1. Head east on 22nd St. toward Guerrero St. 33 ft.
2. Turn left at Guerrero St. 1.0 mi.
3. Turn right at Duboce Ave. 387 ft.
4. Turn left at Elgin Park 0.1 mi.
5. Head northwest on Elgin Park toward Market St. 23 ft.
6. Turn right at Market St. 207 ft.
It’s Tops – 12:30 p.m.
7. Slight right to stay on Market St. 246 ft.
8. Turn right at Valencia St. 0.2 mi.
9. Turn left at Duboce Ave. 0.1 mi.
10. Continue on 13th St. 0.2 mi.
11. Turn left at Folsom St. 0.4 mi.
Folsom Street Fair – 2 p.m.
12. Head northwest on 9th St. toward Clementina St. 0.4 mi.
13. Slight left at Hayes St. 0.4 mi.
14. Turn left at Gough St. 344 ft.
15. Turn right at Fell St. 0.4 mi.
16. Turn left at Webster St. 0.1 mi.
Dina’s Barbecue – 3:15 p.m.
17. Head south on Webster St. toward Rose St. 351 ft.
18. Turn left at Haight St. 0.3 mi
Helena & Jordan’s Tea Party – 4:30 p.m.
19. Head west on Haight St. toward Octavia St. 0.2 mi.
20. Turn left at Laguna St. 0.2 mi.
21. Continue on Guerrero St. 1.1 mi.
Home – 7 p.m.
September 28, 2008
September 22, 2008
Newly minted
I'm home from Boston and Portland, having witnessed a citizenship, a marriage, a big green house, the final episode of Firefly, a waterfall, and the insides of five planes.
My only plans this week are to make it through each workday vertically, get Gibson's tail lights fixed, and sleep a lot, so I'll save the travel stories for now.
In the meantime, here are some photos of my adventures in Fenway with my American mom and about 3,000 other brand-new citizens of this fine and very large land.
While I'm recovering, may I offer you an Obamint?
My only plans this week are to make it through each workday vertically, get Gibson's tail lights fixed, and sleep a lot, so I'll save the travel stories for now.
In the meantime, here are some photos of my adventures in Fenway with my American mom and about 3,000 other brand-new citizens of this fine and very large land.
While I'm recovering, may I offer you an Obamint?
September 14, 2008
"I can see Russia from my house!"
It's never been a big mystery, but now I really understand why every guy I know is in love with Tina Fey. This is one of the funniest sketches ever made—even if Fey and Palin hadn't been separated at birth, it would still be comic genius. Just watched it about 17 times in a row, and it keeps getting better and better.
It couldn't matter less to me that Palin is a woman, any more than it does that she's a brunette. I wouldn't vote for her if she were a member of my family. She's toxic.
"In conclusion, I invite the media to grow a pair. And if you can't, I will lend you mine."
It couldn't matter less to me that Palin is a woman, any more than it does that she's a brunette. I wouldn't vote for her if she were a member of my family. She's toxic.
"In conclusion, I invite the media to grow a pair. And if you can't, I will lend you mine."
September 08, 2008
Colorful imagination
On my way to the market yesterday, I stopped by Papalote to pick up lunch. It takes just about a generation for them to fill orders, so I was waiting outside in the sunshine, reading a magazine, my ears peeled for number 38.
A slightly strange guy was also waiting. That's normal enough—people have to be exceptionally weird around here for anyone to care—so I didn't pay attention until I noticed him staring at my feet and shuffling back and forth.
After a few minutes, he sidled over to me, visibly worked up his courage, and said: "Um, excuse me. Are you a stripper?"
Um, what? Was it my T-shirt and grubby jeans, the New Yorker in my hand, my choice of soyrizo tacos? I don't even know if all strippers have the same favorite taco. I was mystified.
"No," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Well . . . your toenails. They're red."
It's true. I got a pedicure in honor of tomorrow's Canteen party, and my toenails are red and sparkly. But it's safe to say that half the women in San Francisco have painted toenails at any given time, most of them some shade of red, so I had no idea what to make of this. The angels of Papalote called my number, and I left.
Red toenails: the new scarlet letter, at least in the seedy underbelly of the taqueria world at 2 p.m. on a Sunday. You can ask Pitbull Palin or you can ask me, but it's clear that America is going to hell in a handbasket. At least my feet will look cute for the ride.
the toes (and pajama bottoms) of a fallen woman
A slightly strange guy was also waiting. That's normal enough—people have to be exceptionally weird around here for anyone to care—so I didn't pay attention until I noticed him staring at my feet and shuffling back and forth.
After a few minutes, he sidled over to me, visibly worked up his courage, and said: "Um, excuse me. Are you a stripper?"
Um, what? Was it my T-shirt and grubby jeans, the New Yorker in my hand, my choice of soyrizo tacos? I don't even know if all strippers have the same favorite taco. I was mystified.
"No," I answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Well . . . your toenails. They're red."
It's true. I got a pedicure in honor of tomorrow's Canteen party, and my toenails are red and sparkly. But it's safe to say that half the women in San Francisco have painted toenails at any given time, most of them some shade of red, so I had no idea what to make of this. The angels of Papalote called my number, and I left.
Red toenails: the new scarlet letter, at least in the seedy underbelly of the taqueria world at 2 p.m. on a Sunday. You can ask Pitbull Palin or you can ask me, but it's clear that America is going to hell in a handbasket. At least my feet will look cute for the ride.
the toes (and pajama bottoms) of a fallen womanSeptember 02, 2008
The precious gift of knowledge
Somebody out there must have said once that each day of your life is another opportunity for a small but valuable lesson. Assuming that's true, here is today's:
No matter how great it feels to run because it's so crazy beautiful outside, don't be tempted to keep going for even another 10 minutes, especially if you're already late for work.
Because then you'll rush, a clumsy and unhelpful sort of rush, and when you leap out of the shower to turn on the fan (which you forgot to do because you were rushing), you might accidentally catch the corner of the bathroom cabinet with your shoulder and open up the door, and when you reach out to balance yourself, you might accidentally knock into a half-full bottle of perfume so it shatters all over the floor.
Because if you run that little extra and the rushing happens and then the breakage, it's 100% guaranteed that—even though you cleaned it up right away, including mopping with industrial-strength chemicals and taking out the trash with the bottle shards and all the perfumey paper towels—your apartment will still reek of perfume when you get home 12 hours later.
Not a faint, pleasant whiff of perfume. More like an anvil made of perfume whacking you in the head.
Please tuck today's lesson in your back pocket on an unscented page of an organic notebook, and never ever misplace it.
No matter how great it feels to run because it's so crazy beautiful outside, don't be tempted to keep going for even another 10 minutes, especially if you're already late for work.
Because then you'll rush, a clumsy and unhelpful sort of rush, and when you leap out of the shower to turn on the fan (which you forgot to do because you were rushing), you might accidentally catch the corner of the bathroom cabinet with your shoulder and open up the door, and when you reach out to balance yourself, you might accidentally knock into a half-full bottle of perfume so it shatters all over the floor.
Because if you run that little extra and the rushing happens and then the breakage, it's 100% guaranteed that—even though you cleaned it up right away, including mopping with industrial-strength chemicals and taking out the trash with the bottle shards and all the perfumey paper towels—your apartment will still reek of perfume when you get home 12 hours later.
Not a faint, pleasant whiff of perfume. More like an anvil made of perfume whacking you in the head.
Please tuck today's lesson in your back pocket on an unscented page of an organic notebook, and never ever misplace it.
August 30, 2008
Know anyone in Memphis?
One of my closest friends from college is looking for a kind soul in Memphis who can put up her younger brother temporarily. He's being evacuated from New Orleans due to the impending storm.
If you know anyone who's willing and able to help, please be in touch. Thanks.
If you know anyone who's willing and able to help, please be in touch. Thanks.
August 27, 2008
August 26, 2008
You define me.
During my senior year of college, when I realized I might want to work in publishing, I interned over winter break at Merriam-Webster. Before then, I had no idea the dictionary gurus were headquartered 20 minutes from my hometown.
On my first day, my boss gave me a tour of the building. We turned the corner from the computer lab and entered a room full of tiny cubicles and the biggest card catalog I've ever seen. "These are the definers," she said.
The definers? It sounded like the most powerful job in the universe. Turns out it's done by a bunch of twentysomethings who spend all day reading magazines, websites, newspapers, and books. When they notice a new word appearing frequently, they write all its sources on an index card and put it in the card catalog. (This is probably done on computers by now, but I kind of hope not.)
When it comes time to update the company's collegiate dictionary, about every five years, they go through all the words in the catalog to see which ones are still in common usage. Then they nominate the most popular—and, I'd like to imagine, the most logical—for inclusion. I forget how many make the cut, but I think it's no more than 25 or so per new edition.
I'm remembering this today because Laurence Urdang just died. According to his obituary, he edited more than 100 dictionaries, including the first edition of the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, which weighed around nine pounds. "Mr. Urdang’s view of language," writes the NYT, "was that of an enjoyer, someone who delighted in its flexibility and invention, rather than that of a guardian always on alert against violations of precedent."
It's my job to be a guardian on high alert, so it's good to be reminded of the incredible pleasure inherent in working with words. Mr. Urdang, sleep well. You're my kind of definer.
On my first day, my boss gave me a tour of the building. We turned the corner from the computer lab and entered a room full of tiny cubicles and the biggest card catalog I've ever seen. "These are the definers," she said.
The definers? It sounded like the most powerful job in the universe. Turns out it's done by a bunch of twentysomethings who spend all day reading magazines, websites, newspapers, and books. When they notice a new word appearing frequently, they write all its sources on an index card and put it in the card catalog. (This is probably done on computers by now, but I kind of hope not.)
When it comes time to update the company's collegiate dictionary, about every five years, they go through all the words in the catalog to see which ones are still in common usage. Then they nominate the most popular—and, I'd like to imagine, the most logical—for inclusion. I forget how many make the cut, but I think it's no more than 25 or so per new edition.
I'm remembering this today because Laurence Urdang just died. According to his obituary, he edited more than 100 dictionaries, including the first edition of the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, which weighed around nine pounds. "Mr. Urdang’s view of language," writes the NYT, "was that of an enjoyer, someone who delighted in its flexibility and invention, rather than that of a guardian always on alert against violations of precedent."
It's my job to be a guardian on high alert, so it's good to be reminded of the incredible pleasure inherent in working with words. Mr. Urdang, sleep well. You're my kind of definer.
August 24, 2008
Wedding encore
I was one of three official friendtographers at Bene and Aisha's sunny, pretty Piedmont wedding last weekend, so I took about twice as many rolls as usual. It was a pleasure to do, since everyone was beautiful and in a fantastic mood.
The full set is Flickred, of course—here are some of my favorites.
The full set is Flickred, of course—here are some of my favorites.
August 21, 2008
When editors get punchy
I don't understand why even when I say it "i-boo-pro-fen," it comes out sounding like "i-bee-pro-fen," or why there's a u in there in the first place. They should officially rename it Wal-Profen and call it a day.
There's really no good reason for Emeril to design a line of clogs, or for clogs to exist at all. I guess people think they're comfortable, but so are my jammies, and nobody claims those are fashionable or fills entire store racks with them in different colors. Plus my jammies aren't made of neon plastic.
The prefix über just doesn't apply that often. And yes, it needs the umlaut. I don't care if you think it looks weird. I'm the decider.
There's really no good reason for Emeril to design a line of clogs, or for clogs to exist at all. I guess people think they're comfortable, but so are my jammies, and nobody claims those are fashionable or fills entire store racks with them in different colors. Plus my jammies aren't made of neon plastic.
The prefix über just doesn't apply that often. And yes, it needs the umlaut. I don't care if you think it looks weird. I'm the decider.
August 13, 2008
Weddingpalooza
Here's a handful of photos from last weekend. The whole set is up on Flickr, if you're feeling matrimonial. Remember that all brides should wear red, and nobody should ever drink Manischewitz.
August 11, 2008
I can hear the bells
I'm back from Seattle and my oldest friend Claire's sweet, mellow, beautiful wedding on a small stone patio beneath a tremendous weeping willow tree. The bride wore draped red satin and pearls and looked like she was attending the Oscars in 1925. The groom included Cyndi Lauper lyrics in his vows. Songs were sung, tears were shed, and pie was eaten.
Photos coming soon, though sadly not of her new slightly round, bespectacled, Chinese American in-laws dancing to "Billie Jean" in the basement rec room. You'll just have to trust me on that.
In fact, her wedding was so nice, I think I'll go to another this weekend. Three cheers for love! Plus an extra cheer for the fact that this one is in Oakland, so I don't even have to get on a plane.
Photos coming soon, though sadly not of her new slightly round, bespectacled, Chinese American in-laws dancing to "Billie Jean" in the basement rec room. You'll just have to trust me on that.
In fact, her wedding was so nice, I think I'll go to another this weekend. Three cheers for love! Plus an extra cheer for the fact that this one is in Oakland, so I don't even have to get on a plane.
August 04, 2008
Fourth (and probably final) half
Another season, another half-marathon. You'd think my body would be used to this occasional punishment by now, but it really wasn't happy during the second half of yesterday's SFM.
After three miles, I felt as exhausted as it usually takes seven or eight miles to feel, with none of the euphoria. My feet hurt, my breathing hurt, and my vision got blurry for the last mile or so. Around the 10-mile mark, I had to stop and walk for a while—that's never happened to me in a race before.
It was an incredible relief to finish, as always, but without the adrenalin rush that makes the whole experience worthwhile. I just felt sore and tired and nauseated, and I couldn't even eat. I took a shower and slept for almost three hours.
I felt a little better when I woke up, but it still seemed like a sign that it's time to switch to 12K races. I've never been a natural runner, it's always work—but this was very unpleasant work with little reward. It's been in the back of my mind that my body would tell me when the long runs got to be too much, and I think that happened yesterday.
This realization brings a potent combination of disappointment and relief. I still love the camaraderie of official races, the numbers and timing chips and water stops and free granola bars at the end. It's just that 13.1 miles is really far for a regular human body to run. My legs are staging a protest, and they're unionized.
I'm proud of myself for having trained to the point where I can run a half-marathon at all. My objective was never to beat a certain time or hit a loftier goal—I don't secretly want to run a full marathon or triathlon or become one of those people who dress entirely in wicking. The half was my goal, and I got there. But in the end, if something makes me feel physically terrible, then it's no longer healthy.
And no, this isn't all because I'm in my 30s now. Shut up. Unless you mean that it's the wisdom of age talking, in which case . . . you might be right.
After three miles, I felt as exhausted as it usually takes seven or eight miles to feel, with none of the euphoria. My feet hurt, my breathing hurt, and my vision got blurry for the last mile or so. Around the 10-mile mark, I had to stop and walk for a while—that's never happened to me in a race before.
It was an incredible relief to finish, as always, but without the adrenalin rush that makes the whole experience worthwhile. I just felt sore and tired and nauseated, and I couldn't even eat. I took a shower and slept for almost three hours.
I felt a little better when I woke up, but it still seemed like a sign that it's time to switch to 12K races. I've never been a natural runner, it's always work—but this was very unpleasant work with little reward. It's been in the back of my mind that my body would tell me when the long runs got to be too much, and I think that happened yesterday.
This realization brings a potent combination of disappointment and relief. I still love the camaraderie of official races, the numbers and timing chips and water stops and free granola bars at the end. It's just that 13.1 miles is really far for a regular human body to run. My legs are staging a protest, and they're unionized.
I'm proud of myself for having trained to the point where I can run a half-marathon at all. My objective was never to beat a certain time or hit a loftier goal—I don't secretly want to run a full marathon or triathlon or become one of those people who dress entirely in wicking. The half was my goal, and I got there. But in the end, if something makes me feel physically terrible, then it's no longer healthy.
And no, this isn't all because I'm in my 30s now. Shut up. Unless you mean that it's the wisdom of age talking, in which case . . . you might be right.
Bib: 23041
Gender: F
Age: 30
Hometown: San Francisco, CA
Place Overall: 1195 out of 1984
Women: 579 out of 1145
F 30-39: 207 out of 395
FINISH: 2:15:21 Pace: 10:20
1.7 miles: 15:59 Pace: 9:25
Gender: F
Age: 30
Hometown: San Francisco, CA
Place Overall: 1195 out of 1984
Women: 579 out of 1145
F 30-39: 207 out of 395
FINISH: 2:15:21 Pace: 10:20
1.7 miles: 15:59 Pace: 9:25
July 28, 2008
I want a new drug
It happened so fast—I finished another TV series on Netflix. There are a few nostalgic standbys in my queue (Party of Five, My So-Called Life), but really, I'm looking for a whole new thing.*
People of the Internet, please help me decide what to watch next. Some helpful guidelines:
Yes: Families, drama, escapism, intelligent rapid-fire conversation, witty banter, likable people, complicated relationships, excellent outfits that someone might actually wear
No: Homicide, crime rings, cops, laugh tracks, plucky underdog sports teams, open-heart surgery, home improvement, monsters with giant slimy jaws, Manolo Blahniks, "reality"
Acceptable: Lawyers, if there aren't too many court scenes
Best shows ever: The West Wing, Flight of the Conchords
Any ideas? My mind is waiting to be wasted. It needs you.
* At least until they release season 4 of Weeds on DVD.
People of the Internet, please help me decide what to watch next. Some helpful guidelines:
Yes: Families, drama, escapism, intelligent rapid-fire conversation, witty banter, likable people, complicated relationships, excellent outfits that someone might actually wear
No: Homicide, crime rings, cops, laugh tracks, plucky underdog sports teams, open-heart surgery, home improvement, monsters with giant slimy jaws, Manolo Blahniks, "reality"
Acceptable: Lawyers, if there aren't too many court scenes
Best shows ever: The West Wing, Flight of the Conchords
Any ideas? My mind is waiting to be wasted. It needs you.
* At least until they release season 4 of Weeds on DVD.
July 27, 2008
There will be blood
This is my last blood post, I swear. And it's a much better story this time.
I was talking to Savta yesterday on my way home from the donation center (I didn't faint and they had a fine selection of donuts—two thumbs up), and she said, "Oh, your saba would be very proud." I asked why.
She told me that during World War II, he was in charge of the blood donation program at Hebrew Union College, where he was a rabbinical student (he later served as an Army chaplain overseas). On Sunday nights in the dining hall, he'd make a short speech after the meal to try and recruit donors. Eventually, the other students knew what was coming—so every time they saw him head to the front of the room, they'd stomp their feet and start chanting, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" He was a lifelong donor.
The fierce, the proud, the bloody Lipmans.
I was talking to Savta yesterday on my way home from the donation center (I didn't faint and they had a fine selection of donuts—two thumbs up), and she said, "Oh, your saba would be very proud." I asked why.
She told me that during World War II, he was in charge of the blood donation program at Hebrew Union College, where he was a rabbinical student (he later served as an Army chaplain overseas). On Sunday nights in the dining hall, he'd make a short speech after the meal to try and recruit donors. Eventually, the other students knew what was coming—so every time they saw him head to the front of the room, they'd stomp their feet and start chanting, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" He was a lifelong donor.
The fierce, the proud, the bloody Lipmans.
July 23, 2008
Platelets
It's been more than a year since I last gave blood—it's harder to motivate when they don't park one of those donation vans right outside your office, like they did quarterly at Wind River, and HR would send lots of encouraging emails about all the lives we could save. So it was effortless. But I'm in the big city now, and there's no convenient bloodmobile.
Then today, I realized: The perfect storm of editing projects that all landed at once (yes, they're done!) has been followed by a perfect storm of open space before the perfect storm of weddings swings back around in early August. If I may bludgeon the metaphor to death.
Suddenly, I have most of a weekend with nothing pressing to do, and also someone brought insane-looking fancy donuts to work this morning. I think they involved maple and bacon.
Donuts? Yes. Almost never my food of choice—except right after I give blood, when my sugar level drops to my ankles and my body can actually handle the sucrose blast of the common donut. So there was the plate of donuts, and the storm of calm, etc., so I called and made an appointment to give blood this weekend.
What a long story, with a not very interesting ending! It's true. I'm just glad the onslaught of work is over and I can get back to posting about things that don't involve the number 30.
Also, I've always enjoyed the word platelets. I feel like a parade of little tiny plates should appear every time someone uses it.
Then today, I realized: The perfect storm of editing projects that all landed at once (yes, they're done!) has been followed by a perfect storm of open space before the perfect storm of weddings swings back around in early August. If I may bludgeon the metaphor to death.
Suddenly, I have most of a weekend with nothing pressing to do, and also someone brought insane-looking fancy donuts to work this morning. I think they involved maple and bacon.
Donuts? Yes. Almost never my food of choice—except right after I give blood, when my sugar level drops to my ankles and my body can actually handle the sucrose blast of the common donut. So there was the plate of donuts, and the storm of calm, etc., so I called and made an appointment to give blood this weekend.
What a long story, with a not very interesting ending! It's true. I'm just glad the onslaught of work is over and I can get back to posting about things that don't involve the number 30.
Also, I've always enjoyed the word platelets. I feel like a parade of little tiny plates should appear every time someone uses it.
July 16, 2008
The other side
Yes, I made it. No, I don't think I'm any wiser yet . . . give it time.
My trip back east was action-packed, to put it mildly, and my liver is still recovering. It was amazing to see old friends and all kinds of family for three sunny days of talking, dancing, eating, hiking, cooking, and polishing off a vat of sangria. Everyone either generously traveled or hosted to make the weekend happen, and I can't say thanks enough times.
Photos of the birthday tribe are here on Flickr. The only party animals not pictured are the approximately 10 million bugs who bit me everywhere. But let's not speak of them.
Also posted: Some mementos of my weekend in Santa Monica last month. Viva Erinia!
left to right: too much pasta salad, too much potato salad,
the perfect amount of sangria
My trip back east was action-packed, to put it mildly, and my liver is still recovering. It was amazing to see old friends and all kinds of family for three sunny days of talking, dancing, eating, hiking, cooking, and polishing off a vat of sangria. Everyone either generously traveled or hosted to make the weekend happen, and I can't say thanks enough times.
Photos of the birthday tribe are here on Flickr. The only party animals not pictured are the approximately 10 million bugs who bit me everywhere. But let's not speak of them.
Also posted: Some mementos of my weekend in Santa Monica last month. Viva Erinia!
left to right: too much pasta salad, too much potato salad,the perfect amount of sangria
July 09, 2008
30 till 30: Days 28 & 29
Squeaking in under the wire: 36 minutes to go until my youth is a distant memory. Spent a million hours in transit yesterday (thanks, JFK air-traffic control!), but now I'm sweating safely in my hometown, watching the summer lightning.
But this post isn't about me. It's about my mom, who just passed her certification test to become an American citizen—after living here for 36 years. For a secret peek into the inner workings of our country's bureaucracy, check out the six questions they asked in her citizenship test:
1. How many stars are there on our flag?
2. Whose rights are guaranteed by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?
3. How many senators are there in Congress?
4. What is the most important right granted to United States citizens?
5. Who is the vice president of the United States today?
6. In what month do we vote for the president?
So how'd you do? My mom, soon to be sworn in as our newest citizen, got 100%. Then she went right out and bought an Obama sticker. I think we should all be proud.
But this post isn't about me. It's about my mom, who just passed her certification test to become an American citizen—after living here for 36 years. For a secret peek into the inner workings of our country's bureaucracy, check out the six questions they asked in her citizenship test:
1. How many stars are there on our flag?
2. Whose rights are guaranteed by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?
3. How many senators are there in Congress?
4. What is the most important right granted to United States citizens?
5. Who is the vice president of the United States today?
6. In what month do we vote for the president?
So how'd you do? My mom, soon to be sworn in as our newest citizen, got 100%. Then she went right out and bought an Obama sticker. I think we should all be proud.
July 07, 2008
30 till 30: Day 27
I just ate the last Mission tacos of my 20s. A burrito would've been more poetic, but I didn't have the stamina tonight. Luckily, an old friend took the fall and put most of one away.
It's getting late, and BART beckons at the wee hours to whisk me off to the airport. I should edit another chapter now, but I won't, because sometimes things don't tie up neatly and closing my eyes for a while feels like a much smarter idea.
See? I won't even be old for another 49 hours, but I'm already getting smarter. Watch out for this firecracker, New England. Your humidity can't stop the wheels from turning.
It's getting late, and BART beckons at the wee hours to whisk me off to the airport. I should edit another chapter now, but I won't, because sometimes things don't tie up neatly and closing my eyes for a while feels like a much smarter idea.
See? I won't even be old for another 49 hours, but I'm already getting smarter. Watch out for this firecracker, New England. Your humidity can't stop the wheels from turning.
July 06, 2008
30 till 30: Days 25 & 26
I don't think I could possibly have done more work this weekend, but my projects still aren't finished. Oh well. At least I learned these fun! facts! about the animals of the Galapagos Islands:
! Flamingos are actually white, but they turn pink from the carotene pigments in the shrimp they eat.
!! The harlequin wrasse is covered with spatters of orange, red, black, and white. It's also a protogynus hermaphrodite, meaning it can spontaneously change sex from female to male.
!!! Male lava lizards do pushups.
!!!! Albatross couples were thought to mate for life—meaning for up to 50 years—but a recent study counted 1,724 matings among 300 albatrosses. (One female mated with 49 different gents.) They also demonstrated other human relationship behaviors, like adoption, adultery, and rape.
! Flamingos are actually white, but they turn pink from the carotene pigments in the shrimp they eat.
!! The harlequin wrasse is covered with spatters of orange, red, black, and white. It's also a protogynus hermaphrodite, meaning it can spontaneously change sex from female to male.
!!! Male lava lizards do pushups.
!!!! Albatross couples were thought to mate for life—meaning for up to 50 years—but a recent study counted 1,724 matings among 300 albatrosses. (One female mated with 49 different gents.) They also demonstrated other human relationship behaviors, like adoption, adultery, and rape.
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