Answers served: four-hundred sixty-six and counting…
Kate Kearney searched: Do you like hand-written letters?
It depends on the letter, I suppose.
I would prefer that my bank keep sending me my statements in clear, unquestionable print.
I would prefer that my doctors, my professors, and any one else with more than six years of higher education not hand-write letters, for the sake of society’s continuing operation.
I would prefer that my friend DJ not hand write anything, because he’s admitted that even he can’t read it, if it was recorded more than a week ago.
Everyone else, and especially good friends, can send me hand-written letters any time. So long as they know that I will not be able to keep the quiet thought that I now have the ability to forge their handwriting out of the back of my mind. Of course, if you’re a friend of mine, you already know things like that just come with the territory.
Answers served: four-hundred fifty-four and counting…
Kathryn searched: Where do I put my feet when I’m sitting at my desk? The lip of drawers gets painful after a bit, and the floor’s just not working for me. The rung of the chair is too far back.
I’m an advocate of the Criss-Cross-Applesauce method. It has the advantage of being comfortable, inspiring me to put my hair back in pigtails and grin at the world, and keeping my feet warm.
Your next best option is to put them in the hands of your personal foot masseuse.
Kate Kearney searched: Why are animals scared of vacuum cleaners?
Because it is a moderately-sized device that makes a noise like both a pack of bees and the grizzly bear they’re attacking, eats the floor, and permanently alters the scents of an environment. Who knows how much longer the floor will be able to withstand this assault? How much longer can it maintain structural integrity against such a monster? Best to run.
Answers served: Four-hundred forty-two and counting…
Kate Kearney searched: Where can I find out of print books or games?
Archeological digs in Mesopotamia.
Although, there they tend to call them “pre-print.” You’ll need ten good translators to read the books, and a very smart and imaginative eight-year-old to help you create rules for games which we’re never going to find the real rules for anyway.
Also, they make no guarantee that the old “game” you found is not actually a early frying pan/shield/head-bonker-thingy.
Flip the Otter searched: What are two things that would immediately make you want to leave either a conversation or a location?
Nearby Plinian eruptions and my conversation partner interrupting me in a raised voice. Oddly, they both inspire equal speed in my escape.
Answers served: four-hundred twenty-two and counting…
Kate Kearney searched: What have you used as bookshelves?
I am over-fond of heavy books, the kind with five-hundred pages and a spine like a mountain giant. The density of my reading material tends to limit my options to furniture with the constitution of a giant as well. Mostly, that means real bookshelves.
I’ve also utilized the tops of dressers, and the tops of speakers, and the tops of tables.
I’ve also used the floor. That worked out well, although the large stacks did give the room a certain hermit-writing-her-manifesto look.
Kate Kearney searched: What should not be used as bookshelves?
Last summer, I hobbled together a set of shelves out of the sturdiest boxes I could find. It was a temporary, desperate situation. They lasted about a month before my books talked the shelves into face-planting in the middle of the night and delivering a mild heart attack.
Answers served: four-hundred and twelve and counting…
Kate Kearney searched: Why is it difficult to finish craft projects?
As with most adventures, the beginning is always exciting. The beginning is when you have a hazy picture in your mind of what you want. The haze reminds you of the dreamy filter old movies use to show something beautiful. You know, without a doubt, that you’re going to come across something beautiful.
Then the middle of the adventure comes – slogging through super glue, or wacky tacky glue, or glue sticks, or something that smells like a chemistry experiment but swears by its pretty umber bottle it will stick that thing to that other thing forever – cutting through cardboard, or fabric, or glass or paper, or metal, or string, or yarn, or spider silk, or thread, or cake, or that weird bit of fluff – boiling, ironing, dealing with the extreme heats of creation – repetitive, dangerous, attention-demanding activities.
You’re nervous and a little excited when you start the middle. You’re exhausted and a little bored by the time you’re ninety-five percent through the project. You would be very bored, if you weren’t nursing a blister or burn or needle-pricked finger and glaring at the offending object.
The last five percent, is the last push that gains you your treasure, and the long hike back home with it on your back. Honestly, you’re just a little too tired to complete the project, and not quite ready to pretend that the world can ever go back to the way it was…
Answers served: three-hundred ninety-eight and counting…
This week’s Gwendoogle is brought to you by ONE WORD, the laconic conversation strategy that drives most people crazy.
Kate Kearney searched: Have you been to the cave of lost socks?
E-Boy searched: Who is your little sister? (And don’t use her name…)
matttblack42 searched: What is the Pythagorean Theorem?
E-Boy searched: What is the reaction in the Character Lounge when you announce your favorite character?
Answers served: three-hundred eighty-two and counting…
Kathryn searched: What’s the best Christmas gift you’ve ever received?
Every Christmas, my Dad makes us wait on the stairs while he runs downstairs to turn on the tree lights and the music, and make sure that Santa isn’t having any trouble getting up the chimney. Usually, it’s a short process, but when I was eight or so, it took a long time. Then we heard a crash. Then my Dad shouted at something. Then he came running back into view, huffing and puffing and leaning on his knees.
“I got it,” he told us. “It’s safe now.”
I stared at him wide-eyed. My Dad has always had the kind of poker face that would give a Vulcan a run for his money, and I hadn’t caught the joke yet.
“What?” I asked.
He pointed toward the living room. “There was a… beast in there. Sharp beak. Claws.” He mimed something huge hulking in the living room. “A giant peacock!”
I blinked. “A peacock?”
“I beat it,” he said. “Come see.”
He led us all down stairs and stood me directly in front of the Christmas Tree. Three huge emerald peacock feathers stuck haphazardly out of the branches. The black eyes at the end were ringed in gold and gleamed in the lights. Real peacock feathers…
“Merry Christmas,” Dad told me.
Answers served: three-hundred seventy-two and counting…
I’ll let you decide which organization this belongs to…
Kate Kearney searched: What would you name a secret organization?
Musterion Initiative. Or The Calypsic. Because those are the first foreign words for “secret” or “hidden” that come to mind.
I might also, if I were in the right mood, just mark it down as the Super Secret Secrecy Syndicate for Secret Secrets. I roll that way. For short, we just do our best snake impersonations.
Bekah Beth searched: What is the meaning of a “Real Name”? and does it mean the name on your official documents, or the one you are most likely to perk up at when it’s screamed across a busy room?
In my experience, your “real name” is only important to the man at the airport and the magician whose powers rest in knowing the right word to bring your soul under his control. I pay more attention to the latter. It seems like the most interesting and the most dangerous.
I’m willing to wager that the magician doesn’t care what your parents told the government your name was. He’ll be more interested in what makes you jump, turn around, and answer the call.
Yet, I’m reminded of a girl I went to college with, who we’ll call Lisa Smith for the purposes of this memory:
Lisa: [types on her computer, mired in her own concentration]
Me: Hey, Lisa.
Lisa: [no response]
Lisa: [continues typing on her computer]
Me: Lisa Smith.
Lisa: [still no response]
Me: Lisa! Smith!
Lisa: [jumps and stares at me] What?!
Answers served: three hundred and twenty-five and counting…
Flip the Otter searched: If you could go back in time to witness and not change four events in history what events would you choose and why?
1) The very first Olympic games in Greece – Between the location, the language, finally being able to hear what that ancient accent would have sounded like, and watching the sports, I would be in heaven. If I had the option, I would stick around for the second through eleventh games as well. I draw the line at the twelfth, when they likely started playing all their sports naked. I’m sure it suited them, but Bright Red Embarrassment just isn’t my color.
2) Any of Henry VIII’s weddings – I’ll be the girl in the back, snickering and enjoying the chance to wear a fancy dress. I assume costumes come packaged with the spectator seat?
3) The Fall of the Berlin Wall – Officially, the wall fell on the same day I was born. For no reason, other than a shared date, I’ve always felt tied to it. It probably should have been number one on this list.
4) My fifth birthday party – Just to see if I really managed to trick my mother into thinking my chores were done, or if she just took pity on me and let me party anyway.
Answers served: three-hundred twenty-one and counting…
Kate Kearney searched: Is there a tragedy (in book, play, or whatever media you choose) that has moved you to tears?
Page One of her Search Results can be found here. Page Two (which occurs after some narrowing of the search parameters (Come, Gwendoogle, I meant TRAGEDIES), is as follows:
No, I haven’t. I have never walked into a story, knowing it would end grievously, and sobbed.
I’ve told friends that I’ve cried over those stories, because that’s an easier thing to explain, than the blood boil that I generally feel after a well executed tragedy. I think its less frightening for me to say that I have tears running down my face, than that I am shaking with the need to strike something. I think sadness is easier for them to take, than the real anger that I feel. Or maybe it’s just easier for me. I get raw, and it’s not a part of myself I desire the world to see. And if I tell myself I should be crying, not looking for justice, it’s easier to sit still.
As cold and as violent as it sounds to my own ears, I have to admit to the fact that I feel anger before I feel anything else. Tragedies, especially, make me angry. Sometimes because I know the ending didn’t have to go that way, and sometimes because I know that it did. Sometimes because a character made that choice, and sometimes because the world is that way. Always because something went wrong, I want to grab the problem by the neck and scream so loud the sound could tear it to dust. I want to fight it, and never risk standing still long enough for it to crush me.
I am nothing, if not emotionally involved in what I read, watch, and listen to.