May I Be Excused?

I know I haven't been posting much here lately. The thing is, work has been kind of busy:

Maybe more than kind of.

Whinesday: There Ain't Nothing Wrong With the Radio*

Buckle up, guys; we're getting extra-whiney this week.

As a Californian, I have a special bond with my car. It's part of my life, a constant that I can turn to that helps me and helps to define me.

It keeps me from having to take public transportation.

But all that has been lost to me for the past two weeks, as my car-- the nice reliable little Japanese compact I got after my ever-so-cool but entirely unreliable old Porsche finally gave up the ghost five years ago and I vowed that this time I would get something that didn't give me that kind of trouble, even if I had to take a major hit in the cool department-- that car is in the shop getting the second new engine of its young life.

I will admit, the first one was kind of my fault. Not entirely, because I couldn't have known about the fault in the engine that was making it burn oil, or the fact that the oil light would never turn on, no matter how bone-dry the crankcase. But partially, because by not getting regular oil changes I violated the warranty, allowing Mazda to take no responsibility for the cost of replacing the engine after I drove it with no oil in it at all, causing it to make some truly unpleasant noises before dying in a very final way. Which is why, to save money, I took it to a shop in Berkeley to get a used replacement engine, rather than blowing the money on a new one and dealer service prices.

My first clue that this was not the greatest-ever idea was the number of issuesI had with the car after I got it back from the shop. Check engine lights, timing problems-- I finally got fed up with hauling it over the bay to have them fail to fix it and took it to the dealer in Burlingame, where they actually (miracle of miracles!) fixed it so it would run well.

But it was still going through oil.

Mini-Whinesday: Some of Us Are Here To Run 7 Miles Edition

Listen, if you are in the gym, and all of the good treadmills, the ones with the fans built into them that are very handy for people who are running long distances, happen to be in use, and you happen to notice that someone who is on one of the other treadmills (of which there are many, unoccupied) is very clearly watching to see when one of the good ones becomes available, and so you stand behind the one person who is finishing up his workout so you can snake that good treadmill before the other person who wants it can get it, all so you can do fifteen minutes of mostly walking, well, all I'm saying is there are aspects of your personality that you might want to examine more closely.

Whinesday: The Embarrassment of the Short-Distance Swimmer

As you may recall, I have been trying some new things in the exercise realm recently. That last one went fairly well, in the sense that I survived it and (I think) became a bit stronger, and got to feel unduly pleased with myself for getting up so early in the morning, but not so much in the sense that I wore too-old shoes to the first day and did something unfavorable to my Achilles tendon. Which means, if I want to have any chance of finishing the San Jose Half Marathon on the first weekend of October, I need to stay off it now and let it heal. But I still need to do my exercise, and there isn't a heck of a lot you can do in the way of cardio without putting strain on your feet.

Except swimming.

I've always considered myself a passable swimmer. I learned when I was very small, in my grandparents pool and continued my education at the very summer camps of my youth, but I've never really gotten past the "pretty sure I won't drown" stage of ability. But I thought I knew a couple of strokes (breaststroke and crawl*) and it seemed like a good interim exercise. There's even a pool in our building!

(We will not talk about the part where I buy a swimsuit, except that I would like to share my theory that sport suit manufacturers make them extra unflattering on purpose, so that you will think you need to work out more, and therefore buy more swimsuits.)

Whinesday: Ow

I hurt. Not psychologically, of course; that part of my soul died years ago. But everything else is pretty sore, because I have made the not-terribly-well-thought-out decision to begin attending a fitness "boot camp" that meets in the park across the street from me. At five-thirty am.

Do you have any idea how early it is at five am? The sun isn't even up yet! It's the middle of summer! When I am waking up, I want the sun to have the decency to be there and ready for me, not hanging out below the horizon like some kind of lay person who doesn't have to get up at five am.

When I get out of bed, I do not want to be able to look up in the sky and see stars, unless I have been hit on the head with something heavy. Actually, I don't want that either, so let's just call it a complete wash.

In case you're wondering what is up in the pre-dawn hours in San Mateo parks, besides me, elderly Asian people and guys going through the trash, I would have to say "bugs" and I have bites from various wee beasties all up and down my legs* to prove it.

Oh, and the workouts? Yeah, they're basically just your usual hour of jogging, squats, jumping jacks, butt-kicks, Frankenstein kicks, squats where you jump at the end, jumping jacks where you squat at the end**, hand weights, skipping, giant rubber bands that tie your feet together, and then you have to walk (while squatting), jump-ropes***, more running, high knees, pushups, crunches, planks, stretching, and one exercise that didn't have a name because I'm fairly sure that the terrifyingly fit young woman who coaches us made it up on the spot, which involved standing on one rung of a jungle gym, holding onto another about three feet above it and pulling ourselves up with our arms. I have pains in places I didn't think I had muscles.




*Okay, there's only three. But they ITCH.
**I'm still not wholly clear on the difference between these two.
***It turns out that I am no longer any good at jumping rope. This makes me kind of sad.

Whinesday: Ow! That Was My Tooth!

(Yes, this is two Whinesdays in a row. What can I say, my life is hard.)

Dentists lie. Not in general, as far as I know; it's entirely possible that in their personal lives they are vigorously, painfully honest, annoying their loved ones and embarrassing their friends with their devotion to telling the entire truth at all times. But when it comes to talking to you, the person with teeth, about what is going to happen to and around said teeth, their grip on reality becomes somewhat more tenuous, specifically when it comes to how much something is going to hurt.

I was reminded of this recently when I went to the dentist for the first time in what may or may not have been the better part of a decade (I  know, believe me, I know) and I discovered that there is a new invention that dentists love: the sonic plaque removal gun. Dentists love it because it means no more scraping away at nasty teeth with a little pick: just turn that baby on and blast away. And I have to think that enthusiasm has made them play a little more fast and loose with the truth than usual, because unless your definition of "totally painless" is "like having your gums attacked by angry badger," then there was some inaccuracy in that description.


Of course, all this complaining is just my way of avoiding my responsibility for the real problem, which is that I had avoided going to the dentist for so long that a cavity in one of my molars had developed to the point where a bit of the tooth broke off, causing me, as the dentist would say, "slight discomfort." Which is how, in a masterful bit of planning, I managed to schedule a major filling appointment for six hours before I was due to leave on a red-eye flight across the country. Go me!*

I will, grudgingly, admit that the work all seemed to go reasonably well, though the dentist lost major points with me for waiting for the moment when I was all numb and drooling and zoned out on nitrous oxide to suggest that maybe I'd like to get my front teeth straightened because, I don't know, maybe he has some boat payments to make or something.** But, on the plus side, the anesthetic has just about worn off and I'm not in too much pain yet, so who knows, maybe this won't be so bad.

Or maybe I'll end up with "some soreness."


*Seriously, I need to get moving. I haven't finished packing yet.
**True, my teeth are not perfectly straight. But it doesn't look like my movie star career is going to pan out at this point, and I spent enough time in retainers and braces to know that teeth? They don't like to move, and they have plenty of nerve endings at their disposal for when they want to make that point.

Whinesday: Hey, This Is Hard

As some of you* may be aware, I have been pursuing a dream of becoming a novelist for some time now. It hasn't gone very well so far, but that isn't what I'm whining about today. No, today I'm complaining in advance, because I have realized how tough it would be if I actually succeeded.

Allow me to explain. Two weeks ago, I rashly declared that, in order to compete in Sophie's blog contest, I would write the first thirty pages of a brand new and entirely ridiculous book**. I knew at the time that it was foolish, but one of the prizes was nail polish, and I love nail polish. Besides, I thought it would be a good test, to see if I actually could do it. And, like so many tests in my life, I failed.

Well, not failed, exactly. More like "succeeded in an unencouraging way." True, I didn't quite make it to thirty pages, but I did get up through the second squid attack and the bit with the reality show, and I came up with an awesome tagline for my fake query letter,*** and that's as much as I could hope for, really. But in order to manage that, I spent two weeks losing sleep, ignoring my boyfriend, failing to practice my harp (which is about to be painfully obvious at my lesson today) and welching on my part of the apartment cleaning we had to do this week because our landlord wanted to show it to a potential buyer (oh, joy). So yeah, I managed, but not very well, and it got me thinking: What if I succeeded? What if somewhere in this crazy universe there was a publisher who wanted to pay me for my work, and signed me to a multi-book contract? I certainly couldn't quit my job-- I'm delusional, not crazy, and shoes don't grow on trees. Which leaves me working towards my imaginary deadlines in the same way I spent the last two weeks, burning relationships and the midnight oil. Do I really want to do that?


Well, yeah. Who needs people when you can have the immortal fame and glory that comes from being the author of Land Squid? (Not to mention its sequel: Land Squid II: Let's Get Kraken)


*And by "some of you" I mean "anyone who has been within ten feet of me for the last fifteen years."
**Land Squid!
***"Some days you get the calamari. Other days the calamari gets you."

Whinesday: The World's Most Irritating Pants

Let's talk about pants. In general, I'm a fan. They are frequently flattering, keep your legs warm and leave you free from the fears associated with skirts and windy days. But sometimes, at the hands of an over-ambitious designer who has confused the concepts of "innovation" and "crackhead stupidity," pants can go horribly, horribly wrong.


This is one of those times.

This item was being sold at Barney's in New York, as pants. Which, technically, I suppose they are, what with their leg-covering properties and all. But on closer inspection, they prove to be both more and less than that. More because they include components of at least three different pants in one, and less because they are just so incredibly stupid.

Perhaps you think I am overstating. "Oh, that Daisy," you're thinking. "Always overstating things."

"Really?" I respond. "Okay then, let's break this down."

Starting from the top:

Which is sweatpants, or at least a portion thereof. Now, sweatpants are fine things; exceptionally comfy and perfect for those days when buttons and zippers just seem like too much work. But in this Frankenpants situation we only get part of the sweatpants-- the top part, to be specific-- grafted on to a heavy, almost-denim fabric with a pointless, asymmetrical button and inexplicable beltloops*.

From there we proceed to the crotch:

Which is dropped, of course. Because when you are dressed in the finest mixed-material, inexplicably-beltlooped Frankenpants money can buy, the last thing you want is to not look like you're wearing a diaper.

And now, the back:

Which, if you can't tell, is made of the material normally used for lining things like suit jackets. These pants are like a mullet, except instead of being party in the front and business in the back, they're stupid in the front and crazy in the back.

A lot like a mullet, actually.


Oh, and before I forget, the bottom:

Cropped, rolled and bunched, for that insouciant "my kitchen flooded and I had to wade in and save the toaster oven and I forgot to roll my asymmetrical mullet Frankenpants back down" look.


At the time that Lisa and I encountered these pants, I was on the fence about buying a (very cool) coat at the same store. I was actually carrying the coat with me when we examined them, but the pants-- their very existence and the fact that the store was actually attempting to sell them for $455 (shockingly, they have since been marked down)-- offended me so much that I couldn't bring myself to make a purchase, and I left the coat hanging there on the rack, so that the pants might know what they had done, and be ashamed.



*"Inexplicable Beltloops" is what I am going to name my alt-country band, when I have one.

Whinesday: Of Gym Lockers And Head Injuries

Today's inaugural Whinesday was going to be about leggings, towards which I feel a very strong and entirely reasonable animosity, but recent events have compelled me to make it about something else that is very close to my heart: public gym locker room etiquette.

Honestly, I wouldn't think a post like this should be necessary. Who among us is not aware that, when sharing a small area where sweaty strangers must gather and undress, a certain degree of courtesy should be expected? As it turns out, many; therefore, this post, with a few key rules.

(I should note that the following rules are derived from the ladies' locker room at the gym in the office park where I work; naturally I am assuming that the apply equally to everyone else, everywhere.)

1. If, in an almost totally empty locker room, you enter the one bay of lockers that has a person in it, Do Not take the locker next to her but one up, forcing her to choose between finishing her changing facing you at close quarters or turn and face the mirror, because a) this is creepy and b) if I liked looking at myself in the mirror while changing, then I wouldn't have spent the last hour on the treadmill, now would I? I don't care if that is your best, most favoritest locker in the world; find a second favorite or deal with it. Minimal distance in an empty locker room is five lockers.

2. If you come back to your locker and find yourself lucky enough to have the whole bay to yourself, Do Not assume that it will remain that way for the foreseeable future and spread all of your stuff (bag with lotions, wet bathing suit, gym bag, shoes, clothes, underwear, lunch) over the entire bench area, and then go off and dry your hair. And if you do, and if someone else comes along, with the entirely reasonable expectation that she is going to be able to find somewhere to put her stuff down, and stops with surprise upon seeing your mess and says something to herself like, "Whoa, what exploded here?" Do Not give her dirty looks in the mirror as she goes by again on her way to the shower.

3. When selecting a locker in a room where no more than one tenth of the lockers are occupied, Do look around and try to make sure that the locker you are taking is not directly adjoining one that is already in use (you will be able to tell by the fact that the key is missing). Failing to do this can result in the occupant of that locker returning while you are starting to change and have already taken up all of the nearby bench space and have your locker door open to entirely block her locker, causing her to have to move your door back to a right angle and try to work out of her bag while it is still in her locker, causing some of her makeup to fall out onto the floor, causing her to lean down to pick them up, then whack her head on the corner of your locker door, then drop back to the floor, swearing loudly*.


Honestly, is that too much to ask?


*Sorry, Mom. But the Mythbusters proved that it helps**!
**Actually, I have some concerns about their experimental design there.

Winesday/Whinesday

So, three weeks into this and I seem to have come to the inevitable conclusion: I am not a very good wine blogger. I remain, of course, an excellent wine drinker, but the part where I translate that experience to the written word has so far escaped me, with all of my impressions being either "tasty!" or stolen from other people. Which is not to say I am giving it up entirely-- I have never let abject failure stop me so far* and I don't see why I should stop now. What I am going to do is to take advantage of Karen's (not the one with the vegan shoes, the other one) fortuitous misunderstanding and alternate Winesday with "Whinesday" in which I indulge in my other favorite pastime: complaining about things that annoy me and that I disapprove of.

I don't actually have one ready for today, so I am going to lean another, more talented blogger who has illustrated one of my grammatical** pet-peeves.

I agree with her alot.



*Not true, but go with me here.
**Yes, I am aware of the irony.