Philanthropy win

Just a note to say: 2 of my Kiva loans--1 in Tanzania, 1 in Bolivia--are completely repaid now. I am well on my way to becoming the patroness of some tiny village. And having a statue made of me--completely out of mud.

Yesssssss.

And I re-invested my money in Samoa, in the business of a lady who sells fish. What a marvelous idea! I hate fish, and I will do anything I can to encourage people to eat them, including investing money in business that sell fish. The more fish we eat, the less likely it becomes that they will stage some kind of global revolt, like the cylons.

Plus, bonus points for use of the phrase "fish cam"

Recently I've been hearing a lot about these salon treatments where little Turkish flesh-eating fish peck at your feet. Jezebel has a clip of Diane Sawyer undergoing this treatment on national TV. Since this is something I actually have regular nightmares about, I can't really imagine paying money for it, but OK. I guess in late-stage capitalism we have to amuse ourselves somehow.

Fish, science, and the weird sense of familiarity that comes from seeing one's home on the big screen

In other crazy science news, the Telegraph reports that fish can count to four--but no higher. This doesn't really surprise me as I had always suspected fish were hiding secret intelligence. Tomorrow's headline will read, "fish can plot the deaths of humans--but only one at a time." I'm watching you, fish. Walk softly.

I have a question I need a scientist--or a blog reader!--to answer. Like a lot of other people, when I'm approaching a set of doors, I am more likely to go through one that was just opened. But if I'm leaving a building, a door that was just opened and is now in the process of closing is closing TOWARDS me. Wouldn't a door that has momentum closing be HARDER to open than a door that's just sitting there? Is the tendency to use the most recently opened door a FAILURE OF HUMAN RATIONALITY? Anyone?

This week has been absolutely beautiful, but I know it's Fake-Out Spring, the season that comes right before Break-Your-Heart-All-Over-Again-Winter. So I'm trying not to get too emotionally invested in it. I'm having one of those weeks where I don't really sleep, have no time for silly dishes, cooking, or laundry, and feel like I've been bitten by an ill-tempered bitey fish. I spend lots of money because I don't have time to cook. I'm wearing socks with terrier dogs on them with my dress shoes because I don't have any plain black socks. Anything that happens, happens at work, because I barely even remember what my apartment looks like. However, my hair looks HOT. By Tuesday next week, the day after the election, most of the craziness in my life will have evaporated and I will be free to pursue my normal warcraft-playing, zucchini-baking domestic lifestyle.

My sister and James and I went to see The Assassination of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford last night. It wasn't the best ever, but it also wasn't terrible. Albertans have an attachment to this movie (as do, I suppose, Manitobans) because it was filmed here, on the Canadian prairies, and in the historical village near my parents' old house. I felt a weird sense of familiarity, actually, watching it. The prairies, with broken wheat stalks sticking up among clumps of snow, were so visibly our prairies. There is a scene where Jesse James crouches on a frozen river, and snowy trees rise up behind him, and in the background are the Rockies. That shot was so Canadian it gave me shivers. This would actually make an interesting topic for a paper, if I were still in film studies: (mis)constructions of Canadian wilderness. It was a bit unnerving. I mean, how many Americans think Kansas looks like Manitoba? Or for that matter, think New York looks like Vancouver?

Watch Nemo?

James gave me a USB-powered mini aquarium for my birthday. I have it on my desk at work. When you turn it on, the little fish swim around. As of today, these fish are dead, just like EVERY OTHER FISH I'VE EVER OWNED, EVER. I'm not kidding. I tried to turn it on and nothing happened.

Leave it to me to kill even USB fish.

I wrote this at 4 in the morning, which is why it doesn't make sense

Principles of the Fish Nightmare

1. I do not want to kill the fish, or to be inadvertently responsible for the death of the fish.
2. In fact, I am morally bound to look after the fish, even though I am terrified of it and, in fact, hate it. This is because, once a fish enters your life, you either actively care for it or kill it. There is no middle ground.
3. The fish wants--what? To be between my body and the couch? What is the fish doing? Is it actively seeking death? Is it confused, evil, suicidal? I don't understand this principle.
4. I should welcome my blankets. In the real world, which has had the dream-world bleed into it until the two are momentarily identical, the blankets should provide an extra layer of protection from wriggling, burrowing fish. And yet they also provide cover, and their exact contents are hard to control.
5. The physical memory of the wriggling of the fish persists long after intellect and description should have banished it.

A fishtank rut.

I seem to be in this fishtank rut I can't get out of, so I'll just roll with it. Via design blogger Josh Spear, the three-room (three-bowl?) fish condo.

My friend Courtney was just on a fishing trip and she informed me that she has exacted partial revenge for me by catching a bunch of fish. That's a relief. There are still a lot left though, messing with us. (The fish in this picture is the same kind of fish that I used to have, Mr. Mixxx. He was evil, and to be honest, I never would have purchased him such a nice home.)

I'm at work and I can't say that I am getting all that much done, although I have started using google calendar to keep track of my various obligations. It's OK-fun. I do get to make my appointments orange, and that's important. But I would like to not have all 24 hours of the day visible for every day--it's disorienting. As in, "2 AM? Aren't I supposed to be sleeping at 2 AM?" Who has things scheduled at 2 AM, besides hookers? And sub-question, do hookers really have any use for google calendar?

I need a project. A quilt, a wall to paint, a book to write, or something.

Another wacky fishtank, this one integrating some bird wackiness. Don't ask me why I keep finding these--I don't look for them. The Internet brings them to me. This one is from a Belgian art gallery, although I can't find how to get to it from the main site.

You gotta figure the birds are really weirded out. I mean, fish are not smart enough to be weirded out, but the birds are like, "whoaaaaa."

Previous post: 09/04/07

She looks like Eva Marie Saint, in On the Waterfront

Meta spam-scam: Africa$h: Helping you make the best Nigerian investments. For the email recepient who is gullible, yet busy.

People who know me well know that I have fish issues. Fish and I have a love/hate relationship; I love them, they hate me. Plus sometimes I hate them. So here are three recent fishtanks I have seen online that fascinate and terrify me: this one lets the fish swim all around the room, Habitrail-style, and this one lets the fish swim into little holes so they can be touched or fed by hand. (Holes which they could, conceivably, jump out of. I'm just saying.) Finally, this one lets the fish watch you pee. (Which sort of makes sense; that way when they die, you don't have to worry about dripping gross fish-water on the floor en-route from tank to toilet.) Either way, I think we need to think a little harder about this. I mean, we're totally letting the fish infiltrate our homes even further. You have to watch fish. You never know what they're going to do--tricky little bastards. They could be planning anything.