For whoever keeps track of these things:

Demonstrating magnanimous vocabularic dominance over my helpless, awestruck partner, I earned 35 points in a single hotly contested round of Boggle last night. I read the winners slowly: lost, glut, sole, gelt, dolt. I felt taller with every word. Sullen, stollen, closet, lutes, glues. I was like the guy in Chariots of Fire, approaching victory in slow motion, an embattled soldier with that annoying song in the background. Dear reader, even if you've never played the game, know this: a round of such consummate beauty is a rare thing indeed.

Unfortunately, it was only the second of seven rounds that evening. Over the course of the next hour, I was beseiged by my opponent, his intellect betrayed by a run of five-, six- and seven-letter words: trifled (ouch!), rattled, rifle, gears, trust, cotter, wroth. He was a vision in plaid, chipping away at my precious 35-pointer, leaving it to die a slow death at my feet.

After six vigorous rounds, he was a half point behind me. I suggested we go to bed. Perhaps the thought of me in my skivvies would be enough for him to leave this game well enough alone. I should have known better. We played one more round: romp, creme, crepe, hero, gape. Looking at his list, I knew who had won before he even read his words. But for the sake of someone's pride, I cannot tell you anything about it. I'm still recovering.

If you want something done...

...give a man a cookie. I tested this theory this morning on my boss.

A little background, dear reader: Next week, I want a day away from my ultra-luxe beige padded cubicle. Why is that, you ask? Why, to go to the World Taxidermy Championships, of course!

My favorite photo-maker and I are taking a field trip to visit some dead, stuffed, mounted mammals in the breadbasket of America's heartland. Aside from our mutual love of dead, stuffed, and mounted mammals and fish, he is preparing for a gallery show in June, a collection of fine photos exploring the paradoxes of this bizarre art form. And I'm tagging along because I have some questions for the bizarre, fishing-vest and camo clad artists. For example, why are some of the best stuffers and mounters in the business also ardent naturalists and conservationists? When's the last time you loved something so much, you wanted to mount its head in your livingroom? You see why I am interested, yes?

Now, you can't just go to your boss and tell him that you want to have a day off to go interview some taxidermists about their weirdness (weirdnesses?). No. You have to offer him a cookie, and then ask your question as he enjoys your generosity and takes care not to get any of it stuck in his mustache. At this point, he is sufficiently distracted and feeling the warm waves of your (manipulation) good will. Tell him you will "do some work from home" and he will grant you just about anything.

So next Thursday I will drive a couple of hours and spend my day, press pass in hand, talking it up with some shooters, stuffers, and mounters. I promise to tell you all about it.

Flannery O'Connor vs. The Rock

Flannery O'Connor: queen of Southern Gothic literature, she had the sweet pleasure of creating the holiest of characters, peeling back the delicate layers of their hypocrisy, splaying them open for you to see and bestowing fate upon them. She gored old ladies with the thick, gnarled horns of stray bulls, she executed entire families in dark wooded areas, she granted heart attacks to racists and stole prosthetic legs from mean-spirited young girls.

Having just finished a collection of her short stories, I got to thinking: how would she fare in today's media culture, in a culture based largely on messages created and dispersed by ratings-obsessed media moguls, in a culture that values the shock of unhindered violence, minus the judgements she made that decreed her own violence forgivable?

In other words, dear reader: how would she fare against The Rock?

She would emerge from the shadows of a booming arena wearing a black Chanel dress and jeweled cat-eye glasses. Climbing between the ropes and into the ring, she would see The Rock in the opposite corner. She would sneer. He would raise his eyebrow. He would climb barefoot onto the ropes and slick back his hair. He would jump from the ropes with the elegance and speed that elude most large men, but Flannery O'Connor would not flee. She would cross her legs and arrange her skirt, patient and demure.

* * *

I can't finish this story, dear reader. I am only a girl whose ex is a closeted WWF fan. I was subjected to hours of bad television with the curtains drawn on Saturday afternoons, but not enough to be able to paint in an appropriate ending (and for this I am thankful). This is not for lack of trying, however. I smashed The Rock's nose, broke his neck on the ropes, made his lustrous hair fall out. None of that felt right, so I placed a shotgun in the hands of a crazed fan, loosened the ropes, and blinded him with spotlights.

But I can't seem to make it work. I don't know the wrestling lingo. I don't know much about The Rock. But I know, in the end, he would lose. Nobody gets past Flannery O'Connor.

And the point is...?

Well, dear reader, it's come time to tell you. You ask about the plums? Perhaps you are familiar with the poem I am paying homage to, a most fantastic little ditty by William Carlos Williams. It brings to mind the importance of detail, the reward of a small act, and, lest we forget, the joys of being very, very naughty. It's also about things worth saving.

If you care to stick with me dear lovelies, future posts will for the most part (aside from the requisite occasional digression), likewise be inspired by thoughts of things worth saving. Not elephants or manatees or prairie dogs (all deserving of saving), but rather I'd like to give you things to hold onto for me. Things that would slip from me if I didn't give them to you.

Like a game of tag. And now you're it.

I once was strong, but now I've found...

...that I falter and nearly fail in the face of photo-blogging. I'm exhausted from the effort it took to post that wee little photo you see up there next to my name. See it? Yeah, baby. That's an hour of trial and error and the re-education.

But there I am, in dazzling black and white. A fine photo, really, by a really fine man. More on that later...

Welcome to my world.

Ok, so this is the first post on this blog and I am going to try my best to stay away from the whole "hello, my name is" format. I somehow feel compelled to introduce myself, but I'd rather let future posts do that for me. I am fighting the urge to attempt humor in my first posting, so bear with me. Really, I'm quite a gas...

Right now, if you can picture this, I am at work in my little fabric-padded cubicle. I have a small desk-top lamp in lieu of a window, a cork board on which to pin things I am proud of, an uncomfortable chair for guests in my "office," and various personal artifacts I have scattered around in an effort to express myself (miniature plastic indian, anyone?). I spend too much time here, so many of my posts will probably originate from this lousy old office chair. The only good thing I can say about my job is that it is a good job, in the way that firefighters have a good job. I'm a fundraiser for a non-profit agency. Even if I go home with lower back pain from this crappy chair and a headache from my boss, I can go home knowing that I've done something worthwhile.

So that's it. Now you know.