Write one leaf about cleaning the refrigerator.

I’m not above cleaning. I’m not obsessive about it, but I do like the way a room feels after you have cleaned it up and are able to move around without bumping into things, or can sit down anywhere you want. I’m not a big fan of cleaning bathrooms, but will do it when needed. But kitchens are another story. Dishes, sure.  Wipe down counters, of course. Oven, if I have to. Refrigerator…  ughhh. Perhaps I have an irrational fear of refrigerators. I’ll get food from them when I’m hungry.  But its “in and out” as fast I can.  I really dislike how a refrigerator turns you into a contortionist just to get to the orange juice.  And what’s with the tiny shelf up high where yogurt regularly goes bad because the only way to see what’s up there is to strike weird yoga pose, so it’s easily forgotten. This is all doubly true about cleaning a refrigerator.  Not only do some really nasty (and I believe alien) lifeforms grow in there, but to clean them up you have to balance on one hand while cleaning with the other, the whole time steadying yourself with one foot on the windowsill and another on the door.  It’s unreasonable.  And icky.  I don’t like it.

(encouraged by writeoneleaf)

Hive: A Very Cool Tabletop Game

The following article was lifted with minor changes from Wikipedia…

Hive is a bug-themed tabletop game, designed by John Yianni and published in 2001 by Gen Four Two. The object of Hive is to capture the opponent’s queen bee by completely surrounding it, while avoiding the capture of one’s own queen. Hive is an abstract strategy game.

Hive shares elements of both tile-based games and board games. It differs from other tile-based games in that the tiles, once placed, can then be moved to other positions according to various rules, much like chess pieces. Thus, the game has mechanics comparable to an abstract strategy board game and is marketed in that genre. It does not fit the classical definition, however, as there is no gameboard involved; the pieces are simply placed on some relatively flat surface.

The game uses hexagonal tiles to represent the various contents of the hive. The original two editions used wooden tiles with full-color insect illustrations on blue and silver stickers to represent the units, but the current third edition has been published using black and white Bakelite tiles with single-color painted etchings.

There are 22 pieces in total making up a Hive set, with 11 pieces per player, each representing an insect and a different means of moving (the colors listed are for the third edition of the game; the first and second used full-color drawings):

1 Queen Bee (Yellow-Gold)

2 Spiders (Brown)

2 Beetles (Purple)

3 Grasshoppers (Green)

3 Soldier Ants (Blue)

In addition, the game is packaged with a travel bag (a black drawstring bag for older editions; a nylon zippered case for the current version) to make the game more portable. Given the durability of the tiles and the lack of a board, the game is marketed as a “go-anywhere” game that simply needs a relatively flat surface on which to place pieces.

Write one leaf about your lucky number.

Thirteen. I love the number 13. It has the power to freak out entire cultures, churn the superstitions of the gullible & alter the very structure of our greatest monuments… and yet it’s only a number, with no more ties to misfortune then the number 4 in China and Japan, 17 in Italy and 87 in Australia (that’s weird). When you’re born a fluke, you naturally flaunt your disrespect of the superstitious. Sure, odd things will happen.  Inexplicable events will disrupt, even damage, your life. But with 6 billion people living in this world, experiencing hundreds of events, large and small, everyday, the odds are good that bad things will happen that are associated with the number 4, 13, 17 or even 87 (seriously, that’s a weird number to fear).  There will also be unfortunate events associated with the number 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, and 7… yes, even lucky number seven.  Its called probability.

Yes, 13 rocks. Especially thirteen pennies.

(encouraged by writeoneleaf)

Write one leaf about bookmarks.

Yesterday I dug out Nick Bantok’s The Egyptian Jukebox and once again sat down to try and solve this book-long visual puzzle. I purchased it over ten years ago and have tried two other times to crack its mystery. My reward has always been frustration. I’m pretty good with puzzles, especially the kind that challenge me to decipher clues.  But for whatever reason, the key to this puzzle eluded me.  When I opened the book last evening — comfortably settled in bed, cat curled up beside me, confident that I would be successful in my latest attempt — a blue index card scribbled with notes fluttered out. It had been marking the introductory inscription and landed in my lap beneath an important clue.  I had read this clue before, probably a hundred times, each time failing to grasp its meaning. Needing a starting point, I went back and forth from the clue to each puzzle and it slowly dawned on me that I had completely misinterpreted an obvious element. Without the bookmark, I presume I would have ended the evening irritatedly shoving this book back into the box where I had discovered it. Instead, I realized, the key to the puzzle turned out to be serendipity.

(encouraged by writeoneleaf)