Clearly I Have Lost My Mind

Here's how it went down:

My coworker: You should sell your lightswitch plates at a craft fair.
Me: Okay!



You see, I make these delightful decorative lightswitch plates. My coworker saw them, and thought they would sell well at a craft fair. Who wouldn't want a chili pepper lightswitch plate? Or maybe a mod design? Or barnyard animals?

Somehow I thought this was a good idea, and signed up for the craft fair. What I did not realize was that (a) I would have to make a lot of lightswitch plates, and (b) that I would have to deal with people. Instead I thought, "hey, maybe I can make some extra money."

As a result, I have spent pretty much all of my spare time working on the lightswitch plates. Making them is not exactly rocket science, but it does take a bit of time, and involves several steps. In order to make this profitable, I set a goal of making 100 lightswitch plates by the day of the fair (December 8). I have since learned that making one or two for the house is much different than making 100. Anyhow, I should be able to meet that goal in the next day or so. Hooray!

The part that I'm a wee bit apprehensive about is the actual craft fair. There will be people there. If you know me, you will know that I am not a bubbly, outgoing person, and am not well versed in the ancient art of small talk. How will I do this? How exactly will I interact with people in a pleasant manner? Maybe I should do some role playing:

Scenario 1.
Shopper: Hello.
Me:

Scenario 2.
Shopper: Hello.
Me: Who the hell are you? Stop talking to me.

Scenario 3.
Shopper: Hello
Me: Hi.

Clearly this needs some work, but as you can see I've already made great improvements between Scenario 1 and 3.

Bratz Dolls Promote Marriage Equality

Imagine my surprise when I came upon this ad in the recent Target flier. I was able to overlook my disdain for the egregious spelling offenses ("Bratz" and "Babyz" -- no wonder kidz kant spel) and bask in the glory of this milestone. Oh, sure, the makers of Bratz will tell you that this is indeed a government-sanctioned heterosexual couple. But anyone who looks at this will realize that it is a lesbian couple about to exchange vows.

They said Tinky Winky was gay. They said Spongebob was gay (why is that again?). But this Bratz couple brings new meaning to the term "baby butch." Or should it be "Butch Babyz"?

You know, I think I've had the haircut of the doll on the right.

Photo Friday: F is for Futon. And also Ford.

Friends on a Futon.
Tula and Delilah share a moment:


Ford.
Muleshoe, Texas, 2005:

A Simple Game of Cat and Mouse

You'd think that, as a vegetarian, I would have very minimal exposure to dead animals. Unfortunately, you'd be wrong. Somewhere in the house, I fear, lies the head of a dead mouse. Being that we live in Maine, and it's winter (though I'm still wearing short sleeves, as it's a balmy 40 degrees outside), it is that special season wherin mice find a way into the house. This is when our cats enter stage left, to give the moue its final curtain call. Though our cats are strictly indoor cats, they have not lost their finely tuned mouse hunting (and apparently, mouse-killing) skills.

Yesterday morning, I stumbled upon (not literally, thank goodness!) what I can only assume is an internal organ of a mouse. Now, I did pretty well in biology class, but without other organs attatched to the organ in question, I was unable to identify it. I am, it appears, better at biology when it is in context. For example: "Oh! That's the the liver; I know this because it's right above the stomach." Anyway, I was left to pick up the mystery organ, as well as what appeared to be a tail. Yep, lucky me.

Where is the rest of the mouse? That's what I'd like to know. Did they eat it? Did they actually eat the face???? Or is it somewhere, waiting for me to find it? Neither prospect is terribly appealing.

Who is responsible for this? I know it's not Shelly. She likes to keep her prizes intact. When I came home yesterday afternoon, there was a deceased mouse, all organs where they should be, waiting for me (she puts them where she knows they will be found; if Brooke is lucky enough to find one, she will come find me, as I am apparently on eternal Mouse Duty). I picked it up and apologized to it. I think she just looks at the mouse and it dies. Shelly, you see, has no soul.

Is it Ophelia? I don't know. She's not very bright. At all. However, she does love food, and I guess technically a mouse is food.


Or is it Java? It's hard to fathom, as I think eating a mouse would really take away from her routine of crying and sleeping.

I have grown tired of finding mice. Thankfully, it seems that after a few mice turn up dead, it seems to send a warning to the other mice that this is not mouse-friendly
territory. If only the mice could read, I'd post a tiny little mouse-sized sign outside, just to save them the trouble.

Michael Richards: If I Only Had a Brain

So, I was driving into work this morning, listening to "Eye of the Tiger," and thought, "Boy, that Michael Richards sure is a doofus, and not in a fun-loving sort of way."

You have perhaps heard that Mr. Richards spewed forth racist comments after being heckled during his stand-up act. A real comedian would have said something funny and clever. Instead, Michael Richards said something hateful.

Richards later apologized, stating adamantly that he is not a racist. That left me to think (danger! Danger!). I don't think that a person can state with any authority whether or not they are racist. Their words and actions make that determination. So often, after someone says or does something racist, they try to wash it down by saying "but I'm not a racist." Methinks the mister doth protest too much.

Photo Friday: D is for Dork; E is now for Engine

Photo Friday: E is for Eb@y

I joined a photo group called Photo Friday. Well, technically I haven't joined YET, but I sent in my request for membership. Anyhow, this week's assignment is "E is for Eb@y."

We like to make our own Christmas cards, or Christmas Postcards, if you will. It's cheaper than sending regular cards, and it's much more fun. I think that last year's will be hard to beat. I bought these hideous-yet-vaguely-cute Mr. and Mrs. Claus figurines on e Bay (Brooke later got them as a Christmas present) and, using the magic of Photoshop, transformed them into what one might call a holiday greeting.

First, I started with a picture of the figurines:


Then add a couple of cats (it was really hard to get little glasses on a cat, even in Photoshop, I'll have you know)...and voila! An unsettling greeting card is born.


p.s. I just realized that I may be a minor idiot. I know, shocker! I think the assignment was "E is for ...." and I was supposed to come up with my own "..."
Someone else did "E is for Eb@y" and I thought that was the assignment. Oops.
But "E is for Eb@y" would be a very cool assignment, and look, I've already done my homework!

Fabio Takes a Bath

Fabio is the name of my office fish. He is a striking betta, with a luscious mane. Today Fabio's tank gets a bath!



I started off by removing Fabio from his tank; while I know this is mildly traumatic, I was as gentle as possible. I'm hoping it's true what they say about fish having short memory spans.

Sir Fabio has to wait in temporary housing while his home gets a good cleaning. As you will notice, Fabio lives in a converted Macintosh computer, which is way better than those horrible little vases people use for betta fish.

I dumped his old poopy rocks (and by that I mean the rocks he pooped on)and got him some nice in-the-holiday-spirit red rocks. Unfortunately, I could not find a little plastic Christmas tree to put in his tank.

After some mildly disgusting scrubbing (followed by a thorough hand-washing), I put the new rocks in the tank and added spring water (no city water for this Fancy Boy) and some Start Right tank additive. Fabio also got a lovely Rudolph picture for the back of his tank. Just to get him into the holiday mood.

I am the Door Whisperer

Before last weekend, I had installed precisely two storm doors in my lifetime. It was not a fun procedure, but not impossible. My dad helped me with the first one. I installed the 2nd one myself. It pretty much took all day, but that's probably because it was December, and it was really really cold outside and I wasn't exactly moving quickly.

There are people who install storm doors for you. Why wouldn't I hire them, you might ask. Well, because I'm not made of money, I might say. Plus, why would I hire someone to do something I can do myself? I am always up for a project involving math! The side supports have to be cut at an angle to match the threshold angle. So that involves two measurements that have to be transferred from the threshold to the side supports. No big deal, right?

As a brief background, storm doors are measured by the width of the door opening. They might come in a 32", 34", or in our case, 36" width. They are all 80" high, which is a standard door opening height. This is all well and good if your door is the aforementioned 80" high. Much to my dismay, I discovered that our back door (where I was installing Ye Olde Storm Door) was in fact 79" high. Did I mention that the storm door is metal? OH, what a glorious day I had! Many choice words were exchanged between myself and the door. Cutting through the aluminum part of the door wasn't too bad. Many doors have a foam core, which would have been cut through fairly easily. However, my door was of course comprised of the densest fiberboard I have ever encountered, and appeared to come from a galaxy far, far away. I broke a number of my METAL cutting discs on this thing. Oh, plus my dad has my sawhorses so I had to make a makeshift platform out of a couple recycling bins. Good times! After my last cutting disc broke, I had to stop work and go out to Home Depot to replenish my supply. At that point I did not care that I was leaving the house in paint-stained sweatpants and an oil-stained tshirt. I was going to Home Depot, after all. I don't trust people who go to Home Depot and look a little too neat, anyway.

So, I go back home and continue with the cutting of the door. It is not a pretty sight, and eventually I had to get out a chisel and a hammer to complete the job. I got the door to what seemed to be an acceptable height (or, if you are my dad, "heith") and put on the door sweep, and hung the mo-fo. It was okay, but not great. I ended up taking the door BACK off (there is a reason you don't remove a door once it is hung)and trimmed about another 1/4" off and then hung it once more. Hooray! It opens; it closes. Delightful. I am not particularly enamored with the latching mechanism, but of course I have some modifications in store for that baby.

I present, for your utter amazement, the door:

3,350 days is a long time

As of today, Brooke and I have been together for 10 years. This, as you may note, is a long time. It amazes me that at age 30, Brooke has been with me for a full one-third of her life. Obviously this is because I am such a wonderful person. I will also take this time to note that Brooke is actually the wonderful person. I appreciate that she is able to overlook my sporadic rashes, my inability to coordinate my own clothing, and my knack for not making dinner. She is my favorite lady of all.

Being that gay people are a threat to conventional marriage, I am left to wonder how many heterosexual relationships we have dissolved in the past 10 years. If we average a conservative 1 per day, that would be 3,350 marriages. It is no wonder the divorce rate is so high. I apologize to those we have shaken to the very core. Oops, my bad.

Why Does Bob Barker Make Me Think of Liverwurst?

Why, indeed...
Looking at the piece of liverwurst, it strikes me how much it looks like a squished bum on a plate. Or a bum on a bun, if you will. But that's not what this post is about. It's sort of a word-association thing.

When I was a darling child, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents house. They lived about a mile or so from my parents, and I would go there when my folks were working. I spent a lot of time there in the summer. Being that they were grandparents, lunch was served at 11:30 a.m. SHARP. This often consisted of liverwurst sandwiches (my grandmother was German, and as you may be aware, the Germans tend to favor things ending in "wurst"). Now, my grandfather and I would watch the Price is Right from 11:00 a.m. until 12:00 p.m.; if you were paying attention, you will note that lunch overlapped with Penny Ante, 3Strikes, or my personal favorite, Cliff Hangers. So by the time the Showcase Showdown came around, and contestant #2 was showing visible dismay at the thought of winning a dune buggy instead of a convertible, my belly was full of liverwurst and a conservative helping of Fritos.