a bit about Korea

I’ve been in Korea for just over 2 weeks, and fly home on Thursday 1/19. I haven’t been blogging the trip, because Facebook status updates killed my blog, but here’s a longer post than FB will allow.

First, I’ve learned 2 random things about Korean culture while I’ve been here. On the trip last summer, we accidentally stayed in a sex motel, which I blogged about a few posts back. This time, I learned that ‘motel’ means ‘sex’ — that is, a hotel is by definition a place to stay while traveling and a motel is a place for sex. I was told this by a couple of different people, both US and Korean, as if all Koreans know it, which makes me wonder if last summers’ guide wasn’t embarrassed for booking us into a motel, but embarrassed we so quickly figured out the place’s purpose. I was also told that there are lots of motels (which there are, once you’re looking for them) not just for illicit sex, but for married couples — a logical adaptation in a culture where multi-generational families crowd into houses very small by western standards.

Last summer, fellow traveler Kathy and I were admiring pretty little porcelain tiles, both traditional and funky, hanging as pendants on black silk cord. The shop owner bustled out and told us his sister made them, and we each bought one. Last Sunday in Seoul and yesterday in Daejon, I saw displays of identical necklaces, and each shopkeeper made sure to inform me that his/her sister had made the pendants. Either that’s one big family and one overworked sister, or we fell for the tourist patter.

Today, our sophomore students threw a barbeque for us. They took a 4-hour long English test yesterday, the TOEFL, while we were gallivanting around Daejon with a freshman student and her father, a sweet man who worked mightily to shoehorn some culture into our shopping and fed us a meal or tea or coffee every 2 hours. I must say, I never thought the paper fan musuem could be so interesting. And there was a museum dedicated to a famous female writer, a musuem that showcased (Americans would never have the patience for this) her writing — including an original manuscript  that stood, pages stacked, about 4 feet tall (handwritten in Hangul script, so not so many sentences per page, but still).

But back to the bbq.  No parents or teachers around, just one female student, 5 or 6 boys, and me and my 2 college students. First we watched a movie and ate home baked cookies, which were amazing in their own right and because they weren’t Korean high school cafeteria food.  Then the bbq began. Koreans grill meat A LOT, in when eating out or celebrating, anyway, and many restaurants have gas or charcoal grills embedded in the tables. The gas ones are powered by canisters that look like old-fashioned aerosol cans (you know, before they got all sleek and skinny) and the charcoal ones hold big chunks of wood charcoal that are brought to the table already burning.  Meat may be raw or cooked and just grilled for flavor. 

The kids had an old half-barrel that they filled with cold wood charcoal and then they took one of the gas canisters, fitted on an elbowed nozzle obviously manufactured for such use, and had a bbq blow torch. Now, I’m not sure , but I’m thinking such things are not common in the U.S. And I’m not talking the cute little creme brûlée accessory; this bore the same relationship to a brûlée-cruster that a 9mm bears to a bb gun. The kids used the torch to fire up the charcoal, and since it was obviously natural charcoal with none of those sissy Kingsford accelerants, it took some time and some flame! It was obvious they knew what they were doing and had done it before and they couldn’t understand why the three Anglo women  were laughing so much and standing so far back. On our part, we were marveling that blow torch attachments are being sold in the equivalent of Target, in the cooking section, AND were amazed that these boys were being so businesslike about their use — I think we all know what would happen if the average 15 year-old American kid got his hands on such a thing.

After a few false starts with the charcoal, we stood around the bbq and feasted on grilled sausage, thick-cut bacon (amazing grilled), steak, and grilled sliced garlic. For veggies, you wrap everything up in a lettuce leaf and much away. The whole thing was made more interesting because in addition to the flames that sometimes jump up in response to grilling juices and dripping fat, we were using cheap, restaurant-style wooden chopsticks! After the meat, we had Korean ramen noodles; Koreans eat the starch at the end of the meal, unless the dish itself incorporates starch, it seems.  Then the girls and I dragged our overstuffed selves back to our room, showered away the smoke and meat smells, and crashed. 

The housecoat of no return

My eldest sister is a generous woman with a closet full of teaching clothes she no longer needs, as she is now retired. Because she taught elementary school, the clothes are mostly cotton, comfy, easily washable, occasionally cutesy or flowery. Whenever she get the urge to de-clutter the guest room closet, she sorts through a few piles and sends me a box of shirts, with instruction to keep what I want and give the rest to charity. I sort the shirts into piles along the following lines: “good for summer”, “dog walking”, donate, “good for work”, donate, “comfy for around the house”, donate, “what was Linda thinking?”, and “maybe I’ll lose 5 pounds”.

This last box included, pooled in the bottom under a lot of “donates” and a few really good work blouses, a housecoat, or house dress. You know what I mean — a mid-calf, 3/4 sleeved, half-front-zip cotton tent made, in this case, of panels of one-color-and-white striped seersucker: mint green, pink, blue, and yellow. I threw it in the newly-dubbed “holy crap what the HELL was Linda thinking” pile, but then pulled it back. See, my shower is in the unfinished basement, as the upstairs tub was never plumbed for a shower.* And because the path from my bedroom to the basement door takes me past a large window and I don’t hate my neighbors, I make sure I’m decently covered traveling to and from. Usually I wear a nightshirt-type t-shirt, but for some odd reason that can have nothing to do with the 15 lbs I’ve gained since moving to the Midwest, they get shorter every year. I have a plush robe for winter, but in summer, when you’re going to be sweating after a shower anyway, you want something lighter and more absorbent. So I kept the housecoat and have been wearing it for that purpose.

In the t-shirt shower days, I’d always get dressed again, even after an evening shower. But the housecoat is so comfy and I’m not going outside anyway. And I reached for it this morning when I got up. And when the yard man came last week, I’d just showered, so I went outside to talk to him in the housecoat (I was in the coat, not him. We haven’t yet reached that point in our relationship). So the neighbors have seen me  in The Housecoat. I’m so far past the point of no return, it’s not even on my map.

So yeah. I’m regularly wearing a housecoat. I mean geez, Linda probably bought it from one of those catalogues that sells tent-y white t-shirts with cute giraffe appliques and matching, giraffe-print leggings. But the housecoat IS so practical and quick and comfy. I just gotta find one printed over with skulls.

*Hail storms and State Farm have given me a new roof and new car this year….I wonder if a tornado could be persuaded to just clip my bathroom?

At the Korean sex-tel

Thursday we arrived at the resort town of Pusan and checked in to a Japanese micro-tel that had opened the day before. Neat little rooms with bathrooms like RV inserts. There was a mix-up, so we could not stay 2 nights as we had planned. The faculty member acting as our guide hopped on the internet and found us a place to stay Friday night in a neighboring city. Friday, we visited a huge fish market, drove a bit, and then had a prolonged visit to a Buddhist temple, complete with silent meal and a short religious service. Afterwards, we went to our hotel, named something  like “Hotel San Juan.”

The first thing we noticed was how out-of-the-way it was, and how the small parking lot was tucked back off the street in a most inconvenient manner. The lobby was small and bare, with no seats. But we’d just been to a very different type of hotel, the micro-tel, and what do we know about Korea? So we got on the elevator. There, we noticed a small plastic box into which room keys had been deposited. How odd, we thought, that folks would just leave their keys and not formally check out, and strange that the hotel hadn’t collected the keys left that morning (it was now 10 p.m.). When the elevator doors opened, we giggled a little at the ’70s disco/gypsy/neon vibe of the hallways, but the rate was cheap (35,000 won = $33.00) and what do we know about inexpensive Korean hotels in non-prominent towns? So we split up and went to our rooms.

My room continued the ’70s disco/gypsy/neon vibe. It had the largest bathroom I’d seen so far in a Korean hotel, including a steam shower and a spa-style tub. Noting that I would certainly enjoy a long bath, I entered the room proper and noticed first the heavy headboard over the bed. I flipped the light switch, and the back of the headboard lit up with neon. Then I noticed the large array of women’s grooming items and products laid out on the dresser…..and a single mini-pad in a special holder….and a basket of condoms and little packets of lube. And then it hit me: I was in a sex-tel of the type in which the prostitute gives a kickback to the establishment. I found a new array of light switches, including a slow-strobing, multi-colored light over the bed, and that proved my suspicion. Well, that and the 50-inch TV, which showed what one of my fellow travelers called “weird Korean titty porn.”

Here’s the thing though — every place in Korea is immaculately clean. The bathrooms, even at truck stops, even the outhouse behind a small restaurant we visited in a village, are sparkling no matter the time of day. Restaurants are amazing, and in many of them you can see the food preparation areas. The street food vendors are clean, the fish markets are clean, the streets are clean, the subways are clean. Koreans who travel to the USA must think we are pigs. And so, while we agreed we wouldn’t have done it in any other country, we had no problem staying in the Hotel San Juan sex-tel.

Upon arrival, we arranged to meet in the lobby about ten minutes after going to our rooms, so we could find some late night snacks. We congregated in the parking lot and of course there was much laughing and “did you see x?” conversation. Then our boss came out all distracted and walked straight to the car, past our chattering group, rooted around in the back seat and, not finding the specialty gardening implements he had bought earlier that day, announced, “I’ve misplaced my hoes.” We howled until I though I’d choke. Then the faculty member who had, unknowingly, booked the motel (although the round beds should have tipped him off), apologized and was really afraid we’d be upset. We assured him that the sex-tel was one of the highlights of the trip. He was still embarrassed and explained he’d picked the hotel because it was so convenient to the Buddhist temple. That set us off laughing again.

And that’s how I stayed (and slept very well) in a Korean sex-tel.

Finally a post….sort of

I’m not sure if my blog is dead or not. I haven’t posted since July and posts had slowed down appreciably before that. And I’m only on here now so I can post pics of Mim at 6 months old. But I’m keeping the blog site open for now, because you never know. I’m doing a lot of crochet, and I discovered a new way to seam up motifs like granny squares and, while most folks won’t care, crocheters will care a lot. The two people I’ve taught it to feel it’s right up there with the discovery of penicillin and the invention of indoor plumbing. Heck, I may even take some good pics, write it up, and submit it to a crochet magazine for cashola, but if not, I’ll post it here. In other news, tomorrow I start teaching an online class for the first time ever, a creative writing course I designed for online use over the summer. And I’m looking forward to teaching it, but that’ll be one more course (and grading!) on top of my normal load and online, you can’t get behind on grading and then bring the students treats or let them out early to secure their goodwill. I’ll have to be punctual. Oh boy.

Other than that, I bought an Ipod Touch to replace my beloved but dying Samsung mp3 player (it still makes a good auxiliary alarm clock, though). I’ve been working all these extra jobs to get large amounts of $$ to pay off debt, and I find it’s a good idea to buy myself one treat each time, so I don’t react to deprivation and overwork by suddenly splurging. Anyway, I love the Touch and I actually sent and received text messages for the first time. This 21st century technology breakthrough shows that my aversion to texting was less about typing inconsequential messages with my thumbs and more about my refusal to pay to do so, as one can text for free with an Ipod.

And now, here’s what you really wanted to see: Mim at 6 months. Still demoniacally playful, although I caught her in a period of rest between attacking Jasper, attacking Astrid, and attacking Violet:

Spotty but cute

That is NOT a furry snake creeping up behind me.

Living Room Smack Down

Jasper, 1.5 year-old, 20 lb. schnoodle, and Mim, 9-week-old, 1.5 lb Kitten of Destruction, spend hours each day wrestling on the area rug. It’s so cute — not only are the two animals each perfect specimens of utter adorableness, but to see Jasper biting and chewing at Mim’s striking paws without actually biting or chewing, and to see Mim kitty-ninja-dancing around before pouncing is to almost die of, well, cuteness. So I took some pics. I had to use my phone camera so they aren’t great, but you get the idea:

Chilling on the rug, unaware of his fate

Mim's approach

Kitten attack!

Full engagement

Looking for the advantage...

This goes on for 20-40 minutes. Afterwards, Jasper retires to my bed, where he hopes Mim won’t find him. Mim collapses into a kitten coma (15 minutes of deep sleep, followed by a desire for more play):

Passed out....for now

Mim (briefly MayBelle)

Once during a talk in Reno, author Anne Lamott said that adopting a new kitten is like bringing a crack addict into your home. One you’re not even related to.

And why would you be writing about that, Inez?

Well, my horseback riding instructor has farm cats, two of which had kittens. I’ve seen them every week, from close-eyed proto-kitten-ness, through round-headed, side-eared, sway-backed toddlerhood, to 6-week-old adorable-osity. And every week, I’ve been offered one. And this week, yeah, I brought one home.

Meet Mim:

I've been here 4 hours and I'm already chewing on knitting

Chewing on Inez's jewelry

chewing on mah leg

Mim is tiny — 1 lb — and very, very sassy. I was worried about how the dogs would react to such a small, squeaky-toy seeming creature, but they’re okay. Jasper is very jealous of anybody other than him getting my affection, but on the other hand, he can sneak into the bathroom (Mim’s temporary area) and eat kitten food. Violet just follows Mim around, looking concerned, as if she’s afraid the kitten is going to steal the silver.

Astrid cat is FURIOUS.

Zeke bird hasn’t even noticed.

LINDA W: You’ll be happier if you don’t read this….

So, it’s been 5 years since I graduated from my Ph.D. program and moved to Storm Lake. Five years living in the Midwestern version of The Shire — not an exciting place, but very, very pleasant. Five years since I’ve done anything remotely foolish or wildly surprising (like moving to, of all places, rural n.w. Iowa). Seven years since my last tattoo.

Can you see where this is going?

Yeah. I’ve been feeling the itch. Folks who have tattoos or non-earlobe piercings or who do wacky, 6-weeks-to-grow-out, stare-worthy* things with their hair will know what I mean: THE Itch.

But I’ve long felt I’m all tattooed out. I love my 5 permanent images, but for now they say all I need said to myself in ink. I’ve had several non–earlobe piercings over the years and let all of them close for one or another reason.*** And I enjoy my Midwest humidity-curly hair way too much to hack any or all of it off.

So it’s been looking like the only foolish, Itch-worthy thing I could do in Storm Lake, Iowa would be to pick up some man in a local bar and take him home. Fortunately, my years working at Planned Parenthood convinced me that one should only bed a stranger if one could boil him first (did you know there are more than 30 diseases/infections/actual buggy things that can be transmitted via sexual contact? Ick!). Plus I appreciate less smoking and more teeth than I’ve encountered on my very few forays into local bars (and for the record, I was in the bars with friends).

Thus, my Itch might have gone unscratched, but for the flyer on microdermal piercing given to me by, of all people, my general practice physician. How cool is that — a single-point, implanted piercing that sits right on the skin. So sci-fi — so Cyberpunk! (okay, they’ll be Cyberpunk when they can light up or carry microchips or, implanted near your mouth and ear, function as your cell phone. Given the less than 2% rejection rate vs. regular piercings, you can bet scientists & industry are already looking at those ideas). So inexpensive! So utterly foolish! So tempting!

I thought about it for a whole month.

I had one implanted on Tuesday, a small (3mm), medium-blue gemstone on my left cheekbone about 1/2″ forward of the hairline, in line with the outer arch of the eyebrow. I love it!

I can’t post a picture yet, as the implant is still covered with a thin, transparent dressing and the pics I took all look as if I’ve got a thick pencil lead saran-wrapped to my face.  But trust me, it’s nifty!

I do have to say that the procedure itself made me feel like a total middle-aged sell-out. As some of you know, visiting a tattoo/piercing parlor is an experience in itself, apart from the actual tattoo or piercing you receive. Even the most professional and popular such places strive to maintain a certain atmospheric balance of danger and competence — an atmosphere that says, “you probably won’t contract Hepatitis here.” Loud alternative or goth or metal music, funky decor, a few head-shop type items for sale along with the piercing jewelry and wacky hair dyes. The tattooists and piercers wear gloves, the tables are wiped down with antiseptic between clients, and the equipment is autoclaved, but that is all they are required/allowed to do — they aren’t medical professionals. In contrast, my doctor had me come in 1/2 an hour before the implantation to have a numbing salve applied to my skin and for the implantation, set up a complete out-patient-surgery-type sterile field, including drape. I got a dressing to wear for three days and a follow-up appointment tomorrow. See? a sell-out. I mean, if tattoos and piercings didn’t hurt and didn’t happen in slightly scary places, well, everyone would have one and the cachet would go right out the window. So I was actually happy when, despite the topical anaesthetic, the implantation hurt quite a bit. Not only did I feel like I still have a bit of edge, but there’s that whole rush of endorphins that comes from willingly submitted-to pain.**** People with tattoos and piercings know what I’m talking about.

So there it is: I have a new piercing and I’m good, Itch-wise, for a few more years. And if I get a minor itch, an itchlette, in 6 months I can change the jewelry head to a tiny silver skull with gemstone eyes. Or a stainless steel hex bolt or screw head. Oh yeah.

And Linda W., I told you not to read this!

*For me, it’s not about doing things specifically to be looked at or to provoke a response, or I’d have gone goth years ago. On the other hand, I’ve never understood subtle “secret” adornment, as when women’s magazines advise readers to, say, wear frothy, lacy silk underwear as some sort of private self-esteem boost. First, I’m a cotton undies kind of gal and second, if it can’t be seen,** I feel “what’s the point?”  That is, only one of my 5 tattoos is on constant display (left wrist), but all of them are in places that can be displayed whilst still maintaining decent clothing coverage.

**Yes, in this respect I’m not a very good (modest, humble) Quaker.

***One of which was that a large-gauge bar through the shell of the ear in the open air in Montana in December feels like burning nails being driven into your skull.

****No, I’m NOT into giving or receiving pain.***** But I bet those who are get a similar, more intense rush from it.

*****Unless you count the occasional cutting remark.

In which a sandwich maker calls me an idiot

I’m stretched out on the bed in  my hotel room at WisCon 34, after listening to two excellent, entertaining, thought-provoking speeches by the guests of honor (Mary Anne Mohanraj and Nnedi Okorafor).

Two advanced creative writing students and I arrived on Friday afternoon and leave tomorrow morning. We attended panels together and separately, shopped (books! graphic novels! manga! jewelry! art!), ate at nifty little restaurants, petted some of  the many dogs being walked around downtown Madison (and one horse), composed senryu* in exchange for pairs of earrings, missed Susan Palwick, whom I got to visit with on my last (and first, and only other) visit to WisCon, and in general had a great time.

Despite everything experienced and purchased and lined up to be read, I will forever remember this WisCon whenever I use my new cell phone which, unlike the cell phone I arrived with, has a camera and GPS capabilities and a full QWERTY keyboard that I could use for texting except I don’t text and 8 GB of storage for mp3 music files. Unlike the cell phone I arrived with, it also works. The old phone stopped working this morning, refusing to do anything other than power up to display a sickly yellow screen devoid of text. Now, I don’t text or use my cellphone to access the internet (because I’m 1) old and grumpy and 2) cheap and broke), but I always have it with me and couldn’t imagine driving home sans cell phone, despite the fact that of course the  students with me have texting, internet accessing, music playing cell phones practically glued to their palms. So I called the Verizon store, determined they were only 3 miles away from the hotel, and was told that if my phone were indeed broken I could not have it repaired through them, but was welcome to buy a new one.

I told my students I was going to drive to the Verizon store and they decided to come with me. So we piled into Scarlett and headed for E. Washington street, which begins 1.5 blocks from our hotel. Forty minutes and some inspired, Gene-Schaechterle-style cursing later (on my part), we had not managed to pick up E. Washington street. Seriously. This part of Madison is a warren of one-way streets and road construction, which would have been only a minor convenience if not for the half marathon course that, block after block, sweaty and humorless police people would not let us cross. It was infuriating — literally infuriating and by the time we pulled back into the hotel garage I was determined to get to the Verizon store if it killed me and/or several other people. I told my students I would walk as it was only 3 miles and I needed the exercise anyway and they both volunteered to accompany me. Hyper-conscious of my position of power relative to the students,  I made it very clear that I didn’t expect them to come, that I thought they should stay and go to more conference panels, that not coming would in no way reflect badly upon them. But still they came, and I think it was due to them either not wanting to be alone at the convention, not wanting to sent me alone across Madison, or  (and I’m really thinking it’s this one) they are so dependent on their cell phones that my being without one for 24 hours really did seem tragic. So off we went, crossing the capitol plaza to E. Washington in 2 minutes (see? see how frustrating the 40 minutes in the car was?) and walking down the street.

And walking.

And walking.

And walking.

And just about the time I thought we’d come at least 2.5 miles and we were deeply into a neighborhood of post-industrial blight that I wouldn’t have wanted to traverse at night and was having second thoughts about traversing in 85*, shadeless heat, with nary a stripmall or even mini-mart in sight, one student said, “I didn’t have any breakfast and you should know that sometimes makes me faint.”

“We have to be close,” I said in a chipper, don’t-faint-please-God-don’t-faint-while-I’m-responsible-for-you voice. “Mapquest said it was only 3 miles.”

“Actually,” spoke up the other student, “my GPS said it was 6.3 miles.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I figured it was wrong and you knew what you were doing.”

Well holy crap. Any student who has taken a class with me should KNOW that I often have no freaking idea what I’m doing — I tell them that I’m a bit of a ditz and to speak up if I get mixed up about due dates and to always, always, check my addition on grading sheets and then we bumble along, laughing about my poor memory and poorer arithmetic skills and it’s okay because I know my subject matter and I’m a good teacher and I crack a lot of jokes. It should not be in any way inconceivable to them that either Mapquest was mistaken or I misread the results.

So there I stood on the hot concrete in front of a defunct Subaru dealership, wanting to strangle one student while simultaneously preparing to catch the other one in case she fainted and ended my academic career.

And then I saw the Subway sign.

We walked two more blocks, entered a blessedly cool Subway shop, and I bought us all lunch. The sandwich maker listened to our story and marveled that we would even consider walking from capitol square to the Verizon store and said that he’d have to tell his girlfriend she was right — Iowa really did stand for “Idiots Out Walking Around.” But he very nicely gave us the name of the least expensive cab company in town.

So we took a cab the rest of the way to the Verizon store, which cost $15. There it was determined that my phone was indeed dead. I picked out a phone priced at $79 and an accessory pack costing $50. Luckily, there was some sort of settlement when Verizon bought Alltel, my former carrier, and I got a big discount on the phone and $30 off the accessory pack, so the whole thing cost me only $59, plus the $15 cab fare to the Verizon store and the $13 cab fare back to the hotel. Needless to say, I had to cancel my plans to buy a convention t-shirt and a second pair of earrings.

But I do have to say, the phone is pretty dang neat.

Meet Scarlett

Just before I moved to Iowa, I bought a brand new 2005 Scion tC hatchback in india-ink blue:

ooh, purty!

I got a pretty good rate and a big discount as a graduating college student — although I’m sure Scion/Toyota had 24-year-old BA/BS graduates in mind, rather than middle-aged Ph.D.s. It was the first — and likely last — brand new car I’d ever bought and I adored it, from its sunroof AND moon roof (over the backseat) to its speedy little engine and handsome low-profile tires.*

But the Scion and Iowa did not get along. Even before the Endless Winter of 2009/2010, my blue beloved would get stuck at the bottom of my driveway if the snow were more than 3″ deep,** and once stuck was impossible to dig out, due to that sporty low stance. One time I was running late  and decided I could risk not digging out the scrim tossed up by the snow plow, got stuck, and had to pound on my young neighbor’s door at 7 a.m.  He ~finally~ opened up, wearing nothing but knit-fabric boxers*** he’d been sleeping in, went and got dressed, tried unsuccessfully to dig the car out, and it’s only because 2 passing Mid-American Electric company dudes stopped to help that I made it to work at all. I did buy the neighbor guy a six pack of really good beer.

Driving down to Peabody, KS to spend Christmas with my sister has also been exciting the past 2 years. I really am living on the southern edge of the Great White North and in ’2008, it took me 4 1/2 slipping, sliding, slow hours to make the 2-hour drive past Omaha.

This winter, of course, has been even worse. Once during our January Interim classes, I had to beg three students to come dig the Scion out of the base of my driveway (after getting stuck, I walked to work) and I then bought them lunch. Another time, I got stuck half-way into the street and had to call AAA. And when  exiting my driveway, even when shoveled, I had to ~hope~ no cars were coming (’cause I couldn’t see over the snowbanks) and gun the engine to get out into the snowy street.

About 10 days ago, I was driving with a friend in her little hatchback and we ended up in a ditch and as I sat there waiting for a nice Iowan with a truck and a tow line to pull us out,**** I wondered for the first time if I could trade my little blue buddy in for more than I owed on it.

And I could. And that is how I met Scarlett:

Also purty

Scarlett is a 2007 Ford Escape Sport with 4 wheel drive and a v6 engine. Scarlett laughs at snowy driveways and icy parking lots. Scarlett has no trouble seeing over big mounds of snow. Scarlett can enter a frozen street with slow grace and is not afraid she won’t be able to get going again if she loses momentum. Scarlett was bred for Iowa. Scarlett’s only fault is that she gets 5-7 fewer mpg than the Scion, but as my cheapness is much stronger than both my healthfulness and my environmentalism, I’m now much more likely to walk to work once or twice a week and bike in the summer.

And how did I settle on the name Scarlett? No, the red color of the car is beside the point — I picked this particular used car because it was the best deal available  from the in-t0wn Ford dealership, which came highly recommended by many friends and colleagues and which does seem to be very service oriented.  Rather, she got her name because when I found out I’d be trading the 1.5 years of car payments left on the Scion for a 5-year loan,***** like Miss O’Hara I sighed, “I’ll think about that tomorrow, for after all, tomorrow is another (snowy Iowa) day!”

*until I had to replace one, to the tune of $130. For just one tire. At Wal-mart!

**And it’s not that I’m too lazy to shovel. But I live alone, so any shoveling that’s going to get done gets done by me, and I have a really long driveway and I’d rather be doing something else, like eating breakfast, at 6 a.m. on a workday.

***And yes, HUBBA!

****he wouldn’t take any money, so we gave him two free tickets to  a Dad’s Belgian Waffles and Sausage fundraiser dinner.

*****The car payment is $16 more a month than the Scion’s, but insurance is $10 less, so it’s pretty much a wash.

Bird linens

First, check out this Pickles comic.

Obviously, the bird book does say underpants. Here’s Zeke in his:

I hafta wear my undies at the beach. They don't make birdie Speedos.