Mutiny in my nase

There is a very small mutiny or perhaps a pirate war going on in my nase. There are several ships mutinying at once, so it's not a small war in the sense of importance, only small in the sense of scale-- that is, those are teeny weeny ships. And they are exploding one after another, in the vicinity of that silly place between your eyes that people are always pinching. Now I know why people are always pinching that place: because they are trying to kill the tiny fucking pirates! Hey guys! Stop making my nasal passages burn! IT'S NEITHER HILARIOUS NOR PRODUCTIVE!!!



These pirates are way more cute and yet still way huger than the motherufckers in my nose. Just to give you a sense of scale.

All this, with a British accent!

Creepy, hilarious, philanthropic... what more could you ask for in a video?

My apologies to avid followers of cuteoverload.

This cat is cooler than you.

Dude.

My Feelings (Mostly Negative) About Ice.

What's that you say? It's the only known non-metallic substance that expands when it freezes? That it's an important part of global climate and the water cycle? That glaciers are pretty and stripey? 

I DON'T CARE! FUCK YOU, ICE!

Yesterday was the first time I've seen ice in probably years. It is ice, not snow, that drove me from New England. Think I'm exaggerating? I cried when I heard the words "wintry mix" uttered over the radio a couple of days ago. Cried! Like a baby! 

Ever since the day I slipped and fell on black ice outside the chapel of St. Catherine's School (since I'm already grumpy, I might as well mention: FUCK YOU SISTER SUSANNAH! I have had a happy and productive adulthood without learning how to write the letter "b" in cursive according to your arbitrary rules. Although I have lived in sin and no longer believe that Jesus is my Savior and for that matter, I assume the Pope is kind of a twat, so maybe you should have tried HARDER!), I have hated ice. 

I walk around like a little old lady which I always think is going to help but it DOESN'T, because if ice wants you, it will have you. And you can say hello to a bruised tailbone, is all I'm going to say. Nothing hurts more than a bruised tailbone, except maybe getting shot or having a baby or getting your toenails torn off or occasionally really bad indigestion which is NOT THE POINT, let us just say that it hurts. And that I really, really, have strong, distasteful feelings for that slippery stuff. Okay? Let us never speak of this again.

Except to say that here's a really suggestive image of a girl sucking on a icicle. Like, almost NAFW. This girl's going to be one hell of a troublemaker when she grows up.

Yo dog's so ugly, her mama had to tie a steak around her neck to get your mama to play with her.

See what I did there, to that "your mama" joke? Heh.



One thing's for sure: Bobo's not making it to "cuteoverload" any time soon.

Good God, can my attention span GET any shorter?

Once considered (by me anyway) solely the provence of annoying teenage girls, Twitter has become the new... what? The new black? The new blog? The new me? You have 140 characters to say something clever, which believe me is a lot easier after drinking. Which is why I've taken to shots starting at 11 am, which is usually when I publish my first Twit, as I like to call it, of the day. (The technical term is "Tweet" but I think A- this is because they realized that 'Twit' made them all sound like idiots and B- they decided saying it with a French accent would make it sound less moronic. Which is usually true.)

Anyway, regular readers (hello.. hello...hello...) will notice that I have a new! Twitter feed bar to the right of this intensely brilliant post. Until this post goes further down the page. In which case it will be to the right of the next intensely! brilliant! post. You can also sign up for my twitter feed at www.twitter.com/katiefar. You can even sign up for my updates to get sent as text messages to your cell phone if you join. And then it will be like I'm stalking you, only funnier. Although, I can be a funny stalker. Really. People could tell you stories.

On the Subject of Art

Art, Craft, or Crapola? Sometimes the line is thin my friends. So very thin.

Don't Worry, I'll Not Quit my Day-Job Yet

Of course, that's easy to say when your day job involves screwing with the concept of subject-verb agreement and grooving on thoughts like attempting to render Joseph Cornell's boxes with words. Have I mentioned lately how much I love this thing called art? And how lucky I am to be making it?

Speaking of making art, I have always had this love for claymation. I remember seeing a little making-of special on Wallace & Gromit when I was younger and being obsessed with the idea of making a three-dimensional world come to life. I love me some Pixar, don't get me wrong, but there's something so amazing and fantastic (in the sense of fantasy) about stop-motion videos. So when I got an opportunity in a class to try something completely new, my group decided to do a claymation movie. This was probably insane, as it took us approximately 20 hours to make them, two little films that total approximately 2 minutes of actual footage (and one silly minute of undoing all our hard work.) 

Anyway, in the interest of making sure these movies go viral and become a Youtube phenomenon and financially support me for the rest of my days, I thought that I'd post the first of the two here. Because of my vast readership. And the marketing strategists that make it up. 

Please note this isn't exactly appropriate for work, and please do not gather round your church group and/or my nieces and nephew to see the nice cartoon. And DO enjoy.

"People"

Climbing the Walls

I am afraid of heights. This is fairly well established to anyone who knows me well. Walking on sidewalks looking down at the curb can make me kind of dizzy. I have to close my eyes when I go up on tiptoe. Don't get me started on getting in and out of Hummers. (Because I am this eco-obnoxious, may I just state that I have never, in my life, gotten in or out of a Hummer?) Okay.

What is the most logical form of exercise for such a one, may I ask? Obviously, rockclimbing. Or wall-climbing. But you know, anything that gets you sixty or so feet off the ground, dangling from a dubious purple string and a carabiner between your legs. But for some strange reason, I have always wanted to do it. And on Tuesday (and again today!) I did. 
Injuries sustained. (Yes, they hardly exist, but the one on my elbow hurts like a BITCH!!)

I can't begin to describe how proud I am of myself for this. When it comes to physical fitness, I usually lack a little in the way of... motivation? Confidence? Reflexes? Going on a treadmill was enough to make me sweat (I mean, not in the... you understand). Why? Because I might look like I didn't know what I was doing. And let me tell you, being the only one on a climbing wall in the middle of a gym screaming your fool head off is not the way to deflect attention. But I don't care. Because it was really fun, felt like I was doing something (unlike the treadmill) and allowed me to overcome a fear. Or at least, ignore it for a little while. I think I may have to sleep on the floor tonight, though-- the bed seems a little altitudinous for me today.

PS-- I must also note that it was Friday the 13th! That must account for the elbow bruise.

In the Pursuit of my Life-Long Desire to be a Crotchety Old Lady

Not only do I drink Cape Cods, not only do I have more cats than bathrooms, not only do I wear flat orthopedic sandals, not ONLY do I hate children and make inappropriate sexual comments at any turn, I partake in needlework, darlings. And not just any needlework: this is the queen of all crotchety old lady needlework-- it is in fact, CALLED "crochet." Crotchety, crochet. Get it?

At any rate, these are Granny Squares for the afghan I am currently completing in my head. I've made seven (Granny Squares, that is: not afghans) in the last four days, with speedy progress in the pattern-reading department, and here are them (why do I adore bad grammar so much? Seriously? It just makes me laugh to write like that. My mother will be horrified. Hi Mom!). There are the Loopy Flower Granny Squares (not so hard to pick out), the Basic Granny Squares, the Diamond Granny Square Variation C, and then the one and only "Splendor in the Grass" which reminds me of the CDB song "Uneasy Rider." You know, the part, where said uneasy rider is trying to convince the other rednecks that the greenteethed one is actually a "friend of those long-haired, hippie-type pinko fags." "He's a snake in the grass, I tell you guys/ He make look dumb, but that's just a disguise/ He's a mastermind in the ways of espionage."

Aside from crochet, I am enjoying summer vacation enormously, despite my twentieth cold of the year (!) catching up on my reading. Recommendations thus far include Pricksongs and Descants by Robert Coover if you like fairy tales, short fiction, or fantastic prose, and Kay Ryan's Flamingo Watching-- fantastic short, rhyming poems. I'm looking forward to the Blotner Faulkner biography and as much Carson McCullers as I can cram in before school starts again!

Ladybird

Ladybird is the newest addition to the family, with probably the most dramatic story. I was dumping our recyclables in our neighbor's bin (I am probably the world's guiltiest recycler-- I always sneak out late at night and drop them in one at a time to minimize noise, afraid I might be found out!), I heard this little squeak, looked down, and saw a bedraggled white kitten, wearing a flea collar. I patted her and went on my merry way, convinced she had owners if she had a collar. 

Over the next two weeks, I brought my trash out more often than I ever have or will in the future. She was always hanging around my dumpster or the recycling bin, getting thinner and thinner. Eventually I couldn't deny that she wasn't getting the care she needed, even if she was technically someone's cat. I fed her a couple of times next to the dumpster, but I knew I couldn't take another cat. My eldest, Rooster, is a nervous wreck around other animals, and my husband is at best a begrudging cat lover. So I called a couple of friends, trying to convince them that they really needed a fluffy! white! (flea-ridden) kitten! All I have to say about that is that it's a good thing I'm not  a pimp, because evidently I fell short. Nobody could or would take said kitten.

So a few days before Thanksgiving I came home around 2 in the afternoon and found her sitting on my stoop. My heart just kind of fell because I knew this was it: she'd never been to the house before, she'd never seen me in the broad light of day, and that meant that she probably really did need a place to live. So I sat out on the porch with her for about an hour, trying to convince myself to walk away, then opened the door for her. 

Luckily she's one of the most lovable creatures ever to walk the earth, a fantastic, generally mellow lap-cat with a squeaky meow but a mighty purr like thunder!

Bestand this, bee-yotch!

So, due in no small part to a continuing conversation with Mighty Maya (fellow: 1.  Exonian, 2. layabout, and 3. semi-latent creative genius) I have been thinking about... well... lying about. Specifically, I've been wondering about the difference between laying low, limbo, paralysis, biding one's time, recouping, shoring up one's creative juices, etcetera. Is there a productive sort of lying about? When does that productivity tip over the edge into non-productivity? Is it possible to spend most of one's life not being productive, but still being meaningfully productive, if that makes sense? It's enough to give one a headache. Perhaps it's time for a nap.

Instead, a poem: (Bear with me). It's by Milton. (No--really. Bear with me)

When I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide;

"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"

I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 

that murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need 

Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best

bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state

is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

and post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.

Okay, on a religious level, I'm not particularly down with this. I'm not certain I even understand it on a religious level. But there's something incredibly resonant about this poem even outside of its subject matter, and I wonder if it's just the shock of the last line, which CLEARLY says it's better to get stoned and play Katamari than to make a difference in the world.

Another pretentious guy I can turn to for some back up for the layabout's lifestyle is Heidegger, who basically says that the only way to get close to the world is to stand back and observe it. When we take things apart in an attempt to understand them, when we get too close, in other words, we loose perspective. The "essence" of the thing escapes, and we're left with an empty shell. Much like eating a pistachio, in fact.

Okay: from the quasi-atheistic (at least in the old-fashioned sense of "theos"), fairly existential, absurdist point of view I happen to be party to, basically what matters in the world is what I think matters. If I think religion matters, it matters. If I think the ethics of my culture matter, they matter (Hi Soren!!) If it all should go hang, it should all go hang. And if the world is populated with fairies and pigs have wings and everyone wants to have sex with me, but they're all really good at hiding their true natures, then that's the world I live in. (Which is, by the way, the world I live in.)

So the question is, I guess, how important is it to me to DO something in the world, and what is it to do something in the world, and how can one be sure that by doing something, you're not harming? I wonder how many of us fence-sitters there are in academia, theorizing our lives away. That all being said, I can't help but hope that the artists in the world, whether in academia or no, give us something to aspire to, something by which to be inspired. 

Especially when they take pictures of cowgirls.

Sweet Country Lovin'

Country music is one of my so-called guilty pleasures. My mom and I sang along to it in the car when I was little (actually, we still do!), I got massively teased about it in high school, dropped it, came back to it-- I can't call it love/hate, because it's really only ever been love. Love, love, love it. Love Top-20, love the eighties power-ballads, love the ridiculous fashions, love the alts, the oldies, the personalities. Okay? I admit it. I love country music. And I refuse to be guilty about it ANY LONGER!!

First off, can we talk about the gorgeousness of country musicians? Lots of eye-candy to choose from, but let's just pick the two most famous redheads of the bunch, as I happen to be partial. We have Willie Nelson to start, whose rugged mug graces the beginning of this post. I have a massive crush on Willie-- looks, politics, music, he's got it all. I'm slowly working through his discography, which is MASSIVE, but I just picked up "Stardust" which is a cover album. You should definitely check out "Georgia on my Mind" if you haven't already. I think part of the reason I love him so much is that he just seems like such a pure, bright spirit. I'm sure he has his share of jadedness after almost 50 years in the music business, but it doesn't show. I've taken to wearing my hair in braids. Maybe if I spend some more time in the sun...

Next up, we have Bonnie Raitt, hardcore-cool, whom my friend Jericho and I have decided is "my" diva. She's had the same hairdo since at least 1982, and baby still rocks it. She's one of the most gifted slide guitarists to sling a bottleneck, and she 's deeply committed to preserving the music and history of the blues. I love picturing her backintheday, the little roundfaced redheaded white girl, opening for Sippie Wallace, Son House, Muddy Waters, and John Lee Hooker (click to listen to one sexy-ass song). She's been active in civil rights, environmentalism, and women's rights. Yah, I want to be Bonnie when I grow up. 

Do you think we can convince them to get married? And adopt me?

La Jolla!

Well and so. Today was a beautiful day, coincidentally Easter (although Ilya and I didn't figure that out until we tried to go to the bookstore this evening), so we piled in the car and went to La Jolla, where the sea is sparkly and green and the people are not sparkly and green. Mostly they are very tan. 

Anyway, I got a chance to wade a little bit (hence: photo). And by "a little bit" I mean I was mostly ass-deep after I got soaked by a passing wave and basically said fuck it. Cause why not get wet? While I was standing there, three people came by and offered me sunscreen, which was sweet, but let's be honest: do I LOOK like I go out without it? That's how I got to be this fluorescent white color in the first place!

Who says there's no "Porn" in Inspiration?

So, as most of you know (if indeed there's anyone out there at all), I'm writing a book called "Stories are the Dreams of Lesser Gods." Yes, it's a long title. Yes, it's actually a sentence. Okay. Thanks for the input. 

What I love about this manuscript, which is a collection of short pieces that are loosely connected, is that I can write about anything I want-- usually some sort of metamorphosized human being-- a boy with one wing, a man who becomes music, an inventor who only invents things that have already been invented, etcetera. There's a lot of freedom, and when I get bored, I can start a new piece or go edit an old one. Sort of ideal. 

Most of my inspiration, such as it is, seems to come from misreading things. This had always been an irritation before-- I frequently mix up the end words of two lines from a book. So for instance, "The man in black walked down the dark street/ Hoping that no one would be playing stairway to heaven" might be read as "The man in black walked down the dark heaven" (Totally pulled this out of my ass, by the way.) 

Another way I end up wanting to write a piece is when I hear a line that I like. My friend Jericho Brown and I were discussing church recently, and I was imitating the people who sing or pray with one hand in the air. Jericho Brown made some comment about "One Handed Praisers" and I knew right then that'd be a title. 

But the purpose of this post was my most recent piece, inspired by... porn. And most specifically, the legal message that comes before porn, reassuring us all that everyone's over the age of 18-- I saw the lines "Keeper of Records" and had to stop the porn and turn on MS Word. 

Gee. Thanks Porn.

Woohoo!

 Just got news that I was accepted at Brown for their MFA program in Fiction... with a $33,000 scholarship! I called Ilya to inform him, and after some mutual celebration and back-patting, he let me know that he'd flinched two rejection letters from the mail before I could see them-- Iowa and Michigan. Good thing he told me now-- I'm still floating on air!

I'm trying not to think about all this implies, though-- I love San Diego (contrary to my expectations)-- I have such great friends here, a beautiful apartment, three kitties I adore, and oh, yes, what's his name? That big guy who always leaves such a mess in the bathroom? Right. That one. On the other side, Brown is just the best program for me, writing wise. It's experimental, I've heard it's incredibly supportive, and, well, they want me. And who doesn't find that sexy?

I'm still waiting back to hear from a few places... Irvine, which is probably still my first choice, because it's A- Close, and B- one of the best programs out there. It's a little more traditional in style, so it's probably not the BEST fit, but it'd mean a lot less logistical problems and probably a little less heartache, too. I'm also waiting for Johns Hopkins, which has a fantastic program, and University of Virginia, which is up there too. But I'm kinda thinking that unless JH and UVA include two houseboys and a happy ending, I'm going to go with Brown if Irvine rejects me.

Oh, I'm all a-flutter. Hope you all are having wonderous good days!

Have you ever...

Shuddered with delight upon climbing into bed? I mean, I have serious love for The Bed at any time of day or night, but real, true physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion combined is rare. Tonight, I've got it. Oh, I cannot waaaaaaiiiiiiit. 

Ilya had a reading in LA today, so we hopped in our little car and drove up today-- which would be exhausting anyway (we went 90 most of the way, made it to LA in 1 1/2 hours, which is SWEET time, but spent another 1/2 hour to go 5 miles. Really. I blinked at my speedometer, said boo, but it was only five miles. Insane!), but I spent 11 hours writing a paper last night, and stayed up till 5 am to do so. It was a very good paper, but I am ZONKED, especially after making nice-nice with the poets and organizers (easy this time because they actually WERE nice-nice), and attempting to find some food and gas in downtown LA, which is deserted after 5 pm. Ghost town. With tumbleweed and everything.

But tomorrow, tomorrow my friends, will be a vacation. We're going to this macaron shop I've been waiting to visit for months, and then we're going to museums, and we're going to eat vegan sushi. And it will be fabulous.  

10 Things that make me Happy

1. This print of a polaroid by the lovely Spaniard Urizen Freaza. I bought it from Etsy, a brilliant place to pick up art on the cheap.  Ilya absolutely hates it, but it makes me absurdly happy-- of course, as I'll be posting other works that I've bought, it will become clear that anything with additional wings makes me absurdly happy.

2.Did you know, that when you open a Breathe-Rite strip (ie those snore strips) in the dark, their adhesive makes blue crackly light? This has brought me the first real jolt of unexpected joy in a long time. Not to mention it cuts down on A Certain Famous Poet's less than lyrical night-time sound effects.

3. Scented candles. This has been a life-long obsession, but some weird hoarding instinct has always prevented me from actually BURNING them, until the last six months or so. I credit my friend Chrissy's lesson in ambiance-- which basically consisted of plonking a bunch of candle holders down and lighting a match. God bless her.

3.. Self-help books. These are less the "I'm Okay, You're Okay" sort (incidentally, my father's Most Life-Changing Book, which should come as no surprise to those who know him. Or me.), but rather, the "how-to-live-life" sort. For example, I just picked up (at no small cost) Colin Cowie Chic: A Guide to Life as it Should Be, a book in a faux-alligator cover, which presents such titillating tidbits as "Lighter colored cigars usually taste milder than darker ones, though there are exceptions." I find this kind of advice comes in rather handy at the most bizarre moments.

4. In general, I consider myself pretty much the opposite of vain. But I keep growing out my hair, which is higher-maintenance than the rest of me put together. Honest. In the time it takes to comb, wash, and condition my hair, I can shower, shave, eat breakfast, learn to paint in encaustic, and find the cure to eczema. Why don't I cut it? Cause it makes me happy. When I'm not combing it, or washing it. Or not washing it. Or bitching about it...

5. Organizing my clothes by color. Even if they're on the floor.

6. Shelfari.com  There is a longer post to come on all the reasons I love it so, but moving books from "Books I'm Reading" to "Books I've Read" once I've finished them is almost as satisfying as reading them in the first place.

7. Hershey's Dark Chocolate Brownie Mix, WITH walnuts, people. One of my prouder moments in becoming an adult is realizing that baked goods without nuts are like... like... Othello without Desdemona? Why is that coming to me now?

8. Whole classes devoted to reading one author. Although this can be a really exhausting proposition, it's always been the most profound and wonderful experience at the same time. I'm taking a whole class on Faulkner right now. I'd always meant to read Faulkner-- I love the Southern Gothic aesthetic, and two of my favorite authors are Flannery O'Conner and Eudora Welty, both Southerners writing around the same time Faulkner did. So it was Time. And it's been a really fantastic, if devastating, experience-- as Faulkner is a really fantastic, if devastating, writer. 

The last class I remember taking with such a focus was my "Plato" class in high school, with the crankiest professor on earth. He could pull his lower lip a full six inches away from his face-- it was horribly fascinating. He assigned a one-page summary of each of Plato's dialogues, and I turned each one in, written in 2 point font. He read them all with a magnifying glass, commented on every one, and gave me a Classics prize at the end of the semester. I still dislike Platonic philosophy, but at least I can talk about why. 

9. Mock orange in bloom. It's possibly the world's most perfect scent.

10. This blog's 12 day anniversary! It's small steps, people. Small steps.

On the Subject of the Fitness of One's Physique

Some sort of spring fever seems to have hit the world at large, and instead of cleaning, my nearest and dearest are flocking to gyms, yoga studios, and the great outdoors for the purpose of greasing their knee joints, increasing the relative strength of their heartbeats, and presumably, nurturing that more abstract but socially hygienic goal of "physical fitness." So I, like the lemur [LEMMING] I am, got in line to jump off the cliff. I joined the gym.

Not only "the" gym, or "a" gym, but the Campus Gym. The San Diego State University gym, or the "Aztec Recreational Center" as they euphemistically term it-- a friendlier term than "The Gym Where 30 Thousand Hardbodied Undergraduates go to Lift Hundred Pound Weights on their Buttocks while Engaging in the World's Most Perfect Downward Dog." It's enormous, it's open 24 hours, it's color scheme is primarily grey. It's serious bidness.

For those of you who haven't known me since high school when my "physical fitness" consisted of hoisting a bottle of 20/20 to my lips (followed, perhaps, by ab-strengthening Toilet Bowl Worship), I have engaged in some basic physical fitness in the last ten years. I have yoga'd, I ran for several months, I mastered the Lusty Leapfrog (remember: there is no such thing as an overshare). 

And now, after a year-long hiatus, I'm attempting to reengage in the world's most obnoxiously beautiful city. And I mean beautiful people-wise. I should qualify, as this is a particularly blonde, tan, toned sort of beauty, not one to which I necessarily prescribe, although I enjoy T&A as much as the next fellow. This is Intimidating. I have Fitness Shame.

I think this is partly because, other than my pastiness and Lack of Tone, I seem to be in reasonable shape, because I am thin. This is a lie. Although I can touch my toes to my nose (a strange sort of claim to fame), I no longer have any sort of cardiovascular stamina. Even at my running peak, after six months of going 4 days a week, I could only go a mile and a half. In half an hour. People walk faster than I run. And I am PROUD of that accomplishment, my friends. 

I expect to die, but I really hope it won't be because of a treadmill Incident. I'll keep you posted.

3 Wishes

I've given a lot of thought to what my three wishes would be if a genie popped out of, say, the vase I picked up from my last trip to Goodwill. There are a lot of reasons for this, I'm sure, including a passionate love for fairy tales, fantasy novels, and men in parachute pants. So, after at least twenty years of mulling over this question, I'm ready to reveal my three choices:

1. I wish to be able to change shape into whatever animal, vegetable, or mineral I desire. (This requires amendments)

• I have to be able to change back!
  
• There have to be some  formal words to think or say aloud in order to do this, lest, you know, mid-coitus, the image of a porcupine should pop into my head and my husband would end up doing some SERIOUS explaining in the hospital.
  
• I need to be able to change from one shape into another without going back to my intermediate human shape.
  
• When I change back into a human, I need to be wearing the same clothes and retain whatever objects I had with  me before I changed.
  
• I need to be able to retain my human brain and consciousness in whatever shape I change to, even if it's a flea, or say, a diamond (a diamond shape would actually be really useful if say, a piano was about to fall on your head.)
  
• I also need to be able to retain the abilities and instincts of whatever animal I change into. It wouldn't be much help to change into wolf form and then not be able to run because I don't know what to do with my tail, or into fish form without knowing how to breathe through gills. 
  
• I also want to be able to change my human shape. So I could be a man, or a child, or an old woman, convincingly. Even better, I should be able to know the things a helicopter pilot, or doctor, or painter should know, if I change myself into one.
  
• I should also be able to wish to be myself, but in a different place. So this takes care of teleportation, basically.
  
• I have to be able to retain the memory of being whatever I change into, and what happened while I was in that form.
  

2. I wish to have the power to know the answer to any question. (This is another one that can bite you, so more amendments).

• Again, there have to be some sort of magic words uttered so I don't find out things I'd rather not know, which seems to be the fate of many people who receive this wish. I don't want to KNOW everything, I just want to be able to find things out.
  
• I want to be able to find out not only factual things, but also more subjective things. For instance, it would be very helpful to know what the best way to go about getting someone to give you something.
  
• I want to be able to forget anything I need to.

3. Free the genie. Duh.

I'm fairly confident these are the best wishes ever. Shape-shifting is awesome-- I can experience anything, from flying to deep-sea diving to watching my neighbor's HBO. Knowing anything I want to know could take care of me for the rest of my life-- in trouble with the law? Instant blackmail! Need money? Find some local buried treasure! Want to cure cancer? Bingo. And if you're tempted to ask a question you know you shouldn't (does he really love me, what do my friends find most annoying about me, what am I really like?) you can forget about it. And everybody knows you're supposed to free the genie. If you think you know different, you obviously haven't read  "The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye" by A.S. Byatt, and if you haven't already, you should. 

Anybody think they have better wishes? Or think I left something incredibly important out of my amendments?

Essence o' Bloggery

Credit for the painting goes to Caravaggio, liquor-swilling, shop-lifting, brawler of a Baroque artist, who painted this, his Narcissus.

10 Reasons you May not want to Read this Blog.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I've decided to reveal ten strange things about myself right away. Just so, you know, everyone gets it right from the start.

1- I love mushroom hunting. LOVE it. I don't even eat most of the mushrooms I collect: I just like finding them. I think this has something to do with an overly goal-oriented type A personality (edging into an "A-" lately...). I get bored just wandering through the woods; I need to be LOOKING for something. Plus, mushrooms are just... neat-o.

2- Obviously, I get a thrill from itemization of any kind. But more particularly, I love the lists you get when attending summer camp, or conferences, or going off to college for the first time-- "What to Bring." For instance, I saved (!!) a list from Camp Bernadette, a Catholic camp I attended for three damp and miserable summers, attempting to read Diana Ackerman books (about nature!!) in kayaks, deep right field, and while standing in line to practice archery:

1. Enough t-shirts, underpants, shorts, and socks for two weeks

2. A pair of closed-toe shoes

3. A pair of jeans for horseback riding

4. Toothpaste and toothbrush

5. Flashlight

6. Sunscreen

7. Bug repellant containing "DEET"

8. Although toilet paper is provided, some campers may wish to bring their own. [!!]

It still gives me profound satisfaction.

3- I have a preternatural ability to match colors. And I love to do so. I have actually selected from a bin of Granny Smith Apples the ones that best matched my chartreuse chairs.  

4- I wear underwear underneath pantyhose. (And am incapable, almost, of propriety. So be forewarned!)

5- I rarely buy tissues, but when I do, they MUST be Puffs Plus with Lotion. My Mom totally wouldn't buy them growing up, and although I've outgrown eating all the sugary cereals she wouldn't let us eat, I will NOT compromise my philtrum!

6- I have the world's narrowest, longest, flattest feet (microcosm of a macrocosm, as they say). I HATE shoe shopping, and when I find shoes that fit, I buy many pairs. Also: I never wore shoes without socks until a couple of years ago, when I realized how dorky it really looked. Especially with pants that are too short. Which almost all of mine were at the time.

7- I am flexible enough to sit cross-legged, then lay all the way back. I actually sleep this way most nights. I worry about this, since it is bad for my knees. I'm trying to train myself out of it. On another sleeping note, my roommate in boarding school once told me that I always slept with one arm over my face. This was untrue (I did that in the morning because she was so noisy and I wanted to indicate that I was still asleep), but I was so delighted that someone noticed something like that about me, that I started to sleep like that all the time.

8- I'm a vegetarian who loves meat, and doesn't think killing animals is wrong. I'll spare you the specifics, but I do it for environmental reasons.

9- Although it's not particularly strange to have a favorite number, I do have one. Ten guesses what it is!

10- I don't know what date my husband and I got married. Neither does he. Sometime around January 15th, we pull out the old marriage certificate and double-check. 

So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

P.S. I cannot vouch for the palatability of this CD, only the coolness of its cover design. Buy it here.