July 20th, 2009

don't mess with me today, think so do ya?

Also, get off my lawn AND INTO SPACE.

Hey, look, everybody! It's the angriest day of the year! I should just not read commentary by people I don't already know and like on July 20. Uff da.

I wasn't there, so I want to know: when did it become teenagers' fault that we don't have a more robust space program? Seriously, it's a great strategy. Now that I'm 11 years (okay, okay: 10 years and 359 days) from the last year in which I could be considered a teenager, I'm really coming to appreciate it. I don't have to own up to my choices as a voter! I don't have to acknowledge where my own charitable contributions or volunteer time or lack of same are going! Instead of it being partly my fault for having a variety of political and social concerns and making choices based on balance there, I can simply blame the only people in our society who could not possibly have played a part in creating the situation. Hey, thanks, people who reached adulthood before me! You thought this one out really well! And teenagers are so used to being blamed for things their little brother or that jerk in their second period class did, what's one more? I mean, it's kind of a big one more. But they're already so irresponsible for not getting the jobs our system doesn't have for them--and selfish and small-minded for worrying about paying for college instead of Dreaming Big Dreams the way we did when college was cheaper--so it's sort of like a training program for taking the space-related blame. Neat how that works out.

The only drawback I'm seeing here is that I am young enough that I will never be able to claim, as some people shooting their mouths off today seem to feel they are able to, that the Apollo program was created of my inchoate childhood or teenage longings. See, I thought it was created of engineering. But I see now that that would make any lacks in current space programs the fault of people who decide how to fund engineers and for which projects, rather than the fault of kids these days not dreaming big enough. So clearly that doesn't work. Probably it's my own fault for aiming my inchoate teenage longings at getting out of the school system I was (of course) fully teenage-responsible for creating. Let that be a lesson, teenagers! Stick close to your desks, and never go to sea, and you all may be rulers of the Space Navy. Do not attempt to escape the system personally! We need that dream fuel to create space programs without funding engineers! Dream harder! But never for yourselves, because that would put you back in the wrong! Where you are anyway! Great deal, huh?

Well. There's my quota of exclamation marks for the year. And a serious and non-sarcastic thanks to those of you who were alive 40 years ago and manage to remember a great feat of engineering without casting aspersions on those who never had the chance to see anything similar.
ista grown

My poor, poor little dog and her poor, poor fur.

Ever since she was a puppy, Ista has gone to see Lisa to get her haircuts. For awhile she got excited when we said the name, so we spelled out L-i-s-a. She would get nervous going in the door to the vet's but would settle right down if we would assure her, "You get to see Lisa! You're going to see Lisa!"

Lisa retired at the end of May. The vet wants to hire a new groomer to work on the premises, and I thoroughly approve of this plan, but they haven't found anyone yet. And Ista's curly, non-shedding poodle fur was getting really hard to brush out with the brambles and things she gets into. So I booked her in for an appointment at the Eagan PetSmart.

Oh lordy. Never, never again.

I have no idea whether the lighting and angle on any of the photos timprov tried to take will work out so that you can see evidence of the bad, bad haircut. Her body is fine. Legs, tail: fine. We told them "puppy cut," which is poodle owner for "do not give my dog stupid puffballs, as she is not hunting game in the underbrush." They got that part. But her poor head. It was a dome of poofy poodle fur framed with two mesh puffballs in sparkly green and pink. It was the most awful thing ever. She was like the special Muppet guest for a B52s concert. It was really, really bad. Timprov and I laughed all the way home, because we are not nice people.

Now she has a different bad haircut, the one where it looks like her incompetent owner went after her with a scissor. But I cannot wait until the vet gets a new groomer. (And she really isn't going back there--they splintered a couple of her nails, and I had to fix them pretty carefully to keep them from ripping back and hurting her.)