happy birthday (in your best english accent)
Happy Birthday to my favoUrite Brit! (And here is my favourite photo of my favourite scruffy boy.) Kisses. I can't tell you how old he is, but rumor has it that it starts with a 3 and ends with a 4.
And to my readers - if your birthday is coming up soon, be sure to look for your embarrassing photo here too!
And to my readers - if your birthday is coming up soon, be sure to look for your embarrassing photo here too!
useless
So I've been thinking of adding two new sidebar items to my blog page. After drawing check boxes in Photoshop all week, one is going to be a list entitled "How I Used My Masters Degree Today," and the other is going to be "Useless E-mails of the Month." This e-mail arrived in my inbox yesterday, in response to my request last week that my template be restored after Blogger apparently ate it:
Date: Fri, 28 May 2004 11:46:14 -0700
From: "Blogger Support"
To: "Jessica Mignone"
Subject: Re: Overwritten template file?
Hi there,
I'm afraid you've fallen victim to a bug in our system which occasionally loses template data. Your posts are still safe, but unfortunately we were not able to recover your template for you. To use one of our default templates, you can click the Choose New Template tab on the Template page. This will let you publish your blog again while you recreate your old template. We apologize for the inconvenience and we are working on getting this problem fixed. However, it is always a good idea to save your own copy of a template if you make extensive customizations.
Thanks, Steve
Blogger Support
Why thanks Steve! I bet you wouldn't mind if Google "occasionally" lost your paycheck and couldn't recover it for you too! Even better is if they suggested you be paid minimum wage until they refiled all your employment paperwork!
Note to self: Get new content management software, stat. No need to suggest what I should be using, I've already heard all your opinions.
Date: Fri, 28 May 2004 11:46:14 -0700
From: "Blogger Support"
To: "Jessica Mignone"
Subject: Re: Overwritten template file?
Hi there,
I'm afraid you've fallen victim to a bug in our system which occasionally loses template data. Your posts are still safe, but unfortunately we were not able to recover your template for you. To use one of our default templates, you can click the Choose New Template tab on the Template page. This will let you publish your blog again while you recreate your old template. We apologize for the inconvenience and we are working on getting this problem fixed. However, it is always a good idea to save your own copy of a template if you make extensive customizations.
Thanks, Steve
Blogger Support
Why thanks Steve! I bet you wouldn't mind if Google "occasionally" lost your paycheck and couldn't recover it for you too! Even better is if they suggested you be paid minimum wage until they refiled all your employment paperwork!
Note to self: Get new content management software, stat. No need to suggest what I should be using, I've already heard all your opinions.
penny and me
As promised, here is a photo from the Rancho Murieta sporthorse show earlier this month (click it). My favorite Sharks fan brought this photo home of me and her horse Penny, looking smooth over an oxer in one of our hunter classes. Ok, the horse is looking smooth but I'm not. My leg has slipped back, my foot is too far home, I'm looking down, and I'm too far out of the saddle. My hands are ok, I guess I can't complain too much about my hands. How does that go? You're your own worst critic? Good thing Penny isn't such an equitation snob or he'd be requesting a new rider.
doing fine
I decided to go to my D league game tonight, to see if I could stomach another hour of heckling from guys who can't skate. The boys were definitely surprised to see me back, and the locker room quieted down a bit when I walked in. Well geez, I don't want people to be afraid of me, I just want them to stop harassing me about positioning, or at least, follow their own advice once in a while. I felt like that kid in the Twilight Zone episode who everyone has to be happy around otherwise he'll turn them into Jack-in-the-Boxes. Our goalie, per usual, was very happy to see me. I don't know what it is with me and goalies, but I manage to befriend them all even when other people on the team despise me. Maybe my obvious but genuine respect for a person crazy enough to stand in front of a net and take pucks to the head wins some of them over, but I'm really just speculating. In any case, goalies like me.
We played in our usual form for a while, letting in 5 goals after two periods, although we had more shots on goal than usual. I also noticed the guys were markedly less angry than on a typical D league night. When second period ended with us scoreless, our captain started his bench tirade. "We need to hustle, we need to shoot, we need to skate, we need to fight for the puck, we aren't being aggressive enough..." Some other guys started yelling and he paused to take a breath. In the brief moment of silence, I said, firmly but calmly, "We're doing FINE." Everyone turned to look at me, stunned. Our captain turned back to the team. "All right, we're doing fine," he said. "Yeah!" several of the guys agreed, glancing at me to check out my approval. I merely sat on the bench, making no further comments. "Now go out there and play," our captain said, and the buzzer sounded.
Third period we proceeded to score two goals, unheard of on our team, and I was apparently credited an assist on one of them, although it couldn't really have been called a pass, more like a messy flinging of my stick and body to keep it in the zone. Either way, our captain picked it up and was able to score with it in a big fumbling move in front of the net. A goal's a goal, and no one's complaining here.
The guys were pleased and smiley with me in the locker room, but I had a long drive home so I left without joining them at the bar. Not too long ago, our captain's game report e-mail arrived in my inbox, and the title was simply "Just Doing Fine." That's the most positive thing I've heard all season.
We played in our usual form for a while, letting in 5 goals after two periods, although we had more shots on goal than usual. I also noticed the guys were markedly less angry than on a typical D league night. When second period ended with us scoreless, our captain started his bench tirade. "We need to hustle, we need to shoot, we need to skate, we need to fight for the puck, we aren't being aggressive enough..." Some other guys started yelling and he paused to take a breath. In the brief moment of silence, I said, firmly but calmly, "We're doing FINE." Everyone turned to look at me, stunned. Our captain turned back to the team. "All right, we're doing fine," he said. "Yeah!" several of the guys agreed, glancing at me to check out my approval. I merely sat on the bench, making no further comments. "Now go out there and play," our captain said, and the buzzer sounded.
Third period we proceeded to score two goals, unheard of on our team, and I was apparently credited an assist on one of them, although it couldn't really have been called a pass, more like a messy flinging of my stick and body to keep it in the zone. Either way, our captain picked it up and was able to score with it in a big fumbling move in front of the net. A goal's a goal, and no one's complaining here.
The guys were pleased and smiley with me in the locker room, but I had a long drive home so I left without joining them at the bar. Not too long ago, our captain's game report e-mail arrived in my inbox, and the title was simply "Just Doing Fine." That's the most positive thing I've heard all season.
point of view
I'm going to kill Blogger. It ate my template yesterday and I spent several hours fixing this entire blog. Of course, if I took care of things properly, maybe you didn't even notice. What you may have noticed is my new "Point of View" section on the left over there. I have a lot of random photos that don't belong in any sort of collection, but sometimes are interesting enough to share. On top of this, Superstar reminded me last December, when he sent me photos of the first Pittsburgh snowstorm of the year, how much I enjoy seeing photos of "place," or of a slice of life that one can't otherwise witness without being there. The bay area doesn't have snowstorms or brick houses or huge rivers, but it does have a lot of nuances of microscopic variation that you might not see if you don't wake up here everyday. I'm trying to share those with you through this small window on a web page. Now let's just hope Blogger cooperates.
hockey sur glace
The day had turned steely again. Just a band of late-afternoon pink glowing along the hills gave the sole evidence that the sun had even broken through earlier. The trio of us headed far down the ice. We kept near the shore at first, past drooping, yellow-fingered weeping willows, then cut right out for the center of the lake and pushed on toward the opposite side. Long seasoning cracks echoed like kettledrums, and exactly in the middle, where the surface had frozen last and, so, before the snow had come, the girls were amazed at how black it was in its clarity. And the way you could indeed look straight through it, like a lens, to actually see what was a fine display of unbelievably long green weeds far below.
- Peter LaSalle, "Wellesley College for Women, 1969" from Hockey Sur Glace
- Peter LaSalle, "Wellesley College for Women, 1969" from Hockey Sur Glace
playing tour guide
Sampleminded came to visit over the weekend on his first west coast tour, and I volunteered to show him around the city. This is a little ironic, since you who know me know how easily I get lost in that smelliness known as San Francisco, not to mention my inherent dislike of the city after spending approximately 22 years of my life in or around this politically correct wasteland. Nevertheless, I did my best as tour guide, and we even managed to take a hike through Muir Woods (the national park where some say Mr. Lucas found his inspiration for Endor), which was new to me. I had been to nearby Mt. Tam (Tamalpais), but we ended up hiking all the way into this park again after taking a detour off the beaten, or rather, paved path at Muir. I took some photos, as the tourist in me is prone to do, although my little Canon is getting more and more temperamental after the dropping incident. The photos are up on the images page for your perusal. Not my typical artistic endeavors, but it's been a pretty long weekend.
I did manage to drag Sampleminded to my women's league game Saturday night, since he missed my hockey debut when I was in Pittsburgh. He must be good luck, because I scored my second goal ever with the help of a very good assist from a teammate in the corner. In the next period, I had a fantastic breakaway which I totally blew due to not being able to grab ahold of my stick with my right hand before getting run over by someone else, but I guess even divine intervention wasn't going to give me two points in one game when prior to that I never scored.
I did manage to drag Sampleminded to my women's league game Saturday night, since he missed my hockey debut when I was in Pittsburgh. He must be good luck, because I scored my second goal ever with the help of a very good assist from a teammate in the corner. In the next period, I had a fantastic breakaway which I totally blew due to not being able to grab ahold of my stick with my right hand before getting run over by someone else, but I guess even divine intervention wasn't going to give me two points in one game when prior to that I never scored.
loneliness
And you'll be hurting in a way you can't explain
And all those pretty things you love will look so vain
'Cause the laughing crowd is such a hopeless sound
When loneliness comes crashing down
- Del Amitri, Crashing Down
And all those pretty things you love will look so vain
'Cause the laughing crowd is such a hopeless sound
When loneliness comes crashing down
- Del Amitri, Crashing Down
if only
I'm upset about the Sharks. But who isn't out here? In the final seconds, there was a missed scoring opportunity that sent the puck gliding down to the other end of the ice, into an open net. As if missing that pass wasn't injury enough, the goal was counted. I drove home thinking, "If only." If only the pass had been at a better angle, if only I'd said something clever at that party. And so when Marleau wiped a tear from his nose, I got in my car and sped down the highway with the corner of my mouth contorted downwards, sad about things much bigger than hockey. When you get that one chance and you blow it, who else is there to push around in the end; who is left to take the blame and your misdirected frustration? No one, because the game is over and everyone's already left the rink. It's just you driving down the highway alone, eating dinner alone, going to bed alone, and just you alone thinking, "If only."
baseball
We got the half day off work last Thursday to go to the Giants vs. Phillies game at SBC Park. I thought about posting the photos to my images page, but I decided I was too hideous in most of them, so I'm posting them here (at least, the ones that don't include me).
This was my second baseball game ever and my first time at SBC Park. What I would have posted for the comedy value (if I weren't so ugly) is three hockey players sitting in a row at a baseball game, as well as one hockey fan dating a hockey player. We spent most of the time eating and applying sun block and gawking at a fire out in the parking lot that we could see from our seats. I still don't quite understand baseball.
The Phillies walked Barry Bonds twice, under pressure from the chicken song, chickens strutting about on the huge display, and the camera zooming in on fans swinging rubber chickens around. It was cute. I think my favorite part about baseball is singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." You won't hear me refer to hockey as "cute," unless I'm talking about Patrick Marleau, so baseball is a sort of welcome diversion from all this playoff seriousness. What a very slow game it is, though.
This was my second baseball game ever and my first time at SBC Park. What I would have posted for the comedy value (if I weren't so ugly) is three hockey players sitting in a row at a baseball game, as well as one hockey fan dating a hockey player. We spent most of the time eating and applying sun block and gawking at a fire out in the parking lot that we could see from our seats. I still don't quite understand baseball.
The Phillies walked Barry Bonds twice, under pressure from the chicken song, chickens strutting about on the huge display, and the camera zooming in on fans swinging rubber chickens around. It was cute. I think my favorite part about baseball is singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." You won't hear me refer to hockey as "cute," unless I'm talking about Patrick Marleau, so baseball is a sort of welcome diversion from all this playoff seriousness. What a very slow game it is, though.
 |  |  |  |
bad habits
I'm afraid I'm promoting unhealthy activities. Like reading romance novels. Now B.Hateress is reading this book. I stopped by her cube yesterday to drop it off, and in muted undertones she described to me how she'd found several other hockey romances at Amazon.com, some of which had very questionable covers. We've decided to pick up all of them and write a book review at the end. You know, our very intimate book club of two. I have to say, after reading her spreadsheet on the Toronto Maple Leafs, I have no doubts about her ability to crunch numbers to a conclusion. She just needs me to balance out her evaluations with my highly unscientific method of rating sex appeal (which has more to do with PIM than G, height and weight stats, and even more to do with that little mug shot at the top of the page) and we'll have a new project outside of work. I'm hearing far off cries of "puck bunny." But come now, I can actually skate! On the other hand, someone does need to tell her that she should be rooting for the Sharks. They're better looking (minus Ricci), even if they can't pass.
Also, here are pics from the "secret agent" party dmk26 invited me to a few weeks ago in Berkeley. The third pic down is me as "Apostrophe Fatale." Thanks to the Bear for the ridiculous spy name. It was a hit.
Also, here are pics from the "secret agent" party dmk26 invited me to a few weeks ago in Berkeley. The third pic down is me as "Apostrophe Fatale." Thanks to the Bear for the ridiculous spy name. It was a hit.
hacks
Hockey hack of the day:
$15 drying rack from Bed, Bath, & Beyond. Works great, and you'll smell like roses at practice.
girly
I'm so hungry I feel compelled to write about it in my blog. I have a photoshoot tomorrow, and to keep my gut in check I've eaten nothing but a Luna bar today. Ok, I broke down and ate some goldfish crackers too.
"Why so serious today?" Jackie asked me while I was on the bench during our clinic scrimmage. Let's see, I've eaten 60 calories so far today and it feels like there is a small animal in my right skate gnawing my foot off. "I feel slow," I said. Jackie, whose real name I can't divulge, but who teaches clinic at Ice Oasis and works at the hockey shop down on Bay Road, looked at me skeptically. "I need new skates," I added. "What size are those?" he asked. "They're a 6." "They're too big for you." "Yes," I said. "They're at the point now where I have to lace them so tight to keep my ankle from wobbling that it hurts my feet." Hurts was an understatement. All I could think about during the entire practice was loosening the right one (and maybe eating a T-bone steak), but the instructors control our line changes during scrimmage with the buzzer (otherwise the newbies would never get off the ice), so I didn't have time to pause. "Come to the shop and I'll help you out," he said. Right, so you can sell me a pair of $400 Grafs on commission, I thought as I jumped over the boards. Hockey still isn't as expensive as horses, but the problem is that when it comes to equipment, I'm more of a sucker at the hockey shop than I am at the tack store.
I finished reading that awful romance novel. I have to say, when something's written at a seventh grade level, you finish it pretty quick. The ending pissed me off. She ends up marrying the hot NHL goalie who previously led a life chasing tall, busty, leggy blondes, but now is content to settle with this short, bra-less wonder who wears frumpy outfits and writes a relationship advice column. Does the author really expect me to believe this? I couldn't even get my non-NHL hockey player to stick around, and at least I'm less than frumpy. I think. Ok, I'm not sure. But that aside, I would have much preferred to see him dump her by the side of the road, or her write about his bad beside manners in her column and publish it for the world. After all, that's life, not some sappy fantasy where wronged men come running back to women in need, and then yank them into ice rink utility closets to profess their love. Well, that's my interpretation of life. I do acknowledge the small possibility that perhaps I've just had a bad time of it.
I went to Bloomingdales today. I'm not sure I've ever been inside Bloomingdales. There's something unnervingly chichi about it, but I was looking for a dress for my shoot tomorrow, and what better place to find an overpriced dress to flirt around in for an hour and then return to the store? I've been to Stanford shopping mall since I was a kid, but I've never gotten used to the place. Anorexic, smoking housewives conglomerate there, and each one is walking a poodle or pug or pomeranian or other yappy dog on a leather leash. Occasionally, the poodles will get into fights, and you'll be in a store perusing the blouses only to be startled by the sudden barking and growling of two curly haired dogs on taut leashes, with women in little sun dresses fawning over them.
I've turned into a sock connoisseur. Everywhere I go, I buy socks. I came home with five pairs of Ralph Lauren athletic socks from Bloomingdales, two pairs of which had little pom poms on the heel. Now if you're thinking, "You're not really going to wear those socks in your sneakers to hockey, are you?" I'll have you know that when I was getting my skates sharpened last week, the cashier said, "Everyone has those skate soakers [with the little penguins]; the company must be making a ton of money. Did you get those here?" "No, I got them in Pittsburgh," I said, annoyed that the girly factor wasn't working out here. Everyone has them? I suspect he means the players in my women's league, because I just can't imagine the guys on my D league putting furry animal soakers on their skates.
You'll notice I've said nothing about the Sharks this round. I am very superstitious.
"Why so serious today?" Jackie asked me while I was on the bench during our clinic scrimmage. Let's see, I've eaten 60 calories so far today and it feels like there is a small animal in my right skate gnawing my foot off. "I feel slow," I said. Jackie, whose real name I can't divulge, but who teaches clinic at Ice Oasis and works at the hockey shop down on Bay Road, looked at me skeptically. "I need new skates," I added. "What size are those?" he asked. "They're a 6." "They're too big for you." "Yes," I said. "They're at the point now where I have to lace them so tight to keep my ankle from wobbling that it hurts my feet." Hurts was an understatement. All I could think about during the entire practice was loosening the right one (and maybe eating a T-bone steak), but the instructors control our line changes during scrimmage with the buzzer (otherwise the newbies would never get off the ice), so I didn't have time to pause. "Come to the shop and I'll help you out," he said. Right, so you can sell me a pair of $400 Grafs on commission, I thought as I jumped over the boards. Hockey still isn't as expensive as horses, but the problem is that when it comes to equipment, I'm more of a sucker at the hockey shop than I am at the tack store.
I finished reading that awful romance novel. I have to say, when something's written at a seventh grade level, you finish it pretty quick. The ending pissed me off. She ends up marrying the hot NHL goalie who previously led a life chasing tall, busty, leggy blondes, but now is content to settle with this short, bra-less wonder who wears frumpy outfits and writes a relationship advice column. Does the author really expect me to believe this? I couldn't even get my non-NHL hockey player to stick around, and at least I'm less than frumpy. I think. Ok, I'm not sure. But that aside, I would have much preferred to see him dump her by the side of the road, or her write about his bad beside manners in her column and publish it for the world. After all, that's life, not some sappy fantasy where wronged men come running back to women in need, and then yank them into ice rink utility closets to profess their love. Well, that's my interpretation of life. I do acknowledge the small possibility that perhaps I've just had a bad time of it.
I went to Bloomingdales today. I'm not sure I've ever been inside Bloomingdales. There's something unnervingly chichi about it, but I was looking for a dress for my shoot tomorrow, and what better place to find an overpriced dress to flirt around in for an hour and then return to the store? I've been to Stanford shopping mall since I was a kid, but I've never gotten used to the place. Anorexic, smoking housewives conglomerate there, and each one is walking a poodle or pug or pomeranian or other yappy dog on a leather leash. Occasionally, the poodles will get into fights, and you'll be in a store perusing the blouses only to be startled by the sudden barking and growling of two curly haired dogs on taut leashes, with women in little sun dresses fawning over them.
I've turned into a sock connoisseur. Everywhere I go, I buy socks. I came home with five pairs of Ralph Lauren athletic socks from Bloomingdales, two pairs of which had little pom poms on the heel. Now if you're thinking, "You're not really going to wear those socks in your sneakers to hockey, are you?" I'll have you know that when I was getting my skates sharpened last week, the cashier said, "Everyone has those skate soakers [with the little penguins]; the company must be making a ton of money. Did you get those here?" "No, I got them in Pittsburgh," I said, annoyed that the girly factor wasn't working out here. Everyone has them? I suspect he means the players in my women's league, because I just can't imagine the guys on my D league putting furry animal soakers on their skates.
You'll notice I've said nothing about the Sharks this round. I am very superstitious.
i read the stupidest books
- Rachel Gibson, See Jane Score
I hate romance novels. I have no idea why I'm reading one. In fact, I've only read one, ever, in my whole life. If I get through this one it will be number two. I guess after Ms. Merciless posted a comment about her recent short story acceptance to Asimov's, I started to think well, can I write something publishable? After brief consideration, I decided that while I probably have no chance of getting into a respectable science fiction or literary magazine, maybe I could churn out a romance or two. Besides, aren't romances and relationship-advice columns primarily written by bitter, single women anyway?
So I've picked up this romance mainly to evaluate the quality of the prose and the depth of the story and character development. Uh, yeah. I swear it's not like when Princess Maple Leaf and I used to go to the Main Library and choose the novels with the swarthiest sailors and the barest sea nymphs on the cover, clutching each other aboard ragged, storm tossed vessels amid the firing of cannons and the haze of musket smoke. No, it's not like that. I'm genuinely interested in what makes a good romance. Is it setting? Painfully stereotyped characters? A penchant for describing what everyone is wearing (including their undergarments) in shocking detail? I'm not sure. It seems like they've written a romance on everything. Except, well, they haven't written an HCI romance. Why not a playful romp in the usability lab of some stodgy human factors company? It could work. Here, let me try my hand at it:
Wow, that is some hot and heavy geek foreplay. I told you anyone could write a romance novel. I bet you never even knew HCI had so much sex appeal. Of course, that would explain how CMU churns out so many MHCI grads a year. It's just a sexy business. In any case, sorry folks, since this is a family blog, I'll have to stop there. If you want to read the rest, send $5 and a SASE to Mountain View, CA, 94043. I also accept PayPal. Hey I have to try and cash in on this somehow. How else am I going to pay for those new skates I want?Chloe O'Dell strode briskly into the silver lobby of HumanTouch, the successful, but traditionally uptight human factors firm where she had worked for the past two years. Participant #4. She poked her Palm Pilot with her stylus, scrolling through the participant's history, oblivious to the dragging of her heeled shoes in the thick, gray carpet. Chloe was not tall, at 5'3". Her light brown, shoulder length hair was swept up into a hasty bun. Several loosened strands crossed her face as she walked, subtly highlighting the soft, matching brown of her eyes. Her ankle-strap high heels gave even her swift, functional walk a shifty sideways swing that accentuated the slight curve of her hip under her brown pencil skirt. System Administrator, 11 years experience. She furrowed her brows in focus, thinking about the two hour study she had to run. Looking down, she nearly walked headfirst into a dark suited figure that blended like camouflage into the corporate colors of the reception area. "I beg your pardon!" Chloe said, startled. She dropped her arms to the side, Palm Pilot in one hand and stylus in the other, and looked up at a square-shouldered, dark-haired visitor with deep set green eyes and a pleasant expression, despite the collision. He wore a pale blue tie that complemented the fine striping in his collared shirt and contrasted the dark navy of his suit jacket. Chloe felt herself shrink away for a brief moment, then stood up straight with her lips slightly parted, as if to initiate the conversation. She failed. "I'm here for the user study." the tall visitor said. "Are you here for the - oh, I'm sorry," Chloe answered, delayed. "Participant #4?" she asked under her breath, to herself. "Actually my name is Zachary." Zachary looked to be about 6'1", although Chloe was never good at judging height in her heels, which now felt like two immovable stakes in the plush carpet. Welcome, uh, nice to meet you," she replied, holding out her cold right hand. "I'm Chloe O'Dell. Usability engineer on this project." Chloe was constantly frostbitten in her highrise office, and she wore a knit sweater over her sleeveless blouse everywhere she went in the building. Zachary reached out and enclosed her entire hand in his heated palm, shaking her arm gently but firmly. Chloe smiled wanly, then pulled her hand back to brush her hair behind her ear. I'll show you to the labs," she said, turning without looking at him. As Chloe walked deliberately down the hallway and through the maze of corridors to user study lab 5, she could feel the shadow of Zachary's towering form pressing in on her space. She quickened her pace, but his long stride never seemed to change and leave him behind. She entered lab 5 with Zachary in close step. "I need you to..." she paused, fumbling with paperwork on the desk. "to fill out these forms, and sign them. This is uh, a non-disclosure, and this is a consent to let us videotape your session." Zachary's pleasant expression had not changed. Chloe started to wonder if his face wasn't permanently fixed that way. He pulled a pen from the inside of his jacket pocket and started to write. "So Chloe, how do you like HumanTouch? I hear a lot of good things about this company." "Oh," Chloe started, unprepared for chit-chat. Her mind was still reeling with statistics from her last study. "It's busy, but we do good work here, you know, it's stable." Wow, that was really dumb she thought, the instant the words came out of her mouth. She decided the best thing to do was get out of the lobby and start the study. "Here is a copy of the tasks I need you to complete," she said, handing Zachary a stapled stack of paper. "Normally I'd have someone assisting me in the other room, but my intern is out sick today so I'm going to be in the other room datalogging. All I need you to do is read this task and then try to complete it. As you do so, remember to think out loud...for the camera, you know." She smiled genuinely, for the first time. "Of course," Zachary said. "I love limelight." Chloe walked into the observer room and closed the door behind her. She quickly set the thermostat in the room to 75 and took off her sweater. She sat down at the control station and adjusted the cameras so that one was on Zachary's face and the other was on his keyboard and mouse hands. She pushed the Record button on the VCR and watched as Zachary read the task silently, then put the paper down. She pushed the microphone talk button. "Do you understand the task, Zach?" She twitched, surprised at herself. "I'm sorry, I mean 'Zachary.'" Zachary's smiling face filled up the monitors in the observation room. He looked straight at the camera as if he saw her. "Yes I do, and of course you can call me Zach." Chloe felt her face flush pink. She looked at him through the one-way mirror, but he was staring at his computer screen. He started to describe his thoughts as he navigated through the interface. "I'm clicking this yellow alert icon because I'm hoping this will take me to a page where I can see what the issue is with the server." Chloe started typing. "I'm assuming the red, yellow, and green icons indicate various states of arousal." Chloe stopped with her fingers poised on the keyboard. She looked into the user study room but Zachary was still staring at his monitor. She shook her head and continued typing. "I'm looking for the Details page for this alert..." Chloe pushed the microphone button. "Can you describe to me what you think the graph on the left side of the screen is for?" "Of course," Zachary answered. "They're metrics. These curves describe a general trend. Like the curve on a hip in a little brown skirt." Chloe sat bolt upright and looked through the mirror. Zachary looked back at the glass as if he could see her, and smirked. Her heart was beating like she had just been running from her neighbor's less than friendly terrier. "Please continue," she said, then flicked her hand up off the microphone button, simultaneously annoyed and exhilarated. She listened to Zachary for a while longer, typing up notes uneventfully until he curiously stopped reading the task description. "I'm sorry, it looks as if this application has locked up. Could you help me out here?" He looked at the one-way mirror as if he could see her sitting there in the darkness alone, her skirt bunched up around her hips and her brown hair gradually falling out of its unkempt knot into disarray. She made what felt like eye contact, but knowing that he couldn't see her through the mirror, she pushed the button, leaning forward to speak. "It doesn't look like it's crashed. Why don't you move the mouse around a bit." She swallowed hard. "Well, hang on, I'll come in there." She got up and went into the user study room. Zachary had swiveled in his chair slightly to face her, his left eyebrow cocked slightly higher than the other. Chloe walked up past him and leaned over his large frame, futilely shaking the mouse around. He put his hand down on top of hers and leaned forward, speaking huskily into her ear. "I tried that already." Chloe wasn't sure whether she should scream or throw him to the floor. Zachary put his other arm over the small of her back as she leaned in close to him. "Is that camera still on?" he asked. She nodded, entranced by the spicy scent of the cologne wafting out from the open top button of his starched shirt. "Turn it off," he instructed, pulling her in towards his chest. "Your co-workers will have to bribe you for this data." Chloe snickered as she leaned in to kiss his lips on his sharp-edged jaw...
So there's a bunch of other ways this story could have started. Instead of a tall, dark stranger, Zachary could have been Chloe's old flame, wandering in on a user study he heard she was conducting. Or, Zachary could be one of those stalkers who participates in user studies every week, and not necessarily for the $150/hour. While the clichéd romantic twists are endless, the standard romance novel fare is the same. I've managed to 1) describe the characters' physical appearances, in painful detail, especially whenever I could get a word in edgewise, even if it made no sense to put it there, 2) describe the characters' clothes, in even more painful detail, and whenever I saw fit, 3) take 1300 words to describe a five minute affair. The key is to belabor the points about his onyx cufflinks or the lacy, pink edging of her bra peeping out from the open V of her white blouse. Setting is irrelevant. The display beds at Mattress Discounters would have worked just as well, as long as you remember to describe the characters' underwear with such granularity that I can read the care instructions on the tags.
Ah, cheese. My cheese is good, like the kind that glues the mushrooms and onions and beef together in a Philly cheesesteak, not like that bright orange stuff that comes out of the squeeze bottle smelling like plastic. I wish hot men came into the user studies lab here. I'd quit this design job and go "test the users" all day.
this week in horses and hockey
Saturday I was up at Rancho Murieta again in my second attempt to schmooze my skeptical partner Penny into jumping some fences and winning some ribbons. It's only been a month since we've been up at Murieta, but already the fields have turned gold and brown, there's a dry, dusty wind, and the sun is unrelenting. Needless to say, I was walking around in my wool hunt coat without breaking a sweat, although my favorite Sharks fan was concerned enough to buy me at least three bottled waters and a smoothie and numerous other drinks and food to keep me going. Normally her concerns would be directed more towards Penny, who has notoriously lower stamina than me, but she had watched me that morning as I battled to get a particularly clueless stallion around a hunter course, all the while trying to avoid getting my teeth knocked out. I have to say, if that animal had knocked my teeth out, I would have told everyone it was due to a much more glamorous hockey accident.
I arrived at the show Friday to discover that another mount had been added to my list, and instead of just the calm, sophisticated, little bay gelding I've been training on, I was to ride my trainer's friend's breeding stallion, a horse who had produced some fancy animals that her clients had inevitably purchased, but who suffered from some questionable training practices when it came to jumping.
I've never handled a stallion. When I went to school at Davis, you didn't touch the stallions in the breeding facility unless you had been trained in their handling and discipline. Many stallions are dangerous, and a fool off the street could be killed in a matter of minutes. All I knew is that someone had asked me to ride one. The most information I had about "Gator" is that he was an easygoing horse, as far as stallions go. This didn't relax my eyebrow one bit.
I jumped him the day before the hunter classes, and he carried his head so high down to the fences that I couldn't see where I was going. He jumped the fence in the same inverted form, jarring my back when he landed and practically knocking my teeth out. "How do you like him?" his owner asked. What does one say to that? "He's very calm," I answered, wincing from the unexpected landing. My trainer immediately suggested the use of a martingale to keep his head down. We found one, and the ride did improve, although he was still obviously very confused about what he should be doing. As my trainer predicted, my ride on Penny the next day was like the lemonade after toiling in the hot sun, shoveling rocks. I rode Gator to a third place in one of his hunter classes in the morning, after much struggling and coaxing him around the ring, while Penny jumped like a star in the afternoon, despite a bobble in the warmup ring that left us both a bit shaken up. Penny placed first, second, and third in his respective classes, and I was immensely proud of him for overcoming the mishap we had during warmup and braving the show ring fences. When the proofs or photos arrive from the horse show photographer, I'll try to ensure they make it up here so you can see what all the fuss is about.
I didn't make it to my hockey game Saturday night after riding for eight hours in the sun (what grand fantasies I have), but I did go to Polars practice Sunday morning only to discover that one shouldn't try to skate and crossover after sitting on a horse for that long. I was sore like a southern Georgia sunset. I don't think I have any marks, but let's just say I'm glad I don't have hockey again until next Saturday.
Next Saturday? Don't I play on Thursdays? Well, this was a much better weekend than last Thursday, when I walked out of my D league game with 8 minutes left in third period. I had contemplated walking out the week before, but thought it in bad taste, but then, there is only so much heckling one can take before one decides "this isn't really the league for me." I received e-mails later from team members, at least one implying that I was being thin skinned, which, as anyone who knows me well can attest to, that's a pretty flawed assumption. While the team is quick to implicate our captain in this turn of events, it is the joint efforts of a number of players who don't practice what they preach. If my e-mail to the group recommending the hockey clinic on Saturdays didn't come through as gentle chiding, then I'm afraid they'll need nothing short of a 2x4 to understand my frustrations. I don't mind suggestions, advice, instruction, constructive criticism. I've been playing for a year and a half, and I have a long way to go. What I can't swallow are instructions from people who don't take their own advice, or who I can skate circles around with an egg on a spoon. If you're going to tell me what to do, you better damn well be able to do it yourself, or at least, make some vain attempt to adhere to your self-proclaimed religion. I certainly shouldn't be required to keep playing in a league that is making me hate hockey.
I'm not sure if I'm going back. I'm still skating at Ice Oasis. In the meantime, I have some volunteer activities coming up in June that will probably require that coveted Thursday time slot anyway.
I arrived at the show Friday to discover that another mount had been added to my list, and instead of just the calm, sophisticated, little bay gelding I've been training on, I was to ride my trainer's friend's breeding stallion, a horse who had produced some fancy animals that her clients had inevitably purchased, but who suffered from some questionable training practices when it came to jumping.
I've never handled a stallion. When I went to school at Davis, you didn't touch the stallions in the breeding facility unless you had been trained in their handling and discipline. Many stallions are dangerous, and a fool off the street could be killed in a matter of minutes. All I knew is that someone had asked me to ride one. The most information I had about "Gator" is that he was an easygoing horse, as far as stallions go. This didn't relax my eyebrow one bit.
I jumped him the day before the hunter classes, and he carried his head so high down to the fences that I couldn't see where I was going. He jumped the fence in the same inverted form, jarring my back when he landed and practically knocking my teeth out. "How do you like him?" his owner asked. What does one say to that? "He's very calm," I answered, wincing from the unexpected landing. My trainer immediately suggested the use of a martingale to keep his head down. We found one, and the ride did improve, although he was still obviously very confused about what he should be doing. As my trainer predicted, my ride on Penny the next day was like the lemonade after toiling in the hot sun, shoveling rocks. I rode Gator to a third place in one of his hunter classes in the morning, after much struggling and coaxing him around the ring, while Penny jumped like a star in the afternoon, despite a bobble in the warmup ring that left us both a bit shaken up. Penny placed first, second, and third in his respective classes, and I was immensely proud of him for overcoming the mishap we had during warmup and braving the show ring fences. When the proofs or photos arrive from the horse show photographer, I'll try to ensure they make it up here so you can see what all the fuss is about.
I didn't make it to my hockey game Saturday night after riding for eight hours in the sun (what grand fantasies I have), but I did go to Polars practice Sunday morning only to discover that one shouldn't try to skate and crossover after sitting on a horse for that long. I was sore like a southern Georgia sunset. I don't think I have any marks, but let's just say I'm glad I don't have hockey again until next Saturday.
Next Saturday? Don't I play on Thursdays? Well, this was a much better weekend than last Thursday, when I walked out of my D league game with 8 minutes left in third period. I had contemplated walking out the week before, but thought it in bad taste, but then, there is only so much heckling one can take before one decides "this isn't really the league for me." I received e-mails later from team members, at least one implying that I was being thin skinned, which, as anyone who knows me well can attest to, that's a pretty flawed assumption. While the team is quick to implicate our captain in this turn of events, it is the joint efforts of a number of players who don't practice what they preach. If my e-mail to the group recommending the hockey clinic on Saturdays didn't come through as gentle chiding, then I'm afraid they'll need nothing short of a 2x4 to understand my frustrations. I don't mind suggestions, advice, instruction, constructive criticism. I've been playing for a year and a half, and I have a long way to go. What I can't swallow are instructions from people who don't take their own advice, or who I can skate circles around with an egg on a spoon. If you're going to tell me what to do, you better damn well be able to do it yourself, or at least, make some vain attempt to adhere to your self-proclaimed religion. I certainly shouldn't be required to keep playing in a league that is making me hate hockey.
I'm not sure if I'm going back. I'm still skating at Ice Oasis. In the meantime, I have some volunteer activities coming up in June that will probably require that coveted Thursday time slot anyway.
pictures
I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel
If only I'd thought of the right words
I could have held on to your heart
If only I'd thought of the right words
I wouldn't be breaking apart
All my pictures of you
Looking so long at these pictures of you
But I never hold on to your heart
Looking so long for the words to be true
But always just breaking apart
My pictures of you
- The Cure, Pictures of You
That I almost believe that they're real
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures are
All I can feel
If only I'd thought of the right words
I could have held on to your heart
If only I'd thought of the right words
I wouldn't be breaking apart
All my pictures of you
Looking so long at these pictures of you
But I never hold on to your heart
Looking so long for the words to be true
But always just breaking apart
My pictures of you
- The Cure, Pictures of You
randomness, or "my english professor would not approve"
"Your boys pulled it off," a friend messaged me today. And indeed they did. I was sitting on my favorite Sharks fan's horse, walking him during our cooldown, when she yelled from the open door of her SUV, "Sharks are up 2-0!" I screamed "All right!" from Penny's back. Good thing Penny is a Sharks fan too or he might have bucked me off. With 14 minutes left in third period, I gunned it out of the barn and down the highway at 80 mph and white-knuckled, listening to the radio. I managed to get to a TV with 5 minutes left in the game and see the Sharks keep it out for the win. Other fans and I have already started making bets about round 3, so now I have something riding on this.
In other completely random news, A is at Oracle India this week, meeting all the people who are going to take over our jobs and the computer industry. He said that every two floors of the office building there shares a printer room. In each printer room, they've hired three guys just to pick up your printouts and bring them to you at your desk. He said they also have a guy pushing the buttons in the elevator, just like in posh NYC hotels. All I have to say is wow, who's working in a third world country now? I have to walk down the hall to get my printouts.
While messaging A last night, I was engaged in my usual late night routine of staring at my site statistics. My fan base has grown worldwide. I'm now getting hits from Amsterdam, Toronto, Taiwan, the UK, and Ireland. Then there are always the hits from Cary, North Carolina, but they've been with me since the beginning. One of the more interesting features in the site stats program that my host provider runs is the top 10 search keyphrases list. This little gem shows you what people typed into search engines that eventually led them to your site. For the month of May, the list so far looks like this:
I'm not sure what's more disturbing. That someone's searching for "shrek nude" or that they found a reference to it in my blog. I have to say some of these search strings are a little odd (like those new spam e-mails with randomly generated strings of nouns and verbs), but then so are people who don't know me and read my blog everyday. Thanks, though. Your dedication and procrastination have not gone unnoticed.
In other completely random news, A is at Oracle India this week, meeting all the people who are going to take over our jobs and the computer industry. He said that every two floors of the office building there shares a printer room. In each printer room, they've hired three guys just to pick up your printouts and bring them to you at your desk. He said they also have a guy pushing the buttons in the elevator, just like in posh NYC hotels. All I have to say is wow, who's working in a third world country now? I have to walk down the hall to get my printouts.
While messaging A last night, I was engaged in my usual late night routine of staring at my site statistics. My fan base has grown worldwide. I'm now getting hits from Amsterdam, Toronto, Taiwan, the UK, and Ireland. Then there are always the hits from Cary, North Carolina, but they've been with me since the beginning. One of the more interesting features in the site stats program that my host provider runs is the top 10 search keyphrases list. This little gem shows you what people typed into search engines that eventually led them to your site. For the month of May, the list so far looks like this:
| Keyphrase | Search | Percent |
| shrek nude | 3 | 33.3% |
| jessica mignone | 2 | 22.2% |
| superlative love | 1 | 11.1% |
| joe-poss | 1 | 11.1% |
| pressing calculator hattrick | 1 | 11.1% |
| logic what is closure | 1 | 11.1% |
I'm not sure what's more disturbing. That someone's searching for "shrek nude" or that they found a reference to it in my blog. I have to say some of these search strings are a little odd (like those new spam e-mails with randomly generated strings of nouns and verbs), but then so are people who don't know me and read my blog everyday. Thanks, though. Your dedication and procrastination have not gone unnoticed.
pittsburgh seasons
 | And when the icy, magical winter turns to spring, what memories will remain but the damp cement in a lonely rink? If I had to go back again, I'd do it all the same, except maybe this time I wouldn't fall in front of everyone when trying to turn around on newly sharpened skates. When you put that long toque on, I wanted to hide under the blanket from the evil Dr. Seuss of the far north. Do you remember how we had the same beanie? I asked a friend to knit me a toque after that; I was insanely jealous. Maybe by the time she finishes it I will be back in colder climes where I'll only look half as silly wearing it.
The grandiose, dingy city where I went to school is stifling in the summer and stunning in the winter. It was the first time my California car had to be dug out of the snow (while I supervised), the first time I rowed on a river, the first time I saw fireflies, and the first time I wore hockey skates. I can rollerblade on the tennis courts, swing in the playground, jump off the diving board on a January morning, stroll by the tulips in front of brick houses, and laugh in the silver white cold with a scarf up to my chin, my breath rolling out over your bright red fleece. In the summer we tried to play softball, and design interfaces, and ride rollercoasters, and watch fireworks, and have barbecues with burgers and fruit salads and of course my powdered sugar banana nut bread. In the winter we would skate while flakes fell, and design interfaces, and go skiing and sledding, and run out in the snow in our new wool coats too hot to wear back home, and photograph icicles and the softly buried streets in childish fascination. At night I lie under the big, ominous ceiling fan, the wispy linen curtains inhaling and exhaling like patient onlookers. Far below, the quiet street sits listening for distant traffic, the streetlight stares at a small circle near our black cars. In the blue and gray shadows I strain to hear the ineluctable passing of time and your restless sleep full of dreams. It was the irrevocable loss of a moment I tried to grasp and keep in my fist like a ball of December snow. |
 | |
 | |
 |
free to never leave
I finally got my wireless network set up at home (for myself and my single, lonely laptop), so now I never have to leave my bed. I can be just like Colin Craven in The Secret Garden, ten years old but screaming and whining about the hump in my back and how I can't get up, and could someone bring me a glass of water dammit because I'm extremely busy browsing the web.
I still don't have any furniture, but what else do you need besides a bed, a whirlpool tub, and a wireless network? Food? Well there was this free pizza delivery ad stuck in my screen door just the other day. I think we're all set.
In sad news I broke my digicam by inadvertently dropping it onto a hard tile floor. Ok, it still works if I tape the CF card door shut, but that seems like a ghetto fix. Sampleminded said if I stuck a cute band-aid on it, like a Pokemon band-aid, it would be ok. I think it's just a good excuse for buying another expensive gadget I don't need. Still, I'm depressed about it like I'm depressed about the Sharks.
I'm going to post some photos in its memory tomorrow. I'll think of something to say later. I think people like looking at pictures more because it's easier than reading. I'd post a picture of my newest hockey injury, but it can't hold a candle to that old puck bruise from last September that provided you with so much mortifying entertainment, so you'll just have to wait.
Did you notice you can link directly to my blog posts now? Just click the timestamp for the URL. I don't know why I didn't fix this problem a year ago.
don't judge a person till you've walked a mile with their hockey bag
"You think the Sharks are gonna blow it?" Paul asked me from inside the equipment room. I ripped my shinguards off. "I think they just might," I answered, disappointed. But I'm not as hard on them as the real fanatics, I guess. There's a little part of me that empathizes sorely with the wasting of a beautiful opportunity. Let's just say, the Sharks certainly won't be the first to experience that kind of regret.
In the past week, as the Sharks went downhill, my playing has hit the roof. I'm not sure what type of revelation I had while asleep (at work), but I'm suddenly looking up, maneuvering around defenders, fighting in the corners, and, just the other night, I skated down to the boards during warmup and shot the puck up off the ice, to the dead center of the advertising. It startled me. I turned around, skated to the other side of the rink, and shot the puck up off the ice again, hitting the center of the boards. Now, I'll admit I had no form to speak of (think, all arms), but the fact that the puck came off the ice amazed me. Maybe I just needed some momentum, maybe I just needed to not care. In the middle of second period during our D league game on Thursday I remember considering quitting this whole sport altogether. Then, after my women's league game on Saturday, I was actually granted a compliment by a team member who said "You were really on tonight." I have about as much explanation for this sudden burst of skill as I have for crop circles. Now if Superstar would just have a sudden burst of affection and my bank account would just have a sudden burst of money, I'd be all set.
Practice this morning wasn't the usual drudgery and dreading that I've experienced every other Sunday. Well, the girls still don't want to skate with me and partner up during drills, but I'm making it work the best I can. The least I can do is prove that I can skate as well as them, and if my stickhandling isn't up to par I can make up for it with sheer determination. It would probably help if I sharpened my skates sometime this century, but that's a separate issue. I think I've finally outskated my skates, and that I need new ones. We won't discuss my backwards skating, but let it be known that I finally think I skate "ok." And those of you who know me know that me thinking I do something "ok," at long last, is a big step. Of course, skates are expensive so I'm going to have to wait for a holiday and a generous lover. Until then, I'm stuck with what I have.
Coach saw my bumper sticker today as I pulled out of the rink parking lot. Apparently, a lot of people have seen that bumper sticker but didn't know it was my car. He walked up to my passenger side window. "I don't know about your stickhandling but how about your butt in your hockey pants." "Really," I said. He stopped to reconsider. "Well, if you mean the handling of the stick..." I gave him a thumbs up for finally getting it and drove away. I guess not all of us can have a swift sense of humor. I am happy to be blessed with at least that.
B and I went trail riding today in the 90 degree heat and I got sunburned, attacked by bugs, and scraped by bramble bushes. I'm not sure what I was thinking wearing a sleeveless shirt out on the trail, but now I am burned, bitten, scratched, and bruised, the bruise being a leftover mark from my arm colliding with the end of my teammate's stick on Saturday. "She's on your team!" Paul shouted at her when I spun around and fell. I think what the world needs is more sarcastic refs and fewer mosquitoes.
In the past week, as the Sharks went downhill, my playing has hit the roof. I'm not sure what type of revelation I had while asleep (at work), but I'm suddenly looking up, maneuvering around defenders, fighting in the corners, and, just the other night, I skated down to the boards during warmup and shot the puck up off the ice, to the dead center of the advertising. It startled me. I turned around, skated to the other side of the rink, and shot the puck up off the ice again, hitting the center of the boards. Now, I'll admit I had no form to speak of (think, all arms), but the fact that the puck came off the ice amazed me. Maybe I just needed some momentum, maybe I just needed to not care. In the middle of second period during our D league game on Thursday I remember considering quitting this whole sport altogether. Then, after my women's league game on Saturday, I was actually granted a compliment by a team member who said "You were really on tonight." I have about as much explanation for this sudden burst of skill as I have for crop circles. Now if Superstar would just have a sudden burst of affection and my bank account would just have a sudden burst of money, I'd be all set.
Practice this morning wasn't the usual drudgery and dreading that I've experienced every other Sunday. Well, the girls still don't want to skate with me and partner up during drills, but I'm making it work the best I can. The least I can do is prove that I can skate as well as them, and if my stickhandling isn't up to par I can make up for it with sheer determination. It would probably help if I sharpened my skates sometime this century, but that's a separate issue. I think I've finally outskated my skates, and that I need new ones. We won't discuss my backwards skating, but let it be known that I finally think I skate "ok." And those of you who know me know that me thinking I do something "ok," at long last, is a big step. Of course, skates are expensive so I'm going to have to wait for a holiday and a generous lover. Until then, I'm stuck with what I have.
Coach saw my bumper sticker today as I pulled out of the rink parking lot. Apparently, a lot of people have seen that bumper sticker but didn't know it was my car. He walked up to my passenger side window. "I don't know about your stickhandling but how about your butt in your hockey pants." "Really," I said. He stopped to reconsider. "Well, if you mean the handling of the stick..." I gave him a thumbs up for finally getting it and drove away. I guess not all of us can have a swift sense of humor. I am happy to be blessed with at least that.
B and I went trail riding today in the 90 degree heat and I got sunburned, attacked by bugs, and scraped by bramble bushes. I'm not sure what I was thinking wearing a sleeveless shirt out on the trail, but now I am burned, bitten, scratched, and bruised, the bruise being a leftover mark from my arm colliding with the end of my teammate's stick on Saturday. "She's on your team!" Paul shouted at her when I spun around and fell. I think what the world needs is more sarcastic refs and fewer mosquitoes.
