The Soggy Blogger
I live in a soggy city. I have a soggy blog.
I'd rather be a soggy blogger than a soggy frog.

Friday, April 18, 2003  

Watch the birdies.

From the people who brought us Microcosmos (which my five-year-old friend calls "the bug movie"), comes the new bird film, Winged Migration. I saw a preview last weekend, and feel the need to get the word out there. It looks like it will be simply amazing. Do yourself a favor and go see it.

posted by Anne on 7:28 PM | link


There is something very exciting about an unplanned trip to a CD shop. I find it exhilarating: walking in, knowing that soon you'll have an entire new CD of "undiscovered" songs to peruse at your leisure. To obsess over. To introduce to your friends. To add to your personal soundtrack. What will you choose?

Today I chose Badly Drawn Boy's The Hour of Bewilderbeast.

Word of the day: recrudescence: (REE-kroo-DES-ints), n. A revival, renewal, fresh outbreak after a period of inactivity or quiescence. ("The Soggy Blogger's music collection is undergoing its annual recrudescence; as always, a sure sign of spring.")

posted by Anne on 1:14 PM | link

Thursday, April 17, 2003  

Thinking about crows.

My mom hates crows. Always has. When I was younger, I didn't understand why. But once I acquired a birdfeeder of my own, it all began to make sense...

We bought a bird feeder so that we could provide food to the little birds that fly around our neighborhood: wrens, swallows, finches, and the like... You know, the cute little birds with the pretty little songs that make an ordinary weekday morning feel like a Disney movie? Those were the target birds. The chosen few. We wanted to keep out the garbage-eating, riff-raff species (bigger birds, like stellar jays, starlings, and crows) who, we knew, would hog all the food and scare the smaller birds away. So we purchased a small feeder that the bigger birds couldn't perch on. And we filled it, and they came -- all the happy little birds we love. And all was good until we were forced to come face to face with one particular bird who was to become our arch-nemesis... The Crow.

The Battle For the Birdfeeder lasted about a month. It was not bloody, but it was hard-won. A battle of wits that lasted much longer than it should have, considering who we were up against. In the end, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, our side prevailed. We secured our victory with Velcro, on behalf of little birds everywhere, and order was restored. It's a bit embarrassing, how pleased we were with ourselves to have outsmarted a mere bird, but I still feel a swell of pride when I think about it.

Not merely mean, like stellar jays and starlings, crows are incredibly intelligent -- ornithologically speaking, perhaps second only to their more dignified cousins, the ravens. They have even been found using tools, a fact which is not as surprising as it is frightening. Crows are cunning. They are the Dick Cheney of the bird world. And they are to be feared.

I still see him, or imagine that I do: The Crow who was our torment for so long. Eating the fallen and discarded birdseed off the ground, sifting through the shells, he is doomed to a life of spite, for having been given the unfortunate combination of remarkable intelligence and very limited motor ability. I think he would bump me off if he had access to a rifle and opposable thumbs.

Word of the day: sciamachy: (sy-AM-uh-kee), n. Shadow-boxing; the act of fighting a shadow or an imaginary enemy. ("There are those who would accuse The Soggy Blogger of sciamachy, but she knows The Crow. And she knows what he is capable of.")

posted by Anne on 11:31 AM | link

Wednesday, April 16, 2003  

Wednesday Haiku

Sun strokes my shadow,

Clouds and strollers roll past me:

Top of Queen Anne Hill.

Word of the day: ratiocination: (RASH-ee-OS-uh-NAY-shun), n. The use of logical processes and formal reasoning. ("The Soggy Blogger has determined that, as far as she is concerned, ratiocination has no business interfering with a sunny morning walk.")

posted by Anne on 2:04 PM | link

Tuesday, April 15, 2003  

Jesus drives a red sedan.

Last week, while driving I5 south to the lovely city of Auburn, we encountered this car. Luckily for you, we had a camera. The woman inside smiled and waved at me. I smiled and waved back, but really I was frightened.

posted by Anne on 10:53 AM | link

I really don't know what to say about this, except that... even the Minnesota voters have someone to make fun of...

posted by Anne on 9:25 AM | link

Monday, April 14, 2003  

Emotional Upchuck.

There's nothing like eleven hours with three stomach-flu stricken and bedridden kids to deflate a good weekend buzz, let me tell you. Emptying vomit pails and doing endless cycles of laundry, I spent the day thinking, "this wasn't in the job description..." and then remembering "...okay, so it was...but I stupidly signed my life away anyhow...What a fuckwit I am."

Today has not been one of my more...glamorous...days as a nanny. In fact, I'd say it ranks right down there with the infamous Poop Incident of 2001. (If you don't know, you don't want to know.) Generally, I love my job. Honestly. The hours are great, jeans and T-shirts comprise an easy and comfortable uniform, and within these five years, I have cultivated relationships with each of the three boys that have changed all of us for the better, I think.

Still, there is an underlying frustration that, on days like today, creeps to the surface and manifests like pond scum. And that frustration stems from the fact that sometimes I let myself become my job.

In order to go to work each day for this family and not go completely nuts, I've found that it's important to have a thick skin. They are not mean people, but perhaps selfish and unthinking. I know as I drive to work that I will be expected to, among other things, provide unconditional emotional support for an entire family, and that I will receive little, if any, in return. It's odd. There have been entire weeks in which I have not been asked once how I am doing. I could give you all but the most intimate details about this family's life, but I doubt if either of the parents knows how many siblings I have. And that's after five years.

My friends all tell me that I am being taken advantage of, and I wholeheartedly agree. But this is what I signed up for. I have resigned myself to the fact that this is the nature of my work life.

What sometimes happens, however, is that I let this doormattish attitude carry over into other areas of my life. I've found that there's a very short distance between what you do and what you are. And every so often I wander onto the wrong side of the tracks. What happens when you don't expect much from people in return for your efforts is that sometimes you get it. And that sucks.

Please don't read this as self-pity. (I give, I give... I need, I need...) No, I know that I alone have ultimate control over the themes and patterns that make up my life. And I don't have to stand for anything I don't want to. It's just that sometimes it takes a day mired in vomit to remind me of that.

Word of the day: noisome: (NOY-sum), adj. Harmful to health or well-being, unwholesome, dangerous, destructive; also, foul-smelling, offensive, disgusting. ("The Soggy Blogger is relieved to have come to the end of her most noisome day, and to be sitting in her cozy abode, with beer and boy and cat.")

posted by Anne on 8:12 PM | link

My new favorite derogatory term = fuckwit.

I have found it to be handy in a surprising amount of situations -- especially when preceded by an adjective. (eg. political fuckwit, emotional fuckwit, etc.)

Though it's also very satisfying on its own.

posted by Anne on 6:58 AM | link
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