Sorry… keep ignoring.

Filed under: General on May 22nd, 2009 | 5 Comments »

Trying to see if my feeds are messed up again. Grrr.

You can ignore…

Filed under: General on May 22nd, 2009 | 2 Comments »

Filed under: General, Photobooth Chronicles on May 21st, 2009 | 19 Comments »

The first rule of Shattered iPhone Club is that you don’t talk about Shattered iPhone Club. Or at least you don’t ever talk about how much it cost you to become part of the Formerly Shattered iPhone Club. You just don’t.

Because if you do talk about it, you feel a little sick inside. You remember how you did all sorts of research on where and how to get your phone fixed, and you scoffed when you found out how much Apple would charge you. You worried about the fact that a third party repair would nullify your warranty, but figured you’d take the risk anyway. No way was Apple getting any more of your money. And then you walked into the Apple store on a whim that one day, just to see if maybe you had read it wrong. Maybe they didn’t really charge as much as you thought. You laid it on thick with the guy in the orange shirt, talking about how you almost cried when it broke after only six weeks, and he patted your shoulder in sympathy, but then confirmed that everything you had read was true. And then, just as you were about to walk out, indignant-like, you turned on your heels and asked, “Just out of curiosity, if I were to get it fixed here, how long would I have to leave it with you?” And then he raised his eyebrows and said, “Leave it with us? Oh, we can fix it right now in about 30 minutes.”

And that’s why you don’t ever talk about Shattered iPhone Club.

It’s weird. I think I know what it feels like to get back together with a cheating lover. I know I still love my iPhone, but honestly, things just don’t feel like they used to. I was excited when they handed it back to me, all shiny and new, but I guess that’s just it. It’s not new, and we both know it. It’s like that sheen of blissful ignorance has been rubbed away, and I now see that underneath the slick apps and fancy touch screen, my iPhone is just a piece of machinery. Glass and metal and wires, fragile and fleeting, with a one-year limited warranty.

I used to think my iPhone was invincible, and could protect me, but now I realize that it’s the one that needed protecting all along. And as much as I don’t want to believe it, I feel like my iPhone will cheat again. I’m not trying to tempt fate by saying that, but part of my trust was shattered on that day as well.

I hope I’m wrong. God, do I hope I’m wrong, but let’s just say that the blinders are off now. Fool me once, as they say.

Filed under: General on May 19th, 2009 | 15 Comments »

Queens eat nothing but royal jelly their entire lives. Workers sometimes get to eat some jelly. Drones get the bee equivalent of Cheetos.

Queens lay around 1500 eggs each day. Workers feed the hive, protect the hive, gather the pollen, make the honey. No one is quite sure what role drones play in the hive. Some beekeepers kill them off to make room for more workers, but most keep them around, just in case.

The hive tool is your best friend. It only costs $3.

If you have to move a hive, you should either move it two feet or two miles. Anything in between and the bees will never find their way back.

On what is called her maiden voyage, the queen bee flies one mile straight up in the air and mates with the drones. This is the one and only time she will mate, as she now has enough sperm to last her three-year lifespan.

Drones cannot feed themselves. Or maybe they choose not to.

Bees do not like sudden movements. When you are searching for the queen in a frame, you should never quickly point, or you may get stung.

Also, they like dark clothing, so maybe you should wear white.

You will build up immunity to bee venom with subsequent stings. Up until a certain threshold, at which point you will probably become violently allergic and die.

Smoke doesn’t calm the bees, it interferes with their communication so they cannot alert each other that they are under attack. If you do not have a bee smoker handy, a Salem Light will do in a pinch.

But smoking underneath a bee veil has its inherent risks.

In the winter, bees keep each other warm by huddling toward the center of the hive in a sphere and vibrating their wings to generate heat. The bees on the outside systematically move toward the center when they become too cold. They survive winters in Siberia by doing this.

If you are a greedy bee-keeper, and you take too much honey, you will have to feed your bees a mixture of powdered sugar and water so they don’t starve over the winter. But powdered sugar is no substitute for honey. One hive contains about 40,000 bees, and they need at least 60 pounds of honey to last them until spring.

Finding the queen in the hive can be difficult, but look to the other bees for clues. They often point toward her. And her abdomen is larger than that of the other bees. Because of all the eggs, I suppose.

Bees do not poop in the hive. They poop in your yard.

German bees are strong, but mean. Italian bees are sweet, but delicate. Russian bees are the best. I would get Russian bees if I were you.

Bees are super fascinating and raw honey is extra delicious. You should give me all your honey.

The end.

Filed under: General on May 14th, 2009 | 12 Comments »

Filed under: General, Photobooth Chronicles on May 12th, 2009 | 8 Comments »

I was on the phone with my mother a few weeks ago when suddenly my dad picked up the line. Since my father doesn’t typically practice the art of telecommunications, I knew something serious must have been going on for him to grab the phone.

“Jen, it’s your dad.”

“Hey, pops.”

“Hey. Next time you come home, I need you to do something.”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Your mother found some bones in a pile of owl puke and we need you to help us identify the skull.”

And here’s where I sometimes wonder if my family is not like typical families, because nothing in my dad’s statement sounded unusual to me. Not the fact that my mother can identify owl puke, nor the idea that she would dig through avian vomit to discover its hidden contents, nor the fact that my parents would save an assortment of animal bones for me to examine. Shouldn’t that seem unusual? I feel like it should.

In any case, I was thrilled at the idea of trying to recreate the crime scene, and in preparation, started studying up on the diet of the Great Horned Owl. The next time I stopped by my parents’ house, I barely got in my “hellos” before inquiring after the mystery skeleton.

It was even better than I had imagined.

My parents were pretty certain that these were the remains of an unfortunate blind mole rat, and when I saw the pictures online, it seemed a plausible theory. But as I’ve done a bit more research, it would appear that blind mole rats are only found in Africa, Europe and the Middle East.

So this can only mean one of three things:

1. Blind mole rats have learned how to build crude ships, and have crossed the Atlantic Ocean.
2. Great Horned Owls can fly to Africa and back before puking up their meals.
3. This is not a blind mole rat.

So I leave it up to you, internets. We are greater than the sum of our parts, my friends, so I know that collectively we’ll be able to answer the burning question, “Hey skeleton! Is you is, or is you ain’t my blind mole rat?”

PS – If you ever want to give the gift of puke, I highly recommend this kit. It was a huge hit with my nephews a few years ago. Never before have I wanted to take back a gift as much as I did that one.

**UPDATE**
It’s so nice to be understood. More photos of owl puke treasures can be found in Brandon’s Flickr stream.

Filed under: General, Photo Quiz on May 10th, 2009 | 12 Comments »

Having a smashed iPhone has led to an unanticipated consequence: unsolicited sympathy from complete strangers. And I don’t mean all of you – you’re no strangers to me. I mean real strangers. Like the kind you meet in 3D. The kind you wish would offer you candy now and then.

Three times now I have connected with total strangers over the sad state of my iPhone while I was struggling to read through the cracks.

“Ouch! That looks painful!”

“It is. Like you can’t imagine.”

I look up from my broke-down phone for a minute to connect eyes with the man next to me on the train, and we nod silently. I feel a lump in my throat.

Later, a twenty-something redhead asks me how it happened. When I explain, she looks down at her own iPhone and gently touches it.

“Take good care of her. You never know when she could be called home,” I say, with a wisdom that only comes from tragedy.

The third encounter happened on my way home today as I walked past a man whose Blackberry had a single long crack down the middle of it. I held up my phone from across the aisle, “Could be worse. Could be worse.”

He grimaced, “Oooh. I’m so sorry.”

“Apple giveth, and Apple taketh away.”

“Amen to that.”

The only other time I’ve felt this level of random kindness was when I sprained my ankle in college and people would run to hold doors for me and help me with my books as I hobbled down stairs. Everyone had their own crutches story to share, and for a brief moment, we were all a little less alone.

Maybe I’ll keep the cracks for just a little while longer.

Filed under: General on May 5th, 2009 | 8 Comments »

It’s only been a short while, but every song I hear reminds me of you, and of what we could have had. I felt you slipping away, but I didn’t know how to stop you. What hurts most is that I’m not sure you ever knew how much you meant to me, and now it’s too late.

When I got home today, I wanted to write you a letter, but all the perfect lines have already been written, so I decided to make you a playlist to tell you how I feel.

I started off with some classic Beatles,

Yesterday,
All my troubles seemed so far away,
Now it looks as though they’re here to stay,
Oh, I believe in yesterday.

Then led into Sinead O’Connor’s Nothing Compares 2 U

It’s been so lonely without you here
Like a bird without a song
Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling
Tell me baby where did I go wrong?

Simon and Garfunkel spoke to me next

Hello darkness, my old friend,
Ive come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

He gets a bad rap, but no one knows a broken heart like Phil Collins.

So take a look at me now, oh there’s just an empty space
And there’s nothing left here to remind me,
Just the memory of your face
Ooh take a look at me now, well there’s just an empty space
And you coming back to me is against all odds
and that’s what I’ve got to face

Kansas seemed appropriate after that

Don’t hang on, nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky
It slips away, and all your money won’t another minute buy.
Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind
Dust in the wind, everything is dust in the wind.

I can always rely on the 80’s to help me express my true feelings:

Who’s gonna pick you up
When you fall
Who’s gonna hang it up
When you call
Who’s gonna pay attention
To your dreams
Who’s gonna plug their ears
When you scream

Goodbye, my love. These were the greatest six weeks of my life. Your candle burned out long before your legend ever did.

Rest in Peace
March 18, 2009 – May 2, 2009

Memorial services will be held at the Apple store on Michigan Ave tomorrow at 7:00pm. In lieu of flowers, please send candy. Lots and lots of candy.

Filed under: General on May 3rd, 2009 | 13 Comments »

I struggled through the aisle, tossed my backpack into the overhead bin, sat down and buckled my seatbelt.

“Wonder if my Viper could beat this plane,” he said, looking out the window as we taxied down the runway toward takeoff.

Okay, I thought. I’ll play along.

“Oh, you have a Viper?” I asked, vaguely aware that it was some sort of fast car.

“Yup. She can do 180. I’ve only taken her to 125 or so, but I was drunk at the time, so that’s not really a good idea.”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine.”

He was bald, tan, probably in his early 60’s. Over the course of my 3+ hour flight to Albuquerque, I would never learn his name, but I would discover so much more.

He was retired, but not really. He liked to keep busy, so in the summer he was a gardener. A master gardener, in fact. And in the winter, he was an aerobics instructor slash personal trainer.

“I teach a class on Michigan Avenue sometimes. The women come into class with their necklaces and dangly earrings and never take them off the entire time.”

“Huh. That’s crazy.”

“Yeah. And then we all go out for drinks afterward. It’s great.”

He told me several times that he was a ‘gearhead’ and talked about Milwaukee and Harley Davidsons. I can’t recall how he worked this into the conversation, but at one point, told me about a woman he met who was into Harleys.

“She would get all decked out. Wore a leather bustier. But she was totally flat chested,” he said, glancing down at me quickly. I put in my headphones, but it didn’t matter. He kept on.

He was a single dad, had a daughter who was either 32 or 33, he wasn’t quite sure. She broke up with some guy and moved back home. He also had a son. I discovered this bit of information when he told me he had a ‘crotch rocket’ but didn’t like riding it so he gave it to his son. But then he worried his son was going to kill himself on it, so he made him get rid of it.

“Are you just visiting Albuquerque?” he asked.

“Yes. No, actually I’m staying in Santa Fe.”

“Santa Fe? I usually only go there to buy Indian stuff. Lots of good deals. You gotta bargain with ‘em. It’s part of the fun. You going with friends?”

“Yes, I’m meeting a group of friends down there. We rented a big house.”

Why did I say that? When are they coming with the drink cart?

“Oh, man. So a whole bunch of you are staying down there? Guys or girls?”

“Both.”

“Oh, man. Bunch of girls drinking margaritas. I’d love to see that.”

“Hm.”

“I go to Albuquerque every couple years. Got some friends down there. We’re going to this place called Sophie’s. Sophia’s? It was on this show called Diners, Drive-ins and Dives. Gotta check it out.”

He told me I would like New Mexico. He told me they have a hot air balloon festival in Albuquerque, and all sorts of antique stores. He liked antiquing. He collected antique brass sprinklers and had one that looked like a frog that cost him $1,000.

“Once, I went to an antique store in Albuquerque and asked if they had any sprinklers. The guy looks at me and goes, ‘Do you know where you are?’ I just about died. Boy did I feel dumb.”

“Oh… right. The desert.”

I would see roadrunners all over, he promised. He told me he had chased roadrunners before.

“They’re fast,” he said, “but they don’t go far. Usually just hide behind a bush.”

And coyotes, too. I would see coyotes and roadrunners, but no sprinklers.

He told me about his girlfriend who owned a restaurant in Marco Island. He was a silent partner in the business.

“I have an interest in the restaurant. Well… I have an interest in her. Heh. She’s young. Very young. She’s 30 or 31.”

He wasn’t quite sure, but he didn’t mind the age difference.

“I like physical labor. You know, working outside? I helped a buddy of mine build an adobe house down in New Mexico once. It’s pretty neat. You just throw the mud and straw and water and shit all into a pile, and we mixed it up with a back hoe. Cut it into blocks, let it dry, brought it to the site, put the damn thing together.”

He warned me about the sun. It’s a lot more intense there, he told me. His dermatologist told him he had some pre-cancerous spots on his head that he has to get taken care of every year. This time, he remembered to wait until after Easter to get them removed. The family photos, he said.

His best friend’s name was Jen, and she weighed about 400 pounds.

“Amazing cook. Amazing. She taught me a thing or two. Her margaritas will blow your mind. I don’t know what she puts in them, but I have one and a half and I’m done for the night.”

His newest specialty was an appetizer that you could make a meal out of. Red potatoes, hollowed out and stuffed with chorizo. Then he would put some sliced chili peppers on top and bake them.

“Three ingredients. Best damn thing I ever made.”

“That actually sounds pretty good.”

Did I just say that out loud?

“It is. You have that with an ice cold beer? Little piece of heaven.”

We were preparing to land in Albuquerque, so he left me with a final warning.

“Watch out for the altitude. One drink will hit you hard.”

“Guess I’d better just have the one margarita then.”

“One? Hell no. You girls just call a cab.”

Filed under: General on April 30th, 2009 | 13 Comments »