Yesterday was dictated by the rain. Yes, an entirely rainy day in late June.
After a quick survey of painting supplies in the basement, I took Annie for an hour-long walk in Magnolia, during which time it was sprinkling yet warm. Lucky Annie didn't even need her coat.
After lunch, I drove to Ballard (I know, a risky thing to do any time, any day) to stop at my favorite coffee shop from the old days when I lived by the locks. I found an awesome parking spot (for free!) less than a block from the coffee shop. I'm not going to tell you where it was, however, because the fewer people I have to compete with, the better my own parking chances. If you're looking for parking in Ballard, I heard that there are quite a few convenient bus lines you might have better chances with.
At the coffee shop I decided to sign up for web hosting and thereby create my own actual website! Now jessicawicksnin.com is mine, all mine! I know there was a lot of demand for it because I got it for free AND it was immediately available. I'm looking forward to creating lots of subdomains like jessicawicksnin.annie.com! And of course, I have my own email: jessica@jessicawicksnin.com. Mwah ha ha! It may appear to be the height of egoism, and it is. Annie only gets her own website when she learns to type (which isn't too far off, actually). If you visit the website now, it (hopefully) doesn't show anything, but a day not too far off it will! It really will! Am I allowed one more Mwah ha ha here?
My next steps are to get the site to look less like total crap (halfway crappy would be ok) and start putting some of the stuff from my web development class online to make a "portfolio" (if this were HTML I would use <em> tags on the "quote marks" because the truth is, I have no idea what the heck I'm doing with this whole portfolio thing, but frankly, "trying stuff" has got me this far, so why stop now?)
Friday, June 21, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Staycation 2013 - New and Improved!
I have blogged about many things over the years: coffee, getting a dog, taking the bus, San Francisco, pies, teaching, boyfriends, babies, and more pies. However, I am moving on. No more will I spend my Staycation happily cleaning my house and going to the dog park while exhausting the local branch of the public library. No, instead I have found a purpose (in addition to going to the dog park). I am making a website and improving my programming skills this summer.
So today, I spent a few hours in the morning taking the practice exam for my programming course (final exam in two days!). Let's just say that PHP can go implode its own arrays but I definitely got the ID of Javascript! Mwah ha ha does anyone else like these jokes?
Before lunch, Annie and I took a nice long walk where it started raining, so we hid under some pine trees until the shower passed over. During the rest of the year we wouldn't have blinked an eye, but now it's June and has been so sunny that we are starting to think we might melt if we get wet (probably how the rest of the country feels all year round).
On the way home, saw a lunch time open house, so I had to go! Never had the opportunity to go to a lunchtime open house, it was a rare opportunity that I and apparently no one else took advantage of.
Finally, I hunkered down and produced this masterpiece:
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| A website that may have been made by me |
If you're jealous of my mad border-radius skills, you should be. Not just anyone can make curved edges on a website. What this screen shot doesn't capture is that if you hover over one of the options, it turns green, which not only shows that I am awesome at CSS but also that I am familiar with complementary color schemes (thanks, Kuler).
Goals for tomorrow: whip up some Javascript to make random user reviews of my website appear (oh, and show my resume, which after all is kinda the point of this whole thing).
Friday, May 3, 2013
Goldilocks and the Three Bowls
Goldilocks broke into the house of three bears because they had just left and she was jonseing for some porridge. She crawled through the window and hesitated a moment, taking in the scene before her. Three heaping bowls of porridge!
She rushed to the first bowl. She took a huge spoonful and practically swallowed it whole, only to suddenly spit most of it back out and pant. Too hot!
At the next bowl, she took a smaller spoonful and, after blowing on it, tentatively tasted it with the tip of her tongue. When it didn't burn her, she ate the whole spoonful, but quickly swallowed. Ugh, all cold!
Logic and experience told her that the third bowl must be "just right" - not too hot or too cold. She confidently scooped her third spoonful, put it in her mouth, and coughed it right back up. What she had never expected - salty porridge! - became her reality.
Goldilocks looked around the room. She thought, there must be a way to enjoy some porridge. Maybe if I try to change them...
She added sugar to the salty porridge. Instead of canceling out the salty, it just made the whole thing bitter. So much for bowl number three.
She made a small fire and tried to warm the second bowl. Instead of warming, it just burnt unevenly, leaving it even less edible than before.
The first bowl was by now room temperature. Goldilocks tried a few bites, but found that after sitting out so long, it wasn't fresh at all.
Goldilocks couldn't believe it. She, who had always dreamed of finding the right porridge, couldn't settle for inedible porridge. She could hear her mother telling her that maybe even burnt, cold porridge is better than no porridge. However, Goldilocks just couldn't swallow that logic. Her mother only ate oatmeal.
As she climbed back through the window, she found she was not longer hungry. At least not for porridge. So she picked an apple from the orchard across the road and went home.
She rushed to the first bowl. She took a huge spoonful and practically swallowed it whole, only to suddenly spit most of it back out and pant. Too hot!
At the next bowl, she took a smaller spoonful and, after blowing on it, tentatively tasted it with the tip of her tongue. When it didn't burn her, she ate the whole spoonful, but quickly swallowed. Ugh, all cold!
Logic and experience told her that the third bowl must be "just right" - not too hot or too cold. She confidently scooped her third spoonful, put it in her mouth, and coughed it right back up. What she had never expected - salty porridge! - became her reality.
Goldilocks looked around the room. She thought, there must be a way to enjoy some porridge. Maybe if I try to change them...
She added sugar to the salty porridge. Instead of canceling out the salty, it just made the whole thing bitter. So much for bowl number three.
She made a small fire and tried to warm the second bowl. Instead of warming, it just burnt unevenly, leaving it even less edible than before.
The first bowl was by now room temperature. Goldilocks tried a few bites, but found that after sitting out so long, it wasn't fresh at all.
Goldilocks couldn't believe it. She, who had always dreamed of finding the right porridge, couldn't settle for inedible porridge. She could hear her mother telling her that maybe even burnt, cold porridge is better than no porridge. However, Goldilocks just couldn't swallow that logic. Her mother only ate oatmeal.
As she climbed back through the window, she found she was not longer hungry. At least not for porridge. So she picked an apple from the orchard across the road and went home.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Warning: Exploding Ovaries Ahead!
"Oh my god, my ovaries are exploding right now," exclaims a twenty-nine-year-old party guest at a friend's son's first birthday party upon being surrounded by increasingly cuter and cuter babies. Boy babies, girl babies, bald babies, hairy babies, quiet babies, crying babies. At that very moment, however, I was engrossed in watching the sole canine (a very cuddly puppy, appropriately) learn about walking through the grass. "Ovaries?" I asked, stalling for time. It took me a second to realize she was talking about the extreme urge to have a (human) baby, an urge more or less foreign to me at that moment. If anything, I was considering getting a puppy to keep Annie company. But a (human) baby? Wouldn't that just take time and attention away from the real baby, Princess Annie?
This conversation, like many of my conversations in the past year, developed along the same lines. I attempted to commiserate, but secretly felt insincere. Did I even want babies, now or ever? Or was I happier as a doggie mommy? As a child, while other girls were changing fake diapers on fake babies, I single-handedly ran a not-for-profit dog walking and training business after school (read: I walked and trained my neighbors' dogs for free). While I had this inward debate, my girlfriend would complain that though she really wanted a baby, it was impossible to find a man with whom to have said baby. In fact, she wasn't at all sure how she felt about "relationships" at this point in life, but she wanted to have a baby more than anything. It might sound like I am talking about one person, but this conversation has happened numerous times in numerous locations recently. And I'm still unsure what my true contribution to this conversation is. Some recent responses: "It would be great to be pregnant. Then you can be fat but people call you cute." "I would like to eat ice cream and pickles." "As long as it's a girl baby, it's ok." "What would happen to your dog if you had a baby?" "You should definitely secretly go off the pill." You can see that I'm probably not the best person to come to with exploding ovary issues.
On the other side of the coin are those who have taken the leap, who are daring enough to not only commit to one man, but also procreate! The few, the brave, the proud. The Moms. Were their ovaries exploding too? Were they trying for months or was there simply a contraceptive oversight? What do they advise their single friends who want a baby but can't find a guy to fit the bill? Would they look tiredly and say, "Trust me, your ovaries are fine."? Would they beam and say, "You have to be the right person to find the right person'"? Would they hand over their baby and head to the nearest bar? Or would they smile like Mona Lisa and advise, "It's the most incredible experience of your life"? Maybe only fellow childless women receive comments like, "My ovaries are exploding." Maybe Moms only receive compliments and interest, while the rest of us endure the constant obsessive thoughts: Oh my god I'm 31 and not married! My eggs are quickly going extinct. What if I have an alien baby because I'm too old? What if I have triplets? What if I can't have kids? What if Annie gets neglected? What if I don't even want kids? Oh my god I have to decide because I'm already 31!
I'm sure that some day we will look back on our thirties (or twenties) and meditatively say, "You see? It all worked out for the best, babies or no babies, man or no man." Until that time, I will rely on my Mom friends to be an inspiration and my fellow childless friends to inspire blog posts with gems like, "Oh my god, my ovaries are exploding!"
This conversation, like many of my conversations in the past year, developed along the same lines. I attempted to commiserate, but secretly felt insincere. Did I even want babies, now or ever? Or was I happier as a doggie mommy? As a child, while other girls were changing fake diapers on fake babies, I single-handedly ran a not-for-profit dog walking and training business after school (read: I walked and trained my neighbors' dogs for free). While I had this inward debate, my girlfriend would complain that though she really wanted a baby, it was impossible to find a man with whom to have said baby. In fact, she wasn't at all sure how she felt about "relationships" at this point in life, but she wanted to have a baby more than anything. It might sound like I am talking about one person, but this conversation has happened numerous times in numerous locations recently. And I'm still unsure what my true contribution to this conversation is. Some recent responses: "It would be great to be pregnant. Then you can be fat but people call you cute." "I would like to eat ice cream and pickles." "As long as it's a girl baby, it's ok." "What would happen to your dog if you had a baby?" "You should definitely secretly go off the pill." You can see that I'm probably not the best person to come to with exploding ovary issues.
On the other side of the coin are those who have taken the leap, who are daring enough to not only commit to one man, but also procreate! The few, the brave, the proud. The Moms. Were their ovaries exploding too? Were they trying for months or was there simply a contraceptive oversight? What do they advise their single friends who want a baby but can't find a guy to fit the bill? Would they look tiredly and say, "Trust me, your ovaries are fine."? Would they beam and say, "You have to be the right person to find the right person'"? Would they hand over their baby and head to the nearest bar? Or would they smile like Mona Lisa and advise, "It's the most incredible experience of your life"? Maybe only fellow childless women receive comments like, "My ovaries are exploding." Maybe Moms only receive compliments and interest, while the rest of us endure the constant obsessive thoughts: Oh my god I'm 31 and not married! My eggs are quickly going extinct. What if I have an alien baby because I'm too old? What if I have triplets? What if I can't have kids? What if Annie gets neglected? What if I don't even want kids? Oh my god I have to decide because I'm already 31!
I'm sure that some day we will look back on our thirties (or twenties) and meditatively say, "You see? It all worked out for the best, babies or no babies, man or no man." Until that time, I will rely on my Mom friends to be an inspiration and my fellow childless friends to inspire blog posts with gems like, "Oh my god, my ovaries are exploding!"
Thursday, June 7, 2012
All The Single Ladies Should Eat Garlic Tater Tots
I've never blogged after having two beers before. But tonight I was exposed to an entirely new form of socialization, of community if you will... even a new way to meet eligible, cute, "normal" men. The two beers were at a local sports bar that specializes in simultaneously screening at least four different sports games at any given moment. I used to think that sports had seasons, but judging by the fact that we saw baseball, basketball, hockey and football all in the same night, clearly the concept of "season" is obsolete.
At first, I was concerned that I might get bored watching hockey, eating fattening food and having the suspicion that I was playing second fiddle to a bunch of large men in uniform hitting each other. However, I soon found myself embracing this new way of "going out".
The first advantage was definitely the food. For eleven dollars, we had two pulled pork sliders, four bbq wings, fried calamari, and the coup de gras, garlic tater tots. Yes, that is what I said. Garlic. Tater. Tots. This goes beyond just delicious - it is practically poetic. Bars have great tater tots. Sports games have great garlic fries. So of course a sports bar should have... garlic tater tots!
The second advantage was what I immediately texted my single friends - go to a sports bar to meet cute and normal men in their natural habitat. After eavesdropping on a few neighboring conversations, "Yeah, Jeff, why are you still single? Great play, Kings!" I realized that this is an untapped market. Men you meet in traditional bars and clubs are generally only good for up to thirty minutes of small talk and maybe a free drink. No one should go to the Bal Mar looking to meet their future husband because that will be one very disappointing night. There might be some overlap between the sports bar and Bal Mar crowds, but after looking around, there are many more, how shall I say, wholesome men at the sports bar who wouldn't normally go the Bal Mar. Hence, the untapped market of men who are still normal, social creatures but wouldn't normally go to clubs looking for women. And I have a suspicion that you don't really need to know anything about sports in order to fit in in a sports bar - there are plenty of people who would be glad to explain it to you.
The final advantage can apply to anyone who goes to a sports bar. It's a very social place. Your first impression might be that this is an anti-social activity: sitting in silence, not looking at each other, eyes glued on the game. However, the social mores are much more complex and meaningful than they first appear. Occasional comments about the game can lead to a real conversation. People share a common goal in cheering on their team, so it's community building. That couple at the neighboring table might start out as strangers, but after watching your favorite hockey team get beat (in what must surely be a fluke caused by not wearing your lucky sweater) you start to feel a definite bond. Perhaps most importantly, pressure to make small talk is non-existent. If a lull falls over the conversation, it just means you go back to the game until something else comment-worthy arises. The best part is that if you're a non-sporting person, you get to learn a lot about sports from sporting groups eager to share. You might find out that it's actually worth learning: a lot of strategy and thought has gone into things like rules, names, and scoring. If you're not buying any of this, then just remember that the beer is cheap and plentiful, no one is paying attention to how many you've had, and garlic fries are one hybrid that actually improves on its original parts.
At first, I was concerned that I might get bored watching hockey, eating fattening food and having the suspicion that I was playing second fiddle to a bunch of large men in uniform hitting each other. However, I soon found myself embracing this new way of "going out".
The first advantage was definitely the food. For eleven dollars, we had two pulled pork sliders, four bbq wings, fried calamari, and the coup de gras, garlic tater tots. Yes, that is what I said. Garlic. Tater. Tots. This goes beyond just delicious - it is practically poetic. Bars have great tater tots. Sports games have great garlic fries. So of course a sports bar should have... garlic tater tots!
The second advantage was what I immediately texted my single friends - go to a sports bar to meet cute and normal men in their natural habitat. After eavesdropping on a few neighboring conversations, "Yeah, Jeff, why are you still single? Great play, Kings!" I realized that this is an untapped market. Men you meet in traditional bars and clubs are generally only good for up to thirty minutes of small talk and maybe a free drink. No one should go to the Bal Mar looking to meet their future husband because that will be one very disappointing night. There might be some overlap between the sports bar and Bal Mar crowds, but after looking around, there are many more, how shall I say, wholesome men at the sports bar who wouldn't normally go the Bal Mar. Hence, the untapped market of men who are still normal, social creatures but wouldn't normally go to clubs looking for women. And I have a suspicion that you don't really need to know anything about sports in order to fit in in a sports bar - there are plenty of people who would be glad to explain it to you.
The final advantage can apply to anyone who goes to a sports bar. It's a very social place. Your first impression might be that this is an anti-social activity: sitting in silence, not looking at each other, eyes glued on the game. However, the social mores are much more complex and meaningful than they first appear. Occasional comments about the game can lead to a real conversation. People share a common goal in cheering on their team, so it's community building. That couple at the neighboring table might start out as strangers, but after watching your favorite hockey team get beat (in what must surely be a fluke caused by not wearing your lucky sweater) you start to feel a definite bond. Perhaps most importantly, pressure to make small talk is non-existent. If a lull falls over the conversation, it just means you go back to the game until something else comment-worthy arises. The best part is that if you're a non-sporting person, you get to learn a lot about sports from sporting groups eager to share. You might find out that it's actually worth learning: a lot of strategy and thought has gone into things like rules, names, and scoring. If you're not buying any of this, then just remember that the beer is cheap and plentiful, no one is paying attention to how many you've had, and garlic fries are one hybrid that actually improves on its original parts.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
The Princess's Urban Escape - by Annie
Annie wrote her own entry this week - enjoy!
Unlike the location of my sleeping, eating, walking, and playing preferences (pretty much anywhere will do for my favorite activities), I have high standards about where I like to poop. Ideally, it will be on a lush rectangle of grass approximately five by at least thirty feet, occurring between the sidewalk and the road, after five to seven minutes of intensive walking and sniffing.
This is why I love Ballard. Green grass bordered by sidewalks, trees and parked transport devices as far as the eye can see. Every day, I get to take my pick of whom to honor with my poop. Usually it doesn't have quite the intended effect because Mom always picks up my poop in a pastel-colored bag and carries it home. Now, I like stinky stuff (who doesn't?) and I do consider myself The Princess, but I still cannot understand why she does this. Is she going to roll in it later?
However, if one minute detail of the "outside" environment changes, suddenly all the joy goes out of pooping. When there was cold white frozen stuff (great for frolicking, not so great for sniffing), for instance, I only pooped once a day, and even then only because Mom got so stressed out when I seemed to be protesting.
Worse than the cold white frozen stuff, the greatest pooping challenge for me was the weekend we spent in a condo in Belltown. I love condos and I love new experiences (as long as they don't involve any gardening tools or skateparks), but when we got out of the metal transport device, I started panting out of anxiety. Not only was there no grass between the sidewalk and the parked transport devices, but the miniscule patches of dirt surrounding the pathetic trees had metal grating over them, which is something these paws never touch. I hoped we wouldn't be staying too long, because pooping was going to impossible. On the other hand, all the homeless guys did look like a great opportunity for barking.
I fell asleep fast my first night downtown, but I woke up about 2am needing to poop and get some attention. Panicked at the thought of not having my five-by-thirty-foot patch of grass, I started whining. After Mom finally took me outside, to my disappointment, the situation was just as I had suspected. "Outside" was still covered in cement, barely acceptable for number one, let alone number two! Add that to strange men within one hundred feet in the dark, and it was time for true panic to set in. If you didn't think a princess could growl and pee simultaneously, you would have been proven wrong at this moment.
After a few more hours of sleep, I really needed to eat. Maybe by now Belltown had gotten its act together and grown some grass? Mom wasn't necessarily thrilled and seem to grumble a lot on the way down the elevator and out the front door, but none of that mattered, as it seemed that there was still no grass! And it was breakfast time! Which means that it was poop time because poop always comes first to make room for breakfast! What to do, what to do. Apparently, there was no other option than to bark at everything that moved, which is quite a lot at 6:30am on Friday morning in Belltown. Now I've shown you, Belltown! Next time I come out here, you better grow some grass.
You might think at this point that Mom would take pity on me and drive back home ASAP, but instead we just went back inside for breakfast as if everything was normal. It wasn't normal. I mean, I was starving so I ate, but I was starting to hold a serious grudge against Belltown.
Finally, I pulled out the big guns. After breakfast, I started jumping and whining, a sure sign that I needed food or a poop. "You win, Belltown," I thought, suddenly certain that pooping would happen wherever it could and I wouldn't feel guilty about pooping inappropriately because Belltown deserved it. As soon as we were outside and at least a block away from the condo building, I squatted in the middle of the sidewalk and thought, "Take this, Belltown! Maybe next time you'll think twice about not having any cool, soft, green grass when The Princess comes to town." Now, let's go buy me an antler, Mom.
Unlike the location of my sleeping, eating, walking, and playing preferences (pretty much anywhere will do for my favorite activities), I have high standards about where I like to poop. Ideally, it will be on a lush rectangle of grass approximately five by at least thirty feet, occurring between the sidewalk and the road, after five to seven minutes of intensive walking and sniffing.
This is why I love Ballard. Green grass bordered by sidewalks, trees and parked transport devices as far as the eye can see. Every day, I get to take my pick of whom to honor with my poop. Usually it doesn't have quite the intended effect because Mom always picks up my poop in a pastel-colored bag and carries it home. Now, I like stinky stuff (who doesn't?) and I do consider myself The Princess, but I still cannot understand why she does this. Is she going to roll in it later?
However, if one minute detail of the "outside" environment changes, suddenly all the joy goes out of pooping. When there was cold white frozen stuff (great for frolicking, not so great for sniffing), for instance, I only pooped once a day, and even then only because Mom got so stressed out when I seemed to be protesting.
Worse than the cold white frozen stuff, the greatest pooping challenge for me was the weekend we spent in a condo in Belltown. I love condos and I love new experiences (as long as they don't involve any gardening tools or skateparks), but when we got out of the metal transport device, I started panting out of anxiety. Not only was there no grass between the sidewalk and the parked transport devices, but the miniscule patches of dirt surrounding the pathetic trees had metal grating over them, which is something these paws never touch. I hoped we wouldn't be staying too long, because pooping was going to impossible. On the other hand, all the homeless guys did look like a great opportunity for barking.
 |
| Why, Belltown, why? |
I fell asleep fast my first night downtown, but I woke up about 2am needing to poop and get some attention. Panicked at the thought of not having my five-by-thirty-foot patch of grass, I started whining. After Mom finally took me outside, to my disappointment, the situation was just as I had suspected. "Outside" was still covered in cement, barely acceptable for number one, let alone number two! Add that to strange men within one hundred feet in the dark, and it was time for true panic to set in. If you didn't think a princess could growl and pee simultaneously, you would have been proven wrong at this moment.
After a few more hours of sleep, I really needed to eat. Maybe by now Belltown had gotten its act together and grown some grass? Mom wasn't necessarily thrilled and seem to grumble a lot on the way down the elevator and out the front door, but none of that mattered, as it seemed that there was still no grass! And it was breakfast time! Which means that it was poop time because poop always comes first to make room for breakfast! What to do, what to do. Apparently, there was no other option than to bark at everything that moved, which is quite a lot at 6:30am on Friday morning in Belltown. Now I've shown you, Belltown! Next time I come out here, you better grow some grass.
You might think at this point that Mom would take pity on me and drive back home ASAP, but instead we just went back inside for breakfast as if everything was normal. It wasn't normal. I mean, I was starving so I ate, but I was starting to hold a serious grudge against Belltown.
Finally, I pulled out the big guns. After breakfast, I started jumping and whining, a sure sign that I needed food or a poop. "You win, Belltown," I thought, suddenly certain that pooping would happen wherever it could and I wouldn't feel guilty about pooping inappropriately because Belltown deserved it. As soon as we were outside and at least a block away from the condo building, I squatted in the middle of the sidewalk and thought, "Take this, Belltown! Maybe next time you'll think twice about not having any cool, soft, green grass when The Princess comes to town." Now, let's go buy me an antler, Mom.
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| I own you, Seattle Center |
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Isn't it ironic, don't you think?
After a stimulating conversation (actually, it was more of a debate) on "irony" with my coworkers post-happy hour (when all the best ideas happen), I realized that really, "ironic" has become a euphemism for "ugly." Let's look at a recent example:
80s clothes. Just because I'm old enough to have been alive in the 80s doesn't mean I don't know when something is ugly. Actually, I think it makes me even more qualified, as I have worn flowered stirrup pants, side pony tails, and off-the-shoulder sweaters (often all at the same time) UN-ironcially and lived to tell the tale.
So if you are on a fixed gear bicycle, no helmet, your hair is permed into how my mom wore her hair twenty years ago (can we say the post-Farrah 1982 tight frizzy curls with overly bright highlights and enough hairspray to burn down my apartment that my dad still thinks is sexy look), you are wearing tight colored jeans rolled up and a jean jacket with a kitten sewn onto the back, don't bother with the helmet after all. Please. And stop riding in front of the 44 bus because it already takes me more time than you've been alive to get home.
80s clothes. Just because I'm old enough to have been alive in the 80s doesn't mean I don't know when something is ugly. Actually, I think it makes me even more qualified, as I have worn flowered stirrup pants, side pony tails, and off-the-shoulder sweaters (often all at the same time) UN-ironcially and lived to tell the tale.
So if you are on a fixed gear bicycle, no helmet, your hair is permed into how my mom wore her hair twenty years ago (can we say the post-Farrah 1982 tight frizzy curls with overly bright highlights and enough hairspray to burn down my apartment that my dad still thinks is sexy look), you are wearing tight colored jeans rolled up and a jean jacket with a kitten sewn onto the back, don't bother with the helmet after all. Please. And stop riding in front of the 44 bus because it already takes me more time than you've been alive to get home.
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