Put the words "knocking" and "door" together

I'm not going to do it -- you have to. That way if you end up with an unfortunate earworm it's NOT MY FAULT.

Oh, and today's pointless photo? A dusty trail, of course.

Now then. Post topic. Someone knocked at my door last night just as I was going to bed. Not too weird, considering the building that I live in... although, come to think of it maybe a bit weird since 'tis not the season of college students a bit drunk (literally) with the thrill of being away from mommy and daddy for the first time. Also, this was a fairly gently rapping as opposed to an over-the-top bashing, all things considered. That part's unusual.

When I didn't answer, the person knocked again. Not terribly unusual.

Shortly after that, my intercom rang. Pretty unusual.

And why the unusual? Well, it means that whoever knocked at my door apparently didn't have the wrong apartment and was specifically looking for me (or at least the person that they thought was in the apartment which, considering that the intercom buttons have our last names on them, would probably have been me).

I know some of my two fans still aren't getting why the above might be unusual, so I suppose I'd better tell you a few things that you need to know if you expect me to answer my door when you pay me a surprise visit (especially at a slightly late hour). First, I don't like surprise visits. Second, you should probably know my phone number. Third, you should at the very least know my name.

You see, I don't as a rule answer my door or my intercom unless I'm specifically expecting someone. Part of that is that fifty percent of the time (ok, more like ninety percent) I'm in my pyjamas when I'm alone in my apartment, and I'm not likely to be too thrilled about putting on actual clothing just to answer the door. More importantly, though, there have been some fairly odd things happen in my neighbourhood over the years (hey, for a while the apartment right below mine became an impromptu crack den. Good times, good times), so if I'm not figuring on anyone being at my door I ignore all signs that there actually is someone at my door. It's much easier that way.

So, say you really did want to pay me a surprise visit. How do you get my attention? Well, let's go back a couple of paragraphs and look at that surprise visit list. First, don't pay me a surprise visit. Let me know that you're coming and I will, in fact, open the door. No, really. I will. I don't mind visits... just the surprise ones. That brings us to number two. If you've ignored number one and have shown up at the apartment building unannounced, don't bother with the intercom. I ignore it. Call me on the phone. Tell me who's there and chances are that I'll then tell you to use the intercom so I can buzz you in. An extra step, yes, but at least I have a better idea of who I'm letting in that way. The intercom speaker is pretty lousy at the best of times. And speaking of knowing who's there, if you've shown up at my apartment building and someone else has let you in (which, sadly, happens a lot. Apparently not all tenants heard about the crack den thing), don't just come knocking on my door and expect me to open it. Use my name, for crying out loud. Knock, say "hey Dee (or, you know, insert actual full name here), are you home?", and I'll know that someone who knows me is there.

None of this is unreasonable, is it?

I don't think so.

And even if it is, I'm not about to change my habits now.




And to last night's eleven o'clock door knocker: I'd say I'm sorry, but if you know me then you should have known better. And if you don't know me, then why in Whomever's name were you knocking at a random someone's door at that stupid hour?

Sometimes I juuust don't get it...

It's the dreaded toilet paper post

Can't remember if I've used this photo before, and I don't really have time to look it up since I'm just taking a quick break from work. Oh, and considering today's post title aren't you extra glad that the photos almost always have nothing to do with the blather?

I know I am.

Anyway. On to the tp. I'm currently having a bit of a bog roll problem, and it's not the kind of thing I was expecting. You see, I like my toilet paper too much.

Yes, you read that right.

Here's the thing. I'm generally a big believer in recycled toilet paper. In fact, I don't think that there are too many excuses for using toilet paper that isn't made from recycled paper. Maybe it's not always the highest quality thing you can buy, yes, but it's toilet paper. It's something you use briefly to clean your behind and then flush down the loo. It doesn't need to be premium. I mean, unless a person has massive hemorrhoids or serious anal problems or something else medical like that, there is absolutely no reason to be cutting down more trees so that the human race can be provided with cushier bumwipe.

Is anyone else wondering how many other synonyms I can come up with for the stuff, by the way?

I buy recycled whenever I can, yes, but the other day when I was out I didn't have time to go to a bigger store to get the recycled stuff and just stopped in at my corner grocery. It occasionally has recycled brands, but not always. This was one of the not times. So... well, I was just about to pick up a small pack of something else to tide me over (erm, so to speak) when I noticed that a bigger pack of another brand that was on sale would be about the same price. Bigger pack = less packaging = good, so I went for it. And that's how I ended up having the big name American brand extra-something-or-other non-recycled toilet paper in my bathroom. You know the one. It has the cutesy commercials that always have me rolling my eyes. I'd never buy it under any other circumstances, you know.

Here's where the problem comes in.

It's great. I like it.





Dammit.

Toilet paper is toilet paper is toilet paper, but I like this stuff better.





Dammit.

So what do I do now? Honestly, I'll go back to buying recycled paper. I just can't justify toilet paper as something to put on my luxury item list, in the end. Or for my end. Or whatever. And in a while I'll probably even stop looking longingly at the other stuff when I go down the paper goods aisle. Really, I will.

Ah, principles. I guess it's hard to abandon the ones I have when there are so few of them...

Hey, want half a sandwich?

There's nothing wrong with it, I promise. I haven't touched it. It's just too much sandwich for my current state of brain, that's all.

Sigh.

Shall I elaborate? Or enumerate? Or get back to work on the August schedule so that I can leave and get back to being overly hot at my place?

Sigh.

Again.

Ok, here's the deal in a nutshell. My apartment is currently about a bazillion degrees (or, you know, thirty) which means sleep isn't happening which means I don't feel like eating because my stomach is telling me it's too tired to be full.

Yes, that honestly happens. I suppose it should happen more often because I could afford to miss a meal or twelve, but at the moment it's making me at least semi-miserable.

The last two days have been liquid breakfasts just to make sure I had something, but after this morning's planetarium program (yeah, on top of everything else I have PLANETARIUM BRAIN) I thought I was hungry enough to make a lunch trip down to the Co-op's sandwich bar worthwhile.

Well, I was half a sandwich right.

It's a decent sized sandwich, though, so I imagine it'll hold me for a while...

Anyway. I really should get back to the bloody schedule. And maybe someday I'll even explain planetarium brain for those of you who've never yet had the pleasure.




Are you sure you don't want this sandwich?

I got a million of 'em

No. Really. I do. I promise not to post all of the hummingbird photos I have but you should see the caverns of my hard-drive. Or not.


So let me say straight off, today I got nothin'. Oh my, a contradiction - first I got a million, then nothing. Well that certainly made my brain go all wobbly and run about looking for a point. Ah, dear friends, such is my life.

Good grief, I'm starting to feel like I'm being directed by Tim Burton with Johnny playing me ... and no, out of good taste, I shall not pursue that latter thought. As much fun as that would be.


I remember a time when I used to speak in whole sentences and didn't place periods everywhere. For emphasis.

Instead of two paws

"Instead of two paws, what?", you ask. Well tu-lips, of course. You see I have gobsmackingly good shots - or as gob-etc good as they get on a cellphone - of proof a bear was wandering up in the "back forty" but the whatsit I need to get those shots from cellphone to here won't connect properly for now. Oh you just know I'll beat it into submission but today you get flowers instead.

For added interest, last Fall when we moved here, we were watching soy grow; oh and gourds of all shapes and types and of course orchards and orchards of apples.

Right now all of the fields in the immediate area have - and I kid you not - ten to 12-foot high cornstalks. I'm guessing you've grasped the obvious, that it might be a tidge easier to spot a lumbering furry beast at 20 yards through a soy field than the previously described cornfield.

As the old joke goes, though, I only need to be fast enough to out-run one of the dogs.

Hey look!! A bird!!

Okay, so that subject line up there is the equivalent of what comes out of my mouth when someone is talking to me and I think of something I've been meaning to tell them, so have to spit it out right away or it's gone yet again......and yep, another of the world's longest sentences. Thank you for noticing.

This photo was taken May 11th as she was going about her business of setting up house.

About the 16th of July the mulberry under which she built her home became a crime scene. Where's Grissom when you need him. (Oh look it up; I'm not like she who owns this place, all smart and willing to provide links) Anyyyyyway, from my livingroom vantage point, something on the ground looked out of place. Now remembering that this was before any intake of caffeine and with only glasses, not contacts, I ventured forth and found two "bodies". Not all was lost as something was clearly still in the nest making an awful racket - well I don't know if it was making a racket or a paddle truth be told.....

Anyway, the moral of the story is don't just throw out tinsel for pete's sake (men, geez); birds love it for their nests as evidenced by all the shiny branches in almost every tree near our house.

Oh and ironically the pink flower is cranesbill. In my world it's worth mentioning, yes.

Pointless post and I'm tired

Not from the usual lack of sleep, though. Just from planetarium. You know, I like doing planetarium shows but I'm really starting to feel like I'm getting too creaky to do them too often.

Or maybe I just need to do them more often, I don't know. Maybe today's creakiness is because of the summer lull.

Ah well. Or anyway. Or however else I habitually end posts. I have planetarium brain at the moment, so wet apples are all you're going to get out of me. Which, I suppose, is too bad since I likely won't be around a computer in the next couple of days so this whole bunch of nothing will be staying at the top of the page unless someone is willing to see if the Ontario (I'm tired of typing not-Toronto) office has melted yet.

I'm not sure I want to poke her with a stick at this point. Might be a bit too reminiscent of a marshmallow roast...



See you in a couple of days, folks.