What Do I Know?

2012: Drenched, But A Good Year

My favorite photo of the year was an anomolous image of my garden patio on a sunny summer evening. 

When I searched through my photos of the last year, looking for one that encapsulated 2012, I found this one taken of my back patio, with the new table I'd bought in hopes of enjoying a sweltering, sunny summer. It was taken during the one week in May we actually had summery weather. The rest of the summer, save for the weeks during the Olympics, was a dud. 

As the Met Office gets ready to declare 2012 the wettest year ever (possibly), it seems strange that this one photo, of a summery garden waiting for a pitcher of Pimms and a barbecue, represents my year. But despite the rain, 2012 was a pretty good year, for me. 

Oddly, we began the year in a drought, and February was declared one of the warmest ever. But weather highs or lows were the least of my worries, since in January I'd had the news I'd longed to hear for years. One of those editors finally got back to me with a Yes. My first novel would be published, at last! I'd had a feeling I was getting close, but when the moment arrived—just as I was about to turn in for the night, as it turned out, due to the time difference between the US and here—I was beyond ecstatic. 

I wrote about the experience of getting The Call here, on my author blog. During the next few months I had the amazing experience of going through three rounds of edits (!) (yeah, too many exclamation points is apparently a major problem I have) and will soon see my cover and the final copyedited product. It's been scary, and thrilling, and deeply fulfilling. This is what I've waited my whole life for, so whatever else 2012 has brought, it has been a year I'll never forget.

I wasn't the only one in the family to have a major career move—at various points during the year all of us received good news about new jobs, new ventures. And the relief of knowing we'd be staying here, at least a while longer. 

Yet the year was marred by tragedy, as well. In March I got another phone call, this time to tell me my brother was missing, likely drowned. It was a week before his body was recovered, a time of uncertainty and regret and reaching out. I returned home, reconnected with family members, and was struck by how many people my brother had touched during his too short life. The eulogy I wrote for him was the piece of writing that meant the most to me this year.

I also dealt with two other faraway tragedies this year, neither of which touched me personally but both of which angered and saddened me. The Aurora shooting, and the Newtown shooting both left me despairing that gun violence would ever be curbed in America. Living overseas has made me accutely aware of how fewer gun deaths there are in other parts of the world, and how senseless it is that every day 85 people in America loose their lives at the point of a gun. Will 2012 be the year that finally convinced Americans to do something about their addiction to firearms? I certainly hope so. 

The Olympics, an event we all were dreading, turned out to be a pleasant surprise. (Boy, was that a quick about face!) I scored tickets to the women's basketball gold medal game, which of course the USA won handily. It's been years since I watched a basketball game, and I was pretty proud to be an American that night—and pretty proud of my adopted country, too, when it was all said and done. 

We've had masses of visitors this year, and I've taken them to all the usual places: Stonehenge, Avebury, Windsor, and a few new ones as well: Old Sarum, The Manor House at Avebury, Boulogne-sur-Mer. Playing tour guide, despite the lousy weather, is one of my favorite things to do. 

We had an election in the US, which more than anything reaffirmed my faith in my fellow Americans. The Tea Party, it turns out, represents only a minority of Americans, and despite attempts to suppress the vote, determined citizens stood in line for hours to exercise their right to vote. This president, admired around the world, will likely be remembered as one of the best we've had in modern, and very troubled, times.

As I type this, it's a drizzly, gray day, warmer than it should be. This year may turn out to be the warmest our planet has seen in a very long time, in addition to being the wettest here in the UK. There's not much chance that trajectory will change, at least not in my lifetime. 

But I've had enough of frowning at the rain. I'm hoping for better weather soon, and better times for everyone, especially those who didn't fare so well in 2012. 

May your new year be filled with all that you hope for, and happy, sunny days as well.

Christmas Wonderland

Frost "thorns" on the rose bush.
 

This has been such a weather-dominated year it's only appropriate that I found this photo of frost on the rose bush one of my favorites all year. One frosty morning recently I went outside and saw what I thought were ice-covered thorns, but these were not thorns, just a set of odd mini icicles.

More "thorns" on the spotted laurel.

We're celebrating the wettest Christmas ever here in England. Hope yours is dry, white, or whatever you wish it to be. My family have all arrived safely, gifts are all wrapped, the seitan is marinating, and cinnamon rolls are rising.

What more could one wish for?

 

Happy Christmas from Chez Flake.

Seven Blog Years

Last night, during my nightly conversation with myself, I realized it was about time for my annual "I forgot it was my blogiversary" post. And then I realized that yesterday WAS the seven year mark. So technically I DID NOT FORGET MY BLOGIVERSARY! Yay me. 

My anniversary, however, is another matter. I don't know if I've mentioned, but my husband and I eloped. Justice of the peace; no parents. Our two attendants were dragged out of the apartment swimming pool, wearing cut off jeans. 

So needless to say the date was never fixed in our memory the way it is for people who have proper weddings. Every year, one of us will get that "uh oh" look sometime in late May and remind the other: "Guess what we forgot? Again." 

Seven years, bringing you the best blog I can, day in, day out. (A blog year is like dog years, a 7:1 ratio, which means I only have to post once a week. So glad I finally did the maths!) Just imagine if I'd been writing a novel all that time...oh wait. I did that. My first novel took seven years to write. (And that doesn't count all the manuscripts that were begun and abandoned during that time.)

At least I haven't abandoned my blog. Or my husband, for that matter. 

Steve Jobs, iThankYou

Steve Jobs 1955 - 2011

He built "a computer for the rest of us." Steve Jobs was talking about people like me when he coined that slogan describing the Macintosh computer. 

Steve Jobs' death has reminded me of just how much my life has been affected by the computers he created. All my adult life I've known and loved these simple computers, designed for those of us who don't want to waste our time figuring out how the damn things work. We just want to get on with what we're doing. And I've managed to do quite a few things with the Macs I've had, things I'd never had done otherwise.

I first used a Macintosh when my husband picked up a small Mac Plus for my sister-in-law in Honduras. For a few weeks I toyed with it, my memories of tedious computer science classes fading as I explored its small screen. This sweet little desktop computer had no stacks of cards to punch, no code to memorize, no insistent blinking characters taunting me from a dark expanse. It didn't have a hard drive, either, but this was early days yet.

A year later we'd bought our own Mac SE, and soon I was publishing a newsletter using PageMaker. I'd never taken a DTP class, never had formal training, yet I could make a great looking newsletter in a few hours. I got a lot of praise for that two-page, two-column, 11-pt Palatino newsletter, and was soon asked to be assistant editor of a magazine published for the wives of Air Force officers at a large military base. 

That's when I realized just how clever my little Mac was. The publication's editor, who owned a quite advanced and expensive PC, struggled to even copy an article on to a disk. I remember staring at her PC screen, wondering what the heck a C drive was. The next year I took over the publication, and soon I was doing all the layout and editing with my little SE. The magazine had never looked so professional (by this time I'd discovered Garamond), yet I made it look easy—because it was. 

A year later, some of us decided to raise money for the organization's charity efforts by holding an art auction. We didn't know what we were doing, so we made it up as we went along. As the artists brought their art into the building, I checked it in on my little SE, which I'd brought from home and set up on a table. That afternoon, I designed a catalog using a simple database application, and by that night had printed copies ready to hand out to our attendees.

I felt as if I'd performed a small miracle.

When I wasn't using the Mac for my work, my children were playing games on the little SE. I remember Daughter Number Two as a toddler, moving the mouse around, singing along with the music—long before iTunes and iPods made Apple the go-to music application.

Daughter Number Two plays on a Mac SE. 

Throughout the years our Macs got bigger, faster, slimmer, and then smaller again, when the iPad joined our house last Christmas. Software technology has long surpassed my skills—I can barely make my way through the new Word—but I still use a Mac every single day. 

I import photos into iPhoto. I watch movies imported from iTunes through Apple TV. I listen to my iPod at the gym, and now can play its music in my car. My iPad is the last thing I touch at night, the first thing I touch in the morning. But I'm old fashioned when it comes to computing: my iMac sits on my desk, its screen much larger and colorful than that old 9-inch black and white SE.

I have no doubt that if Steve Jobs had not invented that first Macintosh, my life would have been drastically different. I would never have taken to computing, not for work and certainly not for pleasure. I have a fear of gadgets—a strange interface intimidates me. But Apple products are different. 

"Think different," Steve Jobs said. I am most fortunate that he did just that.

Summer Solstice, Redux

Sparky wonders why I wasn't up to celebrate the earliest sunrise of the year. 

This will probably be our last Summer Solstice from the 51st parallel. The first summer we were here, I was really excited about the longest day of the year, having seen just how short the shortest day was. I actually live-blogged the event, starting from sunrise at 4:44 a.m. 

Last year I spent the day in Helsinki, even further north at 60° latitude. Around 9:30 p.m., I decided to take a walk in the park near the hotel. There was a path around Lake Töölönlahti, so I figured I'd start walking and turn around when it got dark. But by sunset, at 11 p.m., I was almost all the way around the lake and it was still light outside. I guess that will count as one of those moments I'll always remember, walking around Lake Töölönlahti in Helsinki at almost midnight. 

Sunset over Lake Töölönlahti

Today I slept in. When I got up at 5:45, the sun was up and the back garden was alive with light. Sparky ran out, but hurried back in to get his Good Boy treat (for not barking so early in the morning, waking the neighbors). He must have wondered why I slept so late, well past the moment the sun rose over the pasture and streamed into our bedroom. 

Tonight I just went out, at 10 minutes till eight, and took another photo of the daylight, still hovering over the pasture: 

Sunlight in the evening hours

I took these photos that summer solstice six years ago, as I enjoyed the day with another golden dog. When I commemorated that day here on my blog, I had no idea I'd still be here six years on, or that I'd still remember the tiny details of that day—the roses, the pond, the lonely path through the woods.

The days will get shorter now, first by a few minutes, then by hours. I really hope I'm not here to see another Winter Solstice. 

But if I am, I hope I get another Summer Solstice to even the score. Balance is everything: an earth that tilts up must eventually tilt down, and the hours lost to darkness will eventually be made up by the eager sun, waking me in the wee hours again.

Technology and the Gym Rat

We got a new TV the other day. It's an HD something or other, which prompted miscommunications between my husband and me when we discussed whether or not we want HD. No, I say, to the hereditary disease. Yes, he says, to the technological advancement that [fill in after consulting Wikipedia]. 

HD does not, it turns out, stand for Heavy Duty, or heavy anything.

Ours is a 32-inch flat screen model, which, surprisingly, isn't nearly as heavy as our previous 19-inch fat screen model. In fact, as we walked to the car with it, I offered to help lift the box, wanting to show off my gym-honed muscles, but my husband easily hoisted it into the car himself. I was impressed, until I lifted the box. Light as air-popped popcorn. I lift dumbbells that weigh more. Heck, the new medicine balls at the gym are twice as heavy!

I figured something so light must be pretty easy to figure out too, but boy was I wrong. It's been over a week and I still can't turn on the damn thing. (I think it's getting back at me for laughing at my husband for watching back to back episodes of Glee.)

When it comes to technology, I feel a dumb jock, and getting dumber as technology advances. Maybe all those endorphins I get from hanging out at the gym have turned my brain to jello, while my muscles turn to hard little stones.

All I wanted was a TV with an on/off switch, a volume control, and a channel changer, all on the front of the panel. You know, BUILT IN. Right in the panel! Remote controls intimidate me, and with our old TV, we needed three different remotes to turn it on, adjust volume, and change the Sky channel. After several years, I'd finally figured out what I needed to do to turn on the TV and choose the channel I wanted. Since I rarely watch TV, it took me a while to memorize which button did what, which remote controlled what, and what to do if it didn't respond to my pleading tone as I begged it to come on. (Unplug it, plug it back in.) 

Then we get the new HD TV with a universal remote, and another satellite box for something called "Freeview" which doesn't seem to be free at all. Best of all, our new TV is compatible with Apple TV, which I sort of understand. There's a separate remote for that, a chic little number that matches our other Apple devices. I loved playing with that the one time I figured out how to turn it on. You can use it to display your photos, like a giant electronic picture frame. 

But the universal remote has me confounded. One mode for TV, one for satellite, another for the receiver (which has to be on in order to get sound) and another for the Freeview. And probably another mode for DVD, but who has time to watch DVDs? Once I manage to get the TV turned on, it takes all my free time just to figure out where the channel I want to watch is. Satellite one? Two? Buckle my shoe? 

All in all, it's been one big TV #FAIL. I've resigned myself to never watching TV again while my husband's not home, which is pretty much how it's always been. All the good stuff comes on at night anyway, or is available through the BBC iPlayer, which works on my iMac. (I can deal with computers, as long as they have an apple somewhere on them.)

It's not just TVs that confound me. I spent the last week working myself up to send a text. The new dog sitter had innocently asked me to text her the details of our trip. I finally screwed up my courage and began. ALL CAPS! Oh well, maybe she'll think it's urgent. But then I had to spell out the numbers since I couldn't figure out how to switch to numerical mode. She probably figured I was just some dumb jock who never learned to text properly. 

No, I don't have a smart phone. I have the dumb jock model, circa 2004. I can barely see the numerals on its keypad, much less the letters. Once in a while, though, I manage to answer it when it vibrates. (No, I don't know how to turn on the ringer. I keep it in my pocket, and it's kinda fun to feel the vibrations. You should ring me sometime.)

Oddly enough, I have friends who aren't so technologically challenged. My friend Carolyn has started a blog for technophobes like me, called The Wonder of Tech. She writes about things called Androids and PSPs and the iPad, which I got for Christmas. I love it, because it's about as low tech as such devices come. Once you learn how to use a Mac, you can pretty much figure out any Apple product. (Although it took me a while to figure out how to turn off my iPod, which I use at the gym. That's okay, I just listen to the Monkees all the way home. "Cheer up Sleepy Jean," I sing as I swing through the roundabouts.) 

Stuck in the sixties, musically as well as technologically, I am.

Go check out Carolyn's blog if you're a techie and like to read the latest Android news. (Malware! That sounds really icky! Glad my phone's dumber than a post and doesn't get infected with malware. Of course it does call random Germans sometimes, from my pocket.) (And now that I think about it, that's kinda icky.)

And if you're a technophobe like me, you'll find easy-to-understand advice and tips, written by someone who's as good at writing about tech is she is at using it. I mean, how many people know the past tense of "sync" is not "sank"?

And if you want to know how to make the most of your gym workout, go here. Great advice for gym rats like me, all on a low-tech website even technophobes like me can understand. 

And our good times start and end
Without dollar one to spend!
How much baby do we really need!
Cheer up, Sleepy Jean! 

(Do they sing that on Glee? Huh? Do they?)

How To Not Sound Stupid When Talking About Blogs

When I started this blog 6 years ago, blogging was still in its infancy. Nowadays anyone and everyone has a blog, and most commercial websites have morphed into blogs.

Static websites, where content remains the same day after day, week after week, are so 90s. If you want people to return to your website, whether to buy what you're selling or to read what you're writing, you have to have updated content. 

That's why blogs have become as common as chickens on Farmville.

The problem is, with so many blogs out there, the term has been corrupted. 

Here's the deal, people: A blog (from the word "weblog") refers to a website, an internet address that contains a collection of blog posts, such as the one you're reading right now. These paragraphs, written on February 7, are not a blog but a post on my blog What Do I Know?.

Sample sentence: "The blog What Do I Know is full of fascinating posts on subjects ranging from frozen shoulder to frog ringtones."

You can find other posts under the "categories" sidebar item or arranged chronologically by date.

Get it? My blog contains many posts, but there's only one blog. (Unless you count my other blog.)

(Note that the word "blog" can also be a verb, meaning to write a blog post or to continually write a series of posts on a blog. Sample sentence: "I spent the year 2010 blogging about my abscessed toenail.")

Now if I ever see another person tweet or blog about a "blog" they read when what they mean is "blog post", they'll be subjected to a six lashes with a wet noodle. Warning: I also maintain a food blog. There's no shortage of wet noodles around here. 

Please pass this blog post along to people you know who might be misusing the term. 

Sample sentence: "The blog What Do I Know is written by a blogger who's much too concerned that something may be wrong on the internet."

In Which I Lie! It's Not My Blogiversary.

I came here to tell you I've been blogging for six years, but it turns out it's six years and three days. I started this blog on January 21, 2005. Originally I intended to give you a piece of my mind on a regular basis, but lately my mind hasn't been co-operating. (Perhaps I shared too many pieces.)

Like many writers of now-defunct blogs, I got over the urge to spill the contents of my mind about any and every subject that hit the news. British politics? Let's face it; I really don't know anything about how Parliament works. Except it's cool to hear them shout at each other in proper British accents. 

American politics is more my taste, but there's a lot of shouting there too. (Anyone else planning to watch the State of the Union just to see which Republican shouts at President Obama? And whether they can come up with anything more clever than "You lie!"?)

I seem to have grown out of clever. Every once in a while a clever thought enters my brain, usually in the wee hours of the morning, but by the time I have a keyboard in my hand, it's long gone. This is probably due to middle age. Take this as warning, you young bloggers out there hoping to capitalize—err, monetize—on your clever. 

It won't last. 

One day you'll be gazing at your computer screen (which will probably be some sort of wearable mobile device) and the screen will be blank. Fortunately, your blogging device will feature a built-in camera, so you'll snap a photo of your dog, or some similarly cute animal, and post that in lieu of a blog post. 

Like this one: 

(Hopefully your camera will be better than mine and won't turn its subject yellow.)

Speaking of clever, Sparky is a very clever dog. In a future post, I'll tell you how clever. Really. Just as soon as I get one of those wearable blogging devices.

Stonehenge and Solstice, Minus Sanctimony

Someone made a snowman. A five inch snowman. Perspective is everything.

It's been too long. Once again I've neglected my poor blog. 

But you should be grateful I spared you the full force of my anger and frustration these last weeks. A week before Christmas, my husband left for Heathrow to pick up Daughter Number One. Seven hours later, he returned home alone. There was no daughter to welcome home, a ritual I cherish.

She was in Paris, and Heathrow was shut down due to—get this—a total of five inches of snow. 

I could understand a few hours of delays. But just as her plane was about to land, it was diverted to Charles de Gaulle in Paris. And there she stayed for three days. Three. Days.

Oh, but I said I was going to spare you my frustration and anger. Like the anger I felt at the local council, who never bothered to clear any minor roads, including those in our neighborhood. Cars slipped and slid all over, at least until they could get to the highway. 

Or the anger I felt at my neighbors, who didn't bother—for a whole week—to shovel or salt their driveways or sidewalks, as I slipped and slid on my daily dog walk. 

And I promise, I won't sound sanctimonious as I tell you how I shoveled the cul-de-sac the first day it snowed, knowing the steep drive would be treacherous when my husband returned from the airport. (The treacherous part was the three-hour drive home, through diversion after diversion, caused by—that's right, five inches of snow. An amount that wouldn't have been a problem in any other civilized society. A society that invested in snow plows.) 

Oh wait. 

Water under the bridge, and all that. 

When Daughter Number One finally arrived—only after my husband drove to Paris to collect her and two other passengers (but there I go, sounding sanctimonious again)—we drove to Stonehenge, since by then two houseguests had joined us. I'd blithely promised to show them some old stuff, not knowing most old stuff would be buried under five inches of snow.

It happened to be the Winter Solstice. 

And when we drove up to Avebury, another lesser known stone circle, there were the Pagans in full force, performing a ceremony that turned out to be a wedding. 

Sitting in a pub with our daughter and friends, watching the fire twirling around the dancing Pagans as the sun set over the stones, I decided to let it go. 

Yeah.

It's a new year. Daughter Number One is back in the States, Daughter Number Two is here, and I hope you're enjoying your new year. So far, mine hasn't been too bad. 

Coming Out of It

Barley growing in the Chilterns

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in fields of gold

—Sting

Hi. It's been a while. I know, I haven't been here much lately. A perfunctory post on Friday, a photo that's easy to slap up on the blog. I don't know if you've guessed, but I've not been myself these last few months. 

The winter passed in a cold, grey fog. I welcomed the crappy weather, a match for my mood. Spring brought its usual bounty of flowers, but I hardly noticed. I walked through fields of bluebells as if they were discarded crisp wrappers. Things that used to bring me joy, brought nothing. Nada. A drive in the Cotswolds could have been a drive round the M25 for all the pleasure I took.

I put on a good show—laughing with friends, posting cheery updates on Facebook, only an occasional bitter tweet on Twitter. I hardly went anywhere except the gym—almost literally climbing my way from the well of grief I'd sunk into. Oh, we traveled a lot—as far away as I could get, but always, there was the moment when I opened the door to a sad empty house.

I have been, to put it in clinical terms, depressed. 

It started, of course, when I lost my best friend. I'd lost friends before, lost my dear mother, but I never felt a loss as keenly as I felt the loss of Bailey. A few years ago, I sent my youngest daughter across the sea to college, came straight home and cried, my arms wrapped around my dog, who was simply overjoyed that I was home from whatever journey I'd been on. I thought then, at least she won't leave me—not for a long while. 

I was wrong. And I was devastated, like someone who'd put all their emotional eggs in one precious basket. My friends were wonderful, checking on me, sending notes and well wishes. My family, well, they were afraid to say her name. They were grieving too, and I imagine they figured they'd lost me as well. I'd disappear, hiding in the bathroom while I cried. The shower was a particularly good place for tears, I found. Grief would hit me hard and quick, in unexpected places. I drove past a footpath, and sobbed for all the times we'd trod them together. I stayed away from the Common, looking away whenever I passed. I'd sweep the floor, and cry because there were crumbs, not golden hair. (Crumbs never lasted long on the kitchen floor with Bailey around—a fair trade, I realize now, for all the shedding hair.) I found myself drawn to any dog I saw, wanting nothing so much as to stroke them the way I'd once stroked Bailey. Every day was excruciating, a set of hours to survive.

Gradually, though, the pain lost its edge. Just yesterday, I realized I felt better—normal, even. And in fact, yesterday was an anniversary, of sorts—eight months since that terrible night, and the first time the date passed without my thinking of it.

The fine weather—hot, sunny days, and the hikes my friends have included me on—at first reluctantly, I admit—have worked magic on my mood. I've been walking in the evening, too—two to three miles around the neighborhood, through parts I'd never explored before. Prozac comes in many forms, it turns out.

Last week we hiked six miles in the beautiful Chilterns, through fields of golden barley. One of the women was a friend I hadn't seen in a while, and we spent much of the time talking of our respective dogs—hers is 12, and deaf. It felt good, both the walk, and the talk. 

I'm feeling good. I don't long for a bus to hit me anymore. There are rumors that we may move soon, and I look forward to that. I look forward to tomorrow, again. 

And eventually, another dog will fill that hole in my heart. But for now, I am content. 

Just thought you should know that.

Copenhagen, Cauliflower, and Other Comments

I'm currently in Copenhagen, where yesterday I fell in love with Sweden. I'll have more later, including lots of photos of Malmo and Lund. Today I'm searching for more vegetarian food in Copenhagen, which is pretty much my reason to visit any country these days. I mean, after all, I've seen enough Romanesque cathedrals and Gothic town halls to fill a lifetime. But inventive uses of cauliflower—I'll never get enough of that.

Meanwhile, Daughter Number Two wishes to be given the keys to the blog. Should I allow her to guest blog while I'm away?

Stay tuned. This blog could actually become interesting again!

Beau Brummell In Your Closet and On Your Streets

"To be truly elegant one should not be noticed."

Beau Brummell, the über elegant London fashion trendsetter during the Regency era, stands perpetually erect on Jermyn Street, outside the Piccadilly Arcade, appropriately surrounded by shops selling the finest menswear London has to offer.

I daresay he'd have loved shopping today, with endless selections of readywear available in supermarkets, online, and charity shops. No need to visit Savile Row; just log on to BrooksBrothers.com.

Me, I hate shopping, whether it's online or in person. I prefer looking at statues on London's streets to imitating mannequins in London's shops. Which is why my closet looks like a storeroom for a nineties-era sitcom. If it was good enough for Murphy Brown, it's good enough to last a few decades, right? Khaki will never die! Grunge, yes—that got purged from my closet sometime around 2004. (Although you will only pry my Doc Martens from my cold, dead feet.)

"To be truly elegant, one should not be noticed," Beau said. He was right, which is why I always wear shades of dirt: black, brown, and off-grey. I used to have a red sweater, but I gave it away, tired of seeing it when I opened my closet. It looked like something had bled all over my khakis.

I also have a fear of prints, although I once bought a zebra striped sweater. I sometimes pull it out, wondering what I was thinking. Zebras belong in Kenya, not in my closet.

Theoretically, only having to choose between three basic colors should make it easier to get dressed. But like Beau Brummell, I sometimes spend hours dressing, trying to decide between the khaki trousers or the black jeans. The white knit or the grey sweater. The brown cardigan or the linen blazer. And that's before I even think about footwear: which black loafer should I wear today?

Whoever decided that men should wear smart suits and blazers and crisp button down shirts while women should wear loose, flowing knits the shade of flowers? I love flowers, but not on my person. I like Beau Brummell's idea: Let the men dandy themselves up with cravats, hats, and paisley-patterned plumage. We women should wear the serious clothes: Khakis, black sweaters, and loafers. Or for posing on London streets, perhaps a sturdy pair of Doc Martens.

This Is Post Number 2001

A photo of me blogging. (Yes, I do blog barefoot.)

Yesterday my husband and I were talking about the randomness of Google, and why it returns certain WDIK blog posts in its search results. Offhand, I estimated I had around 2000 posts on my blog, but my husband seemed skeptical. So I checked my stats: Typepad informed me WDIK has exactly 2000 posts. Wednesday's post about my dog was the 2000th post I've written for What Do I Know?

It was entirely appropriate that it was again my dog who captured my attention at such a momentous milestone, one which passed unnoticed at the time. She's been a favorite topic ever since I started blogging. Mainly that's because she can't rebut anything I say about her. Which is why my photo of her climbing a tree is a top Google hit when you search for an image of "dog climbing tree".

She actually doesn't climb trees that often.

They say writing is like opening a vein, and blogging is no different. Except that there's no editor looking over your shoulder as you slice open your vein blog. You can get by with using capital letters for emphasis and there's no limit on exclamation points, or fortunately for me, parenthetical phrases.

It's amazing I've found something to say 2000 times, especially since I started this blog with the question "what do I know?" uppermost in my mind. Apparently I did have 2000 "blistering pustules of knowledge" to impart to the universe. (I was obviously celebrating the no-editor thing by imbibing a little too freely in the purple prose.)

Whether or not the universe benefited from such a close examination of my pustules is another question—as far as I can see, I haven't changed the world. I haven't influenced any elections, advanced my agendas, or improved BT's customer service. I have, perhaps, given you a few ideas on what to do with tofu. And raised awareness of the deepening problem of shop clerks failing to remove security tags.

I still have a couple of festering pustules, so I won't quit at 2000. But I seriously doubt I'll make it to 3000. Not even Chatty Kathy has that much to say.

Makers, Managers, and the Muse

While I never knew why, I've always gone to great lengths to avoid scheduling meetings or appointments in the middle of my day. Especially when I was deep into writing, I absolutely hated to have to break up my day for any but the most necessary interruptions. I was even reluctant to schedule lunch with friends. It seemed to me, albeit improbably and unrealistically, as if the whole day was wasted if I had to leave mid-morning or mid-afternoon to meet with someone or to have an appointment.

Now I know why, thanks to a programmer who's defined the difference between a "Maker's Schedule, Manager's Schedule."

Most powerful people are on the manager's schedule. It's the schedule of command. But there's another way of using time that's common among people who make things, like programmers and writers. They generally prefer to use time in units of half a day at least. You can't write or program well in units of an hour. That's barely enough time to get started.

When you're operating on the maker's schedule, meetings are a disaster. A single meeting can blow a whole afternoon, by breaking it into two pieces each too small to do anything hard in. Plus you have to remember to go to the meeting. That's no problem for someone on the manager's schedule. There's always something coming on the next hour; the only question is what. But when someone on the maker's schedule has a meeting, they have to think about it.

Exactly! It's difficult for me to tear myself away from the writing process—and it is a process. It's like if you jumped off the elliptical machine before your heart rate got up to speed. Even if you went back for another 15 minutes, the benefit wouldn't be as great.

The writing muscle works the same way, and I suppose for a programmer it works similarly. I need a long chunk of time in order for creativity to run amuck. My muse needs hours and hours of playing fields, or else she just stays inside and doesn't come out at all.

There's another intrusion, too, that wreaks havoc on a Maker's schedule: the internet. The constantly updated stream of information that's available at a click, not to mention email, Facebook and Twitter. Now you can have a virtual lunch with friends by checking Twitter to see where they're grabbing a bite, and catch up over Facebook by peering at their vacation albums. These left-brained interruptions are coitus interruptus for an impassioned muse.

To paraphrase, Break my Day.

The article above describes the euphoria that comes with the prospect of an unbroken day:

Don't your spirits rise at the thought of having an entire day free to work, with no appointments at all? Well, that means your spirits are correspondingly depressed when you don't. And ambitious projects are by definition close to the limits of your capacity. A small decrease in morale is enough to kill them off.

I've never been able to explain my meeting aversion to anyone; I always passed it off as a typical introvert's quirk. But that explanation didn't hold, since when I did go to a meeting or social gathering I was usually the last to leave—I do enjoy the company of others, even more so since I so often find myself alone.

But apparently I'm not alone with my meeting aversion. You can read more on the Freakanomics blog at the NY Times, where author Stephen J. Dubner is also freaked out about meetings. And as he suggests, I will now forward this column to anyone who asks me to schedule a meeting.

Emulating Farrah

When I was a teenager, my favorite television show was Charlie's Angels. My favorite was Jaclyn Smith, but of course like every other girl my age I wanted Farrah Fawcett's hair. Never mind that my hair was red, and not nearly thick enough to form a barely tamed mane, I still spent hours with hot rollers, a curling iron, whatever torturous implement I could find.

Click below for the result—it's not pretty, and the 70s decor is pretty awful too. (Yes, that was a fake plant. Real fire though.)

I was sad to hear of her death. She was an icon, and in the end, a pretty admirable one. I could have done worse.

I'm Off to the Alps

I'm off to a secret location somewhere in the Alps. But here is a live webcam. Keep an eye out for me; I'll be the one creeping up behind the cows with my camera.

Twitter, The Killer App

You know that song "Twitter Killed the Blogging Star?" Okay, maybe you don't know that song. Maybe I just made it up.

Someone should write it though. Because it's true. You'll find me on Twitter, if you care to see what I'm doing from minute to minute. Or to see what strikes my fancy from time to time. (That's known as re-tweeting over there, or an RT.)

I'm finding less and less to blog about these days. Just not as angry as I once was, I guess.

Funny how it's hard to express anger in a tweet.

I'll try to post some photos soon. Maybe. And the recipes and food blogging are still taking place.

Meanwhile, here are a few lines from that song I'm writing:

They took the credit for your second symphony.
Rewritten by machine and new technology,
and now I understand the problems you can see.

Oh oh!
Twittering killed the blo-ogging star

Oh wait, that's too many characters....

Happy Easter

This was my first modeling gig, taken  when I was in kindergarten or thereabouts. I was modeling Easter wear for Mrs. Mac's Children's Shop.

My dad, the professional photographer, made sure he got good shots of me and my brother, who was modeling boys' fashions for the event. (That's him, just off the crown of my hat.)

I used to hate that every year, for my birthday, I got an Easter dress for a birthday present. I never was much of a clothes horse, and even now am prone to buying my fashions at Super Tesco.

But I think I look like I belonged on that runway.

Relay for Life

My daughter sent me an email:

Did you know that 1 in 2 men and 1 in 3 women will be diagnosed with cancer in their lifetimes? It's scary. If you don't get cancer yourself someone close to you will.

The good news is that if we grew thinner, exercised regularly, avoided diets rich in red meat and ate diets rich in fruits and vegetables, and stopped using tobacco, we could prevent 70 percent of all cancers.

That's why I have chosen to fight back by participating in the American Cancer Society Relay For Life® at my school.  I'll be raising money to help the Society educate the public about ways to reduce their cancer risk, continue to fund cutting-edge cancer research, and provide wonderful support programs to cancer patients and their families. And, I'm hoping you will help me by making a donation in support of my efforts. Below is a link to my personal Relay For Life® Web page where you can make a quick online contribution.

Another way to help is by joining my team. I promise an inspiring experience - but you'd have to commit to raising some money. You might even want to join the leadership committee. It would be great experience and it would make you feel good knowing you were doing something really great.

Think about it! 

Okay, it was a canned email, from the Relay for Life program she's participating in again this year. But I love that the Cancer Society is focusing on prevention. And exercise is an important part of prevention, too, so I'm also glad they're encouraging students like my daughter and her friends to run and raise money at the same time.

You can donate to Daughter Number Two's Relay for Life page here. On her page she wrote a bit about how cancer has affected her. Please read it, even if you can't donate this year. Maybe there are "small steps" you can take in your own life, like quitting smoking or cutting down on red meat.

And if you can donate, thanks for helping a worthy cause.

Head Banging

Tomorrow I'm going to Queen Anne's square where I have my head examined once a year. It's part of a trial for HD Predict, a study that is aimed at predicting the earliest signs of Huntington's Disease. Since I tested negative for the disease, I'm the control subject.

When I say "have my head examined" I mean that both literally and figuratively. I spend some quality time inside an MRI scanner and then take a battery of psychological, cognitive and physical tests.

The good news is, if I have a tumor or am barking mad they'll probably let me know. The bad news is, all that jackhammering is enough to send one barking mad.