Frogs and Ravens

Akkadian

Your Score: Akkadian

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You are Akkadian, a blend of the incomprehensible symbols of the Sumerians with the unwritable sounds of the early Semitic peoples. However, the writing just doesn't suit the words and doesn't represent everything needed, so you end up a schizoid mess. Invented in Babylon, you're probably to blame for that tower story. However, crazy as you are, you're much loved and appreciated, and remain actively in use by records keepers long after schools have switched to other languages.

Link: The Which Ancient Language Are You Test written by imipak on OkCupid Free Online Dating.

c/oNew Kid.

Nighttime Crazies

b - which is how I've decided to call the little black cat here - has developed a nighttime routine in which she, simply put, goes absolutely farkin' nuts. She spends about a half an hour to an hour with her eyes completely dilated, her brow furrowed, and her ears out to the sides, attacking prey and foes real and imaginary.

There's the soft catnip-filled mouse that she holds and kicks furiously (she did this with a pink Hot Cat "sausage" but it has disappeared somewhere - I'm hoping it didn't go down the ash grate in the fireplace). Another soft mouse, this one of suede with a long knotted tail, is for leaping wildly into the air in response to its being tossed and for dragging around by the tail. A furry ball and a bunch of tiny mice are good for batting under the furniture. Other mice with crinkly ears are perfect for batting and chewing.

And that's just the official toys. b has added to her repertoire rug surfing and rug wrestling, attacking an empty tissue box and scooting it about the room, and clawing and climbing into and scratching and biting a basket that used to collect newspapers for recycling. When these things get old, she'll dash madly about the house, ears all askew, paws thumping on the stairs, skidding as she rounds the corners (she has yet to get the hang of the wooden floors).

It's hilarious to watch - I egg her on by tossing mice at her, rolling balls, and stuffing the tissue box full of prey, while hiss-whistling through my teeth - tssss tssss tssss! The craziness has the added benefit of wearing her out so she won't sit outside the bedroom and yell when we're trying to sleep.

And to think that I was worried, when she was a visiting stray, by her apparent inability to play.

Broken

Hi all. I apologize for being a Lame Blogger and not posting much these days.

I could, I suppose, lay the blame at the feet of our move, and a house full of things needing to be unpacked, sorted, and given new places here to live.

I could blame the settling-in chores and errands, things like going to the DMV or City Hall, or the Post Office, and so on.

The real reason is that I'm feeling both depressed and freaked out by not having any plans beyond getting settled. I don't have a job, I don't have an agenda for the year, I don't have a purpose.

Moreover, I'm feeling a crisis of confidence about jobs in general. With a resumé like mine - long on skills and credentials, short on in-field experience - you have to be very confident and able to sell yourself to a sceptical interviewer. You have to be able to do this right from the first sentence in the cover letter.

I lack that confidence. I've lacked it since I fell out of the academic tree four years ago, and the situation has not improved since. It's hard for me to persuade people to give me a chance, when I'm not convinced myself that I'll do well. As well, being inexperienced, I second-guess the fit of a possible job so much that I often don't even bother making the attempt. This week, for example, the local paper was looking for someone to do a writing-based job that didn't require even half of my credentials. I knew I could do the job, skills-wise. But I couldn't convince myself that anyone else would look at my resumé and want to hire me for that job. And so the deadline passed for applying, and I won't be getting it, for certain.

I do this with my writing too.

I need to write for a purpose; simply spilling stuff onto the page isn't really writing to me: it's journaling, which is valuable, but isn't anything worth sharing (or even meant to be shared). It's putting events down so that my memories have a back-up, nothing more.

Lately, I have extreme difficulty figuring out what the point of my writing is. I thought I knew, then I shared my latest project with an editor I respect and like, and he thought I ought to be doing something else. It used to be that such scepticism provoked my stubborn side, and I'd continue just to prove people wrong. I don't seem to be able to marshall that confident, stubborn energy anymore; instead, it was as if someone had pulled a rug out from under feet that had already begun to falter.

So I don't know what the hell I'm doing any more, or why anyone would care. It's hard to blog with that attitude.

Chore Wars

Combine a Dungeons and Dragons format with an online chore tracker, and what do you get? Chore Wars!

Check it out - it's cool!

(For me, the best part is being able to set up monsters that might attack you during your chore adventure, such as the Tissue Lint Pixie, the Possessed Shopping Cart, or the Hairball of Doom.)

Never-ending Nightmare

This is purely and simply terrifying.

I grow increasingly sceptical about the transformative powers of a 2008 election - if we even get to have one. These are not the actions of people who plan to leave office or give up power.

If you have a blog, please get out the word. People need to know about this.

House

Outside, the wind bounces the baked leaves of the nearby trees. Inside, the air conditioner ruffles my hair and the pages of books and notes recently unpacked. It is dim and hot outside, overcast with rain withheld. I sit in the cooler dimness of our shelter's interior, conserving energy for air conditioner and for unpacking.

The house is filling up with our smells, of food and furniture, of detergent and soap and cat litter. Sometimes it surprises us with one of its own; this morning I panicked at the smell of burning wood in the living room, only to discover that the cat had flipped open the lid to the ash catcher below the fireplace. (At least, that is what I assume it is; why else would there be a hole in the bottom of the fireplace, with a metal lid atop it?)

As we race and plod up stairs and down, our bodies are mapping the landscapes of creaks and groans, of silent boards and complaining ones. The cat thunders on the stairs, despite her small size, and creeps around boxes and into closets, the tinkling of her bell the only comment on her presence. The air conditioners whoosh like tides in my attic and the living room, and rush like brooks in the rooms on the second floor. The grinding and rattles of traffic drift through the trees to us; through gaps in the calm green foliage we see cars darting frantically through space.

It is a good house, but large and complicated in its quirks. Will we live here long enough to understand it? I do not know.

Moved In - Still Unpacking

After four long days of moving, cleaning, driving, and staying in grotty motels, we finally arrived at our new home earlier this week. The country through which we drove was beautiful, with lots of winding mountain roads and riverside highways. The little black cat was a trooper; after one day of wailing she settled into her life as a nomadic cat, crying only when she wanted out for a stretch or when something startled her (like the first hairpin turn, or when we drove by some plant belching out disgusting chemical smells). She bonded with her carrier to the point that now she will sleep in it of her own accord. Turns out that the hardest part of traveling with her was dealing with the heat; in some places it was so hot that even when the car was parked in the shade with the windows open I could only leave her for about 15 minutes before having to go back and run the AC.

The movers came mid-week, and heroically the driver and his wife did most of the unloading themselves. They'd thought that the to-hires around the main company lot looked sketchy at best, and so decided that, since we'd been an easy move back at the start, they'd be able to handle it themselves.

They did a pretty good job, given the number of books we have, and the grim fact that most of them were going either to the basement or up to the third floor. It was also quite warm, though overcast, and we'd only been able to get AC installed in three of the rooms. Eventually they developed that thousand-yard stare one gets, and decided to hire two local guys to come help. With the infusion of new energy, everything got into the house between downpours of afternoon rain, and without anyone developing heatstroke or having a heart attack.

Other things that have kept us busy are dealing with window-repair people (several panes had been cracked), unpacking, exclaiming in disgust at the latest bit of neglect by the previous tenants (the broiler was disgusting), having an electrician come in to re-wire one outlet so the living room could have AC, and to replace the broken kitchen light (which exploded when he turned it on!), taking the cat to the vet to have her stitches out, getting a library card, neglecting a book I'm reviewing...

You could say we've been busy!

This week: dealing with the DMV. Joy.

A Break from Unpacking

Which Hogwarts house will you be sorted into?

Read This

Just go. Read it.

Hitting the Wall

Today I am exhausted, and not a single thing has been packed. I'm starting to feel panicky and overwhelmed by all the things left to do: the packing, the cars' tune-ups, taking stuff to Goodwill, dealing with the cat after surgery...

In retrospect I perhaps should have waited on the cat, but it was clear that if I didn't act, she'd be pregnant for the move. But having to endure her piteous meows in the night, when she's in the bathroom by herself being lonely and bored, does not help. I'm also a bit concerned about her incision; the vet used a laser, so it's not raw or bleeding, but there's a... gap... between a couple of the stitches that makes me woozy just thinking about it. So add a vet call tomorrow to the already long list of things to do.

Meanwhile, I am feeling irritated by the lingering junk in garage and basement, junk that is lingering because it's either to be donated or it's resisting easy packing. And thinking about dealing with the kitchen is depressing; there are all those fragile things to be stowed away, and decisions regarding canned food and things like flour and tea, all the while living in the house...

The movers are coming on Thursday, and I am freaking out.