The Most Dangerous Game

Things got crazy last night. It was the biggest moth I had ever seen and it kept dive-bombing me. With my cats by my side, I vanquished the killer moth. Here is the evidence.

The crispy smack you hear at the end is the moth. It was gross. Please excuse the shrieking on my part.

Snorkin Labbits!

On my way to work today, I nearly asphyxiated on the cigarette smoke coming from a guy walking about 20 feet ahead of me. I had this terrible feeling of not getting any oxygen, so I crossed to the other side of the street to walk the rest of the way.

As a child, I remember being extremely sensitive to smoke and, although this is not the best example, I once went to a shower (I hope bridal, not baby) at the Wesleyville American Legion and had to leave early because the air was so thick with smoke. Now, W.A.L. probably had its own atmosphere thanks to cigarettes, but it was not uncommon for me to be in a smoke filled room and have to leave.

When I got a bit older and went off to college, my tolerance increased. It was probably due to my affinity for bars and we all know that, in the 90's, to go to a bar meant second-hand smoke. My tolerance further increased when I lived in England and then Greece. Unlike in the U.S., where people rarely smoke in their homes or while actually EATING at a restaurant, smokers in those countries were everywhere. I guess that when your meal takes 3 hours to eat, a true smoker must have a cig at the table. Remember when hostesses asked "smoking or non"? In Greece I actually once sat at a table with a "no smoking" sign inside the ashtray! Oddly enough, it didn't bother me at all.

It was an un-ironic ashtray as far as we could tell. Since joining the E.U. Greece had to observe a few laws that were incomprehensible to the Greeks. No-smoking sections was one such regulation.

Now that we have reached the enlightened age when even Erie, PA has regulations about smoking in public places, my ability to stand the smoke has clearly decreased. I was not completely on board with the public smoking ban (even though I love a good regulation, I did think that adults should be able to indulge in legal adult drugs in public places) but now I can't imagine going back to the way things were.

Pet Alarmists

When I wrote about the Appa, my friend, Kathryn, mentioned that it looked alot like an "Alot". She was right. That comment made me go back to the Hyperboleandahalf blog, I hadn't read it since posting about spiders.

The writer's latest post centers around her dog. She was worried that it might be mentally retarded and, after a series of increasingly hilarious tests, she was no longer worried, she had been proven right. I think it is fairly clear that her blog is a humorous one. The name of the blog indicates that things will be blown out of proportion for comedic effect. This does not stop her commenters. I only had to read a few comments before I got to the one I knew was coming. It was a variation on the old "love your blog, take better care of your animal". I see this time and again. Any time someone blogs about their pet (particularly with pictures) some idiot has to question the blogger's pet ownership credentials. In this case, a reader actually suggested she take her dog to the vet to see if anything could be done!

That is one of the stupidest things I have ever heard. Yes, take your dumb dog to the vet to get smart. If that is your solution, you deserve to be charged 75 bucks for the visit, as you are clearly more deficient than your pet! Ally, the blogger, responded to the comment quite graciously, informing the commenter that she had, in fact, taken the dog to the vet when she got it and it was perfectly healthy. I probably would have had to refrain from replying, as it would not have been nearly so kind.

I suspect my cats' eyes are too small and too close-set. Should I take them to the vet? Maybe some plastic surgery would help. People love their pets for their loyalty, companionship, and, most importantly, the laughter they bring.

I HIGHLY recommend reading the hyperboleandahalf blog that I have linked to. You won't regret it!

One Appa, please!

In the trailers for The Last Airbender, I have caught glimpses of a creature and I want one! In-depth and extensive research revealed to me that it is called an Appa. Apparently the thing flies. It is like a cross between Mr. Snuffleupagus and Falkor with a pinch of Dopey.

I mean, how cute is this? The six legs kind of creep me out, but I could live with it for a ride to work.

Ender

Over the last few days I have been reading Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card. It isn't as good as The Hunger Games, but it was still pretty captivating. Interestingly, it also concerns a future world in which war has let to a more totalitarian form of government. In this case, however, bright children are trained for an impending war with bug-like inhabitants of another galaxy.

Anyway, as with many Science Fiction or Fantasy novels, religion has been outlawed. The main character's mother and father are Mormon and Catholic, respectively. I thought that was an odd combination but wrote it off when the two children per family rule was explained. I later found out that the author is actually Mormon.

I didn't find any overt examples of Mormon dogma (although I'm sure my friend, Kathryn, could) but I do find it interesting that, aside from religious writing, the most famous Mormon authors write Sci-fi/Fantasy. I'm sure there are statistics out there about this, but I don't have the energy to look them up right now.

Man On Wire

A month or so ago, I was catching up on old podcasts of Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. On one of them, the "that's not my job" person was Philippe Petit, the man who strung a tightrope between the World Trade Center towers and walked it in 1974. The documentary about this escapade, Man On Wire, had been released and he was doing some publicity. On the radio show, M. Petit was a bizarre amalgamation of bravado, humility, confidence, humor and energy.

I had heard of the documentary before listening to Wait, Wait, but never really felt the need to watch it. It, like M. Petit, seemed to be a lot of things rolled into one. There was archival footage, interviews with his co-conspirators, reenactments (often involving frolicking in the french countryside), and an unusual sex scene. Throughout, there was this manic feel to the whole proceeding. It kind of made me wonder what it must be like to feel such a need to do something, even if that something, on the surface, seems quite meaningless.

In his radio interview, he was talking about the next walk he would like to do. There were some vague references to sponsors for an Easter Island tight rope walk. However, given the sheer magnitude of the Twin Towers walk and the fact that the feat can never be replicated, Philippe Petit may have reached his apogee 26 years ago.

Back to my Roots

This morning I woke up a little early (6:46) and looked at my alarm clock. Luckily I noticed that the thing wasn't actually set to go off and wake me. I reached over and turned it on then I rolled over to sleep a few minutes longer.

About an hour later I awoke to find that it was 7:30! I have to leave my apartment by 7:45 to have any chance of making it to work on time. In my half-waking I had forgotten that I re-set my alarm to go off not at 7am, but 6:45. I hopped into a 2 minute shower, dressed quickly, fed the cats, scooped kitty litter, and packed my lunch. It was a frantic rush, but I made it out in time, caught a train to make my connection to Evanston, then waited. The train to Evanston was a good 10 minutes late. Had I know that was going to happen, I would have done something to my hair. Instead, I put it into a pony tail.

My mother likes to call me "pony tail ponytail girl" whenever I pull my hair back like that. For a while, it was what I did nearly every day. My only excuse is that it is easy and my curls are unwieldy. Lately I have been making an effort to "do" my hair, despite the fact that I often think I look like a cocker spaniel in an insane asylum (especially on humid days).

"Pony tail pony tail girl" is bad enough, but for a couple of years my dad insisted that I looked like Don Johnson or Steven Segal (I'm not sure which of those two is worse). My parents are totally weird.