1. I bought glasses today and I LOVE them!
2. tomorrow and Friday we are having a yard sale
3. my Mom thinks my hands are funny looking- so funny looking that she laughs out loud at them sometimes. All my fingers stick out in odd directions.
4. I dreamed the other night that Andrea had a baby brother named Owen. He had black hair.
5. I have a hankering to drive across country with a pistol, a large dog, and stack of books on tape. Though it WOULD be more fun with a bunch of friends- anybody interested in planning a trip in say, 2008 or 9?
6. I love N.C. Wyeth's work
7. I detest peach yougurt.
23.5.07
What the World Needs is a Few More Rednecks (come get 'em- they live in my house)
My brothers, none of whom own a car, live vicariously through me and my cars. I get all kinds of unsolicited advice on my cars, my driving, and how I could better spend my money in car-related ways.
Possible improvements to existing car, or better yet, a new car:
"Oh Katie! You should get rims like those!" says brother excitedly pointing to a low-slung boat of a car, driven by the coolest black guy ever (or so he thinks). The wheels scream glitz with miles of shiny chrome.
Okay dear," I reply calmly.
"Katie, you should really buy a Z X 679 Chevy Sports Model with factory conversion fuel-injected six cylinder wingdings."
"Whatever you say, dear."
"It costs $30,000 dollars. That's not bad, compared to a Lamborghini. It can go from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds flat and reach speeds of 250 miles per hour."
This conversation is like bubble gum- it occupies the jaw of the user and annoys the user's neighbor (that would be me).
"That's all very well and good, brother, but where am I going to come up with $30,000, and besides, when do I ever need to go from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds flat (or round for that matter), and for Pete's sake, WHEN will I ever get a chance to go 250 mph?"
Long-distance car identification:
"Oh, look at that Hemi!" says brother, pointing to a large white pick-up three lanes over and five cars up. How in the world does he know its a Hemi anyway? I can't even tell you if its a Chevy or a Ford from this distance. Besides, what's a Hemi anyway?
My identification methods are heavy on personification:
Pick-up trucks with double axles in the back have wide hips.
The Crossfire looks like it has suspenders when viewed from the back.
Some headlights look sleepy, angry, crosseyed, or bug-eyed.
One new version of the Thunderbird actually looks like its in reverse all the time because the back end looks like the front.
and....
"OOOOO! That's a pretty car! What is it?"
Technical information about cars:
I am completely in awe of the amount of car-related information my brothers have stuffed away in their brains, but mostly I can't handle hearing it. Nobody has ever sat me down and explained how an engine works. Until they do the relative number of cylinders, horsepower, and other details of brakepads, torque, etc, will leave me cold.
Thankfully, my brothers seem to handle my lack of intelligence with aplomb. They gently remind me when I am caught in a misstatement involving front or rear-wheel drive and sometimes remember to dumb down the conversation to my level.
Turn and turn about- after all, I have long since started talking about horses in car terms.
"Wow! That horse can practically take a corner on two wheels!"
Assistance driving:
Brother: "Want me to shift for you?"
Kate: "NO. And get your head out of the way, I can't see through it."
Kate: "Don't TOUCH my clutch or I'll beat you!"
Kate: "Don't you DARE touch the emergency brake, young man! Oh, it was on? Oh, okay."
Comments on my driving:
My brothers affectionately refer to my car as the Hyundai Accident. They should really call it the Hyundai Accident-Waiting-to-Happen. That I think, would be the correct name while I am driving. They think I'm a horrible driver.
"You almost squealed your tires around that corner!"
This is said in a tone of reproach and ill-concealed wistfulness. Laying rubber is an offense punishable by imprisonment in Georgia. Laws against laying rubber boggle the minds of Steve, Dan, Dave (and Kate) and are only made bearable by laws that allow one to carry guns anywhere one wants without a licence.
During one memorable parade this past year a whole line of cars were passing the police station where we were sitting on the curb. Some rednecks the next curb over started hollering for action. In one unbelievably loud and glorious moment one of the muscle cars reved their engine, shrieked their tires, and left behind a long line of black rubber and a huge cloud of smoke. We still talk about that day.
car-related gifts:
A couple Christmases ago they bought me wheel-lights. I think they would have gotten me hubcaps if they hadn't been so expensive. Wheel-lights are little things that attach magnetically to your hubs and light up when you go over a bump. These particular ones flashed blue and where very much illegal for street use. Sigh. I did use them one time- to drive down Old Marlborough Rd at 5:30 in the morning to take care of the horses.
Now they live in a clear plastic bag in my dresser and make me think fondly of my brothers every time I see an eerie blue light eminating from my middle drawer.
The day before yesterday David left a present on my pillow. It was a package of decals for my car- six 38 calibre bullet holes. He had heard me say I wanted them. (I did? When was I ever caught in such an indiscretion?)
We went outside and had a interesting discussion about where to put them: say I was involved in a drive-by shooting; I was driving at 60 mph and the guy with the 38 pistol was standing to my left shooting at me. Where would the holes be? Was it a an automatic, or a semi-automatic? Say 3 rounds per second. Hmmmmm. Daddy said they would all be at head-level which isn't practical for decals. After all, I can't but a bullet-hole sticker in the middle of my windshield, or even on my side-window for that matter.
Sidetracked from the really important issue, Daddy tells with great relish a story of seeing an Egyptian armoured car in Israel after the '67 war which had one bullet-hole right at head level in the windshield. Did the guy duck in time? Mom looks disgusted.
I get cold feet. I may be amused by bullet holes in other people's cars, but am I really willing to disgrace myself in such a manner, even for the love of my brother?
If I do, I'll post a picture (DV).
Possible improvements to existing car, or better yet, a new car:
"Oh Katie! You should get rims like those!" says brother excitedly pointing to a low-slung boat of a car, driven by the coolest black guy ever (or so he thinks). The wheels scream glitz with miles of shiny chrome.
Okay dear," I reply calmly.
"Katie, you should really buy a Z X 679 Chevy Sports Model with factory conversion fuel-injected six cylinder wingdings."
"Whatever you say, dear."
"It costs $30,000 dollars. That's not bad, compared to a Lamborghini. It can go from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds flat and reach speeds of 250 miles per hour."
This conversation is like bubble gum- it occupies the jaw of the user and annoys the user's neighbor (that would be me).
"That's all very well and good, brother, but where am I going to come up with $30,000, and besides, when do I ever need to go from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds flat (or round for that matter), and for Pete's sake, WHEN will I ever get a chance to go 250 mph?"
Long-distance car identification:
"Oh, look at that Hemi!" says brother, pointing to a large white pick-up three lanes over and five cars up. How in the world does he know its a Hemi anyway? I can't even tell you if its a Chevy or a Ford from this distance. Besides, what's a Hemi anyway?
My identification methods are heavy on personification:
Pick-up trucks with double axles in the back have wide hips.
The Crossfire looks like it has suspenders when viewed from the back.
Some headlights look sleepy, angry, crosseyed, or bug-eyed.
One new version of the Thunderbird actually looks like its in reverse all the time because the back end looks like the front.
and....
"OOOOO! That's a pretty car! What is it?"
Technical information about cars:
I am completely in awe of the amount of car-related information my brothers have stuffed away in their brains, but mostly I can't handle hearing it. Nobody has ever sat me down and explained how an engine works. Until they do the relative number of cylinders, horsepower, and other details of brakepads, torque, etc, will leave me cold.
Thankfully, my brothers seem to handle my lack of intelligence with aplomb. They gently remind me when I am caught in a misstatement involving front or rear-wheel drive and sometimes remember to dumb down the conversation to my level.
Turn and turn about- after all, I have long since started talking about horses in car terms.
"Wow! That horse can practically take a corner on two wheels!"
Assistance driving:
Brother: "Want me to shift for you?"
Kate: "NO. And get your head out of the way, I can't see through it."
Kate: "Don't TOUCH my clutch or I'll beat you!"
Kate: "Don't you DARE touch the emergency brake, young man! Oh, it was on? Oh, okay."
Comments on my driving:
My brothers affectionately refer to my car as the Hyundai Accident. They should really call it the Hyundai Accident-Waiting-to-Happen. That I think, would be the correct name while I am driving. They think I'm a horrible driver.
"You almost squealed your tires around that corner!"
This is said in a tone of reproach and ill-concealed wistfulness. Laying rubber is an offense punishable by imprisonment in Georgia. Laws against laying rubber boggle the minds of Steve, Dan, Dave (and Kate) and are only made bearable by laws that allow one to carry guns anywhere one wants without a licence.
During one memorable parade this past year a whole line of cars were passing the police station where we were sitting on the curb. Some rednecks the next curb over started hollering for action. In one unbelievably loud and glorious moment one of the muscle cars reved their engine, shrieked their tires, and left behind a long line of black rubber and a huge cloud of smoke. We still talk about that day.
car-related gifts:
A couple Christmases ago they bought me wheel-lights. I think they would have gotten me hubcaps if they hadn't been so expensive. Wheel-lights are little things that attach magnetically to your hubs and light up when you go over a bump. These particular ones flashed blue and where very much illegal for street use. Sigh. I did use them one time- to drive down Old Marlborough Rd at 5:30 in the morning to take care of the horses.
Now they live in a clear plastic bag in my dresser and make me think fondly of my brothers every time I see an eerie blue light eminating from my middle drawer.
The day before yesterday David left a present on my pillow. It was a package of decals for my car- six 38 calibre bullet holes. He had heard me say I wanted them. (I did? When was I ever caught in such an indiscretion?)
We went outside and had a interesting discussion about where to put them: say I was involved in a drive-by shooting; I was driving at 60 mph and the guy with the 38 pistol was standing to my left shooting at me. Where would the holes be? Was it a an automatic, or a semi-automatic? Say 3 rounds per second. Hmmmmm. Daddy said they would all be at head-level which isn't practical for decals. After all, I can't but a bullet-hole sticker in the middle of my windshield, or even on my side-window for that matter.
Sidetracked from the really important issue, Daddy tells with great relish a story of seeing an Egyptian armoured car in Israel after the '67 war which had one bullet-hole right at head level in the windshield. Did the guy duck in time? Mom looks disgusted.
I get cold feet. I may be amused by bullet holes in other people's cars, but am I really willing to disgrace myself in such a manner, even for the love of my brother?
If I do, I'll post a picture (DV).
4.5.07
Katie vs. Goliath
Meet Goliath- 1500 lbs, 17 hands tall, all muscle and bone. Not the prettiest horse around, but one of the more solid. In his prime he was a steer-roping champion. He was so fast he could out-run the steer, and when he stopped with the steer at the other end of the rope, the steer did a back-flip. Goliath can turn a corner faster than I can think, take off from a stand-still like an explosion, and run all out for the fun of it. He is also one of the gentlest horses I have ever ridden and very well-behaved.
Daniel took this picture. The fuzziness to the right is the fencepost he was hiding behind to avoid getting run down. The yellow thing is a wire attached to a telephone pole just out of sight to the left. I am thinking to myself at this point "I hope this horse decides I mean it when I asked him to move over because I am going to look pretty disgusting without a head. And I WILL be decapitated if he doesn't move over!"
Which does not explain why I am smiling.
Daniel took this picture. The fuzziness to the right is the fencepost he was hiding behind to avoid getting run down. The yellow thing is a wire attached to a telephone pole just out of sight to the left. I am thinking to myself at this point "I hope this horse decides I mean it when I asked him to move over because I am going to look pretty disgusting without a head. And I WILL be decapitated if he doesn't move over!"
Which does not explain why I am smiling.
Motherhood
This is not a post about my mother, though Mother's Day is coming up.
I am doing a dry-run/ crash-course in mothering for a couple days. Mrs. and Mrs. L. left for the Gulf Coast to close on some rental property and I am taking care of their kids- Allison (11), Joseph (4), Benjamin (3), and Anna-Sophia (18 mo.)
Things are going remarkably well, but its so weird! We haven't had little ones in the house for years, and I forgot how time consuming they are. As in- they consume ALL available time ALL day long. Forget sitting down to read, forget eating food at meal times, forget thinking your own thoughts uninterrupted, or walking in a straight line down the path (no Sophia! THIS way!), or only managing your own food order at the drive-thru. Did you remember to wash Benjamin's hands? Sophia can't change her own diaper and she isn't going to remind you! Are they all crabby at once? Well, its your fault because dinner is late and they don't know how to be polite when they are hungry. Whose mess on the floor? Doesn't matter who made it-its mine now.
Suddenly I am thinking, planning and acting for 5 instead of one. I am responsible for their behavior and well-being, and naps are not an option (unless you think you can sleep and act as jungle-gym at the same time).
So wait, this is a post for my Mom- My word what a job! Thank you SO MUCH. I love you, and I think you are incredible.
I am doing a dry-run/ crash-course in mothering for a couple days. Mrs. and Mrs. L. left for the Gulf Coast to close on some rental property and I am taking care of their kids- Allison (11), Joseph (4), Benjamin (3), and Anna-Sophia (18 mo.)
Things are going remarkably well, but its so weird! We haven't had little ones in the house for years, and I forgot how time consuming they are. As in- they consume ALL available time ALL day long. Forget sitting down to read, forget eating food at meal times, forget thinking your own thoughts uninterrupted, or walking in a straight line down the path (no Sophia! THIS way!), or only managing your own food order at the drive-thru. Did you remember to wash Benjamin's hands? Sophia can't change her own diaper and she isn't going to remind you! Are they all crabby at once? Well, its your fault because dinner is late and they don't know how to be polite when they are hungry. Whose mess on the floor? Doesn't matter who made it-its mine now.
Suddenly I am thinking, planning and acting for 5 instead of one. I am responsible for their behavior and well-being, and naps are not an option (unless you think you can sleep and act as jungle-gym at the same time).
So wait, this is a post for my Mom- My word what a job! Thank you SO MUCH. I love you, and I think you are incredible.
1.5.07
Call it one or the other, or get a better gun
I have been wandering about the house this afternoon wearing my latest acquisition- a pair of half-chaps. Chaps are leather things that wrap around your legs to protect them from whatever. I think motorcycle dudes wear them. Cowboys wear whacking big ones that go the length of their legs and flap about. English gentlemen wear boots, or jodhpurs (Province in India/riding breeches), or sometimes subdued, snobby versions of cowboy chaps.
Half-chaps are for people like me who would rather not wear huge things, or spend a couple hundred dollars on a pair of (gorgeous) riding boots. They only cover your leg from the knee to the ankle, but that's all that matters.
On a Western saddle the part where you put your foot (stirrup) is attached to the saddle with a generous amount of smooth leather against which your leg can rest comfortably. English saddles are more stingy. The stirrup is attached by two thin leather straps which move back and forth and pinch your legs abominably. Nasty English.
I've been doing more riding recently, and am planning on continuing through the summer- on an English saddle. So, to keep myself from sporting a permanent row of bruises I drove to yon local huge saddle store and bought me-self chaps.
I love riding, and I hope to continue riding for the rest of my life, but I think this is the first time I have ever invested any money in riding. I haven't bought anything related- not even a riding helmet. Which I really could have used. I remember so many summer afternoons (Rachel, Frith?) tearing madly through the puckerbrush on horseback, barefoot, bareheaded, and brainless. We jumped and swam and thundered about and fell off repeatedly. And at the end of the day we would compare legs to see who had the most scratches.... sigh. Them were the days.
Where was I? Oh yes! investment. I was saying I hadn't ever invested in riding. Wait! There was, I suppose, the time I tied that rather flighty Appaloosa mare named Marcy to the MacCauley's water pump spigot and then sprayed her with the hose. She leaped into the air like a Pegasus and I spent most of the summer paying for a new pipe to replace the one she bent.
Anyway! I am pleased as punch with my new chaps, and I am happily anticipating putting them to good use in the next couple days. Though I admit they kind of make me look like a biker.
On to surveying.
I am learning about surveying! Isn't that cool? Blake T. is the engineer for a new bridge going up at the park across the road. He has his own equipment, but no crew I guess, so he got, Daniel, and David and me to help him out.
Actually he had already surveyed for the bridge twice, but the client didn't like the placement and picked a new spot. Blake T was sure it wouldn't fit where he wanted it. Our job was to help him find out if there was the necessary 7 1/2 feet between two large trees. The client wants the bridge between them without cutting them down. Sounds easy to figure out? It wasn't. Because it wasn't just a matter of running a tape measure. The bridge is really long, so moving it a wee bit at one end can make a big difference at the other end; possibly bringing it up against other obstacles.
We spent three hours learning how to use a transit (15 minute gun, Derrick, and whoohoo don't I feel smart to know what that means!) to shoot center lines and angles and plot trees that might be in the way, and then how to use a level to plot the elevation of temporary bench marks and tree roots. So many interesting facts about plumb bobs and angles and degrees, minutes, and seconds and tenths of a foot...
I kept on getting confused about how to read the angles and was all nervous that I was going to get it wildly wrong. The transit we used was only accurate down to 15 minute incriments. That meant that when I called the measurement there was a wee bit of guessing. I had to decide if it was closer to the 15, 30, 45, 0r 60 line. So what if it was exactly between two lines?
"Call it one or the other, or get a better gun," was the answer. In other words, this instrument only gets that close, and if you wanted it any closer, you should have brought the more powerful instrument.
There must be some life principle in that, but if I work it out it sounds too much like 'Just leave it, its good enough,' or 'this isn't a masterpiece, you know.' Sort of a lowering of standards.
But that isn't what it meant.
Anyway, I had a blast! Blake T. is a great teacher and besides that, he did all the really 'interesting' math. I just got to peer through the instruments and yell at Daniel to plumb the rod. Poor Daniel; I think found it all less amusing because he was the rod man and had to stand in the hot sun keeping an 8-foot pole steady for ages. Or run around measuring the circumference of trees with David. And pick up ticks.
So yay for surveying equipment and half-chaps!
Half-chaps are for people like me who would rather not wear huge things, or spend a couple hundred dollars on a pair of (gorgeous) riding boots. They only cover your leg from the knee to the ankle, but that's all that matters.
On a Western saddle the part where you put your foot (stirrup) is attached to the saddle with a generous amount of smooth leather against which your leg can rest comfortably. English saddles are more stingy. The stirrup is attached by two thin leather straps which move back and forth and pinch your legs abominably. Nasty English.
I've been doing more riding recently, and am planning on continuing through the summer- on an English saddle. So, to keep myself from sporting a permanent row of bruises I drove to yon local huge saddle store and bought me-self chaps.
I love riding, and I hope to continue riding for the rest of my life, but I think this is the first time I have ever invested any money in riding. I haven't bought anything related- not even a riding helmet. Which I really could have used. I remember so many summer afternoons (Rachel, Frith?) tearing madly through the puckerbrush on horseback, barefoot, bareheaded, and brainless. We jumped and swam and thundered about and fell off repeatedly. And at the end of the day we would compare legs to see who had the most scratches.... sigh. Them were the days.
Where was I? Oh yes! investment. I was saying I hadn't ever invested in riding. Wait! There was, I suppose, the time I tied that rather flighty Appaloosa mare named Marcy to the MacCauley's water pump spigot and then sprayed her with the hose. She leaped into the air like a Pegasus and I spent most of the summer paying for a new pipe to replace the one she bent.
Anyway! I am pleased as punch with my new chaps, and I am happily anticipating putting them to good use in the next couple days. Though I admit they kind of make me look like a biker.
On to surveying.
I am learning about surveying! Isn't that cool? Blake T. is the engineer for a new bridge going up at the park across the road. He has his own equipment, but no crew I guess, so he got, Daniel, and David and me to help him out.
Actually he had already surveyed for the bridge twice, but the client didn't like the placement and picked a new spot. Blake T was sure it wouldn't fit where he wanted it. Our job was to help him find out if there was the necessary 7 1/2 feet between two large trees. The client wants the bridge between them without cutting them down. Sounds easy to figure out? It wasn't. Because it wasn't just a matter of running a tape measure. The bridge is really long, so moving it a wee bit at one end can make a big difference at the other end; possibly bringing it up against other obstacles.
We spent three hours learning how to use a transit (15 minute gun, Derrick, and whoohoo don't I feel smart to know what that means!) to shoot center lines and angles and plot trees that might be in the way, and then how to use a level to plot the elevation of temporary bench marks and tree roots. So many interesting facts about plumb bobs and angles and degrees, minutes, and seconds and tenths of a foot...
I kept on getting confused about how to read the angles and was all nervous that I was going to get it wildly wrong. The transit we used was only accurate down to 15 minute incriments. That meant that when I called the measurement there was a wee bit of guessing. I had to decide if it was closer to the 15, 30, 45, 0r 60 line. So what if it was exactly between two lines?
"Call it one or the other, or get a better gun," was the answer. In other words, this instrument only gets that close, and if you wanted it any closer, you should have brought the more powerful instrument.
There must be some life principle in that, but if I work it out it sounds too much like 'Just leave it, its good enough,' or 'this isn't a masterpiece, you know.' Sort of a lowering of standards.
But that isn't what it meant.
Anyway, I had a blast! Blake T. is a great teacher and besides that, he did all the really 'interesting' math. I just got to peer through the instruments and yell at Daniel to plumb the rod. Poor Daniel; I think found it all less amusing because he was the rod man and had to stand in the hot sun keeping an 8-foot pole steady for ages. Or run around measuring the circumference of trees with David. And pick up ticks.
So yay for surveying equipment and half-chaps!
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