The new TV comes in today. Assuming I don’t need to call in reinforcements to help me lift the thing to its perch and hook it up to the cable and DVD/VCR, how should I test out its features this weekend?
Y’all, I finally gave up and ordered a new TV. And because I would very much like this TV to last as long as the one it’s replacing (which I bought the summer I moved in with Tammy in Dublin–1998?), I spent some cash on it. It was on sale, there was free shipping, but it’s still got “Sony” on the box and cost about as much as I had hoped to be spending on a puppy this summer.
It’s a 40″ LCD with the trimmings. HD. HDMI cables. You know. All that stuff. And take a good look, because it is unlikely that this image will ever appear on my screen once it’s hooked up.
Unless I wind up hosting a Super Bowl party or something, but, in the event that someone who cares about football does not step forward, I will relinquish the remote and reserve my attention, as I do with any football-focused event, for the munchies.
What I’m most excited about, aside from being able to view programming and movies without extra pink or green tinting in the upper left quadrant, is hooking up my laptop and using this monster as a monitor.
I’m expecting this to be particularly useful, now that my company’s education and training database, which I can access online, anywhere, at any time, now offers the COMPLETE ROSETTA STONE COLLECTION. Instead of watching Law & Order reruns, I could now learn to converse with the world.
If it comes down to Emma or a Spanish lesson, though, I think we all know I’m going to pick the Jane Austen flick. I mean, really.
I have never missed my grandparents’ farms as much as I do this week.
I am totally comfortable with the natural food chain. I grew up on and around farms, and I can look into a cow’s face, scratch it behind the ears, and eat it for dinner (I’ve only proven that with a rabbit, though). I know plenty of people go in the opposite direction — they can’t eat something with a face, they don’t believe in killing just so they can eat – and I can respect that (although there is an argument to be made that killing is killing and broccoli would scream if it could). It just had the opposite effect on me. I went in the direction of thanking an animal for converting all that grass into protein just for me.
I’m comfortable being a carnivore (omnivore, really) because I grew up on and around farms. It smelled like shit, but it taught me where food comes from and what it looks like. I understood from an early age that some animals were pets, and some animals were lunch…just as some plants were for looking pretty, and some were for salad.
So I don’t have any personal ethics preventing me from eating other living, sentient beings. It helps that virtually nothing grosses me out (also thanks to my farmy upbringing).
I do have a personal belief in nature, evolution, and balance, though, and that’s why Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma is getting to me. It’s not the first book I’ve read about the industrial food chain — nor will it be the last — but the perspective is hitting home in a very real way. It turns out being willing to benefit from murder (tasty, tasty murder) is not the same as not caring about the hamburger in question.
…I’m trying to reconcile a cow’s right to be a cow with my right to eat him…
…This may take a minute…
Sorry, dude. My stylist told me at my last appointment that it’s been discontinued. and you’re the second person to get here looking for it. There are still places to get it online, though — Amazon still had it, last I looked.
On the recommendation of Maggie Mason over at Mighty Girl, I’ve switched to Tigi’s Catwalk Curls Rock. It works best on wet hair, it gets a little stickier than I like, and I’ve had to start using a blow dryer again, but it definitely does the trick.
Best of luck…
I sent back my Proactiv kit today, intent upon taking them up on their offer of a full refund, minus shipping and handling (naturally).
But I got FREE shipping and handling. Ha! So there, clever purveyors of benzoyl peroxide! And shipping it back to you is cheaper than shipping it from you to me.
Y’all, Proactiv ate my face. DeVOURED it. I mentioned this in a previous post and stopped short of posting a photo because (a) ew and (b) I’m already a wobbly photographer and was unconvinced I could manage a steady shot of my grated cheek.
My cheeks were so dry that, when I went for a massage and flipped to lie face down, they felt like they were about to crack and I couldn’t relax. The pain of it was excruciating — like a full-face bee sting. And it didn’t stop when I stood up.
I stuck to the basic regimen for another day or so and eschewed all the “oil-free” and “repairing” crap. Still, though, my chapped cheeks would not heal.
Just in time, a Super Dermatology Guru flew into town (to visit her daugher, not to give me advice) and told me I didn’t have to keep using a product that was clearly trying to chew through to my brain. I don’t know why I needed her to tell me that, but it was certainly easier to hear it over dinner than to try to schedule an appointment with my dermatologist, take time off work, and pick up the inevitable prescription for…lotion.
After a couple of days of the products that have worked all along, but for the occasional outbreak of adult acne (due in no small part to laziness, I’m sure), my face is back to its usual combination-and-borderline-rosacea-according-to-one-friend self.
Experiment: complete. Result: epic fail, for my skin.
Ideas and I-WANT-its jumping around in my head today
(Because, if I dump them here, I can get back to thinking about important things, like marketing correspondence applications/appliances and who the LAST FRAKKING CYLON IS.)
Sweet craft table from ikea hacker — not currently justifiable, as I am the only crafter in my home and have yet to set up the table that I already have. But sweet!
Slurping 8junebugs 2008 into a book — because I love paper. Any vendor recommendations are welcome.
Last night the local cable company shot out an Amber Alert, most of which ran marquis-style, in red, across the top of a particularly dramatic moment of Desperate Housewives (which I’d never seen before, but, I admit, cracked me right the hell up). But before we could even find out the lost kid’s name, the screen stopped. The marquis disappeared, and the screen froze.
An Amber Alert zapped my freakin’ TV. It took rebooting the cable box, being patient, and a couple of choice naughty words (once the patience wore off) to get the show back on. All in all, about seven minutes or so, I think.
The TV is 11 years old. Or so. It was purchased early one Sunday morning at Fry’s Electronics in, er, Fremont? I moved it from California to Vermont, then down to DC, where it lived in an apartment living room (and developed a curious purple haze in one corner), then a dorm, then a loft bedroom…where it perched on boards above a spiral staircase. It then went to storage, I think, and my last apartment before this one. In the last place, it was one of three and a half TVs, and the least used or appreciated.
It is clearly time to replace it, but that’s a little outside the current budget. I think I can swing it by the end of the year, though. Will Best Buy and the like take your old TV away when they bring the new one? Because I don’t ever want to pick that sucker up again.
It’s funny — interesting calendars used to be rather important to me. Then, of course, they became part of the overall home decor, and the freebie from the apartment manager was the easiest to agree upon for managing the household schedule.
Admittedly, this is not a calendar for writing on. But it does have the rich colors and touch of whimsy that I like to have around me.
And it’s handcrafted, which makes it that much better.