Over the past year, I’ve really enjoyed writing what I call ten-fers. Ten one hundred word posts instead of one thousand word post.
Every so often I think of a topic that isn’t really worth dedicating one entire post to because there isn’t that much to say about it.
Like writing ten shorts posts, for instance.
But I can usually come up with one hundred words pretty quickly and get my point across.
Is it cheating to write one thousand words that way? Even when I’m just making up for previous misses? Maybe. But I’m going to do it anyway.
Today I dumped an entire travel mug of coffee on my work laptop. My less than a year old, seventeen inch laptop.
And of course I didn’t spring for the accident insurance. I work for a non-profit. Why would I pay extra for something like that?
Two of my employees fancy themselves techies and jumped right in. The laptop was unplugged, the keyboard removed and now I’m under strict orders to not even think about plugging it in until Monday so it has a chance to dry out.
Sounds like it might be a good time to take a vacation.
I am not an Olympic watcher. Beside tennis, of course, I’m quite disinterested. And I’m already tired of all the Olympic and NBC tweets.
But one thing the Olympics do provide is a sampling of strange sports that you wouldn’t get to see otherwise.
I had it on for a few minutes last night and watch men’s synchronized platform diving. I kept thinking, how in the world do you practice this sport?
And I admit I got a little teary over the American gold medalist in women’s skeet shooting. I don’t know her name, but I was cheering her on.
I love listening to music on Spotify. I like the access to anything I want to hear and I like creating playlists.
But recently my Spotify account got connected to my Facebook account. I didn’t realize it until I got a Facebook notification that someone had “liked” that I was listening to Hugh Laurie’s cd.
Now every time I go to listen to music, I worry about what everyone on Facebook is going to think.
I don’t want the people I went to college to know that I’m listening to Frank Sinatra. Or to alert colleagues to my Guns-n-Roses addiction.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I can’t stand it when I hold the door for someone and they don’t say thank you.
If I could go to my grave knowing that I rid the world of a single discourtesy, this would be it.
Not acknowledging someone hold the door for you suggests that you are entitled, that other people were put on earth simply to make your life easier.
If you can’t say thank you, at least smile and offer a nod.
Or the next time I’m going to let the door slam in your face.
I bought myself a wedding band today.
That’s not as sad as it sounds. I didn’t go by a wedding ring to have on hand for when Mr. Right arrives.
My board of directors gave me a jewelry store gift certificate for Christmas and I hadn’t spent it.
I wanted a simple white gold pinkie ring and the woman suggested a thin wedding band.
It was just what I was looking for and was the right price, so I figured why not.
No one is going to know it’s a wedding ring unless I tell them.
Which I just did.
I’ve been trying to think of a word for that feeling you get when you follow an actor you have long admired on Twitter only to discover that they are a dud.
By dud I mean they only post platitudes like “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” or RT messages from the Dali Lama or Deepak Chopra and they aren’t being facetious.
It makes me want to stop watching their movies or tv shows, knowing that they’re so goody goody in person. Or at least on Twitter.
Or maybe they just hired a bad ghost Twitter-er.
I was walking into the performing arts center today and there was an older couple in front of me, going to City Hall.
The theater’s loading dock was full of props being built or painted for an upcoming production.
The couple stopped and looked that these items scattered around, the tea stained lace shawl, the neon wooden bench, the wheelbarrow full of fake flowers.
It made me realize that the theater is quite strange. You forget how strange it is when you live it. But seeing those props through someone else’s eye reminded me just how silly it all is.
A while ago I read Barbara Kingsolver’s The Lacuna and loved it.
I was particularly fascinated by the sections about McCarthyism and it made me want to read more on the topic. Novels, not non-fiction.
But it’s hard to find novels about a certain topic like that.
Googling novels on McCarthyism gets me a list of non-fiction works and biographies, but no fiction.
There should be a database of fiction someplace so that you could find novels by topic.
You could type in French revolution and get Les Miserables. Or teen angst and get The Catcher in the Rye.
A few weeks ago my mother purchased a turquoise ceramic turtle that burns citronella oil for the deck.
I immediately dubbed it “Mrs. Cook” for a character in Julia Stuart’s book, The Tower, The Zoo, and The Tortoise.
Mrs. Cook is the title tortoise and also happens to be the world’s oldest living tortoise.
Something about the way our ceramic turtle looks like she’s walking made me think of Mrs. Cook.
Tonight my mother, even though she hasn’t read the book yet, referred to the oil burning turtle as Mrs. Cook.
I love that she has such a literary name.