Friday, October 28, 2011

Destruction of Wild Cats

 There is no telling where these pictures are going to end up. Blogger is still a mystery to me, after all these years.
Best thing I've seen in a while.
You can't come to Oxford and not take this picture.

Tolkien's tree.
Best picture ever. The grandparents in Oxford.
Remember when I said I'd blog all the time, now that my course is over? That was such a lie. I'd promise to blog more in the future, but that would probably be a lie too. I only really do it when the spirit moves me, and by that I mean the spirit of I-have-nothing-else-better-to-do. There is always something else to do, if it's better per say it debatable. 

So here is a small collection of things I've written down in my little journal I carry around with me everywhere that I wanted to blog about in the past month. None of them on their own are really worthy of a whole blog post, or really of anything, but by blogging about them now I'll be able to cross three whole things off my massive list of things to do, which is all life's really about. I'm a slave to lists. 

Thing one: Lame haikus with titles (which I don't think is really allowed), most of which were written at the bus station, waiting. 


My brother got the
music, the art, wit and eyes. 
I got a head cold. 

Maybe biographical

Urgent: Wanted NOW-
A girl who wears necklaces,
and reads fairy tales. 

Dear Grandpa,

My Italian is
Mediocre at best, but
devo ricordarmi. 
I cheated on that one by a syllable, shut up.

The loneliest man at bingo.

Sticky skin and a 
flaccid handshake, smells of your
neighbor's old, wet toys. 

You can't text message break up.

Text me, so I can
analyze your tone and miss
the truth; should just call. 

Real men have pulses.

Keep your vampires,
diamond skin and spiky hair. 
Sharp, no; give me soft. 

For Alisha.

She came, she saw, she
wrote, she laughed, she loved, she danced.
She changed our music. 

Don't go reading into any of those, they are totally random except the ones for certain people, like Grandpa and Alisha. I don't really think my brother got all the good genes and I got nothing (although he did get most of them) and the text message one is not directed at anyone, just people in general who let texts ruin their day. Although I was asked out by a vampire recently and turned him down. The undead are not my type.

Thing two: the aforementioned loneliest man at bingo.  

The other day at work, a man handed me his money to pay for a tea towel or a post card of the Magna Carta or something covered in Victorian children's books spines, and our hands touched for the briefest of moments. This in and of it's self is not worth mentioning; it happens all the time. In fact, I bet that I end up touching hands with most of the customers who come into the shop, all except the ones who throw their money down on the counter, or the ones who just open their purses for me to take my pick (I should really be rich by now), or the ones who make no effort to reach their hands out toward me even a fraction of an inch so I'm forced to reach across the entire counter and then some, extend the full length of my arm to snatch the money out of their hand. That might make me sound lazy, but it's just one of those unwritten rules that when you pay someone, you actually give them the money, not just taunt them with it by holding it as far away from them as humanly possible and make them really work for it, even though in most cases, that person literally gains nothing by exerting the effort, seeing as, although they are being paid to stand there and perform the act, the actual money being exchanged goes straight into the till and not into their pocket. Such a person would get equally paid for just standing there; they could afford to stand there all day, playing pay-me chicken, waiting for the customer who's been living under a rock their whole lives to get a clue and actually hand them the money so they have leave to take their 30p post card and go bother someone else. But this is well beyond the point. 
The point is this; I make a lot of hand contact in my job on a normal basis. Usually I don't even notice. Every now and then someone has serious BO, in which case I notice, but we have hand sanitizer behind the counter, so I'm usually fairly safe. However the other day, I encountered the loneliest man at bingo. 

He smelled like old toys. The moment our hands touched, I wished they hadn't. His presence immediately conjured images of old toys, and not the ones we all loved nearly to death. Not the old dinosaur my brother loved so much all the fabric on his neck literally disappeared, not my old elephant made of a bed spread, not my American Girl Doll or our LEGOs or even my old, grubby My Little Ponies, covered in dark smudges of unknown origin. No, this guy made me shiver, cringe. I almost grimaced, but I managed to hold it together (that would not be very good customer service).  

See, he didn't smell like my old toys. My well loved, faithful friends I will never have the heart to throw/donate/give away. This guy smelled like your neighbor's old toys. Not even your neighbor, you usually know your neighbors. It was more like a stranger's old toys. Because while sure, the My Little Ponies I have (at least I think I still have them, mother?) had undefinable smudges on them, it didn't matter. They are my smudges, they happened in my room, in my house, by my hand, me. They may be mysterious, but they are still familiar. There is no telling why a stranger's Barbie's hair is sticky, or why their Tonka trucks smell like raisins, or how all the facial features got rubbed off their Polly Pockets. Anyone who's seen Toy Story 3 knows exactly what I'm talking about. My teddy bear is warm because I have been hugging it, but I'll never hug a stranger's bear. I don't know where it's been (I know, I'm sure I've hugged many strange toys, children don't know what their doing. A toy is a toy, it's only later in life that they'll really think about what they were hugging, what they were pressing their faces up against. Then they'll cringe, mark my words. That, or they'll never think about it. Because let's face it, who really cares about this? Me, because I care about things that don't matter, remember?)

This man is not really the loneliest man at bingo, that's just what I named him. I'm sure he's the loveliest person ever, I believe he was polite to me and everything. Unfortunately for him, all I remember about him is the uncomfortable feeling his clammy skin gave me and the completely random memory of dirty play things. Poor guy. 

Thing 3: Funny things learned from reading the dictionary one night with Rose in our kitchen on a Friday night. If that's not sad, I don't know what is

These things were lovingly compiled on the back of a ripped open Turkish Delight box, because I was too lazy to walk the ten steps from the kitchen table to my bedroom to get paper. 

Our favorite names for groups of animals that no one actually uese: 

Murmuration of starlings.

Destruction of wild cats. 

Pandemonium of parrots. 

Crash of rhinos. 

I hope to never be in a situation where I'd ever have to refer to a destruction of wild cats, unless referring to that adorable destruction of wild cats safely behind that high, electric fence. 

I was under the impression that anything that flew, flew in a flock, but boy was I wrong. A murmuration just seems like a lot more work than a flock for some reason. Probably because of all the murs in the word. Flock is much more snappy. Murmuration sounds like the process of pickling a pandemonium of parrots or something. That word would never fly. 

When discussing the plural forms of words such as syllabus, Rose stated that she thought a syllabus was a type of plant. If that were the case I would have had a jungle for a dorm room freshman year. 

Subcutaneous means, under the skin. Gross. 

And finally, can we please take a moment to ponder the exsistance of the silent P? Pterodactyl? It's just so illogical. 

Alright, that's all. See you in a month. Just kidding, hopefully. Next month is NaNoWriMo (do it do it do it!), so you may not see much of me in November, as usual. That, or you'll see tons of me, because blogging sounds like a good way to procrastinate what I should be writing. We'll see how it goes. 

The battery on my computer just died. And not in the plug-it-in-and-charge-it sort of way. It is plugged in, but it's not charging. Never will again. Not cool. So I basically no longer own a lap top. Fantastic. That's going to make November annoying. 

Good night murmurations!