Why? HaWHYii, that's why!

I'm trying to remember which of the sixteen large, blue, opaque, unlabeled plastic bins in the shop contains my raincoat and umbrella. I'm leaving for Hawaii tomorrow, you see, and I fear that at least once during the next three weeks it will probably rain. In Hawaii. Where I am going to be for the next three weeks.

Yes! You have ascertained correctly that my point is not to tell you I have lost my raincoat (which I have done) or that I last laid eyes on my umbrella more than two years ago (which is true to the best of my knowledge) or that I believe my umbrella is a khaki sort of green color (which I'm pretty sure it used to be), but that I am going to Hawaii.

I'm going for work, not for play, although I hope some play will be involved with the trip. I suspect it will. I'm going with a bunch of graduate students on a field school sort of project (I am supposed to teach them how to map things) (we'll see how that goes), and if you've ever been part of an archaeological field school...well, I'll just bet you have some wild stories.

Wild. Stories. About other people, of course.

Anyway, so that's what I'll be doing for the next three weeks, and I'm pretty sure if I get to post anything at all, it will be short and consist mainly of me boasting about how I'm in Hawaii. Right now. So look for me again in a month when I'm back and have recovered fully from all the fun I absolutely won't be participating in because this time I'm going as responsible staff.

Aha ha ha ha -- uh. I gotta find my raincoat.

Cheers.

nice dish

Jenny: Did you just call me "nasty bitch"?

Raphael: I don't think so.

Jenny: Are you sure? I swear I just heard you say "nasty bitch".

Raphael: I said "nice dish."

Jenny: Oh. Really?

Raphael: Do you want me to call you "nasty bitch"?

Jenny: Yes. No! Of course not.

Raphael: Because I can call you "nasty bitch" if you want me to.

Jenny: No! What? No! I'm not a nasty bitch!

Raphael: Says you.

Jenny: You know, I am trying to heat up your dinner, mister. In this fancy new glass container I just got from Crate and Barrel. On sale.

Raphael: Right. In that nice dish.

(softly whirring microwave sounds)

Jenny: Did you just call me "nice dish"?

aliens, mummies, and nazis - oh my!

Phew.

Was that a four-day weekend that just flashed by and slammed a baseball bat into my mailbox? Causing me to slip into a coma during which I relived my childhood through film clips? And also someone else's childhood? And now I have awakened with tales of alien spaceships and vampires and crazy-ass mummies and, of course, Nazis...and NO ONE BELIEVES ME?

What am I talking about? I don't know. I'm very tired.

This weekend we watched:

Indiana Jones and The Raiders of the Lost Ark
The Lost Boys
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
and
Iron Maiden Live! in concert

I also made lemon chicken. But as far as I know, Ultimate Evil did not rise up howling in an unearthly manner from the smoke caused by the burning of the chicken juices as it did during the course of every other thing I watched this weekend.

When preparing to face Evil at Iron Maiden in Phoenix, it's a good idea to have a Kiltlifter in at least one hand.



Probable Evil - although he's actually kind of cute.
Eddie Hunter arrives on stage. He is scary and lumbering....

....as are many of the concert-goers.

This is the view we wish we had.

This is the view we had. You can probably actually hear The Guatemalan screaming if you listen hard enough.

white flower

i am proud to announce...

...I have just been informed that I am the recipient of the prestigious 2008 "best blog tyler ever read" award!

Of course, this award really goes to all of you. Posting things to this blog has been one of the most amazing experiences of my life, quite frankly, and I couldn't have done it without you. Really. You and God. Mainly God, though, since He's the one who created the Internet and the wireless mouse. But you all too. You guys are simply awesome. SO supportive. SO affectionate. SO...well, kind of demanding, actually, some of you. On occasion.

You know who you are.

Julie.

Ahem.

Let's see what the critics are saying about Something Made Different**:


"Very good blog." -- Jen

"Ever-changing and highly amusing." -- Aunt Linda

"I told my mom about your blog." -- Clariza

"(You) name names, complain bitterly... it's pretty gossipy." -- Laura

"You could do this professionally!" -- Vanessa

"It all sounds just, well, beyond fabulous." -- Jen

"Wish I could take credit it for it." -- Olivia

"I am totally voting for you, and will begin funneling illegal (blog) contributions shortly." -- Melinda

"I read your blog." -- Laura

"Your writing kicks some serious ass." -- Christine

"Timeconsuminglyspectacularandnearlyalwaysproblematic." -- Samantha

"I'm laughing so hard at your latest entry. I could particularly relate to your letter to the toilets." -- Jen

"(As) if I have time to visit your blog now that I'm addicted to Facebook." -- Charity

"I love (y)our blog. We're wicked awesome." -- Laura

"Did you get monkey punched?" -- Eugene

"I like your blog. It's funny." -- Kelly

"You oughta put up more pictures of the dog." -- Dad

"Walla-walla! Now you're cool, too!" -- Laura

"HAAH AAAAHAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!" -- Julie

"Are you a proud mama?" -- Mom

"How would I describe it? Whimsical? Comfortably flowing from apparent non sequitur to apparent non sequitur until it coalesces into a satisfying whole that incorporates all the seemingly disparate parts? I'll have to think about it some more." -- Charity

"Well... it's the funniest thing (I've) read in months. Not counting everything I've written, of course." -- Laura

"Nooooo!!!!!" -- Julie

"This is totally inane. When, exactly, do I get food?" -- Lila

"I've been trying to recover from the (blog)." -- Melinda

"I'm sort of rueing this blog myself..." -- Laura

"I threw up on myself on Saturday in the car." -- Julie

"WOW! That is fun." -- Erika

"(I think you're crazy)." -- Betty

"It's still a little rough around the edges." -- Olivia and Matt

"I love Flower the Skunk." -- Laura

"(something in Spanish)." -- Raphael


** Some comments may have been taken entirely out of context.

** Use of parentheses indicates word-removal and subsequent insertion of different word intended to create humorous effect often not intended or endorsed by original speaker.

pollen

bee happy

Blooming saguaro.

Click on the picture to enlarge it: You never saw a more delighted bee.

penguinos: despite the tuxes, not as classy as they used to be

As with most sophisticated adult-type dinner parties, ours typically deteriorate throughout the course of the evening until by the end, everyone's standing around using naughty-sounding words in Spanish to create new and highly inaccurate euphemisms for parts of the human body.

Specifically man-parts, of course.

Penguino was the word of choice last night. Spanish for penguin, penguino is an extremely versatile and incomparably useful naughty-sounding word that you should immediately insert into your vocabulary.

With penguino, you can make such statements as: "I'd like you to meet my penguino. I call him Steve. It's okay to give him a little pat, if you want." or "My goodness! Look at that guy's impressive penguino!" or "Excuse me, sir, you're going to have to put your penguino away right now. We're about to come through with the beverage cart."

The classy nature of our dinner parties is apparently also conducive to the development of strange dances that involve a lot of arm-flapping and haphazard waving around of Pacificos.

Last night, a little dance we call "The Penguino" was inspired by the admittedly excessive use of the word penguino - or maybe the excessive use of the word was inspired by the dance - I can't recall. It's that whole "the penguino or the egg or possibly just the alcohol" thing. In either case, if you keep your elbows close to the sides of your body and bend your forearms up so that your hands are up towards your head right around your shoulders, hold your palms out so that they face the other dinner guests, and wave them around a bit, you're doing The Penguino.

Now just because I'm encouraging you to learn The Penguino, it doesn't mean I'm okay with flightless, black-and-white water birds waddling around the patio during the spicy tuna kebabs, cilantro coconut rice, ginger-spiked fruit salad, and fresh pineapple cake, so don't you go getting any ideas. You whip out your penguino during my next swanky dinner party, Mister, and you'll be arm-flapping your way right out the front door.

cheap humor

Midtown Tucson neighborhoods, by and large, lack sidewalks. This doesn't bother me since sidewalks are one of the primary places where people step in poo, and lately poo has become too much of a fixture in my life.

I was on the phone with Sara last night, having an innocent conversation about Hawaii and archaeology and whatnot, when some baby-related flurry of activity occurred on the other end of the line and then Sara's voice shouted from far away, "Oh no! I'm covered with poo!"

Naturally, this whirred my imagination into urgent activity and I instantly remembered that, some months ago, my own nephew managed somehow to cover his mother with poo as well.

Coincidence? Or diabolical plan?

At first, I suspected inferior diapers. Perhaps lead-laced diapers with malfunctioning velcro systems imported from China were to blame. The overwhelming evidence, however, seems to indicate that there's something more sinister at work here than I initially thought. After hearing these two horrifying tales and stepping in dried cow poo once a couple months ago, and also having a student hand me a rabbit dropping with a sly smile and a "Jenny? What's this?", and the time the seagull pooed on my six-year-old sister, and oh god, the waves of cats passing through our front yard and pooing in our gravel EVERY NIGHT -- it just goes on and on -- I can only conclude that the American People are At Risk. From poo.

Here in Tucson, we Midtowners are doing our part to protect our country from those who want to smear us with poo for some reason by working to keep our neighborhoods sidewalk-free. You, too, can play an important role in the fight. Consider forming Poo Patrols in your own neighborhoods, or keeping warm, wet washcloths handy in the event of a Poo Emergency. Most importantly, keep yourself informed.

This has been a Public Service Announcement. In spite of what you may think.

the man mobile

Every Friday, I drive a big white Suburban loaded with students out to an archaeological site where I then torture the students by making them MAP things and TAKE NOTES and DO STUFF. It's horrible. I'm simply a beast.

For some reason, my vehicle has become the Man Mobile. So, every morning, the girls make a beeline for the Bronco and spend the long ride up French-braiding each other's hair and talking about flowers and ponies and possibly having giggly pillow fights in their sports bras, while the boys, unshaven and smelling of alcohol, lumber aggressively into the Suburban, arguing about who gets shotgun and repeating lines from King of the Hill and using the f-word as often as possible while throwing things out the windows at homeless people and grocery-toting old women.

I wasn't too bothered by this behavior initially. After all, I worked with nearly all-male archaeology crews for awhile back in the day. I learned to smile, shake my head, and make disparaging comments about their overall lack of hygiene. Boys LOVE it when you tell them this for some reason. You can say, "Which one of you is making this car smell so weird?" and they'll all blush and giggle and cuss happily at you like they're five years old and you just tickled them under the chin and gave them a raspado.

But THEN it came out that 32-year-old females are "ladies".

That makes me a "lady."

In other words, I'm OLD.

Since "lady" has come out into the open, my oldness has became fair game. Instead of discussing Mexican moonshine and hookers, we talk about how I was apparently a kid in, like, the FORTIES. I like The Police and Fleetwood Mac, for god's sake. Which obviously makes me OLD. Although there was a little debate, since I apparently share these likes with the 21-year-old mohawked, chain-wearing, chain-smoking kid who lurks in the back seat and sometimes brings up politics (which always freaks me out). So maybe I'm not old. Maybe I'm just retro. In any case, I'm way not cool.

So 32 is not the New 22 after all. It's the New 47, and I'm headed straight to Squaresville, goldurnit.

But I'm still the driver, and if you don't start showering on a regular basis, I am turning the Man Mobile around RIGHT NOW, and we are listening to Salt 'N Pepa on the Mega Oldies station ALL the way home. I mean it.

let the whining commence

Ah. Today is hot. Weatherbug says it's 89 degrees right now.

Want to see pictures of Dawg getting bathed?

today...

I saw a horned lizard.

blooming cholla

a mano fragment
prehistoric pottery
tiny wildflowers

brushes with fame

Some of us have been going out on Monday nights after our creative writing class to The Cup at Hotel Congress. We have sopa de lima and giant club sandwiches and roasted garlic and glasses of wine and we talk about writing and about things that have nothing to do with writing and about things that might someday have to do with writing. We also sometimes sit next to bands like Blind Melon, if the somewhat manic man with the ponytail was to be believed ("You know the band Blind Melon? That's them right there. I'm serious! That's Blind Melon! So send them lots of hugs and kisses.")

Earlier that evening, we'd critiqued as a class a brilliant story written by one of our Cup group about a girl who gets raped at a crazy band party, so we declined to send them hugs and kisses, for which they are probably grateful. But they did seem to attract a lot of attention, so I went home and Googled them and now I wish I had sent them hugs and kisses. Or at least made eye contact.

decadent

good beer. try me.