cry havoc

Well, not all people. Just people in the limited category of "people" and "selling stuff". Not to me, the selling part, that is. But people who sell stuff are proving themselves remarkably brainless right now. Almost as brainless as my neighbors in general.

As I've kind of danced around mentioning, there's an app. I built it (and some of you helped test it). It's live now. And boy is it collecting every twit in the city, and believe me, this city has 'em by the boatloads. All kinds of hijinks therefore must ensue.

( I want to shoot them all. )

Don't EVEN get me started on the people actually organizing this. I love em, dog help em, but right now they're driving me crazy and it wasn't that far a trip in the first place. Honestly. YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR. If you want stuff for free, think back to what your site looked like when it was done for free (horrible) and the extent of your social media presence (none). That's what you get when you pay nothing: NOTHING.

Meanwhile, on the neighbor front, we've got a dog living in the 100-acre park behind my house. No collar, possibly fixed, and terribly skittish around people. Probably yet another cruel soul who decided easier to just dump the dog than find it a better home. A neighbor's been organizing a feeding station for the dog, and working on a way to catch it; she even set up a camera to get pictures of it (to help in determining whether it's lost dog or really was dumped). Her wildlife camera is seriously high-quality, getting some gorgeous shots (far better than mine!) and she's been posting them on the neighborhood elist.

( OMG THERE ARE PEOPLE BEING STUPID ON MY LOCAL BROADBAND NETWORK. )

So despite the sudden and terrible drop-off into bleak depression middle of last week (and I don't even have family around to do that for me, I have to rely on the insanity of clients), I've been trying to write. Last stretch of the story, but then again, I'm guessing it must be lagging tension-wise because no one's reading anymore, that I can tell. Am I digging? YOU BETCHA. It's been that kind of week. I could use some reminders of if not awesomeness, at least tolerability. DO IT OR THE APP GETS IT. *bricked*

Well, the bombshell update is that we came within about twenty feet of having our house burn down from an electrical-cable-started brushfire. Fortunately, it was middle-of-the-day, and (since our house is pretty much blind to that side of the woods) we had a sharp-eyed and -nosed neighbor who first thought it was a midday barbecue... then thought twice and came down the street to see. She banged on our door as she was calling 911, then ran to our neighbors and alerted all of them, too. It couldn't have been more than three, four minutes from her call to the fire trucks' arrival, but my gods, it felt like the longest and most terrifying moments of my entire life.

Crazy enough, my first impulse was to grab a picture of my great-grandmother off the wall (why? it's scanned, and my sister has a copy), and the next reaction was to turn off my computer. Whut? Apparently, logic is not my friend when panicked. Then I headed to the backyard with a hose -- because thinking clearly also is not in the cards. I think I was there for a minute, before the water pressure dropped too far (because CP had turned on the longer hose, in the front yard), so I went back inside to grab the dogs and get them into the car. When I came back out with a cat, next-door neighbor was there and asked if she could do anything, so I just handed her the cat and went back inside for the youngest cat. (Middle-cat was outside, keeping himself well away from the chaos, fortunately.) Took a lot of chasing, wrestling, and some serious scratches and one pissed-off hobbit-in-a-box later, I was walking out the front door as the fire trucks pulled up.

If you've ever done a sport that has sprints at the end -- running, biking, whatever -- you know how sometimes time doesn't seem to make any sense? The average race for my sport was about six minutes. Fifteen hundred meters: two minutes for a five hundred meter start, two minutes for the five hundred meter body, two minutes for five hundred meters of sprint. Well, give or take thirty seconds wherever. Thing is, I can distinctly recall races where it felt like the sprint alone was twelve minutes. Time lengthens, stretches, doesn't mean anything anymore, when that much adrenaline is in your system. Standing in the yard watching the flames eat up the summer grasses, I couldn't tell if they were coming at me fast, or slow, or frozen, or if I was there fifty seconds or five hundred seconds.

I'm not sure if it's consolation that the fire chief's comment (as they were wrapping things up, afterwards) that the timing was really close. Five more minutes... he waved in the direction of a coming storm. Rain, I said. No, he said: wind. And the wind was heading cross-creek, right at our house, which meant if the neighbor hadn't reacted as fast as she had, and the fire department weren't literally a mile up the road and a quarter-mile to the left, the storm's vanguard of high wind would've hit that fire and shoved it right up against our house.

Yeah. Yikes.

(Yesterday, CP said something about how if an electrical cable is going to snap off and hit dry grass and spark something, why didn't it happen during a storm when there's rain? I said, better at 1pm on a Tuesday than 1am on any night. If it'd been middle of the night, by the time we'd realized, it would've been too late.)

Anyway, talk about having things wake you up to putting life in perspective. Of all the things that I wanted to grab, or thought I should grab, in a split-second decision standing there trying to figure out where I'd put the leashes (more like spinning in place in a total panic trying to find the leashes) I realized the priority was to get the animals out. Anything else would be gravy. But the animals were one thing that required no compromise. Which should probably be an obvious decision, but it's wierd, it's like your brain goes through the revelation anyway, in that moment.

Amusing footnote: as I realized the most important duty (while CP was outside with the hose) was to save our four-legged children, Sachiko ran back to her bed then reappeared for me to put on the leash. I barely noticed. I got the dogs outside, pretty much dragged them both across the zapping invisible-fence-line (didn't have the motor coordination to remove collars as well as put them on), shoved them into my car, rolled down the window, and ran back inside for the cats. Only later, when the firemen gave us the clear, did I realize: Sachiko had grabbed her stuffed frog and had been holding it in her mouth the entire time. Clearly the priorities are the same for everyone in this house: save the babies! Even the stuffed ones.

Fifteen minutes later, we had large drops of rain coming down. It rained later that night, and again for about a half-hour yesterday. I still haven't walked out to see the empty lot, or the size of the burn scar. All I know is that CP's comment was that the fire wasn't halfway across the lot like my adrenaline-crazed eyes had thought. It was more like fifteen feet from our property -- and our house is only about five feet more from that point. Another five feet and the fire would've hit dry two downed trees, and a dry old fence after that. The firemen literally arrived in the nick of time.

Very, very, lucky.

This past week, we headed back home for my sister's... shindig... and I mentioned to my step-father about the massively disappointing Korean meal I'd had. Well, this would never do. (Says a man who buys homemade kimchi by the huge bottle-full from his "source" -- the mother of the woman who does my mother's nails, because "it's not the same when it's store-bought".) Friday we all piled into the car and headed off to the best Korean place inside an hour's drive, and my Mom and I shared pork bulgogi while CP and the SF had some kind of noodle-beef-spice dish (didn't catch the name). After we demolished all of the awesome little dishes that came first, of course.

We get home today, and it's blistering hot and the A/C is still broken (but due to be fixed tomorrow, yay). Naturally this means we might as well eat out -- anything for non-104F temps, basically -- and we decide we want more Korean. Ah, new place getting good reviews in our local Asian shopping center (represents of Taiwan, PRC, Korea, and Vietnam), so off we head.

Even more little dishes ahead of time, plus (our eyes being bigger than our stomachs after spending most of the day on various planes) seafood pancakes -- oh so good -- and then a kind of four-bulgogi sampler called SsamBob. Whomever told me on the last post that Korean food is somewhat hot, sometimes (spicy-wise), but always complex, spicy-wise, totally spoke the truth. So spicy, so incredibly yummy.

Except I had this one question... When the proprietor came over to check on us, she'd been so helpful with what-to-get recommendations that I figured, maybe she could answer this question. I explained I'd watched a Korean show with Moon Geum-Young, in which the actress was making kimchi. I saw the sliced cabbages and some other chunks of vegetables, and then this HUGE BAG (like 2lbs worth HUGE) that was nothing but red powder. Was that, uhm, entirely chili powder she was dumping by the double-handfuls into the vegetables?

First, the proprietor said, yes, it was. And then she said, "you know Moon Geum-Young? You watch her television shows?" I said, of course, she's adorable, and I've done my best to see everything she's in. (Excepting Tale of Two Sisters, which I have but haven't watched yet because it may be over my creep limit in re horror, but anyway, I did see Innocent Steps and Painter of the Wind, and most of MSOAN, so, yeah.) But, she wanted to know, was that all I watched? I said, "no, I've also--" right as CP goes, "My Girlfriend is a Gumiho!" and the proprietor just cracked up (while managing to look surprised that CP had also watched the show, and unsurprised he thought Shin Min-ah is gorgeously charming with dimples that kill). ...and then she asked what else I'd watched. I said, "I'm watching Lie to Me, because it's got Kang Ji-hwan," and she put her hand to her heart and looked like she was going to swoon.

Next thing you know, I'm rattling off all the pretty boys: Lee Min-ki (Dalja's Spring), and Lee Jun-ki (Time Between Dog and Wolf), and Lee Min-ho (City Hunter) -- except I hadn't even gotten out what LMH is in right now, just his name, and the proprietor says, "City Hunter? Are you watching City Hunter?"

Me: OF COURSE. It's got a pretty boy in it!

Then I told her what the American-language fandom calls most of these young actors: noona killers (as in, "older sister killers"). She cracked up all over again, and said that fit perfectly. Clearly a woman after my own heart, and we totally bonded over Hong Gil Dong and Chuno and Greatest Love and Civil Servant Grade 7 and so on. Although notably, neither of us were all that about Yon-sama (or whatever his Korean name is, I can never remember) who was in Legend. We'd trade him in for Lee Min-ho any day. Or Kang Ji-hwan. Though clearly we'd have to get in line.

ETA: Almost forgot, the universal symbol for a particular hot leading man (who, incidentally, is actually older than me, so not really a noona killer). She mentioned Greatest Love, and I tried to say the actor's name. Cha Seung-won, I think his name is spelled? She didn't react, so I knew I said it wrong, so instead I ran my fingers over my face to make the "cow" symbol -- the way the guy's beard is trimmed, it looks like the Chinese character for "cow". Immediately she did the same, and knew exactly who I meant. Bwah.

I am totally going back to try the rest of the dishes (and next time, bringing friends, because that's a lot of food for two people, even if we did come home with leftovers). Besides, the proprietor was willing to patiently explain the parts of the usually-slurred-so-fast-on-TV way to say hello: anaunhah-seoh. Hmm. Maybe I should stick to trying to slur it.

Nice to know I'm not the only noona in this town, getting killed twice weekly.

I have an interview tomorrow. (Nothing big there, been on the search for a few weeks now, but that's another story involving many complaints about the "hot new title" in my industry and the number of managers who seem to be renaming all sorts of non-title jobs to the title, and wasting my time in interviews.) This position is not confused (as far as I can tell, at least) about the title/definition, but it's...

Well, it's a lunch interview.

Y'know, there's a reason I use my initials on my resume and my portfolio and my online site. Not just the basics of not letting anyone have the option of assuming that because I am Gender A or Gender B that I can (or can't) do the job. But also because I've done my share of interviews-in-bars, and interviews-at-lunch, and while I'm not 18 anymore (so I doubt it's necessarily the exact same dynamics), I can't forget those lessons. Lunches are what you do with friends, and dates. You are not on a date with your potential employer, and the casual situation makes it too easy for some guys (already in a position of power via gender, and then as potential employer) to make things even murkier.

Sign me up so very not.

On top of that, I did a search for restaurants around the office's location, because I want to know what else to suggest in case the primary suggestion is Italian. (Pasta, you're great, but you attack people who eat you, and same for you, Pho.) Oh, look, it's nothing but bar food. Independently owned, but you can't tell me that Joe's Bar, Logan's Bar, and something-or-other Bar & Grill, times ten, is going to be anything other than, well, bar food. I loathe bar food. Not because it's bad, but because it's boring. Life is too goddamn short to eat bar food.

(And life is way too goddamn short to eat what American bars believe passes for Irish food. You Irish on my flist, you know I like you, but the American bar concept of Irish food leaves a great deal to be desired.)

Or we could walk the two blocks to the nearest acceptable restaurant -- a Thai place. A quarter-mile away (about two blocks and hang a right, go a block). In 101F heat. For a fucking job interview.

And then I must ask: am I going to be expected to pay for my half? Why? I didn't ask to go on this fucking lunch date. I'd be just as happy not having to walk anywhere in 101F heat at 1pm, thank you, and I'd be just fine sitting in a nice, cool, air-conditioned conference room for an hour. And I wouldn't even have to pay for the benefit of being forced to stomach bar food.

Oh! And I could do it WITHOUT HAVING TO TALK OVER THE UBIQUITOUS TELEVISION IN THE GODDAMN BACKGROUND.

I mean, I don't mind going out to eat. But if I'm going to pay for it, then I want to eat something I enjoy eating, and on top of that, I want to eat it with someone I want to be with. That list of people is really fucking short, and it does not include -- nor will it ever include -- an employer, let alone a potential employer. I am not interested in a fucking social life as part of my job. And I sure as hell don't want to be fighting to keep my attention solid, while choking down bar food, and trying to hear someone (or yell at someone) over the goddamn background noise. Is this an interview, or the equivalent of an introvert's stress test? And I'm supposed to pay for this pleasure?

I really hope I get word in the morning from the second interview with that other company. The one that -- ironically enough -- has offices within walking distance of one of the town's best sushi restaurants. I'm addicted to their sushi. But I still wouldn't go there for an interview.

I've been wondering whether I should compile the various posts (and unposted drafts) that I've done on fandom, and try looking at them as a collection of chapters about fandom and fanfiction. I think the current count is that I've been quoted now in (or at least asked for permission to be quoted in) five different grad-level dissertations.

Or maybe it's just that I may never be able to truly equate "published on the net" with "published, like, for reals". Wouldn't quoting me count as quoting from an unpublished work? How the hell do you cite someone's blog post?

---

I really need to dig out my craigslist acct info and get rid of some of this stuff... so I can replace it with new stuff. Like, say, butcher-block countertops. The ones that have been out of stock for the past two months, for crying out loud. I could use different ones instead of continuing to wait, but then I'd have to deconstruct the countertop bases to make room for the extra 3/16" I'd need. Much easier to just wait for the countertops to come back into stock. Someday. Damn it.

---

Ta-Nehisi Coates' series on the Civil War continues to fascinate me, interrogate my own education and long-held unquestioned cultural assumptions, and make me ponder what I learned as a child and what I just sort of absorbed even if no one ever said it. His most recent post, "The Civil War Isn't Tragic", has had me thinking today about how the war, overall, was presented in my childhood (formal, not family) education. I think the message in grade school was that it was tragic because so many people died, and so many families split north/south... but by high school and then into adult (informal) education, the tone shifted. It became more that the Civil War was tragic... because of the stupidity of people who kept it going and/or insisted on fighting in the first place.

That it was not averted by a peaceful resolution of outlawing slavery when there was the political chance on the board (as Britain did, in the 1830s) is the real tragedy, and that it dragged on for so long and cost so many lives is equally horrible. But the outcome? Not tragic at all. The aftermath and the scars? Tragic, mostly for (similar to the origins) being so badly handled, and so on.

But in the end: no, not tragic. Just stupid and horrible. And I think Coates has a significant point about the fact that we don't have a holiday to celebrate the re-unification of the Union. Why don't we?

---

Okay, rain would be great. Rain that consists of only 1/4" worth of water doesn't even make the ground damp. It just kind of made everything glisten for a few minutes, before it evaporated again. This is more than a little unnerving, to know we're coming up on heat-lightning season and we're in the worst drought in fifty years.

ETA: Rain! ... and the whole "20% chance of thunderstorms" was really "a few minutes of dark sky, followed by a single drop of rain." ONE DROP. One big honking drop landing smack in the middle of my A/C repair invoice.

ONE SINGLE LOUSY FRICKING DROP OF RAIN != thunderstorm, people.

The tachikoma/honda has a remote key entry. So did CP's previous car, the Saturn. My veedub has no remote key, so I find remote keys infinitely fun to play with, but otherwise not something I pay much attention to. Except sometimes.

Me: Also, just so you know! If anyone ever breaks into our house and steals the old Saturn remote and key sitting by the front door, they will not be able to unlock the Honda with it! And even if they hit the button repeatedly for a minute or more, nothing will happen!
CP: Really.
Me: YES! And I know this because I TESTED IT MYSELF.
CP: I see.
Me: THIS IS WHY YOU KEEP ME AROUND.
CP: For the comic relief?

My personal motto: if you can't be useful, at least be entertaining.

from Artisphere:

By Any Other Name : An Evening of Shakespeare in Klingon
Washington Shakespeare Company

Sunday, February 27, 7:30 pm
Black Box Theatre

The BBC is creating a five part documentary about language and how humans communicate called Planet World. Washington Shakespeare Company's (WSC) By Any Other Name will be filmed live for the documentary series. As part of the evening, world-renowned writer/actor Stephen Fry will perform a Klingon role in a scene from Hamlet.

The evening will begin with an introduction by Marc Okrand, creator of the Klingon language.

dear hermine:

we appreciate your visit, so please don't let this ruin it,
but flooding really bothers us, so thank you for not doing it.

love,
me.

Yesterday I flaked out on errands because it was 4pm already, a torrential downpour, and the start of a three-day weekend. Given this city's penchant for water-soluble driving skills, the last thing I wanted to deal with was a whole highway of the oblivions, in rain, on a friday afternoon, when everyone's getting into the holiday mood. Bleah.

So instead I went out at 10pm to get cat food, and that's when my clutch cable snapped, instead.

On the other hand, the 10pm trip was supposed to be short, because CP was going to head out with the car in time for a midnight get-together with friends -- which means if the cable was that close to snapping and it hadn't been me, it probably would've been him, instead. On the side of the highway, in a torrential downpour, at two in the morning.

All things considered, better to have the cable snap in the grocery store parking lot when you're not even out of first, yet. Unfortunately, stupid modern computerized cars means you can't even start the car unless the clutch pedal's down -- as opposed to the Porsche or the Austin-Healey, which you could start in neutral without the clutch pedal down. And that means no starting the car at all, once the cable's snapped, and that means no point in even trying to remember the specific ratios for shifting sans clutch pedal. Damnitall.

( Oh my god, it's my grandfather's car and it's parked in my driveway. )

However, I'm still not entirely sure how to explain to my little veedub that I'm no more happy than it is about that sofa skulking in the driveway.

When weeding, after overturning the soil and getting down to pulling out roots, if the root is patchy-brown and wriggling, Do Not Pluck. That's not a weed, that's a baby rat snake.

(Yes, I did try to pull it. And then it wriggled right out of my fingers and I went GYAH. I did not scream like a girl, but I did kinda jump. Just a little.)