Adventures in the Pointless Forest

Mu shu dork.

WARNING: SO, SO NERDY.

In between doing laundry, failing to buy the dirt we were planning to buy, and watching Downton Abbey, Steve and I have been entertaining ourselves with selected episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. I didn't watch it much the first time around, but I was moved to revisit it after I fell down the delightful rabbit hole of Fashion It So. 

It is pretty enjoyable! This is particularly true if you have a high tolerance for Deanna Troi's cleavage and also have someone on hand to make sure you don't accidentally watch any of the really stupid episodes that are terribly stupid and make you say "this show was stupid and terrible and stupid." Try to avoid that, unless you like it better that way.

The big surprise for me is that Riker is my favorite. I'd thought, based on my hazy memories of the series, that he was either very boring or some kind of irritating Cyclops type.* (I am making myself really super un-nerdy with this line of discussion and this comparison in particular, right? Where are you going, beloved readers who care about Nancy Mitford novels, analytic philosophy, and/or Serge Lutens perfume? Come baaaack!) But no, he is awesomely smug and smoove. I particularly enjoy when he is just puttering around in the background and instead of doing some kind of generic background tech, he is being a background total player. Also, he plays the trombone.

Anyway, last night, the conversation turned to replicator-generated human meat, as it will do.

"As long as I was at it, I'd have the replicator make it be me meat. Because why not?"

"But what cut?"

"Yeah, I don't know that there's that much good eating on a person."

"Right, and I don't really want to eat something that is TOO obviously HI! YOU'RE EATING A CHUNK OF HUMAN. So ribs are out."

"Maybe bacon."

"Ooh! Yes. Person bacon. PERSON BACON. Very catchy. Or sausage. Maybe a pulled person sandwich?"

"I think you mean pulled dork."

"Of course! Or dork chops."

So then, just now, I was looking at this post and trying to think of how I could end it, you know, with some funny little button. But...

"This is the dorkiest thing I have ever written," I said.

"You could make a joke about William Shatner and ham," suggested Steve. But I think I won't.

 

*Updated, much more delightful link! "An Interview with X-Men's Cyclops, Who Sucks."

I could post something new, I suppose.

What, hello, hello, what?

My colleague across the hall likes to ask me if I have "anything new or interesting" to report. The answer is always, always no. No, there is nothing new and certainly nothing interesting. No.

It is becoming a sort of principle on which my entire life is predicated, this complete lack of novelty and interest. That is perhaps why I have not said anything here for two weeks, and that was a dream about tooth spiders.

But, then, who am I to presume that you would rather read about things that are interesting or new? Maybe you prefer the old and the dull. Maybe you have been thinking, "Oh, everyone is always telling me about interesting new things! That sort of stuff is so predictable and easy to find. What I would really like, and no one ever offers me, is some good, stale tedium."

If so, join me, won't you, over a nice cup of the boring detritus of my unglamorous life?

The gardener (who is employed by our landlord and usually comes and goes on his own mysterious schedule, leaving things attractive and doused in toxic chemicals) rang the bell the other day to tell me that one of my trees was dying. I do not think it is dying, I think it is manifesting its deciduous nature, about which I was warned by the nursery when I bought it.

But the gardener assures me that it is dying, and that the problem is its pot. It is currently sitting inside a nice wooden planter, not yet freed from the pot in which it was purchased. The pot in question is one of those weird paperish pots that you can supposedly pop right into a hole in the dirt and let disintegrate. The gardener tells me that the tree is dying—and surely he would know if a tree was dying? better than I would, right?—because the pot does not drain. But when I water the tree, the pot manifestly does drain. And how could a pot whose problem is (also?) probably that it is turning to dirt itself pretty quickly also be killing the tree inside it by not draining? 

In any case, this weekend I have to go find a tree-sized plastic pot that will please him. "These pots," he says, indicating the other, non-deciduous trees, are fine. "Get one like that." I don't know what he will say when the tree continues to turn yellow and drop all its leaves after I put it in a shitty plastic pot. Or we could get some dirt, which will be heavy, and plant the thing right in the planter, after which it will still die, or "die." Either way. 

A SHORT LIST OF THINGS JANE HAS BEEN SAYING ALL THE TIME, WITH THE MANIFEST, AND MANIFESTLY MISTAKEN, IMPRESSION THAT THEY WILL BE UNDERSTOOD

• Ducky (nb: whatever this means, it is definitely not "ducky")
• My key (nb: whatever this means, it is definitely not "my key" or "Mikey")
• Babetz

"Babetz" is actually the least mysterious of these, oddly enough, because she always says it at the table, and has recently occasionally been pronouncing it a little more like "mawetz." Ah. Babetz = more water. Of course. That should help with the ducky and the keys.

She also answers all questions "no." Whether they are phrased in a yes/no format is immaterial. It is a sort of gentle, chiding "no," a touch condescending. "Noooooo," you silly person, no.

Q. Do you want more beans?
A. [reaching for more] Noooo.

Q. What do you mean when you say "ducky"? Ducky?
A. No, no. Ducky! Ducky! Ducky ducky ducky.

Q. What do you think of that toast, Jane?
A. Noooo. No.

In conclusion, obviously very advanced.