Technical Difficulties

So, basically, all I want out of a toothbrush is that it will clean my teeth. I have no brand loyalty, I don't care about fancy bristles or contours, I just want a goddamn toothbrush so my teeth don't rot and fall out of my head. Okay?

I went to brush my teeth this morning and noticed that my toothbrush looked like a dandelion clock. Aha! says I. The last time I was at Walgreens, I thought to purchase a new toothbrush. So I fished it out of the bag where it was reposing with the cough drops . . . and discovered that the manufacturer felt it necessary to package the toothbrush so impregnably that it required scissors to get at it. No, really, they say so themselves: CUT HERE. And you can scrabble at the package with your fingernails as much as you want--you ain't getting in.

I found a pair of scissors and cut the package open. WIKTORY! THE TOOTHBRUSH IS MINE! Threw the package away, turned toward the sink, and thought, Why am I suddenly in a cloud of artificial mint?

I looked suspiciously at the toothbrush.

It was all blue and green and contours! and fancy bristles! because you can't buy a toothbrush at Walgreens that isn't, and I just went for the cheapest one that wasn't some eye-wateringly awful color because I really do have better things to do with my time than comparison-shop the toothbrushes.

And, yes, it smelled of artificial mint. Strongly of artificial mint.

I turned back to the wastebasket and fished out the package. And here I quote, because I could not possibly make this up:

SCOPE® Scented Handle
Enhances brushing
experience through
release of fresh Scope®
scent from the handle.

o.O said I. And also O.o

But I needed to brush my teeth and the goddamn toothbrush was already in my hand.

I've never thought particularly about my brushing experience before, but I have to tell you that it is not in the least enhanced by the release of Scope® scent from the handle of my toothbrush. Frankly, I feel disturbed. And weirdly disenfranchised from my own dental hygiene. And like a tiny army has invaded my head wielding weapons soaked in artificial mint.

O.o I say. And also o.O

But this is apparently what you get if you don't stand in the aisle of Walgreens and read the packaging of the toothbrushes.

Here, mintily, endeth the lesson.

Found via Alex Bledsoe:

World's largest beaver dam visible from space.

My favorite part of the article:

Thie said he also found evidence that beavers were repopulating old habitats after being hunted extensively for pelts in past centuries.

"They're invading their old territories in a remarkable way in Canada," he said. "I found huge dams throughout Canada, and beaver colonies with up to 100 of them in a square kilometer."

"They're re-engineering the landscape," he said.

Castor canadensis canadensis FTW.

71,000 words! Only 39,000 to go, and we're starting to reach the tipping point where instead of thinking, oh my god it's like building the Great Wall of China with a spoon, I start thinking uneasily, There sure is a lot of STUFF left to cram into this book. This is a good sign.

Lost a big chunk of the day to the ophthalmologist--they always dilate my eyes, so that's an hour and a half actually in the doctor's office* and then another three or four hours afterwards where I'm as useful as a screen door on a submarine--so those approximately 2,000 words of progress are particularly gratifying.

Heard a thing on NPR this afternoon about the first Jamaican dog musher, Newton Marshall; he's already completed the Yukon Quest and is training for the Iditarod. This is a completely awesome kind of craziness, and I salute him for it.

And I am taking my tired and much abusèd eyes to bed.

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*My favorite comment from today: "Your nerves look great."

1. Today is the launch day for Catherynne M. Valente's Palimpsest. If you want a taste, the short story from which the book came is here. Also, because Cat is seriously made of awesome, there is a trailer:


2. The vendetta of the universe against black-footed ferrets continues. First it was poisoned prairie-dogs, then plagiarism, and now plague. The ray of hope here is that the giant gerbils of Kazakhstan may help save them.

No, you read that right. The giant gerbils of Kazakhstan.

3. buymeaclue has a beautiful post about what horsemanship is. Hannah's posts regularly make me wish I had the time and the money and the guts for serious equestrianism, and this one is no exception. "There is a crack in everything," Leonard Cohen says. "It's how the light gets in."

4. Yesterday, matociquala induced an epiphany in me re: John Bellairs and The House with a Clock in its Walls.

5. ursulav makes me hurt myself laughing on a regular basis. This entry is an excellent representative sample. Also, it reminds me to hope that these pit bulls are continuing to prosper.

Maples, William R., Ph.D., and Michael Browning. Dead Men Do Tell Tales: The Strange and Fascinating Cases of a Forensic Anthropologist. New York: Doubleday, 1994.

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In some alternate universe, in which my eyesight is better and someone told me in high school that this career choice existed, I am a forensic paleoanthropologist. It would've been worth the science classes. Unfortunately, in this universe, not only did I not discover the discipline until after I'd graduated from college, the hardware is simply not up to the task. On the other hand, it's okay, because I like the job I've got. *g*

So I was fascinated by the subject material of this book. Unfortunately, I was almost-but-not-quite-equally put off by the writing. Neither Maples nor Browning knows how to tell a story (I point you particularly to the chapter on Zachary Taylor, although there are many other examples), and, most unfortunately, neither of them had the sense to edit back Maples' personality, which comes across as pompous, humorless, moralizing, and utterly convinced of his own superior genius. He may be justified in that last, but hubris is still an unattractive trait. (I am not saying, btw, that Maples was any of those things--I never met the man and I know as well as anyone that prose representations can be grossly deceiving--merely that the Maples constructed by the text presents those characteristics.) Upshot: it was like a really interesting lecture by a really irritating lecturer.

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One of the things included in the autobiographical portions of the book is a photograph of Bonnie Parker's headstone, which reads in its entirety:

BONNIE PARKER
OCT. 1, 1910 - MAY 23, 1934

AS THE FLOWERS ARE ALL MADE SWEETER BY
THE SUNSHINE AND THE DEW, SO THIS OLD
WORLD IS MADE BRIGHTER BY THE LIVES
OF FOLKS LIKE YOU.

You couldn't put that in a novel. No reader would sit still for it.

1. A follow-up from Phi Beta Kappa, concerned (they say) that they have not received a reply to their invitation to join the Anniversary Society.* I notice that it is not possible to reply (via the R.S.V.P. card they have so thoughtfully included) without agreeing to give them money. You may either say Yes, in which case you are ponying up at least $233 (233 years being the age of Phi Beta Kappa, which, hello to the twee), or you may say No, in which case you are still agreeing to contribute. (The lowest tier of supporting membership is $39.) There is nowhere to say, yes, I received your missive, however, I must regretfully decline your generous invitation to give you money. Which would be, dear Phi Beta Kappa, the reason I did not reply in the first place.

2. This month's Locus, including a positive review of Shadow Unit Season 1.

3. My contributor's copies of The Lone Star Stories Reader.

#2 & #3 balance out my irritation at #1. But honestly, I become less proud of my Phi Beta Kappa membership every damn time I hear from them.

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*The astute reader will deduce from this that they still think I'm my mom.