So, apart from getting waylaid by the sad woman with her sad story in Barnes & Noble last weekend, I also managed to get a little book shopping in.

Actually, it wasn't shopping so much as it was replacement. Several times in the last couple of weeks, I had gone into the upstairs book-o-teria and book-bookery that is the home office in search of either Gone with the Wind (Every time I pick it up, I mean to read it with a critical eye, and every time, I fail -- but damn it, I was going to try again) or Pride and Prejudice, and both books, both beloved copies were missing.

I looked everywhere. I mean, EVERYWHERE for either one, and came up with bupkis, so we went trooping off to the bookstore for replacements.

And now, if you looked at my nightstand, you'd get a snapshot of who I am these days: Jane Austen stacked on top of Margaret Mitchell stacked on top of Harper Lee stacked on top of J.K. Rowling, with Sarah Vowell and Abraham Lincoln (the man himself) leaning in on the action, all covering up the secret shame of a woman's glossy and a doorstopper work of English chicklit.

I finished Pride and Prejudice the night I bought it, and I've been working my way through GwtW on my own, while reading a bit of Harry Potter (Sorcerer's Stone) out loud to Adam every night, while the rest I pick up at random, open somewhere in the middle and just read.

I can't believe a quarter of the American population is missing out on this joy. Really, it breaks my heart.

Labels: books, meta

Today is day three of the new job.

Adam: It's the third day. You know what that means?
Sarah: I have to put out?
Adam: . . . We've been together too long.
Sarah: Yeah.

The job is interesting, and eventually they'll let me do it, but the past two days have involved HR paperwork and watching coworkers with longer tenure work. Eight hours. Of watching other people type. And since I'm not stalking anyone of them, it's not as compelling as it could be.

But it'll get better. Today they're letting me file!

The job doesn't quite feel like the job yet. I'm only about 1000 yards from the Journal, and I've had to make a concentrated effort to not turn into the editorial parking lot each time I've driven past. I keep bumping into former co-workers at Starbucks, and keep referring to my time at the Journal in the present tense. "On my desk, we do this" for example -- which makes it sound like I've died and this is the afterlife.

But let's not compare the new job to death. Let's compare it to attending camp: it's summer, it's an activity to get me out of the house and it's not school, but it doesn't feel real.

It'll feel real eventually.

And now, to follow in the footsteps of every other Albuquerque blogger, I give you the WaPo critique!

Washington Post reporter Sridhar Pappu opened a profile on former US Attorney David Iglesias thusly:

At 9 a.m. on the very edge of the dusty, desolate collection of adobe homes and Vietnamese restaurants that seem to form this city, David Iglesias begins his run through the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. This is not easy terrain. The footing is terribly uneven. The altitude can be unbearable. At certain times one can hear the grumbling of mountain lions and the feasting of coyotes.

There are so many things wrong with this lede. Like, dusty? Only in days ending in -y, but is that a problem? Desolate -- I don't think that word means what Sridhar Pappu thinks it means.

Webster's defines it thusly:

1 : devoid of inhabitants and visitors
[That booming population of 750,000? Is all in your MIND!]

2 : joyless, disconsolate, and sorrowful through or as if through separation from a loved one [I'm guessing that to someone from the east coast, we could all be mourning separation from using water with reckless abandon, but c'mon.]

3 a : showing the effects of abandonment and neglect : DILAPIDATED b : BARREN, LIFELESS c : devoid of warmth, comfort, or hope : GLOOMY desolate memories>
[No, no, it's a desert, no.]

And then he hits the pervasive stereotypes of Albuquerque: adobe houses and . . . Vietnamese restaurants?

That's a new one.

The lede further descends into histrionics with the unbearable altitude, and the descriptions of animal noises. Oh, man. Mountain lions scream, dude. The scream sounds like a woman. I know this, because there was a mountain lion den near my childhood neighborhood, and they liked to let loose with blood-curdling screams when they were picking off the house pets.

And the sound of a coyote feasting is less yummy huffing noises and more yummy huffing noises coming out of a city-issued garbage can. With loud thumping thrown in for good measure. Like a happy puppy rolling in trash, only not quite.

Or at least, that's how the west side coyotes roll.

I appreciate the reporter's attempt to throw in some local color, to transport readers to the Duke City and give them a glimpse of life in Albuquerque, but seriously, that version of Albuquerque is totally unrecognizable to the locals, and damn off-putting to anyone who has never bothered leaving the beltway.

Which means, now that I'm in the new job, I can say this:

Damn journalists. Always get it wrong.

Labels: albuquerque, meta, workin' stiff

I know. Neglectful.

So, I quit my job. That was the big hush-hush, don't-jinx-it news. Maybe it's not the hush-hush, don't-jinx-it news that everyone is hoping for, but hey! New job! New challenges! New title!

I know!

I'll be an assistant editor for an unnamed company, which means I'll actually use the English degree for professional gain and profit. If I could, I would line up every person who warned me off the major and perform a version of the "I Told You So" dance tailored to their specifications. For instance, my dad's version would go, "I told you so, I told you so, I-I-I told you so, that'll be fifty bucks, please" with some Cabbage Patching thrown in for good measure.

It's almost enough incentive to dig out the sheepskin, wipe off that questionable brown spot and frame it.

Almost.

Now I just need to survive my last week at the Journal without falling apart into a gooey puddle of panic. I've spent the last nine years here. Nine. Years. I don't know any other professional life.

Yeah, I'll get over it.

Labels: meta, workin' stiff

It is shameful how long I've gone without a proper entry. Sorry about that.

Since the last time I posted something meaningful, I turned twenty-nine. And if you'll pretend I'm wallowing in angst about the Last Year of My Twenties, I'll pretend like I'm wallowing in the Last Year of My Twenties and we'll both ignore the fact that Flickr has completely taken over my life.

But life continues to go on. We're still having the same debate between selling the house and waiting out the recession here; switching jobs, switching cities, switching countries. We're still playing with cars and cameras and making salsa and baking cupcakes. I'm making a batch of chocolate peanut butter cupcakes right now; I'm just letting the batter rest for a minute.

I apologize for wandering off; there was something shiny on the other side of the internet. So please, tell me how you've been, and what you've been up to. I'd like to know.

Labels: meta

For the sake of my sanity, let's pretend that Flickr is my blog this week.

Or I could talk about my haircut. For hours.

Labels: meta, snappy-snappy

So. I got a haircut, and for the first time ever, I had a stylist who understood the fivehead and who suggested a solution for masking the bulging real estate above my eyebrows.



Before. Long hunks of hair that just hung there. A slope of cranial space that Hillary wouldn't have dared attempted.



Now? I should smile more. But just look at that demure forehead! Why, it's only verging on a fivehead.

Labels: meta

Don't cha just love deja vu?

I'm not talking about a poorly executed Matrix-y black-cat-repeition scene, but that feeling of I swear, I had this dream six months ago which crops up from time to time.

When that feeling of "repeat!" hits me, I try to view it as the universe telling me my life's sticking to its preordained track, or my inner Calvinist reminding me it's all a lost cause anyway and hello fast train to hell! (Why yes, I do have Puritan ancestors; how could you tell?)

And yes, sometimes I like to indulge in a little magical thinking -- maybe those vivid-but-boring dreams do hold the key to what comes next, if only I could remember -- but most of the time I'll shake it off and go about my business.

But today that old feeling of "I have so done this before" washed over me and I just wanted to scream. To go back to that magical thinking for a moment, if this is the path the universe has laid out for me, I'd like to speak to someone in charge, seriously. I'd like a little guidence, or at least a map and a dart, or reassurance that this is as good as it gets, and darlin', it's pretty damn good.

Or a martini. I'd take a martini.

I mean, honestly.

Labels: meta, whining

Have I talked about my busted-ass keyboard? No?

Well.

About a month after I purchased the iBook, my J-key popped off. Just the feature every girl hopes for in spanking new technology -- a busted-ass keyboard.

It freaked me out in the beginning -- having that piece of plastic slip out of place and fling itself towards sweet, sweet freedom was disconcerting to say the least -- but I've learned to tolerate it over the months. And now? It doesn't bother me so much. I'll be tapping away and that J-key will make another break for it, I'll catch it and beat it into submission again. It's annoying, but fixable.

Startles the hell out of fellow Satellite patrons on occasion. Boink will go the key, causing the guy on my right to gasp and say, "Your! Your keyboard! It broke!" And I'll show him how I fix it and then he asks if I've taken it to the Apple Store for consultation.

Well, no. Not yet. That would require stepping foot in the Albuquerque Uptown project and I haven't worked up the stomach for that. It takes a lot of courage to face Appletopia and Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn.

Anyway. That damn J-key. In working on the project that will not be named, it has come to light just how often I use the word "just." And I'm skittish, see, because if I hit that J-key in just (there's that word again) the right manner, it could disrupt the narrative flow, damn up the stream of consciousness and otherwise impede progress.

Damn keyboard.

Labels: meta

That really shouldn't make me laugh, but it does.

Labels: meta, snappy-snappy

A red light camera violation never did turn up, so I imagine I'm off the hook.

Which means there's a stack of six violations sitting in my mailbox.

But still.

Labels: albuquerque, driving, meta

The last laptop -- a technological dinosaur without a built-in WiFi card -- was kick-ass awesome for this part of the project, and by that I mean the part of the project where I need to stop checking my e-mail, Flickr, my e-mail, Flickr, the blogroll, Flickr, and e-mail (and Flickr) repeatedly and just type.

The new hotness laptop? I could turn off Airport, but why would I want to? I'd be cut off from Flickr. And e-mail!

(I mean, just right there, Gmail dinged up a fresh e-mail. If Airport wasn't engaged, I wouldn't have known.)

Procrastination, especially on such a tight deadline, is fun!

Labels: crossing the line, meta

My brain is melting.

M
E
L
T
I
N
G.

I have to wear a hat to keep it from leaking out of my ears, to keep it from exploding my cranium. I have to keep it drenched in caffeine and Advil so it won't revolt. In turn, it's doing what I want it to do.

I'm working. There's a very large deadline slumbering in the immediate future.

Labels: head, meta

In the evenings, when we settle down for long stretches of mindless television, we both tend to have some sort of crafting project. Adam, who honed his skills on painting models as a child, refurbishes Transformers.

I knit.

Adam's turn around is a lot faster than mine: he can knock out an updated Transformer in the time it takes to watch two Mythbusters episodes and a Boston Legal. My projects are a little more long-term. There's a lot of picking up and putting down, but I've mastered a couple of projects that move in a hurry and satisfy my need for instant gratification. Like, I made a hat, which snowballed into a hat for my little Babo, which turned into a hat for a friend's regular-sized Babo. And I also made my stupid simple afghan on the mongo needles, which took four skeins of yarn and two weeks of TV time to complete. Stupid. Simple.

But I have finished all those projects and I'm looking to do something new, which was when my friend Scout suggested Yarnplay by Lisa Shobhana Mason as a great project book.

It is great. The photography by itself is drool worthy, and the colors are very mod awesome.

But now I'm tempted by one sweater, the "Edie" sweater, an asymmetrical cardigan, and I have sworn up and down that I'd never attempt a sweater because I'm not that great a knitter.

I think I'm going to attempt that sweater. It will be the long-long-term project, while I have smaller projects going on other needles and Adam thinks I'm absolutely insane, but yeah. I think I'm going to attempt a sweater. My mother swears it's a worthwhile endeavor, and she still wears the first sweater she knitted some thirty years later, but she says she ripped it out so many times and put so many tears into it that she feels duty bound to wear that sweater to the grave.

This had better be one hell of a sweater, that's all I'm saying.

Sarah's Stupid Simple Afghan



Measures about 60" x 60" when finished.

Using Lion's Brand Homespun acrylic in whatever color (4 skeins)
Cast on 8 stitches onto a US 17 (12 3/4 mm) needles
Knit across
For two skeins, knit four, yarn over, knit to end.
For remaining two skeins, knit three, knit two together, yarn over, knit two together, knit to end.
When down to 8 stitches, bind off.

Stupid. Simple.

(Taken from a dish cloth pattern given to my mother by one of her numerous aunts-and-or-cousins in North Carolina in 1986.)

Labels: knitting, meta

[The internet tubes at home are clogged, and we totally spaced buying some digital Draino last week. I'll only have limited access for the next 24-48 hours, meaning at work, meaning tomorrow, meaning my the day of heaviest workload for the week. What does this mean to you? If you sent me an e-mail or commented, it might be awhile until I get back to you. I don't hate you, I'm just stuck.]

One of the things I love about Albuquerque is the seasonal stubborness that comes out. Once that thermometer hits 75 degrees three days in a row, an official proclaimation goes out declaring it's spring, man. Doesn't matter what the Weather Nerd says, doesn't matter how many late season cold fronts plow through the state, it's friggin' spring. Dress accordingly.

On my way into work this morning, I saw this practice embraced by every pedistrian I passed. Even though it was barely 40 degrees, there was the guy running in shorts and a tank-top, the mom in a mini skirt pushing her toddler (dressed in a t-shirt and howling, because it was friggin' cold, Mom!) to playgroup. Kids out on spring break were lounging around in jeans and t-shirts, their hands shoved into their arm pits, their lips turning a lovely shade of blue.

It's spring in Albuquerque. It's not cold. You're just a wuss.

Its the same sort of willful suspension of disbelief that sees homeowners on the roof Thanksgiving weekend, finally getting around to winterizing their swamp coolers. Until then, the chore was put off with the irrational argument of, "Well, you know, it always get really hot in October, and you'll want the cooler then."

For the record, it's never that hot in October.

Ah, Albuquerque, this is why I love you.

Labels: albuquerque, meta, weather

I know, I know. The previous entry was very "emo, much?"

Let us never speak of it again.

Okay, fine. I do, on occasion, stress about the size of my head. I have a very large head, always have. My large noggin forced my mom to have a C-section, forever ruining her ability to rock the hell out of a bikini, and it's been a menace ever since.

Most of the time, I don't mind. I like to think of that extra three inches of bone as my natural football helmet, and planetoids like mine are the reason they invented adjustible bands.

But sometimes I wish that my head was a little less Easter Island, you know?

Labels: head, meta

I was overly tired and feeling inadequate about life choices and things I cannot change, like the size of my head in relation to my ability to wear a short, sassy geek-girl haircut and the decision to drop premed as a junior. It was 11:30 on a Monday night and I was making the commute in the Civic on an empty, endless Paseo del Norte, chugging home, feeling vulnerable. And then, the radio decided to hit me with a one-two sucker punch of Daughtry's cover of "Rocket Man" and U2's "Electrical Storm."

And now the world has another way to make me look like a chump. A chump who will cry because of songs on the radio and head size.

I'm glad the world is looking out for me.

Labels: meta

There has been some progress, so I'm not as glum about it as I could be. Progress is progress.

There's also been some progress in the baking hobby.



Lemon bars from the recipe of a friend's mother (thank you, Scout!) and another stab at the Guinness chocolate cupcakes, this time with a lemon cream filling and a ganache icing. The lemon bars are amazing. Can't believe I made them. The cupcakes? Aren't supposed to crunch like that.

Yeah, crunch. I think it's time to let this recipe die and move on to something else.

Labels: baking, book, meta

It's not even that revisions have stalled out; that would imply a recent engagement of the creative clutch and a firm hand on the gear shift of work ethic. It's more that I've lost the keys and am searching everywhere for them, while they've been dangling in the ignition the entire time. As soon as I get out to the kicking roadster of tired metaphor and find them, I'm sure I'll be on my way. And then I can say (with confidence) that revisions have stalled.

To that end, I've been thinking about getting a typewriter. Maybe an IBM Selectric II or a manual jobbie in pristine condition; something that would sound the "TAP! TAP! TAP!" of authority with every keystroke, something that I could bang (hee!) out a draft on, just to finish, before doing a retype-and-tweak on the Mac.

And then I could add to my typewriter collection, because I'm just that nerdy. I have a 1920s Underwood which belonged to my Great Grandfather, the Country Doctor, and a 1930s reporter's typewriter that I bought at a garage sale for five bucks a few years back, and I'd like to expand the collection to include something useful and awesome, or at least with a working ribbon.

It's a distraction, though. This is all distraction from sitting down and putting the words on a page. The story is there; it's the fear that after all of this, it still won't be enough that has me on perpetual pause. I don't know how to work around it, and there's not a single magical typewriter in the world that would help me through it.

Just got to knuckle down and do.

Labels: meta

Well, hell. I think I got popped by the red light camera at Jefferson and Paseo del Norte. Doesn't that just suck?

That niggling feeling of crap! has been lingering since just after I exited the intersection. You know how it goes: you roll up to one of these camera-monitored spaces, trying so hard not to break the law, and then for the rest of the day you're asking yourself "Did I come to a full and complete stop? Like with a period and everything?"

I'm pretty sure I didn't STOP. I stopped long enough to see the intersection was clear, but did I stop-stop? I can't remember, and I don't think I did. The memory banks are telling me the tires might have been rolling.

Crap.

This is what I don't like about Marty's Income Generating Cameras of Justice -- that lack of gray area. A cop most likely wouldn't have flinched at the California stop. The camera will be relieving me of that benjamin.

I'll be the first person to admit I was being stupid if I did actually run the light. I usually carry a healthy heaping of paranoia in relation to the camera: it's all five miles under the limit and panic stops because as much as I love Albuquerque, I can think of better things to do with my hundred dollars than pay a fine.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Labels: albuquerque, driving, meta

Formula One is back on the telly. The Australian Gran Prix is happening, and I know (sort of) a person in attendance.

"The cars are making a pleasing noise," Adam says. It's true. The quiet hum of engines spinning up to 19,000 rpm is having the usual soporific effect: my eyes are drooping even though it's barely ten. The "mmmmmmmMMMMMMMMVRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOMPPPPHMmmmmm" of a Maclaren is enough to put me right out, and we reminisce about a couple of memorable naps had on the Indianapolis Speedway viewing mounds.

The driver ranking graphic pops up, and Adam giggles. "I'm sorry, but whenever I see 'L. Hamilton,' I'm thinking Linda, not Louis."

"You think Scott Speed went up to him and was all, 'I loved you in Terminator?'"

"Most likely. And when he did it, he was sporting the Brad Pitt, Jr. look of closed-cropped hair, aviator shades and a pimp coat worn over tighty-whities."

"And Linda was like, 'the wha?'"

"And for the rest of the season, he will be referred to as Linda."

"Nah. DC will call him 'newbie,' ala Cox, and Webber will simply refer to him as 'Girl's Name.'"

" 'Hey! Girl's Name! Congratulations on that first podium.' "

" 'But my name is Louis. Louis!' "

"And then, just to fuck with him, Speed will start calling him 'Louise' sometime after Monaco."

" 'Welcome to the F1, bitch.' "

Labels: f1, meta