March 4th, 2005

breeden

(no subject)

Had a peculiar dream. Can't remember most of the backstory, if any--sort of hazy wandering around in what vaguely resembled a girl scout camp. At one point, I was standing on a little dock on a river, and across the river there were these...err...creatures. They looked somewhat like reindeer, but with the bulk of horses. Instead of the usual reindeer antlers, they had what looked like thick, sawn off stumps coming from their skulls, but with lots of--stems? trunks? saplings? coming out, sort of like when you cut down a tree and it gets a bunch of new saplinglets coming off from a knot on the side. Same sort of thing. (I want to say "suckers" but I can't remember if that's the right word, or if it will make people think of octopi instead.) These sheafs of antler stems were coming off the base, and bound up about halfway along, presumably to keep them all together.

"What are they?" I asked the woman next to me. "Caribou? Kudu?" (They looked nothing at all like kudu.)

"No, they're rune," she said.

The two rune got up, and walked into the river. As they approached us, they started to change, becoming more like women. By the time they got to our side of the river, they were these eight or nine foot tall women, with dark hair and human faces, but still the weird antlers. They wandered around, smiling and making pleasant conversation, and the next thing I knew I was reading the little labels on dozens of plant seedlings, trying to find the shade tolerant ones to plant on the deck. (I know where THAT came from, at least...) But the rune, at least, were kind of interesting.
breeden

(no subject)

Had a peculiar dream. Can’t remember most of the backstory, if any–sort of hazy wandering around in what vaguely resembled a girl scout camp. At one point, I was standing on a little dock on a river, and across the river there were these…err…creatures. They looked somewhat like reindeer, but with the bulk of horses. Instead of the usual reindeer antlers, they had what looked like thick, sawn off stumps coming from their skulls, but with lots of–stems? trunks? saplings? coming out, sort of like when you cut down a tree and it gets a bunch of new saplinglets coming off from a knot on the side. Same sort of thing. (I want to say “suckers” but I can’t remember if that’s the right word, or if it will make people think of octopi instead.) These sheafs of antler stems were coming off the base, and bound up about halfway along, presumably to keep them all together.

“What are they?” I asked the woman next to me. “Caribou? Kudu?” (They looked nothing at all like kudu.)

“No, they’re rune,” she said.

The two rune got up, and walked into the river. As they approached us, they started to change, becoming more like women. By the time they got to our side of the river, they were these eight or nine foot tall women, with dark hair and human faces, but still the weird antlers. They wandered around, smiling and making pleasant conversation, and the next thing I knew I was reading the little labels on dozens of plant seedlings, trying to find the shade tolerant ones to plant on the deck. (I know where THAT came from, at least…) But the rune, at least, were kind of interesting.

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.

breeden

(no subject)

I glanced out the window this morning, and saw more of Notch the squirrel than I am used to.

He has a new trick. The feeder that he favors can be reached by gripping the tree with your feet and stretching your body out into space, but it's uncomfortable--you have to hook the feeder and pull it to you, and you can't use your paws to shovel seed into your face, or help shell sunflower seeds, and your hind feet tend to come loose one at a time. So he figured out that by hanging on the bottom of the feeder with his feet, he can simply do curls up, grab a handful, then drop back down, hanging full length upside down, and munching cheerfully, while I get to view the underside of a squirrel in great detail.

This would not be particularly noteworthy, except that Notch is the only squirrel I've seen do this--all the others stand on the tree and stretch. I kinda wonder if the others will pick it up now.

Also, squirrels have amazing ankles.
breeden

(no subject)

I glanced out the window this morning, and saw more of Notch the squirrel than I am used to.

He has a new trick. The feeder that he favors can be reached by gripping the tree with your feet and stretching your body out into space, but it’s uncomfortable–you have to hook the feeder and pull it to you, and you can’t use your paws to shovel seed into your face, or help shell sunflower seeds, and your hind feet tend to come loose one at a time. So he figured out that by hanging on the bottom of the feeder with his feet, he can simply do curls up, grab a handful, then drop back down, hanging full length upside down, and munching cheerfully, while I get to view the underside of a squirrel in great detail.

This would not be particularly noteworthy, except that Notch is the only squirrel I’ve seen do this–all the others stand on the tree and stretch. I kinda wonder if the others will pick it up now.

Also, squirrels have amazing ankles.

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.

breeden

(no subject)

It's squirrel mating season.

I could probably have finished off the day without being made aware of this fact.

Also, I'm now pretty sure that Lumpy is a girl.

Or possibly...no, let's just go with "Lumpy's a girl." There are evidentally gay squirrels, but spending too long ogling the genitals of my rodent population and speculating on their sex lives makes me suspect that I'm not getting out of the house nearly often enough.

In case anybody didn't really want to cling to their appetite, 'twould appear that the gray squirrel is one of a vast array of rodents that subscribe to the "vaginal plug" school of male competition. The nameless male*, having mated with our no-longer-botfly-riddled heroine, deposited first the usual, then a mucusy secretion that hardens into a plug. In some species, this may last for quite awhile, defying the attempts of subsequent suitors to get their genes passed on. (This sort of thing is pretty common, evidentally--sperm competition is a heated evolutionary arms race, as one attempts to outmanuever the other guy's...err...guys. Some of the others include massive overproduction of sperm, killer sperm, cocktails of nasty chemicals in the ejaculate, and of course, the plug.) In the squirrels, evidentally it doesn't last all that long, and according to at least one report the female can actually pull it out when she's ready to get back in the swing of things, which is a mental image I'm squelching before it can get anywhere near my brain.

Supposedly there's heated competition for female squirrels, and males will chase a female in heat all over the place, in hordes, but I did not witness any of this fascinating world of squirrel nookie, however. Lumpy appeared deeply bored by the whole encounter, which lasted approximately long enough for me to say "OH DEAR GOD!" and that was pretty much that.

*Not one of the usual gang, which now consist of Lumpy, Gimpy, Stumpy, and Notch, for all you people hoping for a Disneyesque horde...
breeden

(no subject)

It’s squirrel mating season.

I could probably have finished off the day without being made aware of this fact.

Also, I’m now pretty sure that Lumpy is a girl.

Or possibly…no, let’s just go with “Lumpy’s a girl.” There are evidentally gay squirrels, but spending too long ogling the genitals of my rodent population and speculating on their sex lives makes me suspect that I’m not getting out of the house nearly often enough.

In case anybody didn’t really want to cling to their appetite, ‘twould appear that the gray squirrel is one of a vast array of rodents that subscribe to the “vaginal plug” school of male competition. The nameless male*, having mated with our no-longer-botfly-riddled heroine, deposited first the usual, then a mucusy secretion that hardens into a plug. In some species, this may last for quite awhile, defying the attempts of subsequent suitors to get their genes passed on. (This sort of thing is pretty common, evidentally–sperm competition is a heated evolutionary arms race, as one attempts to outmanuever the other guy’s…err…guys. Some of the others include massive overproduction of sperm, killer sperm, cocktails of nasty chemicals in the ejaculate, and of course, the plug.) In the squirrels, evidentally it doesn’t last all that long, and according to at least one report the female can actually pull it out when she’s ready to get back in the swing of things, which is a mental image I’m squelching before it can get anywhere near my brain.

Supposedly there’s heated competition for female squirrels, and males will chase a female in heat all over the place, in hordes, but I did not witness any of this fascinating world of squirrel nookie, however. Lumpy appeared deeply bored by the whole encounter, which lasted approximately long enough for me to say “OH DEAR GOD!” and that was pretty much that.

*Not one of the usual gang, which now consist of Lumpy, Gimpy, Stumpy, and Notch, for all you people hoping for a Disneyesque horde…

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.

breeden

Oddities

Went to sit down at the computer a moment ago, and saw something odd on the floor. Normally the odd things I see on the floor turn out to have a lot more legs than I am comfortable having in the house, but these didn't.

It was a pair of small baby photos, maybe two inches by an inch and a half or so, of one baby. I don't know babies from a hole in the ground--this one looks kinda...off...with very wideset eyes and a flat face, like a balding pug, but they all look like that to me, so it may just be standard baby ugliness. (I'm sure his parents thought he was cute as the dickens, of course.) He--or she, who can tell?--is wearing a pink checked jumper and laying on a pale blue comforter, and there is a blanket over him with a duck peering out from behind one elbow. I could no more tell the age of this child than I could accurately date Byzantine pottery shards, except that once upon a time I COULD date Byzantine pottery within a fairly rough range (although that information has long since vacated the mental real estate, following the trail blazed by logarithms, the complete memorization of "Paul Revere's Ride" and all the spells in Dungeon Master. Except Fireball. I will die knowing the symbols you click to cast Fireball. When I am ancient and doddering and no longer remember my name, I will probably be trying to Fireball the nurse as she comes to change the bedpan.) Whereas I've never had a handle on how old a kid is until it's old enough to try to con me into buying it cigarettes.

This is peculiar. It certainly isn't anybody I know, and James generally isn't in the habit of getting baby photos in the mail--and moreover, they have to have arrived there quite recently, because they were right by the wheel of the chair, and I hadn't rolled over them, making a time frame in the last hour or two. Were I crazy, I would now begin to suspect that some nefarious group was planting baby photos in my house in an effort to drive me mad*. However, I did just pick up a copy of "Needful Things" at the used book store, and have been reading it at the desk while flying around World of Warcraft, so, using all my awesome powers of deductive reasoning, I conclude that two baby photos fell out of the back of a Stephen King novel.

That might be a little creepy--I mean, it's not a juxtaposition one would normally think of--but I am familiar with absentmindedness, and I have used the cat as a bookmark, so I have no call to judge what anybody else uses to hold their place, and then forgets about and sells.

Well. There is no way to return them--there isn't any writing on the back of the photos--so I suppose they now belong to that nebulous class known as "found objects" which means that I should probably be making art out of them, but more likely, will forget about in the next day and eventually throw out during a cleaning binge.

Still, it's kind of an interesting intersection of my life with some total stranger's, unified only in the fact that we both read this particular copy of this book once upon a time.

*The notion that they may be trying to activate my maternal urges would only make me pity them, the poor misguided bastards.
breeden

Oddities

Went to sit down at the computer a moment ago, and saw something odd on the floor. Normally the odd things I see on the floor turn out to have a lot more legs than I am comfortable having in the house, but these didn’t.

It was a pair of small baby photos, maybe two inches by an inch and a half or so, of one baby. I don’t know babies from a hole in the ground–this one looks kinda…off…with very wideset eyes and a flat face, like a balding pug, but they all look like that to me, so it may just be standard baby ugliness. (I’m sure his parents thought he was cute as the dickens, of course.) He–or she, who can tell?–is wearing a pink checked jumper and laying on a pale blue comforter, and there is a blanket over him with a duck peering out from behind one elbow. I could no more tell the age of this child than I could accurately date Byzantine pottery shards, except that once upon a time I COULD date Byzantine pottery within a fairly rough range (although that information has long since vacated the mental real estate, following the trail blazed by logarithms, the complete memorization of “Paul Revere’s Ride” and all the spells in Dungeon Master. Except Fireball. I will die knowing the symbols you click to cast Fireball. When I am ancient and doddering and no longer remember my name, I will probably be trying to Fireball the nurse as she comes to change the bedpan.) Whereas I’ve never had a handle on how old a kid is until it’s old enough to try to con me into buying it cigarettes.

This is peculiar. It certainly isn’t anybody I know, and James generally isn’t in the habit of getting baby photos in the mail–and moreover, they have to have arrived there quite recently, because they were right by the wheel of the chair, and I hadn’t rolled over them, making a time frame in the last hour or two. Were I crazy, I would now begin to suspect that some nefarious group was planting baby photos in my house in an effort to drive me mad*. However, I did just pick up a copy of “Needful Things” at the used book store, and have been reading it at the desk while flying around World of Warcraft, so, using all my awesome powers of deductive reasoning, I conclude that two baby photos fell out of the back of a Stephen King novel.

That might be a little creepy–I mean, it’s not a juxtaposition one would normally think of–but I am familiar with absentmindedness, and I have used the cat as a bookmark, so I have no call to judge what anybody else uses to hold their place, and then forgets about and sells.

Well. There is no way to return them–there isn’t any writing on the back of the photos–so I suppose they now belong to that nebulous class known as “found objects” which means that I should probably be making art out of them, but more likely, will forget about in the next day and eventually throw out during a cleaning binge.

Still, it’s kind of an interesting intersection of my life with some total stranger’s, unified only in the fact that we both read this particular copy of this book once upon a time.

*The notion that they may be trying to activate my maternal urges would only make me pity them, the poor misguided bastards.

Originally published at Tea with the Squash God. You can comment here or there.