Newton's response to my superpower question:

Go British Airways Economy Class: you're flying, AND you're invisible.

Ba-dum dum.

He also suggested I check out http://www.cat-scan.com for help with my still AWOL Obligatory Cat Pictures. Nice thought, but unfortunately, Mongo, for one, engages in retaliatory pooping when he's upset, and I don't think that would be all that great for any scanner yet constructed. I will get actual pictures of my cats to a scanner soon, and put them up, as it seems to be the law when it comes to blogs.

Went to a live taping of Wait Wait, Don't tell Me, the NPR news quiz, at symphony center tonight. Yes, I know, I'm an incredible geek for (1) being a fan of a news quiz, and (2) going to see a live taping of a bunch of people sitting around talking into microphones. But it was great. I got the tickets through the latest pledge drive, so they were actual box seats, which were tremendously decadent. Only eight seats per box, doors with portholes so the little people can't get in, comfy chairs... I tell you, that whole culture racket actually has something gong for it.

Anyway, the premise of the show is that they take wacky stuff from the news and ask questions about it, often in limerick form. If you get two out of three right, you get the coolest prize -- Carl Kasell, the NPR morning news guy, does the message on your answering machine. So it was loads of fun, listening to double entendres about Strom Thurmond and such. Um... maybe you had to be there. You might be able to hear me cackling on this weekend's show.

Electrician update: He came. He saw. He vowed to return today to punch not-too-huge holes in my ceiling and fix the problem for not-too-much money. We'll see.

Regarding my male empath rant, Rich kindly sent me a page that detailed lesbian, gay and bi comic book heroes. Thanks, Rich.

I guess the main reason for my "why are chicks the only empaths" rant is that it seems like such a wimpy-ass power. "Oh no! It's Vaguely Perceptive Girl! We must flee, before she senses our anger, which someone with puny mortal skills would not have been able to divine from the smoke coming out of our ears and the way we have been firing these automatic weapons in the general direction of the preschoolers!"

Which reminds me: If you had to choose between flight and invisibility as your superpower, which would you choose? Check out the great This American Life show on superpowers -- it's episode 178, and went up in late February this year. Faboo.

I'd choose flight. "Goin' to Paris Man!"

Again, I find myself waiting for the electrician. A different electrician, this time. The last one told me the fix I wanted was a hell of a lot more complicated than I had anticipated, and that I could therefore probably get away with installing the fan with only a fair-to-midling chance that anything would burst into flames.

Hmm. I'm not sure those odds are quite good enough for me.

See, in most normal houses built by people who aren't insane and trying to kill the next folks who buy the property, electrical wire is:

1) insulated with something other than cloth, and
2) strung through pipes (or conduits, Rob, to make you happy) so it's easy to replace said wire when it becomes out of date -- for example, when most of the world starts insulating wire with something that is not, in itself, flammable.

But my place is just a cavalcade of fun 'n flammable wackiness. Some of the wire is in pipes, some are not. Some of the wire is new and properly insulated, some is not.

No problem, you say. How bad could it be? You only need to cut a relatively narrow channel in your wall and ceiling, install the pipe, then install the wire through that. Bingo! Well yes. Except..... my house has the original plaster walls. Fabulous, you say, they add character. True, they do, and it is one of the things I loved about this house when we looked at it. The only problem with old plaster is that, as far as I know, no one has yet designed a tool, method or procedure that will even lessen the odds that the plaster won't crack into a million pieces and fall to the floor the moment its integrity is violated. Hell, I was waiting for the house to collapse when I put up pictures.

Faced with such a prospect, Electrician #1 said take the risk, put the fan back up and hope for the best. As I have already mentioned my squeamishness about stuff that may explode/burst into flame, I'm getting a second opinion.

Now Rob from work -- who yesterday foolishly revealed to me that he is a civil engineer and that he fixes up house stuff for fun -- told me to ask about flexible conduit. OK sounds fabulous. Will do.

Not to be outdone, Newton sent me listings for people who may be able to help, courtesy of Viz magazine. Thanks, dude. You really need to get out more, don't you? (And no, not hearing from me does not necessarily mean I am"shagging the electrician.")

Continuing in the house vein, did you hear someone had invented self-cleaning glass for windows? Where do I sign up?

Is there a warning on Dryel stating "Please hang clothing that has been cleaned with Dryel in an open, well-ventilated space for approximately 3 weeks, lest you be overcome by the miasma of chemical fumes when you try to put that cool silk shirt on when you're running late for work"? If there isn't, there should be. Granted, there may well be, but I'm too lazy to schlep down to the basement to check it out.

See, with the advent of Dryel and its ilk, I'd gotten cocky -- I started buying dry-clean-only stuff again, because I figured "Hah! I can clean these in my very own dryer, and need not worry about delicate fabrics or shrinkage! Fie on you, clothes-cleaning powers-that-be!" Thus have I found my hubris punished by the gods of fabric care. Alas.

Still waiting for the electrician. Sigh.

Well, while I'm waffling around in Blogland, I might as well relay a conversation I had the other day. Wendy, my housemate, works for Tribune, building web sites for their TV shows. One of the shows she's working on is Mutant X. I was checking out the character list, and dammit, they have a Counselor Troi -- a good-looking female empath who's a bit of a party girl (ok, Troi wasn't a party girl, but she did get around.) So I'm wondering: Why are the empaths always females? Why aren't there any male empaths? Am I the only one who thinks this is stupid and sexist? Hence the conversation I had with Wendy's resident comics expert:

Me: Why are the empaths never men?
Comics expert: hmmm now how do I answer that one
Me: Probably because they think any man in touch with ANYONE's feelings -- his own, someone else's -- must be gay.
Comics expert: that's what I was going to say, but glad you did
Comics expert: stereotypical action fare rules
Comics expert: the exception: the romantic lead, who is ~struggling~ to come to grips with said feelings
Comics expert: because, as you know, all stalwart, confident and superpowered heroes struggle with things like emotions
Comics expert: it's what gives them their angst
Comics expert: and without angst, said heroes would be cartoonish supermen
Comics expert: and we all know those don't exist

So are we wrong? Are there any male empaths? If so, are they gay or straight? And why is thought of having a gay superhero such a big deal? Write me and let me know.

More editorial comment, this time from Newton:

Had a look at your site - how do I put a posting on, or is it purely restricted to you talking to yourself? Christ, Sarah, if I want to hear some chick in her 30s talking to herself I just need to walk down the High Street on a Tuesday morning.

Ah, the joys of keeping in touch with your exes.

Continuing story of the "joys" of owning an old house:

I'm waiting for the electrician. Why, you ask? Well, let me tell you: I had the bright idea to (1) put a light on the one ceiling fan I have, and (2) install a ceiling fan with light in place of a plain old light in the other room. Well, my tenant, who is a carpenter and pays part of him rent in work, was installing said lights/fans for me. He was taking down the one ceiling fan I had, got his screwdriver near the fan, and noticed electricity arcing out to his screwdriver. Hmm. He took the little electricity sensor thing that all good home-repair folks have, ran it around the area, and saw electricity dripping off everywhere. Alas. So that led to the discovery that at least part of my house contains old, cloth-insulated wire, which is not well insulated at all. Which means it's the sort of thing that could burst into flame. Sigh. hence, the electrician.

I like to think that I've got a little bit of homeowner machismo -- hey, I fixed a leak under my bathroom sink (I am woman, see me plumb!) -- but I tend to shy away from dealing with things that (1) could burst into flames, and (2) could blow up. My friend Rob, who is working on an old house in Boulder, had this to say about that:

Ah, the wonderful world of electricity. I am very familiar with the pulling of wire and the hanging of ceiling fans and the taking it in the hinder from the city inspectors. Good f-ing luck. The best thing we did when we re-wired was have them wire all appropriate overhead fixtures for ceiling fans. It leaves a dead switch if you don't put one in, but then it's soooooo easy when you do. Anyway. This has been Goddamn Yankee Workshop, with Rob Vila.

Thank you, Rob.

Rob and his wife, Tami, by the way, have infinitely more homeowner machismo than I do. Not only did they deal with the potentially buring/exploding bits themselves, but they also lived in the house -- cooking on a hot plate and such -- while they did it. I bow down before you, Rob and Tami. now, if you ever want a nice, relaxing vacation in Chicago, I need to do some work on my bathroom.....

This Blog is what, three days old? And already I have an editorial comment. Take it, Wendy:

Hey, you make it sound like I didn't like Totoro, or in some other way didn't appreciate its pace. I loved it! I was just appreciating the differences.

I do think it's weird that it translates as "dragon cat" when the bus looks so much more cat-like. Wendy

PS. The dustbunnies scared me

So there you have it. I stand corrected.

From Mary: "Congratulations on getting the blog up! Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Yeah, whatever. I still contend that the months of sitting on my ass were vital to the creative process.

OK, irony alert: Went from my jubilant note about Paula's upcoming offspring to an actual, honest-to-God baby shower here in Chicago. I gotta say, I'm just not a baby (or wedding, for that matter) shower person. Yay, let's get a bunch of people who don't know each other into a room, play pointless games, eat tiny little delicate finger food, and coo over baby clothes and diapers and such. Plus, you get to hear about epidurals! conception! teething! projectile vomiting! Joy!

I'm perfectly happy -- chuffed, even -- to celebrate someone's baby-to-be.Really, I'm thrilled that my friends are going to be having little bundles of joy. But let's face it -- I ain't planning on participating in the miracle of birth anytime soon, thanks very much. I plan to be bohemian Aunt Sarah, who brings cool, inappropriate presents, tells funny, improper stories, and general whisks in and out of its life as a reasonably good thing. (I'm sure my sister and brother-in-law are glad I live far away, just to minimize my impact of any future nieces and nephews -- because Laura, I got lots and lots of stories about you growing up. Pictures, too.)

Selfish? Hell, yeah. You gotta problem with that?

So if I want to have an unconventional relationship with the kidling and the parents, why do I submit to being herded into a room to do it in some "time-honored", tedious quasi-ritual? I want to give the little sprout something that I think would be tremendously cool -- great
Jon Sceiszka books, toys funky stuff for the room -- not something you register for at Babies 'R Us. And I want to do it on my terms, not as an interchangeable "shower guest" at one of several cookie-cutter parties.

I don't want to be harsh to any of the participants today: It was a fine shower. I just hate the concept of showers, and am kicking myself for going, knowing that I'd be cranky about it. Own damn fault, I guess.

Plus, I had to miss the Gay Pride Parade Party at Jude and Chad's, which is tragic. Tragic!

huzzah! I just found out that my friend Paula Westgate, who I met in Hong Kong and who has moved to Sydney, will be having a baby! She and her boyfriend James have christened the kid-to-be Bump and will be expecting him/her right around Christmas. As I plan to visit them in November, I will be sure to stock up on wildly inappropriate baby gifts. There's a couple of great children's books I'm thinking about, though Bump will have to wait a few years before he/she can appreciate them. No worries.

I'm guessing this means I won't be able to convince Paula to go bungee jumping/surfing/croc wrestling/any of the other typical Australian outdoor activities with me. Oh well. Maybe next time.