EDY - http://EDYet.tk

Sasquatch breeds with Cousin It?

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 12:15:00 +0000

http://a4.ec-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/13/a1194557a9d5ed4477d907a0a2a168e8/l.jpg

Amazing Paths, Some Calming, Some Adventurous

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 05:23:00 +0000

Before anything else, I'd like thank Karen V., who sent me these, and to apologise to the owners as I have no copyright info on any of them.

Amazing Paths...

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May the path your life takes in the next year lead you to fun and adventure, love and peace.
Happy New Year!

Stop SOPA/PIPA

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 21:52:00 +0000

"The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 11:09:00 +0000

This is one of the best - and most disturbing short stories I've ever read. Enjoy.

http://www.classicshorts.com/stories/lotry.html

<blockquote>The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th. but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called, "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.
There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on, "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through; two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?" and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.
"Well, now," Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
"Dunbar," several people said. "Dunbar, Dunbar."
Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar," he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"
"Me, I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband," Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen yet," Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."
"Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I m drawing for m'mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, Jack," and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"
"Here," a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"
The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions; most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi, Steve," Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said, "Hi, Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.
"Allen," Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."
"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more," Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. "Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."
"Time sure goes fast," Mrs. Graves said.
"Clark.... Delacroix."
"There goes my old man," Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.
"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said, "Go on, Janey," and another said, "There she goes."
"We're next," Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hands, turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
"Harburt.... Hutchinson."
"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.
"Jones."
"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."
Old Man Warner snorted, "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."
"Some places have already quit lotteries," Mrs. Adams said.
"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."
"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."
"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."
"They're almost through," her son said.
"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."
"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."
"Watson." The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."
"Zanini."
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying, "Who is it?" "Who's got it?" "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."
"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers, "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"
"Be a good sport, Tessie, " Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."
"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"
"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"
"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."
"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
"I guess not, Joe," Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family, that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."
"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.
"Three," Bill Hutchinson said. "There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."
"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."
"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.
"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.
"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.
"Remember," Mr. Summers said, "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy," Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.
"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward, switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, nearly knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.
"It's not the way it used to be," Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."
"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.
"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.
"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.
"All right, folks," Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box. Mrs. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."
Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath, "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."
The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head.
Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed and then they were upon her.</blockquote>

Looks legit...

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 06:24:00 +0000

Holiday meal panic

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 05:36:00 +0000

We're having a belated Thanksgiving, as we're not in the US and people live/work in other towns. There are 20 family members around the table, chatting and laughing.

Suddenly, there is a THUD from the adjacent room, in which my 6mo nephew is sleeping... & silence. A parent rushes to the room, says "J!" in a sharp tone... silence.

Suddenly everyone is up & moving: "...he fell off the bed...", "...he's just limp...", "call 000!", "...are his eyes focussing?", "...call the GP...". Then he cried.

I don't think I've ever seen so much collective relief - shoulders lowered, voices slowed, tension lifted. Although it didn't seem too serious, loss-of-consciousness following a blow to the head is never a good thing, so J and his parents are en route to the hospital to get him checked out.

Seems trivial, but it was terrifying.

Editing-While-Sleeping is a bad thing.

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 12:17:00 +0000

I'm doing some online editing work for an author based in Europe, so I've been pulling some late-nighters. The last time I had this document open, I decided I was WAY too tired & would go to bed. Then I opened the doc this evening and found... this... schemozzle.

For as long as I can remember, if I fall asleep typing or talking, I speak or write a disjointed version of my REM dreams. They tend to feature penguins or killer trees, but sometimes - well, I think this derailed right after "v.", and I have NO idea from which dark corner of my brain this slithered.

Destiny

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 04:07:00 +0000

Henry Miller said,

Every man has his own destiny: the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it leads him.

Unless your destiny is to be a serial killer. Or a paedophile. Then you should balk and fight it. I shouldn't have to spell that out, people.

COPS

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 12:51:00 +0000

I'm a bit of an addict of the show COPS - it's on TV here at least 7 times per week, and I DVR it. A lot of what I like about the show is watching cops deal with irritating, drunk, stupid or insane people; what I don't like is the 18-patrol-cars-to-arrest-3-guys thing, and the (to my non-American eyes) somewhat excessive levels of force used.

Tonight's episode was in Tennessee, from about 1996, and the hilarious hairstyles alone made it worth watching.

There was a callout to a "stolen animal" call, and 2 police cars show up at a trailer park to find Male 1 (thoroughly inebriated) accusing Male 2 of stealing his cat. They're the same breed, but the markings are clearly different. There is a definitive answer, though.

Policeman 1 & 2 talk to them:

M1: M2 is holdin' mah cat hostage!
M2: this cat is female.
P1: sir, is your cat male?
M1: nossir, he's bin noodered.
P1: *sigh* but it's a male?
M1: 's name's Buddy Holly! Wouldn't'a called him that f' four years 'f 't was no girl!
P2: OK, that cat? (points to M2's trailer) is a female.
-- pause --
M1, slyly: how long's he had that cat?
P1: not long enough to get it a sex change op. G'night, sir.

Made me laugh.

you're old enough to be my dad

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 05:53:00 +0000

I was at a Sleep Clinic the other day, buying a new CPAP machine. Have you seen anyone wearing the CPAP mask? Mmmm, sexxy time... think "rebreathing equipment".

So I'm sitting in the waiting area (along with several other morbidly obese heffalumps & the oddly mortified skinny people wearing that I-genuinely-have-a-medical-condition-called-sleep-apnoea-that-I-did-NOT-bring-upon-myself look) and this old guy starts chatting me up. Even though I'm reading a book, because *obviously* people only read if they have no one to talk to. I'm being polite because I think he's nervous or chatty or impaired in some way... until he puts his hand on my knee.

Um. Are you SERIOUS? You're my DAD's age, you are NOT George Clooney, and ... oh, thank God, I hear my name! So sorry, gotta run.

He's still there when I head to reception to settle up. He sidles up, and hands me a piece of paper. Written on it is a phone number, a landline, & instructions to "ask for Sandy, the nurses know who I am". Oh. Good. He waves hopefully at me as I leave, and I throw away the paper as soon as I'm out of sight.

*shudder*

Résumé Typos

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 00:42:00 +0000

When applying for a job, spelling and grammar are *essential* - if those are areas in which you struggle, you should absolutely hire someone like me to proofread your résumé/CV and application documents prior to submission.

See Résumé Typos for some sterling examples of What Not To Do.

Post-Surgery Dance of Bruises

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 06:17:00 +0000

These would be better if I had an iPhone 4 & didn't have to guess what my photos looked like. Just saying.

Confusing medical conditions

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 06:52:00 +0000

So I've had this thing on my eyelid for a month or 4 - don't know when it came up, it doesn't hurt, I only know it's there when I look in the mirror:

So I asked my GP & apparently it's a cholesterol deposit. On. My. Eye. The first thing he said: "do NOT try to excise it yourself". Dammit, it's annoying how well he knows me.

Since my cholesterol levels have always been good, I queried this being the Portent of Doom the GP seemed to think it was, and went looking. I found an article (side note: in which pregnancy is referred to as "a medical condition" - wtf?).

Turns out, according to this, it could mean OUT OF CONTROL LIPIDS RUN FOR THE HILLS. Or, it could just be a cholesterol deposit and not "mean" anything. I'm not a fan of ambiguous symptoms - it should be an either/or: "death cometh" or "you'll be fine".

Since I got my bloods done last week in the lead-up to surgery, I've asked the surgeon's office to let me know if there's an actual problem. *le sigh* One more thing on the list, I guess.

Some clips from BestOfTheLeft.com

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 07:41:00 +0000

Rational science facts Vs Human Emotions, Influence on Politics – Need to Know – Air Date: 06-17-11

Why Facts Don’t Stop People from Believing Stupid Stuff – David Pakman – Air Date: 06-28-11

How To Quit Smoking

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 06:56:00 +0000

Go on a 4-day holiday with all 22 of your immediate family; take what's supposed to be your last pack. Accidentally leave your wallet at home so as to stymie your own half-assed plan of ducking out to buy "just one more".

24 hours nicotine-less. Do NOT get between me & the Diet Coke.

Gastric Bypass Surgery and other developments

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Mon, 06 Jun 2011 08:53:00 +0000

What a hectic couple of days. Let me give you background.

As some readers know, I have long and always been fat and in permanent financial panic, and have suffered for quite some time with Chronic Depression. 3.5 years ago I had lapband surgery. In the last two years I have developed Type 2 diabetes, stopped work, gone onto a Disability Pension and fielded approximately a million phone calls from banks asking for money I don't have.

In February 2010, I consulted with the state's leading surgeon for gastric bypass surgery (Roux-en-Y - Wikipedia article). Even with private health, the cost was simply too high. And, I suppose, I hadn't reached my current desperation level.

The dietitian I see at my GP is also the consultant dietitian for this surgeon, and she has mentioned me to him a number of times. On Monday last week, my GP gave me a message that the surgeon had offered to do the surgery for NO GAP. That means full cover through my private health. Surgery, anaesthetic, 5 days private room - all essentially free. God bless him.

So today I had an appointment with the surgeon, and I am booked in for 13th July. Have to quit smoking (impedes healing), go on meal replacement shakes to reduce my liver size (so they can get past it to the stomach), try not to panic (leads to eating whole pizzas), etc.

5 weeks, people! I'm terrified and thrilled and hyperactive and over-adrenalised.

FYI: although (unfortunately) silent, this is an accurate animation of the bypass process:

Please feel free to ask any questions you have!

I know at least one of my siblings reads this: the fact you read this here, instead of in an email with my name on it, means that I'm not opening it up for general family discussion as yet.

Things that make you choke to death

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 05:54:00 +0000

Two weeks ago, I dropped by Red Rooster to get cheesy nuggets - I was cranky, & I am soothed by eating reconstituted bits of purported chicken with melted cheese-ish stuff in it, that have been coated with sesame-seed batter and then deep-fried. It's a weakness.

Sooo, I got home and opened the pack... wait, what hell is this?! No sesame seeds. Different type of batter. PLAIN DRY UN-CHEESE-ish-Y NUGGETS. Quelle horreur! Anyway, so I rang the manager and blah blah, free fake food next time.

Today I dropped by and got my free cheese-ish-y nuggets - I checked before I left: sesame seeds? Check. Correct batter? Check. Break one open - melted cheese-ish yellow stuff? Check.

Ahhh, lunch: time to de-stress and navel-gaze. Sitting in the car, watching horses run in a field, I place the 3rd nugget in my mouth, bite down... then drag the massive piece of cooked ACTUAL PLASTIC out of the middle of the nugget.

(cigarette is for scale only!)
For the first time in my adult life, I wish I lived in America, but my dreams of instant cash settlement will have to wait. I will be taking it back to them tomorrow.

Angry Dads

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Fri, 27 May 2011 12:56:00 +0000

I was reading through some archive posts recently on Wag The Dad and came across a post titled Yelling Is The New Spanking, which is very much worth the read.

I began a Comment in response, then realised how long it would be & decided to just blog about it instead.

*******

I've seen the disastrous results of the no-discipline parents, and obviously *some* discipline is required... but the thing I grew up fearing wasn't the beatings or the screaming, but the sheer unpredictability of the rages.

I grew up with a very angry, easily triggered ex-military father who would smack AND yell AND go red in the face, before even asking what had happened. Wooden spoons, electrical cords, broom handles, duster handles - anything close-to-hand was a possible implement (he rarely broke the "don't discipline with your bare hands" rule of puppy training).

We sometimes went weeks on end without speaking at the dinner table, or drove 8 hours in a car in absolute silence, "because your father's had a bad day" and absolutely anything could set him off. 5 kids, in the back of a van, making no noise for an entire day?!? That's not discipline, that's an unhealthy level of fear.

As we got older, the fear became tinged with contempt and a complete lack of respect. For a man whose issues centred around control, blatant disrespect from His Children was unbearable. He said to me once, "you WILL respect me!" and I said, "you can't demand that. I'll show respect, but you can't MAKE me respect you". That did not end well.

It took me years, *decades*, before I understood my dad's deep level of insecurity; his fear of being an inadequate parent; the stinking residue of his own parents' screw-ups that affected his character and his decision-making process. His history and temperament made for a bad combination... but his children shouldn't have had to bear that burden.

If you have anger management issues, whatever method of discipline you use will be over-the-top and screw up your kids' lives, if you don't get treatment. My grandparents believed that only crazy people spoke to psychiatrists, and even psychologists were viewed with deep suspicion. My dad felt shame and disgust at the IDEA of telling someone "he got angry" (the very suggestion that it might be wrong was enough to get him defensively furious).

4 of the 5 of us kids are now on anti-depressants, and I'm convinced our lives would have been better if my dad had been able to overcome the inherited hooey and get help.

I do not have children, partly because I too have that hair-trigger temper and am afraid of what I might do if frustration and sleep-deprivation and colic built and built and built... or if my child screamed, "I hate you!" in front of guests.

For me, choosing not to breed is the only way to be sure to avoid perpetuating that behaviour.

It's OK to be Takei

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Sat, 21 May 2011 01:51:00 +0000

Mr Sulu, you ROCK!

Words are Worse Than Sticks & Stones

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 11:49:00 +0000

YouTube ref

Mimic Octopus

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 14:06:00 +0000

via pangeaprogress on YouTube

35' bike jumps into pond

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 13:56:00 +0000

Fast & Loose show w/David Armand

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 17:41:00 +0000

Bryan Fischer has jumped the shark

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 23:29:00 +0000

Now, Bryan Fischer is a troubled man. He works for the American Family Association, he hatehateHATES gay folks and NOW... now he's lashing out at Native Americans.

Bless. He'd only discredit himself faster if he went after childhood cancer sufferers.

Apparently, the mere fact that a non-Christian (a) existed in public, (b) was asked to open the Tucson memorial service in prayer and (c) actually did that, was so shocking that his brain foamed out his ears and onto the keyboard, creating a post which has now been removed (presumably by someone else whose brain was still functioning).

According to the Southern Poverty Law Centre, the post included:

“Superstition, savagery and sexual immorality” morally disqualified Native Americans from “sovereign control of American soil,” Fischer said. That, plus the superior battle skills of Europeans gave the latter “rightful and legal sovereign control” of American land through what he delicately described as “the right of conquest.” Fischer went on to blame poverty and alcoholism on Indian reservations on Native Americans themselves, because they “continue to cling to the darkness of indigenous superstition” and refuse to come into “the light of Christianity” and assimilate “into Christian culture.” How Christianity would have helped Native Americans adapt to confinement on reservations is anybody’s guess. Fischer was apparently propelled into his diatribe by the Native American blessing at the memorial for the Tucson shooting victims in January – a blessing that drew mocking commentary from others in the conservative media as well. “The continued presence of native American superstition was on full display” at the service, Fischer wrote. The invocation – “such as it was,” in Fischer’s words – was offered by Carlos Gonzales, a Pascua Yacqui Indian. Fischer complained that Gonzales sought inspiration from the Seven Directions, including Father Sky and Mother Earth, rather than “the God of the Bible.”

Much more at the SPLC article here.

Dilbert guy fixes the budget

noreply@blogger.com (EDYet) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 18:44:00 +0000

So, Scott Adams (from Dilbert.com) challenged his readers: he wanted volunteers for an interview about fixing the economy.

The readers' choice was this guy, and The Great Budget Balancing Interview commenced.

I stopped reading when the esteemed "expert" said:

"You're tacitly assuming that the government is morally obligated to pay when people live too long or get too sick."

Huh. YOU, sir, appear to be making moral judgements about what constitutes "too long" or "too sick". That means that you are approaching this topic from a strict "screw the old and feeble" viewpoint (which I suspect may later be expanded to include the screwing of the poor, unemployed, people with probably-illegal-Mexican-sounding names, rape victims, pacifists, vegans, gays and non-Christianists), and I can't sit through a "solution" which depends entirely on that POV.

Sorry, Scott - good luck with the interview, but I'm kind of sorry you gave this guy airtime.