I got a comment! I got a comment! Thanks, whoever sent it!
I reviewed it, approved it and tried to publish it long ago, but it didn't appear in the blog because I didn't select it before hitting Publish. For heaven's sake, why should I have to select it? It was the only one there!
It has been forever since I wrote, and the reason is that I got a comment (a comment!) telling me I should write more often -- or else! It was the "or else" that affected my subconscious, which does not respond well to threats. It (my subconscious) gets all stubborn and huffy.
Of course, that's not the only reason I haven't written. The other reason is ONLINE SCRABBLE.
Why would I sit and laboriously pull thoughts out of my cobwebby brain and organize them in a blog entry that practically nobody reads, when I can sit and toss handfuls of well-arranged tiles onto a Scrabble board, 24/7 if I choose, playing opponents at whatever level of cleverness I choose, some of whom are actually standing in line for me to play them? If there is a heaven, this has got to be it!
Here's how it works. You go to scrabulous.com and register. Then you sign in, click on a room, invite someone to play with you. You can have a chat with your opponent while you play, or ignore him/her completely while you concentrate on not running out of time or on creating your third seven-letter word in a row.
So far, almost all my opponents have been very nice. That changed a couple days ago when I played this guy who kept beating me and asking me for rematches. Now, I have to say that I was not in my best form. I had the flu and was very groggy from working late the night before. So not only was I playing badly (and getting lousy letters, I might add), but I was extremely vulnerable emotionally.
You perhaps can imagine my surprise when, upon finishing our third game, this guy, whose user name is something like glennng2447 (not sure about the numbers), wrote, "You should take up tiddlywinks or hopscotch." I shrugged it off, thinking the guy had a somewhat mean sense of humor. But then he wrote, "You are a really bad Scrabble player." I couldn't believe it! What kind of person needs to dump on someone he's just beaten three times?
My first reaction was to feel crushed and hurt; my second was, in the Scrabulous tradition of using text message abbreviations for everything, fu and thycio. Can't use that kind of language on Scrabulous, though, so I resorted to a milder expletive and resolved to not get mad, get even.
So I'm formulating ways to sabotage this person, to humiliate him, to force him to his knees and beg for mercy. It's kind of fun.
Please come play with me. I'm stickfarmer, of course. You can generally find me in Bingo Boomers or The Lounge. But no tricks! Don't yank my chain! You'll be sorry!
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Failure
Hello, faithful readers. I have bad news: I have forgotten how to access the editing tools for my Web site. Therefore, I am unable to write scathing exposes of the people I have knewn and link them to this blog.
It seems this computer defeats me at every turn.
But I'll do the Pollyanna thing and find the "glad" in it. The glad is that I can't write scathing exposes of the people I have knewn and link them to this blog. Glad for YOU, anyway.
It is the end of January and we have just a couple more months of winter. It has already gone on way too long. If I hadn't been raising seven puppies I don't know how I would have occupied myself thus far.
Some people are critical of those like myself who actually spawn puppies on purpose. This is the first time I've given in to the urge, and I've learned a lot.
(Pause)
I'm sure you thought I was going to launch a list of things I've learned. Fooled ya! Much as I'd like to do that, I shall refrain at the moment, because I have sat here long enough, playing Scrabulous, mostly. Plus, it's your Christmas present.
So enjoy. If any of you would like to know what I have to say about puppy raising, send a self-addressed email or SASE. Operators are standing by.
It seems this computer defeats me at every turn.
But I'll do the Pollyanna thing and find the "glad" in it. The glad is that I can't write scathing exposes of the people I have knewn and link them to this blog. Glad for YOU, anyway.
It is the end of January and we have just a couple more months of winter. It has already gone on way too long. If I hadn't been raising seven puppies I don't know how I would have occupied myself thus far.
Some people are critical of those like myself who actually spawn puppies on purpose. This is the first time I've given in to the urge, and I've learned a lot.
(Pause)
I'm sure you thought I was going to launch a list of things I've learned. Fooled ya! Much as I'd like to do that, I shall refrain at the moment, because I have sat here long enough, playing Scrabulous, mostly. Plus, it's your Christmas present.
So enjoy. If any of you would like to know what I have to say about puppy raising, send a self-addressed email or SASE. Operators are standing by.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Christmas Card Hell
You cannot imagine how difficult it is for me to do Christmas cards. Many people breeze through the process; some even have a stamp made with their signatures on it -- "Thinking fondly of you. Deb and Rex" -- and simply assembly-line box after box. How can they do that?
This Christmas, I almost found out. I took two boxes of cards, retrieved a relatively new list of addresses, and forced myself to open each card and callously write, "Love, Debbi, Rex, Kayti and the other 28 animals here at the Stick Farm," with nary a thought as to who might be receiving it. Then I addressed envelope after envelope, callously going down the list of addressees and consciously willing myself to not think of the recipients lest I be moved to write a few extra lines with some fond or funny remembrance.
A smart person would have just (again, callously) stuffed the cards into the envelopes, added postage and put them in the mailbox. Had I done that, the cards would have been received well before the appointed holiday. Apparently, though, "smart" and "Phi Beta Kappa," "magna cum laude" and "summa cum laude" are not synonymous.
No, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to whip up a tiny little letter to accompany the cards, and, what's worse, aspire to include a tiny little picture. I knew it was a mistake, but I couldn't help myself.
Why was it a mistake, you ask? Several reasons:
A. My computer and its printer are not on speaking terms. They have crossed their respective arms and turned their respective backs to each other, and no amount of begging on my part can repair the relationship. So any documents, such as the aforementioned Christmas letter, must be emailed to someone who can print them out.
B. My husband, Rex, is the keeper of the digital camera, and he won't let me use it. I don't blame him; I've lost a number of digital cameras and/or the batteries that energize them. But it's quite inconvenient to have to set up a photo shoot.
C. My computer and Rex's digital camera are not on speaking terms, either. Rex is a very busy man, and uploading pictures and pasting them into my Christmas letters is not high on his priority list.
D. Once the letter is actually printed and copied, it's been so long that I have to spend a few days locating the cards and envelopes.
E. Finally, there is the folding and stuffing to do, and then one must acquire and apply postage, and dig up one of the 8,000 or so sheets of return-address stickers that I've received over the past year (never responding with a donation, of course) which have disappeared into some parallel universe, apparently.
F. Did I say "finally"? Silly me. The last, and possibly most crucial, step has arrived: dropping the envelopes into a mailbox.
By now it is past New Year's, and, as in most years, I'm tempted to say, the heck with it. Nobody wants to hear from me, anyway.
But I've come so far, and the effort has been so Herculean and has involved so much cooperation, however reluctantly given, and coordination, that I do eventually remember to stop at a post office. By now, of course, I have to comb the car for the envelopes, which were on the passenger front seat for the longest time, but migrated downward and backward in a poignant attempt to mail themselves.
If only I could have resisted writing the letter, how much happier we all would have been! Remind me next year.
Thinking fondly of you. Deb and Rex
This Christmas, I almost found out. I took two boxes of cards, retrieved a relatively new list of addresses, and forced myself to open each card and callously write, "Love, Debbi, Rex, Kayti and the other 28 animals here at the Stick Farm," with nary a thought as to who might be receiving it. Then I addressed envelope after envelope, callously going down the list of addressees and consciously willing myself to not think of the recipients lest I be moved to write a few extra lines with some fond or funny remembrance.
A smart person would have just (again, callously) stuffed the cards into the envelopes, added postage and put them in the mailbox. Had I done that, the cards would have been received well before the appointed holiday. Apparently, though, "smart" and "Phi Beta Kappa," "magna cum laude" and "summa cum laude" are not synonymous.
No, I couldn't leave well enough alone. I had to whip up a tiny little letter to accompany the cards, and, what's worse, aspire to include a tiny little picture. I knew it was a mistake, but I couldn't help myself.
Why was it a mistake, you ask? Several reasons:
A. My computer and its printer are not on speaking terms. They have crossed their respective arms and turned their respective backs to each other, and no amount of begging on my part can repair the relationship. So any documents, such as the aforementioned Christmas letter, must be emailed to someone who can print them out.
B. My husband, Rex, is the keeper of the digital camera, and he won't let me use it. I don't blame him; I've lost a number of digital cameras and/or the batteries that energize them. But it's quite inconvenient to have to set up a photo shoot.
C. My computer and Rex's digital camera are not on speaking terms, either. Rex is a very busy man, and uploading pictures and pasting them into my Christmas letters is not high on his priority list.
D. Once the letter is actually printed and copied, it's been so long that I have to spend a few days locating the cards and envelopes.
E. Finally, there is the folding and stuffing to do, and then one must acquire and apply postage, and dig up one of the 8,000 or so sheets of return-address stickers that I've received over the past year (never responding with a donation, of course) which have disappeared into some parallel universe, apparently.
F. Did I say "finally"? Silly me. The last, and possibly most crucial, step has arrived: dropping the envelopes into a mailbox.
By now it is past New Year's, and, as in most years, I'm tempted to say, the heck with it. Nobody wants to hear from me, anyway.
But I've come so far, and the effort has been so Herculean and has involved so much cooperation, however reluctantly given, and coordination, that I do eventually remember to stop at a post office. By now, of course, I have to comb the car for the envelopes, which were on the passenger front seat for the longest time, but migrated downward and backward in a poignant attempt to mail themselves.
If only I could have resisted writing the letter, how much happier we all would have been! Remind me next year.
Thinking fondly of you. Deb and Rex
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Out West
I just finished a Scrabble game at the Socorro (N.M.) Public Library. Online Scrabble is heaven to me. So many people to play with! For this particular game my opponent was a Pennsylvania woman who was friendly and funny and we had a lot of laughs chatting.
Then she referred to someone as "he." I wrote, "Who's he?"
She wrote, "He is you."
I said, "I'm not a he, I'm a she -- I know because I was in labor for 30 hours."
Looking back at our chat, I realize that she -- thinking I was a guy -- was actually flirting with me! I hope she wasn't too mortified to learn of her error. I guess she must have assumed "stickfarmer" was a manlike user name. Maybe I should change it to "stickfarmerette"?
The tone of our chat definitely changed after the epiphany. I'm thinking maybe I should've just let her go on thinking I was a guy. I can imagine. Someday she'd want to meet me. I could dress up as Crank Farrell, a fictional good ol' boy from the fictional town of Deadpan, Maine, but I think Crank Farrell would be as much, if not more, of a shock to her. (For a picture of Crank, send an SAE -- self-addressed email -- to me at stickfarmer@verizon.net)
So here I am Out West, enjoying the wide openness, the big sky, the bare ground and the mountains that appear pleated and draped in beige plush. Last night I stayed at the Riverbend hostel in Truth or Consequences, N.M., and it was everything the online reviewers said it was -- wonderful hot springs, shabby dorm, strange people. I enjoyed it, but I don't think I'll stay there again.
My favorite hostel -- the Sandia Mountain Hostel -- is in Cedar Crest, about 14 miles east of Albuquerque. It's very comfy and friendly, and even has donkeys roaming around free-range. (Nice donkeys; not like the one I once owned.) One of the owners is a Scrabble fiend and I'm hoping to play with her next Sunday.
Catch you later.
Then she referred to someone as "he." I wrote, "Who's he?"
She wrote, "He is you."
I said, "I'm not a he, I'm a she -- I know because I was in labor for 30 hours."
Looking back at our chat, I realize that she -- thinking I was a guy -- was actually flirting with me! I hope she wasn't too mortified to learn of her error. I guess she must have assumed "stickfarmer" was a manlike user name. Maybe I should change it to "stickfarmerette"?
The tone of our chat definitely changed after the epiphany. I'm thinking maybe I should've just let her go on thinking I was a guy. I can imagine. Someday she'd want to meet me. I could dress up as Crank Farrell, a fictional good ol' boy from the fictional town of Deadpan, Maine, but I think Crank Farrell would be as much, if not more, of a shock to her. (For a picture of Crank, send an SAE -- self-addressed email -- to me at stickfarmer@verizon.net)
So here I am Out West, enjoying the wide openness, the big sky, the bare ground and the mountains that appear pleated and draped in beige plush. Last night I stayed at the Riverbend hostel in Truth or Consequences, N.M., and it was everything the online reviewers said it was -- wonderful hot springs, shabby dorm, strange people. I enjoyed it, but I don't think I'll stay there again.
My favorite hostel -- the Sandia Mountain Hostel -- is in Cedar Crest, about 14 miles east of Albuquerque. It's very comfy and friendly, and even has donkeys roaming around free-range. (Nice donkeys; not like the one I once owned.) One of the owners is a Scrabble fiend and I'm hoping to play with her next Sunday.
Catch you later.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
New features!
I have actually started building my Web site! It's accessible now, but there's not much on it. If you'd like to see it, go to www.stickfarm.org
The second new feature is something I've been hoping to do for a long time, and now it's do-able!!! I can link names in the People I Have Knewn sidebar (at left) to a page on my Web site where I elaborate on the people and tell funny stories about them. True stories, I mean, about, say, how I met them, how we interact, adventures we've shared.
So far I've only done two. You'd think the first person I wrote about would be someone really important to me, someone who figured large in my life. Instead, it's a person whom I barely spoke to in high school and whom I've neither seen nor cared one way or the other whether I'd seen since. But I do remember her, if just barely, and I happened to be putting her on the list when it occurred to me to try to link a name to the Web site.
There are people on the list about whom I could write entire books. My plan is to try to write a little about everyone at first, and expand on some as time permits. I'll try to come up with a system of noting which entries have grown.
I would also like to invite you to offer stories if there is anyone you know on this list. You can email me at stickfarmer@verizon.net. I reserve editorial discretion as to what gets posted. Unkindness is strictly prohibited. Happy browsing!
The second new feature is something I've been hoping to do for a long time, and now it's do-able!!! I can link names in the People I Have Knewn sidebar (at left) to a page on my Web site where I elaborate on the people and tell funny stories about them. True stories, I mean, about, say, how I met them, how we interact, adventures we've shared.
So far I've only done two. You'd think the first person I wrote about would be someone really important to me, someone who figured large in my life. Instead, it's a person whom I barely spoke to in high school and whom I've neither seen nor cared one way or the other whether I'd seen since. But I do remember her, if just barely, and I happened to be putting her on the list when it occurred to me to try to link a name to the Web site.
There are people on the list about whom I could write entire books. My plan is to try to write a little about everyone at first, and expand on some as time permits. I'll try to come up with a system of noting which entries have grown.
I would also like to invite you to offer stories if there is anyone you know on this list. You can email me at stickfarmer@verizon.net. I reserve editorial discretion as to what gets posted. Unkindness is strictly prohibited. Happy browsing!
Friday, November 16, 2007
Love in a Time of Pneumonia
I was ordered by my co-workers to write this one down:
Kati kisses me goodnight.
"Oh!" she says in alarm. "I shouldn't have done that!"
"Why not?" I ask.
"I'm afraid you'll catch my cold," she says.
"For heaven's sake, I don't worry about that," I say. "I'm your mom. I'd rather have a kiss goodnight, no matter what."
"You don't care if you catch my germs?" she asks.
"Right," I say.
A couple beats. "Even if I have PANDEMONIA?"
Not quite knowing what she means, I repress my instinct to say, "PANDEMONIA? What's THAT?" Instead I say, "Yes, even if you have pandemonia."
She turns over, pulls the covers up around her, and slowly drifts off to sleep, holding my hand.
Later, I realize the exchange was moot. I've already had pandemonia so many times, I think I'm immune to it.
Kati kisses me goodnight.
"Oh!" she says in alarm. "I shouldn't have done that!"
"Why not?" I ask.
"I'm afraid you'll catch my cold," she says.
"For heaven's sake, I don't worry about that," I say. "I'm your mom. I'd rather have a kiss goodnight, no matter what."
"You don't care if you catch my germs?" she asks.
"Right," I say.
A couple beats. "Even if I have PANDEMONIA?"
Not quite knowing what she means, I repress my instinct to say, "PANDEMONIA? What's THAT?" Instead I say, "Yes, even if you have pandemonia."
She turns over, pulls the covers up around her, and slowly drifts off to sleep, holding my hand.
Later, I realize the exchange was moot. I've already had pandemonia so many times, I think I'm immune to it.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The Week from Hell
You know that list of stressors that someone made up so you can tell if you had a bad year and exactly how bad it was? (Like you don't know if you had a bad year!)
Well, here's a stressor that was left off: Eight-year-old daughter's Halloween party.
After going through the agony of planning, worrying that I wasn't doing enough planning, yelling at my daughter and husband to help with planning, trying to not spend too much money on things like eyeball bouncy balls and witches-on-a-stick and pumpkin peeps, PLUS concocting a costume to said daughter's unrealistic specifications, PLUS discovering I'd been scheduled to work the night of the party and having nightmares about my eccentric, clueless husband supervising 12 children all by himself -- well, after all that, I think I'd rank Kid's Halloween Party right up there with Parent's Death and Reuniting With Longlost Sibling Who Turns Out to be a Cannibal. It is WAY higher than Loss of Job, New Baby and Divorce. In fact, Divorce may be considered a counter-stressor if it follows a Kids Halloween Party.
But even a Kids Halloween Party pales as a stressor (and you thought this blog entry was just some housewifely rant) beside New Hampshire Public Radio's own very special form of torture: Pledge Week.
OK, I know everyone complains about Pledge Week. It's old hat. Even Garrison Keillor makes fun of it. I used to hate Maine Public Broadcasting Network's Pledge Week until MPBN got smart and did what I'd been requesting for years: Set a goal and quit begging once they reach it.
NHPR has made no such adjustment. Their pledge breaks are almost constant, and they didn't seem limited to one week, either. They went on, and on, and on. And it's hard to believe, but their pledge breaks were even more boring than MPBN's. If there were a prize for most irritating pledge drive, NHPR would win it without even breathing hard.
It's too bad, too, because in all other respects, NHPR far outshines MPBN. Like any good Mainer, I scorn most things New Hampshire, but even I can recognize quality, and I switched all my loyalty to NHPR. Now all the mailed appeals from MPBN to renew my membership go in the dumper. If they want to play classical music 22 hours a day, it's OK with me, but I'm not going to pay for it. Ditto that Saturday afternoon opera. Man, I hate opera. What a waste of afternoon airwaves.
I know this was just a coincidence, but NHPR's most recent pledge drive just happened to coincide with Kids Halloween Party.
It would have been the straw that broke the camel's back had the camel not already been down in the dirt with spine already broken into 72 pieces. Basically, it just added more rocks to the several tons already pressing the life out of yours truly.
Is there an upside to all this? Well, yes. The party was only 2.5 hours long, everyone lived through it, all the kids had a good time, and I got to return some items that we ended up not using. And Pledge Week finally ended.
The downside, of course, is the heart attack that will probably occur sometime in January, if my calculations are correct.
Well, here's a stressor that was left off: Eight-year-old daughter's Halloween party.
After going through the agony of planning, worrying that I wasn't doing enough planning, yelling at my daughter and husband to help with planning, trying to not spend too much money on things like eyeball bouncy balls and witches-on-a-stick and pumpkin peeps, PLUS concocting a costume to said daughter's unrealistic specifications, PLUS discovering I'd been scheduled to work the night of the party and having nightmares about my eccentric, clueless husband supervising 12 children all by himself -- well, after all that, I think I'd rank Kid's Halloween Party right up there with Parent's Death and Reuniting With Longlost Sibling Who Turns Out to be a Cannibal. It is WAY higher than Loss of Job, New Baby and Divorce. In fact, Divorce may be considered a counter-stressor if it follows a Kids Halloween Party.
But even a Kids Halloween Party pales as a stressor (and you thought this blog entry was just some housewifely rant) beside New Hampshire Public Radio's own very special form of torture: Pledge Week.
OK, I know everyone complains about Pledge Week. It's old hat. Even Garrison Keillor makes fun of it. I used to hate Maine Public Broadcasting Network's Pledge Week until MPBN got smart and did what I'd been requesting for years: Set a goal and quit begging once they reach it.
NHPR has made no such adjustment. Their pledge breaks are almost constant, and they didn't seem limited to one week, either. They went on, and on, and on. And it's hard to believe, but their pledge breaks were even more boring than MPBN's. If there were a prize for most irritating pledge drive, NHPR would win it without even breathing hard.
It's too bad, too, because in all other respects, NHPR far outshines MPBN. Like any good Mainer, I scorn most things New Hampshire, but even I can recognize quality, and I switched all my loyalty to NHPR. Now all the mailed appeals from MPBN to renew my membership go in the dumper. If they want to play classical music 22 hours a day, it's OK with me, but I'm not going to pay for it. Ditto that Saturday afternoon opera. Man, I hate opera. What a waste of afternoon airwaves.
I know this was just a coincidence, but NHPR's most recent pledge drive just happened to coincide with Kids Halloween Party.
It would have been the straw that broke the camel's back had the camel not already been down in the dirt with spine already broken into 72 pieces. Basically, it just added more rocks to the several tons already pressing the life out of yours truly.
Is there an upside to all this? Well, yes. The party was only 2.5 hours long, everyone lived through it, all the kids had a good time, and I got to return some items that we ended up not using. And Pledge Week finally ended.
The downside, of course, is the heart attack that will probably occur sometime in January, if my calculations are correct.
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