In the overnight settlement, I was awarded custody of the sheets. Sweet W has visitation rights.
Also noted for the record: When I do the dishes, I don't do them all the way. I stop at somewhere around 90% of completion. This is an acceptable percentage in our world----beautiful, even, in that leaving the task incomplete mirrors our imperfect humanity, like the intentional mistake, the marring thread designed into tapestries. Leaving the dishes slightly undone keeps us humble; a perfectly polished set of dishes and silverware would be sheer hubris, an affront to the divine. So I usually leave the silverware to soak in the sink overnight. The divine is okey-dokey with that plan, but Sweet W is NOT PLEASED to find a sink full of cold greasy water and dead suds in the morning.
I could say more, but I'll stop now and leave the remaining rhetorical knives and forks to soak overnight.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Sunday, February 04, 2007
superthick, now with fortifying vitamins and minerals
We are huddled in our bubble of warmth on this frigid-ass day, making pancakes to ward off the cold. When the temperature drops far enough below freezing, it's an obligation to insert an exasperated "ass" into any descriptions of how freezing-ass cold it is.
This just in from the kitchen: Ohhhh. The first flip is always a bad flip.
But I have faith. Besides their standalone raison d'etre as a healthy, tasty breakfast food, the pancakes are integral to a larger plan. Apparently we need to go grocery shopping later today to restock the larder with syrup and other staples (the pancake/syrup dialectic is dizzying, and clearly too complex to get into right now), and the pancakes are baksheesh to persuade me to 1) come along, and 2) behave.
Kitchen report: Fruit toppings options are mixed berries or peaches.
Actually, I'd like brown sugar and raisons d'etre on mine.
It's not that bribery is necessary for my participation in errand-running. It's that I immediately go into a fugue state of uselessness and distraction as soon as the flourescent lighting hits my retinas. My psyche becomes a battleground where the spirit of Wild Bill Knowlan makes frenetic, splenetic war with Franz Kafka and Chuck Jones. My Sweet Wife's hope is that somehow the pancakes will keep me grounded. We shall see.
Meanwhile, inspired by MC's beautiful rant about Rachael Ray, that "perky foghorn" of the Food Network (yes, Mary, we too have been stunned into insensibility by her Marshall stacks of foodie rhetoric and her pit-bullish cheeriness), Sweet W is putting on a speculative cooking show of her own. She's in character as cigar-chomping, gravel-voiced Max Lindner: Shallots? Shallots?! What you need, kid, is a martini. Get over here. . . .
Those are some tasty-ass pancakes.
This just in from the kitchen: Ohhhh. The first flip is always a bad flip.
But I have faith. Besides their standalone raison d'etre as a healthy, tasty breakfast food, the pancakes are integral to a larger plan. Apparently we need to go grocery shopping later today to restock the larder with syrup and other staples (the pancake/syrup dialectic is dizzying, and clearly too complex to get into right now), and the pancakes are baksheesh to persuade me to 1) come along, and 2) behave.
Kitchen report: Fruit toppings options are mixed berries or peaches.
Actually, I'd like brown sugar and raisons d'etre on mine.
It's not that bribery is necessary for my participation in errand-running. It's that I immediately go into a fugue state of uselessness and distraction as soon as the flourescent lighting hits my retinas. My psyche becomes a battleground where the spirit of Wild Bill Knowlan makes frenetic, splenetic war with Franz Kafka and Chuck Jones. My Sweet Wife's hope is that somehow the pancakes will keep me grounded. We shall see.
Meanwhile, inspired by MC's beautiful rant about Rachael Ray, that "perky foghorn" of the Food Network (yes, Mary, we too have been stunned into insensibility by her Marshall stacks of foodie rhetoric and her pit-bullish cheeriness), Sweet W is putting on a speculative cooking show of her own. She's in character as cigar-chomping, gravel-voiced Max Lindner: Shallots? Shallots?! What you need, kid, is a martini. Get over here. . . .
Those are some tasty-ass pancakes.
Friday, February 02, 2007
no stop, drop, and roll
NOTE TO GENTLE READERS: The Toby we lovingly eulogized in last night's post is not the same "infamous chowhound" described in this horrifying tale from Lynchburg, VA, of a college snack gone wrong.
To Hudgins' surprise, the squirrel--described as an infamous chowhound named Toby--snatched a piece of the strawberry Nutri-Grain bar she was holding.
"I said to myself, 'That doesn't happen every day.' "
But when Toby went back for a second bite it locked on, and bit through Hudgins' right thumbnail.
At that point, the communications major said she tried to unlatch Toby by beating it against the bench.
"What else do you do in that situation?" she asked. "There's no stop, drop and roll."
After Hudgins shook Toby off, she sat in shock.
"He's looking at me, I'm looking at him," she said of the moment just before Toby grabbed the Nutri-Grain bar that she had dropped during the struggle and ran off.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
toblerone and the great leap forward
Leading through the meadow, down to the river;
eager for the trees from his highlander wayback.
Sandy paws on Rialto, that running leap
from leashed zone to free zone, clearing
creek with feet to spare, and kept going.
He was a good dog.
mht5 [Tula typed this part]
eager for the trees from his highlander wayback.
Sandy paws on Rialto, that running leap
from leashed zone to free zone, clearing
creek with feet to spare, and kept going.
He was a good dog.
mht5 [Tula typed this part]
Monday, January 15, 2007
if you want to get the dog's attention, whisper
Someone is in the next room ironing fancy clothes and watching television, getting ready for a big day tomorrow. I will take this opportunity to share her notable quotes from the weekend, brief but sweet moments of self-reflection.
I like toast.
It's true, she does. And in a profound way. There's something deeply comforting and steadying about the crunchiness of properly prepared toast: its forthright readiness to accept the burden of butter, jam, peanut butter, cinnamon & sugar, whatever you have to lay on it; its companionable buddying-up with a mug of hot cocoa; its miraculous transformation from simple bread to something much greater.
I have little feet.
Compared to some people, yes. Compared to others, no. It's all relative.
In other news, we learned that we've been doing Tula's ear-cleaning regimen ALL WRONG. Well, not all wrong, exactly, but only partly right. We took her to the vet on Saturday for general upkeep and maintenance, plus her annual rabies shot. Dr. Jeff peered into her ears with his otiscope and began a gentle third degree about our cleaning procedure. How many drops, how often, what kind of medicine, etc. He then drew a diagram to illustrate the anatomical challenges of the inner dog ear. You have the floppy flap of the outer ear. You have the visible canal of the inner ear. But then, impishly and unexpectedly, the inner ear canal makes a wicked 45 degree turn and dives out of sight. No wonder her ears still itch; we've literally been just scratching the surface for the past two years. We're now armed with state-of-the-art flushing technology: a bottle of apple-blossom scented Oti-Clean fluid. Our instructions are to fill up her ear like it's a furry teapot, rub the base of her ear to swoosh things around, and then swab up the ensuing mess. It's a tea party in the bathroom! But this is one apple-scented tea party we're happy to attend. Three flushes in, things are already looking better.
I like toast.
It's true, she does. And in a profound way. There's something deeply comforting and steadying about the crunchiness of properly prepared toast: its forthright readiness to accept the burden of butter, jam, peanut butter, cinnamon & sugar, whatever you have to lay on it; its companionable buddying-up with a mug of hot cocoa; its miraculous transformation from simple bread to something much greater.
I have little feet.
Compared to some people, yes. Compared to others, no. It's all relative.
In other news, we learned that we've been doing Tula's ear-cleaning regimen ALL WRONG. Well, not all wrong, exactly, but only partly right. We took her to the vet on Saturday for general upkeep and maintenance, plus her annual rabies shot. Dr. Jeff peered into her ears with his otiscope and began a gentle third degree about our cleaning procedure. How many drops, how often, what kind of medicine, etc. He then drew a diagram to illustrate the anatomical challenges of the inner dog ear. You have the floppy flap of the outer ear. You have the visible canal of the inner ear. But then, impishly and unexpectedly, the inner ear canal makes a wicked 45 degree turn and dives out of sight. No wonder her ears still itch; we've literally been just scratching the surface for the past two years. We're now armed with state-of-the-art flushing technology: a bottle of apple-blossom scented Oti-Clean fluid. Our instructions are to fill up her ear like it's a furry teapot, rub the base of her ear to swoosh things around, and then swab up the ensuing mess. It's a tea party in the bathroom! But this is one apple-scented tea party we're happy to attend. Three flushes in, things are already looking better.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
secular spectacular
[Note: We'll get around to posting more about NYC sometime in the next century. But first. . . ]
The closets have been cleared. The de-furring crews have come and gone with their pneumatic equipment, trenching muddy tracks on the lawn with their truck. The chilis are simmering on the stove. Random piles of 15-year-old clutter have been banished. White Christmas is cued up on the dvd player. Beer is cached in a sad little snowbank. The candles are lit, the Xmas lights are lit, the yule log is lit, the stove burners are lit, and the wines are uncorked, so we're well on our way to getting lit.
In other words, welcome to the first annual Schwillig Secular Spectacular Holiday Xmas Kickoff. It's been officially ON for 47 minutes, and no one has showed up yet. But no sweat. We still have 11 hours and 13 minutes to go until the big ball drops at 2:00am.
Waiting expectantly.
The closets have been cleared. The de-furring crews have come and gone with their pneumatic equipment, trenching muddy tracks on the lawn with their truck. The chilis are simmering on the stove. Random piles of 15-year-old clutter have been banished. White Christmas is cued up on the dvd player. Beer is cached in a sad little snowbank. The candles are lit, the Xmas lights are lit, the yule log is lit, the stove burners are lit, and the wines are uncorked, so we're well on our way to getting lit.
In other words, welcome to the first annual Schwillig Secular Spectacular Holiday Xmas Kickoff. It's been officially ON for 47 minutes, and no one has showed up yet. But no sweat. We still have 11 hours and 13 minutes to go until the big ball drops at 2:00am.
Waiting expectantly.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
schwilligs take manhattan
The Muppets did it first and better, but we nonetheless here boldly declare our intention to take Manhattan.
We're in New York for a top secret consulting contract involving maglev hovercraft technology, rappelling down the sides of buildings, and organics. We can't say more.
Tonight was the Macy's Tryptophantastic Pre-Parade Inflation Ceremony. During tomorrow's annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, Snoopy, Big Bird, Spongebob, Super Grover, and other giant-size cartoon creatures will soar godlike over the streets and into our hearts. But before their miraculous rising, they have to be pumped full of helium. The Inflation Ceremony is held under bright blitzkrieg lights in the cloudy outdoor cathedral of the American Museum of Natural History, Central Park West. The parade balloons are held in place during inflation by huge nets anchored by a sandbag perimeter. Stoic Macy's acolytes in orange jumpsuits diligently monitor the helium tanks, check hoses and fittings, and test the balloons for suppleness and lift. Throngs of supplicants file by whispering prayers, leaving burnt offerings, etc. Under the watchful eyes of Auxiliary NYPD, the crowds are funnelled through a series of barricades and then sent around the museum grounds on a one-way route that ensures happy traffic flow; the signs say "Enter here for inflation." We sure will, and did. Everything goes like clockwork.
We're in New York for a top secret consulting contract involving maglev hovercraft technology, rappelling down the sides of buildings, and organics. We can't say more.
Tonight was the Macy's Tryptophantastic Pre-Parade Inflation Ceremony. During tomorrow's annual Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, Snoopy, Big Bird, Spongebob, Super Grover, and other giant-size cartoon creatures will soar godlike over the streets and into our hearts. But before their miraculous rising, they have to be pumped full of helium. The Inflation Ceremony is held under bright blitzkrieg lights in the cloudy outdoor cathedral of the American Museum of Natural History, Central Park West. The parade balloons are held in place during inflation by huge nets anchored by a sandbag perimeter. Stoic Macy's acolytes in orange jumpsuits diligently monitor the helium tanks, check hoses and fittings, and test the balloons for suppleness and lift. Throngs of supplicants file by whispering prayers, leaving burnt offerings, etc. Under the watchful eyes of Auxiliary NYPD, the crowds are funnelled through a series of barricades and then sent around the museum grounds on a one-way route that ensures happy traffic flow; the signs say "Enter here for inflation." We sure will, and did. Everything goes like clockwork.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Never leave me unsupervised
Scott is off with the Bad Seeds this weekend to run the Edmund Fitzgerald Ultra Marathon. You can follow their adventures here.
So I'm home with the three other female household members. Being of the furry, four-legged variety, they provide excellent company but not much in terms of witty conversation. This means I spent my Friday evening watching bad tv. Really bad tv, like reruns of Everyone Loves Raymond bad.
In the brief time that Scott has been away I:
So I'm home with the three other female household members. Being of the furry, four-legged variety, they provide excellent company but not much in terms of witty conversation. This means I spent my Friday evening watching bad tv. Really bad tv, like reruns of Everyone Loves Raymond bad.
In the brief time that Scott has been away I:
- Managed to break the kitchen window. While looking for the dog last night through the kitchen window I decided it was really filthy. So seizing the moment I grabbed the windex and paper towls. Everything was fine until I tried to put the window back together (we have those kind where the windows pull out towards you so you can clean the outside from the inside). Anyway it won't go down all the way now. I have no idea what happen. I even tried pounding it down with a hammer. It's not open to the fridgid outside air, but the lock won't meet up so I can't lock it.
- Almost got into a car accident while going to the gym. I had attempted to go to the gym Friday night - twice! Both times there was absolutely no parking. Don't believe it when people tell you that there's nothing going on in downtown St. Paul. So after work today (yes, I had to work today, see #3), I thought I would try to make up for last night. Again I get downtown and there are no parking spots. I finally spied one across the street and went for it. However, I failed to check the oh-so-crucial blindspot. I almost side-swiped the car next to me. Luckily the other driver had good reflexes and brakes. Of course I was too ashamed and embarassed to do anything but flee the scene. So I still haven't made it to the gym! Maybe I'll walk there on Sunday.
- Decided that I hate my job and need a new one. Since I vowed I wouldn't discuss work on this site that's all I'll say, but if you hear of a job opening let me know. It needs to be something that's Mon-Fri 9-5 with no special events.
Friday, October 06, 2006
drilling for vermicelli
It was time to face the harsh reality. After weeks of damp rings around the basement sewer drain, we finally bit the bullet and rented a Roto-Rooter. No more living in fear. No more sluggish draining. No more heart-stopping backups. Now, after a full day of sewer snaking, we may not be ready to declare “mission accomplished,” but we have made solid progress. We recognize this will be a continuing odyssey. Our consciences are clear, and the sewer line is getting there.
ANALOGY
First, a word about the roots. Imagine Dee Snyder was your houseguest for, say, twenty years. Let’s magically extend the glory days of Twisted Sister for the same twenty years to ensure his hair remains magnificent, stage-ready, indestructible, in the mature expression of its twisty fullness. Dee showers every day and loses a couple hundred strands of hair down the drain. Twenty years later, the accumulated mass of thousands of hairs have coalesced into a springy, snarled, forty-foot-long tubular wig of evil nastiness. This is bad.
ETYMOLOGY
It wasn’t until many hours of snaking had passed that I gained striking new insight into the etymology of the “Roto-Rooter.” My hasty, naive assumption was that “rooting” referred to digging or poking, the sort of activity an industrious hog might enjoy, and that poking a flexible metal tube down a hole surely qualified as rooting. This couldn’t have been further from the truth. Sewer lines are full of hairlike snarls of tree roots; removal of said roots requires. . . rooting. Rotate the rooting device for more effective rootage, and what do you get? Roto-Rooter. You could argue that the procedure should properly be called derooting, but that opens up the whole ravel vs. unravel can of worms. Besides, Roto-Derooter doesn’t have the same catchy mnemonic flair. Although it would be a good name for a trance DJ from Amsterdam.
ADVICE
Having earned my sewer stripes, I feel qualified to dispense advice to all you aspiring snakers and wildcatters out there. Listen up, little rooters. Sitting for hours over an open drain encourages a meditative state of mind. After sending the snake down and pulling it back up a few hundred times, I found myself imposing a set of organizing principles on the experience and composing a sort of mental manual on the Principles of Effective Snaking. Here, then, are helpful rules of thumb for the young sewer rat.
Rotation is good; more rotation is better. The task is not unlike twirling spaghetti onto a fork from across the room while blindfolded. The more you rotate the rooter, the more likely you are to snag a wad of roots. Torque is your friend.
Gloves are non-negotiable. Really. And resist the absentminded urge to scratch your nose. Wash your hands twenty or thirty times before lunch.
Three heads are better than one. The typical rooter-head palette includes 1) an arrow-shaped head for general-purpose poking and twirling, 2) a U-shaped cutter head, the more aggressive serrations the better, and 3) a corkscrew-shaped snagger head for capturing root snarls and dragging them back up the line.
Avoid kinks. In all things snake-related, straighter is better. Get too enthusiastic about spinning that roto motor and you’ll find yourself with a snake around your neck.
To drip or not to drip? Running water through the line is useful for diagnosing the still-unclogged clog. Remember to turn it off when it starts backing up and flowing over your shoes. The handy rinsing action also keeps the snake cleaner. It’s all relative, however. And, on the other hand, a wetter snake means your gloves will turn to mush more quickly.
Resistance is not futile. In fact, resistance is good. On the way out, resistance on the line means you’ve run into a juicy clog. On the way back in, it means you’ve successfully snagged a slimy wad and now have a fighting chance of dragging it out into the light of day. If your snake line goes slack, you’ve lost your bounty and will have to go in and hook it again. Fishing analogies are apt.
Unwind slowly. When your sweet bundle of e.coli-laden slime emerges from the drain, it’ll be wrapped around the end of a dangerously-torqued snake. Release that potential energy with utter caution.
Safety last. The Roto-Rooter directions advise against handling the snake while the motor is in motion. Ignore this dictum. Sometimes pushing a spinning snake is the only way to chew your way through a tough patch.
ANALOGY
First, a word about the roots. Imagine Dee Snyder was your houseguest for, say, twenty years. Let’s magically extend the glory days of Twisted Sister for the same twenty years to ensure his hair remains magnificent, stage-ready, indestructible, in the mature expression of its twisty fullness. Dee showers every day and loses a couple hundred strands of hair down the drain. Twenty years later, the accumulated mass of thousands of hairs have coalesced into a springy, snarled, forty-foot-long tubular wig of evil nastiness. This is bad.
ETYMOLOGY
It wasn’t until many hours of snaking had passed that I gained striking new insight into the etymology of the “Roto-Rooter.” My hasty, naive assumption was that “rooting” referred to digging or poking, the sort of activity an industrious hog might enjoy, and that poking a flexible metal tube down a hole surely qualified as rooting. This couldn’t have been further from the truth. Sewer lines are full of hairlike snarls of tree roots; removal of said roots requires. . . rooting. Rotate the rooting device for more effective rootage, and what do you get? Roto-Rooter. You could argue that the procedure should properly be called derooting, but that opens up the whole ravel vs. unravel can of worms. Besides, Roto-Derooter doesn’t have the same catchy mnemonic flair. Although it would be a good name for a trance DJ from Amsterdam.
ADVICE
Having earned my sewer stripes, I feel qualified to dispense advice to all you aspiring snakers and wildcatters out there. Listen up, little rooters. Sitting for hours over an open drain encourages a meditative state of mind. After sending the snake down and pulling it back up a few hundred times, I found myself imposing a set of organizing principles on the experience and composing a sort of mental manual on the Principles of Effective Snaking. Here, then, are helpful rules of thumb for the young sewer rat.
Rotation is good; more rotation is better. The task is not unlike twirling spaghetti onto a fork from across the room while blindfolded. The more you rotate the rooter, the more likely you are to snag a wad of roots. Torque is your friend.
Gloves are non-negotiable. Really. And resist the absentminded urge to scratch your nose. Wash your hands twenty or thirty times before lunch.
Three heads are better than one. The typical rooter-head palette includes 1) an arrow-shaped head for general-purpose poking and twirling, 2) a U-shaped cutter head, the more aggressive serrations the better, and 3) a corkscrew-shaped snagger head for capturing root snarls and dragging them back up the line.
Avoid kinks. In all things snake-related, straighter is better. Get too enthusiastic about spinning that roto motor and you’ll find yourself with a snake around your neck.
To drip or not to drip? Running water through the line is useful for diagnosing the still-unclogged clog. Remember to turn it off when it starts backing up and flowing over your shoes. The handy rinsing action also keeps the snake cleaner. It’s all relative, however. And, on the other hand, a wetter snake means your gloves will turn to mush more quickly.
Resistance is not futile. In fact, resistance is good. On the way out, resistance on the line means you’ve run into a juicy clog. On the way back in, it means you’ve successfully snagged a slimy wad and now have a fighting chance of dragging it out into the light of day. If your snake line goes slack, you’ve lost your bounty and will have to go in and hook it again. Fishing analogies are apt.
Unwind slowly. When your sweet bundle of e.coli-laden slime emerges from the drain, it’ll be wrapped around the end of a dangerously-torqued snake. Release that potential energy with utter caution.
Safety last. The Roto-Rooter directions advise against handling the snake while the motor is in motion. Ignore this dictum. Sometimes pushing a spinning snake is the only way to chew your way through a tough patch.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
With luck and love
Well - we did it. We got married this past weekend.
It was a fabulous day made possible by good luck (it didn't rain) and lots of love (our families were incredible).
Pictures are still coming in from the multiple photographers that were present but if you just can't wait here is what we have so far...
The happy couple kissing
Originally uploaded by schwillig.
It was a fabulous day made possible by good luck (it didn't rain) and lots of love (our families were incredible).
Pictures are still coming in from the multiple photographers that were present but if you just can't wait here is what we have so far...
The happy couple kissing
Originally uploaded by schwillig.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
comeback (!)
Like [INSERT 80's HAIR BAND OF YOUR CHOICE HERE], we're launching our Schwillig comeback tour. Promising big splashy performances. Hoping for packed auditoriums. We're back, brasher and flashier and brashier than ever. Hello, Cincinnati!
I hereby declare a moratorium on exclamation points from this day forward. A moment ago, I caught myself cheerily end-punctuating with an exclamation point, and I don't like it. At work I often e-point in emails; it's become an ugly, unconscious reflex, an overpowering urge to project a benign aura of friendly accessibilty, a helpful custom-service orientation. Salutations and sign-offs are particularly dangerous; those bastards shoot out exclamation points like noxious weeds. Hello! Thanks for your message! Take care! Looking forward to meeting you!
It began innocently enough as an ironic pose, a cheeky postmodern smirk at the clunky punctuation practices of an older generation from the POV of our own sleek, subtle-to-the-point-of-vanishing dashes, periods, and lowercase everything. Kind of like wearing glasses with Buddy Holly frames even though your eyesight is fine. But then something gee-whiz began to creep in, something dark and terrible and habit-forming, and next thing you know it's five years later and your every utterance, your every thought is couched in Wonderbread.
With my last ounce of strength, I plunge one final exclamation point like a dagger into the heart of the matter.
I hereby declare a moratorium on exclamation points from this day forward. A moment ago, I caught myself cheerily end-punctuating with an exclamation point, and I don't like it. At work I often e-point in emails; it's become an ugly, unconscious reflex, an overpowering urge to project a benign aura of friendly accessibilty, a helpful custom-service orientation. Salutations and sign-offs are particularly dangerous; those bastards shoot out exclamation points like noxious weeds. Hello! Thanks for your message! Take care! Looking forward to meeting you!
It began innocently enough as an ironic pose, a cheeky postmodern smirk at the clunky punctuation practices of an older generation from the POV of our own sleek, subtle-to-the-point-of-vanishing dashes, periods, and lowercase everything. Kind of like wearing glasses with Buddy Holly frames even though your eyesight is fine. But then something gee-whiz began to creep in, something dark and terrible and habit-forming, and next thing you know it's five years later and your every utterance, your every thought is couched in Wonderbread.
With my last ounce of strength, I plunge one final exclamation point like a dagger into the heart of the matter.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
blog-a-do
Most folks who know me know that I have a bit of an addiction to blogs. I read about 20 different blogs and that list is growing all the time. I'm impressed daily by these people who share their lives with complete strangers. They post about the good, the bad, the awful, and the absurd. What's really amazing is how much I care about these people who I don't even know. Reading someone's blog strips the nonsense away and you realize how much people really have in common. So here are a few of my favorite blogs:
Alice of finslippy is a phenomenal writer. She's witty, intelligent and fearless about her writing. I wish she had time to post every day.
Heather of dooce is the most famous blogger I read. She received notoriety in 2002 for being fired from her job because of her blog. She even discontinued blogging for a while. But now she's back and has made headlines again with her openness about her battle with depression, especially post-partaum depression, and the fact that she's making a living by blogging. Her husband Jon also has a blog at blurbomat.
Maybe it's the influence of my dear Okie friend Anne, but I've realize two of my favorite blogs are written by folks who are originally from Oklahoma.
The first is Sarah Brown at queserasera who is an Okie now living in Brooklyn. She's kind of like my "Sex and the City" blog series. She's a single girl in NYC but wears normal clothes and has real friends and relationships.
It was through Queserasera that I discovered Erin and Brian, also former Tulsans, over at byrneunit. They're married with a one-year-old son and recently moved to Chicago. Again they're very funny and complete pop-culture-whores.
There's also Tracey from Baltimore at sweetney who taught me about the blog phenomenon "Snakes on the Plane." She also introduced her friend Amy to me at amalah, who has some kick-ass beauty tips.
I could go on and on and talk about Melissa, Julia, Laid-Off Dad, Mimi, Maggie and Eden, but I'll just let you discover them by yourself.
Alice of finslippy is a phenomenal writer. She's witty, intelligent and fearless about her writing. I wish she had time to post every day.
Heather of dooce is the most famous blogger I read. She received notoriety in 2002 for being fired from her job because of her blog. She even discontinued blogging for a while. But now she's back and has made headlines again with her openness about her battle with depression, especially post-partaum depression, and the fact that she's making a living by blogging. Her husband Jon also has a blog at blurbomat.
Maybe it's the influence of my dear Okie friend Anne, but I've realize two of my favorite blogs are written by folks who are originally from Oklahoma.
The first is Sarah Brown at queserasera who is an Okie now living in Brooklyn. She's kind of like my "Sex and the City" blog series. She's a single girl in NYC but wears normal clothes and has real friends and relationships.
It was through Queserasera that I discovered Erin and Brian, also former Tulsans, over at byrneunit. They're married with a one-year-old son and recently moved to Chicago. Again they're very funny and complete pop-culture-whores.
There's also Tracey from Baltimore at sweetney who taught me about the blog phenomenon "Snakes on the Plane." She also introduced her friend Amy to me at amalah, who has some kick-ass beauty tips.
I could go on and on and talk about Melissa, Julia, Laid-Off Dad, Mimi, Maggie and Eden, but I'll just let you discover them by yourself.
Monday, July 10, 2006
spin
Taking the new KitchenAid mixer out for a spin: in this clip, we roll out onto a lonely, straight highway and rev her engine up past liquify. Seriously, though, this mixer is so powerful and stainless-steel-clad and intelligent its settings range from "brain surgery" to "devastation."
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
the eyes have it
Jen after a knock-down drag-out fight with her mountain bike.
Kelly wide-eyed with sympathetic shock.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
we're all grown up now
We received our first comment spam on the blog today. We're still feeling a little breathless and shaky, even now that the first exhilirating rush is over. We hardly feel violated at all. In fact, it feels like we've passed a developmental milestone, or somehow been initiated into real bloggerhood.
Let me tell you about our first spam.
It was so. . . sweet. Sweet and gentle. It came out of the blue. Our first spam was delivered in lowercase, in a soft, faintly-exotic Eastern European accent---it's hard to tell when it's barely even a whisper. Like the lost stoned hippie chick who wanders in from the rain and ends up in a pool of light on your couch, it started with a meandering apology. It said it had lost its way, stumbled onto our blog, didn't see what it was looking for, but wondered if we wanted to make some money? Hell yeah, we say. Sure we want to make money. Then suddenly she sprouts stainless steel talons that knock over the lamp, plunge into the couch (though in a panic, we still notice that the couch is covered in cat fur. . . oh, it is exactly these prosaic small things that keep us grounded and protect us from real harm) and grind right through the floor, and she instantly grows other tentacles and whipping appendages and spikes and plates like a technohorror chia pet. Humming alien ductwork runs everywhere. Someone somewhere has fired up a stage fog machine, dramatically blanketing the room in a knee-high layer of white dry ice smoke. Her metallic spiderbot body hovers, spinning. Her red eyes glare. We wait, unable to move or even blink, limp with. . what? desire? terror? Finally, sounding uncannily like Stephen Hawking, she commands us to visit a website. Do we want to make money? Yes! Yes! We move to comply. We point our browser. But suddenly we remember the small things that matter, precious necessities like pesky cat fur on the couch and ice cream and calls to pick up siblings at the airport, and we come back to our senses. Begone, beautiful dark lady of the spam world! And take your robot spiders with you! We'll put in our iPod earbuds and crank up ABBA Gold tunes to drown out your siren song of wealth and fame and splendid penis enlargement! Go away!
It was that close. But now we're older and wiser and we know better.
Let me tell you about our first spam.
It was so. . . sweet. Sweet and gentle. It came out of the blue. Our first spam was delivered in lowercase, in a soft, faintly-exotic Eastern European accent---it's hard to tell when it's barely even a whisper. Like the lost stoned hippie chick who wanders in from the rain and ends up in a pool of light on your couch, it started with a meandering apology. It said it had lost its way, stumbled onto our blog, didn't see what it was looking for, but wondered if we wanted to make some money? Hell yeah, we say. Sure we want to make money. Then suddenly she sprouts stainless steel talons that knock over the lamp, plunge into the couch (though in a panic, we still notice that the couch is covered in cat fur. . . oh, it is exactly these prosaic small things that keep us grounded and protect us from real harm) and grind right through the floor, and she instantly grows other tentacles and whipping appendages and spikes and plates like a technohorror chia pet. Humming alien ductwork runs everywhere. Someone somewhere has fired up a stage fog machine, dramatically blanketing the room in a knee-high layer of white dry ice smoke. Her metallic spiderbot body hovers, spinning. Her red eyes glare. We wait, unable to move or even blink, limp with. . what? desire? terror? Finally, sounding uncannily like Stephen Hawking, she commands us to visit a website. Do we want to make money? Yes! Yes! We move to comply. We point our browser. But suddenly we remember the small things that matter, precious necessities like pesky cat fur on the couch and ice cream and calls to pick up siblings at the airport, and we come back to our senses. Begone, beautiful dark lady of the spam world! And take your robot spiders with you! We'll put in our iPod earbuds and crank up ABBA Gold tunes to drown out your siren song of wealth and fame and splendid penis enlargement! Go away!
It was that close. But now we're older and wiser and we know better.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
haiku by cat upon release from accidental imprisonment in basement
lock me in a hole?
your reward for such hubris:
fur on your keyboard.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Slackers no more!
Yes, yes, yes - it has been almost 3 months since we've updated the blog. Our excuse...we can't or don't have time to post while at work and our home computer was very, very slow (dial-up plus an eight-year-old computer). But that is all about to change! I am proudly typing on our new MacBook using our new wireless DSL connection! The Schwillig's are back. And to prove it here is a picture right now that I took using the built-in camera on the MacBook:
In keeping with the picture theme, here is a picture of Scott running at Grandma's Marathon a couple of weeks ago.
The picture is courtsey of Scott's father, Norm, and was taken less than a mile from the finish line, which explains the smile.
Whew...I think I've blogged before properly stretching. I promise this is just the beginning. We have so much to catch up on--the pets, the house projects, oh and yeah that whole wedding thing coming up in September...
In keeping with the picture theme, here is a picture of Scott running at Grandma's Marathon a couple of weeks ago.
The picture is courtsey of Scott's father, Norm, and was taken less than a mile from the finish line, which explains the smile.
Whew...I think I've blogged before properly stretching. I promise this is just the beginning. We have so much to catch up on--the pets, the house projects, oh and yeah that whole wedding thing coming up in September...
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