Review: ColcaSac for iPad 2



I knew that I didn’t want a traditional case for my iPad 2, especially since I had ordered a SmartCover (which, by the way, is AWESOME). I was trying to find something that would look good without being bulky and not break the bank. And then I remembered reading about the ColcaSac on tuaw.com last year, which is handmade out of hemp. (Ok, I remembered the cute llama logo and the hemp, and had to do a bit of Googling to remember the name of the company. But seriously, look at that logo! A patchwork llama!!)

I ordered the Uintah and received it just a couple of days later—in this really awesome recyclable packaging. It’s made specifically to fit over the iPad with the SmartCover on it, so it’s nice and snug but not too difficult to get the iPad in and out. I’d definitely recommend the ColcaSac iPad sleeve (or another version of it) if you’re looking for a snug, lightweight, natural and environmentally friendly way to tote your iPad or iPad 2 around.

Thanks for littering my neighborhood, Molly Short!



On Friday—EARTH DAY, FOR CHRISSAKES—Ian and I discovered an Avon rep had littered our subdivision with her pamphlets. And I don’t mean left them on our doorsteps. I mean threw them anywhere in the general vicinity of what might be considered near the door if you were a completely oblivious asshole: On the sidewalk, in the mulch, in the grassy common areas. The pamphlet above was half in the mulch, half on the sidewalk at the end of someone’s walkway. Nowhere near their front door.

I called the number listed and left a message, asking her if she was going to come back and pick up her mess, but of course I never heard back.

People, is it really that difficult to not throw your shit, whether it’s garbage or promotional material, all over the goddamn ground?!

This is not an afterthought

I just realized that I never wrote about my grandmother dying here. I guess because it happened in the middle of some other crazy life stuff, I just threw up my hands and said “fuck it” there for a while. But I want to record it here so I don’t forget. Because my grandmother deserves more than an afterthought.

She died around midnight on Friday—well, I guess Saturday, April 9, 2011. She was 94 years old and had been sick for a few years with congestive heart failure and, basically, old age. We all knew it was coming. I had gotten several “she’s not going to be with us much longer” phone calls over the past year and had made the trip up to Chicago at least twice expecting I’d never see her again. My mom had bore the brunt of caring for her over the last several years, and so my first thought upon receiving the call was that I hoped she was OK.

We discussed funeral plans for a bit, my mom in Chicago, me sitting on my bed in the dark, as it was nearly 1 a.m. by that time. Then the cremation service called, and my mom had to go. I hung up the phone, laid my head down on Ian and cried. I woke up the next day and spent almost 12 hours helping my sister-in-law move from a three-bedroom house into a two-bedroom apartment. Because life goes on.

I’m still trying to piece together something that I’d like to read at the funeral. I don’t guess things like that are supposed to come easily, and this sure isn’t.

Poor shaved kitty



After enduring tumbleweeds of cat hair floating across my house for months (both last year and starting again this year), I decided that King Boo needed to be shaved. So this Saturday Ian and I dropped him off in the morning and picked him up later that evening.

Um, wow.

First of all, he is not the fat ass we have been accusing him of being all this time. Despite eating a ton and at times resembling a furry whale, he is actually a pretty trim cat. He doesn’t even have that big saggy belly like most male cats get when they’re neutered. And don’t really get much exercise.

His fur was really gorgeous: A beautiful, dark, smokey charcoal color that was smooth like rabbit fur. And, apparently, really thick. Like two or three inches thick. Which, now that it’s all shaved except his head, feet and tail, makes his head look hilariously large, as though he is wearing a helmet shaped like a cat head.

He was pretty bummed out Saturday evening, but by yesterday he seemed to be in better spirits. It might be taking him a while to get used to the way his fur, or lack of it, feels, though—every time he tries to lay down on me it takes him a time or two to get situated.

But the lack of furballs floating around the house (and spewing out of his face) is noticeable already, so I’m hoping this was a good decision.

Now to decide if BK should get shaved, too…

Stop spamming me, Diane Black

In the wake of the vote to defund of Planned Parenthood, I sent an email to my representative, Diane Black, informing her of my disappointment in her vote. Admittedly, it was a canned email scraped from Planned Parenthood’s site, but I figured sending something to acknowledge my disappointment was better than nothing. Predictably, I received a canned response back explaining why she doesn’t want to fund abortions.

Ok, except she’s completely ignoring the fact that only about 3 percent of Planned Parenthood’s services involve abortion-related care, and none of the federal money they receive can be used for abortion services by law.

I obviously wasn’t going to argue with Diane Black, especially via email with a staffer at that, so I just grumbled and deleted the message. (Incidentally, I just tried to dig up the email and can’t find it anywhere. So much for archiving, Gmail.)

But today I got a spam email from her telling me about her newsletter and how to sign up for it. She also explains that I can unsubscribe at any time; which is all well and good, except I didn’t ask for her to continue to email my ass in the first place. And there was no unsubscribe option on that email.

Since email spam is one of my biggest pet peeves, and public officials who send out mass emails without the choice to opt out piss me off even more, I decided to write back. I’m sure she won’t even see it, and the staffer who does will laugh and shake his head at my heathen, baby-killing ways, but I don’t care. Here are the emails:

Dear Mrs. Morris,

Did you know that each week I put out an e-newsletter on my work for you in Washington? If you would like to sign up, just click here. I will only ever use your contact information for official purposes and will never share it. You may unsubscribe at any time.

Sincerely,
Diane Black
Member of Congress

And my response:

Please remove me from your email list. I do not support nor do I want to hear from you, as you seek to limit and harm the health and choices of other women. Your vote against Planned Parenthood makes you an abomination to our gender.

Best,
Megan Morris

I wanted to sign it “smooches” but decided against it.

And once again, life gets in the way

I know nobody cares, but it bothers me when I’m bad about blogging. Because ultimately I’m keeping this record of my life for myself, as selfish as that sounds, so that in 10 or 20 or 30 or 40 years I can look back and see what I was up to at a certain moment in my life. And laugh at myself, undoubtedly.

So I was going to recap my New Orleans trip and talk all about how awesome the train was, at least for the first couple of hours, and how I liked walking back through the cars as the train was moving, getting jostled from side to side and seeing the world fly by me out the windows the most. And I was going to tell funny and scandalous stories about the times my friends and I had while in New Orleans, starting with how Ian and our friend John started drinking about 8 a.m. on the way down there, and how by the time we got to the train station in Birmingham John had consumed seven beers and a 4Loko and was yelling out the car window as we drove through the ghetto to find a parking lot.

And I was going to detail how excited I was to be in New Orleans and run into an old, old friend of mine—like, someone I was BFFs with all through elementary school—made possible by checking into a bar on Facebook, of all things. And I was going to recount the fun we had at the St. Patrick’s Day parade that night—old friends, current friends, and new friends all celebrating together—and then how Ian got lost for a short period of time and once again Google Maps and GPS on my iPhone saved the day.

But time has passed, and some stories are better recounted in person, told time after time in bars and at cookouts instead of immortalized by the pen of the Internet. Some things are best held close by the people who experienced them, and not everything has to be validated by blog entry or tweet or Facebook update.

But mainly I’m just lazy.