Table legs

Cartoon-classic moment today:  My sister joined the high school color guard, so she got to take home one of those wooden rifles they spin.  Naturally, Mom told her not to throw it around in the house, and just as naturally, she did.  From the next room, I heard an incredible crash as the butt of the giant baton came thundering through the glass top of the livingroom table.  This is her displaying her handiwork.  My parents might have been angrier if the table hadn't been so darn ugly to begin with.  Now we have an excuse to use one from my grandma's old house.

They say horses can be therapeutic. Bollocks! I say they have the healing power of angels.

If the horse had a MySpace, this would be his profile picture.

The Dora the Explorer bandaids Kat gave me aren't big enough for my booboo.

The other night at my uncle's birthday party I took a misstep--into a black abyss of concrete.  Here's my battle wound.

I feel like knee scrapes are little-kid injuries.  This scab is identical--same knee and everything--to one I got at approximately the age of seven.  I was at Newark airport, recently landed to visit my grandma in Park Ridge, having big time on one of those moving sidewalks.  I took an untimely spill at the very end of the line, and the hem of my dress, as well as the skin on my knee, got trapped in the crack where the conveyor-sheet-thing meets its mysterious disappearance.  A kind Samaritan, an older man whose face I'll never forget (although the memory is probably far from the real face), pulled me up by the armpits, rescuing me from certain doom.  I was sure that if he hadn't appeared just then, I would have been sucked down into the Dr. Seuss world of darkness, fluffy-neon monsters, and farcical rhyme lurking on the other side.

As it happened, my fate was to grow up on this side of the walkalator, to learn that it's no less nonsensical or frightening than the inverse.  I would venture that ours is not as cleverly metered and rhymed, but with better and more varied cuisine.  Green, pink or purple, ham isn't kosher.

A hankerin' for wireless

Along with, of course, Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit, I crave free high-speed internet.  Is that so wrong?

I'm at the Christian bookstore/cafe conveniently hidden behind McDonald's and the Verizon Wireless store.  The coffee's decent, the connection is fast, and no one bothers me because the place is empty.

I don't often get internet at home, so for the past couple of hours I've been clicking and scribbling to my heart's delight, fudging all the days and times.  My camera keeps track of all that, so they're pretty accurate, but I guess you can never fully trust me again.  Good lesson, though: never fully trust what you read.

The public library system: one of the last standing institutions upholding American democracy

Today Rebecca and I went to the town library.  As you can see, I got a new library card.  Being a legal adult and all, I've been upgraded from my juvenile account!  Now I can check out videos, but the best part is that I got to sign my own card.  It annoyed me that I still didn't get to print my own name; the librarian did that for me.

Three cheers for equal access to information and safe spaces for education and self-betterment!

It finally rained today.

Brown is better.

My sister got back from summer camp today.  Right outside the camp is this crazy organic dairy farm.  It's tradition to stop there for chocolate milk when we pick her up.  I didn't go along on the trip this year, as someone has to hold down Fort 417, but they brought me a bottle of my own.

I don't drink cow's milk anymore, but who am I to stand in the way of tradition?  At least such a delicious one...