Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Tomato, tomato...
I say chili-mac, hospital cafeteria says American chop suey. I’m sure it will make an adequate turd either way.
Hard lessons learned the hard way from the School of Hard Knocks
This is a toughie. I reallyreallyreeeeally want to write about what’s been going on around here, and a couple of years ago I would have freely laid the whole thing out, whether you wanted to read about it or not, but I’ve got this notion bumping around in my skull that it might not be my story to tell.
That sucks because things to write about are hard to come by, you know?
But I do think that I can at least share my experiences, if I can find a way to do it without crossing some invisible boundary and violating privacy, blah, blah, blah.
So for the past five days I have been spending most of my time in a hospital room 2500 miles from home with my sick girl. There are actually two illnesses going on simultaneously, and progress has been see-sawing between the two. She’s been here over a week now, and still can’t have ANYTHING by mouth, not even ice chips. She was having ice chips last week and even graduated to the broth-and-jello diet for a couple of days until her body pitched a fit. So now it’s back to bag after bag of saline, and in between medication naps, begging me for "just one little ice chip..."
It really blows, but at least she’s no longer demanding to go outside for a cigarette. And she no longer believes she’s been kidnapped for medical experiments.
On another topic that may or may not be related in any way to what’s going on out here, I bought a book
to keep me from chewing the armrests of the plane seats on my trip out. It has turned out to be extremely educational and I firmly believe that anyone who drinks alcohol, might drink alcohol, or finds themselves furrowing their brows over someone’s relationship to alcohol (incl. their own) should read this book immediately. It’s that important. Especially if there’s a chance people with whom you share genetic material have/had issues in that general area.
Also, on another topic that may or may not be related in any way to previous topics in this post, did you know that what killed Amy Winehouse might have been alcohol withdrawal? Yes, stopping cold turkey without medical supervision can KILL your ass. Seizures, tachycardia, severe low blood pressure, hallucinations… it is terrifying stuff. Trust me on this one.
And, with alcohol consumption, can come other diseases to complicate things, like say, as a random example, acute pancreatitis. Another thing you do NOT want to fuck with. And you do not have to be a falling-in-the-gutter wino for decades to get these sorts diseases. The twenty-ton anvil can smear you to the pavement at any time. All it takes is for your body to get sick and tired of your shit, and that is unique to each individual.
So get educated and be safe out there, kids-of all-ages. Better to know the facts and not need them, than to worry for years, rationalize things based on severely outdated biases and data, expect people to exert control over behaviors they stand no chance of controlling, then get that phone call out of the blue.
That sucks because things to write about are hard to come by, you know?
But I do think that I can at least share my experiences, if I can find a way to do it without crossing some invisible boundary and violating privacy, blah, blah, blah.
So for the past five days I have been spending most of my time in a hospital room 2500 miles from home with my sick girl. There are actually two illnesses going on simultaneously, and progress has been see-sawing between the two. She’s been here over a week now, and still can’t have ANYTHING by mouth, not even ice chips. She was having ice chips last week and even graduated to the broth-and-jello diet for a couple of days until her body pitched a fit. So now it’s back to bag after bag of saline, and in between medication naps, begging me for "just one little ice chip..."
It really blows, but at least she’s no longer demanding to go outside for a cigarette. And she no longer believes she’s been kidnapped for medical experiments.
On another topic that may or may not be related in any way to what’s going on out here, I bought a book
to keep me from chewing the armrests of the plane seats on my trip out. It has turned out to be extremely educational and I firmly believe that anyone who drinks alcohol, might drink alcohol, or finds themselves furrowing their brows over someone’s relationship to alcohol (incl. their own) should read this book immediately. It’s that important. Especially if there’s a chance people with whom you share genetic material have/had issues in that general area.Also, on another topic that may or may not be related in any way to previous topics in this post, did you know that what killed Amy Winehouse might have been alcohol withdrawal? Yes, stopping cold turkey without medical supervision can KILL your ass. Seizures, tachycardia, severe low blood pressure, hallucinations… it is terrifying stuff. Trust me on this one.
And, with alcohol consumption, can come other diseases to complicate things, like say, as a random example, acute pancreatitis. Another thing you do NOT want to fuck with. And you do not have to be a falling-in-the-gutter wino for decades to get these sorts diseases. The twenty-ton anvil can smear you to the pavement at any time. All it takes is for your body to get sick and tired of your shit, and that is unique to each individual.
So get educated and be safe out there, kids-of all-ages. Better to know the facts and not need them, than to worry for years, rationalize things based on severely outdated biases and data, expect people to exert control over behaviors they stand no chance of controlling, then get that phone call out of the blue.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Travel Essentials
The perfect travel evening. BTW, donut calories don’t count if you eat them in your jammies in a hotel bed. If you’re watching Miss Congeniality, you actually burn calories.
(I’m saving Hancock for later)
;)
Monday, September 5, 2011
Overheard
Scene: Watching original Star Trek episodes with Young Son
Capt. James T. Kirk: "Captain’s log, stardate blah blah blah..."
Young Son (shouting at the screen): "This is no time for a blog entry, Captain Kirk!"
Friday, September 2, 2011
Confessions
My name is Liz, and I’m a recovering yarnaholic. It’s been eight years since I de-stashed.
Today I walked into a yarn store and bought yarn. At full price.
I know I said I had quit for good, but I can handle it this time, I swear.
I can stop anytime I want.
Friday, July 15, 2011
The Sisterhood of The Ring
Hi, y'all! Sorry I've not been around. I've been spending way too much time on Facebook. If you get lonely, come on over! I post something there most days, mostly silly stuff.
Anyhooze, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I've written tons of blog posts in my brain but never seem to be able to get them to come out on the keyboard for public consumption. Which, for the most part, is probably a Good Thing.
But I'm stuck here at work today, my last day before an extremely rare WEEK-LONG vacation, made even more rare by the fact that I will be spending it with Evil Twin and her family. I'm so excited I could almost weep. However, I still have 7.5 hours to go at work... so here I am.
Been getting ready for the move. Admittedly, most (OK 99%) of my energy has been going into the new/old place -- a little remodeling and painting and garden rehab -- and I have fallen way behind on, um, packing. As in, I haven't even started yet. But I still have a month to go. Plenty of time, right?
A few months back, though, I had made some good progress in unearthing the floor of The Purple Room, the spare bedroom in the basement where Mr. B and I threw all the boxes of crap we didn't know what to do with. It was quite a fascinating project, since most of the stuff was his and I had never seen it before. What struck me the most was how most of the things we hang on to and drag around for decades lose all value the moment we pass, kinda like a new car becomes a used car the moment you drive it off the lot. I said "kinda"!
(But that's another blog post. Or maybe another blog?)
It was exceptionally difficult to play the stay-or-go game with items I knew nothing about. Why had he kept this? Where did it come from? Is there someone else to whom it might mean something? No idea. At the end of a long two days of sorting, I finally reached the last box. It looked like the upended contents of a dresser drawer. And at the very bottom, among the shirt buttons and pennies, was a ring.
You may remember (if I even told you) that I had lost Mr. B's wedding ring just a couple of weeks after he died. It sucked, but what could I do? Just had to get over it. But here was this ring, obviously sized for him. I knew right away what it was: the wedding ring from his first marriage. When we were ring shopping, I had asked him what his other one looked like and he had described it to me. And there it sat, in the very bottom of the very last box of his crap. Conveniently, it fit securely on my right thumb, so there it went. For some reason it made me very happy. I was convinced he had left it for me to find.
Now, Evil Twin and I had been fascinated by Mr. B's first marriage since the day we heard about it back in the early 90s. So he married this woman, at MIDNIGHT on a WEEKNIGHT because she said it was a good time based on their HOROSCOPES?? And he had only known her a couple of months?? That didn't sound like Mr. B at all. We were writhing with curiosity, but Mr. B was his usual circumspect self and we didn't learn anything more. Not even a photo.
Evil Twin didn't hear much from him after that, and by the time we all met for dinner in 2000, he was divorced. It was already history.
When he and I started dating, seven years later, I felt it was time to do a little probing on the subject. After all, Mr. B knew ALL about my first marriage -- he'd known The Ex almost as long as he'd known me. But once again, details were not forthcoming. I did get an idea of how the relationship went, and learned that he married her because he "thought it was about time" (he was in his late 30s) and she "seemed interesting". Also, she was "very acquisitive," implying that marriage was her decision and he just went along to be polite. (This was a recurring theme in his real-life interactions, BTW.) At one point he told me she was shorter than me, but that's the closest thing to a description I ever got.
I got a few relationship stories from him over time, particularly about how things wound down toward the end. As time went on, I gained insight into why, perhaps, she had reacted the way she had over certain things. There are two sides to everything, of course, and by that time I had realized that Mr. B had some, um, emotional deficits that made an intimate relationship... challenging.
Which is a lot like "interesting."
I thought about how he had described his reasons for marrying her. And I thought about how, in the early enchantment phase of our relationship, I did a little feminine-type fishing, hoping to hear how he felt about our relationship. You know, "you complete me" or some shit like that.
What I got was a long pause, a couple of eye-blinks, a furrowed brow, and finally he proclaimed, "It makes sense." No, not quite what I was hoping for.
This was in bed, mind you, not sitting at the kitchen table.
As I put these things together, I felt the blossoming of a kinship with the mysterious First Mrs. B. She had been in my shoes, poking around in that ginormous brain of his to see what was going on, what he was feeling. She, too, probably had come up with something other than what she had expected.
Oh, I feel ya, sister-wife.
Mr. B and FMB had parted on more-or-less amiable terms. He told me, a few months before he died, that he had seen her. She was working security at an office building where he had an appointment. They spoke briefly. I greedily pressed for details, but he didn't seem to think there was anything worth relaying. He just didn't get gossip, dammit!
So, then, everything else happened. And after all that, I still didn't know what FMB looked like. He did not have a single photo of her lying around. Not one, in any of the boxes I dug through. Hundreds of computer game disks, yes, but none of his first wife.
Which, I suppose, isn't surprising. I was fascinated by him and photographed him constantly, but that fascination did not appear to be mutual. I tried HARD not to take it personally. Yes, he was a photographer, but people simply didn't hold his interest. At one point I practically shamed him into taking some pics of me. Not proud of that, but my Inner Brat was stung, you know?
The last huge Mr. B-related task was dealing with all his slides and negatives. Thousands of them! He was, as they say in photography terms, a bracketer, and had been one back in Ye Oldyn Dayes of Fylm as well. Evil Twin, bless her little heart, volunteered to sort them and scan in the ones worth saving, if I could pack them up and ship them to her. It took awhile to pull it all together, but I finally shipped her THIRTY-FIVE POUNDS of slides and negatives.
An incredibly short time later, she started uploading scans. One of the first was Mr. B standing in front of some sort of scenic wilderness vista with a cute, petite, blond woman. Sent the pic to Nephew Dr. J for verification, but I already knew it was her, the FMB. The woman I had an awful lot in common with but will never meet. The woman whose wedding ring I am wearing on my right thumb.
I wonder if she even knows he died? She lives in The Big City. I published his obit there -- partially for that reason -- but did she see it?
Their relationship lasted maybe five years. Ours was three and a half. How would our relationship have gone if he was still here? Would I have been able to be OK with us "making sense"? Really, really be OK, knowing that what I felt and what he felt were two very different things? Not that there's anything wrong with that, I guess.
Well, we'll never have to find that out, will we? And, in a twisted, self-serving way, I'm thinking maybe that's a Good Thing.
Anyhooze, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I've written tons of blog posts in my brain but never seem to be able to get them to come out on the keyboard for public consumption. Which, for the most part, is probably a Good Thing.
But I'm stuck here at work today, my last day before an extremely rare WEEK-LONG vacation, made even more rare by the fact that I will be spending it with Evil Twin and her family. I'm so excited I could almost weep. However, I still have 7.5 hours to go at work... so here I am.
Been getting ready for the move. Admittedly, most (OK 99%) of my energy has been going into the new/old place -- a little remodeling and painting and garden rehab -- and I have fallen way behind on, um, packing. As in, I haven't even started yet. But I still have a month to go. Plenty of time, right?
A few months back, though, I had made some good progress in unearthing the floor of The Purple Room, the spare bedroom in the basement where Mr. B and I threw all the boxes of crap we didn't know what to do with. It was quite a fascinating project, since most of the stuff was his and I had never seen it before. What struck me the most was how most of the things we hang on to and drag around for decades lose all value the moment we pass, kinda like a new car becomes a used car the moment you drive it off the lot. I said "kinda"!
(But that's another blog post. Or maybe another blog?)
It was exceptionally difficult to play the stay-or-go game with items I knew nothing about. Why had he kept this? Where did it come from? Is there someone else to whom it might mean something? No idea. At the end of a long two days of sorting, I finally reached the last box. It looked like the upended contents of a dresser drawer. And at the very bottom, among the shirt buttons and pennies, was a ring.
You may remember (if I even told you) that I had lost Mr. B's wedding ring just a couple of weeks after he died. It sucked, but what could I do? Just had to get over it. But here was this ring, obviously sized for him. I knew right away what it was: the wedding ring from his first marriage. When we were ring shopping, I had asked him what his other one looked like and he had described it to me. And there it sat, in the very bottom of the very last box of his crap. Conveniently, it fit securely on my right thumb, so there it went. For some reason it made me very happy. I was convinced he had left it for me to find.
Now, Evil Twin and I had been fascinated by Mr. B's first marriage since the day we heard about it back in the early 90s. So he married this woman, at MIDNIGHT on a WEEKNIGHT because she said it was a good time based on their HOROSCOPES?? And he had only known her a couple of months?? That didn't sound like Mr. B at all. We were writhing with curiosity, but Mr. B was his usual circumspect self and we didn't learn anything more. Not even a photo.
Evil Twin didn't hear much from him after that, and by the time we all met for dinner in 2000, he was divorced. It was already history.
When he and I started dating, seven years later, I felt it was time to do a little probing on the subject. After all, Mr. B knew ALL about my first marriage -- he'd known The Ex almost as long as he'd known me. But once again, details were not forthcoming. I did get an idea of how the relationship went, and learned that he married her because he "thought it was about time" (he was in his late 30s) and she "seemed interesting". Also, she was "very acquisitive," implying that marriage was her decision and he just went along to be polite. (This was a recurring theme in his real-life interactions, BTW.) At one point he told me she was shorter than me, but that's the closest thing to a description I ever got.
I got a few relationship stories from him over time, particularly about how things wound down toward the end. As time went on, I gained insight into why, perhaps, she had reacted the way she had over certain things. There are two sides to everything, of course, and by that time I had realized that Mr. B had some, um, emotional deficits that made an intimate relationship... challenging.
Which is a lot like "interesting."
I thought about how he had described his reasons for marrying her. And I thought about how, in the early enchantment phase of our relationship, I did a little feminine-type fishing, hoping to hear how he felt about our relationship. You know, "you complete me" or some shit like that.
What I got was a long pause, a couple of eye-blinks, a furrowed brow, and finally he proclaimed, "It makes sense." No, not quite what I was hoping for.
This was in bed, mind you, not sitting at the kitchen table.
As I put these things together, I felt the blossoming of a kinship with the mysterious First Mrs. B. She had been in my shoes, poking around in that ginormous brain of his to see what was going on, what he was feeling. She, too, probably had come up with something other than what she had expected.
Oh, I feel ya, sister-wife.
Mr. B and FMB had parted on more-or-less amiable terms. He told me, a few months before he died, that he had seen her. She was working security at an office building where he had an appointment. They spoke briefly. I greedily pressed for details, but he didn't seem to think there was anything worth relaying. He just didn't get gossip, dammit!
So, then, everything else happened. And after all that, I still didn't know what FMB looked like. He did not have a single photo of her lying around. Not one, in any of the boxes I dug through. Hundreds of computer game disks, yes, but none of his first wife.
Which, I suppose, isn't surprising. I was fascinated by him and photographed him constantly, but that fascination did not appear to be mutual. I tried HARD not to take it personally. Yes, he was a photographer, but people simply didn't hold his interest. At one point I practically shamed him into taking some pics of me. Not proud of that, but my Inner Brat was stung, you know? The last huge Mr. B-related task was dealing with all his slides and negatives. Thousands of them! He was, as they say in photography terms, a bracketer, and had been one back in Ye Oldyn Dayes of Fylm as well. Evil Twin, bless her little heart, volunteered to sort them and scan in the ones worth saving, if I could pack them up and ship them to her. It took awhile to pull it all together, but I finally shipped her THIRTY-FIVE POUNDS of slides and negatives.
An incredibly short time later, she started uploading scans. One of the first was Mr. B standing in front of some sort of scenic wilderness vista with a cute, petite, blond woman. Sent the pic to Nephew Dr. J for verification, but I already knew it was her, the FMB. The woman I had an awful lot in common with but will never meet. The woman whose wedding ring I am wearing on my right thumb.
I wonder if she even knows he died? She lives in The Big City. I published his obit there -- partially for that reason -- but did she see it?
Their relationship lasted maybe five years. Ours was three and a half. How would our relationship have gone if he was still here? Would I have been able to be OK with us "making sense"? Really, really be OK, knowing that what I felt and what he felt were two very different things? Not that there's anything wrong with that, I guess.
Well, we'll never have to find that out, will we? And, in a twisted, self-serving way, I'm thinking maybe that's a Good Thing.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Moving on back
So long story way short, I'm moving back into my previous house, the one I bought at the HEIGHT of the housing market and rented out when I moved in with Mr. B. It's too bad, really; Mr. B's house is a darling 1930s-era brick house but it's just too damned much work (and money) for me to deal with by myself. So it's back to my mid-90s cookie-cutter place. Where the home owners association cuts the grass. Oh yeah.
It's going to be a bittersweet farewell. Feels like the close of the last chapter in our relationship. I'll be right back where I was when we were just starting out -- we'd only been together about six months when I bought the place.
The tenants will be out in less than two weeks. I'm anxious to get in there, measure, and change things up a bit to mark this as a fresh start. There's really no rush, other than at some point the bank is going to want the keys to Mr. B's house back. I figure I have the summer to paint, move, and get settled.
As I am fond of telling everyone (repeatedly) this will be my fifth move in just under five years. I want my pin, dammit!
It's going to be a bittersweet farewell. Feels like the close of the last chapter in our relationship. I'll be right back where I was when we were just starting out -- we'd only been together about six months when I bought the place.
The tenants will be out in less than two weeks. I'm anxious to get in there, measure, and change things up a bit to mark this as a fresh start. There's really no rush, other than at some point the bank is going to want the keys to Mr. B's house back. I figure I have the summer to paint, move, and get settled.
As I am fond of telling everyone (repeatedly) this will be my fifth move in just under five years. I want my pin, dammit!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Break out the thongs!
Oh relax, I mean flip flops. Please.
It's Room Temperature Day, the first day of the year we hit 70 degrees. It's about effing time!
I didn't mark it last year, but RTD 2009 was April 5, and the year before it was April 12. Here we are at May 19th -- how wrong is that? Could be worse, but not by much. Someone on the teevee said that the latest date Sea-Tac Airport hit 70 was May 23, 2003. Cutting it awfully close, aren't we?
I'm not exactly encouraged by what this implies. Could be a green tomato summer around here.
Trust me, that's not nearly as much fun as it sounds.
It's Room Temperature Day, the first day of the year we hit 70 degrees. It's about effing time!
I didn't mark it last year, but RTD 2009 was April 5, and the year before it was April 12. Here we are at May 19th -- how wrong is that? Could be worse, but not by much. Someone on the teevee said that the latest date Sea-Tac Airport hit 70 was May 23, 2003. Cutting it awfully close, aren't we?
I'm not exactly encouraged by what this implies. Could be a green tomato summer around here.
Trust me, that's not nearly as much fun as it sounds.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Party On!
I've been feeling kind of bad for keeping comments turned off. Not feeling bad enough to turn them back on -- I could easily go the rest of my life without reading another comment from an escort service in Mumbai -- but I do miss hearing what you think, etc.
Also, I usually have a couple of completely inappropriate ideas each day that just don't quite qualify as blogfodder. I feel guilty for not taking the time to germinate them into full-fledged posts, but by the time I get around to it, the Shiny Bus has driven past again and I'm already on to The Next Thing.
I've been stewing over it and I think I have at least a partial solution.
Over on the left there you'll see a tiny pic of Little Lizzie. If you are on Facebook, and click the "Like" button, you'll see updates from my new Anyway, I Was Just Thinking page in your Facebook news feed. You can also visit the page, comment, sass me back, or whatever you like. If you're already one of my Facebook friends, be sure to "Like" the page as well 'cause you won't want to miss any of the ***Exclusive Content!!!***
Sorry, got a little carried away there. Anyway, I will be posting stuff there that you won't see here or on my personal Facebook profile. I suppose that means my personal profile is about to get a whole lot more boring.
How's that for a sales pitch?
If you're not currently on Facebook but don't want to miss the fun, you could set up a Facebook account with minimal information. You could go as far as to set up a spare email account on Yahoo or Gmail or Hotmail or whatever so you don't have to use your real email. We won't tell a soul. No one would ever know!
So join us! I've already acquired my first dozen "Likes", which means I'm well on my way to gathering my twelves of readers around me in Facebook Land.
What do you think? Come on over and tell me all about it.
Also, I usually have a couple of completely inappropriate ideas each day that just don't quite qualify as blogfodder. I feel guilty for not taking the time to germinate them into full-fledged posts, but by the time I get around to it, the Shiny Bus has driven past again and I'm already on to The Next Thing.
I've been stewing over it and I think I have at least a partial solution.
Over on the left there you'll see a tiny pic of Little Lizzie. If you are on Facebook, and click the "Like" button, you'll see updates from my new Anyway, I Was Just Thinking page in your Facebook news feed. You can also visit the page, comment, sass me back, or whatever you like. If you're already one of my Facebook friends, be sure to "Like" the page as well 'cause you won't want to miss any of the ***Exclusive Content!!!***
Sorry, got a little carried away there. Anyway, I will be posting stuff there that you won't see here or on my personal Facebook profile. I suppose that means my personal profile is about to get a whole lot more boring.
How's that for a sales pitch?
If you're not currently on Facebook but don't want to miss the fun, you could set up a Facebook account with minimal information. You could go as far as to set up a spare email account on Yahoo or Gmail or Hotmail or whatever so you don't have to use your real email. We won't tell a soul. No one would ever know!
So join us! I've already acquired my first dozen "Likes", which means I'm well on my way to gathering my twelves of readers around me in Facebook Land.
What do you think? Come on over and tell me all about it.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Weird Shit That Has Happened To Me #2137: The Voice
For the last week or two, most mornings as I turned on the monitors, computer, desk lamp, etc., on my desk, I'd been catching the faintest sound of a snippet of a garbled voice.
I tried to pin it down, but as I eliminated possibilities my theories got more and more ridiculous. Were my speakers picking up a snatch of CB talk, even though they were powered off? My second monitor also has a built-in speaker, but it's not connected to anything. Could it be that? Is that even possible? Does my computer have some kind of weird virus that produces sound upon boot-up? Did someone hide a prank electronic toy in my office that somehow talks when I turn on my computer? Or maybe do I need to get my meds checked again?
But yesterday, as I turned on my desk lamp -- the one with the fancy full-color halogen (fluorescent?) bulb -- I heard The Voice. I happened to be looking in the exact right place at the right time and there it was: Sid, the talking fast-food toy.
I turned the lamp off, then on, then off, then on. Each time the lamp fired up, Sid obliged me with one of his snappy, unintelligible catchphrases.
I picked up Sid and rotated his left arm. He told me "everyone loves Sid." I smiled. No one was going to believe this. I needed to shoot some video! I set Sid back on the lamp base and pulled out my camera. Turned off the light, hit record, and turned the light back on.
Nothing.
I spent the next ten minutes trying to replicate the exact conditions. No joy. Sid just stood there. The moment of magic was gone forever; my opportunity for a once-in-a-lifetime video of an apparently unreproducible phenomenon shot all to hell on the whim of a plastic sloth.
Fuck you, Sid.
I tried to pin it down, but as I eliminated possibilities my theories got more and more ridiculous. Were my speakers picking up a snatch of CB talk, even though they were powered off? My second monitor also has a built-in speaker, but it's not connected to anything. Could it be that? Is that even possible? Does my computer have some kind of weird virus that produces sound upon boot-up? Did someone hide a prank electronic toy in my office that somehow talks when I turn on my computer? Or maybe do I need to get my meds checked again?
But yesterday, as I turned on my desk lamp -- the one with the fancy full-color halogen (fluorescent?) bulb -- I heard The Voice. I happened to be looking in the exact right place at the right time and there it was: Sid, the talking fast-food toy.
I turned the lamp off, then on, then off, then on. Each time the lamp fired up, Sid obliged me with one of his snappy, unintelligible catchphrases.
I picked up Sid and rotated his left arm. He told me "everyone loves Sid." I smiled. No one was going to believe this. I needed to shoot some video! I set Sid back on the lamp base and pulled out my camera. Turned off the light, hit record, and turned the light back on.
Nothing.
I spent the next ten minutes trying to replicate the exact conditions. No joy. Sid just stood there. The moment of magic was gone forever; my opportunity for a once-in-a-lifetime video of an apparently unreproducible phenomenon shot all to hell on the whim of a plastic sloth.
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