A-to-Z Challenge: Quantum Mechanics

So, my q for the day is yet another topic I know little to nothing about, but have happily twisted to support both this blog and various nifty plot developments in my novels. On the bright side, I’ve heard people say that if you think you understand Quantum Mechanics, you don’t. So, clearly, I’m right up there with the best and the brightest.

At least when I throw a party for time travelers, it’s wildly popular, they show up and bring space drugs. Anyway, that’s the way I remember it. And that one guy was a hell of a bongo player.

So, basically–and anyone who was ever a child will understand this–the rules for small things are different than the rules for large things.

Quantum Mechanics would be the set of rules that appear to–but might not–apply to very, very, very small objects. Yup. That does sound familiar.

It also sounds like a great name for a band–if you just added a little sex–something like the Quantum Tantric Mechanics–or for the guy who fixes your space ship or your time machine when you break your drive shaft somewhere in the horse head nebula.

The last book I picked up on the subject–a used copy– happened to be signed by a science-fiction writer who didn’t write the book.

A-to-Z Challenge: M&Ms

Here I am, crawling out of bed on three or four hours worth of sleep to bring you this life-altering post on M&M’s candy pieces.  It just seemed natural to do a double M for the day, and that’s what I came up with first.

M&Ms had the chance to star in the ET movie, but they weren’t willing to pay for the product placement, so now all the little green men eat Reese’s Pieces.

I happen to be all about the peanut butter M&Ms. (In a nostalgic, non-diet busting kind of way.)  Aside from the fact that they’re peanuty without that slightly over-roasted flavor that less discerning people might call “burnt” you can also–if you’re very, very careful– bite the chocolate shell off of the peanut butter core and walk away with a perfect, UFO shaped clump of peanut butter.

What? Everybody deserves a sense of accomplishment.

And then, you eat that lump of peanut butter, too.

Nope. That’s about as zen as I get.

This year, my inspired Alphabetical Challenge theme is “The Letter M”. I’m working my way through the alphabet, one M word, M, person, or M place at a time. No, I don’t have any idea what my Muse was thinking on this one.

If you want to learn more about the A-to-Z Challenge, or join in, the website is here.

 

A-to-Z Challenge: Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles

An Intercontinental Ballistic Missile is pretty much exactly what it claims to be. It’s a missile that is capable of bombing the shit out of one continent after having been launched from another continent. The Internet says a minimum range of 3,400 miles, and since most of them use arc-line navigation, that’s pretty impressive. It also mentions that they are typically intended to deliver a thermonuclear warhead. (I say typically, because the optimists among us might want to hold out for chocolate. It’s happened before.)

The good news is, we have lots of them.

The bad news is that taking an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile to an interplanetary war is like taking a knife to a gunfight. Worse. More like taking a spork to a gunfight.

Thermonuclear warhead or not, experts say an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile has less than a 0.ooooooooooooooo72% chance of ever leaving our solar system. And that’s with a good prevailing wind.

The aliens will be back in bed watching I Love Lucy before we ever get a missile past Mars.

It’s just a fact.

What it boils down to is this: We have two options in the upcoming war with the spiral galaxy.

We can go out in our yards, and think about chocolate while we wait to be vaporized, or we can lure them into range by pretending to be an interplanetary sex tourism hot spot.

The Planet Earth needs every patriotic human male to confront this threat head on. Flap those gills a little harder for Mother Earth. Don’t be ashamed to show off those pneumatic bladders. Be generous with that pancreatic cologne. Don’t look at her scolex, and just think of Earth.

Humanity depends on you.

This year, my inspired Alphabetical Challenge theme is “The Letter M”. I’m working my way through the alphabet, one M word, M, person, or M place at a time. No, I don’t have any idea what my Muse was thinking on this one.

If you want to learn more about the A-to-Z Challenge, or join in, the website is here.

A-to-Z Challenge: Harmonices Mundi

I’d like to point out, for the record, that the WordPress spellchecker hates both Harmonices and Mundi. Someone should get on fixing that.

Harmonices Mundi is a book written by Johannes Kepler back in the day, when the dear, educated Elite were all Roman centurions. It took him twenty-one years (or thereabouts) to write the book, following which he immediately took it out and bought it a beer to celebrate.

I should try harder to take this one seriously.

Nope. Not working.

He assigned roles in a choir to planets, based on the shape of their orbits and their velocity. The Earth–for those of us who are musically inclined–is a miserable alto, who can only sing two notes. (He attributes this to the social conditions on Earth.) (And I’m going to blame today’s pop music on the fact. After all, if the Earth can only sing two notes, why should we expect more out of our rockstars?)(Correction, Kepler said that too. Possibly with less cynicism.)

So, clearly I’m spelunking in Wikipedia to find this particular H-M.

My thought is that this sounds a lot like synesthesia, and I’m vaguely reminded of the first synesthete I ever knew–or the first who talked about it–who would sit in church, and listen to the stained glass windows.

Singing planets or not, the math in the book turned out to be very, very close to what actually exists. He did leave out the line of dancing girls that is the asteroid belt, but you know.

This year, my inspired Alphabetical Challenge theme is “The Letter M”. I’m working my way through the alphabet, one M word, M, person, or M place at a time. No, I don’t have any idea what my Muse was thinking on this one.

If you want to learn more about the A-to-Z Challenge, or join in, the website is here.

A-to-Z Challenge: General Motors

The last car my grandfather ever bought my grandmother was made by General Motors. I remember this because the seat belts–which I was required to wear to protect the windshield from my head–were imprinted with the letters GM. I can’t remember the specific model, but it was a deep maroon with red fabric upholstery. Not-quite velvet.

It wasn’t just a grown-up people’s car.

It was a real live, genuine old people’s car.

Old people do not have children. They do not have plastic seats, and their feet go all the way to the ground.

What old people have instead of children is cars, and specifically, this car. Don’t let the fact that it seats six fool you. That extra space is for other old people, and possibly groceries, but certainly not children.

In the event that children are allowed in the Car:

  1. They go in the middle, over the hump… where they will be sitting between two supervising adults, or… where the driver can at least see them. (Rear view mirror adjusted accordingly)
  2. They go to the bathroom before they get in the Car.
  3. They keep their feet off the upholstery.
  4. And they always, always, remember that the Car is very, very important to Grandma. It is the last Car Grandpa ever gave her. There are no other Cars available on this side of Heaven.

Most of my memories of that car involve holding something so that it cannot spill and never, ever eating anything.

Anyway, one day I was sitting in the back seat. On the hump. In the middle, where the driver could see me. Both feet firmly off the upholstery. And holding a bag of Kentucky Fried Chicken. (Because fun grandmothers do drive-throughs, and my grandmother was a fun grandmother.)

As soon as that bag was on my lap–and it was summer, so I was wearing shorts–it began to leak. Hot, viscous gravy slowly burning its way through paper and oozing onto my bare legs.

You know.

Near the Car.

So, I clamp my legs together in hopes that no gravy will escape onto the upholstery. And it burns all the way to the house.

And then… I’m really not sure how you get out of a Car with a lap full of gravy without spilling. Maybe it’s possible, but I didn’t manage. And the gravy hit the upholstery.

After a good scrubbing, there wasn’t a stain, exactly… but there as a texture. A rough patch in the not-quite velvet–that stayed there forever.

This year, my inspired Alphabetical Challenge theme is “The Letter M”. I’m working my way through the alphabet, one M word, M, person, or M place at a time. No, I don’t have any idea what my Muse was thinking on this one.

If you want to learn more about the A-to-Z Challenge, or join in, the website is here.

A-to-Z Challenge: Bode Museum

You’ll be happy to know I’m taking the high road, today, and skipping the obvious scatological choice.

It took me a lot of effort to come up with a good, clean, Sunday-School B-M word, so you’ll appreciate the Bode Museum in Berlin. It’s also going to take me a lot of effort not to cheat and do all Museums for this challenge, so appreciate that while you’re at it.

So, let’s be honest. The first thought that popped into my head when I saw this place (the picture of this place) was Hadrian’s Pumpkins.  It has that dome-y, latter day Pantheon look to it. **sigh**

Conveniently, the museum has provided a virtual tour via You Tube.

And as if that weren’t proof enough that the Bode Museum wants to be my BM…. er, my M for the letter B, that is…

Here’s a second B… uh… M for the letter B. An E-normous coin called the Big Maple Leaf was stolen from the museum, and they’re still hoping for the 100 kg lump of gold to be safely recovered.

That more or less has to be a sign, doesn’t it?

This year, my inspired Alphabetical Challenge theme is “The Letter M”. I’m working my way through the alphabet, one M word, M, person, or M place at a time. No, I don’t have any idea what my Muse was thinking on this one.

2017 A-to-Z Challenge: Ante Meridian

Morning, in other words. Technically, all the time before noon, but not in my neck of the woods. Around here, there’s morning, and there’s the day’s half over. You wake up in the morning, not in the day’s half over. How do you tell the difference? Well, look around. If the sun’s up when you open your eyes… Congratulations, slacker. You just slept through to day’s half over.

If the sun’s not up when you open your eyes, get on with it. Do you have time to get dressed, feed the animals, milk the cows, get the kids up and dressed, cook breakfast, eat breakfast, brush your teeth, take a shower, get dressed again (city-like, this time), throw the kids on the bus stop, and get some words in on your novel before you go to work?

Good. That would be morning.

Morning can, of course, be delayed through wise career choices, such as not being a farmer, and through the judicious use of birth control.

It will still exist before the sun is up.

However, by special dispensation… During hunting season City-People will be permitted to observe morning at eleven, or noon, or at whatever time there’s enough light for someone without a farm husbandry background to reliably distinguish between a prize-winning Polled Hereford, my cousin’s husband, and a deer.

Yes. This will be on the test.

And possibly the indictment.

This year, my inspired Alphabetical Challenge theme is “The Letter M”. I’m working my way through the alphabet, one M word, M, person, or M place at a time. No, I don’t have any idea what my Muse was thinking on this one.

Love, Patient Zero

I’m giving up on calling this thing allergies and moving on to where I just admit that it’s a cold. The good news is that means it has a lifespan of a couple of weeks. The bad news is that by then, the farmers in Kansas will be burning their fields, so I’ll probably just transition smoothly into allergies.

I have pills that are supposed to help, and probably do, since I woke up at the stroke of “allowed to have another one” and a nifty OTC inhaler which smells like furniture polish, and works, if you’re actually able to… ya know… inhale.

Tea might be the answer.

I will be faking my way through work, pretending I feel fine because there’s just not an absence policy that lets me stay home that long.

After the next pandemic, I’m sure the survivors will all be sitting around, saying If only they’d just been allowed to stay home back when we thought it was a cold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spring, Cleaning, and Strappy Sandals

My spring cleaning has kicked up a lot of dust, and my allergies are going haywire. My eyes are dry and itchy, and my neighbors are circulating a petition to have my nose removed entirely, as it’s now an unauthorized water feature.

I’m not doing anything completely insane. I’m not washing the soap or alphabetizing the rejection collection, but a little tidying here and there might not kill me.

The inescapable truth is… I have a lot of index cards. I use them for my writing, and for my programming, and probably for notes on half a dozen other things, when I happen to grab one. Recipes, too, although the last time I cooked was… uhm… well, I can cook. I think I made some fry bread a while back.

It’s the time of year when I realize that I own a pair of ice tongs shaped like dragon claws (Why?!!), and that sometime last summer, I hid a pair of strappy sandals from the cat, and they’re still in pristine condition. (Yay!)

I’m also going through a quick inventory of clothes in my closet. Spoiler alert: I’m going to need some new clothes. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for, but something that makes it a little easier to pretend I’m an extrovert.

Other than that, back to typing up all those handwritten pages that have been building up in my purse, and maybe find some rubber bands for some of those index cards.

Maybe That’s Where Trappist Monks Come From

Tomorrow marks the beginning of Lent. I had to look that up. Not being from a liturgical background myself, Lent comes and Lent goes, and mostly what it means to me is yummy fish tacos and 40 days of my Lent-ing friends being in vile moods ranging from I gave up sugar to I gave up serial murder and cocaine. (Wait… you mean my friends didn’t give up serial murder and cocaine?!!)

In my childhood, Lent was something that just existed on TV. Something that either showed piety, or got laughs. You know, like Corporal Klinger giving up atheism for Lent? It’s not that we didn’t have Catholics and Lutherans… it’s just that they existed in their own schools over there, somewhere. And in the event that there was mixing, you were much more likely to be talking about Girl Scout cookies and camping than religious dogma.

So, I had the abridged, television explanation: Lent was the time leading up to Easter, and you gave things up for it. And then–when the Lent-ers ran out of private school in 9th grade and we wound up in school together–Maybe don’t offer to trade sandwiches, and don’t eat that chocolate in front of them. You know… it’s a tradition, and it’s good they’re doing it.

So, I was quietly supportive. You know the drill. “You can do it” and keep my mouth shut about the fact that I’m not doing it.

Oh, yes, I was ever so appropriate and supportive until…

One day I ran into a friend who had given up smoking for Lent, and there he was… cigarette in his teeth, doing his best imitation of a chimney.

Well, screw quiet support. I liked the guy. I liked his kids. And frankly, children deserve a father with pink lungs and an intact aorta.

What are you doing?

Well, panicking, obviously. He knew he’d been caught. And by the way, I’m not even slightly fooled by that look of confusion on his face. Cheater.

I thought you gave up smoking for Lent.

And that confused look just stays there. Like he doesn’t have the slightest idea what I’m talking about. Lent’s over, he said.

What do you mean, Lent’s over?

To be honest, until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me that people gave things up for Lent temporarily. It never crossed my mind that after Easter, they all got to go back to drinking, smoking, and serial murder. I mean, if a thing’s a sin, isn’t it a sin all year around?

Nope. What they really meant was, I gave up smoking for the duration of Lent.

And fine. I admit that giving up smoking for a month is better than not giving it up at all. That probably is one to think about giving up permanently.

And maybe I really hadn’t thought much about it. I mean, if people give things up for Lent, and never go back, shouldn’t there be a bunch of really old Catholics running around living off water and oatmeal after a lifetime of Lents, and griping that this year, it’s down to the oatmeal?

So, happy Lent, everyone, and if you’re giving up something truly unhealthy, please think of your lungs and aortas–and hell, your erectile function–and maybe really do give it up confused-teenager style.

**this story may have been edited for dramatic tension and coherence.