace costume idea art project. If you'd like, you can just imagine me in a green sweater vest and khakis, carrying around a wedge of cheese.

That's it for tonight's post. Things have gotten out of hand.

A Very Serious Problem

Well, my mini eBay-a-Thon turned into a major problem-a-thon. Actually, not really. To be fair, it is only a single problem. But it is a particularly distressing one. After devoting too many hours to browsing the eBay.co.uk "Buy" pages in search of the perfect pair of boots for under 50 pounds (pounds sterling, that is) I found them at last. I had bid on and given up on a few pairs that eventually ended up selling for prices up around the 150 range, and had, therefore, become a bit discouraged. But these babies raised my spirits. They cost not 50, but 42 pounds including shipping/handling. They were "vintage," but not too used. They went well with skirts, but also with tight pants tucked into them. They were stylish, but not name brand. They were wine colored, but of Finnish make. They had wedge heels, but had tasteful gold adornments. (I know those "but"s should have changed to "and"s somewhere in there, but I didn't want to sacrifice the flow. Don't question my writing techniques, I have a degree!)

Anyway, they arrived this morning just as my alarm was going off, which was both exciting and convenient, as I was then able to wear them to work. When I tried them on in my room, they felt like a perfect, snug fit. But as I strode confidently down the cobblestones on my way to the tube, the nagging possibility that maybe they were *too* snug clung in the darkest corners of my mind. By lunchtime, my heels were getting that burning sensation that can only mean bad things. By the time I got home, I was looking forward to giving my toes a little wiggling room.

So, I ask you, what is the (proverbial) next step? Should I admit to myself that these glorious boots are too small and re-sell them on eBay, crossing my fingers that I will make a profit or at least break even? Or should I grin, bear it, and counteract my slight limp with the fact that my boots look damn good? It really is a tough call. I need your help on this one, guys.

Gromit

As of the last two or so weeks, I have gone on a mini Ebay-a-thon. Now, I *am* broke, and so this really was mini, consisting of only two items: 1) a pair of wine-colored boots which have not yet arrived and 2) an amazing, fantastic, interactive-ish Gromit mug. Gromit is my favorite cartoon dog of all time. New York Times film reviewer A.O. Scott explains Gromit's excellence eloquently: "Gromit has no mouth, and yet his face is one of the most expressive ever committed to the screen. In particular, his brow - a protuberance overhanging his spherical, googly eyes - is an almost unmatched register of emotion. Resignation, worry, tenderness and disgust all come alive in that plasticine nub." And true it is. In no instance has Gromit ever been known to utter even the smallest of sounds, and yet, somehow, he manages to convey emotions more human than even some humans can manage themselves.

And my new mug adds an extra expressive element on top of all of that. In addition to its cute little shape, with one ear forming the handle, Gromit's usually brown nose turns red when tea is poured into it! Indeed, it represents science at its very best.

Doodle and Creek

My mother recently emailed me the best story I've heard in a long time, full of emotional highs and lows, greater truths, honesty, courage, mystery, and fur. Yes, that's right, fur. It concerns a cat named Max (full etymology of names and nicknames: Scabby->Scabface->Maxwell->Max->Maxie->Maxface->Maxie Doodle [my mom's contribution]->Doodle/Dude) and a dog named Sandy (aka "Sandy Creek," named after the body of water in Alabama near which she was originally found). Please keep in mind that these two loving animals are united despite their historically opposed feline and canine classifications, as they were both rescued from illness and near starvation by Me and Sam (Max) and my mom and dad (Sandy) and grew to become healthy, happy, and loyal pets. I feel this detail is integral to the story. Also keep in mind that since I moved to London, my parents kindly took in Max on a temporary basis, and so the cat and the dog have been forming a tenuous relationship as they struggle to overcome the instinctual differences of their respective species.

So, a few days ago I awoke to a long email from my mom that started off with a shocking bit of news. That morning, at around 4:00 am Pacific Standard Time, Max had gone missing. My mom had woken up chilly and went outside to get some firewood, since my Idyllwild home, deemed by Sarah C. to be akin to an "Elfin Cottage," is heated by wood fire alone. Coming back inside with the required logs, she thought back to a few days earlier, when she had gone out in a similar fashion and come back to find Max lying down inside the fireplace (while it was unlit, obviously) because he apparently thought that was fun. So she decided she would check that he hadn't crawled in there again. The good news was that he was not pouncing about amongst the ashes. The bad news, however, was that she couldn't find him anywhere else, either. She searched high and low about the house before realizing that it may have been possible that, in her sleepiness, she hadn't shut the door all the way when she went outside. Now, for those of you who have not visited Idyllwild, it is an official wilderness; a real, honest-to-gosh forest with big old trees and dark caverns and mountain lions and bobcats and coyotes that lurk about. And on top of that, only a few weeks before, my childhood cat Chloe disappeared and was never found.

My mom was understandably distressed. She walked around outside in the early morning dark calling for Max, shining her flashlight in all the hiding places she could think of. Sandy had been roused with the commotion and came to to join in the search. They looked and looked for over an hour, but the kitty was nowhere to be found. My mom, in exhaustion and worry, sat down on the steps of the front deck and cried. She couldn't stand to lose another beloved pet, and knew I wouldn't be able to either.

Then, in the dim light of early morning, she looked up to see Sandy trotting down the steps that lead to our house from the road, nudging Max home in front of her. She had somehow managed to find him all by herself. Max was all poofed up, as scared cats are wont to be, and ran gratefully inside through the front door. My mom, accompanied by the happily reunited pets, got back into bed for a few more hours of sleep before she would have to wake up to get ready for work, and Max reached over and put his little paw on Sandy's side. For real.

The Blog Trend

These keystrokes officially mark the commencement of my very own 'blog. I never thought I would see this day, not even three weeks ago when I was busying myself at my bland and lonesome reception desk by browsing the newly born blog of Sar C. (alias "Dolyn"), mentally taunting her for being a total internet nerd-face. Of course, I realize that such derision was purely hypocritical, as I have greedily devoured every post of every blog that any of my friends has ever created, and I would be unable to argue if Sar C., or any other blog-founding friend of mine, were to scoff at me and suggest that my ridicule was probably rooted in straight-out jealousy and longing for a blog of my own.

So here it is.

I will begin with a promised tale of electronic explosions. As most readers of this blog will probably know, I have recently moved from New York to London. And, as most coherent human beings will probably know, the electrical currents used in these two countries are very different from one another, and not to be confused. To be more specific, the voltage used in the US is something like 120, whereas the electricity used in the UK is double that, packing a whopping 240 volts of pure, unadulterated power. Being a well-traveled individual with experience in such matters, I dutifully made my way to the Maplin Electronics store on Tottenham Court Road before even thinking about plugging my computer into the potentially deadly socket in my new bedroom. I spoke with a customer service representitive, explaining that I had brought my beautiful, new, shiny American iMac with me to London, and asked what precautions I should take before plugging it in. He assured me that all I would need was a British power cord. No converter. No adapter. No nothing. He spoke to the store's certified Apple expert, who confirmed his claims. Fair enough, I thought. These guys know what they're talking about. So I happily shelled out ten-or-so pounds and walked away with my power cord. When I got home, just to be absolutely sure, I carefully examined the small print on the back of my computer, and found, to my dismay, a clear marking of "100-120 V" emblazoned there. Better safe than sorry, I thought to myself. And so I trudged back to the store the next day and spoke to a different customer service representative, expressing my worries. This kind young man told me that their shipment of Apple products actually came from the US, so I had nothing to worry about. He sensed my lingering concern, and checked the iMac specs online, and even called some elusive computer epicenter. All his research confirmed his original intuition. So, impressed with his thorough approach, I went home in a bubble of blissful trust, unwrapped my new power cord, and plugged my computer in. It instantly made a loud popping noise and emitted a small cloud of burnt-smelling smoke and, needless to say, didn't turn on.

To make this long and painful story shorter and less painful: I screamed in fear, then cried, then cried some more, then phoned the tech people, who told me that my computer was hoplelessly destroyed, and that I probably wouldn't be able to recover any of the information on my hard drive, and that it would be cheaper to buy a new computer than to fix it since my warranty had expired. I then cried some more, threw my pretty new handbag across the room in rage and thus accidentally broke the handle, then pouted my way to the Apple store with computer in tow. There, a very nice man named Leigh helped me even though I wasn't in the Genius Bar queue, told me they could fix my computer within the week, and told me they'd even cover the cost of the parts for me, including a part to make my computer truly internationally compatible, so all I would have to pay was the 70 pound labor fee. He then called me the next day to assure me that my hard drive was undamaged. I had my computer back and working in a week, as promised.

I feel that this extremely two-faced experience is actually rather representative of my time here so far.