July 17, 2007
Out of the blue
No one ever gets to see my favorite side of him....
Me: Oh, and I bought a Chinese Algae Eater for the tank.
CD: A Chinese Algae Eater?
Me: That's what the woman called it...
CD: How will all the other fish communicate with it?
Me: Wha...
CD: I mean, did you buy a translator fish to go with it?
May 24, 2007
A Quote
“I am not a Starfleet commander, or T.J. Hooker.I don't live on Starship NCC-1701 or own a phaser. And I don't know anybody named Bones, Sulu, or Spock. And no, I've never had green alien sex, though I'm sure it would be quite an evening.
I speak English and French, not Klingon! I drink Labatt's, not Romulan ale! And when someone says to me 'Live long and prosper', I seriously mean it when I say, 'Get a life'. My doctor's name is not McCoy, it's Ginsberg. And tribbles were puppets, not real animals. PUPPETS! And when I speak, I never, ever talk like every. Word. Is. Its. Own. Sentence.
I live in California, but I was raised in Montreal. And yes, I've gone where no man has gone before, but I was in Mexico and her father gave me permission! My name is William Shatner, and I am Canadian!”
I've been wrestling demons, in hot gusts of wind. And thinking about personas and people and who I really am.
Then this quote came along and made me laugh iced tea out my nose.
December 22, 2006
Number 18
I have 17 posts, written and dying in limbo.
I hate them all.
There are a few twists of words. A couple of simple setences that maybe, I would keep.
The rest is crap. I couldn't post it.
I hovered over the button, but in the end... no.
This is the longest spell of writer's block I have ever suffered.
I'm starting to hate myself.
I remember once, my dad got real sick. He's a runner, marathons. And for a while he could barely get out of bed. He got better, and angrier. Finally, he dragged on his shorts. Pushed himself out the front door and began shuffling down the driveway. I thought, there goes my dad - he's fucking nuts.
An hour later, he returned. White, coughing, happier.
My days are growing heavier. I need to run. Or at least walk.
I don't miss my old job. God, I miss my old co-workers, but I don't miss the pressure, the thud-thump of the adreneline in my ears, the ever-so-polite arguments between colleagues. Vicious and bloody under calm respectful tones.
"You're going to cost us a million five with this frigging attitude, just get the machines out the door..." but you really say "I hear what you're saying, but I have to say from my side of the project it looks like an expensive delay."
Gritted teeth, gone.
Now we sit by the light of the dining room window and practice "C'c" until he can't, anymore. Opening on the right, swirl and stop. Cat. Car. Clementine. Caveat. Cliff. Cook.
He writes, and writes. Stops and starts. Maze books and practice pads.
He writes, why can't I?
We bounce on the new bed. Giggle and dance. We sing Frosty, and make up our lyrics.
I don't miss my old job. I miss the hours in front of the keyboard. The window open, behind all that work. The one I would slip back to, with my thoughts.
Now, when I ease behind my keyboard, he looks at me from the chair. He's watching Handy Manny or something else with animated figures who are not his mom. He looks at me, jealous. I nod back, push away from the desk.
[delete]
It doesn't matter.
Damn it.
Last night was the longest night of the year. The deepest dark. Just a couple of weeks ago, we celebrated the first Sunday in Yule with as many traditional Icelandic parts that I could muster.
Translated recipes from Metric. Reserved marzipan cake.
Why is it so much easier to do for someone else when you won't for yourself?
So I sat him on the couch.
"I need to go for a run..." I said. "I mean, I need to write. The housework and Bear's lessons and having my computer in the middle of the house where I feel like I am actually sitting on some kind of family landing strip... I can't write. It's never quiet. And if I make it quiet, that means putting Bear in front of a TV even more than we let him now, which I can't do..."
"But you wanted your computer in the den, you had me..."
"I know," I whispered, miserable, unable to explain.
"So what do we do?" he asks, looking at me.
And so we decided to move my computer back into the guest room. And to carve out some time every day. And I woke up this morning to the dishes humming, and the laundry spinning. Stood all weepy in my kitchen, thankful for his gift of trying to understand.
I never did, with my dad. Through the rain, the snow, the pain. He never stopped. Some days he had great time. Some days he wandered off his usual path for an extra hour.
I would watch him walk, huffing, back up the driveway. Stop before the door, soaked in sweat, bent over, stretching.
At peace.
I picked up my first journal when I was 13 years old.
And since, have never put it down for more than a few days.
Somehow, the words will come back.
April 14, 2006
Going To Hell
I never understood Lent.
Being brought up East-coast Episcopalian, complete with a clapboard church with a steeple, Lent wasn't something that ever sunk into my world.
The most I ever noticed it was when I would ask my pastor, a couple of weeks before Easter, why there were no flowers in the church. A couple of years later, I would wonder again and because I'm so thick around the head, I would ask again.
The answer never "took".
There I was, 17 and in my first year of college. And I had a professor teaching something about Lent. How it is considered '40 days" because we don't count the Sundays.
I burst out laughing. *ahem* Sorry.
This was the kind of skewed-up counting that made "On the 3rd Day He Rose Again" such a big pill to swallow.
Like I don't have a hard enough time with regular Math, I gotta learn Religious Math?
I've been Christian since I can remember. Don't get me wrong. I love Jesus.
But some doctrine just sends me right around the bend.
And giving up chocolate for any 40 days of my life ain't gonna happen.
I've reconciled myself to the possibility that I am taking a bag of Cadbury Bars with me to Hell.
March 01, 2006
I need advice... the Laura Project
Dear Laura - DON'T READ THIS!!
Ok, seriously. Stop now.
Is she gone?
Good.
"Never let him watch you put on pantyhose" was one of my favorite pieces of advice from my Grandmother. I was young, and thinking about marrying my boyfriend at the time, and ripe for all kinds of marital advice.
I used to have all sorts of nuggets like that.
But I lost them. Maybe one day while I was sleeping. Stuff seems to fall out of my brain as I get older. Seriously.
Which is monumentally bad timing, because I am compiling a scrapbook for a friend of mine (cough *Laura* cough) (see my most favorrite of her recent posts here) that is getting married. You know, as a bridal shower gift.... pictures of her and her intended, and anecdotes, and especially advice (serious, old-fashioned, or just plain funny) on marriage.
The problem is that in my current space, which is vaguely hopeful and seriously guarded, what with the great brain drain going on ... all that springs to my mind is - "Got Prenup?"
Which, let's be honest, won't look good even if I put it in a nice font and maybe a picture of flowers next to it.
So I am soliciting, begging, pandering for the words here. Please. From those jaded or joyful, religious or not, older, younger, whatever orientation ... I am desperately seeking advice on what makes it work, when you vow it all for life.
And it occurs to me that advice may be helpful to one who already vowed it, long ago.
Yes, me.
Pack of dogs kill crocodile!
My mom sent this to me today, and though I usually disregard these "sendalongs" this one had me chuckling out loud....
Sometimes nature is cruel but there is also a beauty in that cruelty.
The crocodile as one of the ultimate predators can fall victim to the
kind of implemented 'team work' strategy which is possible due to the
pack mentality and social structure of canines.
See the attached and remarkable photograph courtesy of Nature Magazine -
but not if you're squeamish!
February 06, 2006
It's hard to chew when you're biting your tongue
Well, if anyone ever asked my opinion of the Brad/Angelina/Jen situation (which no one did!) based on what little I know (as if I'd ever met this people... riiiight)....
I think that if you commit to someone that they are your only someone, then having a box full of possible replacements or cultivating anyone new to swap out your current partner on the blow of a whistle is wrong.
There, I've said it.
Before lightning strikes, I will admit to the world here and now - I know this tactic because I was once (back in the stone ages) guilty of a form of it. I thought I was happy in a long-distance relationship until I met someone new....
It goes like this: you're in a monogamous relationship, but you meet someone new that you want to be with. So you start a relationship that technically (yes, I mean S-E-X) isn't cheating - but what, as Jennifer Aniston once surmised of Brad, could be called an "emotional affiar".
Of course, your unaware spouse/partner starts to look worse and worse as the new person looks better and more desirable. So one day, out of what will feel like nowhere to the innocent party, you say "look, this isn't working for me anymore. I need my space..."
And just like that - Wham! - 2 hours later you're making hot monkey love over and over with object of your new affections at the Ritz Carlton while your spouse/partner calls up everyone they know in tears, crying "I don't understand....what went wrong?"
And maybe you say, technically - it's all right.
But having been on both sides of this, I say - it's cheating.
February 01, 2006
It ought to be illegal
So CD and I are watching the Ballroom Championships on Public Television (shut up, like you weren't) and we're watching the American Smooth Foxtrot and I look at CD and wrinkle my forehead.
That music, I say....
He cocks his head and listens. What?
Oh, God...
What?
It's....
What?!
BON JOVI!!! They turned BON JOVI into foxtrot music. 'It's my life'! Turned into, like... Bubble Music!!
NO!!
YES!!!
TURN THE CHANNEL! QUICK! MY EARS ARE BLEEDING!
*mute*
January 31, 2006
State of the Union
Usually I watch the State of the Union address each year.
But tonight I can't bring myself to do it. Too tired. Too cynical. Too fed up. Too anxious about life as it is.
January 20, 2006
January 19, 2006
Dear Sun
Dear Sun,
Whatever the fine people of Chicago did to piss you off, I think it is high time to forgive them. Not to get snippy on the matter, but I miss you and if I don't see you soon I am going to have a middling sized conniption.
The people of California can suck it up and share you. Frankly, their governor is just a bit to tanned around the brain as it is.
See you soon. Don't worry about calling first. I got some brand new margarita glasses we'll break out once you get here, so just come on over.
Thank you,
Elizabeth
January 11, 2006
Angelina's Uterus
OK, so they confirmed the world's most watched uterus is, indeed, occupied .
There's isn't a single punch line I can come up with here that's even remotely tasteful. Seriously. I got like, a million, or so that come flying into my mind but my mom reads this blog, so... dude. I gotta pass. Even though it's killing me. Aiy-yi-yi.
So I'll just say mazel tov, and leave it at that.
December 06, 2005
Out of the mouth of a Bear
So I'm driving my son home from school. (Yes. On my expired and non-suspended license.) And a few blocks from Happy Montessori is Posh High School, which lets out the same time as Bear's school.
In other words, I drive along and around hordes and huddles of high school kids every afternoon.
Today it's about 20 degrees outside (F). Bitter cold, blustery with knife-like winds, a dim grey sun, snow rolling in. I've got the heater blasting, Bear's chattering about his new reading class with the specialist and how they're doing 'really cool craft projects' and I'm ignoring my cell phone.
When next to me on the sidewalk I see a guy jogging by in sweatpants and a t-shirt.
Sweatpants. And a t-shirt.
In weather so cold that your spit freezes before it hits the ground.
Because, you know. When you're a teenager you actually get endowed with superpowers. Like imperviousness to cold and frostbite.
Oh, but he's cute. Floppy Hugh Grant auburn hair, wide shoulders, flirty grin. He runs up to a gaggle of pretty girls who are wearing what look like big versions of Barbie Winter Party outfits - adorable hats, coordinated mittens, sleek coats, thin jeans, high-heeled boots. Lots of pink and white, with long hair flowing down their backs.
Cute boy jogs into them, grinning. Then turns around and JOGS BACKWARDS into the intersection while chatting to them. In his t-shirt.
The girls giggle and toss their hair and tease him and point to his t-shirt and make concerned faces.
From the back seat, from Bear; "Hey! He isn't wearing his coat! And he didn't look both ways before crossing the street! That's not safety!!"
The guy continues to jog backwards, cars and other pedestrians stop to give him way, and finally he turns around and begins sprinting off with a jaunty wave to the girls.
I shake my head. I do NOT remember being this dumb. I do NOT remember being this blatantly dumb, anyway. Am I old or is this just one of those stunts that make you think a guy is a real piece of work and then 10 years later you realize that the same kid has grown up and gone to Fordham and now he's your boss?
I muttered to myself. Bad thoughts.
From the back seat; "What did you say, Mommy?"
Me; "Uh, I said, look - there goes the future President of the United States of America."
From the back seat; "I don't know, Mommy. I don't think you can be President if you don't watch where you're going."
And this is why, everyday, I thank my stars that I get to be Bear's mother.
The Saga, it continues...
Mr. Jesse White, Secretary of State, should be sent to a special kind of place for a week. One in which he is forced to suffer all the indignities and byzantine mechanations of his own system.
Just saying.
So, I have spent over 3 hours on the phone today. Two of those hours, and I kid you not, were spent on hold. The upshot is that I have to go downtown to the horse-head statue building again and get a certified letter from the traffic court there that they have no record of the accident and subsequent judgement.
I have spoken to 6 different people.
The first told me that I had to go get something called a half-sheet and special bad-driver's insurance, and keep that insurance for 3 years, and also pay $140 in fines.
The second told me to go away, there are no half-sheets for 19 year-old accidents and that I needed to file an affidavit for expungement.
The third said he knew nothing about expungements but it didn't sound right to him. He put me on hold to look up my record. I sat on hold for 28 minutes. 28 minutes, people. Afraid to hang up. But finally I had to.
I called back and sat in the "operators will be with you soon" queue for over an hour. Finally, after hangin up and trying again, I got a live body. The fourth told me that I needed to present myself in person at the Cook County 1st Circuit Court and make arrangements to pay the court fees and fines from 19 years ago (which I already did, once, 12 years ago) and then get a receipt which I would mail to Springfield with $70 in additional reinstatement fees plus the special bad-driver's insurance. For 1 year this time.
I called Cook County Circuit Court 6 times before someone answered the phone. I asked where I should go to pay these fees (that I paid 12 years ago already) so I could get my license back. They told me I was off my rocker and nothing over 7 years old is kept in the records much less scheduled for payment. They told me to call Jesse White's office back and get some clarification.
They gave me a phone number to call for Jesse White. (312) 793-5603.
It's disconnected.
I called the number I've been calling for over a year. I was hoping for someone nice and clear and intelligent. Not so much. The fifth person of the day had clearly had skipped her happy pill this morning. She told me that there was no way I'd had a legal driver's license in the last 19 years and that I'd played the system. I told them that they were wrong, and told them that I had paid the fees, the fines, had the special insurance, and gotten a letter of clearnace andmade myself completely legal. A dozen years ago. They told me I was lying. I hung up on that one.
And called back.
I got LeVonne. She was my sixth, and final, employee of Jesse White that I spoke to today. She re-iterated what Number 1 had told me about that half-sheet from Cook County saying that there was no longer any record of the accident or judgement. I made her repeat that - that I needed proof that there was nothing left. She agreed. I asked didn't her computer talk to their computer since all the computers worked for the same State? She said no, that the county and the state were different entities. I said okay, then.
She told me to get the half-sheet and mail it to Springfield with the additional $70 sincethe first $70 we paid was at a local facility and they had no record of that.
She also said that the record of my paying the fines and getting the special insurance was all in my file if someone had bothered to scroll down. Not that we're naming names, old #5 and #1.
Stay tuned....
December 05, 2005
Mommy, You did your best...the saga of Me and Jesse White.
So. Last year, on my birthday, my driver's license was due to expire. Just before my birthday, I received a letter in the mail from a man named Jesse White. Jesse White, as you will discover, is the Secretary of State of Illinois and I was honored indeed that he took the time to send me a letter.
Until I read it.
Seems that Jesse White, Secretary of State, had -in light of 9/11- joined up the Illinois Driver's Information with that of the whole entire country. Joined it up, electronicified it, merged it, spindled it, mutilated it, and doshgarn it, just about sauteed it.
And when he was done, wouldn't you know it, but there's was an irregularity in my records and he was inviting me to fix it before I would be allowed to renew my driver's license.
Why thank you, Mr. Jesse White.
So CD and I trudged downtown to the Secretary of State's office in the building near the statue that looks like a horsehead. Picasso, I think. And we waited in about 10 different lines and were finally told that we should come back some other day because they didn't know me, had never heard of me, and I should call first.
So I went home, and started making phone calls and writing letters. For the next three months, I did this. My birthday came, and went. And I was driving on an expired licence that was not suspended but could not be renewed.
The first glimmer of help I had was a nice lady in Springfield. She informed me that this had to do with an accident I had. In 1986. I knew about the accident, it was my only accident. It happened in the snowy winter when I was 20 years old and an uncertain driver and I slid on a patch of ice and tagged a Pinto in my dad's powder-blue 1976 Chevy Impala.
My dad, as it turned out, had let the insurance on the Impala lapse.
And thus did I end up paying $500 in fees, fines, penalties and damages for a ding on a fender of a car older than I was. By the time I did so, I had given up driving altogether and stayed a walker and cabber for many years. But Illinois eventually gave me a letter of clearance and thus when I moved back to Boston and decided it was time I start driving again I was able to get a new license.
12 frigging years ago.
Seemingly, Mr. Jesse White is in need of money and has decided to conveniently forget this and wanted his $500. Again. With interest.
So I slogged and battled and whipped out my checkbook and to no avail. Each time I tried to get my new license, I was rejected.
Then it was last spring, and on a random day I called Springfield again. Tiredly, sadly asking the lady on the phone if there was any way in the world I could fix this thing. Since I was driving around on an expired and non-suspended license. And she said that it had nothing to do with that accident long ago, it was about a ticket I got in 1998 and never paid. (My bad.)
With a gleam in my eye I offered to throw money at the problem. She agreed that would be a fine solution and she would send me the paperwork so I could do so.
The paperwork never came.
So I called back and was told that I had to call the Cook County Courthouse to get the number of the case and THEN make an appointment to go to court and THEN pay the fines.
So I did that.
The people at the Cook County Courthouse told me that they would send me the paperwork and a courtdate.
The paperwork never came.
But I did get another letter from Mr. Jesse White. And while I was still honored that such a busy man as the Secretary of State would go out of his way to find the time to make my life a living hell for 9 months, I was no closer to a solution than I had been before. Just very, very clear that I was under no circumstances allowed to renew my license.
It was a fine summer, me and my expired and non-suspended license drove all the way to Boston and back with a nice side trip through upstate New York's grape country and when we got home, I even began driving Bear to and from school each day.
I admit it, I was begining to get frustrated. And maybe, perhaps, a little bitter. Maybe.
But here came my birthday. Again. The anniversary of Jesse White's first letter to me. And I thought, let's try. Again.
So I called Springfield.
Again.
And the nice lady on the phone looked up my number and hummed alot into my ear and then finally told me that it looked I had left to do was to pay the fine from the ticket from 1998. I did so. It took a week to process.
Then I called back last Friday and the same sweet lady told me I needed to pay a $70 reinstatement fee at any local DMV and once it had processed, I would be cleared to get my drvier's license renewed.
I called CD in whoops of joy and on his lunch hour he scampered over to the local DMV station and paid the $70 fee on my behalf. He brought home the precious receipt and this afternoon we all met up and headed over to get my driver's license. I even blew-dry my hair for the picture.
We filed in, and I presented my pile of documents to clerk #9. My passport, my old license, a utility bill with my current address, the sundry receipts, and a note from my mother saying that I was a really good driver.
She called up my record and shook her head and said "Hon, you gotta go with my supervisor around the corner here."
So I went around the corner to the blue section and he looked at his computer screen and grunted and gave me an angry look.
"You got an accident here, and you weren't insured," he said nastily, from high atop his stool.
"Yes," I agreed. "Yes, 20 years ago. But it is taken care of."
He shook his head. "No it isn't. There are 3 stops on this record. You're suspended."
I showed him my receipts, and explained about the lady in Springfield.
He shook his head again. "What I suggest is you call your lady in Springfield and see what you really need to do to take care of this. Because we can't help you here. You have to fix these things before you come in here wasting people's time."
I nodded and took back my piles of paper, my passport, my old license, and I made my way over to where CD and Bear were sitting in a pile on a beige plastic chair. There faces were wide with big smiles of support.
"Uh, it isn't fixed," I whispered. "The stuff is still in the computer as not fixed."
We walked out into the bitter cold, and jumped back into the mini-van. "I don't understand," CD huffed. "It was fine. I paid the reinstatement fee at the other station and they processed it while I waited. They said you were good to go."
I shrugged. And then collapsed into tears. CD awkwardly held me from the driver's seat while I cried out a year's worth of frustration and exhaustion.
And from the backseat, a little voice. "It's OK, Mommy. You did your best..."
If only that were good enough.
Jesse White, Secretary of State, you can go suck eggs. You and your entire office of dingbats. I am sick of you. I am sick of them. I am sick of this. I want no more fancy letters. I want to make no more non-toll-free phone calls to Springfield. I want my license, I want it now.
People who want to cause this much aggravation in my life had better dang well be related to me by blood or marriage. So unless you are intent on courting my mother, who is a fine woman and worthy of much better than yourself, I strongly suggest you get off your appointed ass and fix my record.
That is all.
October 13, 2005
I'm in love, but he's dead
Dagnabbit, Grace beat me to it. But I love her too dang much to feel cheated.
This obituary actually ran in Sunday's Trib (empahsis mine):
Theodore Roosevelt HellerTheodore Roosevelt Heller, 88, loving father of Charles (Joann) Heller; dear brother of the late Sonya (the late Jack) Steinberg. Ted was discharged from the U.S. Army during WWII due to service related injuries, and then forced his way back into the Illinois National Guard insisting no one tells him when to serve his country. Graveside services Tuesday 11 a.m. at Waldheim Jewish Cemetery (Ziditshover section). In lieu of flowers, please send acerbic letters to Republicans.
Published in the Chicago Tribune on 10/10/2005.
When I die, I want an obituary like Mr. Heller's, you know? I'm so crushing on him. How could so few lines seem to capture so much life and spirit in someone who's gone?
There goes Elizabeth, loving mom to Bear, an amazing guy. She prayed globally, acted locally, dressed disasterously, cooked passably, served God however she found Her, and to the shame of her mother died in need of both a haircut and a manicure. In lieu of flowers, please drop pennies in fountains - to feed your dreams, as well those of the folks around you who need some spare change to get by.
How do you want to be remembered?
October 06, 2005
Things that bug you while listening to EZ Lite Crap Radio as you're stuck in traffic...
OK, I get it. The dessert is a metaphor, right? Or an allegory? And the river that flowed, and now is dead - that's what? A lost love? Some kind of mushroom haze? Fine, fine.
But why not, in the name of all that is GOOD and HOLY, name the frigging horse?!
September 15, 2005
I know it is petty, and everyone of course has the right to their own opinion, BUT...
... This made me feel bad. I mean - it was SUCH a nice mention, and I was all "wow, how incredibly nice!" and then, wham! Comment. And now I'm all doubting myself. So, please, tell me the truth; do I really undermine people's self-confidence? Really?
:(
August 24, 2005
This is not a test
So, we're back.
Now I actually have to do something about backing up my files. *sigh*
and Pixy Misa, who owns and administrates the "mu.nu" domain is proven, yet again, to be a superhero.
August 03, 2005
Enough with the bad news
Sometimes it is easy to forget that miracles happen, and good things come to good people.
This made my day: Chez Miscarriage: Sleep. Yeah. That Was A Good Plan.
July 20, 2005
Happy Birthday greetings to...
Stacy! That drunk floozy thought it would be a good idea to hand out the password to her blog. Heh.
July 19, 2005
Too funny.
I rarely do this, but it made me laugh almost until I peed myself. It's kinda mean, tho - so if you love the French for their courage as well as their croissants (KWA - SAHN!!), don't click xset.co.uk » Blog Archive » This news just in
July 15, 2005
Live by the sword, Die by the sword
Maybe I watched too many Capra movies growing up, but I honestly believe that most people working for the government - elected or appointed - want to do right by their job and this country.
See, I may not agree with all the things we, as a country, do. But the enemies are not the Republicans vs. the Democrats.
Nope.
It is the terrorists out there that would not blink about blowing up my home with me and my family it. THEY are the bad guys. They are who worry me, deep in the night. They are the people who need to be ousted, hunted, and addressed.
And I am counting on each and every man and woman who dedicates their lives in the service of this country to help protect us and, in the long term, think of solutions that will help move us towards a more tolerant and safe planet.
And for their sacrifice and dedication, I believe with all my heart that each of them deserves the complete protection and support they need to do their job.
It’s non-negotiable.
The thing with Karl Rove is that he disagreed with some people's statements on WMD's. He disagreed with how one of employees of the United States Government was using her position. Fine. He had a lot of ways to address his feelings. After all, he works across the hall from the President of the United States. He’s got a position, too. Right?
So according to these emails the reporter and Time turned over(with Rove's consent), it looks like he chose to use that position to expose her to the media. If he did, then he knew better. A high-placed employee of the United States government Intelligence community has her identity revealed to the enemies of this country because Karl Rove spoke to a reporter?
I don't give a shit why, and I don't want to parse the legalities.
If he identified her to a reporter. Knowingly. Then to me, what he did just about makes Karl Rove a traitor.
I don't decide what happens to him now. But I can tell you this from my heart. If it's true, I don't want President Bush relying on this man's counsel.
June 24, 2005
What would you save?
I had a dream last night (probably caused by this amazing picture over at the Blue Sloth) that my house was hit by lightning and burned down (also a little wishful thinking?!)...
Of course, CD and Bear and the furry beasties and even Big Fish and Little Fish got out safely.
But then I realized (in my dream) that I had to go back in and save....
My Hard Drive.
After all, it has all Bear's pictures on it - from birth to this ast weekend - on it. All my writing. All the letters and addressess....
What about you? What things would you save?