On a Plane

I guess it's a mark of my status as the consummate traveller that I'm totally unaffected by turbulence. I can walk up and down the aisle like the most seasoned of sailors; I don't use my hands even as a guide, no matter how the plane is bucking. More usefully, despite my confirmed history as that lightest sleeper in the world, I can dose right through turbulence bad enough to fling my magazine three seats back: it just feels as though someone is rocking me. This is not a skill that seems to be universal, even among road-warrior business travellers. I wonder whether I developed the ability out of neccessity, or whether it's the inevitable result of a childhood bracketed by frequent flier numbers.

YES! PIRACY STRIKES AGAIN!

I try to restrain myself from posting online quiz responses, but you have to understand that this one is the culmination of years of careful effort:



I took the most accurate villain personality test
created by: The Arch Villainess Gracie



You have to recognize that by the time I was eight, I had already accumulated a red dressing gown, a tricorn hat, and a plastic hook for one of my hands - which I would use to great effect during improvised swordfights. Finally - recognition for my lifetime commitment to murder on the high seas!

::does victory lap::

::keelhauls someone::

Everyday Modular Solutions

At any given time, I feel a strong compulsion to read. I'm like a junkie that way; if I'm not actively engaged in reading, you can bet I'm plotting my next hit. This can be something of a bitch, since I go through my drug of choice as quickly as does the aforementioned junkie. I read quickly. Very quickly. In the absence of compelling distractions, I go through at least two novels a day - and we're talking literature and sci-fi, things that require active analysis. To make things worse, I don't just read books; I read junk mail, milk cartons, warning labels, and in one memorable case the Richardson, Texas telephone directory. I read news articles I hate, full of punctuation mistakes and factual inaccuracies, articles on subjects I find boring, with opinions that enrage me; I push them away, and yet my eyes keep tracking down the column. I leave the room, but I know I'm coming back. I have to.

All of this is a way of explaining why I've read every caption in the current Pottery Barn catalog. I don't even like Pottery Barn. The catalog was just there.

That said, it presents me with an intriguing mystery. Namely, a small red gift-box logo that indicates items specially earmarked as father's day presents. I've been trying to establish a pattern in these choices, and from it draw conclusions about American culture. This is greatly complicated by the way these gift boxes are placed seemingly at random. For example:

Dad would like votive candles, but not hurricane lamps.

Dad would like an ice bucket, but not cloth napkins.

Dad would like picture frames, but not clocks. Or well, the Stainless Steel Pocket Watch Wall Clock, but not the larger Galvanized Steel Wall Clock.

Dad would like the Chesapeake Extending Dining Table, but not Farmhouse Occasional Tables.

Dad would also like CD storage and a wine rack, but for the love of god not bookshelves. He's also fond of random large letters made out of black wood. Don't ask us why; you obviously don't know Dad as well as we do.

Apparently, Dad is somewhat schizoid in his likes and dislikes, prefers to be outdoors as often as possible, does not own a refrigerator, and must be kept away from textiles at all costs. He's not just allergic to cotton, either -- for his own protection, he should not be exposed to jute, wool, or sisal. I have to admit that after all this research, I'm a little worried for Dad; what if I'd gotten a Cherry Red Leather Manhattan Recliner instead of a Cherry Red Leather Manhattan Armchair? I guess that's why we should leave this sort of decision to the professionals.