For no reason whatsoever, I decided that I would be much more productive if I had a new mug. When one is writing or slogging through the data mines or sailing with a letter of marque on the Great Internet Seas, a mug is a friendly, forthright, supportive companion. Choose right, and it’s a burst of good cheer on a cloudy day.
Sure, it’s a weird fixation, but it’s cheaper than drugs. And it works.
I got these mugs from Roy Kirkham in Staffordshire, England. The good: the colors are rich, the designs pretty, and the china delicate. The bad? Shipping. And duties. That said, I really like these.
The one in the middle with the robin is my new favorite.
It can be fun when your own life becomes something of a treasure hunt. There I was, looking for Thing A when I stumbled across Thing 2. I went through a book binding phase and one of my experiments was with leather and copper. It’s been buried in my book collection ever since.
I’d be more precise now, but I still like the little leather map on the fastener.
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made with glove leather, copper sheeting, and cotton paper
I drafted four possibilities for today’s post and wasn’t quite happy with any of them. I made bread and was distracted by the cat trying to eat said bread (claws were involved), which lead to me doubling the amount of butter. (Still delicious.) We picked up herbs and other plants from a local farm. Then Mr Man asked for a haircut. I do a decent job but it takes me forever. And now it’s time to start thinking about making pizza for dinner and I’m wondering where the day went.
So today, a not terribly original thought about whales. It’s really just an excuse to use the image I spent some time playing with yesterday.
What do whales think of the ridiculousness of humans naming this planet Earth?
When it comes to writing, I try to study the substance behind the story, the skeleton that supports the larger whole. Novels have time to throw curve balls, and short stories can just upend everything because they don’t always give you all the information up front, but television and movies? I find that they tend to be much more predictable.
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One thing I’ve noticed is that the more closely I study the structure of fiction, the easier it is to predict the course of any particular show.
This is useful because it helps me better study and understand story structure. It’s also less helpful because it leads to me muttering things like “Yep, you’re definitely going to die,” and “Oh yeah, he did it,” or “Well, if you didn’t want to die a horrible death, you shouldn’t have had that heartfelt moment with the main character. Did your mother teach you nothing?!”
This is also why I love shows like Resident Alien and Sherlock and Wynonna Earp and Killjoys. Great characters and humor, plus creative, often unpredictable storylines and dynamics. And they’re just fun.
Dear Industry of Entertainment, please do not underestimate the power of fun.
Especially after the year we’ve just had.
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This brings me to my apology: Dear Mr Man, I am sorry for the ongoing commentary (ok, heckling, let’s just call it what it is) during shows. Please understand that it is a natural extension of my ongoing writerly education.
Also, we bought that high-capacity PVR for a reason. We can always rewind:)
A plant is running a casino in my yard. Also, yesterday was World Bee Day, so let’s talk about the intersection of the two.
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As I’ve mentioned before, lawns are a pain. Right now our lawn is an interesting mix of grass, ground ivy, and wild strawberry, with a few dandelions thrown in for good measure. It actually looks quite pretty, with green grass and purple, white and yellow flowers.
The ground ivy, or Creeping Charlie, is particularly good at spreading.
We’re moving in, see? And there’s nothing youse guys can do about it.
It’s also good at bringing in the bees. Right now there are several big bumblebees happily flitting from flower to purple flower. Watching them fly, I noticed that they bounce from plant to plant before settling on a flower. Curious, I did a bit of research.
It turns out that Creeping Charlie is playing those bees like a fiddle.
“Creeping Charlie employs a unique strategy to attract some bee visitors, such as sweat bees, bumble bees, and honey bees, that is tied into how the flower produces nectar. The flowers have a unique strategy for rewarding visitor pollinators, commonly referred to as the “lucky hit” strategy. Creeping Charlie flowers produce an average of 0.3 microliters of nectar per flower, but the amount of nectar in any one flower varies greatly, ranging from 0.06 to 2.4 microliters. “
Like the psychology of gambling, such random reward mechanisms keep those bees coming back for more. The good news is that on average, these flowers are worth the bees’ time and energy.
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I’m all for pollinator planting, but before you sign on to the Creeping Charlie train, let me say that it is considered invasive in many places and is most certainly difficult to remove.
“While Creeping Charlie could be a good nectar source for bees, we are not recommending that you let it take over your lawn.”
(It’s a bit late for that, but at least the bees and I can look on the bright side.)
Consider a turf alternative like this Bee blend, or plant clover instead. Bees love it, and they aren’t the only ones.
“When you look at yourself from a universal standpoint, something inside always reminds or informs you that there are bigger and better things to worry about.”
Today, a minor exercise in venting, over-the-top opinionation, with a bit of history on the side.
This is a photo of me this morning, about to head out to the wilds of Costco:
sure, that fits.
Yes, that’s my phone, perched precariously in my woefully inadequate pocket. (And off screen, Mr. Man is laughing at the mismatch between the two.)
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Dear fashion industry: Pockets matter.
You know this. Jeans for men have perfectly adequate pockets. Mr Man carries a wallet, pass, and iPhone 12XS Max in his pockets just fine. And don’t get me started on the differences between men’s and women’s suit jackets. There was a reason I borrowed my father’s suit jacket as a teenager. (Ok, the fabric shifted between green and bronze and cool doesn’t even begin to describe it, but yeah, also functional outside pockets and actual inside pockets. So many pockets!)
I could carry my phone in my back pocket. It still sticks out, but would stay in place just long enough for me to walk at a more-than-geriatric pace and break the thing. And purses? I find purses deeply annoying, not least because I know for a fact that they are often a solution to a problem that doesn’t need to exist.
There is a time and place for bags. For example, I spent two weeks traveling through Latin America with a backpack, and took a portable bag for my round-the-world tour. And if I had kids, I’d definitely rock a backpack. That’s what bags are for! For all else, pockets.
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Now, there can be downsides to keeping things in your pockets. Mr Man has sent more than one USB key through the laundry, and you can bet this woman will never keep anything important in her pockets ever again:
Still. In case of emergency or just plain forgetfulness, I want everything critical with me at all times. No “Where’s my phone, I need it to find my AirTag-enabled wallet.” No “Goodness, where did I put that handbag with all my cards and cash?” while the flames encroach. No “Wait, a zombie apocalypse? Like, now now?”
No, thank you.
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I’m hardly the first to make this observation (and this isn’t the first time, either), but sadly, I doubt I’ll be the last. More reading on the long and sexist history of pockets, because it’s good to show your work:
While Tuesdays are not highest on my list of favorite days, there is something to be said for knowing exactly what needs to happen. No waffling, weighing of options, dithering or otherwise wasting time identifying (or attempting to stray from) the prescribed path.
I’m still thinking about travel, so today we have a short excerpt from my trip to Egypt (and apologies to anyone from Cairo, but that taxi ride made an impression).
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June 29
Thursday
Cairo
I’m liking Egypt. Even the boys’ open stares and the sticky heat don’t deter me, and the organized chaos seems creative rather than threatening. That’s how I know I’m infatuated, not truly in love. No clear-eyed observer looks out from the back of an Egyptian taxi and sees anything but fear and death.
Our guide picked us up in yet another van, but this time we were the only ones aboard. It seemed that no one else was crazy enough to tour the Valley on a June afternoon. And yes, it was hot.
The guide was very well-informed, trained in the States, and proud. He took us to many burial sites, tomb after tomb baking in the hot sun. As the day went on the heat made it harder to listen and certainly to remember all the facts being thrown at us. This caused us some trouble as the guide kept giving pop quizzes. At first we thought he was joking, but it turned out he really did care if we knew exactly which Ramses we’d seen (three in total), what the symbols on either side of the tomb entrances meant, and how the tombs were built. It was a little disconcerting, but kept us on track. We spent most of the time in the Valley of the Kings, but also headed around one of the mountainous valley sides to visit the Tomb of Queen Hatshepsut, the only woman buried as a king.
When Hatshepsut’s husband the king died, she bribed his priests into declaring her a man, transformed through divine will. In that way she was able to become more than a regent for her husband’s heir and take control of the throne directly. Her tomb is backed into a towering cliff wall and covered with carvings. Wherever her name appeared, however, her bitter nephew later scratched it out, hoping to keep the gods from finding her spirit in the next life. No love lost there.
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