text:
So I am mightly impressed with matcha. For a few weeks now, I've been having a cup almost daily, and I have to say I'm seeing benefits. I don't know if it can all be blamed on the matcha, but the matcha is the only real change I've made recently. When a tea company makes claims about the healthiness of their teas and how this tea will make you skinny or that tea will calm your anger, I tend to just laugh it off. Just another marketing ploy, I mean, really, it's just tea. It's delicious and better for you than soda (if you don't weigh it down with tons of sugar and cream like I used to do), but it's still just tea, not some magic potion that's going to solve all of your problems.
Well. Since matcha came into my life, I'm more alert (obviously) and my system seems…cleaner. I don't feel bogged down by the terrible foods I sometimes indulge in, and somehow my system seems less responsive to my dairy allergy. Don't get me wrong, it still makes me sick, but it's not the gut-wrenching "I'm gonna die" feeling I'm used to, it's more of a "Oh man, I forgot and ate dairy again". On the whole, I just feel healthier. Which is awesome. Everyone can afford to feel a little bit healthier, am I right?
Anyway, this tea (found here: http://www.redleaftea.com/matcha-tea/green-apple-matcha.html) smells amazing. Like juicy Granny Smith apples, sweet and tart all at the same time. I want to dip this tea in caramel. The flavor is perfect. It's exactly what I expected this tea to taste like. It's very juicy, my mouth is watering after every sip, and it's tart without being stomach-turning sour. I am having a really hard time not adding some of my Red Leaf Tea Caramel matcha to this. They're just begging to be blended. In college, I was big fan of the Caramel Apple shot, which is basically one part sour apple Pucker to one part butterscotch Schnapps. This seems like a good alternative for me to take to work and not get fired! Though now I'm wondering about matcha cocktails…
I love these matchas that are encouraging me to mix and match, play with different blends, bake…I love it! I wish I had the time to just lock myself in my kitchen with my matchas and experiment to my little heart's content.


text:
Police continue to search for a person who allegedly stole a truck from a gas station with a 6-year-old inside on Wednesday.
In a report by the Herald Citizen, a man went inside the store at the Cookeville gas station with his truck running and his 6-year-old daughter remaining in the vehicle.
When the man came back outside his truck was missing.
The person who stole the truck reportedly let the young girl out of the vehicle unharmed on North Dixie Avenue. A resident noticed the 6-year-old and returned her safely to the store.
The young girl was able to give a description of the suspect and police are also reviewing video footage from the gas station.
Police added they have found a cell phone that was inside the truck on Highway 111, but have not identified a suspect or found the vehicle.
*The Herald Citizen contributed to this report.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Chapter One
I found Mike passed out on the master bed, curled on his side, the covers down around the floor. Maybe he had kicked them off. Sometimes he and Jane slept that way. There was a tiny pool of moisture where the tip of his penis touched the bedding, a dimple at the base of his spine. He had a very long back. Spider veins just below his ankles. Mike was losing hair in a small circle at the back of his head, in the same spot where a man of God shaves his skull.
To get to him, I had inched down the hall, past the clock room where their daughters, Livvy and Mona slept. Locking the door behind me, in case they got up, I stood by the blue dust ruffle. I was supposed to wake Mike and tell him that Jane, his wife, my oldest friend, had just left him. She had driven off in Franny's Jaguar.
I wondered how Mike would talk with Livvy and Mona. I wasn't sure what I'd say. Livvy, the older girl, she was the one who worried me. But no one would be awake for hours.
Mike's voice bubbled up but made no sense. Refined alcohol came with each of his exhalations, the occasional choked snore. His face animated and relaxed. I wanted to be with Mike in that raw, unkempt state. But I knew how many cables there are in the elevator shafts of the Empire State Building and how long it takes for a body to hit the sidewalk if you jump from the roof. And I was aware, as I stood by the side of the bed, that I could screw up in so many ways, up or down. It was hard to know where Mike would land if he jumped.
To get my head on the pillow, I nudged him a little. He knew how to breathe from his diaphragm even in his sleep. I touched the spot over his missing appendix, surprised that he didn't wake and curled into his back. Then froze. I heard a boat move through the water, close to the house.
I made a ring out of my left thumb and forefinger and fitted it around his penis. He stiffened and angled and his hips moved in what appeared to be deep REM. His back twitched a little. I waited, as if a horn or bell would go off, signaling the start of my trade with Jane.
I slipped my hand away and put it under my ribs to feel my irregular heartbeat. I thought about basic survival, considered social membranes, tried to review one of those rules that keep people in check. The house sounded like an engine cooling. If I just shut my eyes for one minute, I'd be able to straighten things out. But it was too easy to siphon off his REM. I hadn't slept in days and I guess I'd exhausted all thoughts of survival.
When Jane left Mike, she took her grandmother's Jaguar. A coffee brown machine with a mocha interior and custom tortoise-shell trim along the dash and armrests. It was built in 1965 and I had spent summers from the time I was eight sticking to its leather seats , flipping the ashtray covers open and shut with Jane. Her grandmother, Franny, ground forty years of Chanel No. 5 into the ball of the stick shift. She was big on original ownership. But now Franny was dead and her family still hadn't decided on what they'd do with the car.
Jane had come down to the kitchen at four that morning. I was up because I never slept at Franny's house. But Jane typically woke in the afternoon when she drank hard. So I didn't understand why she was standing there, fully-dressed, as if she wanted to get an early start.
She had that rehashed Audrey Hepburn look: blue summer shift, white sweater tied at the neck, sandals fastened with leather straps. She filled the pot and scooped level measures of coffee into the machine, sat down at the table across from me. She looked as if she were going to say something, stopped, then told me Mike and the girls were still asleep, as if I needed reassurance about this. I listened to the Pacific as it hit the pylons, and I looked at Jane's lipstick, not sure why she'd bothered. Her eyelashes, they would have disappeared if it weren't for the mascara.
—You do something to your hair? I asked.
It appeared to be hacked at, not cut. I didn't think it was like that earlier in the evening.
—Sort of.
I began to glide the salt and pepper shakers across the table, waiting for her to continue. Figure eights, in and out of the light from the overhead spot. Jane was offered a job once as an eye model with a good New York agency. You could magnify those eyes until you were looking down at Earth. They were that blue. It's a bad form of envy to want someone else's face. I tipped my head to one side to get the full effect of her butchered hair.
—You use Mona's scissors?
She stopped the movement of the salt but couldn't quite reach the hand with the pepper.
—In a fair world you'd have kids, Mattie.
Her daughters were asleep in the clock room. Mona was four then, Livvy fourteen.
—I'm too tired for the fair world conversation, I said.
—You can't expect to…no, I don't mean that. I don't know how long you plan on….
I had that queasiness I get when a salesman leans against my buzzer.
—I'm only 35 and I didn't sleep last night, Jane.
—Humor me with a what-if.
—I should have gotten up to read.
—You want a whole life, don't you? she asked.
—Define whole life.
I saw the strain, the need to talk. I knew it wasn't about my sense of family. Whatever it was, I couldn't respond. In that way you imagine you have influence over events, I've punished myself for that moment.
—You didn't sign me up for an on-line dating service, did you? Because I've looked at those men.
She began to fold and unfold one of the linen napkins left on the table.
—I know this is about Franny…. I open the towel cabinet and it's like she's standing there, waiting for me to make some right decision, I said.
—About the towels?
—Which ones should go to the women's shelter because the edges haven't frayed, which ones to the Salvation Army….
—She'd appreciate what you're doing. I appreciate it. More than you know.
Periodically, Jane used to send me snaps taken at their home outside Boston. Mona wore reindeer antlers, or rabbit ears, sat by giant jack-o-lanterns. Livvy was the one with her back to the camera, walking out of the frame, her hair blue or green, the back of her jacket pounded with studs that formed messages I couldn't read. I had a soft spot for Livvy. Mike was the lens. It was his job to catch and measure light, to wait for conditions. I watched what he did to get a picture. He tugged on something emotional, sometimes the thing he couldn't state. Maybe he'd frame a tiny gas station sign in one corner of an image that said exactly what he couldn't express with the large people in the foreground. But if your eye was sharp and you knew how to read backwards or thought to hold it up to a mirror, it was all there. I looked for Mike's face in those photographs—sometimes Jane would nail him. The dark moods and then a shot that would make me think A Hard Days Night, the antic self. But it was mostly Jane, and sometimes I had the sense, looking at her, that she understood something I was going through at the time. Maybe it was a mind trick, but that's what I thought Jane did, made people feel no one else fully understood them. I said that to Mike one time, and he laughed. Later he said maybe I was right.
—You look like you're going to the store, I said to Jane.
Up the road, Vons grocery was open 24 hours. That was the place to order a sheet cake if you had to, the red frosting dyed your tongue red, the blue blue. You could get arugula at Von's, deodorant, hybrid chickens.
—I've never said this to you, maybe because we were both a little drunk at the time, but I told Mike once, if anything happened to me, he should marry you.
—You're upsetting my stomach, I said.
I got busy wiping down the edges of the sink, my face heated.
—He brought it up the next morning when we were perfectly sober. He asked me if I had been serious. I said: Yes. And he said…. Well he said a lot of things.
I couldn't tell if she was trying to peel my layers or if she had done that already and was holding me up to the light. I watched her remove the coffee pot halfway into its drip. Coffee spit against the hotplate, a trickle slipped onto the counter and pooled. She threw her napkin down to soak it up.
At moments like that I pictured Franny smoking a cigarette close to the window so the fumes wouldn't fill the house, encouraging me to speak up. And when that didn't work, she would offer to play a round of Chinese Checkers with me.
I couldn't get what Jane was up to.
—I'm not sure why I deserve this conversation…but can we wait until my head clears? I didn't even close my eyes last night, no flying dreams, no psycho nightmares of my mother, just the clock room echoing through the floor. I hope you plan on selling the clocks.
—You're veering off, she said.
—Veering off what? I don't want to think about anything happening to you, okay?
—But that's irrational.
—Why don't we talk about the vases?
Jane turned on the radio. The way she leaned into the counter, the outfit, she was imitating Franny, that force of gravity that had me pinned.
A polka came on. When that was over, the day's headlines. An express truck had blown up in the Midwest. The driver's remains scattered hundreds of feet. And this side-note: Many letters had survived.
—I bet they'll put them in plastic sleeves and Forensics will impound them, I said.
—The letters.
—I wasn't listening, she said.
—They blew up an express truck. I was picturing a team of FBI guys in an airplane hanger somewhere in the dessert, reconstructing the truck, the man….
But she was someplace else, going through the drawer now where Franny used to keep the cooking thermometer, the small strainers and matches. Jane took out some papers and set them down on the table. I looked at the girls' medical insurance cards, Livvy's was on top. Her middle name was my proper first name: Madeleine. There were airline tickets; numbers in Boston with the 617 area code; a birth certificate that looked to be Mona's. I didn't know that people carried their kids' birth records on trips.
Then she glanced around as if she had forgotten something, took a half gallon of milk out of the fridge, and left the kitchen.
—We're running low on Kleenex, I called.
I followed her into the garage with my cup, trying to think of other items we needed.
Jane propped the milk carton on the front seat. I saw a couple of Franny's old blue suitcases in the back. Jane yanked on the rope attached to the bottom of the garage door and released it upward along its track. Then she got into the driver's side, ready to move out into the alleyway.
—Where the hell are you going?
Outside, a thick marine layer. From up in the foothills that kind of condensation looks like cream sitting in a dish.
—I'll get money to you, she said.
—I'm not charging a fee. I told you that.
She turned the engine over. I stood by the driver's side, looking at her face. I thought of those movies set to Philip Glass music: clouds in time lapse, traffic sped up, flowers that open faster than I can sneeze.
—Okay, what if. What if you go crazy and don't come back? I said, trying to be funny.
She took a long draw of the milk and wedged the carton between her legs. The hibiscus around the garage hadn't opened yet. The petals were twisted round their stamens like pink tissue paper. Maybe if I stood there long enough they'd uncoil.
—But that's the point. I could live as free and easy as…as you.
—Why are you so pissed at me? Look, my old boss might have a job coming up. I told you that. I need to get back to Chicago.
She drank some more. Her eyes welled.
— Is Mike planning to watch the girls? So I can sort through things….
—You don't get it, she said.
—He doesn't know?
Jane had me standing out in the alley behind Franny's house, freezing to death in a shortie nightgown because someone had to be her audience, and she wanted to hit the road early. She sat there idling in first, and was, I think, prepared to drive to God-knows-where.
—You tell him.
—Get out of the car and talk.
—You're getting a good trade…what's the name of that TV show? she asked.
—What TV show?
—Where the two friends switch places, she said.
—You mean, houses?
— Us. I mean us, everything. Mike, the girls. You know, like a kit-home. Easy to assemble.
—Easy to what?
—You'll be more efficient than me.
—More efficient at your life? That's bizarre….
She put the car in reverse and I reached for her door handle. But she suddenly pulled out of the garage and backed straight into a hedge. The engine cut out and she pushed her chopped hair away from her face, leaned her forehead into her palm, on a backwards reel.
—At least turn your lights on.
Jane straightened up and started the car again.
—Go back inside, she said.
—You want me to drive? I just have to run in and get a couple of things.
Her face made me think of an underground nuclear test. The car jerked forward and the rear bumper stripped a thousand tiny leaves from the shrubs. I should have grabbed my lavender sweater the minute I saw the suitcases.
Jane began to navigate the narrow lane. She swerved to avoid the garbage cans. There were liquor bottles by the cans, boxes from new household appliances and broken Styrofoam beach items. I hoped she'd hit a garbage can. I needed time to stall her. I looked at her outfit again.
—Are you going to meet some guy?
I had shouted it to be heard above the waves. I think her foot slipped off the clutch at that point, which killed the engine again. She turned around, briefly. I noticed her lipstick. She yelled:
—Full Stop!
I watched her accelerate as if she was kicking off from the side of a pool, but she didn't circle at the other end. She had gotten her impulse thing from her father and it hit in cycles like El Niño going after the Pacific. I felt certain she wouldn't abandon the girls, that she'd quickly send for them, get Mike to drive them to her. She had to. I tried to follow the car but my feet were being eaten up by the gravel in the alley. I'm not sure if she could hear me anymore. I knew the carton of milk was sweating into her dress. I worried that it might tip forward, that the distraction could cause an accident
Finally Jane switched her lights on, but all I could see were two red circles floating in white air. I imagined the car was lined up with the gate's light-sensors. The security gate opened and the tail-lights moved across the tar road. She turned right, away from the beach.
I pictured a sudden collision, her legs squeezing together spasmodically. Milk like sex, soaking her skirt, the leather bench seat, working its way into crevices, plans.
—Come on, I said, as if Jane were still there, standing next to me, thinking of the girls' breakfast, wondering if she had enough cereal in the house.
The fog failed to put out my anger. If she wanted to trade, I had very different things to put on the table. She lived in a six-bedroom home outside Boston with a studio above the garage. I lived in a remodeled and largely reduced loft space in Chicago, two bedrooms, one of them only 10 by 10, one bath, the porches had been an add-on, making use of the framework of the old elevator shafts. A court yard in the center of the building. Jane was a set designer for large regional theatres. I appraised fine arts and antiques. She worked part-time. I worked chronically. But she had returned to the same guy each night, the same conversations, the habit of sleeping on one side of the bed or the other, listening for their girls in the dark. Forms of possession I didn't know.
I did have good friends in Chicago. I went to a fitness center and had started a kick-boxing class. I liked to shoot pool, joined a team once, which nudged me to get a monogrammed cue and a special pair of gloves for a decent grip, small cubes of blue chalk. I tried a birding group. I was a collector. I had an investment in antique neon signs and the works of small-scale tube-benders. Sometimes old neon came through the auction house. Sometimes I went out on the road to find it. One of my signs read: Watch for Signs. I had them mounted on the walls of the loft and they advertised The Alpine Motel and Texa gas and Night Stop which probably had something to do with trains or buses or stopping something you were up to in the middle of the night. I never imagined I'd have large holdings. But how can you know?
I believe Lois, my mother, had communicated to me largely through signs when I was a child. She had a beautiful hand and sometimes she doodled a picture of my face and then tacked this on the bathroom mirror along with many reminders, aphorisms and general warnings. She left one kind of note if she were up drinking in the middle of the night: the scrawl tighter, loopier, many words underlined and capitalized. And another kind of message if she came in fresh from sailing and the boat had placed well in a race. Sometimes she had an expansiveness that brought her into the moment. She bought fresh shelving paper for the kitchen or stopped at the drugstore for cigarettes, found me new dot-to-dot books, and these things she communicated directly, though the shelves went unlined.
But for all that education, I couldn't decipher Jane's signs that morning. I left the garage door up, afraid the automatic opener would stir the house.
I imagined she had reached Highway 101 by then and was traveling north. Like Franny, Jane didn't like the congestion of L.A., the heat of San Diego, the enterprise of Mexico. North would take her past Von's, the bird refuge, the zoo, and then, I imagined, she'd hit the switch to put the top up on the Jaguar, determined to make it to the Bay Area without a stop. Of course she'd remember you can't put the top up at freeway speeds. So she'd pull off onto the shoulder, and discover that the mechanism was broken, the top frozen in its housing: one of those repairs Franny had left undone.
If the marine layer burned off, we had planned to spend the morning tracking the girls from the lower deck of the house. Mona had talked about using an inner tube, which would mean one of us joining her. In the afternoon Jane and I would have chipped away at Franny's things, probably the vases, while the girls entertained themselves. Instead, she had driven into a place where the signs seemed to be directing her to unlimited freedom, the tubing on the neon in good shape, no krypton leaks.
I walked through the oil stains on the concrete slab of the garage and left prints on the white linoleum. Heading upstairs, I was aware of the ocean caught in the panes of the French doors, the light. I went into Franny's bedroom, and that's when I got into bed with Mike, and wrapped into sleep with him.
Before that morning, I had thought that certain feelings were invisible and stayed that way, that I could tunnel under and live off bomb-shelter air indefinitely. I hadn't told anyone that I was in love with Mike. Jane and I had met him when we were in college. And then of course they became a couple and so on.
Over the years, I had sometimes found myself sleeping with men who reminded me of Mike. Maybe they loved horse racing, or felt uncomfortable in small rooms, or liked to fix things, or empathized too much, or maybe they just didn't mind my storytelling, and even encouraged it. But I never held onto those men, never introduced them around or took them to familiar restaurants. Mostly, they came through my loft in Chicago, looking for towels, razor blades, toast with preserves, and they didn't understand that I was sleeping with someone else, sleeping right through them. They were small acts. Their bodies changed, they softened, and then a round of intense muscle building. The way they fixed on me, that changed too. And when I put my reading glasses on, they distorted entirely and became guys with names I couldn't always remember.
Except for this man a couple of years ago, who pried open one of my eyelids, mid-act, and asked: Who am I? I thought that sex was jarring a metaphysical pin loose. I untangled myself and threw the lubricant back into the bedside table. He accused me of having someone else on my brain, he could feel it. His old girlfriend: she had had someone else on the brain. I'm disappointed, he said. It was one of those moments when a man thinks he can put on your father's jacket and parade around. I'm disappointed in you. He got up and found his clothes in a heap and left. It was raining out, which almost added a note of tragedy to his departure. I watched him from my window. He was drenched when he hailed a taxi.
Chapter Two
I don't get many clear messages about the future. No crawls at the bottom of my mental screen. I would make a terrible adept. But sometimes I know things. I knew when Franny was hit by the train. Well, I didn't know that it was a train that took her out, but I knew she was out of life. And when you get that kind of sporadic but intense signal, it's hard to understand how you can miss the obvious things. I missed things with Jane. I should have seen she'd take off.
Two weeks before she drove away in the Jaguar, she had phoned me in Chicago. She asked if I'd go through the estate with her. We had lost Franny six months earlier, in the winter, so I had already gone out to California for the funeral. When Jane called, I was getting ready for an off-hours interview, hoping to pick up a gig in an auction house. Afterwards, I had plans to meet friends at a pub. I had been out of work for a while. It was a particularly bad time to make a second trip.
—You're it, she said, as if we were playing a child's game.
—I know a great appraiser in LA: Tony. Tony has four brothers and they're all appraisers and they'd probably all come up to the house just to see it and….
—Things will go quickly, she said.
—I guess anything's possible, but….
—I don't want five guys named Tony.
—No, they're…. I know plenty of others. Some of the best.
—But that's what you do, you go through stuff. You're an expert.
I didn't say: That's like assuming you're willing to mutilate yourself because you sell knives for a living.
Jane knew I didn't want to be the one to break up Franny's house. It had always been my catch basin, safe landing. Jane's relationship with her grandmother had been held together by friction, and though no one ever said this, though no one fully implied it, Jane was blood and I was stray. And this created a particular sense of order.
I urged someone who knows west coast values. Then I stood in the middle of my loft in Chicago, held the receiver against my ribs and with one hand hoisted a window open for air. The huge, original frames had been hauled up on a winch and set in place when it had been a button factory. They rode to the top with ease. I looked at the rain hitting my sill, the way it sprinkled the black skirt I wore and the hardwood floor, the spray red from the taillights going by. The rush hour traffic headed from the Loop; the cab late. I put the tiny holes of the receiver to my ear again, looked at the unlit neon signs mounted on my walls. All she wanted was a week of my time.
—You still on the line? she asked.
—Mike and the girls will be there.
I was getting soaked.
—We can do a farewell party to the old place and you can drive the Jaguar while you're out….
I knew that one of Franny's neighbors went over to the house weekly to start the motor and inspect the radiator fins flaking off in the salt air. I had always liked that car, and hoped Franny had had a rash moment and left it to me.
From my door-sized windows, I saw the taxi drive up and back, apparently struggling to find my address. But I'd never be able to change and get to the interview in time.
—This will probably be the last chance to be at Franny's. Nan wants to rent it out until it sells.
No one liked Nan.
—You have to get the art out first, I said.
—That's why we need you, to tell us that kind of thing. Did I say Mona asked about you? And Livvy. I think she'd like your company right now.
I doubted she had asked for me.
—Just for a weekend, to get you started, I said. Three days. Four at the most.
—I found a pretty good ticket online. But you'll have to show a medical illness to back out. No refunds.
A few days later, at O'Hare, I ate a green banana, cottage cheese and two rubbery eggs from a vending machine before the plane boarded. But I had some of my father's genes, so I couldn't make myself sick.
When I arrived at the Santa Barbara Airport, I chose a subcompact rental. Jane had offered to pick me up, but you have to have your own car in Southern California or you quickly become a dependent. I felt uneasy as I loaded my bags, and I decided to hold off going straight to the house.
Instead I took a detour to Mountain Drive, up in the foothills. I pulled over on a narrow turnout where I could see the city, the cemetery, a large avocado orchard, the marine layer sitting on the beach, the unlimited sky. The chaparral grows up the steep embankments, castor bean digs in everywhere. I thought of times I had spent with Jane: the joint passed across someone's hot tub, the temperature gauge dropped back into the water. Ease or something that once felt like ease.
I put the handbrake on and listened to the radio, wondered if I could put the battery at risk that way and stall out there permanently. When that didn't happen, I went down the hill and drove through the grounds of the Miramar Hotel, past the tennis courts and swimming pools we used to invade. The roofs of the Miramar were still that insane blue, like an advertisement without words: neon poured into shingles. Here. Stay here. The restaurant train car had a new seating area outside with white canvas umbrellas. People were lined up, waiting for tables. I circled round and turned onto San Ysidro Road, past the craftsman-style church. Jacaranda blossoms parachuted along the railroad ties and drifted over to the beach. It made me laugh to see the small purple flowers descend in the air, as if a drama had been saved up to greet me. I punched in the code to the gate and drove through. Then I sat for a while, my car in idle, taking in salt air like an overload of memory. Each summer I'd almost forget what that's like, an intrusion of ocean sound that builds and tears down other sounds until it disappears entirely.
I parked behind the garage. It was the only house that still had one. Years ago the buildings had been spaced apart and there was some open parking. But all the additions, the desire to cram more in, pulled them together like row houses. I unloaded the car.
Jane answered the door that day. She seemed confused by my presence, though we had gone over our flight schedules together two nights before. She was thinner than the last time I had seen her; her hair pinned back with tiny butterfly clips, several of which had come loose, as if they were trying to get away from her head. She stepped back into the hall and caught her foot on the cord of a belly board leaning by the door.
—Goddamn it.
Mike stood in the middle of the living room, knee-deep in luggage. He was bare except for his khaki shorts and a pair of battered flip-flops. He smiled when he saw me starring at him. Jane untangled herself. She kissed me on the mouth. I heard the girls upstairs. Mike took my two bags, kissed my mouth as well, and threw on a t-shirt. Jane asked about my flight and if I were thirsty.
—I wouldn't mind a drink.
Mike put his an arm around my waist.
—You're insane for doing this, he said.
—That's me.
—How was the flight? Jane asked a second time.
—Direct, I said.
—And the most interesting person you've spoken with in the last 24 hours? Mike asked.
—The Hertz rental agent?
—The next 24 will improve, he said.
—The hotel's been purchased by foreign investors. They're going to do a major remodel, make it more of a resort, Jane said.
—Sorry to hear it, I said.
As if she were coming out of a stupor, Jane suddenly offered me something to drink again. But shortly after I said yes, I was thirsty, she looked around, as if she had forgotten something, and then dropped onto the couch. My patience felt like a third suitcase I couldn't put down. Mike made me a Campari and soda. Thinking back on that afternoon, they were like two people with broken whisper phones in a science exhibit. They barely made eye contact with one another.
Finally, Jane went off to the kitchen and Mike pushed a handful of dolls in various states of undress to one end of the couch so we could sit.
—You okay? he asked.
—I keep expecting Franny to walk through a door.
Mike rubbed my shoulders a little.
—You think the foreigners will leave the blue roofs alone?
—Not a chance, I said.
When Jane returned, I dealt with the topic I imagined she and Mike were avoiding or polarized by.
—I'll help you work out a rough plan, I said, breaking the skin on the silence.
Jane flinched. Franny's estate was sizable. She'd been an avid collector of fine and decorative arts. There were the collections of small objects from Africa, Greece and Egypt; tribal masks; leather-bound books; Moroccan and Chinese rugs. A shelf of skulls: bobcat, hummingbird, pelican. Steel molds once used in making balloons were mounted on marble bases. On the coffee table, a red carnival-glass dish was filled with black wooden spools. And the Louis XIV table. Franny impressed its existence upon Jane and her sister Nan and me each time we had flown into the living room instead of walking. I noted the photograph of Franny that had been framed for the funeral. She looked like one of those Avedon models from the Fifties.
—I don't mean anything too detailed. I just need to get an idea of which items will be held out for the family. After that, you can think about what you'd like an exact appraisal on—I'll help you with that. And if you hope to sell by the piece or the lot. But we'll get there, I said, opening my briefcase. I felt like a realtor or mortician giving a pitch. I don't think they understood what it meant to settle an estate, especially one like Franny's. The time for each appraisal, lining up buyers. And things tended to change daily where several interests were involved: the items Jane and her sister Nan would fight over, and the way I knew Jane would hand me the phone, expecting me to settle things between them.
I took a half-dozen yellow rule-lined pads and a box of pens from my case and set them in the middle of the coffee table, so they would have them when they were ready.
—You brought office supplies from Chicago? Jane laughed. She struggled with the shrink-wrap covering the tablets. Seeing me grow flustered, she smoothed my hair as if it were flying about from static electricity. Mike gave me a sympathetic look.
It was a cool morning but a couple of swimmers were out in the short waves now. For the first time I saw their cat lying in a corner of the room, looking dead. A small rug of an animal.
—Is Trader all right? I asked.
—I gave him too much of the tranquillizer. By mistake, Jane said. Then she picked up the box of pens and spilled them onto the table as if she were about to read a fortune with yarrow sticks. I wanted to say I miss Franny, that it will be impossible when the house is sold, that it isn't necessary to dump all the pens out.
I thought it was the large business of settling Franny's estate that had them so keyed up. I'd seen this before: the sense of separation people can feel from themselves or each other when sorting the objects of the past. My boss often said you have to have a particular deficit of emotion to move freely through other people's lives, especially when going through an estate. Some families pay the auction house to go over every last thing of their relative's. Letters, photos, spice jars, closets full of clothes, carried off in plastic bags for salvage or trash, until they get down to the things they can sell. It's a stupid way to breakdown, but I never wanted another career. Even if I'm left to wonder if strangers will rake through my things eventually.
Just then Mona ran down the stairs carrying one of Franny's ivory jars from the matched set on her dressing table. She sprinkled face powder everywhere. Livvy ran after her until she saw me, then slowed to a walk, and went over to look in a suitcase for something. This was the first summer she had made dramatic alterations to her appearance. The ear cuffs, the hair, piercings, the black clothes.
Jane took the powder away.
—Hi girls, I said.
—Hi Mat, Mona said.
—Mattie, Livvy corrected her. Hey.
—Hey, I said.
She surfaced with a pink swimsuit which she handed to Mona who held it up so I could read the words emblazoned on the front: LOVES TO SWIM.
Mike winked at Livvy. Then he turned to me and said: We should invite the neighbors over for dinner tomorrow night.
He seemed eager to include me in things.
—To get in the mood? Jane said.
But I wasn't sure which mood she referred to, and I knew she didn't want me quizzing her, and it didn't matter to me if we had a dinner party or not. Mike didn't say anything, went out to the deck.
While Jane unpacked, I looked around the living room. The early afternoon train came through heading north. It rode Franny's house like an act of nature. A familiar door above the stove always swung partway open with the vibrations. Franny used to cut sticky-back tape into dots and squares to fasten down her sculptural pieces. They were still in place but no longer held the objects they were intended to safeguard, the yellow, cracked adhesive stuck to the bookshelves.
As Jane searched for swim fins, and Livvy and Mona robbed the linen closet of towels, I watched Mike. I thought he had given up smoking, but there was a cigarette in his mouth. He bent each match outside the matchbook cover, lit it and waved the book until it went out. As he stood there, I was aware that the deck looked more like a container than an open platform.
The house was right on the beach and the visibility was good that day. The coast runs west to east midway between Point Conception and Port Hueneme. The ocean is due south and in the summer people prop their chairs, slather up, let their toddlers go nude, wrestle with kayaks. Kids line up their boards like Cadillac Ranch. Dogs run in packs.
It was low tide, so there were fifty feet of beach at most and coastal access for all. Of course sometimes the beach disappears entirely and the water pounds the lower decks. A newspaper left out can turn to a bit of paper-Mache stuck to a railing. The houses range from the substantial to the badly weathered, mostly wood framed. There's the pseudo-Spanish one out of stucco and a couple of blue-and white nautical with overloaded themes. The new set of condos down toward Fernald Point.
Franny had owned her place down to the retaining wall. In winter she heaped sandbags around the pilings to keep her house from being carried out to sea. The lower deck had been rebuilt three separate times after bad storms. Flooring and carpet ripped up and replaced. Yet each summer when we arrived, her house was always back in order.
I was eight when I met Jane. She was nine. My parents and I stayed at a rental a few doors down. It was always different at our place. Impermanent. Fragile. The kind of place where you could stiff a landlord on the last month's rent.
It was important to keep everything picked up, especially between my bedroom door and the bunks so Lois, my mother, wouldn't trip in the dark. When she came home, she sometimes woke me to say goodnight, sending out an exhaust of salt, peppermint candies, and gin as she spoke. She asked if I had spent time on my workbooks, if I had kept myself out of trouble. I said yes and yes, and when I attempted to sit up in the dark, she put a cool hand on my forehead, as if I might have a temperature.
I could make out the outline of her hair, brittle from the ocean, and I knew her lips were stung by weather. In daylight they were almost white, sometimes blistered. If she had something to say about children who hide in abandoned refrigerators or men who fall into elevator shafts, this is where she whispered it to me, often drifting off and not quite finishing her stories. My mother gave me this advice: If you have to jump from a burning building, leap second. Let someone else go first. This gives the men with the nets a chance to study the wind direction and velocity.
Once she held up a piece of paper. There was a wheel in the center, my name in the upper left-hand corner, my birth date. Lois said: I talked with a woman today. And she looked at your chart. She wants you to know that something will happen around travel…or a car. That was it. A car will change your life. It has to do with the planet Pluto. You're overloaded with Pluto.
While she pointed to the black ink marks, I lay still, imagining a wheel rolling over me, flattening me to sleep. You understand, don't you? This woman knows a good deal about these things. You should hear what she said about me. Then Lois pulled herself up and receded into the hall, as if she hadn't been there.
For years I pictured a collision that would slow traffic around me. I saw where my lungs would puncture, heard the radio I couldn't turn off, stared at my foot impaled on the brake. I was aware of the way the orange reflective triangles would be placed around my car. I didn't understand at the time that predictions swerve and take on whole other meanings. There was a car, but no accident, no death. Unless you call love an accident. I don't.
Chapter Three
The morning Jane left, I crawled into bed with Mike and didn't wake up until the mid-morning express vibrated the French doors of the second-floor deck. Mike was propped up on one elbow, watching me. He looked amused, probably thought Jane and I were having him on. Maybe he was employing that simple carnival trick of his: to guess the weight of a head. Mike had worked on a midway one summer during college, and he had gotten pretty good at sizing up a person by the pound. But he wasn't reliable then and gave away too many stuffed cats and cloth dolls.
—Holding Jane's place? he laughed.
I sat up against the bolster, and launched into a nervous rap about the Jaguar. He leaned into me as I talked openly about the canvas top and the broken mechanism, as if I were running a string of red lights. We both liked machinery, the way a good piece of equipment works, but I could only distract him so long, and I had run myself out detailing that car. Mike unraveled his pajamas tied in the covers, slipped into the bottoms, and got out of bed.
—Shout if I get warm.
He looked under the dust ruffle, stepped in and out of the bathroom, checked behind the yellow stuffed chair. When he came back to bed, he took my hand and said:
—I give.
—I tried to stop her.
He looked at my head again. I felt it lift off my neck and go onto the scale.
—She left the girls' insurance cards. Took two bags. I should have woken you. I haven't slept for…. She's probably in San Luis Obispo by now. Paso Robles. This looks so bad. I couldn't think.
I watched the fin-like movement of his jaw, the small muscles tensing and relaxing. He balled up his pajama top and threw it across the room.
—It's okay, Mike said, as if I were the one who needed reassurance. Then he laughed to himself. I lifted the receiver on the old white princess phone sitting on the bedside table, but it slipped from my hand and dropped to the rug.
—I'll try her cell, I said, unwinding the cord and starting over.
—She won't answer.
I hung the phone up.
—Did she go north?
—No. I mean I don't know.
—Which car?
—The Jaguar.
—Is it too early for a drink?
He knew where Franny had kept her gin and brought it back to bed. I took a sip, watched him, waiting for something other than the weary, almost luminous look he gets after being up all night editing. For years Mike had made documentaries. Exquisite, quirky things. My favorite about the man fixing a VW Bug who talked about his six ex-wives while he gapped the plugs and set the timing, his lone voice working like a chorus in a Greek tragedy.
—You've got to feel like you came out here for nothing.
—Don't worry about me. Maybe the police could….
He touched one of my eyebrows, as if it were out of place.
It's okay? I thought. Sometimes Mike suffered from the same kind of melancholy that overtakes me, so I understood that at least. And I understood the way he had of protecting me. He lost his sister when he was fifteen. But, it's okay? The blue bottles on Franny's dressing table sent out light. The fog had burned off a good deal. It was the first clear sky since our arrival, but that's the way June was, unlimited fog with a few breaks. I hoped it was all right where Jane drove.
—This is what she does. She drives off, he said.
I realized his eyes used to be a true, faded color. Now they looked blue like laundry soap. I looked for contact lenses as he gazed toward the islands, but I didn't see any. I couldn't understand the way he'd aged. It wasn't that his face was waxy or taut, injected or stitched into place; it was unchanged. Changed, unchanged. I played with this like a power surge—lights coming up, blacking out.
—Aren't you blind without your glasses?
—I can see you better this way, he said.
He moved his thumb over my right palm, not far from the spot where this random line bisects the life line and another line, the three lines forming a triangle if I flatten my hand out the way a palm reader does. But instead he formed my hand into a small basin, as if he were going to pour something there. Once again he assured me that Jane was fine, that I shouldn't worry.
—We have to keep it low key for the girls, he said, but his words and his mouth worked at different speeds now.
—Her disappearance, he said, as if I hadn't understood.
I probably had that stretched-awkward smile I get. We both took another drink.
—We could say she's gone to look for architectural salvage, I said.
—Aren't we knee deep in architectural salvage?
—But she has her time away, right? Conferences?
I began to feel my own break between phrasing and delivery. As I watched his face, I picked up something of Jane in the ticking of the feather pillows, mixed with her grandmother's oily scent. I looked at his chest. I felt like the girl in Duras' The Lover, when she was about to touch a man's chest for the first time. I offered to stay a couple of extra days, make some headway on Franny's stuff. Then I caught myself and quickly wound back to the girls.
We agreed that it would be plausible for Jane to go off and work for a while in seclusion. She had a commission designing sets for a version of Peter Pan, in Boston. Mike would hide her drawings.
He picked up the knotted ends of my nightgown ties and rolled them between his fingers, letting them drop against my chest, one and then the other.
—Can you really make any knot? he asked.
—I know knots, I said.
My father had taught me dozens of sailor's knots.
—And flags, I said. Capitols. By-products. My mother and her fucking workbooks.
—I thought you did scrap books.
—Those too.
His eyes began to swim. I rushed to tell him everything I could about the articles I clipped. On a variety of subjects.
—I know. I could tell you where tulips spring up on Dutch maps.
I put my hand on his cheek and he said: --I'd rather see a knot.
I tried to do something with the nightgown ties, but they were a little short.
He kissed my neck, just below my left ear, as I fiddled.
If Livvy were awake she was in the clock room, across the hall, listening to the passage of time, stubbornly holding on to her bladder. She was like Jane, hated to get out of bed in the morning. I wondered if she drifted when things got crazy. If her subtle body fled when it was under too much pressure, the way mine does. I knew she had her antenna and it's possible she could pick up sounds through the heating grate. Not that you could receive whole words that way, certainly not with the noise of the clocks, but Mike and I whispered nonetheless.
—I should go downstairs, I said.
—I know, he said, but he put a hand on one of my legs.
—There are people who eat tulips to calm down, I said.
—Tulip eaters, he said and slid his hand between my thighs.
I thought about bringing up the friend who slept with her second husband the night of her first husband's funeral, but I guessed that was a random thing, and let it go.
—We're both a little bereft right now, I said.
—This isn't about that.
Mike slowly pulled my nightgown up.
—I know how to draw kitchen triangles, I offered.
—That's why I've always loved you, Mattie.
—I have stats on gun-related deaths. Skee ball accidents. Nothing on car flights. Less on why we drive toward collision.
I wanted to take my rental car and find Jane out in the state of California and bring her home, keep myself from going anywhere else. I wanted to climb onto his lap and stay on at freeway speeds.
He wetted my right nipple with his tongue. I looked at the small indentations on either side of his nose, from his glasses as I tried to breathe. I pressed a baby finger into one of them. It fit perfectly like a tiny shoe.
—Tell me one of your stories, he said.
That's what we did. We told each other stories.
—Okay. There was a woman, who fucked The David once. That guy I knew in college, you remember Stuart, he told me that.
The light pressure of Mike's teeth, the way his tongue flicked. I thought of a ruby-throated hummingbird. But I proceeded with my story.
—I'm…not sure if he meant the false David near the Uffizi or the real David in Galleria dell'Accademia. But I hadn't been to Italy…then, and I think I was a little naïve about security. But I like picturing that…otherworldly event: the woman seeming to…float upwards, maybe she used…a rope ladder, or had a harness or swing, maybe she had help…from friends. In either case, she must have ascended when the guards were changing shifts. I felt certain she held on to him…like a moth to a wool blanket…until the first shout and the hands…that plucked her off.
Mike slid into the bottoms of my shortie pajamas. I closed my eyes and began to float. Just before my head hit the ceiling, I heard the door handle twist back and forth.
—There's something I have to watch!! Mona shouted from the other side of the door.
Mike lifted his head.
—I'll be there in a few minutes, honey. Turn on the TV in the living room.
We listened to the weight of Mona's descent.
—Fate? Mike asked, as if he were offering me a soft drink.
The TV went on downstairs: loud.
Though I didn't ask, he told me not to worry about Livvy. She wouldn't be up for a while. She had stayed up very late.
> He said he wanted to see every knot I knew how to make later. I wasn't sure when later was, but I knew he wasn't either. So I agreed to later.
Then Mike got up, kissed me once more, and soon the shower went on.
I found one of Jane's robes. One of the pockets held a scrap of paper with this message: Nan wants the tea service. I wasn't sure who had written it. In college, after Jane dropped architecture and started sleeping with Mike, she changed her handwriting. I thought she wanted to move away from rendering. But now I understand she was trying to copy Mike.
As I slipped out the door and inched down the stairs to the first floor, I realized that he was soaping himself, bending under the low showerhead. Large enough for three, the stall had been plumbed to hit body parts below five feet. It only bothered me when I had to shampoo. But Mike was over six-foot-one, Jane five-eight.
The blue satin cuffs of her bathrobe slid past my fingertips, the bottom hem made a petal on the floor, almost bridal. She was probably passing through central California as Mike's hot water ran and I knotted the robe ties. Inhaling fertilizer, the scent of developing artichokes. She would pull off at the exit and head toward a stand. Probably the one with a mural of dancing artichokes on the side. The kind of place that also sells honey, walnuts, medjool dates. She would sit in the car for a while and try to decide if she should leave the 101 and take back-roads instead. There wasn't any hurry if she had no idea where she was going. Of course she could have just turned around, pulled the Jaguar into the garage, found me down in the living room with Mona, and never questioned my wearing her robe.
There was a guy who killed himself on the 101 by taking a shotgun and wiring it to the shaft of the steering wheel. When he was ready, and I have no idea what that means, he pulled on the metal loop he had attached to the trigger. His car fishtailed and launched into the oncoming lanes. He took out a teenage girl who had planned an acting career in what-the-hell-Hollywood. Her boyfriend had just detailed her Toyota Celica. She was wearing jeans and a pink sweater, no shoes. Her ankle bracelet had his name engraved on it. It was hard not to think about that kind of stuff after Jane left.
Excerpted from SMALL ACTS OF SEX AND ELECTRICITY © Copyright 2011 by Lise Haines. Reprinted with permission by Unbridled Books. All rights reserved.
Small Acts of Sex and Electricity
- Genres: Fiction
- hardcover: 256 pages
- Publisher: Unbridled Books


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Travel with troops to the site of a skirmish between Union and Confederate forces. You'll see men and women dressed in authentic period costumes using weapons of that time. This train operates to the Mt. Cuba Picnic Grove, and passengers will enjoy a ½-hour layover at the Picnic Grove during the approximately 2-hour round-trip.
This event is powered by one of our historic diesel locomotives.


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I am cleared 2nd group in PEE II Examination. Now I am switch over from PEE II to IPCC. Now how to fill the Exam Application in Unit scheme,
If it is possible to I will write 2 papers in Nov 2010 exam (Accounts and Law and ethics and Communication) . The rest of the two papers in May 2011 exam. is it possibe
Could you please clarify
My Group I of PE II is cleared & i will convert to IPCC wtith remaing papers
I want to opt ATC with IPCC, Can i opt this
In which unit schme i have to appear for both ATC & IPCC xams
According to annoucment made by ICAI unit 1 & unit 3 is for me
if i opt both
And also tell me the meaning of one sitting exams
Pls advice


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Serene 15 for Beckett
Red Sox's ace becomes Majors' top wins leader against O's
By Jeff Seidel / Special to MLB.com
Beckett deserved all of that applause. The right-hander became the first 15-game winner in the Majors as he overpowered the Orioles in the Red Sox's 6-2 win before a sellout crowd of 49,242 in Baltimore.
He nearly threw a complete-game shutout before giving up a pair of RBI hits with two outs in the ninth. Beckett allowed two runs on eight hits with eight strikeouts and no walks in 8 2/3 innings.
Beckett definitely wanted to finish the game, but manager Terry Francona pulled Boston's ace after Miguel Tejada laced an RBI single and Kevin Millar added a run-scoring double. Jonathan Papelbon came in one batter later to get his 27th save and get a much better ending than Friday -- when the Orioles rallied from a 5-1 deficit in the eighth to win.
"That's very reassuring; it allows us to put yesterday in the past in a hurry, and that's a big compliment to Beckett," Francona said. "I actually thought, if anything, he'd gotten stronger in the ninth. It just looked like he wanted it so badly that he got a little amped up. After the way he threw, I didn't want him to stay out there and struggle."
Beckett threw 115 pitches, 81 of which were strikes, on a day where he kept the Orioles hitters off-balance throughout. He rarely ran into much trouble after Baltimore put two on with one out in the first, and Beckett got Tejada to ground into an inning-ending double play.
The right-hander then breezed as the Orioles didn't threaten again until the ninth. He was hoping to finish the job and felt frustrated that Manny Delcarmen and Papelbon had to come in.
"It's nice to have complete games, and they're good numbers to have and everything like that, but to me it's more important to save those guys in the bullpen," Beckett said. "I was mad at myself [for that] when I came out. It's hard to find anything wrong with that game."
Red Sox catcher Jason Varitek certainly liked what he saw.
"He was pretty dominant," Varitek said. "He threw some really good sinkers today. It would have been nice to finish it, but it was also nice to get [Papelbon] out there and get him some work."
Orioles manager Dave Trembley thought that coming up empty in their first-inning threat was costly, because he knew the scoring chances against Beckett wouldn't be many.
"Well, if we had scored in the first, it might have opened it up for us a little bit," Trembley said. "But you could tell by the way [Beckett] was pitching that runs were going to be at a premium against him. He dominated."
The Red Sox gave Beckett an early cushion, scoring two runs apiece in the second and third innings against Orioles rookie Garrett Olson. Varitek led off the second with a single and went to third base when J.D. Drew doubled down the right-field line. Julio Lugo later lined a two-run double to left for a quick 2-0 lead.
Boston made it 4-0 in the third, when Drew blooped a two-run single into left field. Manny Ramirez scored from third, while Mike Lowell ran in just a few feet behind Ramirez. The Red Sox added two more in the eighth, thanks to a bases-loaded walk from Kevin Youkilis and a Dustin Pedroia RBI single.
Drew continued his recent hot streak with a 3-for-5 effort. He doubled twice and had two RBIs. Lugo also helped by going 2-for-3 with his two RBIs.
Patience at the plate and Orioles control problems helped the Red Sox, who drew 10 walks, most of which led to scoring threats. Seven Red Sox hitters walked at least once, and Boston put runners on base in eight of the game's nine innings.
It could have been an even bigger rout, except that the Red Sox went just 3-for-17 with runners in scoring position and left 11 on base.
Jeff Seidel is a contributor to MLB.com. This story was not subject to the approval of Major League Baseball or its clubs.


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Peter Andre and his girlfriend, Emily, welcomed a baby girl earlier this month .
And the Mysterious Girl singer has already gone back to work!
Writing in his New! column, Pete said: "Originally, my plan was to work all of January and have February off, but now the baby's here I want to space out my days off so I've got more time at home."
He added: "As you might expect, I'm not getting much sleep at the moment, but oddly, I'm not knackered.
"I'm just so excited. At the moment, I'm averaging six hours of broken sleep a night. And for me, that's not a lot."
And although the couple haven't revealed their baba's name, floppy-haired Pete says they have given their girl a nickname.
"We're getting there but for now, it'll stay "Bista's sister".
We like it.


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The first step in the process toward the 2012 presidential election starts with the grassroots American tradition of neighborhood precinct caucuses.
Proceedings begin Tuesday, Feb. 7, with the Republican Party caucuses. The Democratic caucuses are March 6.
On Feb. 7 the Jefferson County Republican Party will hold caucuses for four precincts (2162530048, 505, 052, and 053) covering most of Evergreen, not including Hiwan or Conifer, at 7 p.m at Wilmot Elementary. There should be room for 200 to 400 people, said Ed Regalado, district captain.
Main Street Fine Art Gallery, an artists' cooperative, has closed temporarily after a difference of opinion over how the art should be chosen and displayed.
The space next to Beau Jo's in downtown Evergreen opened June 24 as the first home of the Evergreen Artists Association, which is known for sponsoring the annual Evergreen Fine Arts Festival in August. (This year's festival will be on Aug. 25.)
Skiing at Eldora: Nordic, Boys: Eagle Valley 170, Lake County 161, Summit 152, Steamboat Springs 152, Steamboat Springs 152, Middle Park 150, Evergreen 136, Battle Mountain 123, Clear Creek 113, Ridge View Academy 104, Nederland 41. Girls: Summit 168, Steamboat Springs 156, Eagle Valley 154, Middle Park 150, Nederland 150, Lake County 135, Battle Mountain 130, Evergreen 122, Clear Creek 105
The Jeffco school board pushed the boundaries of the Colorado Open Meetings Law on Jan. 19, holding a closed-door meeting, for which no prior notice was given, to select two of its members to negotiate with employee unions.
Boys basketball: D'Evelyn 61, Evergreen 54
Girls basketball: D'Evelyn 68, Evergreen 50
Skiing: Loveland Ski Area, Boys: Aspen 173, Steamboat Springs 172, Nederland 155, Evergreen 154, Eagle Valley 137, Clear Creek 136; Girls: Nederland 171, Steamboat Springs 164, Evergreen 155, Eagle Valley 148, Clear Creek 135, Aspen 59
Evergreen girls place third, boys fourth at Loveland
Boys basketball: Evergreen at D'Evelyn, 7:30 p.m.
Girls basketball: Evergreen at D'Evelyn, 6 p.m.
Skiing: Evergreen at Loveland Ski Area, 9 a.m.
Girls swimming: Conifer at Evergreen, Wulf Recreation Center, 5 p.m.
Wrestling: Evergreen at Thomas Jefferson, 6 p.m.
When I first heard that Congresswoman Diana DeGette, D-Denver, would announce her bid to be re-elected to Congress from the 1st Congressional District at the Columbine Library, my first thought was, "I thought that library in Cherry Creek was on Milwaukee, not Columbine."
As it turned out, I was right — there is no Denver library on Columbine Street. DeGette, who has represented Denver in Congress since 1997, chose to announce her re-election plans from the newest part of her district, the part in South Jeffco around Columbine and Ken Caryl.
Winter is always a good time to look for rabbit tracks in the snow. There are two rabbits that can be seen in this area and a third that can be seen farther afield in Colorado.
Anatomy of a fender-bender
Copyright © 2017
Canyon Courier is your source for local news, sports, events, and information in Evergreen, Colo, and the surrounding area.


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Carrie Underwood And Mike Fisher NOT In "Marriage Crisis," Despite Report
Carrie Underwood and Mike Fisher are NOT in a "raging marriage crisis," despite a story from this week's tabloids. Gossip Cop can debunk the report, on their anniversary of all days.
According to the National Enquirer, Underwood and Fisher are clashing over whether to expand their family, and the hockey player is supposedly "ready to walk out if she won't have more kids!" The magazine quotes an "insider" as saying, "Early in their marriage, Carrie agreed with Mike that she wanted a large family. But now she's backtracking, and Mike's furious!"
The supermarket tabloid goes on to claim Underwood has "chosen showbiz over having more kids," even though Fisher "believed Carrie was on board for a quick second pregnancy." The Enquirer even alleges the only reason Fisher signed with the Nashville Predators last month was because it was a "bargain" deal he made with Underwood, where they would keep the growing family "settled." But now, claims the outlet's so-called "insider," "Something's got to give, or Carrie's going to be singing about her broken marriage!"
Perhaps instead of printing unnatural and obviously fake quotes, the Enquirer should focus on "giving" the facts. Fisher was happily by Underwood's side last month at the CMT Awards (that's right, something for her career), where she was the night's big winner (see photo above). And on Thursday, Underwood showed off one of their romance rituals on Instagram, posting a picture of herself and Fisher exercising.
"The couple that slays together…stays together! Working out is always better with a partner! #StayThePath," wrote Underwood. In other words, there is NO "marriage crisis." The only thing in "crisis" here should be the Enquirer, for once again leading readers astray.
Underwood and Fisher are actually celebrating their fifth anniversary on Friday, just two days after this nonsense hit newsstands. Gossip Cop would like to take a moment to wish Underwood and Fisher many more happy years to come.


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There is a moment during "See You Around," the final track of Vic Chesnutt's 1996 album About to Choke, when he sings, "I must admit I'm flattered by your consecration/It's a mind-numbing spine-chilling/But nevertheless heartwarming gesture/As you make your advances so clumsily/I'll save us both the hassle and leave."
It must have seemed a fitting valediction to Chesnutt, who, during a tour for the record, left his wife and band stranded in Milwaukee, took off with the van and tour money, and proceeded to a seedy Florida hotel room where he spent the next few days contemplating suicide. Although his behavior was fueled in part by an undiagnosed and painful kidney stone, Chesnutt's near plummet into the abyss was not his first such trip.
Chesnutt has long trod the line between life and death, insanity and normality; it's a large part of his work, and what has made him one of the most compelling phenomena to emerge from the American musical underground in the past decade. He values his ability to explore the edges of emotions and blur the distinctions between tragedy and comedy. "I hope with my stuff that looking at the lyrics or even after hearing it, you're still not sure how to feel about the songs, you know, whether to be happy or sad," Chesnutt says, on the eve of a tour to support his new album, The Salesman and Bernadette.
No profile of Chesnutt fails to touch on, or would be complete without mentioning the accident. A native of Pike County, Georgia, Chesnutt was an aspiring eighteen-year-old musician when a drunken car crash on Easter morning 1983 left him paralyzed from the waist down. Although doomed to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair, he recovered enough mobility in his hands to strum a guitar, and returned to performing. While playing with pop and punk bands in and around Athens, Chesnutt eventually began appearing on his own, singing his brand of idiosyncratic neo-folk.
He developed a growing reputation as a local curiosity, as well as a massive drinker. His regular appearances at Athens's famed 40 Watt Club brought him to the attention of local hero Michael Stipe, who was so taken with Chesnutt's singular songcraft that he helped secure him a deal with the tiny Texas Hotel label, and even produced his first two albums, Little and West of Rome.
If it seemed a bit unlikely that Stipe (an artist who has been fairly derided for plunging alternative music into its current state of lyrical decay by selling millions of albums full of mumbled non sequiturs) would champion an often complex wordsmith such as Chesnutt, then what happened next was even more surprising. During the intervening years Chesnutt released two more critically lauded collections of songs, including the stellar 1995 album Is the Actor Happy?. More significantly, word of his talent began to spread among artists and music aficionados. Indie heroes and pop stars sang his praises in print. He was given slots opening for artists ranging from respected punk icons like Bob Mould to mall-ternative bands such as Live; and Hootie and the Blowfish even covered one of his songs during their performance on MTV's Unplugged.
In 1996 things took an even more dramatic turn for Chesnutt. It was the early part of that year that saw the release of a benefit/tribute album in his honor. Sweet Relief II: The Gravity of the Situation brought together many of the biggest names in the rock and pop worlds, all of whom were eager to pay homage to the unassuming Chesnutt. Along with hometown backers R.E.M., artists ranging from Garbage to the Smashing Pumpkins to Madonna (in a duet with her brother-in-law Joe Henry) adopted the laconic Georgian as something of a cause celebre. In the album's liner notes, Chesnutt was swamped with praise by many of the artists.
For Chesnutt the unusual outpouring of attention, if somewhat discomforting, was still appreciated. "I am really proud of that, very much so," he says. "I think we helped a lot of people, and it was fantastic to hear all these people singing my songs. Even now I'm still very proud about that experience."
Instead of basking in the glow of his newfound celebrity, or succumbing to the easy temptation of making an "accessible" album of folk-pop, Chesnutt went the other way. For Choke, his major-label debut on Capitol, Chesnutt endured an agonizing recording process before producing an album that hearkened back to his 1994 effort Drunk (until then the high-water mark in Chesnutt's discography). The bulk of the material found Chesnutt alone, with little instrumentation, alternating between the themes of melancholy and humor, frequently in the same song, often in the same line. In the autobiographical "Hot Seat," Chesnutt turned his focus toward the tragedy of his accident with the kind of acute lyrical intensity that left listeners confused as to whether they should laugh or cry at a verse like "Ventolin and Vivarin and Primatene/Secret tequila shots and a patch of morphine/In mourning and in the throes/ What a great day to come out of a coma."
For the uninitiated Choke must have left a strange first impression. With Chesnutt's Southern eclecticism on full display throughout the record, critics and fellow artists raved, but the masses stayed away. For his part Chesnutt quips that the album sold "the least amount of records in Capitol history." But even so, Chesnutt maintains, "I was happy with the way a lot of it turned out. I think mainly because it encompassed all of my other records. I didn't try and do that, but I think that's the way it came out. It's actually kind of funny in that respect."
It was during the tour supporting Choke that Chesnutt, spurred on by the pain of his illness and rapidly deteriorating spirits, pulled his disappearing act, leaving his wife Tina and his Nashville-based touring group Lambchop stranded in the Midwest. If his actions left those around him in a state of panic, it was nothing compared to the intense soul-searching that Chesnutt was experiencing on the Florida shores. Possibly realizing that his demons were more imagined than real, or perhaps thinking he was on the cusp of some sort of artistic breakthrough, Chesnutt came to his senses and decided to head back home to Athens instead of rolling into the murky waters of the Atlantic. It was then that he began writing and assembling songs for his latest and most ambitious release, The Salesman and Bernadette.
Despite the record cover's childlike images, The Salesman and Bernadette is no musical line drawing: It's pop art of the highest order. Creating the character of the Salesman, Chesnutt navigates his self-effacing protagonist through a small and sometimes sad world of lonely hotel rooms, dirty magazines, and empty streets, all the while chasing his elusive lover Bernadette (who makes a brief appearance in the form of a vocal cameo by Emmylou Harris).
There are hints that the sloppy and befuddled Salesman is based on Chesnutt himself. As a songwriter Chesnutt has always been brave enough to reveal himself; by assuming the persona of the Salesman, he's able to focus with surgical precision on the details that have made his songs so engrossing. Whether he's describing an "Eisenhower ashtray" in "Woodrow Wilson" or "the Stone Age fax machine" of "Mysterious Tunnel," Chesnutt's sharp eye only strengthens his examination of the larger issues at hand: loss and longing.
Although The Salesman and Bernadette is a concept album only in the most basic sense, Chesnutt admits that the idea scared him enough that it forced him to reconsider his plan to include a detailed set of liner notes. "I had pages and pages of notes explaining the story, but then at the end I shied away from that," he says. "I started finding that people had totally different impressions of what it was about. Like with Kurt [Wagner, of Lambchop]; he would tell me what he was thinking and it was totally different than what I had intended. But then I thought, Wow, that's great, too.
"It's always been difficult for me to decide what songs to record on an album because I've got a lot that over the years have just stacked up," Chesnutt adds. "And a lot of them I've always wanted to record, but it's just hard to choose. But I knew for this record I wanted to record 'Duty Free' and I knew I wanted to record 'Bernadette.' For some reason those two songs I was sure of. And then when I saw them side by side, I thought, They must have a relationship; how can I elaborate on that relationship? So I started choosing songs from my past that did that."
From the opening horns of "Duty Free" to the pedal steel of "Old Hotel," it's clear that Chesnutt is no longer the lonely troubadour playing quirky songs in a darkened room. With Salesman, he has recast himself as a great American pop storyteller: a postpunk hybrid of Tom Waits and Van Dyke Parks with a healthy dose of Southern consciousness thrown into the mix. The early reaction to the record has focused on its lyrical quality and narrative structure, drawing favorable comparisons to early twentieth-century literary works such as Edgar Lee Masters's Spoon River Anthology and Sherwood Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio. Although he's certainly not averse to those comparisons, Chesnutt views the project as having a more cinematic rooting.
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"To me this record is more like a French movie, more so than, say, a novel," he explains. "At least that's the way I saw it. I expect it to hit you like a French movie. It has certain imagery that kind of reminds me of that."
Maybe the biggest surprise about The Salesman and Bernadette is that it triumphs on a musical level as well. The backing by friends and frequent road companions Lambchop (a virtual alt-country "big band") infuses Chesnutt's songs with varied arrangements and musical punctuation. Lambchop's versatility allows Chesnutt to play with a number of unique and heretofore unexplored musical styles, from Stax/Volt soul to Preservation Hall jazz to gentle country rhythms. For Chesnutt the departure from his usually understated musical approach is especially liberating.
"I love to make all kinds of music and just experiment with sound," he declares. "And Lambchop is nothing if not an experiment in sound. And because half the songs are old and half the songs are new, I wrote the newer ones with Lambchop in mind specifically."
The new album is Chesnutt's first step on the road toward a broader, more ambitious future. He is already in the planning stages for a number of possible collaborations, and is involved in writing an album with some of his local Athens compatriots. "They're writing the music, and I'm putting down the words and singing the melody on it," he remarks. "It's really been fun because it's so different from what I've done before. I'm trying to turn it into my high school play, my high school musical.


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Tagged: dropdown, menu, overlapping, text
July 21, 2010 at 7:47 pm #194
the text of the 2th level menu (dropdown) is overlapping with the first level menu, if the description of the menu "SECOND" has 2 lines.
See here:
Any workaround to solve this?
Thanks.July 22, 2010 at 8:47 am #30237
you can edit the top value of the ul that is positioning the whole menu in style.css:
#top #catnav ul {
increase the top value and the menu will move down ;)July 22, 2010 at 8:54 am #30238
Thanks a lot, works fine; I've set the "top" to 74px, now it works fine.July 30, 2010 at 11:47 pm #30239
hello Kriesi,
here i am bothering you again :(
i am having the same issue, where do i find the style.css file?
i see there is one inside wp-content/display and one inside wp-content/display2, but in either one i cannot find the line #top #catnav ul {
besides this i would like to reduce the space between the menu item description lines.
if you look at the picture posted by clorit, it is the space between lines saying "Fotografie und Fotokuns"
how can i do that?
thank you for your help!August 1, 2010 at 3:07 pm #30240
The style.css file is in the root of the active themes folder.
The code provided for @colorit was for the Newscast theme, I take it you're using Display?
If so, can you provide a link and screenshot.August 2, 2010 at 11:26 am #30241
hi James,
thank you for the reply.
yes i am using display.
here is the link to my website:
if you mouse over the "parts catalog" you can see where the overlapping is
i would like to fix the overlapping moving down the drop down menu.
also i would like to reduce the space between the 2 menu item description lines (the space between "custom sportbike & streetfighter parts).
can you please point out where i should edit the style.css file?
also is it the file inside wp-content/themes/display or wp-content/themes/display2?
thank you for your help!August 2, 2010 at 9:16 pm #30242
I see the problem. Add this code to the end of style.css:
#top #nav ul { top: 66px !important; }
This will move the sub-navigation down to just under the second line of description text.
From the source code of your site, it should be in the display2 folder.
JamesAugust 3, 2010 at 12:17 pm #30243
thank you!!!
the other thing i would like to do is to reduce the space between the lines with the smaller font, the space between the first and the second lines. for example the space between "Eurocomponents" and "Company Info" and again the space between "New Sportbike &" and "Streetfighter Parts" and so on.
LorenzoAugust 3, 2010 at 2:05 pm #30244
Sure, just add this to the end of style.css:
#nav li a span { line-height: 12px; }
You can adjust the 12px height to anything you like (the font size is 10px so should be at least 11px so there is some gap between lines).August 3, 2010 at 3:35 pm #30245
Thank you James!!!
Thank you for the great service, you are the best!
Have a good day.
LorenzoAugust 11, 2010 at 4:22 pm #30246
Hello James,
I have just realized that also the submenus need to be lined up.
Please go to:
Mouse over: Parts Catalog
And then mouse over: Hand Controls >
As you can see Brake Controls, Cable Clutch Controls and Hydraulic Clutch Controls are not lining up properly.
Please let me know where I should edit in the style.css file.
Again thank you for your help!August 11, 2010 at 6:21 pm #30247
Ok, the previous !important tag interfered with this.
Add this to the end of style.css:
#top #nav li ul ul { top:-1px !important; }
This should solve the alignment issue :)
Best regards,
JamesAugust 12, 2010 at 8:06 pm #30248
Everything works great now.
Thank you!!!
LorenzoAugust 14, 2010 at 4:27 pm #30249
Hi James,
I hate to be such a pain in your butt, but I am running into something else I would like to change…
for seo purposes I need to have pretty look descriptions.
Please check Parts Catalog / Fluid Tanks & Reservoirs
In the submenu that opens up on the right, I would like to reduce the space between the lines (for example the space between the lines "Universal Motorcycle Fluid" and "Tanks").
Thank you again for all your help!
LorenzoAugust 17, 2010 at 12:24 pm #30250
The line height is dictated by this code in style.css (around line 128):
#top #nav ul a {
Change 28px to a smaller value (eg 20px) to adjust the line height.August 18, 2010 at 1:38 pm #30251
thank you again!!!
The topic 'Text of 2th level menu is overlapping with 1st level menu' is closed to new replies.


text: Hi all, I'm new to this list, as well as to haskell, so this question probably has "newbie" written all over it. I'm thinking of a way to represent a set of reals, say the reals between 0.0 and 1.0. Right now I am just using a pair of Float to represent the lower and upper bounds of the set, but i have this dark throbbing feeling that there should be a more haskellish way to do this, using laziness. List comprehensions are out it seems, because they increment with integer steps... (obviously). In other words, 0.5 `inSet` (Set [0.0..1.0]) returns False. I'm sure someone must have hit this problem before me and found a way around it. any suggestions greatly appreciated, regards, stijn.


text:
better-plugin-compatibility-control/readme.txt file not updated
This plug-in seems to work great. This is just a little note on you better-plugin-compatibility-control/readme.txt file.
It seams this plug-in uses the readme.txt file to show what versions of WordPress other plug-in have been tested with, in the Dashboard>Plug-ins area. Yet the "better-plugin-compatibility-control" plug-in suffers from the same issue as many other plug-ins, identified by your plug-in.
Your readme.txt file shows:
Requires at least: 2.5
Tested up to: 3.0-rare
If you have tested it this plug-in upto 3.0.1, it should read:
Requires at least: 2.5
Tested up to: 3.0.1
Before you ask, I do know where to change this at, but it is a hassle. A bunch of plug-in developers seem to forget this one little spot.
- The topic 'better-plugin-compatibility-control/readme.txt file not updated' is closed to new replies.


text:
Why Florida Gators, USF fell off my AP Top 25 ballot
The AP Top 25 voting guidelines are simple: Base your decisions on performance, not reputation. So that's what I did after the first full weekend of games. And that's why the Florida Gators and USF both fell out of my top 25.
UF was a pretty easy choice. The Gators were dominated (again) by Michigan's lines. Maybe the Wolverines are a great, top-10 team, but I'm not sure yet. In the meantime, I don't think the Gators deserve the benefit of the doubt - not as long as their best offense remains a pick-six.
The Bulls were tougher, but a 31-17 win over Stony Brook (in a game that was closer than the score suggests) is inexcusable for a ranked team. Here are the other results from teams that were ranked (or received votes) against Division I-AA foes:
Miami won 41-13
Kansas State won 55-19
Washington State won 31-0
Utah won 37-16
TCU won 63-0
Oregon won 77-21
Pitt won 28-21 (in overtime)
The only comparable result was Pitt - which beat a Bo Pelini-coached Youngstown State team that reached the I-AA title game last season. Stony Brook went 5-7.
I also graded USF harsher because it was their second underwhelming performance. Coaches usually tell you that a team makes the biggest growth between the first game and the second one. If that's USF's growth, then a perfect season seems unreachable.
Florida State fell from second to sixth on my ballot. The defense is as good as advertised. Special teams, obviously, were a mess, and the offense had issues, even before Deondre Francois hurt his knee. I ignored the injury in this week's rankings, because I don't have any performances from James Blackman to judge. He could be overwhelmed as a true freshman. He could also be the next Jalen Hurts. I don't know yet, so I'm tabling that discussion until next week's rankings, when I'll have something to evaluate.
I used my preseason rankings as a reference, not a guide. I didn't dismiss them, but I leaned heavily on performance over preseason expectations. The big risers were LSU (from 12th to fifth) and Virginia Tech (from 25th to 17th). Welcome UCLA, Notre Dame and the fightin' Muschamps. Farewell Gators, Bulls and Texas.
1. Alabama
2. Clemson
3. Ohio State
4. Oklahoma
7. Penn State
8. Oklahoma State
10. Washington
11. Auburn
12. Michigan
13. Wisconsin
14. Stanford
15. Georgia
16. Miami
17. Virginia Tech
18. Louisville
19. Tennessee
21. South Carolina
22. Kansas State
23. Washington State
25. Notre Dame


text:
A recent
Journal of the American Medical Association, has found that one in 10 new fathers suffer from "baby blues", not just mothers.
Researchers from
Eastern Virginia Medical Schoolfound that these new dads had symptoms suggesting depression during their partner's pregnancy or within a year of their baby's birth. While this rate is lower than with mothers, it is twice the usual rate of depression among men, which is estimated at 4.8%.
Although men don't go through the physical and hormonal changes that women do after giving birth, their lives can still be deeply changed by a newborn's arrival, reports
"What is interesting is that saying men have post-natal depression severs the link with biology. Men have not been pregnant, had the hormonal surges or given birth," Bridget O'Connell, a representative from the U.K. mental health charity Mind, told
In total, the researchers look at 43 studies with 28,004 parents (mothers and fathers) in 16 different countries, including Canada, U.K. and U.S.
The review also revealed a much greater risk of depression among fathers if their partners had depression, as well as, a higher risk in the 3-6 month postpartum period.
As a result of their findings, the researchers recommend that a diagnosis of depression in one parent should prompt screening for depression in the other.
"Likewise, prevention and intervention efforts for depression in parents might be focused on the couple and family rather than the individual," Dr. James Paulson and Sharnail Bazemore said in the review.


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Local author Gail Karwoski has been named Georgia Author of the Year for her book "Miracle: The True Story of the Wreck of the Sea Venture,'' which was chosen by the Georgia Public Library Service to represent the state of Georgia at the 2005 National Book Festival in Washington D.C. on Sept. 24.
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The festival is an annual event and will be hosted by First Lady Laura Bush. In addition, "Miracle" has been named as recommended reading for the upcoming 400th anniversary celebration of the settlement of Jamestown, Va., beginning May 2006 and continuing through 2007.
Karwoski's book is a narrative that begins in 1609 with a fleet of ships leaving England for the colony in Jamestown, Va. A hurricane scatters the fleet and one ship, the Sea Venture, with about 150 men, women and children, is shipwrecked on the island of Bermuda.
Karwoski, who formerly taught at Oconee County Elementary School, has written several well-received historical fiction books for young readers. Her Web site is www.gailkarwoski.com.
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text:
It's hard to capture in a drawing exactly how badass Charizard is, but Genzoman managed to do it. The Chilean artist, whom long-time Kotaku readers might know for his excellent video game-related art, apparently picked Charizard because it's his son's favorite Pokémon.
Some of the Greatest Video Game Pictures You'll Ever See
If you've been reading Kotaku for a while, you may already be familiar with the name Genzoman. Or, as his mother knows him, Gonzalo Ordoñez Arias. The Chilean illustrator, part of the illustrious Udon Crew, is responsible for some of the most amazing video game images on the internet.
Metroid's Zero Suit Samus Given the 'Genzoman' Treatment
GENZOMAN created one hell of a cover illustration for Screw Attack Magazine's Anniversary issue. Check out the alternative piece w/ full text here.
A Mega Man That's More Than Meets The Eye
Mega Man and the gang play a little game of King of the Hill in this killer entry for UDON's Mega Man Tribute Contest created by Joe Ng and GENZOMAN.


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About Us
One of the major Manufacturers and Suppliers of Laminated Sheets, Customized Laminated Sheets, Digital Laminated Sheets, Decorative Laminated Sheets, Digital Door Designs, Door Designs, Desk Designs, Printed Door Designs, Customized Door Designs, Games Designs, Promotional Products, Bed Designs, Wall Background Designs, Air Hockey Tables, Theme Room Designs, Promotional Hoardings, Name Plates, etc., YOUR Mica is the other name of quality. Established in the year 2010, we have been rendering unmatched Interior Designing and Promotional & Wooden Product Designing Solutions that is sure to exceed your expectations. In the year 2007, digital customized mica was introduced in the industry of gaming.
Our team of professionals utilizes innovative technology and technique to develop the designs that turn your home into dream home. Utilizing digital concepts, we create novel designs and blend apt colors to add a scintillating look to the interior of establishments. As every client is different and his requisites are also varied, hence we offer customization facilities to our valued patron. Under the guidance of Mr. Manish Aghara, our mentor, we have been meeting the needs of various sectors like furniture, furniture architect, furniture contractors, furniture dillards and dillboard.


text:
Ezra C Tunison
Found 10 Records, 10 Photos and 21,430 Family Trees
Born in Covert, Seneca, New York, USA on 17 Apr 1826 to Thomas Tunison and Anna Cole. He passed away on 23 Jul 1886 in Morenci, Lenawee, Michigan, USA.
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text:
Nortel, which has dominated the storage-over-WDM (wavelength-division multiplexing) market, is planning to provide FC-over-Sonet support for its OPTera Metro 5000 platforms sometime in the second quarter of 2003.
Most enterprises have several smaller, remote sites with SANs, but they don't want or need high-bandwidth WDM, says Jack Hunt, director of marketing in Nortel's optical storage connectivity division. "We're interested in enabling a lower-bandwidth storage-over-optical service," he says, "and we think Sonet is the best way to enable that."
Meanwhile, Cisco's on the storage-over-Sonet path, too, but it isn't revealing its plans in this area just yet. "You'll see storage over Sonet, at the OC3 and OC12 layers," says Carl Engineer, senior director of marketing for Cisco's optical networking group.
Cisco is developing FC-over-Sonet as a standalone system or as blades for its existing optical platforms. "Different solutions will be required by different customers," Engineer says. "For our installed base, a blade will be a good solution; if you're a smaller customer, a standalone box will be better."


text:
Skype just got some new features on the iPhone and iPad versions. An update for the iPhone app includes a feature that reduces shakiness of an outgoing Skype video chat, when you're using the rear-facing camera.
"So, if you're using Skype video to show friends and family what you're up to or where you are, the image they see will be less shaky," says Skype's Heather LeRoy.
It also gets Bluetooth support, so you can use Bluetooth-enabled headsets to make talk hands-free via Skype. "This will make life easier while you're on conference calls, on the road, or simply don't want to hold your iPhone or iPad in-hand," says LeRoy.
The update also introduces Skype's ad platform, but paying users can avoid seeing display ads.
The iPhone update also has a security fix.
The iPad update includes support for both iPad and iPad 2. The iPhone update supports iPhone 3G, 3GS, 4 and 2nd/3rd generation iPod Touches, as well as both iPads.


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- Pale-blue faded sleeveless denim vest. J.Crew vest has yellow stitching, a boxy cut, a small collar, burnished gold hardware, designer-stamped button fastenings through front, button-fastening tabs at back of hem, slight distressing and button-fastening flap patch pockets at front. 100% cotton. Machine wash cold inside out to avoid color transfer. Designer wash: Tinted Out.
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Turkey Creek Golf Club offers many different opportunities to begin and progress in the game of golf. We have price points and instruction styles to fit anyone, and strive to increase the population of golfers in our area. If you have not visited our course, please do so. We are a public facility with customer service levels that are unsurpassed even by private golf course standards. Our restaurant quality in food and staff, coupled with breathtaking views from our outdoor patio make Turkey Creek not only a great place to play golf, but also to spend the day!
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