This is the best news title ever...

"Drunk Man Assaults Stormtrooper, Ghostbuster On Free Comic Book Day, Gets Tased, Arrested By Police"

That's from Geekologie, which is pretty much where all my news comes from.

Gawker also has an article, plus this super-amazing ultra-awesome pic:

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This is why I love the Internet.


(True:  You should tell me when something awesome happens on the Internet.  You can find me, right over there, to the right.  --->)

(True:  80% of adults have trouble with left and right.  So I've provided you a helpful arrow!  not that I'm assuming my readers would necessarily be in the 80%.  You're definitely in the 20% just because you're here.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Naki'o

Dude.

I can't even begin to tell you how cool Naki'o is, how wonderful the people in his life are, and how happy this story makes me.

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Meet Naki'o.  Isn't he a handsome fellow?  His name means "puddles" in Hawaiian--very suitable, given that he lost his paws and parts of his tail, nose, and ear when he fell asleep in a puddle in the cellar of the freezing Nebraska home where his pregnant mama was abandoned.  Mama didn't make it, and without the help of a lot of very special people, Naki'o might not have, either.

You see, the stumps that remained of his legs were uneven, and the bones were sharp and not suited to bearing the weight of a growing puppy.

Enter Christie Pace, who adopted Naki'o from A Puppy's Voice in Nebraska when he was just seven weeks old, knowing the trek they had ahead of them.  Christie raised the money to get a prosthetic for Naki'o's most troublesome leg, but it was OrthoPets, specializing in orthotics and prosthetics for pets, that covered (literally, heh) the last three legs.  Naki'o is the first dog to have prosthetics on all four limbs.

Christie, inspired by her experience with this special dude, founded Nakio's Underdog Rescue, a rescue dedicated to helping other disabled pets get the homes and care they deserve.

What thrills me about this story is not only the happily-ever-after this specific dog and his owner are getting--it's also the attention it's garnering.  The more examples we see of dogs like Naki'o and Rosie, where dogs and their owners overcome great disabilities with love and aplomb, the more we non-superhero-folk might realize we can help in our own small ways as well.

You can read Naki'o and Christie's full story here.

You can donate to Nakio's Underdog Rescue here.



Many thanks to Dianawesome for bringing this wonderful story to my attention.

Some Things I Just Can't Wrap My Head Around

I like Geekologie.  It's pretty much the place to go for your science news spun raunchy--that is, if you like your geek with a side of alcoholism.  And let's be honest:  who doesn't?

Today I learned two things I'm having a difficult time wrapping my head around.

First, the universe is 80 million years older than we'd thought.  Okay, in the grand scheme of the universe, that's not so hard to imagine.  The universe was already pretty frickin' old.  But the idea that it might have expanded from something smaller than an atom into, you know, the universe more-or-less as we know it?  In less than a second?

Whoa.

Because that means it expanded faster than the speed of light.  And that means time travel.  I know that because of movies.

And that's how you suddenly age 80 million years, Universe.  You've no one to blame but yourself.

And that brings a whole new meaning to A Wrinkle in Time.


I also learned Chuck Norris is a modern-day Samson.

The world gets weirder every day, yo.


(True:  I went to the Museum of Science and Industry this weekend.  So blame this post on the fact that I'm all smarted out.)

Pinterest, Don't Ever Change.

Pinterest is interesting.

In the last ten minutes, I've been introduced to a Batman Snuggie, a solar-powered bonsai tree, and someone in an absolutely ginormous panda costume being shoved through a too-small train car door by several police officers.

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(True:  I may want two of those things.  Guess which?)

You don't get it, and that makes it funnier. Because I am smart and a terrible human being.

Apparently, I have a somewhat, and occasionally, dry sense of humor.  This causes a fair bit of confusion for the people around me.

Some years ago, while prepping for an estate sale at my grandparents' house, one of the auctioneers showed me a large metal hoop and asked me if I knew what it was.

"Of course," I replied.  "It's clearly a thing."

She thought I couldn't think of the word and felt sorry for me.

And while most of the time I'm pretty excitable and freely use hyperbole to add color to my tales, sometimes the dry side of me kicks in and I employ a litotes (the opposite of hyperbole) or two.  This underwhelming technique still manages to go over a lot of heads.

So when a friend surprised me with beer and a movie I really wanted to see, my response was, "Oh, hey.  That's kind of cool, I guess."

Basically, my sense of humor makes people uncomfortable.

This makes my sense of humor better than yours.

FYI.


(True:  I also really like puns.  Here's my favorite joke:  Two fish are in a tank.  The one on the left goes, "How do I drive this thing?"  People laugh every time.  They can't help it.)

Not the Phone You're Looking For

I went to a private high school, and I was one of the select few allowed a key to the elevator for some boring health blah, blah, blah.

Like most elevators, this one had an emergency phone.

Unlike most elevators, this one's phone was listed in the phone book.

So it wasn't uncommon for me to answer the phone and chat with some poor parent looking for information on admissions.  Fortunately for them, I worked part-time in the admissions office and could direct them to the right number.  Unfortunately, I graduated some years ago and am no longer available for that service...


(True:  You know the kind of luck I have?  The kind where I drop the key to the elevator down the elevator shaft.  Luckily, I knew rescuing-type people.)

What's Black and White and Red All Over?

My face, the day after an evening test-run for my Halloween makeup.  As my costume is pretty makeup-intensive, I wanted a run-through to figure out exactly how early I need to get up on Wednesday.  (Answer:  Very.)  And because I can never do costumes by halves, I went out and purchased higher-end makeup that actually dries (in case my nose itches, or something). 

Gotta say, the makeup does stay in place.  I washed my face four times to get it all off.

But, it's me, so I forgot to clean it off my glasses.  Which I put on the next morning in a pre-Mt. Dew stupor.  Aaaand I didn't realize I had facepaint smeared all over the bridge of my nose until about 10:30 that morning, at work.  Which means my coworkers are either equally unobservant or total assholes.  Jury's out.


(True:  A third option is that my coworkers did notice, and just decided it wasn't the weirdest I've looked...)

What is wrong with me?! (Seriously.)

Walking out of the bathroom just now, I saw two co-workers staring at me, which I thought was rather odd.  Then I realized I had toilet paper stuck to my face.

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I'm like a superhero. Only without the alter-ego. Or the spandex. Or the powers. Or the thigh-high boots. Forget it. I'm just awesome, okay?

Things I accomplished yesterday:

• Plowed through a mountain of tasks at work while actually managing to look semi-professional.
• Blogged like a boss.
• Walked to the supermarket, thereby reducing my carbon footprint.
• Did laundry and cooked dinner (with extra for freezing) and washed dishes, like a motherfucking domestic goddess.
• Walked the dog, training for polite sitting at stops.
• Ate dinner--with a real plate and fork.
• Socialized:  Beer, dart league, cool people.  Like Carrie Bradshaw in Sex and the City.  But with beer, dart league, and cool people.
• Read fifty pages of a new book, edifying myself on manner subtleties of the 1860s.

Or, in other words I rocked the shit out of yesterday in all matters professional, domestic, social, and intellectual. Carpe that diem, Horace.

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BOOM.


(True:  Of course, the rest of the phrase, quam minimum credula postero, means "putting as little trust as possible in the future", so no promises that today has been anywhere near as efficient...)

NOT How I Prefer to Meet People

I saw Magic Mike with some girlfriends yesterday.  Not because it looked like a good movie, of course, but because it looked like a good-looking movie.  I'll admit it:  I like a pretty shirtless man.  I also discovered that seeing a man in a thong makes me giggle like a twelve-year-old.  Especially when there are sock garters involved.

But I think what really made this movie-going experience memorable is what happened after.  The very instant the credits started rolling, the woman two seats down jumped up and rushed out of the aisle.  This normally wouldn't be any big deal, but she was in such a hurry that when I took .3 seconds to reach down and try to grab my purse off the floor and out of her way, she decided to climb over my head instead of waiting.  This struck me as a little odd, and I gaped and stuttered for a moment after.  At which point, she turned around, looked at me like I was crazy, and asked, "Are you all right?"

Honestly.  She had just straddled my head in a movie theater, and she asked what's wrong with me.

Sometimes, my life is so much more interesting than it needs to me.

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(True:  I nicked my armpit shaving this morning.  I'd say it's the worst thing ever, but I had my head straddled by a stranger yesterday, which really puts things into perspective.)

Judge, Jury, and Prescriptioner

Let me start this post by announcing that I am in my late twenties.  I haven't lived under my parents' roof since college, and I have been more or less financially independent since just a bit after that.

Also, my mom is awesome.

Also, periods suck.

Also, I hate my hometown drugstore.

Some years ago, when I did still live with my parents, I sat down with them to discuss the possibility of me going on birth control.  Because, you know, getting your period twice in one month is no fun, and also I'm a huge whore.  (I'm kidding on one of those.  I'll let you guess which.)  My folks, being reasonable and cool, agreed it was a good idea, and we never really talked about it again.

Fast forward to two summers ago.  I am visiting my parents for the weekend and realize I need to renew my prescription.  This is why I use a national chain drugstore--you can pick up your stuff anywhere.  My hair is growing out, and is a weird length where the only way I can get it out of my face is to put it in pigtails.

(This is probably when I should tell you that I look like I'm about twelve.  Especially when I'm in pigtails.)

I ask my mom to swing by Big National Drugstore on our way back from running errands, and of course it's no big deal to her.  She and I walk back to the prescription counter and I give my name and tell the pharmacist, a not-old man, which prescription I need refilled. 

He stares at me.  Then he flicks a glance at my mom.  Then he scowls at me.

"What's your last name again?" he finally asks.

I say it. 

"Can you spell that?"

I spell it, speaking slowly and clearly because I once worked as a receptionist, and hearing letters clearly isn't always as easy as you think.  He continues scowling at me, not typing or writing down my name.

"Can you spell that again?"

I do.

"One more time..."

(This is probably a good time to point out that I do not have a particularly long or difficult last name.  Sure, it's a bit on the Dutch side, but this is my hometown--plenty of other names like it.)

After he asks me to spell my name six times (I wish I were exaggerating), he finally turns to his computer and puts his hands to the keyboard.  He looks at me, waiting.  I spell it one last time. 

Very loudly.

Very slowly.

Very are-you-fucking-kidding-me.

He types.  He pulls up my info.  He sees my age.  He goggles and then finally does his job and starts filling my prescription.

(My mom held me back from throttling him.  Barely.)

Moral of the story:  Work more, judge less.

Asshole.


(True:  This.)

Reason I Love My Job #172

Because I've had the opportunity to say, "Don't you hate it when the telephone ringing interrupts the strippers?"


(True:  This happened:

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Not in my office sadly, but somewhere in the world. And that world is a better place for it.  You're welcome.)

Watch This: The Secret of the Kells

Let's get something straight:  You need to see this film.

The storyline follows Brendan, a young boy growing up in the Abbey of Kells, under the supervision of his uncle, Abbot Cellach.  The good Abbot is obsessed with building and fortifying a wall around the abbey that will save Kells from the Viking invaders, and he has ordered Brendan to stay within the abbey's confines. 

Along comes Brother Aidan of Iona and his cat, Pangur Ban.  Aidan has brought the illuminated text-in-progress, the Book of Iona, and apprentices Brendan, who must sneak out of the abbey to collect the materials to make the colorful inks.  In the surrounding forest, Brendan befriends Aisling and battles a metaphysical sea serpent, Crom Cruach, neither of whom should exist by 8th century Christian standards (or today's, for that matter).

The storyline, good as it is, almost pales in comparison to the richness of the animation.  It's stylistic interpretation of traditional Irish art and the frequent juxtaposition of three dimensional and two dimensional animation is simply stunning.  In case you didn't get enough out of the trailer to see what I mean:

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Via  (I know.  It's blurry.  Use your imagination.)

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If I hadn't been mesmerised by the artistry, the imagery would have gotten me for sure.  There are all kind of wonderful references to Irish mythology, from Pangur Ban and Aisling (names), Crom Cruach (the way he is depicted as the very embodiment of Irish art, with all his integral Celtic knots), and of course, the Book of Kells itself.  For an animated film to be cerebral on that level is in itself a lovely thing.

I would not recommend it for young children.  Besides a lot of the history and art and literary references going right over their heads, the Vikings are seriously scary...



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Go.  Watch it.  And prepare to be transfixed.

Sources:
IMDB
Wikipedia film page
Wikipedia historical Book of Kells page (Worth a read just on its own.)


(True:  The real Book of Kells is housed in Trinity College in Dublin.  I went to Dublin once, but I arrived late in the evening and left early in the morning for a bus tour, and only got to see things that were both outside and well-lit.  Which gives me an excuse to go back someday.)

Third Time's the Charm, Right? Right???

Last week was the Trifecta of Awful:  The Jumper, The Dumper, and The Bumper.  I was taking care of the last this morning.  I had gotten rear-ended by a motorcyclist Friday morning, but fortunately no one was hurt.  I did, however, get a good-sized dent in the hatch and lots of scratches in the bumper.  My insurance company has a corporate office and an affiliated repair shop not too far from here, and that's where I headed this morning.

My appointment was scheduled for 7:30.  I remembered this at about 7:05, as I stood in the shower.  I also remembered that I didn't have directions for how to get there.  And that I haven't arranged for Internet in the week since I've been back in my own apartment.  It was already 7:35 by the time I called my mom (Hi, Mom!) to ask her to MapQuest the directions for me.

Because I was already late, of course I got lost.  (Go big or go home, I always say.  And I had a better idea of how to get back on track to where I was going than how to get home again.)  I finally got there at quarter to nine.  Fortunately, people in the insurance industry know that if you're there, you're already having a crap day, and so Insurance Man Jason was really nice about it.  A few minutes later, I had the rental car and was ready to go.

I just needed to get one box leftover from my recent abrupt move out of my car.  Then I ran back in the office and handed over my keys.

Oh, and I needed my lunch, too.  Back to the office I go, re-collect my keys, get the lunch from my car, and hand them back in again.

Crap, what about my phone charger?

Screw it.  Aaaand that's pretty much my new mantra.


(True:  I have help at work again!  I may actually be able to post semi-regularly--woohoo!)

Possum Face! (Or Not.)

You guys.  Today is the first day in more than three weeks that someone didn't find my blog by searching for some variant of "possum face."  Which makes me wonder whether people are searching for other, really ugly people, or whether they just think possum faces are particularly fascinating.  Maybe some marsupial fetishist is out there, collecting photos for their pin-up calendar.

Sadly, though, most phrases bringing people to this site still have to do with weird porn.  It makes me a little uncomfortable to think some of these people might be staying and browsing.  Meh, it's not porn, but I guess it'll do...?

I always imagine these people in really ugly sweaters.

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I am so creeped out right now.

This Is Supposed To Be My Grown-Up Job (Not Adult Job).

WARNING:  This post is work-related and utterly inappropriate.  If you have virgin eyes or any amount of decency, you'll probably want to pretend this post isn't here.


I work in the electrical industry, specifically commercial lighting.  Yesterday, I quoted a pendant light fixture with this option:  "Tripod with Decorative Balls." 

That describes how the fixture is hung.



(True:  Another mounting option for that same fixture is a single aircraft cable, part number 1SAC.  This is seriously freaking me out.)

Next Time They Should Muzzle Me.

I had this work networking thing last night at the House of Blues--such a cool venue.  I gawk like an idiot every time I'm there.  As the office noob, my coworkers and boss think it's very amusing to get me another drink every time I reach the half-way point of the one I'm working on, despite (or, more likely, because of) my insistence that I can't hold my liquor.  So I spent half the night with two drinks in my hands.

Now, as you may know, I have a habit of making myself look ridiculous on a fairly regular basis.  And that's without social lubrication.  So, of course when a contractor I work with (but had never met in person) approached me and asked about the dual drinks, I blurted out, "They'll all double-fisting me!"

What are the odds that he'll forget I was even there?  Slim?  None?  Super.

Well, that's one way to be memorable.


(True:  This Saturday, April 28, is my last night as Karaoke Jockey at Blueberry Hill in Forest Park, Illinois.  Be there or be square.  Or just far away.)

Clearly I'm Smarter Than You Think.

Because, see?  I got a link-back here from Neil Howe, who is pretty much who I want to grow up to be.  You know that term "Millenials?"  He coined it.  Because he's clever like that.

I haven't commented on his post.  I honestly have no idea what to say that wouldn't make me sound like an excited fangirl.  I'm actually somewhat familiar with his work with William Strauss (I'm only a dabbler), so for him to know I exist is pretty damn exciting.

Pardon me while I hyperventilate under my desk.


(True:  A coworker just told me about this book, by this woman blogger she thought would interest me, and I was like, is it The Bloggess? And Let's Pretend This Never Happened? Because that book is on the top of my list. And then my coworker thought I was a huge nerd. And she was probably right.)

The Swiss: No Longer Neutral

Dream blogs are generally uninteresting.  Hell, I think my own dreams are usually dumb, with the exception of zombie apocolypse dreams and that one time I dreamed I was Sarah Michelle Gellar.

But bear with me--I have to share this one.

I was leading a class revolution against an evil queen.  One of our informants snuck to the front to tell me our enemy's greatest weakness:

No matter what kind the recipe called for, we needed to serve the queen only Swiss cheese.

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And, to prove that life is weird even when I'm awake...

A few days ago, I brought a Cadbury Egg left over from Easter to work.  Hey, an egg is an acceptable breakfast food, right?  My first bite cracked the whole thing, and I was in danger of it slopping everywhere.  So, I did what any food-conservationist would do:  I shoved the whole thing in my mouth.

Which of course was the cue for the HR person to approach me for a serious conversation about an interview she wanted me to sit in on. 

I'm pretty sure I dribbled.


(True:  This is my 100th post.  That's 100 posts of meandering drivel and flat-falling jokes, and some of you are still with me.  Ain't life grand?)

"No man can worship God or love his neighbor on an empty stomach."
~Woodrow Wilson



Back up nort', I had some interesting neighbors.  They lived right above us (us being my roommate Z and me and my old man dog Hans).  They also had a dog, but being too lazy to bring it outside, they simply laid a tarp on the floor of their patio and let it pee there.  Z and I never sat on our own patio--too high a chance of being dripped on.

Ugh.

They did everything loudly.  Arguments, videogames, movies, music, and sex were all conducted at top volume.

So was cooking.  How can cooking be loud, you ask?  Good question.

Early one summer evening it began.  The incessant pounding from above.  It sounded just like a hammer hitting something only sort-of solid.  After a moment's worry that one of my neighbors was in the process of murdering or dismembering the other, I decided at least that would half the noise and tuned out.  After about an hour, though, other neighbors started getting irritated.  Every so often, I heard someone pounding on the upstairs neighbors' door, asking them to keep it down.  Some of them just shouted it through the walls.  It was a classy joint like that.

After about four ignored pleas for silence, I hear the upstairs neighbor dude shout from his kitchen.

"Shut up!  I'm making fucking smashed potatoes, all right?"


(True:  Some of Mr. Roger's sweaters are at the Smithsonian.)