I Flounder.

Breakfast: Granola bar, office coffee. Elevenses: Beet juice with chia seeds, and chicken terrine, cold cuts, and broiled mountain cheese from Cafe Presse. Late lunch: Bimimbap and seaweed soup with beef broth. Clover-brewed Sumatra. I'd make some funny comment, but I guess I'm just all over the map today.

My coworker, on hearing that I had been to Olympus Spa and gotten the scrub and moisturizing package: "Oh, that's my favorite, too! But I always feel like a big fish. A big white flabby fish, you know, because those women all have such lovely golden skin and here I am in all my flabby whiteness on a SLAB while they rub me down and fillet me."

Then much later, smelling my seaweed soup: "Mmmm. That reminds me, I should get back there soon. It's time for another flounder treatment."

Me, laughing: "Is THAT what we're calling it now?"

Her: "You prefer Halibut Treatment?"

In Which I Write About Titan, Part The First

I'm going to post about Titan here, for many reasons, and, (Spoiler alert) if you like dogs, or know me well, or know TITAN well, or cry easily, make sure you’re in a private place, or skip this post until later.

(Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Ready? Okay, pet owners, and everyone: I'm writing this all out because at some point, you will need to know how to deal with a dying pet, and...everyone's reactions will be different. Your reactions, whatever they are, or will be, ARE SO FUCKING VALID, because...well, read on.

For those of you who don’t know, Titan had an unexpected, and very scary, unknown  event happen to him on Saturday night. All I know is, I watched him—in what seemed like slow-motion—collapse, rear end hitting the ground first—in my apartment hallway. And when I ran to him to help him up, he vehemently shied away from my touch.



It was then that I realized his pupils were beyond dilated and he was temporarily blind and also had lost any control of his hindquarters.

I screamed at him for a while, in my apartment hallway, giving him orders: Do NOT die on me, you fucking weakling, I should have left you at the pound 13 years ago, if THIS is how you repay me, get the FUCK up, don’t you do this to me. DON’T you do this to me. I have to go to a fancy party in an hour, I did NOT plan on putting you down tonight, don’t you leave me here, on Earth, without you, DON’T YOU LEAVE ME HERE, I can’t live without you, I CAN’T live without you, DON’T YOU FUCKING LEAVE ME, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!

Then I realized I probably wasn’t accomplishing anything and bodily forced him into my car.

I fought my broken clutch on my way to the ER, through the stop-and-go traffic of the Wallingford section of 45th at 7:30 pm on a Saturday night, thinking my dog was going to die at any second. In case you were thinking about trying that soon for your own amusement, my advice is:
Don’t.

Many, many, things happened after that, including me carrying on with life*, not sure if my dog was going to make it or not. On Saturday night, it seemed like he would; they assumed he had ingested some kind of dog neurotoxin (which could be a LOT of things in your medicine cabinet, including NSAIDs) due to the rapid onset. Which also made sense to me. (Note: Two patients who came in after me had to put their cats down, and let me tell you—it was a small office. The obvious pain was...a little awful.)

Back to Titan: They were going to keep him overnight, pump him with fluids and activated charcoal, and run some tests. Fine. Okay. I went home and did the fastest primp job ever, trying to cover up my swollen eyelids. (LOTS of yellow-tinted eyeshadow primer, ladies.)**

2 am Sunday morning, they had tested for every known dog toxin under the sun and were no longer sure what had happened. Obviously pancreatitis, possibly pancreatic cancer, probably some colitis, we’ll call you when we know more. We’re not sure he’s going to make it; we don’t know what’s wrong. That was...a rough night. Shall we just say.

At 8 am Sunday morning, they still didn’t know what had happened, but he was improving; Sunday afternoon, even more promising; Sunday evening, he was *totally* surviving! Stable! Talking! Talking quite loudly, actually! Please come pick him up before we all go deaf! (Titan has his own language, as everyone who has met him knows. Still haven’t found a damned interpreter.) Except...we (the vet) don’t know why he had that event, and you should probably take him to see a neurologist, because problems that cause Serious Neurological Events don’t usually fix themselves. (Excuse my black comedy; it’s a survival mechanism. If you’re offended, fuck you.)

So, after meeting with the veterinary neurologist (yes, I am now the kind of person who gets a neurologist for her *dog*--and we won’t make any jokes about how I probably need it more than he does) I know the truth: he probably has a few months of high quality life left, maybe even a year or longer***. I know what symptoms/turning points to look for, and I have options A, B, and C at every one of those turning points, if and when they happen****. How he’s doing: he’s doing fine right now—he’s sleeping a lot, but he seems happy and comfortable, and he has plenty of appetite, once I got the right food*****. I’m crossing my fingers.

How I’m doing: I feel…fey. I mean, I thought in the middle of Sunday that I was going to have put him down RIGHT THEN, so…when he got better, and I didn’t have to, I felt incredibly relieved, but also pretty apprehensive, like: I have no idea what happened, it could happen again, what the heck am I going to do, when will it end, when will I *know*, what if, what if, WHAT IF. And now, after the neurologist, I have some answers, which, on top of the incredible sense of relief I had after he unexpectedly improved, has made me almost manic******.

This man has been my lifeline for the past 8 years, since I graduated from college. He has been my anchor. My rock. My guiding star, my reason for living, my boyfriend, my priest, my ball-and-chain, my roommate, my heating blanket, my reason for cursing, my expense, my sacrifice, and now, he has emerged as my rather slow-acting…heart. The outward extension of my emotions, my lightning rod, my canary in a coal mine. He’s the most wonderful, and the most frustrating, experience I have ever had. And while he’s very alive right now, at some point in the next year, he will die.

So: expect me to cycle rapidly through the “stages” of grief at some point in the next few weeks/months/years, and by “cycle” I mean “I may experience any of them at any moment, at any second." I’m thinking about carrying color-coded flash cards, so I can just hold one up when I know what I’m feeling, which in ITSELF assumes that I’ll know what I’m experiencing, which is a big assumption. For example: yesterday my ski gear didn’t fit, because I’ve lost weight, and I was so pissed that I was losing that much weight that I hurled my motorcycle boot against the wall and left a dent. (Hope my apartment super isn’t reading this. Hi, James!)

I hope you get/got to meet my Man, and I hope I don’t take it out on you too much, and I hope you can understand if I do.

Thanks, everyone.

*Yeah, I carried on with life. I'll go into that in maybe a next post. I'm certainly not done writing about this subject, I can tell you that. LOTS of emotions to go through. Shout-out to the Snowshoe Gang, who were incredibly supportive when I showed up at Victrola, so unstable that I was breaking into pieces and re-healing all at the same time.

**Like I said: your reactions, whatever they are, are VALID. I chose to go on with life, and I'll talk more about that in a separate post. Shout-out to the Roommate, my mother, and various love interests, both present and past, all of whom have been unbelievably supportive at this crucial time.

***I will happily go into the medical details for anyone (medicine specialists, pet owners, or just the plain nosy) who wants to know. Message me.

****That poor vet. She must have thought I had gone insane, I was so mathematical and logical, but she never said a judgmental word, and went out of her way to discuss, and re-discuss, every possible option with me. I want to take this moment to say that one of the bright spots of this episode in my life has been the extremely high quality of veterinary care I have gotten, from both Emerald City Emergency Clinic and the VCA Veterinary Specialty Center of Seattle. They made me feel like I was the only patient on their books; I called and re-called, and they took as much time as I needed; it was like I had a private team of vets devoted to just my dog. I cannot say enough good things.

*****Twelve hours ago he still wasn't eating. Turns out he just didn't like his old food anymore; a simple hack, a simple thing to fix, not the heart-breaking episode it might have been. If this happens to you, pet owners, try switching up the food a few times before calling the ER. AGAIN.

******I'm fascinated with everything he does, with every move he makes. It's a little strange, but I'm adjusting.

AZ and I: Still Friends, Thank Goodness

*random work chatter over IM, and then*

Me: "Okay, I'm going to get some coffee."

AZ: "Good luck!"

Me: "I don't need luck. I got skill."

Me: "...that is the biggest lie I have ever told."

And then, a few hours later...

*more chatter, and then*

AZ: "...dammit. As usual, please forgive the spelling." (Author's note: I once got him this coffee mug. It is the most accurate description of him available.)

Me: "Hey, at least you spelled 'congratulations' right!

AZ: "That one's an easy one for me. I can sound it out."

Me: "Most people spell it with a D. Those people should be taken out and shot."

AZ: "Hehe."

Me: "Aww. That's so cute that you think I'm kidding."

AZ: "HA! That's why I love you. You are batshit crazy about all the right things."

Brain Pickings

The very best blog ever, even more so than The Britannica Blog (which is also excellent) or The Happiness Project (my love of which has been well documented):

Brain Pickings.

Holy. Wow. It is like a museum for the mind.

And this recent post, ABOUT the post entitled 9 Best Books On Reading and Writing, about the power of intuition over rational thought, got me laughing, because of course what I did was go straight to the post about the 9 Best Books and put the first book on hold at the library, because I've been trying to figure out how I can use my down time more wisely than hitting "random" on Texts From Last Night, which I have pretty much memorized by now.

Which is exactly the OPPOSITE of the point of the post. I should have maybe been stretching out with my intuition, trying to *feel* the book I was supposed to read next?

No matter. I have a good book on hold at the library. That counts as a win for today.

Conversation

Me: "Whew. One item off my To-Do List."

Roommate: "Which item was this?"

Me: "I finally installed the magnetic lenses for my phone. They click on magnetically, and they give you wide-angle and macro abilities. I only bought them a YEAR ago."

Roommate: "And WHY haven't you installed them, yet?"

Me: "Putting the self-stick magnetic ring on my phone seemed like too much work."

Roommate: "Says the girl who just took her ENTIRE JEEP apart."

Me: "...whatever."

ALSO!

I would just like to announce to the world that I replaced my gas tank. By myself. Related: I am kind of big deal.

Similarities

I am standing on the sidewalk, which is "safe", or at least likely to contain hidden dog poop, while Titan waters a place as FAR AWAY AS HE CAN GET from me and still be attached. Actually, I am not standing on the sidewalk; I have only one foot on it. The other leg is raised in the air to balance me as I lean at a 90 degree angle over the leaves and dirt, leash hooked on my longest finger, because seriously, Titan is AS FAR AWAY AS HE CAN POSSIBLY BE. I am doing Warrior III Pose, is what I'm saying here. My dog WOULD require me to do yoga while walking him.

I complain about this to my mother, who happens to be standing right next to me. "Why do we always have to go to the very very end of the leash to pee? WHY?"

"I remember a young lady who also had to push to the very edge of her boundaries," she said, rather wryly, watching me balance on the sidewalk.

Me: "...Oh, really? Hmmm."

Her: "YES."

Me: "Hey, and we both do it for the same reason: to make our mark on the world!"

Her: "In a slightly different way, though."

I Am Tired

So tired, in fact, that I hit "Publish" before I'd even written anything. Awesome. I am tired. I am so tired. Everyone's tired on a Friday; I get that. I totally have that going on. That's not what I'm talking about. I am (in addition to the standard Friday tired) the kind of tired that happens after you've been filled with adrenaline and stress for weeks and suddenly, at the end of a Friday, it all drains out of you in a whoosh and you are a lump, in a chair, sort of melting into it, because you don't have any energy to sit up straight. I just put music on and had to turn it off, because I don't have enough energy to write and listen to music at the same time. I am TIRED. I am too tired to fall asleep. Thanks for being here.

I Think Lady Gaga May Be The Third Prophet

I was trying to think of a pithy statement that could possibly describe this hell of a day, and then I realized...the least exciting thing that happened today is the leak in my gas tank. And that's really all I can say. ("And babe, there's nothing else I can say. Eh eh, eh eh.")

Happy Friday!

Classic

Me: "So, want to hit the Crescent? I'm in the mood for some karaoke."

Date: "Mmmm...I don't know. I usually love karaoke." (Author's note: I know this to be true--this was not our first date. But we had not yet gone to karaoke together.) "My mojo's kind of gone. I mean, a few weeks ago, I was in Portland, singing karaoke, and..."

Me (interrupting): "Where?"

Date: "At the Galaxy. And there was this big guy..."

Me (interrupting again): "With a beard? A rather long one?"

Date: "Yes!"

Me: "That's RC."

Date: "Oh, you know him? Wait, what am I saying? Of course you do."

The First Thing You Do, You Destroy All The Mirrors*

Remember how this was supposed to be done for my parents' fortieth anniversary? Yeah, me either.

(If you're lost, feel free to check out Part 1 and Part 2 first.) (If anyone is reading this besides my parents, who deserve this effort and more even if it's only read by them. I love you guys.)

Where were we? Oh, yes. I had taken one post to describe my heroes, and another post to describe how awesome I was, and right when I was about to get to describe WHY I turned out awesome, and also modest, and did I mention I was about to compare myself to my heroes?--I sort of vanished into Korea. (Damn Korea.) (Possibly I'll try not to curse anymore in this love letter to my parents, whom are rather conservative.)

Ahem. So. I possibly ran out of words because I am not MUCH like my heroes, unfortunately, which sort of deflates my point--if you can do that--but I DID grow up to be pretty confident with a rather fresh mouth, and seriously, you want your daughter to grow up like this. You do. (Don't worry, moms that I know--SHE WON'T TURN OUT LIKE ME. Well...probably.)

Wow, I have really lost my point. LET'S JUST COMMENCE, SHALL WE?

Golden Rules For Raising a Kick Ass Daughter in the Style of Tina Fey

(Expect her to curse every now and then.)

1. Pray she "peaks" at 50. Mindy Kaling and Tina Fey made this point very clear: if your daughter isn't Pretty at 17, THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS.

Of course, you can't actually do anything about this, aside from encasing her in a burkha (or handy ivory tower, if you want to go all fairy tale) or marrying the ugliest partner you can find, but I wouldn't really  recommend any of those options. Here's what you can do, even if she has porcelain skin and perfect hair at five years old: bring her up in a household that focuses on other things. And this should start in the womb. (The Huffington Post did a fantastic article about this phenomenon here, which you should really read, right away, right now.)

Fortunately for my parents, they didn't have to work too hard on this, given the material they were blessed with. Arraying yourself in button down shirts with belts in weird places at 12 is not the way to attract a lot of attention for your looks, and it didn't help that I had an unwieldy-ily-large and rather British vocabulary, an enormous imagination, and two friends who were just as nerdy as I was. Tina Fey refers to this phase as "when she relaxed in her colonial lady outfit after school", which is why she is the comedy writer, and not me. And she and Mindy Kaling have both included hilarious pictures of themselves from those time periods, and I won't do that because I am not a multimillion dollar comedienne. What I will say: at the rather advanced age of twenty-four, I suddenly started hitting the gym, lost twenty pounds, cut off my hair, and dyed it blonde, and I was cute!...for about twenty minutes. Turns out that blonde hair needs a lot of upkeep. As I frequently find it difficult to shower more than once a week, you can imagine how well I did with that. For the next three years.

Why did this happen? (Besides the not-washing-hair phase, which happened for other reasons that I won't go into here.) Well. It's true that my parents didn't have to work too hard to keep my focus off my looks, but it's also true to say that they are both overachievers. To say that my up-bringing was not looks-focused would be an understatement. Let's put it this way: I didn't learn how to apply makeup until I was twenty. I didn't get my first pedicure until I had graduated from college. My up-bringing was 100% focused on school, activities, and church. I'm not even sure we owned mirrors in the house. (Joke.) (Barely.)

This is both entirely both my parents' fault, as it's their damn genes on my face, but also of course not their fault at all, since they couldn't help it. My mother was born with naturally perfect skin, a fast metabolism, a dread of sugar, and a great smile. You don't NEED makeup when you have all those things. My blessed father told us both, over and over again, that we were the most beautiful ladies he knew. I believed him, because he was my father, and besides, it made sense that if he was right about my mother--which he was--then he must be right about me, too! I was beautiful! Excellent!

(Junior high came as kind of a shock.)

Yes, well. It gives me things to laugh now, and more importantly, it turns out that that is THE ABSOLUTE BEST WAY TO RAISE A DAUGHTER. Like, only the absolutely most important thing you can do. Being shuttled around between school, activities, and church (also not a looks-focused organization, generally) I had zero time to stare into any mirrors even if we had owned them. Instead, I developed interests in many other things, all of which were focused on my talents and skills, and not my looks. Music. Art*. Drama. Travel. Knowledge about the world. Opinions (definitely developed a lot of those). Ability to FORM opinions and SHARE them, articulately. Hey: I am the product of two (2) salespeople. The dinner table was not quiet in our house.

Oh, yeah: the dinner table. It also turns out some kind of structure and dependability is also important for raising kids, and that brings us to The Next Golden Rule...TOMORROW!

*Name that Shakespeare reference!

Obviously, I Was Just Kidding

I was writing the piece about The Second Golden Rule, and then I realized that my piece on "How To Raise A Kick-Ass Daughter" was veering into "verbal diarrhea about my relationship with my parents". The first focus is good, the second focus is...not. Come on. That's what Roommate is for. (Other people might say, "That's what Therapy is for," but that's not how I roll.)

Please hold while I work out exactly what I want to say. THANK YOU.

I Am Such An Engineer, Part II.

Him: "Well, the original composite bows were made of heartwood, and yew* wood."

Me: "Really? How did they get the two woods to stay together back in medieval days? Glue? Had nails been invented?"

Him: (Smiling, because he is cute.) "No, it grows that way."

Me: "..."

Me: "...Oooooooooohhhhhhhh. Because it's...a tree."

Him: "Yes!"

*Note: it has come to my attention that this post is totally, and completely, inaccurate, and it's not because of the source. It's because I misremembered it and wrote it quickly. The Yew is the kind of tree. Bows were made from heartwood and SAP wood, which is true no matter what kind of tree you make it out of. Here's what Wikipedia says:

"One of the simpler longbow designs is known as the self bow. By definition, a self bow is made from a single piece of wood. Truly traditional English longbows are self bows, made from yew wood. The bowstave is cut from the radius of the tree so that the sapwood (on the outside of the tree) becomes the back two thirds and the belly, the remaining one third, is heartwood. Yew sapwood is good only in tension, while the heartwood is good in compression."

The point of using the yew tree (hopefully, not to shoot ewes) is that the yew sapwood can take much, much, more energy in tension (when you draw the bow back) than other timbers, so more of the energy goes into the arrow, meaning you can kill someone from farther away, always a plus.

Minor Differences. (Hat tip to The Oatmeal.)

When my roommate cooks, it is a well-choreographed ballet. When I cook, it is a chicken running around the kitchen with its head cut off, if said chicken also swore a lot and made general comments about the chastity of the recipe author's mother. This is why my roommate does most of the cooking.

Happy Birthday to the best mother in the world. I love you.

And Happy Birthday to MY LITTLE! I'm coming back to NYC soon, honey. <3.

I Guess She Does Notice A Few Things About Me

I had a recent conversation with my mother in the car, always a good place for a productive one on one session, even if you're yelling at each other. (We haven't done that in a long time, though.)

(I think my father and I recently solved all the world's problems on a sunny drive out to Cle Elum and back.)

Back to my mother. Right. I had been contemplating sharing something about my dating life--always a trepidatious thing to do with your MOTHER--and finally I said it.

"I've noticed a theme with the guys I'm dating," I said.

"Oh, really?"

"Well, two themes, really. The first is substantial, the second is totally superficial."

 "Okay..."

"Superficially, and I don't know what this means, but it appears to be common thread more often than not: they're a) not clotheshorses, b) they have often asked me to influence their clothing choices. I mean, I revamped the entire wardrobes of two serious boyfriends (at their request), and more recently I went shopping for suits with T.C. Like on our fifth or sixth date."

Mom: "Hmmm. That's interesting." (Because she is my mother, she has to say this, even if it's not.)

Me: "I just thought that was worth mentioning."

Author's note: I've since realized that anyone I date more casually, as in, not in relationship mode, actually IS kind of a clotheshorse. There's four five, wait, SIX men I could name off the top of my head that I've dated who are better dressers than I am. WHAT DOES IT MEAN? Ahem.

Anyway.  Back to my poor mother, who has to listen to this.

"More substantially, there IS a common theme that binds almost every man I've been romantically interested in, throughout my whole life, almost to a man: romantic interest has shaken off the blueprint of his home life to become something completely different than his parents. Mostly he still has a cordial, and even close, relationship with his family, but he has still purposely looked at his parents' lifestyle, said, 'No thanks, I think I'll create my own', and run with it."

My mother actually was listening, I realized, because she responded, at neutrino speed, with: "REALLY! I can't imagine why YOU'D find that attractive in someone! I'm just flabbergasted!"

Humph. Everyone's a comedian. 

I Am Such An Engineer, Part 1

Me: recently describing to Entrepreneur in lurid detail the recent visit I got to make to Insitu, which makes some of the best, if not THE best, UAVs in the world.

Me: "The planes are MODULAR and  SILENT and SUPER LOW ALTITUDE and they have FANTASTIC IR BLAH BLAH BLAH SO AWESOME NERD GASM."

Him: "Hmm. I wonder if you could train raptors to spot and attack those drones, if they fly at such low altitude?"

Me: "...Raptors?" Thinking: Does he mean the F-22? Is this a UAV I don't know? There is one called Predator. Is he about to make a velociraptor joke?*

Him: "Well, there's a long history of falconry in the Middle East."

Me: "..."

Me: "...Oh, my God. You mean, RAPTORS. Like, birds of prey."

Him: "Yes!"

Me: "You mean, those commandable, maneuverable, low-profile, low-altitude, high-resolution-vision, silent, flying, things."

Him: (Smiling.) "Yes."

Me: "The ORIGINAL flying drones. Wow."

Me: "Well, if you thought of it, I can only hope they don't."

* (In a conversation between two people who read xkcd, this is always a possibility.)

Supporting the World I Want To Live in, or Justifying Spending Money, OR, See Title Of This Blog. Part III.

I found The Thing That Will Be Teh Awesome, or at least I hope it will. The thing that will convert heels or flats into boots. I may never need to buy another pair of boots again. Maybe.

If it doesn't work, it will be a rather expensive experiment, but oh well. This is how we learn, yes?

I can't share the details yet; my mother would have a heart attack, and anyway I bought the item on Etsy, so it's no longer available for public view.

What can I do instead? I promised an update. Hmmm. I will share other ways in which I changed my own personal world:

My new, absolutely favorite, artist:

Ronald Jenkees, everyone.

Need more?

Diplo. Oh, hell yes.

A Magazine that I can feel proud supporting: Anthology.

A blog that represents my design aesthetic very closely: The Steampunk Home.

In related news, I need to make more money. Thanks and good night.

Supporting the World I Want To Live in, or Justifying Spending Money, OR, See Title Of This Blog. Part II.

His reply, and then MY reply to his reply. (Author's note: his responses, and my responses, are inline to my original questions, and the things that look like links are, indeed, links. All SFW except when noted.)

Can you also give me the following?

1. Hooks on strapless dresses that attach to the supporting bustier. Obviously, the hooks (on both garments) will need to be standard widths apart, so that all garments work together.

2. Pants that have hems that can be risen or lowered, depending on heel length, so that a woman isn't forced to choose, roll up hems (never works), or buy two pairs of the same damn pants.

He said: "this might work for numbers one and two ."

I replied: "I've had bad experiences with fashion tape of any kind, but I did find these, which I think may solve a number of my problems, including possibly problem 1. (Or maybe clear plastic snaps?) I might even start tailoring my work pants with them. I mean, seriously. The possibilities are endless."

3. Some sort of neoprene-with-support bustier? Probably not neoprene, but something like it. I love my traditional corsets, but there is a material out there SOMEWHERE that will lift, support, and be somewhat flexible. Somewhere. (Out there.)

He said: "somewhere to start ." (Slightly NSFW if you work at a church, or a place where the word "corset" offends.)

4. Shoes with retractable heels would be great, too. God, I wish women designed more things.

He said: "you mean like this?"

I replied: "Okay, I actually BOUGHT those, they were so exactly what I needed. (Phooey on the 4-6 week wait, but whatever.) Also I discovered these. Apparently they sell them in downtown Seattle? Your next challenge here: convert these shoes into boots when necessary. And then I'll be able to carry every kind of shoe I need in one bag."

5. And finally, some kind of small bag item that carries a few things that is wearable, and not nerdy. In a really perfect world, I'd own this:

http://www.etsy.com/listing/49864328/ms-money-penny

But something much simpler would be fine, too. Sigh.

He had no response to this. (HA! Stumped him!)

But then...I did a little more looking and bought this and this, the second one in black and with a zipper closure.

6. While we're talking about bags, I also want a larger bag that is convertible from backpack to messenger to cross-body to cross-back. I wouldn't need to own so many things if I could make them do what I wanted them to do.

He said: "ok, I'm done procrastinating.."

I replied: "This is the only failure--it's close, but not great. I already bought a second laptop bag of the one that I love, that I'm going to convert myself." (Have I told everyone on this blog that I've bought the nearly-perfect work backpack? The only way it could be better is if it was handmade by 100% Genuine American Grandmothers, but for the same price.)

Actually, I would totally pay three or four times this price for an identical backpack handmade by 100% Genuine American Grandmothers. (Speaking of, anyone remember this movie? Turns out it's based on a short story by Ray Bradbury.)

And FOR MY NEXT TRICK...coming tomorrow!