Union Station

Photo: Union Station, downtown Seattle, WA

Homeless in Seattle

Photo: Homeless kid naps at the bus stop, Seattle, WA

I Am The Cure

Photo: Cheerleaders at the top of the hill, Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, Seattle, WA, 06/16/07

Play is where life lives. - George Sheehan

I swear I did not set up this photo. I was trying to get the black Race for the Cure® sign into the shot, but I aimed too low. Little did I know I’d captured the unofficial race mascot peeking over my shoulder.

Full race report coming soon. Right now I really need a shower.

Technorati Tags: Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure®

Imagine if every Thursday your shoes exploded if you tied them the usual way. This happens to us all the time with computers. - Jef Raskin

I woke up Wednesday morning to find my internet connection had flown the coop. Didn’t even leave a note, just took off. I spent about an hour fiddling with hardware and software, but all it got me was the quintessential why-I-hate-computers result: “There was an error connecting to the network.”

An error. What error? Could be a short in the power cord, could be gremlins. It could just not feel like connecting today. We’ll never tell.

This mystery outage was particularly irksome because for the first time in what feels like a dog’s age, I’m inspired to write about something other than my laundry room. And I have some cool pictures to post. I don’t have time for cryptic messages about “errors.”

Thursday morning I tried another tactic: sheer force of will. Coffee in hand, I sat hunched in front of the computer and glared at it. Meditated upon it. Psychically commanded it to do my bidding. It sat smirking silently, filing its nails.

Last night as I lay in bed, the events of the rather stressful day replayed themselves in my mind, crowding out sleep. Somehow amid all that useless yammering, a still, small voice managed to get a word in edgewise. “Unplug it.”

Needless to say, this morning I humbly obeyed and everything was hunky dory in about 35 seconds. I’m taking my still small voice out to lunch in gratitude.

Photo: Bird finds a seat, 06/14/07

The wages of sin are death, but by the time taxes are taken out, it’s just sort of a tired feeling. - Paula Poundstone

Tardy Rib Eye Excuse #529: I’m sick. I get that way more often in allergy season, what with an overworked immune system and congestion that traps every virus within a one-mile radius.

It’s particularly annoying to be sick right now because the Race for the Cure is this Saturday. But I’m going to run it even if I have to bribe my way out of the ER to get there. (And by the way, if you haven’t yet donated, you still can. :-))

Mystery photo: it’s amazing what you can find in your house if you’re not careful. I honestly don’t know what this stuff is or what it’s for, but I know it’s imported from Kevinsylvania.

OK - so Martha Stewart I ain’t. This is how the other half lives. Sure, I’d love a 300-square-foot laundry room with a Victorian-era antique tub sitting prettily among my state-of-the-art washer and dryer (not that I’d have to use them myself, of course), as well as a separate two-story garden house where my herbs drip-dry peacefully in the golden sun filtering through the windows….

But I don’t want to do time for them, so I’ll settle for a utility/laundry room so small, the door misses the washer by an eighth of an inch when it opens. When the hot water in the sink is turned on and the door is closed - instant sauna. Hey, yet another function for this highly versatile room! I’m installing wood benches tomorrow!

Photo: Uppity utility/laundry/sauna room, 06/12/07 7:00 pm

When the rich wage war it’s the poor who die. - Jean Paul Sartre

Photo: “Lucifer,” acrylic on canvas, by Diana Wells, 06/10/07 9:35 pm,

Lava Lamp

Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians. — Pat Robertson

You say that like it’s a bad thing.

Photo: Neighbor’s witch weather vane, 06/08/07 7:30 p.m.