I Hate You, Please Die (a.k.a. Somebody Call Me a Waaambulance)

Okay, this next blog goes out to everyone who told me winter hasn't been too bad this year.  It's called "I Hate You, Please Die".

Why, you ask?  Why do I hate you with the violent, fiery passion of a thousand dying suns?  Why do I pray that death comes on swift wings to release you from this vail of tears? 

Because it's YOUR fault, this snowy mess I now find myself in.  Because YOU had to tell me that winter wasn't so bad, that it hadn't been super cold (yes it was, it just didn't last forever), that it hadn't snowed too much - basically, you were trying to make me feel bad about whining.  You tried to help me appreciate that, while I have to wear the big puffy down jacket and boots every day, it could be worse - there could be three feet of snow!  You were trying to help me gain some perspective. 

You failed.

Also?  You tempted fate. 

I tried to warn all you people, I really did.  Every time one of you said anything like, "Y'know, winter may be almost over.  It hasn't been too bad this year!" I replied with, "Oh, no no no, don't say that!  You don't SAY that!"

But noooooo.  Y'all didn't listen.  Y'all had to try and cheer me up by reminding me it could be worse.  And in so doing, you caught the attention of Fate, that fickle mistress who just waits for people like Xander to screw up and say things like, "So long as nothing bad happens..." to which the Buffys and Willows of the world reply, "Why did you say that?  Now something bad is gonna happen.  It's the ultimate curse."

And Fate has cursed us. 

I hate you, please die.

When I woke Friday morning, there was snow.  Not a ton, but it was there, it was noticeable, a little skiff of powder adhering to everything without sun exposure.  Nothing too terrible, or even annoying, really.

But Saturday?  Well, Saturday I didn't arise from my bed until nearly noon - not that I was sleeping, I just didn't feel like getting out of bed before then.  When I did get out of bed, and look outside, it was a winter wonderland.  As in, "I wonder when this happened"  (while I was sleeping), and "I wonder how in the h I am supposed to get my car over to PetsMart and buy kitty litter today" (a joint trip in Cathie's truck fixed that) and "I wonder how much more is gonna pile on?"  (a lot).

It snowed ALL DAY Saturday.  Cathie and I had errands to run, and when we walked outside, her truck looked like this:

Yeah, that's, oh, probably eight inches of snow piled on the top.  And this was around noon hour - it snowed until 7-ish?  Possibly later, but I stopped looking outside - it just made me sad.

Y'know what else made me sad?  Losing my feet in the snow.  Walking out to the car, I looked down and, "Hey!  Where'd my feet go?"

Now, I have boots.  I have my beautiful Josef Seibel boots (which I am not dumb enough to wear in this weather - I want them to stay beautiful); I have my new black Uggs (which I have waterproofed, but yesterday I was still in the "new boots are not to be worn in deep snow" phase - which lasted until church this morning); and my old brown Uggs, which served me very well in Utah snow.

Well, my brown Uggs only go to the bottom of my calf, and the snow was deeper than the bottom of my calf, and my jeans were apparently very snow-friendly, because about a billion snowflakes decided they liked it better hanging around my lower legs, and hitched a ride, both inside and outside.

I took a couple of pictures to show how deep the snow was - except I took them before it stopped snowing, so mentally add about two more inches to each of these pictures:

This is the view from the front porch.  Out back, there's a handy dandy table to showcase the snowfall:

Then there was the driving, which: driving in the snow = not my favorite.  Mostly because I hate the sloshy feeling of my car trying to maintain traction.  I have excellent snow tires, and my car is heavy enough that I don't slide around like a sedan, but it's still an uncomfortable feeling.  Yesterday, I went with Cathie, and she drove, but today I had to drive to church.  First, though, I had to locate and excavate my car.  I call this next one, "Dude, where's my car?

Because that shapeless hillock in front of me cannot possibly be my vehicle".  Once I got my car unearthed, I had to back out through a three-foot high berm of snow left by whoever plowed the back lane.  I'm pretty sure at one point I heard my car groan, "Chick, you crazy?" as I was slowly forcing it backwards out of the parking space.  I gave it a little pep-talk ("Please, little car-car, we have to get to church.  I'm not walking from the LRT station, and we have to get Amy!"), and my sweet little es-cah-pay dug deep into her reserves of power and forged a path through the snow. 

I know it could have been worse; we could have had snow like this in, oh, October, or multiple heavy duty snowfalls throughout December and January.  I know that I should be grateful that it's only gotten like this now, when it's nearly March, but, wait, no, I'm NOT grateful, because I hate snow!  Each time it snows, I realize more and more just how much I loathe it.  So I'm not grateful that it's nearly March and we're just now getting heavy snowfall, because I'm not grateful for ANY snow, AT ALL!  And I'm gonna be a whiny little baby about it for a little while, because I had an 85 degree Christmas which undid any acclimatizing I may have gained last year, and it hasn't been bad until now.  And because I TRIED to warn all the imbeciles around here, any time they marveled at the not-too-bad weather, that, "Shh!  The snow will HEAR you and FIND us!"  And they ignored me, or laughed and said I was silly. 

So I'm gonna whine and complain like those annoying people in the Snickers commercials, and I'd appreciate it if someone would dial whine-one-one and get a waaambulance over here, stat, because I could really use a wamburger and cries right about now.

My Name is Claire, and I Am a Bibliophile

N.B.: I am trying to be better about keeping up my blog. Mum (and on occasion other family members) keeps telling me I need to write a book already, become the next JK Rowling, and use my fame for good.  (I'd rather use it for world domination.) My problem is, I can't think of a story. But, as grad school keeps telling me, the more you write, the better you will get; maybe (if I'm lucky), I'll hit on a book idea that will become so outrageously popular, it will allow me to pay back my student loan debt a little sooner than when I die. So some entries here will be random, not necessarily about life in Canadia <--- (yes, I meant that), just me trying to hone my writing abilities. Plus, writing blog >shudder< entries is way more entertaining than writing for my research project (I do that, too, Mum, don't worry :-)

 

 

I realized today, when I had to go pick up a smaller-than-notebook-paper-sized notebook for my field notes journal, that I have a fascination with journals. They're so pretty! There were peacock feather ones, and music notes ones, and skull and crossbones ones (that I may or may not have bought Gillian, long ago - did I actually get it for you, Gillian, or did I just think about it and change my mind because you have a bazillion journals already?), old-world map ones, and so many more that I kind of stood there for about ten minutes in brain lock. I wanted them - ALL of them.

 

 

It's not like I'm a great journal writer - so far, since I began "consistently" journaling (at least twice a year!), I have filled three (almost four) journals. I do not consider this a crowning achievement, as my first “real” journal began in 1996 with the ballet girl journal Wendy gave me as my Pine Cone Pal at girls' camp. It took me until 2003 to finish it. I've done a little better since then, but still. And it's not like I don't have a bunch of blank, just-waiting-to-be-filled journals - there's the Percy Jackson journal, the Other Harry Potter journal (with Fawkes - I already filled the Hedwig one), the Eiffel Tower journal, the SLC Temple journal (just received as a gift two weeks ago, and it's soft leather bound, so I'm keeping it), the Butterfly locking journal (Christmas gift from A., who works in a bookstore), the Blank Book journal (Series of Unfortunate Events), and my Savior journal I began when I was eight, stopped writing in a few weeks later, lost, then discovered again when I was halfway through the ballet girl journal.

 

 

Of course, right now I'm in Canada, so I don't have access to all my blank journals, except SLC temple, Percy Jackson, and Butterfly locking journals. None of them are the right size, and I certainly am not going to waste any of them on a field notes journal for my Master's Research Project. So I had to go to the bookstore and buy one.

 

 

Bookstores present a real problem for me (and my wallet). If some responsible family member is not with me, I end up dropping a C-note on children's fiction/fantasy without batting an eye. (Gillian? Not a responsible family member, but an enabler, at least when it comes to my book buying binges. Probably because she reads them all, but doesn't have to fork over the cash. Of course, it's my fault, because I got her started with the Charlie Bone series, and it was all over; I created a little reading monster with a similar taste in books. She's not gonna stop me - heck, half the time she'll find the next book in a series we read, and oh-so-innocently point it out to me just as I'm having a crise de nerves because I have five books I want to buy, and they're all hardback first editions so they cost a bomb.) Mum is pretty good about keeping me from going overboard, mostly because I feel guilty spending the NDP of Djibouti on books when I'm shopping with her. (Side question: does Djibouti have an NDP? My interweb is broken now, so I can't look it up. I figure if they can waste money on protected habitats for mating turtles, they should, right?)

 

 

I just, I don’t know, go into a sort of trance when I enter a bookstore – which is weird, because they all smell like coffee, thanks to the enterprising folks at Starbucks, and coffee has caffeine, so logically I should wake up more when I go into a bookstore, right?  Part of it is how quiet they tend to be – even when Barnes & Noble is packed with last minute holiday shoppers, it’s never really loud.  Maybe because people associate lots of books = library = keep your voice down.  I dunno.  But I wander around bookstores in a bit of a haze, trying to figure out which books I want to buy (I rarely have a specific book I’m looking for), which ones will be worth it, which ones will make me regret shelling out my hard-earned cash money, which ones are going to get me hooked on a new series or author to the point where I will be jonesin’ for their next book the way addicts jones for the next hit of their preferred recreational drug.  There’s a great quote from Inkheart by Cornelia Funke that sums up my feelings every time I go to a bookstore (or the library): “She felt almost as if she could hear the books whispering on the other side of the half-open door. They were promising her a thousand unknown stories, a thousand doors into worlds she had never seen before.”

 

 

I wander in a trance through bookstores because I’m trying to get a fix on the books that will be worth it to read.  And when I say worth it, I mean they will become books that I will want to read over and over again.  My definition of a good book is not just that I don’t want to put it down until I’m finished – it also has to make me want to read it again when I do finish.  The best books are the ones I re-read on an annual (or semi-annual) basis, because I just need to experience the story again.

 

 

In bookstores, it’s sometimes a bit of a gamble, because I will pick up a book that looks like literary gold, only to discover that it’s pyrite.  That is irritating.  And I know that most people say, “Well, just go to the library” but that only works if the books are older.  New releases (especially for popular authors and series) always have a long wait list, and I am not patient.  Not when it comes to the next Rick Riordan or Brandon Mull novel.  Not when I’m already in the store, looking at a new book, skimming the first few pages, trying to discern how good of a read it will be.  Putting it down, walking away, and waiting until the library has it?  Not gonna happen. 

 

 

But I’ve only had a few book purchases that were mistakes (The Prophecy of Stones, I’m lookin’ at you) – most of the time, they’re keepers.  And the more success I have in choosing good books, the more I tend to take chances on new authors or series.  Which makes walking into a bookstore very dangerous to my wallet.

 

 

(Tonight wasn’t too bad, though.  I only spent $21, and I got a cute composition book that says “Decomposition Book” because it’s made of recycled paper (although I was sad none of the designs had zombies on them), a bargain book titled The Guinea Pig Diaries (not about guinea pigs, but an author who tried various ways of living, like outsourcing all his work to India and helping his nanny Internet date, then wrote a book about it), and The Wild Things by David Eggers, an adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are – he helped write the screenplay for the movie.)

This is another favorite quote from Inkheart, just to finish things off.

 

 

Meggie: You've been to Persia, then?
Elinor: Yes, a hundred times. Along with St. Petersburg, Paris, Middle-Earth, distant planets and Shangri-la. And I never had to leave this room. Books are adventure. They contain murder and mayhem and passion. They love anyone who opens them.

I...Don't Get It

So, I realized it's been a while since I have written anything here.  In my defense, there's not a whole lot going on right now - just skool.  And playing for choir.  Aaaannndd...that's about it.  Didn't really feel there was anything noteworthy worth noting.  But I do have some things that have been bugging me, niggling in my mind.  So I'm gonna write about things I don't get, and if anyone feels the need to enlighten me, feel free to do so.  Or just shake your head in wonderment at how my brain works (or doesn't work, depending on your perspective).

Twitter:  I finally caved today and started a Twitter account - FOR SKOOL!  I didn't want to - really I didn't!  I don't really care about tweeting, and following people, and hashtags and @whoever nonsense.  I already waste half of my life on Facebook - I didn't want to feed my social networking addiction.

But last night, in my 512 class, A., one of the guys, who is a principal working on his doctoral degree, showed me his Twitter feed, and how he follows people who post links to all sorts of websites and articles related to education and technology integration, which is my area.  Since what I'm working on (handheld PCs in science) is a new area, with little actual research published, I need any and all resources I can find. 

So, I did it.  I set me up a Twitter account.  Then I had to select people to follow, and that darn Twitter!  First, I think I can just look up the five people A told me to follow.  But then Twitter makes me follow five more people.  And then five more.  And then five more.  So I search and follow the first people/movies/whatever I can think of.  Once the feed gets going - WTF?  It's like an explosion of hashtags and @ all over my screen, with links flying hither and yon.  And nowhere do I see the actual people I signed on to follow in the first place.  Also, a certain unnamed celebrity whom I opted to follow has diarrhea of the Twitter account, so I am unfollowing him to unclutter my page.

But, I still don't get how the feed works, why people or organizations I DIDN'T sign up to follow show up, or why we even need it in the first place.  I just don't.  I don't get it. 

LRT PDAs:  Yesterday I was riding to skool, and I ended up in a car with me, an older lady, and a young college couple.  Shortly after we left Century Park (the LRT station), the young couple (YC) decided that they needed to demonstrate to the world (or at least me and the older lady) how much they enjoy one another's company.  This demonstration took the form of a make-out session that lasted from Century Park to Health Sciences/Jubilee (five stops).  Normally, I would have averted my eyes  and ignored the love-fest happening in my vicinity, but the angle of the sun was such that I was presented with the following options:  look at the YC PDA; look away from the YC PDA but catch the reflection in the window; stare at the sun, in hopes of going blind, so I wouldn't have to see aforementioned PDA; look out the window at such an angle that no reflection could be seen, which necessitated a nearly 180 degree Exorcist twist; stare at the floor. 

I finally settled on the last option, but then I was left with another problem - the sound effects emanating from the YC PDA.  I was listening to my iPod on full volume - I even have earphones that have additional volume control, so I can turn it up REALLY loud.  It was loud enough that I could no longer hear the LRT wheels clacking; but I could still hear the PDA smacking coming from the corner.  If I'd had a sharp implement with me, I would have been sorely tempted to jab it in my ears, so as to render myself deaf and unable to hear the enthusiastic goings on in the corner.  Sadly, all I had was mechanical pencils, and while they work great for poking out eyeballs (so I hear), they don't really fit well in the ear canal.

What I don't understand is, why?  Why do you need to do that, YC?  Why do you feel the need to makeout in front of complete strangers as though you were back in your own dorm, with the lights out?  I didn't need to see that - I was quite sure you had affectionate feelings for one another, based on the hand-holding as you boarded; I did not need to see and hear incontrovertible proof of your feelings for FIVE FREAKIN' STOPS!!  Also, male half of YC, I'm proud of you for using birth control - heaven knows your type don't need to be procreating right now - but next time, perhaps you shouldn't flash it while making the handoff to the female half of YC, especially not while proclaiming you swiped it from your mother's supply.  I am fairly certain there is some sort of Planned Parenthood-type place up here, where you can get that for free.  You never know who may be listening, and if I knew your name, I'd have ratted you out to your mother in a heartbeat.  Just sayin'.

The Library:  I recently re-discovered the joys of a public library that didn't SUCK (Moreno Valley public library, I'm lookin' at you).  It's very handy, as there are several branches that all trade books with one another, and you can go on the website, look up books, place a hold, and pick them up when you get the e-mail telling you the book has arrived at your local branch.  As my local branch is just a short LRT ride away, I have made use of the hold/pickup function many times since my return from CA.  But there is a particular series I started read (The Edge Chronicles, for anyone who cares), and it is here where my problem begins.  The library has every book in the series but ONE.  And, as it's a ten-book series, the one that is missing is #6, which has some major plot points in it that set up the rest of the series.  I tried skipping it and moving on to #7, but I didn't understand what was going on in the first few pages, so I stopped reading.

Why does the library hate me?  Or rather, why does the library hate anyone who might read the series?  I realize that some patron may have checked out the book and never returned it, but if that's the case - buy another copy!  You only have one copy of each book, so if one doesn't come back, buy another one!  It's like, six bucks!  Because I am now stuck not finishing off the series, and it's making me cranky.  I even had the brilliant idea to buy the sixth book, read it, then DONATE it to the library for any future readers, to spare them my torment, but not one of the bazillion book stores in this city even carries it.  Why, bookstores?  Why do you hate me?  It's not even that old of a book.

The End of The Genius Wars:  So, a couple years back I found an amusing book entitled Evil Genius, about a boy in Australia who is groomed to be an evil genius from the moment he's born.  Shortly afterwards, I found the next book, Genius Squad, which continued the story.  Last week, I was delighted to discover the third and final installment, The Genius Wars (at the library!).  I finished it last night.  I am no longer delighted, because after reading through a very well-paced, moving story, I got to the end and was left with a distinct feeling of WTF?  That's...really the end?  Why?  Why, Catherine Jinks, did you decide to end the story that way?  What possessed you to just leave it like that?  It's not a cliffhanger ending, it's like you got to a certain point and just decided, "Eh, I'm done."  I seriously inspected the spine of the book to make sure that no pages had been ripped out - that's how abrupt the ending was.  Why did you do that?

The Latest Episode of Sherlock: I could say the same thing to the creators/writers/grand-poohbahs in charge of production for the BBC show Sherlock.  For the uninformed (as I was, until Cathie skooled me proper), this is a delightful miniseries which basically takes the stories of Sherlock Holmes and puts them in a modern setting.  Martin Freeman (who will be Bilbo in The Hobbit) plays Watson, and Benedict Cumberbatch (yup, that's his real name, and he will be voicing Smaug in The Hobbit: Part le Deux) plays Sherlock.  It's hysterical - I love it.  And each episode is two hours long, so they can tell a really good story.  But here's the problem.  They only air three episodes a season, every two years.  So season one aired in 2010, season two finished today, and the next season won't begin until 2014 (one may assume).  The episode today was The Reichenbach Fall, for anyone who knows their Sherlock stories (if not, go look it up).  WHY, BBC?  Why are you ending the season there, and making me wait two years for the next episode?  I was just getting officially hooked on the show - why would you stop it there for two years?  I'm an American - I have a short attention span and I thrive on my weekly shows!  If I have to wait two years for the follow up epsiode, I'm gonna forget!  Your plot to keep me hooked will backfire, and you'll lose a viewer!

Resident Evil 4 (the game, not the movie):  So I managed to convince JD to let me bring the PS2 back up to Canada with me.  And it has been nice to shoot zombies as a form of stress relief.  But I had the "bright" idea to "challenge" myself while playing, and recently started a profile on the "professional" setting of the game.  As my astronomically high death count can attest, I am not a professional at the game, but even the most difficult parts only take me three or four (or five) attempts before I succeed without dying and move on to the next chapter.  Except now.  I am stuck at one stupid "boss" (in the sewers, the bug in the red robe, JD, Gillian, Michael).  I cannot friggin' beat this stupid thing, and it's making me far angrier than it should, really.  I just don't get why I keep getting killed, when I've beaten this stupid level more times than I can count.  I think the game is cheating.  And it wouldn't bother me so much if it didn't invade my sleep - last night's dream involved G-ma and G-pa Horspool's house, three of those stupid bugs, my dad, and his .357 revolver.  And even in my stupid dream, I kept dying and having to start over while trying to get at strategically placed (and completely useless) flash grenades.  You would think that I play this game all the time, but I limit myself to half-hour sessions (to the nearest save point), so I usually quit after three or four attempts and my subsequent character deaths - which has limited my playing time to 20 minutes/day before I give up in utter disgust.  I've been stuck here for four days.  It's annoying.  I'm annoyed.  I just don't get WHY I'm so annoyed, and why I'm stuck.


Resident Evil 4 (the movie, not the game):  Yeah, I don't know what's up with that mess.  I just know that even My Beautiful Future Husband Wenworth Miller wasn't enough to make me want to see it more than once.  I don't understand why the writers felt that they could dispense with any sort of storytelling - not that the first three movies were really heavy with the story, but you could at least make sense of what happened and why.  Here, it's like they decided to go for nifty special 3D FX, and tying it to RE 5 (the game), without bothering to explain how/why the zombies have mutated, or who/what the Executioner is, or how Albert freakin' Wesker JUST. WON'T. DIE. but can render Alice all but impotent.  That being said, I will still probably see the fifth movie when it comes out.  It's a sickness, I know.  But you'll thank me when the Zombie Apocalypse happens, and my family knows what to do.

So that's it, really.  Not exactly deep musings on the universe, but issues that have been annoying me for the past few days.  I feel better for having gotten them out there.  Feel free to mock - I don't care what you think, as long as it's about me.