Kitten on Fire
Ana, the younger (and longer-haired) of my two cats, is definitely not the intellect of the family. She also loves extreme heat. The other cat, Indah, finds this heater too hot to touch. Not so with Ana:
We also have a single fan heater, which is highly inefficient but great for spending thirty seconds warming just your feet. Since it glows prettily, this is a favourite for the beautiful Ana (we all look best under the gentle glow of firelight, real or simulated). And so it was that I turned on the fan heater and rather pointedly put my feet very close to it, so Ana could not lie down and block the warm air.
No problem for a cat, of course: she simply squeezed herself, snake-like, into the miniscule gap. Her fur tickled my feet pleasantly, so I didn’t stop her.
Not until I saw the smoke.
My first thought was that the heater, effectively smothered, was malfunctioning. I grabbed Ana away, and that’s when I realised the truth: Her far side was hot. Not merely “I’ve just been pressed up against a heater” hot, but “I’m on fire” hot. The pressure of my hand on her side put out the fire, and Ana looked at me reproachfully – as if to say, “Excuse me? That’s MY heater, and everything was going just FINE.”
We no longer leave her alone in a room if that heater is on.
Tomorrow: Spoiler-free review of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2”
Plot Device Film, and Ten Untranslatable Words
Here is a movie and an article that are sashaying around the writerly blogosphere at the moment.
Yes, it’s a long film for youtube. But it’s way shorter than a movie, and just as good. Say hi to the zombies for me.
And this is an article by someone who has picked ten words that have been adopted from English into other languages due to their precise meanings.
Advice to Victorian Ladies
This is taken from a mid-book compilation by author Liza Picard, in Victorian London. Enjoy!
Advice to Ladies:
Most wind instruments are decidedly inelegant, they should be left to the gentlemen. Playing the violin-cello is of course out of the question, while the violin, while not so openly obscene, necessitates an awkward position of the head and neck which is not recommended. The piano-forte is an elegant woman’s best friend. There is room on a properly designed piano stool for two, in delightful proximity, when attempting pieces for four hands. Remember that if your companion stands up you may be deposited on the floor unless you stand at the same time. Pages need turning, by someone standing close behind you. This will be present to your mind when adjusting the neckline of your dress before a musical evening. Do not spare the application of perfume.
Never be in the company of an unmarried man alone, unless considerations such as the imminence of an acceptable proposal of marriage outweigh the normal rules. If about to faint with emotion, make sure there is a convenient sopha on which to subside. Not all gentlemen can be relied upon to catch a falling female in time.
When other peoples’ children are presented to you, express delight and admiration, no matter how unprepossessing the infants. Resist any temptation to call attention to their running noses, wet pantaloons, or digital nasal explorations. One can only hope that all these matters will be taken care of by some third party such as the nursemaid. Mothers are often blind to any imperfection in their offspring. Meanwhile try your utmost to avoid physical contact with them, combining an adroit management of your skirts with uninterrupted paeans of praise. Much the same applies to other peoples’ pets, with obvious amendments.
Not Always Right
This is a hilarious (and sometimes disturbing) site about the bizarre and funny things customers say and do. I think it’s PG, but I haven’t read enough to be certain.
Here’s three fine examples:
Medical Training These Days Is Shocking
Me: “Hello this is [name] from [college] returning your call. What can I do for you?”
Student: “Hi, I was calling to find out–”
<(A very loud noise erupts in the background. Yelling, laughing, and a strange buzzing sound ensues.)
Student: *sounding embarrassed* “Sorry about that. I work at a hospital and it’s really quiet today. Everyone’s playing Operation (the game).”
Me: *laughing* “Ma’am, you just made my day.”
Eating Steak On Rare Occasions
Customer: “I would like the 12 oz. New York Strip.”
Me: “Excellent, sir. How would you like that prepared? There is a description of all of our options on your menu.”
Customer: “Rare! And I mean extra rare! I want the cow to still be mooing on my plate!”
Me: “Alright, sir. We can do that for you. Would you–”
Customer: “I need you to write extra rare! I want it dripping blood. That is how a real man eats steak! That burnt stuff isn’t for real men! Extra rare!”
(This continues for a few minutes, until I assure the customer that I will speak to the manager in order to be sure that his steak is extra rare. I put in an order for a ‘Black and Blue’. This steak is more rare than the usual; the inside is cool and the outside seared. As promised, I tell the manager about the customer’s specific request. After I serve the food, I get flagged down by the customer.)
Customer: “What is this? This is cold! How long has it been sitting there?”
Me: “Sir, I assure you I brought your dishes out as soon as they were finished.”
Customer: “Then what is wrong with your cooks? They don’t bother cooking my food? Why is it cold?”
Me: ”Sir, you ordered your steak to be extra rare. As it explains on the menu, this means that the internal temperature of the steak will be cool.”
Customer: “What is wrong with you people? Who wants a cold steak? I never said I wanted a cold steak! I saw extra rare! That means the middle part is pink and hot! Who can eat this raw cold
stuff!”
Me: ”I apologize for the misunderstanding, sir. I can alert the management and have them make another steak for you.”
Customer: “No! I am not eating anywhere that sells food raw! This is disgusting. You people should be reported! Come on honey, let’s go to that sushi place next door!”
As Helpless As A Baby
Me: “Welcome to *** Airlines. How can I help today?”
Caller: “I need to book a ticket for my husband for May 3rd, from Tampa to Grand Rapids, Michigan.”
Me: “Thanks. Would he prefer morning, afternoon, or evening flights?”
Caller: “What does that mean?”
Me: “The morning flight leaves in the morning, at 6:45 am. The afternoon flight leaves at 1:20 pm in the afternoon. The evening flight leaves at 6:25 pm.”
Caller: “Can he get there in time?”
Me: “I don’t know, ma’am. That depends on where he’s leaving from, and how far he has to drive to the airport.”
Caller: “Oh. And those are all on May 3rd?”
Me: “Yes, ma’am.”
Caller: “My doctor’s inducing my labor on May 2nd. Will he get here in time?”
Me: “I really don’t know how long your labor will last, ma’am. That’s something you should probably consult your doctor about.”
Caller: “But is May 2nd the same day?”
Me: *baffled* “The same day as…?”
Caller: “The same day as May 3rd!”
Me: “No, ma’am. May 3rd is the day after May 2nd.”
Caller: “But what if it’s 5 in the morning?”
Me: “It’s either 5 in the morning on May 2nd, or 5 in the morning on May 3rd.”
Caller: “But is it the same day?”
Me: “Maybe you should have your husband call to book his own flight, because he’ll know how long it takes to get to the airport.”
Caller: “That’s a good idea. Should he book it for May 2nd or May 3rd?”
Me: “You should probably ask your doctor first.”
Caller: “I guess. You people make it so complicated to buy a ticket!”
Heh. Saw this and couldn’t resist:
A-moooo-sing Customers
(I am on a school trip to a mall to help with pet adoption forms. A customer comes up.)
Customer: “Gimme a f***ing dog!”
Me: “Would you like an adoption form?”
Customer: “I don’t care. I just want a dog! There’s one over there! Gimme it!”
(I look to where he is pointing. A lady is walking a dog.)
Me: “I’m sorry, but that dog doesn’t belong to us.”
Customer: “It’s because I’m [ethnicity that he clearly is not], isn’t it? ”
(At this point, I realize that he is high.)
Me: “Oh, that one is ours. Unfortunately, it is an evil space cow.”
Customer: “Holy s***!” *runs off*
“Send sleep, vodka, and bacon. . .” (PG)
Chuck Wendig did another brilliant post on his new baby, and I couldn’t resist reposting it below (remember, his blog is often MA). The original is here.
*PSSSHHcracklehisss*
“– you hear me? The stuff’s everywhere — black tar — came pouring out of diapers — could lay shingles with this stuff OH GOD HERE COMES MORE OF IT –”
*kkkkpsshhhhfsssss*
“– haven’t slept in days — seeing things — cherubs with wings, but not like out of a greeting card but like out of the damn Bible — so many eyes — fiery swords — chubby cheeks –”
*weeooooFSSHHHHcrackle*
“– think they’re cute but they’re deadly –”
“– energy levels low, rations dwindling –”
“– everywhere you go it’s always there watching waiting peeing –”
“– alert, alert, this thing’s got witch nails, it killed Samson, merciful Jesus it killed Samson! –”
“– we thought we controlled it, but no, no, it controls us! –”
” — such hubris, we thought we understood the parameters –”
*KKKKFSSSHHHHHBSSHHHH*
“– OH SWEET SID AND MARTY KROFFT IT’S CRYING AGAIN WHICH MEANS ITS HUNGRY — “
” — send sleep — vodka — baaaacon –”
CARRIER LOST
TheLittlestPenmonkeyBeseechesYou
The baby is well.
He’s covered in the acne of an 8th grade math nerd.
He’s still trying to tear off his own face with his komodo claws.
He still looks like we enrolled him in Baby Fight Club.
He sometimes smiles. He likes dancing to the Beastie Boys. His poop has transitioned from the foul black hell-slurry to something that looked like swamp mud to something that looks like deli mustard.
He’s good. And we’re pretty good, too.
Like to laugh?
If so, today’s miscellaneous Monday is for you.
Ally Brosch‘s entire blog is hilarious (sometimes a little rude, although this entry is a-okay for any age). Her pictures look simple, but they convey so much.
The God of Cake
Read the rest – you really really want to.
Tomorrow: Eurovision Report!
An Australian, an American and a British girl walk into a Chinese recording studio. . .
This video was recorded by a British girl and features an Australian man and an American woman recording a dialogue intended to assist Chinese students learning English. It singlehandedly explains all the Chinglish you’ve ever seen. As you watch, keep in mind that they were not allowed to alter the script in any way. Enjoy the increasing insanity as the Australian man starts playing multiple parts. Don’t forget to listen carefully to exactly what they say.
The fake glasses are Korean.
And here are some random photos from January last year when CJ and I went to Beijing.
I blogged about China here and here, and about the Great Wall here.
Screams in the night
Welcome to the first ever miscellaneous Monday.
I was going to write about the twittertales (writing a real-time tale each month is starting to make me crazy*, so I’ve decided to start using regular stories, hastily cannibalised into a twitterable form. It turned out to work really, really well – as you’ll discover in April, when “Cinders” happens).
But I decided not to talk about that.
Before we were married, I slept in a single bed and CJ slept in a double. That partially explains why, when we go to sleep, I’m curled up waaaay on the very edge of my side of the bed, and CJ is curled up RIGHT up against me, with his arm around my belly.
It’s all very sweet and romantic until I want to move. How to de-spoon from CJ’s dead weight**? Who knew an arm could be so heavy? Where can I possible move to anyway, with only millimeters to spare and a wall of husband blocking all feasible options other than the windowsill?
But it’s fine, because CJ doesn’t just sleep promptly – he sleeps thoroughly.
So I simply turn over as well as I can, and he – without in any way waking up – instinctively turns over and shifts to his side of the bed. Easy!
Or so I thought.
Last night, in a haze of sleepy contentment, I began the usual nightly operation of mutual turning over.
CJ began sleepily turning over, as always. About halfway into his unconscious turn something in his mind snapped. He finished the turn at rapid speed – and kept turning, faster and faster until he fell off the bed with a scrambling thud.
I heard violent battle commence at once between CJ’s limbs, the floor, his bag, and his shoes. It sounded bad. I screamed. CJ won the fight, however, and charged for the doorway (after a brief but fervent altercation with the dressing table), where he slapped on the light before he was fully upright.
The lightbulb above the bed blazed into luminescence, and I saw CJ, still hunched from his flight, staring fixedly at the light. He spoke with the deep voice of a man still crouched ready to grab a weapon: “It’s. . . it’s gone.”
By this time I was sitting up in bed, very concerned the corner of our dressing table had brained my husband. “What is it? What’s wrong? CJ?”
He didn’t break his stare at the light, evidently not quite believing that the threat to us had passed. His voice was still deep, clipped, and utterly serious.
“Dragonfly,” he said.
I stared at him in disbelief, and he began to realise something was off. There was a long and mutual pause.
“. . . a big one,” he amended.
I laughed hysterically for the next hour, gasping for breath. My unconscious mind regularly comes up with ravening zombies, nests of vampires (not the sparkly kind), gun massacres, automatons with knives coming out of their fingertips, and so on.
CJ has a nightmare about a bug. A pretty bug. He assured me it was “as big as a pigeon”.
That didn’t help.
Next Monday: Top ten awesomenesses to play along at home.
*er
**He’s pretty much always asleep before me. Cue comments about “no rest for the wicked”, “guilty conscience”, etc.
S#76: I am an aeronaut
I’ve written a shiny new guest blog (about ballooning and sailing a tall ship, from the perspective of a writer), all the details of which will be revealed very soon.
Today, finally, is the triumphant blog of riding in a hot air balloon. Here’s how it went:
The pilot released a large helium balloon with a light on it – for wind speed – then laid out the nylon envelope (with our help).
CJ and I held the envelope open while it was inflated with a powerful fan (only about half inflated, really). The pilot walked inside, checking the ropes to the vents on the top and side were lined up correctly.
The top vent is mainly useful for descending – possibly very quickly – while the side vent/s change direction by venting air sideways (not actually steering).
Fire! The air grew hotter and hotter until the balloon stood up, soon pulling the basket with it (with a little help from us). We climbed in over the sides. At this early stage, the burner was uncomfortably hot on the top of my head because it was on so much of the time.
And then we flew – so lightly and so high – like a feather blown off the ground that floats up so smoothly. The strangest part was how easy and natural it felt.
The flight part of this article is here, where I get paid for it 🙂
We overshot about four possible landing spots and ended up out of Canberra in a random farm (causing considerable difficulty for our follow vehicles). Turning in a circle, there were literally no man-made buildings in any direction. We were lost!
As we came in to land, it looked like we’d tip over – but we didn’t.
CJ stood on the envelope so it didn’t refill.
We pushed the envelope into a long sausage shape, which we later shoved willy-nilly into a large nylon bag.
The pilot knew the pilot of the Melbourne flight that was on the news in January when it had overshot the beach and descended in the sea. The pilot had kept the balloon hovering just above the waves until a boat reached them. He tied the balloon to the boat, safely unloaded all the passengers, and then towed the balloon in to shore. The envelope was a new one, and cost $80,000.
Our pilot also lent me a fabulous Time/Life book called “The Aeronauts”, some sections of which are reproduced here:
After a long and terrifying flight from St Louis in 1859, four men were brought down by a storm over Lake Ontario.
One final squall hurled the balloon against a high tree, where it expired. The basket lodged in a fork about 20 feet up. Cautiously the men inspected themselves. LaMountain had suffered contusions on one hip; the other three were shaken but unhurt. Lowering themselves by ropes, they were greeted by a dumbfounded delegation of citizens from the nearby town of Henderson, New York. An elderly lady expressed surprise to see “so sensible-looking a party” debarking from “such an outlandish-looking vehicle”. She asked where they had come from. “St Louis,” Wise replied. The lady fixed him with the gimlet gaze of an experienced detector of humbugs. “That will do, now,” she said.
In the 1820s…
Green used all kinds of innovations to keep his performances lively. One of his earliest triumphs was an ascent on a pony attached by ropes to the balloon’s hoop; he calmed the animal by feeding it beans from his hand. A planned flight in the company of a tiger and its trainer was canceled when the authorities intervened.
In 1957, as part of his training for space, Major David G. Simons went aloft in a cylindrical capsule measuring just three by eight feet. He was in it for 43.5 hours in one stretch, wearing a pressurized space suit so snug he said it was like “being loved by an octopus.”
In 1906, a man called Butler took a group of dinner guests from London to Brighton in a balloon, stopping frequently to correct their direction. At one stage, with little idea where they were, they landed in a tree. They awoke a large number of birds, which then awoke the owner of the tree.
“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the man, raising the window. “Who are you?”
“Balloonists, resting,” replied Butler. “Where are we?”
“Twelve miles from Brighton, going South. Are you stuck?”
“Oh, no, we’re very happy. You don’t mind us sitting on top of your tree, do you?”
“Not at all,” said the man, who then closed the window with a polite “Good night.”
Solution
So, remember that moral dilemma I had about whether or not to tell an (alleged) blind man that he was routinely walking through the women’s changeroom?
He was a she.
In my defence, I only saw her from behind (until more recently, when I discovered the truth). She is elderly, very squarely built, and has very straight iron-grey hair cropped short. Also, she has an extremely deep voice. Definitely a female bathing suit, however.
Who’s blind now?
Felicity Banks 