I, Dawdler

I am going to have a pinata for my birthday. I have declared it, and now it must be so! :)

Credit Card Issuers Raising Rates, Fees Ahead of New Law – washingtonpost.com.

They just never start these stories with true-life accounts of how Gloria, 32, spent lavish amounts of money on dining out, clothes, and a huge flat-screen TV, and is now at a loss for how she will pay her credit card bill. “It’s just not right what these credit card companies are doing. I mean, I think it’s so wrong that they’re making money off of people suffering because they can’t pay their bills.”

The mockingbird that lives near the office has learned to mimic the sound of a car crash. On the way home from work, I discovered a redwood tree that had been planted by the Chicago White Sox of 1914. I came home from work to find that Curt had made a seven-layer dip and decorated the apartment with balloons, crepe, and a sign that said, “¡VIVA GIANG!”

Ai discovered the State Budget Balancer on the Los Angeles Times website. What did this little module teach me? That balancing the budget is a lot easier when it’s not actually your job. Also, it taught me that raising the gas tax is the quickest way of shaving 5 billion dollars off your deficit. The problem is, it’s probably the least responsible way of shaving 5 billion dollars off your deficit.

Hence, expect a hike in gas taxes. VIVA GIANG!

Review: New guide gives Twitterific advice – Technology – MiamiHerald.com.

In 140 characters or less: this is a little bit ridiculous.

I’m having a case of the doldrums. I also wonder what it would be like to have stripes. Because I’m looking at Monkey, and she has stripes, and I wonder – does she look at me and wonder what it would be like to NOT have stripes? Or does George (who is all black) ever wonder what it would be like to be a white cat?

So, here’s something: a while ago I read this story called “The Tree Is My Hat” by Gene Wolfe. I was told that by the end of the story, that title would make perfect sense, and of course it didn’t. Here is the link to the story. Can anyone tell me why the tree is his hat?

Here’s this next week’s 100-word entry. I had the blues tonight, a bit.

She never told him what it was, the grief that stole over her during these moments. He wasn’t sure she knew what it was herself, the thieving sorrow that took her away from him to some place where he couldn’t follow. Between them were all the vastness of her sorrow, and all the aching in him to fix it, the desperate tugging at his inside when he saw her go so still and joyless.

So he drove, ripping through the stillness of the desert night. Sometimes she would just sit motionless, her eyes staring out at the dark while the gravel under the tires roared like a hurricane and the wind whipped her face raw. He would push the pedal down, spiting death at every turn to try to coax her back to him, but somehow each time they made it around a curve she remained untouched.

Sometimes she would cry, tears sliding down her cheeks in silence. Her wet cheeks would glow, luminescent in the light of instrument panel. He would reach over and take her hand, turn up the stereo and sing to her simply because he didn’t know what else to do.

And sometimes it was like this – stars and inky night and his fair girl sitting beside him with her eyes closed, the two of them in his car, the hours whirling past them in the darkness until at last, she would softly steal her little hand into his and press it into his.

Later, he reached across the bed for her and felt the warmth of her body. She moved next to him in the darkness and pulled him across the space between them. Afterwards, she lay in his arms breathing softly in sleep, he thought how the night, when it was over, would be one less night he would be alive. He thought of them in his car. He shut his eyes and remembered the smell of heat in the damp earth. He shut his eyes and he could see her sitting beside him, smiling and happy. His girl.

He held tight to her, dreaming as the hours went by, unslept.