koan in the land of calculus

James and I needed to do a long training walk today, so we decided to do the route below twice (19.75 miles total). This is what is called an "LSD" walk, which, depending on your tolerance for flashbacks, you may be pleased or displeased to learn stands for "long slow distance." In race walking terms, "slow" is maybe 4 mph, so it took us about 5 hours.


There's a lot you can talk about in 5 hours, so if you choose to share that time with the biggest geek on the planet I suppose you have no one to blame but yourself. Around mile two, James was in the midst of providing me with a comprehensive overview of the history of computer programming, and, having come to the object-oriented programming portion of the lecture, he happened to say something about shapes that were "broken down into squirrels, triangles, and squares."

Me: Squirrels?
James: Huh?
Me: Squirrels, triangles, and squares?
James: CIRCLES. I said circles.
Me: Oh. (pause) Could you start saying squirrels instead? I would prefer that.
James: Um, sure. So, it breaks down to squirrels, triangles and squares...
Me: Could the other ones be animals too?
James: What?
Me: They should all be animals.
James: Oh, alright. (pause) It breaks down to squirrels, chipmunks, and ravens...
Me: I think I like object-oriented programming.

Around mile four he says, "There's a koan in the land of calculus that says...." I quickly interrupt:

Me: Whoa, whoa, hold on! Did you just say "in the land of calculus?" Where is this mythical Land of Calculus? Like, can I get a plane ticket to go there?
James: Lambda Calculus. In the Lambda Calculus.
Me: Ohhhh. OK, that makes more sense. I thought it was maybe something like the Land of Chocolate.
James: (silence)
Me: Can you call it that from now on? The Land of Calculus? Please?
James: Fine. Fine, the land of calculus.

Around mile five I ask:

Me: So are there just the two koans?
James: No, there are four.
Me: And they live...where?
James: (sighing) In the Land of Calculus.
Me: Yay!! (clapping in delight)

You'd think a daytime walk in a nice urban commons like Golden Gate Park would be a safe, non-threatening experience, but you never know. We turned a corner and saw a bunch of gaudy tents and flags, and a sense of dread swept over me as I realized we were walking straight into the loathsome bowels of a Renaissance Faire [sic]. I have mentioned before that I am allergic to Science Fiction, but that is a mild reaction compared to the psychological anaphylactic shock I experience at the merest whiff of a jerkin or snood.

And so there I was, my body stiffening in panic while I let out a series of "Aggggghhh, aggggghhhh, aggggghhhh" sounds. A couple of elaborately-bodiced young women passed by and I overheard their amateurish opining on Elizabethan linguistics. "Do you have a paper bag I can breathe into?" I asked James, gripping his arm. He looked into my desperate, pleading eyes, noticed over my shoulder a fully costumed trio headed directly toward us, and said, "I'm afraid it's going to get worse before it gets better."

At one point we saw a little girl in costume who was utterly adorable, and it hit me. A three-year-old in a costume is cute and age-appropriate. A fat, 56-year-old man in a costume is just sad. And disturbing. And I want him to stay out of my park.

I did see one thing at the Renaissance Festival that pleased me: Ye Olde ATM Tente.


How the hell do they get the shillings to dispense through that thin slot?

not a drop to drink

We were listening to some BBC-ish news broadcast in the car on the way back to San Francisco this afternoon, and along came a feature about why India is seemingly poised to be an economic superpower and yet cannot get its damn act together except to export the occasional paisley scarf (which, I am warning you, will bleed dye onto your clothes, so don't even bother). I could go on and on about this topic, but I will leave that to the professionals. Anyway, the talk in the broadcast turned immediately to the, you know, rampant abject poverty afflicting the majority of the population, and they interviewed a couple living in the slums of Delhi. They were speaking Hindi, and before the translator kicked in I heard them saying "Hindihindi paani hindihindiblahblah paani," and I said to James "They are saying they don't have access to water." Paani ('water') is one of the one words I remember from Hindi lessons last year, and it didn't take a giant leap to guess that the people in the slums of Delhi might be mentioning water to a reporter because hello, they don't have any. But my point here is not political, my point is that I actually got to trick James into thinking I knew some Hindi, and thus that maybe I knew something he didn't already know--unlike, say, the current status of the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva and what it means with respect to finding the elusive Higgs boson, or the latest news from the field of evolutionary computation, or the minutiae of U.S. traffic law (see post below).

The other notable thing we heard on the British radio broadcast was a guy talking about the Olympics. We weren't really paying attention, but we both perked up when we suddenly heard him saying something about "synchronized diving, pistol shooting, weight lifting, and cycling." James said, "Wow, it must be really hard to keep all of those synchronized."

pulling a fast one

This weekend James and I took Friday off and drove up to Oregon to finally go to Crater Lake during one of the three weeks or so of the year when it is not covered in snow. You may or may not recall that a visit to Crater Lake was on our incredibly amateur agenda the last time we drove to Oregon, which was in April. I mean, you can GO to Crater Lake in April, but you will find it blanketed in at least 10 feet of snow and you'll need tire chains and the rim road will not be open and you won't be able to hike without snowshoes. Other than that, though, I'm sure it's a great time, especially if all the "winter sports equipment" you have with you is a windbreaker and a pair of running shoes.

We drove up in Marcus, which is James's Acura TL Type S (we name our cars...shut up). Marcus is one of those cars that talks to you and will warm your seat and has multiple keys, each of which is capable of associating with it an individual's seat and mirror and steering wheel settings and pre-set radio stations and favorite color and preferred style of underwear. This is so you can trade off drivers and never get that knee-in-the-chin thing that happens when you jump into the driver's seat not realizing that your 4'11" sister (disclaimer: I have no such sister) drove it to the DQ that morning or whatever. Also, Type S Acuras have a bigger engine, manual transmission, sporty suspension, and Brembo brakes; I assume the "S" stands for "Sport," but who knows. What I do know is that you can easily cruise along at 90 mph and feel like you're barely asking the car to work, which in almost all instances is a feature, not a bug, except when there is a California Highway Patrol officer right behind you.

So, about that. Somewhere near the Oregon border, I noticed that the large, dark SUV that had been riding my tail for the past 20 seconds or so was flashing some peculiar lights. Turns out it wasn't just some jerk tailgating me, it was some jerk in a nontraditional CHP vehicle tailgating and pacing me. Which is different.

In other words, I got pulled over for speeding. The officer (let's call him CHiP) came up and presented me with information already perfectly well known to me, namely that I had been going 85 in a 65 zone. After he looked at my license we had a little conversation that went something like this:

CHiP: Can you tell me a legal reason for why you were driving at that speed?
Me: Ummmm...I was really excited about getting to Ashland as soon as possible?
CHiP: Well, that is not a legal reason.
Me: Yeah, I didn't think so.

(Wait, was he saying it is illegal to be excited about going to Ashland? Because if that is wrong, I DON'T WANT TO BE RIGHT. Anyone who has been to the shoe stores in Ashland knows what I am talking about.)

And then, ladies and gentlemen, he let me off with a warning and allowed us to go on our merry way. (I only called him a jerk earlier in the post to create an aura of mystery and suspense.) There I was, all prepared to get my first ever moving violation, let alone speeding ticket, in 22 years of licensed driving, and this guy let me go. It was almost a letdown.

Once we were mobile again I asked James, "So what's in it for him to just give someone a warning? Don't they have quotas or something?" Remember now that this is James James, whose other car is a Porsche C4 and whose personal motto is "Multi-band, Multi-source, Nondiscriminating, Phased Array Radar Detector: Don't Leave Home Without It." Thus I was treated to an approximately 15-minute, near-verbatim recitation of California Vehicle Code Sections 22348 - 22366, with digressions into the finer points of de jure vs. de facto speed determination techniques employed by various policing agencies across the greater portion of the western United States.

I stated above that Marcus is a car that talks to you, but actually the person who talks to you is a tiny lady who hides in the vehicle navigation system. And while she is not a nag, exactly, she can certainly be persistent, especially if you decide to turn somewhere she does not approve of. I find myself sometimes eschewing my preferred route just because I want to keep the lady inside the navigation system happy. For instance, if there is a carpool lane exit on the left and a regular exit on the right, and she is telling me to use the exit on the right, I will use the exit on the right even if I have an entire basketball team in the car with me, just to shut her up. So now I am wondering if this is just me, or whether there are millions of drivers out there being badgered into non-optimal routing decisions on account of this navigational harridan.

Crater Lake was amazing. It is so blue it looks fake. I would go into a long story about why it is so blue and how the lake was formed (hint: it's called Crater Lake) and blah blah blah, but you can go the National Park Service website and find out all that stuff, so I will just leave you with some photos:

and this is my friend Lex Parsimoniae

The other day at work we were discussing possible causes of the near-arctic temperatures in Dan's cubicle, which is right next to mine. Dan suggested that the proximity to my black, icy heart was to blame, and someone else suggested the cubicle might be haunted. I pointed out that it probably had something to do with the air vent directly overhead.

"Oh, Occam's Razor, Schmoccam's Razor!" said Jenny Jo. "I say it's haunted!"

I cannot even begin to express my delight to be working in a place where someone can toss out "Occam's Razor, Schmoccam's Razor" and everyone standing nearby knows what it means.

one over the eight

Actual headline from The San Francisco Chronicle online today:

People busy trying to absorb the good luck associated with the numeral 8

Hey, Lisa! Want to go to the mall?
No, I have stuff to do. I'm really busy.
Oh, like what?
Well, I need to catch the number 8 bus and go...somewhere. Somewhere far away that takes a long time. Like 8 hours.
Won't that just take you in circles, on that bus?
Ooh, circles. The number 8 is made of two circles.
Huh?
I also need to practice my ice skating forms.
But it's August!
I know, that's why. Anyway, I'm really busy.

delenda est san francisco

Today there was a guy running the full San Francisco marathon in a modified Roman centurion outfit--complete with shield, which also conveniently served as a water bottle holder.



We did OK with the half marathon, finishing around 2:50. Not as fast as I did in Seattle, but not awful.

hum whee!

My complete lack of progress lately on home dec has resulted in a woeful dearth of home dec photos for my legions of fans to enjoy and/or ignore. After our stay in the hummingbird-themed room of the McCall House Bed & Breakfast in April, I got the idea to collect some antique (and faux-antique) hummingbird prints and put them in my living room. A mere 3 1/2 months later, I finally got it all pulled together:





Next project: installing clothesline-like curtain hanging wire across a couple of walls in the hall and/or craft room and hanging/clipping scarves and hats on it. Super knitting dork.

tragic comedy

While I naturally would not make fun of the events that inspired the following headline (from Yahoo! Canada News), as a linguist I feel it is my duty to point out the hilarity available here via the magic of structural ambiguity:

Man decapitated on Greyhound bus headed to Winnipeg

Wow, that guy doesn't let anything stop him!

half assed

James and I are signed up to racewalk the 2nd Half Marathon portion of the San Francisco Marathon tomorrow. As I believe I mentioned earlier in these pages, I chose to do the second half mainly because it starts a couple of hours later and the starting line is a lot closer to my house. In other words, I am willing to do a half marathon but I am too lazy to get up early or travel more than a mile or two to get to it. There is something wrong with this picture but I can't be bothered to invest any further thought in it.

Last night I was having such a good time reading through documents at work that I made James take the bus downtown to meet me for dinner. We ended up going to Millennium and eating at the bar. James's dessert was spiced chocolate zucchini cake with corn ice cream. I can't say I approve of corn ice cream, but he seemed to enjoy it.

soup and nuts

As per usual here in Geeksville we are watching Planet Earth on Blu-Ray and drinking yummy wine (Ravenswood Early Harvest 2007 Gerwurtztraminer).

Dinner was kalamata olive bread and the edamame soup recently discussed at 101 Cookbooks. Modifications: used pine nuts instead of peanuts to garnish, and finished it with soy creamer rather than crème fraîche, which was running $5.99 for a little tub at Whole Foods and I'll be damned if I pay that just to dollop two tablespoons of it into a pot of soup (because I am sure James would never use the rest, and I am returning to San Francisco tomorrow morning). Three dollars per tablespoon (crème fraîche) is almost as ridiculous as ~25 per block (peafowl; see below).

The only additional inappropriate animals I have seen so far today besides the peafowl have been some deer. Well, unless you count lizards. Always with the lizards.

Our exciting afternoon included an ALL CAPS shopping excursion, with a stop by REI and a trip to the IKEA in West Covina. My favorite new IKEA product is their animal cracker-style cookies that are formed in the shapes of the letters I, K, E, and A. Ah, those self-absorbed Swedes...why is it so hard to resist them? Is there something in those lingonberries that we don't know about? Such as CRACK?

in fine feather

I am rarely happier than when I have an excuse to use the "inappropriate animals" tag on this blog, so imagine my delight to find occasion to use it twice in two days.

James and I did a 12+ mile training walk this morning down to the L.A. Arboretum, which is known for its large peacock population. Perhaps not surprisingly, the residential neighborhood next door to the arboretum is now also home to many of these birds. In fact, it's a big enough problem that some of the streets have fancy official signs saying "Feeding of peafowl is prohibited." On the way back we decided to count the peafowl we saw on the two blocks between the arboretum and Colorado Blvd. We saw forty-nine. FORTY-NINE.

let's BEE friends

I decided to jet down to Los Angeles for the weekend to pay a visit to the House of Geek. And thank god I had a geek at my direct disposal, because I arrived here only to discover that my laptop, which I had put in sleep mode, placed in a drawer, and not used for maybe two weeks before hauling it down here, had decided to re-set its internal clock to 4:01 p.m. on DECEMBER 31, 1969. This of course interfered with the internal doodads and their ability to properly interact with the whatchamahickeys. It also debarred the machine from connecting to the wireless network, which it deemed to have "incompatible security" (incompatible with the wireless security available in 1969? You don't say!).

James opened up a command shell, made some disapproving comments such as "Well, THAT'S not good," and generally scared the crap out of me and had me convinced that my iBook was toast, forever to remain in a virtual world where the Beatles were still together and I had barely outgrown the nickname "Peach Fuzz." Except I forgot that this is a man who can cobble together a supercomputer/DVD player/refrigerator/spaceship combo from the detritus he finds in the dumpster behind Fry's, and so two minutes later my iBook was behaving as if nothing had ever happened, coaxed into forgiving and forgetting that its owner doesn't remember that there is a difference, power-usage-wise, between "sleep" and "shut down."

I say I am in Los Angeles, but really I am in Monrovia. Not the capital of Liberia, but rather the small city east of Pasadena in the San Gabriel foothills. Or as I like to call it: Bear Country, U.S.A. I haven't seen a bear here myself lately, but James's neighbor has a recent photo of one in her pool. Last night as we were driving up to the house, four critters of some variety scampered across the road. One turned and looked at us with a little masked face. "Ach du lieber! Raccoons!" I exclaimed. Not because I was surprised, but because that is what I always say when I see raccoons (see Vitti, Jon [Writer] & Kirkland, Mark [Director]. Episode 46 [1991], "Burns Verkaufen der Kraftwerk." The Simpsons).

That reminds me, the other day Alex was giving some kind of tech-head presentation (I refuse to say "brown bag") about a particular document review platform, and at the end there was time for questions. I kept my mouth shut, but on the way out I stopped by and said to him, "I have a question. Is it right to buy a Chrysler?" (see Kogan, Jay and W. Wolodarsky [Writers] & Lynch, Jeffrey and B. Bird [Directors]. Episode 41 [1991], "Like Father, Like Clown." The Simpsons).

It is a sad (but occasionally hilarious!) state of affairs that I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to slip over-15-year-old Simpsons references into anything Alex might hear me say. Alex, I hope you appreciate that.



Speaking of The Bumblebee Guy, last week James finally took care of the bee population that had been inhabiting his eaves for, oh, approximately 8 years. The guys came out to remove the bees, and then when they returned a few days later to close up the damage, a new population of (angry) bees had already moved into the now-vacant, pre-honeycombed paradise that was James's roof overhang. So, they had to kill those too, resulting in a scene that James refers to as "sort of a bee Armageddon." ("You may not want to walk barefoot outside for a few days," he added. Right, because the threat of rattlesnakes is not already enough to convince me that footwear is a good idea out there.)

But here is the fun part. Please guess how many pounds of honeycomb they pulled out of the eaves. I'd keep you in suspense, but this entry is already long enough. THREE HUNDRED POUNDS. So if you're in the greater Los Angeles area this weekend and see a guy in a funny hat driving a pickup hauling 12 full-sized garden trash bags stuffed with honeycomb, please salute him.

"The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco."

I am wearing sweatpants, wool socks, a long-sleeved tee, and a sweatshirt, and I just turned on the heater. And it is JULY 20th, PEOPLE. Yahoo weather says the high temp here today was 56 degrees.

(Actually, I love it. I prefer to be cold. But still...it is July 20th. In California. WTF already.)

purse lane

More home dec pics! My personal engineer helped me put up some glass shelves in my bedroom. (We all remember the definition of "my personal engineer helped me," right, boys and girls? It means he did it and I watched...part of the time. And sometimes handed him stuff.)

Now I have a place to display some of my vintage and handmade and/or otherwise display-worthy purses:




There are three more such shelves on the large wall, but you get the idea. I will confess that I got near the bottom of one of the boxes with purses and had to exclaim, "Whoa, MORE shoes?!" I surprise even myself sometimes. I would tell you that I have over 100 pairs of shoes, but then you'd make fun of me, so I will keep that information to myself.

James just came back from looking at the purse display and said, "That's an awfully girly bedroom." And I said "Uh huh. What's your point?"

I would also like to digress and take this opportunity to welcome Gwendolen Clare into the world! Can you guess which national holiday she was born on?



And finally, woot! I thought it would be fun to do at least one half marathon before the Portland marathon in early October, and I went online and discovered the San Francisco marathon on August 3 includes not one but TWO half marathons to choose from (either the first or the second half of the course...isn't that clever?). I registered for the 2nd half because (a) it was $5 cheaper, (2) it starts 2 hours later, and (iii) it starts closer to my house. I think the 1st half is considered more desirable because it starts downtown and goes along the Embarcadero and over the Golden Gate bridge and through the Presidio into Golden Gate park and all sorts of scenic touristy crap like that, whereas the second half starts in the park and proceeds down through the Mission and along other less conventionally pretty bits of the city. But I can (and do) exercise along the scenic route whenever I want, so why get up at the crack of ass just to do it along with thousands of other people?

my feet hurt

Yesterday's walk (10.6 miles):


Today's walk (10.8 miles):



Have I ever mentioned my caveat that if you are in San Francisco and plan to walk or park your car in a neighborhood or on a street that has the word hill in its name, you have no one to blame but yourself? Today's route included parts of Russian Hill and Telegraph Hill. Here is the elevation profile just of walking down Filbert St. from Scott St. to Coit Tower:


Ow.

cat pyjamas

A while ago I was in the office waiting for a meeting with a relatively new coworker from Engagement Management, Dan. (Not the same Dan to whom I regularly provide flak in this space; the Dan I'll be discussing in this post is someone I actually like.)

So, my colleague John and I were waiting for Dan outside a conference room, and Dan came up looking kind of frantic and waving his cellphone and said, "I apologize in advance, but there's a guy in my backyard with a bobcat and he's supposed to be calling me right back." Then the phone rang and Dan ducked around the corner to take the call, and John and I marveled at the idea of having a large feral cat in your yard. I also wondered, "Who is this man in Dan's yard, and what does it mean that he has the bobcat? Did he tranquilize it, or corner it behind some gnome statuary, or engage it in conversation about this season's lineup on the Discovery channel? And why does this man know Dan's cell phone number?"

Dan was away on his call for several minutes, understandably, and in the meantime John and I informed every passerby of the fascinating events apparently unfolding in a yard in North Berkeley. "Dan V. has a bobcat in his backyard!" I would excitedly inform my colleagues.

Finally Dan came back, looking a bit frazzled but also slightly relieved. We asked him for details. And it was as he provided those details that we realized that the guy in his yard was a hired landscape worker, and the bobcat was in fact a Bobcat, the small utility vehicle. The urgency had stemmed from the fact that the guy had triggered Dan's home alarm system and did not know how to turn it off.

Needless to say, I found this situation vaguely embarrassing (particularly since I'd just created the impression among at least 6 people that Dan was in the midst of an exciting and unusual wildlife drama) but also hilarious. And ever since that day, Dan and I have had a running bobcat joke: for a while it was physically impossible for us to send each other an email without inserting an image of a bobcat (whether it was the cat, the vehicle, a sports team logo, a photo of Bobcat Goldthwait, etc.). Once I walked by the ajar door of a conference room, saw Dan inside, and made a clawing gesture with my arms and silently growled when he caught my eye. (He told me later that this set him to chuckling uncontrollably, much to the confusion of the others in the meeting, who hadn't seen me.)

So when, a few months later, Dan and I found ourselves as part of the leads team for a new project, and the project needed a code name, we felt that it would be appropriate--no, necessary--to somehow work bobcats into this code name. I did some research and discovered that the bobcat's genus/species name is Lynx rufus, and when I looked up the etymology of the word 'lynx' I discovered that it is supposed to come from the Proto-Indo-European root meaning 'light.' There is speculation that this has something to do with the bobcat's eyes seeming to glow, or with its ability to see in the dark. My linguist's bullshit meter went into high gear particularly on the latter theory, but I didn't care because seeing in the dark is arguably related to our project, and so BINGO, I had a code name meaning 'bobcat' that I could totally sell to management without even tipping my hand.

And so Project Lynx came to be, and I get a not-so-secret joy every time I hear it said or see it written down.

Last week the project contracts were out for signature and I decided it was time to find a mascot for us, but when I stopped by the toy store near work the only thing I could find was a cute, but rather large stuffed bobcat that I decided was too over the top for a Grownup Professional Person's cubicle. I was complaining about this to Casey, and said "I want something more like that size," and pointed to the Beanie Baby dachshund that resides on one of my monitors. Casey said, "Why don't you just knit a lynx suit for the dachshund?"


Casey is a genius.

I went home that night and was pleased to find that my knitting infrastructure is such that I can sit down and knit a lynx suit without even having to stop by a yarn store for supplies first. Meet Lynxie (Lynx + Doxie):


I'm particularly pleased about him because in addition to my fascination with dachshunds I also have a fascination with animals wearing costumes of other animals--you know, like teddy bears in bunny suits or dogs in bee costumes. I mean, sometimes it's really cute and/or funny, but it also always feels somewhat creepy and illicit, like the animal equivalent of blackface. In any case, Lynxie combines two of my obsessions in one. Bonus.

i got yer spared air right here, pal

I'm going to preface this post by saying that I am very grateful to be fully mobile and physically healthy, and grateful to have a place to live, and I realize that sometimes all it takes is a piece of bad luck or a step into the wrong place at the wrong time for one's situation in life to turn horribly for the worse.

And also, as we've established, I don't judge.

But here is a peeve of mine. I do not like it when I pay for a product or service, only to have that product or service subsequently offered to others for free, at which point I am basically prevented from using the product or service as it is intended and/or in the form that was at least tacitly offered along with its purchase. I am, e.g., still mildly bitter about UC San Diego's policy of granting a 2-week or longer "grace period" on parking at the start of some quarters, during which diligently pre-paying drivers would arrive on campus only to find every single legitimate goddamn parking space from Torrey Pines Road to University Towne Centre [sic] taken up by non-permit-bearing vehicles, so that one would become so desperate to reach Phonetics 210 or Goethe's Influence on Kafka's Reading of Thomas Mann's Mario and the Magician or whateverthefuck other class reasonably close to on time that one would finally just park anywhere, only to then receive a parking ticket that cost half as much as the permit for the entire quarter, and you know they're not gonna let you check out a library book or get your goddamn diploma if you've got fines on your record, and so then you're fucking screwed and that, my friends, is how they get you, and you get so worked up you can't even keep your person and tenses straight when you write about it.

And so we come to "Spare the Air" days here in San Francisco. For you non-Bay Areans, typically during the summer on days when it reaches scorching, lower-80s type temps, San Francisco and surrounding regions will declare a Spare the Air day where all public transportation is free. I can always tell when it's a Spare the Air day because the buses will be a lot more crowded, late, and annoying than usual. Well, you might say, then clearly this initiative works: on days when it is hot and the air quality is poor, more people take public transportation. An ingenious example of green problem solving!

Except it's not. I can guarantee you that no one who is spending $350/month to park their car downtown is leaving that sucker in the garage in Palo Alto and taking Caltrain + MUNI to work in the city just because it's free for the day. If that were the case, then maybe they'd call it Leave Your Tacky Lexus at Home day. No, on Spare the Air days, people who normally wouldn't get on the bus think, hey! it's hot and I want to go somewhere, so I am going to take the bus because what the hell, it's free! It should be called Go Somewhere Random You Wouldn't Normally Pay $1.50 to Go day.

On Thursday I did not know yet that it was a free day, and as I was walking to the bus stop after work I saw my bus going by and thought, damn, I just missed it. But then another was right on its heels, and I thought, oh, it's a lucky going-home-timing day after all! Little did I know.

Heading home, I get on at the second or third stop of the route, so I got a seat as I usually do. Within two more stops, though, the vehicle was packed. Then we stopped to let on someone in a wheelchair. Except then neither one of the two potential wheelchair restraints was working. Meanwhile, more and more able-bodied people got on, even though there was less room than usual because a couple of benches were flipped up to expose the wheelchair restraints, and eventually the poor guy in the chair had to get off anyway, because the driver refused to take him if the restraints didn't work. And then a few stops later there was a guy on a scooter chair. And he was pissed already about the full buses, and waving his cell phone around and shouting about how the driver had to let him on, and how he already had people on the phone about it, and then the driver was trying to explain to him that it was a safety issue and the restraints were not working, and finally the driver just gave in to the guy, which also involved maneuvering the bus around a police car that was parked in the bus lane so the bus could get close enough to the curb, and naturally none of this was taking any time whatsoever. But honestly? At that point I still just felt lucky to have a seat and be able to walk when I want to.

And then the very very dirty, smelly guy crammed himself right next to where I was sitting, with his crotch at the level, and within a few inches, of my nose. And the 15 or so further minutes it took for me to get home from there, wedged in next to this guy's crotch and unable to relocate, really almost sent me over the edge. Now, I know in theory that when you pay your $45/month for a bus pass, you are not being guaranteed a seat on any bus at any time, and certainly not a seat next to a freshly laundered person who smells fresh and clean like the meadow outside grandma's house. BUT C'MON, PEOPLE. Spare the air, my ass.

tiny squirrel

This morning I got up early and went on a long walk (8 or 9 miles-ish), including a pass through Chrissy Field and the Coastal Trail. Just another sunny, warm San Francisco day in June (I was wearing fleece when I took this):


I am definitely getting lame in my old age, because I actually TOOK A NAP early this afternoon because I was tired from walking. Oy. Then after that, I wanted to knit but nothing currently on my needles was of any interest, so I started a new little project, the Squirrel and Oak mittens from Hello Yarn.


I finished the first one, but they are really small and I will have to find someone tiny to give them to. I might get motivated to make another pair out of heavier yarn so they will come out to normal adult size. But the more likely scenario is that I won't even finish the mate to this one, because I'm like that.

fancy superhero cape

I made another shawl this week, Laminaria from Knitty. Here is an example of the magic of lace. When you first take it off the needles, it is a lumpy, blechy looking thing:


The ruler is 15" long.

Now I have soaked and blocked out the shawl, and its spine is now 36" from top to tail. Here are some detail shots (the lace looks busier than it really is, because it's blocked out on top of a grid, but you get the idea):





Updated to add: It's dry now, so here are some shots on a plain background--

justin, leo, and dan

Yesterday I met Dan and his dachshunds for a play date. Some of you may know that I have a thing about dachshunds. They are the awesomest dogs on the planet. They make me jump up and down and clap my hands like a little girl. The photo above is my desktop wallpaper and IF YOU CAN SHOW ME ANYTHING CUTER I WOULD LIKE TO SEE IT.

I stupidly forgot my camera yesterday, so all I have is a shot taken with my cell phone. This is Leo nestled up to Dan's plaid-encrusted hip:



I do not have a photo of Leo's older faux-brother, Justin, but he is also insanely cute, little gray face and all. Dan would like you to know that Leo's alternate names include Spazzie, Sir Spaz-a-lot, and ADD-Puppy. Justin's nicknames include Grampa and Fattie McFatFat (although he is not fat).

After we let the dogs run around in Dolores Park, we went and got ice cream at Bi-Rite creamery. I had ginger and salted caramel. Delicious.