Road blogging makes me feel a little free. The blog exists and waits for me like a patient and loyal puppy. Way more patient and loyal than my actual dog. Or the Furby a friend of mine had many years ago. Why a grown man had a Furby, wait never mind, I know why this one did. He collected Barbies. Anyway, once he “woke up” the Furby after not playing with it for a long time. The Furby said, “oooh, long sleep.” The blog doesn’t do that. It just sits there unmolested and waiting. Waiting for me to go to the local internet cafe/coffee house where “God is [their] barista.” Just FYI, God makes middling nonfat iced lattes.

We’re at the Atlantic Ocean. We live about 30 minutes from a perfectly good ocean. It’s called the Pacific, I think. Every week I get within 5 miles of it when I go to therapy. I can smell it. Still, why not get in a plane and fly across the continent to the other one? It’s warmer. And then there the thrill of the hurricane possibility. Gives me a little zing every time I think about it.

So, blog away east.

So far on my summer vacation, I’ve spent more time than I should looking for a 7mm hex screw. It fell out when I shipped my old bike here to be able to ride it near this ocean. One screw should not make a whole bike disfunctional. It does. And apparently 7mm is just the weirdest size ever. As I sit here at God cafe, I am worried that the fourth screw I have acquired from the ninth store visited looking for the screw will not work. It taunts me from my pocket. It’s not the kind of snickering a shed does. It is, however, rather insidious in its evil. Stupid screw.

Just a tip: when shipping with or traveling with bikes, bring 7mm hex screws. Lots of them. Maybe even make a belt of them to be sure you’ll have enough. The bike store won’t have them. Oh, and remember that everything is closed Sunday. God is tired from making lattes.

Much to certain famous bloggers’ consternation, the sporks didn’t come. The buttery rubbery clogs did come. They’ve been worn. Here’s something remarkable, the people of this coast are just as jealous of them as the people of the other one. Lots of glances and no comments. Sigh.

Honey is blogging right now, too. We’re a computer away from each other. Between us are two people who seem alarmed that it costs 10 cents a minute to use the computer, with a $1 minimum. Shocking, I know.

So, bravely blogging, I vow to stop writing and therefore to stop paying. I may have to supplement Honey. She’s more careful than I am in writing.

Still, my blessed latte sits by my side. And those evil screws nestle in my pocket like so many vipers. It’s the age old struggle between good and evil. Right here at God Cafe. Near the Atlantic Ocean.

Someone else can take the high one. I got nosebleeds as a child.

Blogger friends of all types, the scouster and I are outta here for a bit. The lure of humidity and mosquitoes is a siren call. We’re off to sweat and eat some she-crab.

If you know where we live, don’t rob us.

If you don’t, don’t spam our blogs.

We’re leeeeevin on a jet plaaaane.

I do know when we’ll be back again. Check back on St. Carpophorus’ feast day. Meantime, to quote Southern mothers, “be sweet.”

This, ladies and gentlemen, is a new phenomenon about which I was trained today:

Apparently what happens is that one is given a little plastic card with the above logo on it. And one can use that little plastic card to buy…

Do you want to guess? I had to! Think. Ok, fine, I’ll tell you.

Goods

and

Services!

Well slap my ass and call me me Sporks. Goods and services. No shit.

You want to know what’s great about the little plastic card I learned about today? Well, I guess the aforementioned goods and services have to be paid for by somebody. You know what? The nice people in Accounts Payable pay them. Isn’t that fantastic?

There are rules, I guess. No firearms can be purchased without prior approval. Got it. And it seems that when you have one of these little dandy dealios, you can’t just loan it out to people to use. Check.

The motivator (and that really is the only word for him) who told us about the plastic miracle liked the track and field coach who was sitting behind me. Our motivator was, in fact, much more impressed with the man who taught others to throw things than he was with me. How do I know?

Well, Mr. Motivator shared his Myers-Briggs personality type. Why did he share it? Because we were trapped and had to listen to him. The problem was, he couldn’t think of the name of the test. Like the sullen student I was channeling, I mumbled it under my breath. He then wanted to know what each of his letters stood for. I told him. Dr. INTJ didn’t so much resonate with Mr. ESFP but she knew what the letters stood for. Still Mr Motivator/ESFP was more interested in the fact that Coach Thrower had taken Potential Freshwoman Thrower to Chili’s. To Chili’s! Can you imagine? And used this little plastic thingy. And Mr. Motivator could show us the Chili’s charge on the computer. And Coach Thrower had spent $40. And then Accounts Payable had paid Chili’s. Can you see how riveting this all is?

Mr. Motivator began the day by asking our objective for the session. People said chirpy things about how excited they were to learn about this new phenomenon. I should note, I guess, that we had plastic things before. They had logos that looked like this:

These new ones, boy, they sure are different. What with the goods and services and everything.

I ate a donut on the break. I didn’t want a donut. I ate one anyway. I asked a famous blogger via e-mail to call in a bomb threat. I asked Assistant Director (also via e-mail) to come over to the building and pull the fire alarm. Both FB and AD refused. Where’s the love? I ask you.

FB did try later. But by then, I was free. Still, she’s my new hero. AD just laughed at me.

Three hours. That’s how long it took to learn about this plastic miracle.

All of what was worth knowing, I have just condensed into this entry. You can thank me later. By using a plastic thing to buy me goods and services. Who knows? Maybe Accounts Payable will pay. Anyone want to meet at Chili’s?

Here are the details:

Crocs Cayman Clogs
Size: Large (Sporks has big ol’ feet.)
Color: Butter

Beautiful, aren’t they? Can I get an amen?

Timeline:
Hour -1
Honey and future clog owner (FCO) enter Sports Chalet, where the promise to “take to the limit” didn’t really appeal. Why were they there? To buy Honey water shoes.

FCO notices the Crocs flip flops. FCO gasps. FCO tries the flip flops on. They do not suit FCO (between toe hurt is palpable). FCO then puts on a pair of brown clogs. FCO dances around a little. No laughing at FCO.

FCO checks out the colors. Decides on yellow. Becomes Clog owner (CO) and $30 poorer.

Hours 1-3
Clogs ride and sit (in bag) around in the hot car. CO is a little worried they’ll melt. CO and clogs are brave.

Hour 4
Clogs arrive home. After other purchases are put away, they accompany CO (in hand) to office. Dog tries to steal them. Dog is admonished. Picture of left clog taken.

Hour 5
Blog entry written. Clog picture uploaded.

Hour 6
Famous bloggers 1 and 2 make fun of clogs in comments of blog entry. One of famous blogging duo also makes fun of clogs in private e-mail. Suggests that clogs may protect from lightning strike. CO thinks this is an added benefit.

Hours 7-9
Clogs rest comfortably under desk. This is where they go for now.

Hour 10
Presidential Candidate makes fun of CO for liking clogs in blog comments. PC suggests that CO should be called Anke Ousterhoudt.

Hours 11-19
Clogs continue to rest under desk. They are unaware that they have been maligned. Bless their hearts.

Hour 20
Clogs are put on with all black outfit. Honey assesses and argues for less contrast between somberness of outfit and clog-itude. Shirt changed to one of loud variety. Honey reassesses. Approves (sort of). CO becomes Clog Wearer (CW).

Hour 21
Clogs are helpful in driving. They also get several looks in Starbucks. CW decides fellow Starbucks patrons are jealous. She resists telling them where similar can be procured. Clogs come to office and are also greeted by jealousy. Clog wearer theorizes jealousy is so thick in office that no one dare speak. CW sees furtive looks. CW and clogs discuss and decide that no one wants to kiss up to CW about clogs because it’s performance evaluation time. No one wants to be untoward. CW applauds her staff’s restraint.

Hours 22-23
CW and clogs do work. Clogs are very helpful to CW. There may have been some bouncing on feet in office. Reports vary.

Hour 24
Clogs are deemed to be worthy of blog entry of their own. CW writes said entry. Discovers in doing so that “yellow” clogs are actually a color called “butter.” CW likes them even more as a result. Decides to call them buttery rubbery clogs from now on. Also decides that clog days are good days. Still contemplating whether Anke Ousterhoudt would be a better appellation for self than sporksforall or actual name.

or…

It’s hot AND Sporks got the “nice camera” out.

Towit:

I don’t like it when it’s 119 degrees. It’s fucking hot.
That is all that need be said about that.

Now, I have a few thoughts that have nothing to do with the heat. Honey and I did observe that when it’s this hot, it’s hard not to talk about how hot. Like every time you walk outside, you have to exclaim all over again about how hot it is. That’s it, no more hot talk.

As to getting the nice camera out…

Jezebel was over. Biscuit wasn’t sure what she thought.

I am (sure that is). Jezebel is very cute. Hurt your molars cute. Did you know she has her own website? Yeppers.

Another thing that’s cute? Biscuit with her summer haircut. (Notice the random Teva sitting behind her. That’s where those shoes went last night).

Speaking of shoes, I may have purchased my very favoritest pair ever today. Behold:

Dooce and her husband have this big thing going in her blog over his version of the same shoes. As much as I like Dooce’s blog, I’m coming down on the side of righteousness. And that, my friends and neighbors, is the clog side.

Speaking of what’s right and just…I really like how my stuffed rhino looks in my pearls.

Did you know that rhinos are nice and hippos are mean? I always thought the reverse. Hippos are generally thought to be the most dangerous animal in Africa.

And that is why rhinos wear pearls. To show how nice they are. Much nicer than hippos.

I’ve reached a milestone. One I’m surprised to have reached, frankly. When I started this thang, I thought I would abandon it. I started it for very different reasons than I continue it now. But that’s a good thing, I think. If our expectations don’t change, then the phenomenon itself becomes rote and uninteresting. Which is why I sometimes wonder why I still watch teevee. Speaking of which, I’m remembering that 100 episodes is what shows need to get to for syndication. Woo. Next on WGN: whatever on fire! Starring sporks. Woo.

Some other thoughts about 100s and centuries:

My Honey calls 100 Kilometers a “pussy century” on a bike (since it’s less than 100 miles). The day I can ride 100K, I’ll be one happy pussy.

100 is old for people. Sentinel the tree must think people are pussies.

(Aside: I should stop using “pussy” in this post).

The Roman emperor Agrippa died in the year 100 (C.E./A.D. depending on how anti-Jesus you want to be).

(Aside 2: Agrippa reminds me of the game my friend Rachel and I played while we lived in Rome in college where we did the ancient Rome soap opera. Think heavy Southern accents here, “Agrippina, you get your butt over here. Have you been sleeping with Claudius again? That boy is NO Good.”)

Imayavaramban Nedun-Cheralatan was King of the Chera in the year 100. Whoever in the hell he is and wherever in the hell that is.

(Aside 3: Is “hell” better than “pussy”? I think so.)

Ty Pennington is #100 on the Forbes list of Top 100 celebrities. Now that’s good to know (not).

There is no #100 on the U.S. News and World Report college ranking because 7 Universities are tied at 97. Then four more are tied at #104.

Caitlin S. on her Yahoo page would like to know what she should buy with $100. I think she should get herself 79 euros. They’re prettier.

France bought 100 million half-Euro coins from Spain in 2001. They must be worth something. Caitlin could actually get 158 of those. 158 half-Euros! A girl can dream.

100 leagues (as in under the sea) is 555.6 kilometers. So 100 leagues is really pussy. Of course if I were riding my bike under the sea…
1. the steel would rust, and
2. it would be harder, which might make it less pussy.

I should stop this post. It’s beginning to not bode well for the next century.

Watch for me soon on an unaffiliated channel near you. I’ll be the spork with the Euros.

My friend slangred has finally started shoe blogging, an activity long overdue. I like shoes, though I don’t quite understand the current zeal for shoes that hurt your feet. Despite what I used to tell my friend in college (who needed such reassurances, being a straight woman and all), comfort should come before fashion and not the other way around. It seems to me that feet are nice and that hurting them is just a bad idea. They could do mean things to you later.

There are many things I like about working in academia, and many things I like about working in a non-prestigious part of it. There are also things, despite my East-Coast whining, that I like about living in Southern California. These conspire nicely when it comes to shoes. When I first moved to SoCal, I had taken (in my youthful zeal) a sandals-only stance. Year round sandals. No matter the weather. Ah, youth. I’ve wandered in my sandal loyalties from Birkenstocks to Doc Martens to Tevas to my current Teva-Keen mixed marriage.

I heart my Keens.

Anyway, I have now “grown up” and have some shoes where my toes aren’t shown. What I like about them mostly is that I can wear my snail socks.

But my relationship with my socks is too complicated to be collapsed into this one post. It’s a bit like how I could NOT talk about my relationship with my ass during my hand revelation last week.

Back to the shoes…earlier this week, I was discussing via e-mail with Scouster and the chief cowgirl in the Wannabe Corral where my shoes should go when I take them off. Scout suggested that everyone knew the answer to this question. By which I take it, she meant that any fool (me) should know that they go in the closet. With all the Republican gays.

There are a number of theories about why my shoes end up where they do, many of which might fall into the TMI category. Mostly, I take them off wherever I stop first. Bathroom, kitchen, under the desk, front hallway. I can’t ever find the pair I want. But it’s kind of like looking at a very easy Easter egg hunt for eggs (or like the Stones sang). You find the shoes you find. They may or may not be the shoes you need.

The good thing is that because I’m a lesbian (gasp, someone cover the children’s eyes!) academic, I have only comfortable shoes in mostly neutral colors. Whichever shoes I encounter will probably also match my comfortable clothing that has just the hint of a professional look to it. See how good my life is?

I was standing behind the Prez of this here Uni at commencement and noticed she had on sandals. I suggested to the nearest chair of an ethnic studies department (there are several, this one was closest) that we could wear sandals if the Prez could. The Prez turned around, looked me up and down and nodded very slowly. Sandals it is at Commencement 07. I’ll wear my “nice” Tevas. They look a little like I’m an extra on the set of Rome. The lack of a tunic gives me away, though.

Ok, so here’s the deal. Share out in comments (let’s see if this is more globally interesting to people than bad music):

What your shoe aesthetic is;

and

Where shoes “go” in your home.

As for me, today was a Teva day. My Keens from yesterday are in the front hall. I have tripped over them twice. Still, that’s where they go. At least for today.

I like to watch the teevee as I get ready in the morning. I have a few shows I watch, most of which my Honey finds annoying. Chief among these is Bargain Hunt on BBC America. The host is annoying, I’ll admit.

From the advertising purchased for the 7am P(S/D)T hour, I am not the target demographic. The lovelorn, the indebted, and the immobile are. It is this last group who I would like to address today. Um, get up. Really. I’m not the most active person ever. Still, one can take the worst of American too far. Witness Honey’s mother’s shed’s contents.

But the latest horror? The latest conspiracy to keep us planted on our couches? The Table-Mate II. I should point out, before I continue, that this COULD be a conspiracy. The Table-Mate II is made by a Canadian company. If all of America becomes housebound, then Canada can take over. They’ve been eyeing the better bits of our part of the continent for some time now.

Feel free to visit their website (which is, um, weak), but take a moment before you do to read about the commercial. First, a guy sits down on his sofa and spills food in his lap. He’s got a full drink and a plate of what looks like meat and potatoes with gravy which he dumps in his lap. Like a dork. Also, it would be simpler if he just had a spork. Then he might not spill.

Then (and this was worth backing the Tifaux up for), a woman grabs her back while trying to reach a tv tray. Like she’s in deep deep pain. Sitting on her couch and (oh the horror) LEANING FORWARD. The question the Table-Mate II people would like to ask is: why suffer when you don’t have to? Why dump the gravy in your lap? Why sit up?

They then show pictures of people sitting and being brought things. The bringer puts the food (or whatever) on the Table-Mate II and slides it toward the bringee. Here’s what the web site says the Table-Mate II is best for: “Tables stack next to each other in semi-folded position ideal for anyone with mobility problems or anyone recovering from an injury, illness or operation.” Or even better, for someone hoping to create a mobility problem. There is a picture of the Table-Mate II “in action” (but without people). Why? Because the people involved with the Table-Mate II are now housebound.

Get up, America. Or if you must sit, use a spork and the coffee table. Geesh.

Honey and I have a tendency to personify things that ought not to be personified. We speak in the voices of the inanimate.

Yesterday I bought a new cell phone on Amazon. When we got in the car to go to lunch, she asked (as if she were the cell phone charger cord), “Um, excuse me? What’s going to happen to me when the new cell phone comes?” I felt bad. For a cord.

I told Honey that it was too easy to make me feel bad about these kinds of things. She allowed as how it wasn’t as much fun because it was too easy. She then thought for a minute and said, “it’s still fun, though.”

This morning, when I put my coffee (which I later spilled–sigh) in the cup holder, I saw the phone charger…and felt guilty about replacing it.

Or, What I Did while Honey was out Riding her Bicycle

1. I’m not a good lesbian. I don’t like flannel sheets. I especially don’t like them in the summer. I hope Honey forgives me for the percale switch.

2. It’s hot.

3. Dogs don’t help with yard work in any real way, but they’re nice to have around while you’re doing yard work.

4. I totally now get why Honey finds trimming our bird of paradise so satisfying.

5. I don’t understand why our mulberry tree wants to procreate so badly.

6. I also don’t understand why Biscuit wouldn’t eat asparagus, but likes to eat the mulberry leaves. They could have a conspiracy (she and the mulberry tree, that is).

7. Our pomegranate tree needs to be trimmed, badly. I want it to finish growing its fruit first.

8. I’m making our back yard sound like a verdant paradise. It’s a brown patch of yuck.

9. For someone who is supposedly good at technology, my failure to get my new bicycle computer to work is damming.

10. Lesser goldfinches are pretty, too. They don’t deserve the pejorative adjective.

11. Reading the paper after yard work and during laundry seems less slothful than reading it before.

12. I still feel guilty on Sunday about not going to church.

13. I don’t want to go to church.

14. I just feel guilty about it.

15. Big props to my parents for that.

16. Before blogging, thoughts like these entered my brain and then never left or dissipated into brain goo.

17. It’s one of the reasons I like blogging.

18. There are other reasons.

19. Happy Sunday.

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