Hairpats! Need hairpats! Bad day. Terrible day. Getting worse.

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To me, the weirdest thing is that the brain takes into account the lighting of the area when you see colors. Sometimes the lighting is different than what the brain thinks (due to, say, a yellow or brown light bulb in a basement), causing the person to see an object the wrong color. Then when the person realizes what color the lighting is, all of a sudden the person will see the object the correct color.

Some digital cameras try to figure out the lighting of a scene (natural, incandescent, fluorescent , etc) and adjust the image accordingly. If the camera is wrong, the whole picture is tinted some weird color. The brain does the same thing, but it's almost always right in its adjustment.

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How do you accidentally put poison on your apple?

Someone shoots it with a poison arrow? Hamlet's uncle is doing a little testing?

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Aw, Allyson, wasn't the pretty scientist today? Was that yesterday?

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Hairpats! Need hairpats! Bad day. Terrible day. Getting worse.

It is particularly pretty hair to pat...

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Another heartwarming Thanksgiving message from Mr. Ellis. Mostly because this bit:

Why don’t the Americans give each other blankets as Thanksgiving gifts?

reminded me... a friend reports that they do sell blankets at the Smithsonian's spiffy new Museum of the American Indian.

I imagine the store clerks have heard every joke about that 500 times now.

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Yesterday was pretty scientist. Today was stress so hard it crawled right up my back and twisted my spine with its icy fingers, and then there was a car accident on the way home, so I sat in traffic, bleeding the monthly tax on being female, and now I have to do laundry, find a way to pack potatoes, and my neighbor who is supposed to feed my cat is MIA and I need to give her a key.

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How do you accidentally put poison on your apple?

His mother said it was caused by improper storage of chemicals. I guess maybe he ate it in a lab? I don't know.

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That could be a topic for a slow afternoon - rate the suicides of famous intellectuals by how cool the suicide was.

I remember reading over my mother's shoulder when she was working on a poetry syllabus once, and realizing that you could have a whole trimester-long class on Female Poets in the 20th Century Who Killed Themselves.

Okay, it was really a matter of discovering on the same day that Virginia Woolf, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath had all done themselves in, as opposed to being hit accidentally by garbage trucks or dying of old age surrounded by eccentric grandchildren.

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Oh wait - now I remember. I think he was handling some chemical (cyanide?) and he got a little on his fingers. Then he touched the apple.

That's the theory, anyway.

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