Osvaldo's comment on the chipotle post has got me thinking of another thing that has always bugged me. Why oh why do we have different names for cities in foreign countries? Cities that already have their own perfectly perfect names, thank you very much!
I mean, I could understand if we had to spell the names differently, so that an english-speaker could look at the word and approximate the sound of the native pronounciation. But that's not what happens; it's like we create a whole other word, sounding nothing like the original name.
Like, what the hell is up with Munich?! Not the least bit like Munchen.
And Koln and Cologne. -Why even bother to mess with the spelling on that one? All that 'gne' crap just makes it more confusing.
And the Bodensee being the Lake of Constance?! Is 'Bodensee' really that hard to say?!
(Of course, so far I've only cited examples from Germany, but still.)
I'll add more examples once I can get home and look at my atlas.
If someone can explain to me the logic in having double names for the same place, I'd love to hear it!
12/19/07
12/17/07
flying in a plane and calling people on the phone
the two things that don't seem to get easier no matter how many times I do them.
12/16/07
nope, there were four creepy places
The really really last:
El Valle de los Caidos [Valley of the Fallen], near Madrid. It's a monument to Franco (and I think he's buried there... or mausoleumed there, whatever, as well). It was built by republican [anti-Franco] political prisoners between 1940 and 1950-something. Anyone would get chills just looking at the place. If you ever go there, I recommend a hot tub, massage, sweat bath, and therapy session afterwards, just to regain equilibrium.
El Valle de los Caidos [Valley of the Fallen], near Madrid. It's a monument to Franco (and I think he's buried there... or mausoleumed there, whatever, as well). It was built by republican [anti-Franco] political prisoners between 1940 and 1950-something. Anyone would get chills just looking at the place. If you ever go there, I recommend a hot tub, massage, sweat bath, and therapy session afterwards, just to regain equilibrium.
a conversation with Tyler (who is 5)
T - What's this, what's this thing?
Me - That's my book.
T - Why is it here? Why did you bring it? What kind of book is it? Will you read it? Read it, read it to me!
Me - Well, I'm not sure you'll like it too much.
T - Read it, read it please!
[He hands me the book, settles himself next to me and looks over my shoulder at the pages.]
Me - Ok. Umm... "More often than not, Hector finds himself at the bottom of the social ladder. He is married in only two of his films (Hearth and Home and Mr. Nobody), and except for the private detective he plays in The Snoop and his role as a traveling magician in Cowpokes, he is a working stiff toiling for others in humble, low-salaried jobs."
T - [getting up and walking away] Eeegghhh! No, it's not very good!
Me - That's my book.
T - Why is it here? Why did you bring it? What kind of book is it? Will you read it? Read it, read it to me!
Me - Well, I'm not sure you'll like it too much.
T - Read it, read it please!
[He hands me the book, settles himself next to me and looks over my shoulder at the pages.]
Me - Ok. Umm... "More often than not, Hector finds himself at the bottom of the social ladder. He is married in only two of his films (Hearth and Home and Mr. Nobody), and except for the private detective he plays in The Snoop and his role as a traveling magician in Cowpokes, he is a working stiff toiling for others in humble, low-salaried jobs."
T - [getting up and walking away] Eeegghhh! No, it's not very good!
12/14/07
Bresee's #3
There are only two other places I can think of that have given me that same sad-sick feeling as the dream about Bresee's.
One is Mrs. Winchester's bedroom, in the Winchester house in San Jose, CA. They've left it just as it was after the earthquake hit on the morning of April 18, 1906; all crumbling plaster, with the wood laths showing through.
The other is El Alcazar in Toledo, Spain, where there's a room whose walls are still full of bullet holes from a dramatic seige during the civil war.
History in decay is just generally disturbing to me, I guess. Or is it the places themselves?
(later:) No, no, wait, I lied - there are three places-
The last was an old barn near Milford, NY that houses an antique shop. I stood the atmosphere long enough to buy an Edison Amberol cylinder recording of Will Oakland and Chorus singing Take This Letter to My Mother, and then I had to leave. It was just too oppressive.
-That was 20 years ago, and I still feel a bit ill when I think about it. I tried to go back once, a few years ago; after all, it is a kick-ass antique shop. But I literally couldn't bring myself to step inside. It was a beautiful sunny summer day, and I walked right up to the open barn doorway. But it felt like there was some huge negative energy vortex swirling just inside the door. I turned around and left.
Again, weird.
One is Mrs. Winchester's bedroom, in the Winchester house in San Jose, CA. They've left it just as it was after the earthquake hit on the morning of April 18, 1906; all crumbling plaster, with the wood laths showing through.
The other is El Alcazar in Toledo, Spain, where there's a room whose walls are still full of bullet holes from a dramatic seige during the civil war.
History in decay is just generally disturbing to me, I guess. Or is it the places themselves?
(later:) No, no, wait, I lied - there are three places-
The last was an old barn near Milford, NY that houses an antique shop. I stood the atmosphere long enough to buy an Edison Amberol cylinder recording of Will Oakland and Chorus singing Take This Letter to My Mother, and then I had to leave. It was just too oppressive.
-That was 20 years ago, and I still feel a bit ill when I think about it. I tried to go back once, a few years ago; after all, it is a kick-ass antique shop. But I literally couldn't bring myself to step inside. It was a beautiful sunny summer day, and I walked right up to the open barn doorway. But it felt like there was some huge negative energy vortex swirling just inside the door. I turned around and left.
Again, weird.
siren
Someone told me once that songwriters write lyrics first, and then compose the melody to go with them. That seems totally backwards to me. Whenever I've made up a song, it's always the music that comes first. Not, of course, that I could by any stretch of the imagination be called a 'song-writer'. And maybe that's why - I've been going about it wrong all these years! Well, whaddyaknow.
Bresee's #2
For years I have had a recurring dream/nightmare of walking through Bresee's Department Store after it was closed (which I never did in real life).
The rooms are dimly-lit, and full of dusty displays and ancient merchandise. Somehow I always find myself in the upstairs hallway by the Salon. In the dream, I look up and see brown water-stains on the walls from years of roof-leaks, sagging ceiling tiles, paint chips suspended like paper graffiti in hanging strands of cobweb, strips of water-logged wallpaper all over the floor.
It's always the same, and always very creepy, and I wake up with a sad-sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Weird.
The rooms are dimly-lit, and full of dusty displays and ancient merchandise. Somehow I always find myself in the upstairs hallway by the Salon. In the dream, I look up and see brown water-stains on the walls from years of roof-leaks, sagging ceiling tiles, paint chips suspended like paper graffiti in hanging strands of cobweb, strips of water-logged wallpaper all over the floor.
It's always the same, and always very creepy, and I wake up with a sad-sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Weird.
Bresee's
The other Christmas album... albums... I liked were by Mannheim Steamroller.
But for some reason, every time I listen to Mannheim Steamroller, I see myself sitting on the rug in front of the stereo in my host-family's house in Santander, Spain, looking at the LP album cover of Supertramp's Breakfast in America.
Go figure.
But for some reason, every time I listen to Mannheim Steamroller, I see myself sitting on the rug in front of the stereo in my host-family's house in Santander, Spain, looking at the LP album cover of Supertramp's Breakfast in America.
Go figure.
CHIPOTLE
How do You pronounce it?!
I find it fascinating that people don't seem to know what to do with that word.
Must be a cultural defect. Like asparagus.
I find it fascinating that people don't seem to know what to do with that word.
Must be a cultural defect. Like asparagus.
I love chocolate
all kinds-
every kind of chocolate concoction there is.
But I don't like Butterfinger candybars. Ick.
Must be a genetic defect. Like cilantro.
every kind of chocolate concoction there is.
But I don't like Butterfinger candybars. Ick.
Must be a genetic defect. Like cilantro.
Christmas
Some little-known facts about me:
For two holiday seasons I worked in the Christmas Shop at Bresee's Department Store. I decorated all the fake trees, and created the product displays, and I got to hang out with Santa! I took photos of all the kids when they came to see Him, and I dressed up as Mrs. Claus, complete with wire-rimmed glasses and a weird moldy-smelling bonnet.
And I had to listen to Christmas carols for 7 hours a day, which is why I know all the verses by heart.
My favorite album was Christmas Rock:
DECK the (crash)
HALLS!
with (crash)
BOUGHS of HOL-LY!
FA la la la
LA!
la
LA!
la
LA! LA!
For two holiday seasons I worked in the Christmas Shop at Bresee's Department Store. I decorated all the fake trees, and created the product displays, and I got to hang out with Santa! I took photos of all the kids when they came to see Him, and I dressed up as Mrs. Claus, complete with wire-rimmed glasses and a weird moldy-smelling bonnet.
And I had to listen to Christmas carols for 7 hours a day, which is why I know all the verses by heart.
My favorite album was Christmas Rock:
DECK the (crash)
HALLS!
with (crash)
BOUGHS of HOL-LY!
FA la la la
LA!
la
LA!
la
LA! LA!
12/13/07
quote of the week #7
(David Gray)
Grant me a wish, just one more kiss
And baby, kiss me till the daylight's through
These are days of make-believe
But there ain't nothing any fool can do
Grant me a wish, just one more kiss
And baby, kiss me till the daylight's through
These are days of make-believe
But there ain't nothing any fool can do
11/29/07
the case of the missing sauce
My friend Mark, at first glance, can strike people as a serious personality, soft-spoken and gentle, so that it can sometimes take awhile to realize that he's also outrageously funny. And every so often he does something or says something that is so... just completely, 100% him, that it totally cracks me up and makes me want to run over and give him a huge hug.
This was one of those times -
At the end of the summer, Mark and Janice came to visit me in Oneonta. Janice had brought some home-made spaghetti sauce (she makes really good sauce, thick with meat) for our dinner the next night.
When Janice and I got up in the morning, we found this little note Mark had left us on the kitchen counter, documenting the various stages of his midnight snacking:
This was one of those times -
At the end of the summer, Mark and Janice came to visit me in Oneonta. Janice had brought some home-made spaghetti sauce (she makes really good sauce, thick with meat) for our dinner the next night.
When Janice and I got up in the morning, we found this little note Mark had left us on the kitchen counter, documenting the various stages of his midnight snacking:
11/27/07
K8's not-yet-patented hiccup cure
I feel I should post this, just to prove that I thought of it first.
This is my cure for hiccups; it has never failed.
NEVER, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! Not once on the gazillion people I've told about it. Nor ever on myself, since I came up with it 15 years ago.
I developed this cure on my very own, based on the completely unsound reasoning that your body will avoid drowning at all costs.
Yeah, I know it doesn’t make sense. But it produced good results, so stop complaining!
So I have decided to share my wisdom with the world at large, because I do not like to see good people suffer needlessly.
Here are the steps:
1) Develop a bad case of hiccups.
2) Exhale completely.
3) While continuing to hold all the air out of your lungs, put a glass of water to your lips and start drinking. Swallow rapidly and continuously, as if you were guzzling the water, but only take in a small amount of water with each swallow. Do not swallow any air, if you can help it.
4) Do this until you feel like you absolutely HAVE to take a breath.
5) Allow yourself to breathe in slowly.
6) Enjoy your lack of hiccups.
This is my cure for hiccups; it has never failed.
NEVER, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! Not once on the gazillion people I've told about it. Nor ever on myself, since I came up with it 15 years ago.
I developed this cure on my very own, based on the completely unsound reasoning that your body will avoid drowning at all costs.
Yeah, I know it doesn’t make sense. But it produced good results, so stop complaining!
So I have decided to share my wisdom with the world at large, because I do not like to see good people suffer needlessly.
Here are the steps:
1) Develop a bad case of hiccups.
2) Exhale completely.
3) While continuing to hold all the air out of your lungs, put a glass of water to your lips and start drinking. Swallow rapidly and continuously, as if you were guzzling the water, but only take in a small amount of water with each swallow. Do not swallow any air, if you can help it.
4) Do this until you feel like you absolutely HAVE to take a breath.
5) Allow yourself to breathe in slowly.
6) Enjoy your lack of hiccups.
the road to religion
I used to live in Redwood City, CA.
["CLIMATE BEST BY GOVERNMENT TEST" (said the big sign over the main street)]
One place that Rob and I used to eat breakfast was the 'Francis St. Cafe'.
I called it the "Francis Saint Cafe" because... well, cause that's what I thought it was.
Later Rob gently (and somewhat apologetically; I think he was afraid of dampening my enthusiasm for the place) explained to me that the 'St.' was most likely short for "street".
And I felt kinda stupid.
But the thing is, there IS a Saint Francis Street in Redwood City.
So, would that be St. Francis St.?!
["CLIMATE BEST BY GOVERNMENT TEST" (said the big sign over the main street)]
One place that Rob and I used to eat breakfast was the 'Francis St. Cafe'.
I called it the "Francis Saint Cafe" because... well, cause that's what I thought it was.
Later Rob gently (and somewhat apologetically; I think he was afraid of dampening my enthusiasm for the place) explained to me that the 'St.' was most likely short for "street".
And I felt kinda stupid.
But the thing is, there IS a Saint Francis Street in Redwood City.
So, would that be St. Francis St.?!
11/18/07
Sunday night
Sunday night.
Sunday night.
Means tomorrow is work.
Bummer.
It's been a long day. It's been one of those days where everything you have planned takes about 20 times as long as you think it will. Because in the course of doing what you have planned, everything else goes wrong. Like:
-In trying to prune back one of my plants, a branch swung back and knocked over the table that was supporting my stereo (3 components, 2 speakers). That CD player rolled more times than Bond's Aston Martin in the new Casino Royale. (It still seems to work, thankfully.)
-I severely bruised my arms and legs trying to carry an armchair that is so big and heavy that even a burly 6-foot-tall guy would have had a hard time carrying it alone. If someone had a video of me trying to maneuver the damn thing up the front staircase, it would have made #1 on America's Funniest Home Videos.
-Trying to get said chair into my bedroom, I knocked over my recently-watered spider plant, spraying dirt and water all over my wool jacket, a number of clean duvet covers, some clothes, a suitcase, and the rug.
-Trying not to step in the dirt, I tripped and broke the the foot off a wooden sculpture.
-I then went to my dad's house to get the keys to his truck so I could take some stuff to the Salvation Army. There were some people there, and I got stuck talking to them. I finally got away and went out to the truck, only to find that its bed was full to the top with leaves; completely unusable.
And that doesn't even count what happened last night! I had dropped my friend Kristin off at her house and was pulling away from the curb when I suddenly heard an ominous dragging-metal sound. Pulling over, I saw that the center exhaust pipe on my car had fallen, rusted through apparently, and that it had dropped, not at the back (which at least would have allowed me to drive home, albeit slowly), but from the front, so it was going up against every bump in the road. So, alone there on the dark street, I took a canoe paddle out of my car (luckily I am someone who keeps a canoe paddle in her car; just in case, you know) and I crouched down in the gutter, and like some homicidal maniac with a vendetta, I snarlingly smashed away at the other end of the pipe with the paddle, over and over, until it was crushed enough that I could twist it with my hands and pull it off. I mean, jeepers!
Come to think of it, work might actually be a welcome break.
Sunday night.
Means tomorrow is work.
Bummer.
It's been a long day. It's been one of those days where everything you have planned takes about 20 times as long as you think it will. Because in the course of doing what you have planned, everything else goes wrong. Like:
-In trying to prune back one of my plants, a branch swung back and knocked over the table that was supporting my stereo (3 components, 2 speakers). That CD player rolled more times than Bond's Aston Martin in the new Casino Royale. (It still seems to work, thankfully.)
-I severely bruised my arms and legs trying to carry an armchair that is so big and heavy that even a burly 6-foot-tall guy would have had a hard time carrying it alone. If someone had a video of me trying to maneuver the damn thing up the front staircase, it would have made #1 on America's Funniest Home Videos.
-Trying to get said chair into my bedroom, I knocked over my recently-watered spider plant, spraying dirt and water all over my wool jacket, a number of clean duvet covers, some clothes, a suitcase, and the rug.
-Trying not to step in the dirt, I tripped and broke the the foot off a wooden sculpture.
-I then went to my dad's house to get the keys to his truck so I could take some stuff to the Salvation Army. There were some people there, and I got stuck talking to them. I finally got away and went out to the truck, only to find that its bed was full to the top with leaves; completely unusable.
And that doesn't even count what happened last night! I had dropped my friend Kristin off at her house and was pulling away from the curb when I suddenly heard an ominous dragging-metal sound. Pulling over, I saw that the center exhaust pipe on my car had fallen, rusted through apparently, and that it had dropped, not at the back (which at least would have allowed me to drive home, albeit slowly), but from the front, so it was going up against every bump in the road. So, alone there on the dark street, I took a canoe paddle out of my car (luckily I am someone who keeps a canoe paddle in her car; just in case, you know) and I crouched down in the gutter, and like some homicidal maniac with a vendetta, I snarlingly smashed away at the other end of the pipe with the paddle, over and over, until it was crushed enough that I could twist it with my hands and pull it off. I mean, jeepers!
Come to think of it, work might actually be a welcome break.
11/15/07
the ineffectual elite
I was at Barnes & Noble the other day, and I had plenty of time to mill around the Starbucks coffee bar, since my friend Janice (who was in shock from having just slammed the door of my car on her finger) was alternately sipping her grande carmel frappuccino and putting her head between her knees so she wouldn't faint.
Being a good friend, I left her at the table and was going through the line buying coffee for myself and hungrily eyeing the huge oatmeal-raisin cookies, when something caused me to swing my gaze the opposite direction. And my eyes fastened on a big cardboard display of classics - Hemingway, Dickens, Poe - that had large lettering on the top that said "WHOM DO YOU WANT TO HAVE COFFEE WITH?"
I guess the idea was you buy the book and drink your coffee and feel somehow like you're having a conversation with these great authors.
But I thought, like, what the heck? If they can get the 'whom' part right, can't they at least put the 'with' in front? And if they're putting the 'with' vernacularly at the end, they should've just stuck with 'who'; it would have made the whole thing a lot easier to look at.
Sez I.
Being a good friend, I left her at the table and was going through the line buying coffee for myself and hungrily eyeing the huge oatmeal-raisin cookies, when something caused me to swing my gaze the opposite direction. And my eyes fastened on a big cardboard display of classics - Hemingway, Dickens, Poe - that had large lettering on the top that said "WHOM DO YOU WANT TO HAVE COFFEE WITH?"
I guess the idea was you buy the book and drink your coffee and feel somehow like you're having a conversation with these great authors.
But I thought, like, what the heck? If they can get the 'whom' part right, can't they at least put the 'with' in front? And if they're putting the 'with' vernacularly at the end, they should've just stuck with 'who'; it would have made the whole thing a lot easier to look at.
Sez I.
advice
...all of which leads me to say something else-
If you really want to annoy me, here's what you do: Catch me singing or humming to myself sometime, and then click your tongue and smile wisely and say loudly and knowingly to the world-at-large, "Well, I can tell Kate's in a good mood this morning!"
If you really want to annoy me, here's what you do: Catch me singing or humming to myself sometime, and then click your tongue and smile wisely and say loudly and knowingly to the world-at-large, "Well, I can tell Kate's in a good mood this morning!"
Quite awhile ago, I said that often my brain, all on its own, will go out and select a song with lyrics appropriate to whatever I'm going through at the moment, to give me perspective or deeper understanding, or just to help me focus on my feelings and reactions to things. Oftentimes it's just a piece of a song that plays over and over.
And since Laura's death, it's been a little bit of a David Gray song. The rest of the song doesn't fit at all; I think it's actually a frustrated love song. But taken out of context, the lines my brain keeps playing for me fit exactly:
And as I watch you leave I stand
Inside my house of straw
And everywhere I go I find
Things recollecting to my mind
....
Each word it flies
Straight to the heart and I know
Watching you go
There ain't no easy way to cry
And since Laura's death, it's been a little bit of a David Gray song. The rest of the song doesn't fit at all; I think it's actually a frustrated love song. But taken out of context, the lines my brain keeps playing for me fit exactly:
And as I watch you leave I stand
Inside my house of straw
And everywhere I go I find
Things recollecting to my mind
....
Each word it flies
Straight to the heart and I know
Watching you go
There ain't no easy way to cry
11/11/07
well....
A lot has happened between the last post and this. Or, rather, a lot happened awhile ago, while we were all unsuspecting, and now we've heard about it, and the world is upside-down.
But I'd planned on writing 3 posts tonight (4-hour car rides are great for thinking) and this one was going to be about things I want to get done before the end of the year.
And it still is about that. And it feels important to write it all down; even more important than it felt before, when I was in the car.
Before January 1, 2008 I would like to:
-write a song and record myself singing it
-send thank-you cards to everyone I'm thankful to for things I haven't yet formally thanked them for.
-lose 10 pounds (I'd be happy with 5)
-do yoga and reiki almost every day
-finish the quilt I started last year
-finish at least one of the 5 scarves that I started last year
-finish at least SOMETHING goddamnit!
-read a book I haven't read before, about something besides mystery and crime
-give more people more hugs
-figure out the part of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata that I started learning about 8 years ago and still can't play on the piano - I want to grind away at it until I know it flat so I can play the whole thing through without stopping (goddamnit!) (I felt another bout of swearing was appropriate there, for emphasis.)
-So I can leave that and learn another piece.
-Before January 1, I would like to have my apartment look the way I want it, and be cleared out enough that it doesn't give me a headache every time I look around at all the stuff in it.
-I want to finish lining the jacket that I started lining about 6 months ago.
-I want to get more photographs up on my FLICKR account. Laura would like that.
-I want to spend more time focusing on what's in front of me.
(whatever that means)
-and tons of other things. I'll add them as they occur to me...
(additions:)
-hang new photos in my office at work
The word 'occur' always looks so naked to me with only one r. But I can't do much about that.
But I'd planned on writing 3 posts tonight (4-hour car rides are great for thinking) and this one was going to be about things I want to get done before the end of the year.
And it still is about that. And it feels important to write it all down; even more important than it felt before, when I was in the car.
Before January 1, 2008 I would like to:
-write a song and record myself singing it
-send thank-you cards to everyone I'm thankful to for things I haven't yet formally thanked them for.
-lose 10 pounds (I'd be happy with 5)
-do yoga and reiki almost every day
-finish the quilt I started last year
-finish at least one of the 5 scarves that I started last year
-finish at least SOMETHING goddamnit!
-read a book I haven't read before, about something besides mystery and crime
-give more people more hugs
-figure out the part of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata that I started learning about 8 years ago and still can't play on the piano - I want to grind away at it until I know it flat so I can play the whole thing through without stopping (goddamnit!) (I felt another bout of swearing was appropriate there, for emphasis.)
-So I can leave that and learn another piece.
-Before January 1, I would like to have my apartment look the way I want it, and be cleared out enough that it doesn't give me a headache every time I look around at all the stuff in it.
-I want to finish lining the jacket that I started lining about 6 months ago.
-I want to get more photographs up on my FLICKR account. Laura would like that.
-I want to spend more time focusing on what's in front of me.
(whatever that means)
-and tons of other things. I'll add them as they occur to me...
(additions:)
-hang new photos in my office at work
The word 'occur' always looks so naked to me with only one r. But I can't do much about that.
watch out for Santa Claus!
Driving home up I-81 tonight, I noticed that someone had gone up to each of the 'deer crossing' warning signs, and placed a round red reflector on the nose of each buck's silhouette. It gave the whole highway a very festive holiday air.
el dia de los muertos
November 2 having just passed (a holiday I feel is sorely lacking in our traditional US culture - we have need of remembrance; the need to acknowledge those who gave birth to us - and I mean that literally and figuratively. Our society is so individualistic, I think sometimes people start to believe that they are self-made! What a grand delusion!)
... Anyway, so I was thinking on the way home tonight about how grateful I am for all the people in my life, and it reminded me of something I wrote in high school about my mother's mother, Popi. I have the urge to put it in here, so I think I will:
Popi. Immediately I see her; the wrinkled, brown, smiling face. Her hair is short and curly, peppered grey-white. Her eyes are watery blue, yet unfaltering, and lined in wrinkles. When she smiles, I can see her long, crooked chipmunk teeth. But more often she is laughing; a warm, cackling sound, and she throws her head back as if to catch the joy between her lips. Her feet are planted firmly in Dr. Scholl's clogs, and thin, brown-speckled legs appear from under the brightly patterned Indian skirts of wrinkled cotton. These are fastened haphazardly with a safety-pin around her ample waist. Her cotton blouses of orange, yellow, pink, brown, are chosen for comfort, and hang out over her skirt, perhaps tamed by a woven belt or spare piece of brightly colored cloth. As she talks, gesturing, her rings and bracelets dance and sing, following the rise and fall of her voice.
Popi is my grandmother, but she doesn't seem like a "grandmother." She is my friend. She is ready to try anything - she likes the music I listen to, which my parents condemn as non-classical. I love to create, and she is always there to spur me on, suggesting new ways, different ideas, which I can either embroider or cut, making them uniquely mine. She is childlike, wondering as much as I do, dreaming, exploring. Perhaps it is through this that I find a link which does not exist with other adults. With Popi, adventures are always waiting to touch us with gentle green fingers.
Her car is a dark blue Volkswagon Bug. The inside is dirty cream-colored plastic which smells wonderfully familiar in the broiling sun. The glove compartment is always filled with hot, leathery dried prunes or apricots, which stick to the maps and other papers. In the morning, when Popi takes the car to the end of the driveway (which in reality is not all that long) for her morning paper, she calls to me, and lets me ride standing on the running board all the way, feeling the blue morning air on my cheeks. Sometimes she takes me to the Market Basket for groceries. As we drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, breathing the warm, salty sea-air, her skirt is impatiently pulled up to her thighs as we talk about our plans for the day. She always drives like this, unaware and uncaring that the state of her stretched and faded underwear is evident to passing drivers. If I ask, she will buy me gum, or an ice-cream cone at Swensen's, and we go to the park so I can practice on the monkey bars. We stay until my hands are red and blistered, and the sun has begun to drop behind the purple hills.
At night, stretched out in the big bed, I feel the gritty sand on my legs from yesterday at the beach, but I am warm and comfortable, surrounded by my friends, the cats. At first I am impatient, for Popi can never remember where she has put her glasses, or which pair is the one she wants. Finally, though, she reads to me; perhaps Harriet the Spy, or a favorite mystery. But soon her voice slows, the words stop, and I realize she is asleep, her glasses slipping to the end of her nose. I wake her, saying, "Popi, you're falling asleep!" "I'm doing no such thing", she replies gruffly, as if the very suggestion is offensive. Yet after a few more words, she snores. And soon we are both asleep in a land of cats, sand and crickets.
... Anyway, so I was thinking on the way home tonight about how grateful I am for all the people in my life, and it reminded me of something I wrote in high school about my mother's mother, Popi. I have the urge to put it in here, so I think I will:
Popi. Immediately I see her; the wrinkled, brown, smiling face. Her hair is short and curly, peppered grey-white. Her eyes are watery blue, yet unfaltering, and lined in wrinkles. When she smiles, I can see her long, crooked chipmunk teeth. But more often she is laughing; a warm, cackling sound, and she throws her head back as if to catch the joy between her lips. Her feet are planted firmly in Dr. Scholl's clogs, and thin, brown-speckled legs appear from under the brightly patterned Indian skirts of wrinkled cotton. These are fastened haphazardly with a safety-pin around her ample waist. Her cotton blouses of orange, yellow, pink, brown, are chosen for comfort, and hang out over her skirt, perhaps tamed by a woven belt or spare piece of brightly colored cloth. As she talks, gesturing, her rings and bracelets dance and sing, following the rise and fall of her voice.
Popi is my grandmother, but she doesn't seem like a "grandmother." She is my friend. She is ready to try anything - she likes the music I listen to, which my parents condemn as non-classical. I love to create, and she is always there to spur me on, suggesting new ways, different ideas, which I can either embroider or cut, making them uniquely mine. She is childlike, wondering as much as I do, dreaming, exploring. Perhaps it is through this that I find a link which does not exist with other adults. With Popi, adventures are always waiting to touch us with gentle green fingers.
Her car is a dark blue Volkswagon Bug. The inside is dirty cream-colored plastic which smells wonderfully familiar in the broiling sun. The glove compartment is always filled with hot, leathery dried prunes or apricots, which stick to the maps and other papers. In the morning, when Popi takes the car to the end of the driveway (which in reality is not all that long) for her morning paper, she calls to me, and lets me ride standing on the running board all the way, feeling the blue morning air on my cheeks. Sometimes she takes me to the Market Basket for groceries. As we drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, breathing the warm, salty sea-air, her skirt is impatiently pulled up to her thighs as we talk about our plans for the day. She always drives like this, unaware and uncaring that the state of her stretched and faded underwear is evident to passing drivers. If I ask, she will buy me gum, or an ice-cream cone at Swensen's, and we go to the park so I can practice on the monkey bars. We stay until my hands are red and blistered, and the sun has begun to drop behind the purple hills.
At night, stretched out in the big bed, I feel the gritty sand on my legs from yesterday at the beach, but I am warm and comfortable, surrounded by my friends, the cats. At first I am impatient, for Popi can never remember where she has put her glasses, or which pair is the one she wants. Finally, though, she reads to me; perhaps Harriet the Spy, or a favorite mystery. But soon her voice slows, the words stop, and I realize she is asleep, her glasses slipping to the end of her nose. I wake her, saying, "Popi, you're falling asleep!" "I'm doing no such thing", she replies gruffly, as if the very suggestion is offensive. Yet after a few more words, she snores. And soon we are both asleep in a land of cats, sand and crickets.
11/6/07
flexibilityness and maggots
So, having just told Jamie about how important I feel it is to stay flexible [and I mean that both physically and spiritually], I will go about clumsily defending my statement. But since it's almost midnight, this will be stream-of-consciousness style, and not terribly well thought-out.
The first thing I'll say is that in my mind, inflexibility goes hand-in-hand with the worst stuffy aspects of adulthood, and with getting old.
And I'll contradict myself later, but for now, I'm going to talk about the negative aspects of being stuck in your ways.
I can't tell you the number of times in my life that I've said to a friend, "Come watch this foreign film... come walking with me in the rain... let's go swimming tonight... try this weird looking pie, it's really good... trust me, I know a much prettier road... how 'bout some camping this weekend!... I LOVE this CD; let me play it for you.... there's an easier way to do that...." And they say, "No, I don't like having to read subtitles... oh, it's too cold... I have to get up early tomorrow... thanks, but I think I'll stick with the peach cobbler... I'd rather go the familiar way, so we don't get lost... I hate sleeping on the ground... no, I'd rather have something else - your music is weird!... well, but I've always done it this way...."
And I tolerantly accomodate their wishes. But deep down, I have to admit that it sorta pisses me off. Because when _they_ say, "I LOVE this CD; let me play it for you!" I say "SURE!" Even if I'm not quite sure. But then I talk myself into it; I think - awesome! First of all, I'll benefit by getting to experience something new, and maybe I'll like it! And secondly, listening to something this person has specifically chosen will give me more insight into what sorts of things they identify with, or are emotionally affected by, which gives me more insight into them. AND insight into the thing itself, and why it's appealing to people. Which is great!
And so it bugs me that, when they say no to _my_ suggestions, not only do I not get to hear the CD I want to listen to, but they're closing themselves off to a new experience. Without a second thought. They're choosing to limit their horizons.
And I don't mean to say that one CD will change a person's life, but when I think back over my own life, it's the times I've had other lifestyles and other viewpoints and unfamiliar ways of doing things thrust under my nose that I've felt my own life expanding; felt my understanding of human nature, and therefore of myself and the people I love, broadening. Whereas the times I've stuck to the known, my world stays small. More comfortable, maybe, but small.
And pretty soon, if you keep only sticking to the familiar, your little box will get tinier and tinier, and then even the common eggroll could start looking suspicious and menacing. What a tragedy!
(Of course, I admit that I make certain exceptions to my try-anything-new rule. Exceptions being: taking drugs, breaking the law, making torches out of cans of hairspray, violence, watching Saw III, animal cruelty, and eating anything that involves maggots or tripe.) (Of course, having already eaten both maggots and tripe, I can hardly say that I'm denying myself a new experience by avoiding them. So I'm safe. At least on that count. Although the maggots I ate were deep-fried. But I don't care what you say - there is NO WAY IN HELL I'm ever going to eat live maggots. At least, on purpose.) (Hmm... maggots always remind me of that scene in The Lost Boys....) Yeah, ok. Ok! I'm done with the maggots!
The flipside to this, of course, is that I've found that the people I'm most drawn to in life are the least flexible ones. The ones who state, stubbornly and unerringly, that they are who they are and that's who they are and ain't nobody gonna change them noway nohow.
And I find that the people who willingly go along with whatever I want to do make me nervous; I suspect them of humoring me. I suspect them of suffering on my behalf. It's disquieting. I'm not used to it. (Which probably means I should spend more time with those people, so I DO get used to it.)
But, yeah, so there's that.
And then there's also the thing where I begin to suspect that too much flexibility leads to a kind of lack of identity. Like, if you don't stand for something, you stand for nothing. Kinda thing. If you know what I mean.
I always think of that Philip Pullman series - the one that they're now making an [inevitably inadequate] movie from - where everyone has a 'daemon'; a sort of animal-familiar that's connected to them, soul-wise. And the kids' daemons can change shape, change animal, but as they get older the daemons stop changing all the time, and stick to being one particular animal.
Or like in the Madeline L'Engle book where the farandolae have to stop dancing madly around, and let themselves Deepen.
You know, like that.
Maybe if you stay too flexible, you don't allow yourself to Deepen. To grow up. To become Someone.
Or maybe that's not true. Maybe staying flexible keeps you alive. Brittle things break.
I don't know for sure. That's the thing about this - the more you do it, the more you see truth in everything, even conflicting opinions, so absolute truths become elusive; judgment seems passé.
So for now, flexibility seems like the way to go. Doing things I don't necessarily feel like doing, and finding the positive in them, seems like the way to go. And I'm trying my damndest to keep it up. It's hard sometimes, a lot of times, but it's worth it. So far.
The first thing I'll say is that in my mind, inflexibility goes hand-in-hand with the worst stuffy aspects of adulthood, and with getting old.
And I'll contradict myself later, but for now, I'm going to talk about the negative aspects of being stuck in your ways.
I can't tell you the number of times in my life that I've said to a friend, "Come watch this foreign film... come walking with me in the rain... let's go swimming tonight... try this weird looking pie, it's really good... trust me, I know a much prettier road... how 'bout some camping this weekend!... I LOVE this CD; let me play it for you.... there's an easier way to do that...." And they say, "No, I don't like having to read subtitles... oh, it's too cold... I have to get up early tomorrow... thanks, but I think I'll stick with the peach cobbler... I'd rather go the familiar way, so we don't get lost... I hate sleeping on the ground... no, I'd rather have something else - your music is weird!... well, but I've always done it this way...."
And I tolerantly accomodate their wishes. But deep down, I have to admit that it sorta pisses me off. Because when _they_ say, "I LOVE this CD; let me play it for you!" I say "SURE!" Even if I'm not quite sure. But then I talk myself into it; I think - awesome! First of all, I'll benefit by getting to experience something new, and maybe I'll like it! And secondly, listening to something this person has specifically chosen will give me more insight into what sorts of things they identify with, or are emotionally affected by, which gives me more insight into them. AND insight into the thing itself, and why it's appealing to people. Which is great!
And so it bugs me that, when they say no to _my_ suggestions, not only do I not get to hear the CD I want to listen to, but they're closing themselves off to a new experience. Without a second thought. They're choosing to limit their horizons.
And I don't mean to say that one CD will change a person's life, but when I think back over my own life, it's the times I've had other lifestyles and other viewpoints and unfamiliar ways of doing things thrust under my nose that I've felt my own life expanding; felt my understanding of human nature, and therefore of myself and the people I love, broadening. Whereas the times I've stuck to the known, my world stays small. More comfortable, maybe, but small.
And pretty soon, if you keep only sticking to the familiar, your little box will get tinier and tinier, and then even the common eggroll could start looking suspicious and menacing. What a tragedy!
(Of course, I admit that I make certain exceptions to my try-anything-new rule. Exceptions being: taking drugs, breaking the law, making torches out of cans of hairspray, violence, watching Saw III, animal cruelty, and eating anything that involves maggots or tripe.) (Of course, having already eaten both maggots and tripe, I can hardly say that I'm denying myself a new experience by avoiding them. So I'm safe. At least on that count. Although the maggots I ate were deep-fried. But I don't care what you say - there is NO WAY IN HELL I'm ever going to eat live maggots. At least, on purpose.) (Hmm... maggots always remind me of that scene in The Lost Boys....) Yeah, ok. Ok! I'm done with the maggots!
The flipside to this, of course, is that I've found that the people I'm most drawn to in life are the least flexible ones. The ones who state, stubbornly and unerringly, that they are who they are and that's who they are and ain't nobody gonna change them noway nohow.
And I find that the people who willingly go along with whatever I want to do make me nervous; I suspect them of humoring me. I suspect them of suffering on my behalf. It's disquieting. I'm not used to it. (Which probably means I should spend more time with those people, so I DO get used to it.)
But, yeah, so there's that.
And then there's also the thing where I begin to suspect that too much flexibility leads to a kind of lack of identity. Like, if you don't stand for something, you stand for nothing. Kinda thing. If you know what I mean.
I always think of that Philip Pullman series - the one that they're now making an [inevitably inadequate] movie from - where everyone has a 'daemon'; a sort of animal-familiar that's connected to them, soul-wise. And the kids' daemons can change shape, change animal, but as they get older the daemons stop changing all the time, and stick to being one particular animal.
Or like in the Madeline L'Engle book where the farandolae have to stop dancing madly around, and let themselves Deepen.
You know, like that.
Maybe if you stay too flexible, you don't allow yourself to Deepen. To grow up. To become Someone.
Or maybe that's not true. Maybe staying flexible keeps you alive. Brittle things break.
I don't know for sure. That's the thing about this - the more you do it, the more you see truth in everything, even conflicting opinions, so absolute truths become elusive; judgment seems passé.
So for now, flexibility seems like the way to go. Doing things I don't necessarily feel like doing, and finding the positive in them, seems like the way to go. And I'm trying my damndest to keep it up. It's hard sometimes, a lot of times, but it's worth it. So far.
11/5/07
some words about something, and a few more about anything
Well, I don't know what to write about, but I've got to write about something.
Firstly, because it's been too frickin' long since I've written anything.
Secondly, because my cousin Jamie just reminded me (by writing on his blog) that it's been too frickin' long since I've written anything.
Which, now that I look again, really amounts to the same thing.
The beautiful thing about being on vacation is not necessarily about what you do on said vacation, or who you're with, or where you go, or how long you're away. The beautiful thing is you're spending time in a place where all your 'to do' lists are completely irrelevant. A place where you're forced to be inefficient and meandering; forced to experience the present instead of getting lost in plans for the future. And especially, most importantly, a good vacation will take you out of yourself, stretch you out, dust you off, turn you over, give you a good, pounding, deep-tissue massage, and then allow you space and time to snap back to your natural shape.
Which feels so good and right that you don't even notice it. Until you try to fit back into the shape you were before you left.
And therein lies the lesson!
Firstly, because it's been too frickin' long since I've written anything.
Secondly, because my cousin Jamie just reminded me (by writing on his blog) that it's been too frickin' long since I've written anything.
Which, now that I look again, really amounts to the same thing.
The beautiful thing about being on vacation is not necessarily about what you do on said vacation, or who you're with, or where you go, or how long you're away. The beautiful thing is you're spending time in a place where all your 'to do' lists are completely irrelevant. A place where you're forced to be inefficient and meandering; forced to experience the present instead of getting lost in plans for the future. And especially, most importantly, a good vacation will take you out of yourself, stretch you out, dust you off, turn you over, give you a good, pounding, deep-tissue massage, and then allow you space and time to snap back to your natural shape.
Which feels so good and right that you don't even notice it. Until you try to fit back into the shape you were before you left.
And therein lies the lesson!
10/10/07
quote of the week #6
(Wordsworth)
When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop,
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude
When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop,
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude
10/8/07
song lyrics
D'ya ever have the thing where you go years misunderstanding or misinterpreting lyrics to a song, and then the real meaning finally hits you? It's a weird experience, and I just had it with the Beatles' song 'She Said She Said'.
The song is on Revolver, and I've always (since I started listening to it when I was 9) thought it was a quirky, dark little song. Particularly because it (according to the lyrics as I understood them) apparently dealt with the dissolution of a relationship between a guy, and a woman who at some point had had a sex change operation, which she was now regretting, since things had been better when she was a boy. And that as a result of this regret, she was now in the midst of a suicidal depression, and the guy, instead of being comforting and supportive, was ditching her because he was too immature and superficial to be able to deal with the depth of her emotions.
(That's some heavy s**t for a 9-year-old!)
And most of my erroneous conclusions were based on punctuation. Or, the lack thereof.
The actual line goes like this:
She said, "You don't understand what I said." I said "No, no, no, you're wrong." When I was a boy everything was right. Everything was right.
But the way I had always heard it was this:
She said, "You don't understand what I said; I said, 'No, no, no, you're wrong. When I was a boy, everything was right. Everything was right.'"
Phew!
The song is on Revolver, and I've always (since I started listening to it when I was 9) thought it was a quirky, dark little song. Particularly because it (according to the lyrics as I understood them) apparently dealt with the dissolution of a relationship between a guy, and a woman who at some point had had a sex change operation, which she was now regretting, since things had been better when she was a boy. And that as a result of this regret, she was now in the midst of a suicidal depression, and the guy, instead of being comforting and supportive, was ditching her because he was too immature and superficial to be able to deal with the depth of her emotions.
(That's some heavy s**t for a 9-year-old!)
And most of my erroneous conclusions were based on punctuation. Or, the lack thereof.
The actual line goes like this:
She said, "You don't understand what I said." I said "No, no, no, you're wrong." When I was a boy everything was right. Everything was right.
But the way I had always heard it was this:
She said, "You don't understand what I said; I said, 'No, no, no, you're wrong. When I was a boy, everything was right. Everything was right.'"
Phew!
10/5/07
quote of the week #5
(Indigo Girls)
...maybe that's all that we need
is to be in the middle of impossibility
standing at opposite poles
equal partners in a mystery
...maybe that's all that we need
is to be in the middle of impossibility
standing at opposite poles
equal partners in a mystery
quote of the week #4
(Zorba The Greek)
You think too much, that is your trouble.
Clever people and grocers, they weigh everything.
You think too much, that is your trouble.
Clever people and grocers, they weigh everything.
10/3/07
people
People are awkward things to be around.
Often uncomfortably so.
They're vulnerable, but they do a good job of masking it.
They have scripts, and walls, and maneuvers, and it's all very convincing.
But I find it discomforting. It keeps me out. It denies me a space.
It makes things unequal.
And it makes them seem intimidating; more than they are. Better than they are.
Better than me, for example.
It's hard not to believe the performance.
And for the most part, I do.
That's my mistake.
Despite all their efforts to put on a great show,
people want you to see through it.
They're waiting to be noticed.
Admired.
Loved.
Not for who they try to be,
but for who they are.
Often uncomfortably so.
They're vulnerable, but they do a good job of masking it.
They have scripts, and walls, and maneuvers, and it's all very convincing.
But I find it discomforting. It keeps me out. It denies me a space.
It makes things unequal.
And it makes them seem intimidating; more than they are. Better than they are.
Better than me, for example.
It's hard not to believe the performance.
And for the most part, I do.
That's my mistake.
Despite all their efforts to put on a great show,
people want you to see through it.
They're waiting to be noticed.
Admired.
Loved.
Not for who they try to be,
but for who they are.
overload
I was away last weekend, and I will not be spending another weekend at home until November 10th.
On that note, I have to point out that stale peanuts taste really gross.
And it's particularly depressing if the stale peanuts are inside a piece of Dove Promise (R) chocolate, which has a wrapper that optimistically urges you to "Find Your Passion."
Although I guess maybe they're helpfully pointing out that your 'passion' must without-a-doubt be elsewhere, since it's unlikely that anyone's passion will involve stale peanuts.
But I could be wrong.
On that note, I have to point out that stale peanuts taste really gross.
And it's particularly depressing if the stale peanuts are inside a piece of Dove Promise (R) chocolate, which has a wrapper that optimistically urges you to "Find Your Passion."
Although I guess maybe they're helpfully pointing out that your 'passion' must without-a-doubt be elsewhere, since it's unlikely that anyone's passion will involve stale peanuts.
But I could be wrong.
9/27/07
generational information(al)
Working with college students is fascinating; their culture is so different from mine. They say things to me like "Don't you agree that it's absolutely impossible to be successful in college if you don't own a computer?"
There's one thing I've noticed consistently, and I think it's an odd gap in knowledge: Many (too many) of these current college students don't know the numbers of the months. As they're looking at the blank 'next check date' space on a payroll deduction form, I say helpfully, "You'll get your next payroll check on October 5th." And they look at me, confused. There’s a long pause, and I can see the gears turning in their brains. Then they say, "So... is that, like, 8... 5... 07?" It's intriguing. It's intriguing to find it so prevalent. And kinda disturbing.
There's one thing I've noticed consistently, and I think it's an odd gap in knowledge: Many (too many) of these current college students don't know the numbers of the months. As they're looking at the blank 'next check date' space on a payroll deduction form, I say helpfully, "You'll get your next payroll check on October 5th." And they look at me, confused. There’s a long pause, and I can see the gears turning in their brains. Then they say, "So... is that, like, 8... 5... 07?" It's intriguing. It's intriguing to find it so prevalent. And kinda disturbing.
9/24/07
boodleism boodleize boodler boodlers
(the above is my latest favorite spam-email subject line.)
I'm going to tell a very long story that will have a very tiny point at the very end:
In 1997, I was up on King's Mountain at my friend Julie's house looking through quilt material and discussing cactus-growing, and at one point she said, "Oh, and I have this old record player if you want to take it; I have a newer one."
So I took it. It was cool; all cream & teal, with 4 speeds (16, 33, 45, 78) and an automatic arm, AND an amp, with balance controls, and an auxiliary input, and the choice between mono and stereo sound, and rca speaker outputs.... But it had a specialized electric plug on the back and was missing the cord. So I didn't ever get around to hooking it up to my stereo.
And then I moved to the east coast, and I brought the record player with me. I put clear packing tape across the top to hold the plastic boxy cover on it. It traveled well, but went into storage immediately because I was staying at my dad's temporarily and didn't have my stereo set up.
A few weeks ago, cleaning out my storage unit, I found it again and brought it into the apartment. I took the packing tape off, feeling like I was in a time-warp, like it was just yesterday that I'd taped it up.
It sat in the kitchen for awhile.
Then last week, I purchased some wire and a plug. I put them on top of the record player, and let everything sit in the kitchen for awhile longer.
Then last night, I took the bottom off the record player and jerry-rigged a new cord connection. Plugged it in. After 10 years of lugging this thing around with me, I finally fixed the cord problem, and plugged the thing in!
And the motor that runs the turntable is dead. Dead as a doornail. The amp functions and the little light comes on, but the thing doesn't turn.
But I really really wanted to hear some records, so I hooked it into my stereo system anyway, and sat on the floor of the living room for a long time, listening to records. I listened to about 5 full-length LPs, sitting on the floor, twirling the turntable around with my finger. It was a fun challenge to see how 'automated' I could make my arm, to keep the thing moving at a constant speed.
And this morning I noticed that I have a small blister on the end of my middle finger.
But my point is this: It's a lot easier to get a 78 rpm record to sound right than a 33 1/3 when you're playing it by hand.
I'm going to tell a very long story that will have a very tiny point at the very end:
In 1997, I was up on King's Mountain at my friend Julie's house looking through quilt material and discussing cactus-growing, and at one point she said, "Oh, and I have this old record player if you want to take it; I have a newer one."
So I took it. It was cool; all cream & teal, with 4 speeds (16, 33, 45, 78) and an automatic arm, AND an amp, with balance controls, and an auxiliary input, and the choice between mono and stereo sound, and rca speaker outputs.... But it had a specialized electric plug on the back and was missing the cord. So I didn't ever get around to hooking it up to my stereo.
And then I moved to the east coast, and I brought the record player with me. I put clear packing tape across the top to hold the plastic boxy cover on it. It traveled well, but went into storage immediately because I was staying at my dad's temporarily and didn't have my stereo set up.
A few weeks ago, cleaning out my storage unit, I found it again and brought it into the apartment. I took the packing tape off, feeling like I was in a time-warp, like it was just yesterday that I'd taped it up.
It sat in the kitchen for awhile.
Then last week, I purchased some wire and a plug. I put them on top of the record player, and let everything sit in the kitchen for awhile longer.
Then last night, I took the bottom off the record player and jerry-rigged a new cord connection. Plugged it in. After 10 years of lugging this thing around with me, I finally fixed the cord problem, and plugged the thing in!
And the motor that runs the turntable is dead. Dead as a doornail. The amp functions and the little light comes on, but the thing doesn't turn.
But I really really wanted to hear some records, so I hooked it into my stereo system anyway, and sat on the floor of the living room for a long time, listening to records. I listened to about 5 full-length LPs, sitting on the floor, twirling the turntable around with my finger. It was a fun challenge to see how 'automated' I could make my arm, to keep the thing moving at a constant speed.
And this morning I noticed that I have a small blister on the end of my middle finger.
But my point is this: It's a lot easier to get a 78 rpm record to sound right than a 33 1/3 when you're playing it by hand.
9/11/07
more on college students
When I was young, my friends and I were taught that if you're walking along a sidewalk together and you approach someone coming the opposite direction, you should walk single-file, to allow the oncoming person to stay on the pavement as they pass you, and not be forced off into the dirt.
Seemed like common sense to me. But apparently this custom has gone the way of the rotary-dial telephone.
So for years I've been forced to move my solo self off the sidewalk to make room for the hoards of approaching students. And I've gotten pretty darn sick of it. So I decided to stop making room for them. Instead, I just barrel right into the hoard; straight into them like they're not there. It's really fun! And it makes me feel better.
Seemed like common sense to me. But apparently this custom has gone the way of the rotary-dial telephone.
So for years I've been forced to move my solo self off the sidewalk to make room for the hoards of approaching students. And I've gotten pretty darn sick of it. So I decided to stop making room for them. Instead, I just barrel right into the hoard; straight into them like they're not there. It's really fun! And it makes me feel better.
9/10/07
9/6/07
posts a bit thin on the ground...
"...thin in the air... just generally pretty trim." (to quote Eddie Izzard)
I haven't been posting much lately, and that's for one reason and one reason only: posting takes time. And I haven't got any.
That said, I will write a short post about an unimportant topic:
I just received my first Chinese fortune cookie fortune that is neither uplifting, nor promising, nor is it funny if you recite it and then say "in bed." It reads:
THE PEACEMAKER USUALLY TURNS OUT TO BE THE VICTIM.
I haven't been posting much lately, and that's for one reason and one reason only: posting takes time. And I haven't got any.
That said, I will write a short post about an unimportant topic:
I just received my first Chinese fortune cookie fortune that is neither uplifting, nor promising, nor is it funny if you recite it and then say "in bed." It reads:
THE PEACEMAKER USUALLY TURNS OUT TO BE THE VICTIM.
8/23/07
I'll have to polish it, though, because it's so terribly green.
Janice got this one. The best yet, imho!
8/21/07
redletterday
My hair is long enough now that for the first time ever I can wind it into a bun and ram a chopstick into it, and it'll stay up!
I've been longing to wear chopsticks on my head for years.
And now I can!
Ah, the little things that make us happy....
(On the downside, my initial experiment was completed with a pair of chopsticks I have here at work, and now that I look more closely, I think there are still little bits of rice and leftover sushi stuck to them. But it's all dried up. It's ok.)
:-)
I've been longing to wear chopsticks on my head for years.
And now I can!
Ah, the little things that make us happy....
(On the downside, my initial experiment was completed with a pair of chopsticks I have here at work, and now that I look more closely, I think there are still little bits of rice and leftover sushi stuck to them. But it's all dried up. It's ok.)
:-)
8/20/07
netflix could save the world!
I really like this quote from Mr. Popescu in The Third Man - Carol Reed's movie from 1949 set in post-war Vienna:
"...but you have to break the rules sometimes. Humanity is a duty."
Having also just watched Pan's Labyrinth (which takes place just after the Spanish civil war), I've been thinking about war in general, and the amount of cruelty and torture that are allowed free rein when people silence the voice of their own morality and blindly follow orders, or succumb to their fear of an abusive authority. When human beings choose to deny their humanity, only tragedy and evil can result.
And apathy can be just as destructive.
As we approach this crossroads in human and planetary history, it's good to be reminded of that.
"...but you have to break the rules sometimes. Humanity is a duty."
Having also just watched Pan's Labyrinth (which takes place just after the Spanish civil war), I've been thinking about war in general, and the amount of cruelty and torture that are allowed free rein when people silence the voice of their own morality and blindly follow orders, or succumb to their fear of an abusive authority. When human beings choose to deny their humanity, only tragedy and evil can result.
And apathy can be just as destructive.
As we approach this crossroads in human and planetary history, it's good to be reminded of that.
8/16/07
self-loathing dust bunnies
Sometimes the subject lines on spam emails are endearingly inspired. When I get a good one (like the one above), I will post it.
8/15/07
lotsa babies
Speaking of fashion, one thing I really don't understand is this recent obsession with empire waists. Every woman who wears one of those shirts looks like she's expecting. Soon. Even the flat-bellied 15-year-olds look pregnant! How did this style become so popular?! Creepy.
And there's something a bit Harry Potterish about all this
Ok - here's today's riddle: How is Gatorade like Puff's Plus?
Nah, there's nothing cool and clever about the answer, sorry. It's just that I've found that these are two things that are really really annoyingly gross unless you really really need them.
Gatorade tastes totally disgusting, unless you're completely dehydrated; then it's delicious!
Puff's Plus leaves oily crap all over your hands and face and gives you zits on your nose, unless you have a really bad cold; then you'd swear it was the greatest invention ever!
That's all. Have a nice day.
Nah, there's nothing cool and clever about the answer, sorry. It's just that I've found that these are two things that are really really annoyingly gross unless you really really need them.
Gatorade tastes totally disgusting, unless you're completely dehydrated; then it's delicious!
Puff's Plus leaves oily crap all over your hands and face and gives you zits on your nose, unless you have a really bad cold; then you'd swear it was the greatest invention ever!
That's all. Have a nice day.
8/14/07
is it just me, er....?!
I saw this huge internally-lit poster at the Las Vegas airport. It's a photo of an indigenous woman, with these words written underneath.It's masquerading as an I-am-woman-hear-me-roar sort of thing, but I found it offensive. It gives the impression that women are just hanging out, you know, lying around in the woods or something, a mass of potential energy, undiscovered, unused. (And by whom?!) -As if every woman I know doesn't already do more than her share of the work of Life.
It also equates us with, well, those inanimate things traditionally expoited by humans. I suppose you could say that being compared to wind and trees and rivers isn't all that bad, but what is it that humans generally do with our natural resources? We use them up and abuse them. What? The Amazon's all gone? No more petroleum? Well, hell, we've got a bunch of women here, let's see what they can do for us.
Grrr.
8/9/07
heavenly
For all my life, I've been increasingly amazed at the way the world and the universe are designed. I haven't bothered too much with the ultimately irresolvable questions about whether there's a Purpose or a Creator or any of that; just the fact of things' existence has seemed enough of an answer.
But today I discovered one very serious design flaw. What the hell is up with eyelashes?! After having had one irritatingly stuck in my right eye for the last 24 hours, having searched and searched and flushed with water and searched again to no avail, this morning I finally determined I was going to find the damn thing once and for all. I fished around with my finger as best I could, making my eye tear and bringing out all the unsightly red capillaries… it took me about 15 minutes but I FINALLY got it out!
At which point I thought - who the hell decided it was a good idea to position impermanent, sharp-ended tiny hairs right above our eyes?! Some crazy bastard. A genius with a peculiar vendetta. I dunno. Maybe it happened that time Satan volunteered to take over for half an hour so God could get a quick bite to eat… I'll bet he grabbed the chance to make a couple of, ummm, you know, changes to the blueprint. That would explain a lot.
But today I discovered one very serious design flaw. What the hell is up with eyelashes?! After having had one irritatingly stuck in my right eye for the last 24 hours, having searched and searched and flushed with water and searched again to no avail, this morning I finally determined I was going to find the damn thing once and for all. I fished around with my finger as best I could, making my eye tear and bringing out all the unsightly red capillaries… it took me about 15 minutes but I FINALLY got it out!
At which point I thought - who the hell decided it was a good idea to position impermanent, sharp-ended tiny hairs right above our eyes?! Some crazy bastard. A genius with a peculiar vendetta. I dunno. Maybe it happened that time Satan volunteered to take over for half an hour so God could get a quick bite to eat… I'll bet he grabbed the chance to make a couple of, ummm, you know, changes to the blueprint. That would explain a lot.
7/18/07
something to think about (or not)
In my building at work, there is a Women's Lounge with three toilet stalls.
The first two are miniscule; it's hard to turn around; your elbows hit the walls. The air in them is somewhat stagnant, and the lighting is bad.
The last one is bright and spacious, right near the window, and it has a little shelf to put your purse on.
I always use the last stall.
Everyone else (as far as I can tell, after 3 years of close monitoring) chooses to use the first two stalls.
WHY?!
I've thought about this for a long time, and can think of only two possible answers to my query: One, I work with really bizarre people who prefer stinky claustrophobic bathroom experiences OR two, they know something I don't know about that last stall.
I'm not sure which possibility is worse.
The first two are miniscule; it's hard to turn around; your elbows hit the walls. The air in them is somewhat stagnant, and the lighting is bad.
The last one is bright and spacious, right near the window, and it has a little shelf to put your purse on.
I always use the last stall.
Everyone else (as far as I can tell, after 3 years of close monitoring) chooses to use the first two stalls.
WHY?!
I've thought about this for a long time, and can think of only two possible answers to my query: One, I work with really bizarre people who prefer stinky claustrophobic bathroom experiences OR two, they know something I don't know about that last stall.
I'm not sure which possibility is worse.
7/13/07
old-school irony
I recently purchased a 1969 'Lady Remington' electric razor on ebay. My best friend had had one when we were growing up, and I liked its feminine design - light blue on white with little '60's-style stars... and those long-legged models in the owner manual... perfect!
I took it out of its elegant white-with-satin-interior box, unraveled the cord, and plugged it in.
Nothing. Dead.
I was so disappointed! I unplugged the cord, and sat staring resignedly at the razor.
But wait... was there a way to get inside it? There was!
And it was just a loose connection; easily soldered back in place.
Later, happily shaving my legs, I reflected that the manufacturers of that Lady Remington probably didn't imagine that their lady consumers would ever be pulling their product apart and playing around with wires and soldering irons to get it working again. ;-)
I took it out of its elegant white-with-satin-interior box, unraveled the cord, and plugged it in.
Nothing. Dead.
I was so disappointed! I unplugged the cord, and sat staring resignedly at the razor.
But wait... was there a way to get inside it? There was!
And it was just a loose connection; easily soldered back in place.
Later, happily shaving my legs, I reflected that the manufacturers of that Lady Remington probably didn't imagine that their lady consumers would ever be pulling their product apart and playing around with wires and soldering irons to get it working again. ;-)
7/10/07
6/27/07
chocolate sheet cake with blue frosting
Most of the time, it tastes really disgusting.
But occasionally it really hits the spot.
I guess it's sorta like the weather in February.
But occasionally it really hits the spot.
I guess it's sorta like the weather in February.
6/26/07
the plastic proliferation of piety
Last year, my friend Janice and I discovered, in a grocery store gumball machine, the Homies Trailer Park figurines. Instantly enchanted by them (who could resist names like "Doo-Doo Dan" and "Kegger Ken" and "Catfish Clem"?!), we went on an insane quarter-spending frenzy, trying to get as many of the collection as we could. We spent all the quarters we had, then went through the checkout to change more bills and found that the cashier, too, had been infected with the Trailer Parker virus; we discussed with her which characters we'd gotten, which ones we wanted. We giggled and put more quarters into the machine. We were having a total blast!
We went back the next day with entire rolls of quarters to buy more! I kept getting 'Doo-Doo Dan'; we both did. We agreed to have a trading session the next day to even out our collections. Over lunch at the restaurant, we did the big trade. We spread our figurines all over the table, and haggled good-naturedly over which ones we were willing to give up. Her husband Mark looked on tolerantly, and tried to find enough elbow room to eat his sandwich.
It was SUCH a good time!!
Then last week, I got a letter in the mail from Janice. It contained a color printout of the Homies newest series: the Santos! I stared in rapture at the photo of the Santos; it was too good to be true! El Santo Nino de Atocha! La Virgen de Guadalupe! San Francisco! Maria Inmaculada!
We went back the next day with entire rolls of quarters to buy more! I kept getting 'Doo-Doo Dan'; we both did. We agreed to have a trading session the next day to even out our collections. Over lunch at the restaurant, we did the big trade. We spread our figurines all over the table, and haggled good-naturedly over which ones we were willing to give up. Her husband Mark looked on tolerantly, and tried to find enough elbow room to eat his sandwich.
It was SUCH a good time!!
Then last week, I got a letter in the mail from Janice. It contained a color printout of the Homies newest series: the Santos! I stared in rapture at the photo of the Santos; it was too good to be true! El Santo Nino de Atocha! La Virgen de Guadalupe! San Francisco! Maria Inmaculada!
When I got to New Jersey this weekend, we hightailed it to the market where she had found the Santos.
I put 50 cents in the machine, turned the knob, and pulled out the plastic globe containing my saint. Breathlessly, I opened it, and Janice craned her head over my shoulder to see which one I'd gotten.
San Juan Diego!
Then Janice put in 50 cents... San Antonio!
I put in 50 cents... San Juan Diego.
Janice got San Francisco!
I got... San Juan Diego.
Janice plopped in two more quarters. Papa Juan Pablo!
I got San Juan Diego.
Janice got San Antonio again.
The next time I turned the handle... nothing! Wah!
Janice, being the good friend that she is, generously gave me her duplicate San Antonio. I was very happy!
Then Janice got El Santo Nino!
And I got San Juan Diego.
By this time, I was beginning to feel that God was playing a mighty trick on me. We went into the store to shop.
Coming out, we did another round at the saint machine. This time Janice started. She got... someone, I forget who.
Then I got El Santo Nino!
She got the Virgen of Guadalupe.
I got El Santo Nino.
She got the angel.
I got... San Juan Diego.
She got another pope.
I got nothing! Again!
I tried again... El Santo Nino.
She got Jesus.
My turn... San Juan Diego.
7 Diegos and 3 Ninos! I was starting to feel like I was attending a football game at a local high school: Diegos ahead in the third quarter! Would the Ninos have a chance to pull ahead?
No, they wouldn't. We left.
But boy it was so much fun!!! And if anyone wants a San Juan Diego, let me know. I have plenty.
I put 50 cents in the machine, turned the knob, and pulled out the plastic globe containing my saint. Breathlessly, I opened it, and Janice craned her head over my shoulder to see which one I'd gotten.
San Juan Diego!
Then Janice put in 50 cents... San Antonio!
I put in 50 cents... San Juan Diego.
Janice got San Francisco!
I got... San Juan Diego.
Janice plopped in two more quarters. Papa Juan Pablo!
I got San Juan Diego.
Janice got San Antonio again.
The next time I turned the handle... nothing! Wah!
Janice, being the good friend that she is, generously gave me her duplicate San Antonio. I was very happy!
Then Janice got El Santo Nino!
And I got San Juan Diego.
By this time, I was beginning to feel that God was playing a mighty trick on me. We went into the store to shop.
Coming out, we did another round at the saint machine. This time Janice started. She got... someone, I forget who.
Then I got El Santo Nino!
She got the Virgen of Guadalupe.
I got El Santo Nino.
She got the angel.
I got... San Juan Diego.
She got another pope.
I got nothing! Again!
I tried again... El Santo Nino.
She got Jesus.
My turn... San Juan Diego.
7 Diegos and 3 Ninos! I was starting to feel like I was attending a football game at a local high school: Diegos ahead in the third quarter! Would the Ninos have a chance to pull ahead?
No, they wouldn't. We left.
But boy it was so much fun!!! And if anyone wants a San Juan Diego, let me know. I have plenty.
6/15/07
are you kidding me?!
I just received this personalized letter in a large, fluorescent orange envelope:
--WILL YOU DO US A FAVOR AND TEST TOOLS?--
Dear Kate,
Would you mind very much if I sent you a free circular saw to use? How about a free cordless drill? All I'm going to ask in return is for you to fill out a brief questionnaire on how well the handyman product I sent you performed.
Please don't delay. Return the enclosed RSVP today.
Larry Okrend
Executive Director
Handyman Club of America
______
Dear Larry Okrend,
I am flattered by your confidence in my handyman abilities; as you say, it's true that I am known among my family and friends as an 'outstanding handyman'!
I do have one concern, however. In the event that your circular saw does not perform as intended, and hacks off my right arm, I will be unable to fill out your questionnaire, and you will not receive your desired feedback. In that situation, is there a telephone number at which I can reach you to file my report?
I wish you luck in your endeavors, and look forward to receiving my free tools.
Sincerely,
Kate
--WILL YOU DO US A FAVOR AND TEST TOOLS?--
Dear Kate,
Would you mind very much if I sent you a free circular saw to use? How about a free cordless drill? All I'm going to ask in return is for you to fill out a brief questionnaire on how well the handyman product I sent you performed.
Please don't delay. Return the enclosed RSVP today.
Larry Okrend
Executive Director
Handyman Club of America
______
Dear Larry Okrend,
I am flattered by your confidence in my handyman abilities; as you say, it's true that I am known among my family and friends as an 'outstanding handyman'!
I do have one concern, however. In the event that your circular saw does not perform as intended, and hacks off my right arm, I will be unable to fill out your questionnaire, and you will not receive your desired feedback. In that situation, is there a telephone number at which I can reach you to file my report?
I wish you luck in your endeavors, and look forward to receiving my free tools.
Sincerely,
Kate
6/14/07
some further thoughts on the negative
So, why are we all addicted to discontentment?
Well, I'll tell you.
For one, it's ground into us by our society. In fact, there's a bill before the Senate right now, proposing that our national anthem be changed to the inspirational song, "Never Be Satisfied With Anything", which adheres more closely to our country's current value system.
But I think it's also just because a crappy time makes for a better story.
Who the heck wants to hear about your idyllic Hawaii vacation? Not me.
Now, if your suitcases were lost a couple of times en route, and the shark bite on your leg got infected, I might be interested.
Well, I'll tell you.
For one, it's ground into us by our society. In fact, there's a bill before the Senate right now, proposing that our national anthem be changed to the inspirational song, "Never Be Satisfied With Anything", which adheres more closely to our country's current value system.
But I think it's also just because a crappy time makes for a better story.
Who the heck wants to hear about your idyllic Hawaii vacation? Not me.
Now, if your suitcases were lost a couple of times en route, and the shark bite on your leg got infected, I might be interested.
d'ya want yer eggs sunny-side-up, or over-hard?
More and more often, I've been experiencing moments of real contentment. Gosh, it's a great feeling! And somehow, it doesn't seem to take much, just a twist-of-the-brain, a slowing-down, an appreciation of details.
This morning, for example, has been filled with beautiful things:
-lounging in bed
-a luxurious hot shower
-a long walk in the early morning sunlight
-tasty iced coffee
-vases of gloriously-scented peonies filling my office (my co-workers bring them in every spring, from their own gardens)
-a leisurely stroll with co-workers, down to the staff coffee hour
-a poppyseed bagel with butter and cream cheese
-the anticipation of eating the last of my yummy birthday sushi for lunch
-looking forward to having lunch tomorrow with a friend
-the smell of fresh-cut grass
-the fun memory of playing with Trev and Emma last weekend
-a reminder of my upcoming trip to Oregon and California
Here's the morning seen alternatively:
-I had to get up early to take my car to the shop
-I was in a rush and didn't have long enough in the shower
-I didn't have a ride, so I had to walk over a mile back to my house
-I hadn't eaten, so I decided to stop for an iced coffee at McDonald's.
-They didn't have decaf, so I had to go to Dunkin' Donuts instead.
-My boss needed to switch lunches with me, so the lunch I had planned for today, I had to reschedule for tomorrow.
-The peonies in my office are already past their peak. And I only have tons of them myself because the scent of them is giving everyone else a headache, so they keep giving them to me.
-The coffee hour was weird, and only one person talked to me.
-I mistook the butter for cream cheese in the crappy lighting, and had to scrape it off my bagel, leaving a huge gob on the side of my plate.
-I'm in debt from having to buy the plane ticket for my upcoming trip.
-Both versions are equally true and valid, and most often, I think it's easier for me - for most people- to get stuck in the latter version. Why are we so addicted to discontentment? If anything in life is pointless, it's to spend energy on not enjoying it.
This morning, for example, has been filled with beautiful things:
-lounging in bed
-a luxurious hot shower
-a long walk in the early morning sunlight
-tasty iced coffee
-vases of gloriously-scented peonies filling my office (my co-workers bring them in every spring, from their own gardens)
-a leisurely stroll with co-workers, down to the staff coffee hour
-a poppyseed bagel with butter and cream cheese
-the anticipation of eating the last of my yummy birthday sushi for lunch
-looking forward to having lunch tomorrow with a friend
-the smell of fresh-cut grass
-the fun memory of playing with Trev and Emma last weekend
-a reminder of my upcoming trip to Oregon and California
Here's the morning seen alternatively:
-I had to get up early to take my car to the shop
-I was in a rush and didn't have long enough in the shower
-I didn't have a ride, so I had to walk over a mile back to my house
-I hadn't eaten, so I decided to stop for an iced coffee at McDonald's.
-They didn't have decaf, so I had to go to Dunkin' Donuts instead.
-My boss needed to switch lunches with me, so the lunch I had planned for today, I had to reschedule for tomorrow.
-The peonies in my office are already past their peak. And I only have tons of them myself because the scent of them is giving everyone else a headache, so they keep giving them to me.
-The coffee hour was weird, and only one person talked to me.
-I mistook the butter for cream cheese in the crappy lighting, and had to scrape it off my bagel, leaving a huge gob on the side of my plate.
-I'm in debt from having to buy the plane ticket for my upcoming trip.
-Both versions are equally true and valid, and most often, I think it's easier for me - for most people- to get stuck in the latter version. Why are we so addicted to discontentment? If anything in life is pointless, it's to spend energy on not enjoying it.
penispam & pellets
I'm sorry! ... but I get such a kick out of these! ;-)
Here's the latest:
Subj: Your weenie will thank you
-If you can't persuade ur girl that she deserves only your tiny size, so, never mind, just try out our wonderful pellet and you'll show your girlfriend a REAL SIZE!
Here's the latest:
Subj: Your weenie will thank you
-If you can't persuade ur girl that she deserves only your tiny size, so, never mind, just try out our wonderful pellet and you'll show your girlfriend a REAL SIZE!
6/9/07
thought of the day
Tailgating is dangerous, particularly if you're behind a tanker truck full of liquid nitrogen.
6/7/07
have you ever stroked your diaper genie?
If I were granted 3 wishes, I would use them thusly:
1) world peace
2) 10 million dollars
3) that actors portraying drivers would stop taking their eyes off the road in front of them and staring at their passengers for prolonged periods of time. --It's just too nerve-wracking! In fact, I find it much more suspenseful than scenes of defenseless women being creeped-up-upon by shadowy figures with gleaming knives.
Although, on second thought, I'd use wish #2 to wish for 100 wishes. (This is actually a decision I reached very early in life, after hearing countless stories of people who were granted only 3 wishes and who completely botched them up in really annoying ways, despite plenty of clear&obvious warning signs. I mean, geez!)
1) world peace
2) 10 million dollars
3) that actors portraying drivers would stop taking their eyes off the road in front of them and staring at their passengers for prolonged periods of time. --It's just too nerve-wracking! In fact, I find it much more suspenseful than scenes of defenseless women being creeped-up-upon by shadowy figures with gleaming knives.
Although, on second thought, I'd use wish #2 to wish for 100 wishes. (This is actually a decision I reached very early in life, after hearing countless stories of people who were granted only 3 wishes and who completely botched them up in really annoying ways, despite plenty of clear&obvious warning signs. I mean, geez!)
6/6/07
motherhood
I've noticed that mothers have a peculiar ability to talk, you know, just sort of on and on, randomly about stuff, and to about six different people about different stuff, at the same time, even while performing a task, like, shopping at the grocery store.
I could never figure out if it was that motherhood had somehow turned them chatty, or if only chatty people become mothers. Either way, I think I'm doomed; I just can't talk like that; it makes the muscles in my face tired. How do they do it?!
"So I was saying to her, wouldn't you prefer to... Hey, watch your fingers, honey, that's sharp... have a larger party, and we could, ...excuse me, does this come in a larger size? ...you know, bring some salads, or something, if they had the... Honey, you have GOT to stop pulling on that... if they provided the hamburgers and hotdogs... oh, thanks, they're in aisle 8? ...Hello? Yes, hon, we're just getting the last thing and we'll be home in... excuse me, the guy at the meat counter told me there were more of these in aisle 8? Thanks... home in just a few minutes, so if you could start the grill... SARAH FOR THE LAST TIME WOULD YOU PUT THAT DOWN... ok, love you hon, bye... but then... no, Sarah, we're NOT buying that today... she forgot to get the meat, and so all we had to eat was salad!"
I could never figure out if it was that motherhood had somehow turned them chatty, or if only chatty people become mothers. Either way, I think I'm doomed; I just can't talk like that; it makes the muscles in my face tired. How do they do it?!
"So I was saying to her, wouldn't you prefer to... Hey, watch your fingers, honey, that's sharp... have a larger party, and we could, ...excuse me, does this come in a larger size? ...you know, bring some salads, or something, if they had the... Honey, you have GOT to stop pulling on that... if they provided the hamburgers and hotdogs... oh, thanks, they're in aisle 8? ...Hello? Yes, hon, we're just getting the last thing and we'll be home in... excuse me, the guy at the meat counter told me there were more of these in aisle 8? Thanks... home in just a few minutes, so if you could start the grill... SARAH FOR THE LAST TIME WOULD YOU PUT THAT DOWN... ok, love you hon, bye... but then... no, Sarah, we're NOT buying that today... she forgot to get the meat, and so all we had to eat was salad!"
the joys of friendship with Joel ;-)
Me: "Joel, I have something to tell you, but I can't remember right now; call me at work later!"
------
Joel: "Hey, so what did you want?"
Me: "Sorry, I have absolutely no idea."
Joel: "Still?!?! ...You know, I think it's entirely possible that when you one day do get Alzheimer's, no one will notice."
------
Joel: "Hey, so what did you want?"
Me: "Sorry, I have absolutely no idea."
Joel: "Still?!?! ...You know, I think it's entirely possible that when you one day do get Alzheimer's, no one will notice."
6/5/07
I'll take two! -more penis frenzy
"With Penis Enlarge Patch even a sleeve from your shirt will be too short to cover your penis."
WOW! Think of the possibilities! Great for outdoorsmen; doubles as a belt, AND, when stiff, makes a handy brace for breaks and sprains!
WOW! Think of the possibilities! Great for outdoorsmen; doubles as a belt, AND, when stiff, makes a handy brace for breaks and sprains!
midnight madness
I saw the funniest thing while I was out walking tonight-
I was rounding a corner, and came across a group of about fifteen macho-looking guys on motorcycles, stuck en masse at an empty intersection. They had obviously been waiting for a green light for some time, and as I approached, I could see it was slowly dawning on them that in blithely sailing past the “Stop Here For Red Light” sign, they had also overshot the trip sensor for the traffic light by about 20 feet.
So now they were, all of them, performing a sort of chaotic dance in the darkness, craning their white-helmeted heads over and looking back and forth at the ground in confusion, trying to see where the lines lay buried in the black pavement. And then one by one, hesitantly, and somewhat clumsily (it had just stopped raining), they pushed their bikes backwards until they were over the grid, attempting to reach the critical mass of motorcycle metal necessary to trip the sensor, looking up hopefully from time to time at the still-red light.
I couldn’t help laughing; they were so darned cute!
I was rounding a corner, and came across a group of about fifteen macho-looking guys on motorcycles, stuck en masse at an empty intersection. They had obviously been waiting for a green light for some time, and as I approached, I could see it was slowly dawning on them that in blithely sailing past the “Stop Here For Red Light” sign, they had also overshot the trip sensor for the traffic light by about 20 feet.
So now they were, all of them, performing a sort of chaotic dance in the darkness, craning their white-helmeted heads over and looking back and forth at the ground in confusion, trying to see where the lines lay buried in the black pavement. And then one by one, hesitantly, and somewhat clumsily (it had just stopped raining), they pushed their bikes backwards until they were over the grid, attempting to reach the critical mass of motorcycle metal necessary to trip the sensor, looking up hopefully from time to time at the still-red light.
I couldn’t help laughing; they were so darned cute!
6/4/07
such an odd thing to find oneself written down by someone else
(this is, paradoxically, the most personal thing I have posted, to date)
"Once, many years ago, there was a child of nine who loved Walter Milligan. One Saturday morning she was walking in the neighborhood of her school. She walked and thought, 'The plain fact is – as I have heard so many times—that in several years’ time I will not love Walter Milligan. I will very probably marry someone else. I will be untrue; I will forget Walter Milligan.'
Deeply, unforgettably, she thought that if what they said about Walter Milligan was true, then the rest went with it: that she would one day like her sister, and that she would be glad she had taken piano lessons. She was standing at the curb, waiting for the light to change. It was all she could do to remember not to get run over, so she would live to betray herself. For a series of connected notions presented themselves: if all these passions of mine be overturned, then what will become of me? Then what am I now?
She seemed real enough to herself, willful and conscious, but she had to consider the possibility – the likelihood, even – that she was a short-lived phenomenon, a fierce, vanishing thing like a hard shower, or a transitional form like a tadpole or winter bud – not the thing in itself, but a running start on the thing – and that she was being borne helplessly and against all her wishes to suicide; to the certain loss of self and all she held dear. Herself and all that she held dear – this particular combination of love for Walter Milligan, hatred of sister and piano lessons, etc. – would vanish, destroyed against her wishes by her own hand.
When she changed, where will that other person have gone? Could anyone keep her alive, this person here on the street, and her passions? Will the unthinkable adult that she would become remember her? Will she think she is stupid? Will she laugh at her?
She was a willful one, and she made a vow. The light changed; she crossed the street and set off up the sloping sidewalk by the school. I must be loyal, for no one else is. If this is the system, than I will buck it. I will until I die ride my bike and walk along these very streets, where I belong. I will until I die love Walter Milligan and hate my sister and read and walk in the woods. And I will never, not I, sit and drink and smoke and do nothing but talk.
Foremost in her vow was this: that she would remember the vow itself. She woke to her surroundings; it was cold. Even walking so fiercely uphill, she was cold, and illuminated by a powerful energy. To her left was the stone elementary school, deserted on Saturday. Across the street was s dark row of houses, stone and brick, with their pillared porches. The porch floors were painted red or gray or green. This was not her own neighborhood, but it was her turf. She pushed uphill to the next corner. She committed to memory the look of that block, that neighborhood: the familiar cracked sidewalk, how pale it was, how sand collected in its cracks; the sycamores; the muffled sky."
-from Teaching a Stone to Talk - Annie Dillard
"Once, many years ago, there was a child of nine who loved Walter Milligan. One Saturday morning she was walking in the neighborhood of her school. She walked and thought, 'The plain fact is – as I have heard so many times—that in several years’ time I will not love Walter Milligan. I will very probably marry someone else. I will be untrue; I will forget Walter Milligan.'
Deeply, unforgettably, she thought that if what they said about Walter Milligan was true, then the rest went with it: that she would one day like her sister, and that she would be glad she had taken piano lessons. She was standing at the curb, waiting for the light to change. It was all she could do to remember not to get run over, so she would live to betray herself. For a series of connected notions presented themselves: if all these passions of mine be overturned, then what will become of me? Then what am I now?
She seemed real enough to herself, willful and conscious, but she had to consider the possibility – the likelihood, even – that she was a short-lived phenomenon, a fierce, vanishing thing like a hard shower, or a transitional form like a tadpole or winter bud – not the thing in itself, but a running start on the thing – and that she was being borne helplessly and against all her wishes to suicide; to the certain loss of self and all she held dear. Herself and all that she held dear – this particular combination of love for Walter Milligan, hatred of sister and piano lessons, etc. – would vanish, destroyed against her wishes by her own hand.
When she changed, where will that other person have gone? Could anyone keep her alive, this person here on the street, and her passions? Will the unthinkable adult that she would become remember her? Will she think she is stupid? Will she laugh at her?
She was a willful one, and she made a vow. The light changed; she crossed the street and set off up the sloping sidewalk by the school. I must be loyal, for no one else is. If this is the system, than I will buck it. I will until I die ride my bike and walk along these very streets, where I belong. I will until I die love Walter Milligan and hate my sister and read and walk in the woods. And I will never, not I, sit and drink and smoke and do nothing but talk.
Foremost in her vow was this: that she would remember the vow itself. She woke to her surroundings; it was cold. Even walking so fiercely uphill, she was cold, and illuminated by a powerful energy. To her left was the stone elementary school, deserted on Saturday. Across the street was s dark row of houses, stone and brick, with their pillared porches. The porch floors were painted red or gray or green. This was not her own neighborhood, but it was her turf. She pushed uphill to the next corner. She committed to memory the look of that block, that neighborhood: the familiar cracked sidewalk, how pale it was, how sand collected in its cracks; the sycamores; the muffled sky."
-from Teaching a Stone to Talk - Annie Dillard
6/3/07
grrr
There is nothing better for putting me in a really bad mood [read: dark and stewing and evil and depressive] than the following: a nap, watching tv during the day, or going to a matinee. It's a physical/chemical reaction of forcing my body to remain inert, when it should be running around and getting stuff accomplished.
Earlier today, I allowed myself to be talked into going to a matinee. I knew what the effect would be, but as I explained this to my friend, I began to feel that I was being silly and inflexible. So I went to the matinee.
Please remind me never to do that again.
Here's how it should go: If I say "I'm going to a matinee", you will say "No, you aren't."
Earlier today, I allowed myself to be talked into going to a matinee. I knew what the effect would be, but as I explained this to my friend, I began to feel that I was being silly and inflexible. So I went to the matinee.
Please remind me never to do that again.
Here's how it should go: If I say "I'm going to a matinee", you will say "No, you aren't."
6/1/07
more exciting plant trivia
In the summer, my plants drink 7 ½ gallons of water a week!
(In the winter, it’s about half that amount.)
One would assume that my upper body strength would be pretty good, after lugging all those gallons all over my apartment all year.
But one would be wrong.
(In the winter, it’s about half that amount.)
One would assume that my upper body strength would be pretty good, after lugging all those gallons all over my apartment all year.
But one would be wrong.
5/31/07
safety pins, anyone?
I'm wearing a new shirt today; it buttons down the front.
Fifteen minutes after arriving at work this morning, I found out that the shirt apparently prefers to be unbuttoned down the front.
(PS - by that, I of course mean that the shirt, all-on-its-own, continually reverts to a state of unbuttonedness; I do NOT mean to intimate that I've been making out with someone in the back room.)
(Although that latter scenario would be preferable to the actual one)
Fifteen minutes after arriving at work this morning, I found out that the shirt apparently prefers to be unbuttoned down the front.
(PS - by that, I of course mean that the shirt, all-on-its-own, continually reverts to a state of unbuttonedness; I do NOT mean to intimate that I've been making out with someone in the back room.)
(Although that latter scenario would be preferable to the actual one)
and thankfully I'm still young enough to be able to see the darned things
Being a plant owner isn't all fun and games. Sometimes you have to pull cactus spines out of your arms before breakfast.
5/30/07
upstate NY marketing strategies
I drove by a gas station this morning that had a sandwich-board sign out front. The sign said "We Now Have GAS!" in a very awe-struck, enthusiastic lettering.
Given that I was in Oneonta, I half-expected to see a similar sign in front of the dental office; "We Now Have Dentists!"
Given that I was in Oneonta, I half-expected to see a similar sign in front of the dental office; "We Now Have Dentists!"
5/29/07
we accept Monopoly bills and bottle caps only
I passed a house this weekend that had a bunch of stuff spread on blankets in the yard, and a large sign which proclaimed that they were having a "FREE SALE".
ummm... any chance they've got any scalpels left?
Speakinabillboards, a new one has appeared on Route 7, just outside Oneonta. I get chills up my spine every time I see it, although I assume (?!?!) it's supposed to sound comforting. It's promoting a New Cancer Treatment:
CYBERKNIFE!
...Out of all the words they could have chosen, they picked 'knife'?!
CYBERKNIFE!
...Out of all the words they could have chosen, they picked 'knife'?!
reason # 3,678 that I should stop shopping at Wal-Mart
For a number of years, I've been enamored of taking my own reusable bags with me when I go shopping, thus reducing the number of plastic grocery bags in the universe (or, in my kitchen, at least). Consequently, when Hannaford (our local supermarket chain) came out with a very cool and convenient design of reusable shopping bag, I bought a whole bunch of them.
I have been completely satisfied with the bags, their ease of handling, their capacious size, their color (purple!), and I have used them without any problem at many stores all over the east coast, with one exception: Wal-Mart. They seem to throw Wal-Mart employees for a loop.
This is how it goes:
At the Wal-Mart checkout line, I place the bag (as I do at every other store), open, face up, on top of whatever I'm purchasing, with the HANNAFORD logo set facing the cashier and displayed prominently, so that the cashier will realize that the bag is mine and that I want them to pack my stuff in it.
The Wal-Mart cashier (and by that I mean EVERY Wal-Mart cashier, to date) then picks up the bag, looks intently at the HANNAFORD logo on the front of the bag, flips the bag over, looks intently at the HANNAFORD label on the other side, squints at me, looks back at front of the bag, wrinkles up his/her forehead, squints at me again, and says "Where'd you find this? There's no price on it."
I have been completely satisfied with the bags, their ease of handling, their capacious size, their color (purple!), and I have used them without any problem at many stores all over the east coast, with one exception: Wal-Mart. They seem to throw Wal-Mart employees for a loop.
This is how it goes:
At the Wal-Mart checkout line, I place the bag (as I do at every other store), open, face up, on top of whatever I'm purchasing, with the HANNAFORD logo set facing the cashier and displayed prominently, so that the cashier will realize that the bag is mine and that I want them to pack my stuff in it.
The Wal-Mart cashier (and by that I mean EVERY Wal-Mart cashier, to date) then picks up the bag, looks intently at the HANNAFORD logo on the front of the bag, flips the bag over, looks intently at the HANNAFORD label on the other side, squints at me, looks back at front of the bag, wrinkles up his/her forehead, squints at me again, and says "Where'd you find this? There's no price on it."
fighting & fantasy: PE in the 21st century
Athletics just asked me to credit a student $50 for returning a pair of "Under Armour Tights".
5/25/07
hmmm...
Sometimes it seems [from my vantage point] like every loan account I delve into during my workday is inevitably delinquent. So, could I say that these loans are delinquent by default?
golden state syndrome
I'm still enough of a California girl that when I see an orange lying on the street in Oneonta, my inital assumption is that it must have come from a nearby tree.
5/24/07
proof, in case any was necessary, of my complete and utter insanity
I just had such an odd experience that I feel compelled to write about it. (Though I'm assuming that what people will likely find odd is not the experience itself, but the whole context of my emotional attachment to a hunk of metal.)
Regardless.
I just donated my old car to PBS [actually, WGBH Boston] [and not THE old car; NOT The Cow] - no, my second old car, the one given to me four years ago by family friends, the one that needed a new windshield before I could drive it; the one that sat in Joel's driveway for months until I stopped pretending to my insurance company that I was still living in California, and was able to register it in NY; the one I at first resented because I felt forced by its free-ness and relative newness to accept it from these people and start driving it instead of The Cow; the one I drove with Peter and Sylvie to Kurt's wedding with Helmut's five sex-tents in the back; the one I drove to Mark and Janice's wedding and the brakes failed and I had to have them put in new brake lines right there in NJ, which then failed again when I got it back to NY, but I got them fixed again, but they failed again just after I'd completed a harrowing snowy journey to Jamie and Cheryl's, but I got them fixed the next day in PA, and drove back to NY, but then they failed again, but FINALLY stayed fixed, just in time for me to decide it was really time for me to buy a new(er) car, but of course just before I did that, the car decided it really needed a tune-up as well.
Anyway, this is the car I donated to PBS.
Despite what you might imagine, over the four years of constant repair, I had developed a real affection for the car, and I was having a terrible time giving it up; I was surprised by how terrible it was. But I finally made the decision, had my dad mail in the title (I just couldn't bring myself to do it), and they scheduled pickup for... well, that's the thing. The woman called on Tuesday and said they would pick it up "in the next day or two." And I didn't have to be there. That was good; I didn't want to stress out some tow truck driver by sobbing all over him.
So yesterday morning, I said my final farewells to the car, I took some photos. I drove off to work. I specifically did not go home for lunch, for fear of meeting up with the tow truck and having to witness the horrible and tragic last scene of the car receding from sight.
When I got home from work, I was almost scared to look in the driveway, but of course the car was still there. I felt almost... let down, somehow; it was all somewhat anti-climactic, but I was glad I had a chance to see it one last time.
Regardless.
I just donated my old car to PBS [actually, WGBH Boston] [and not THE old car; NOT The Cow] - no, my second old car, the one given to me four years ago by family friends, the one that needed a new windshield before I could drive it; the one that sat in Joel's driveway for months until I stopped pretending to my insurance company that I was still living in California, and was able to register it in NY; the one I at first resented because I felt forced by its free-ness and relative newness to accept it from these people and start driving it instead of The Cow; the one I drove with Peter and Sylvie to Kurt's wedding with Helmut's five sex-tents in the back; the one I drove to Mark and Janice's wedding and the brakes failed and I had to have them put in new brake lines right there in NJ, which then failed again when I got it back to NY, but I got them fixed again, but they failed again just after I'd completed a harrowing snowy journey to Jamie and Cheryl's, but I got them fixed the next day in PA, and drove back to NY, but then they failed again, but FINALLY stayed fixed, just in time for me to decide it was really time for me to buy a new(er) car, but of course just before I did that, the car decided it really needed a tune-up as well.
Anyway, this is the car I donated to PBS.
Despite what you might imagine, over the four years of constant repair, I had developed a real affection for the car, and I was having a terrible time giving it up; I was surprised by how terrible it was. But I finally made the decision, had my dad mail in the title (I just couldn't bring myself to do it), and they scheduled pickup for... well, that's the thing. The woman called on Tuesday and said they would pick it up "in the next day or two." And I didn't have to be there. That was good; I didn't want to stress out some tow truck driver by sobbing all over him.
So yesterday morning, I said my final farewells to the car, I took some photos. I drove off to work. I specifically did not go home for lunch, for fear of meeting up with the tow truck and having to witness the horrible and tragic last scene of the car receding from sight.
When I got home from work, I was almost scared to look in the driveway, but of course the car was still there. I felt almost... let down, somehow; it was all somewhat anti-climactic, but I was glad I had a chance to see it one last time.
This morning, I said goodbye for good, since I knew it had to happen today. Again, I didn't go home for lunch.
But when I got home from work at 6pm, there it was, still in the driveway. I cursed the PBS people for putting me through so much emotional trauma. I began wondering if they had misplaced my paperwork and had forgotten about the pickup altogether. I was dreading having to call them about it. Thankfully, I had a whole list of distracting stuff to do, which I did, and then I left the house again and drove out to the train yards and went for a walk, after which I went directly to my storage unit to pick up some camping equipment for this weekend.
And so here's where the strange experience starts: I knew, rationally, that the work day was long over, and that the car would most likely be picked up tomorrow; I mean, it had been almost 7pm when I'd left for the walk, and was now heading on towards 8. But as I was leaving the storage unit, I had this sudden feeling of freeness, of lightness, somehow. And a very specific sense of being (as it were) one car less. It felt exactly like when my cat died, and I had felt her energy slowly dissipating until I knew she wasn't in her body anymore. A feeling of something being finally over, finished. With the mixed relief and sadness that always comes with that.
I felt all this very strongly, and then I told myself that I was totally nuts, because of course the car had been in my driveway 45 minutes earlier when I'd left the house, and was obviously still in my driveway, and in fact might never (at the rate things were going) be picked up by any tow company ever.
Anyway, I drove home, and turned into the driveway... and saw that the car was gone.
5/23/07
random thoughts
Two things I've added to myself since the age of 24:
cynicism
a sense of humor
...you know, it's, like, buying accessories for your camera. Sometimes they cost more than you expected.
But, no, no, on second thought, the cynicism has been there since the beginning.
When I was in second or third grade, my school showed two informational films to the whole student body; one on the evils of smoking; the other on pollution and the effects of overpopulation/development in natural areas. The environmental film, I remember, had some very upsetting shots of wetland nesting grounds with bulldozer tracks running through them; they first showed you the birds nesting happily among the reeds and cattails, and then the same location a week later, plowed flat, with just a few tell-tale feathers to speak to the fate of the chicks.
On the way back up to the classroom, I said to our student teacher, "now if that won't make you start smoking, I don't know what will!" She looked at me blankly; I knew she didn't get what I was saying.
I remember this experience particularly, because it was when I started noticing that things I said were often misinterpreted by grownups, and even peers. I'd get a lot of those blank looks, or (worse) weird looks.
Makes you stop talking at all, eventually.
In fact, I really believe that most shyness develops when people start to feel that anything they say or do will inevitably be misunderstood. [I just made that up, but it feels right.]
cynicism
a sense of humor
...you know, it's, like, buying accessories for your camera. Sometimes they cost more than you expected.
But, no, no, on second thought, the cynicism has been there since the beginning.
When I was in second or third grade, my school showed two informational films to the whole student body; one on the evils of smoking; the other on pollution and the effects of overpopulation/development in natural areas. The environmental film, I remember, had some very upsetting shots of wetland nesting grounds with bulldozer tracks running through them; they first showed you the birds nesting happily among the reeds and cattails, and then the same location a week later, plowed flat, with just a few tell-tale feathers to speak to the fate of the chicks.
On the way back up to the classroom, I said to our student teacher, "now if that won't make you start smoking, I don't know what will!" She looked at me blankly; I knew she didn't get what I was saying.
I remember this experience particularly, because it was when I started noticing that things I said were often misinterpreted by grownups, and even peers. I'd get a lot of those blank looks, or (worse) weird looks.
Makes you stop talking at all, eventually.
In fact, I really believe that most shyness develops when people start to feel that anything they say or do will inevitably be misunderstood. [I just made that up, but it feels right.]
Me? I watch Medium.
Hey, I just got this link in an email from one of the myriad political/social groups that send me motivational messages all day, every day. If you're in the mood to feel totally shitty about yourself and everything you're not doing to positively change the world, this will help:
http://home.ourfuture.org/tba07/maria-leavey-vote.html
(as the suit guy says, "I guarantee it!")
http://home.ourfuture.org/tba07/maria-leavey-vote.html
(as the suit guy says, "I guarantee it!")
5/22/07
d is for day
There is one thing that pushes my buttons even more than drunk college students, and that is our generally apathetic response to the climate crisis. (And by 'our' I'm talking both about government(s), and all us lucky residents of this planet earth.)
I've done pretty much everything on the little checklist some office or other sent me awhile ago; I use compact fluorescent light bulbs and I bought a more fuel-efficient car. I recycle. I've written to politicians. The only thing I avoided doing was installing energy-efficient windows in my apartment; I wasn't sure my landlord would be very happy with that. Yeah, I've mushed my life around a bit, made a few changes, but I admit I don't think about the impending crisis every day, I haven't made huge strides to ensure that it doesn't happen; I'm not on a crusade.
Maybe I should be. I think we all should be.
Al Gore told us that we still have time to avert disaster. I hope he was right. I hope he's still right. I worry, though. We don't have Gandhi anymore, to fast in protest and get us all motivated; in fact I don't see anyone fasting. On the contrary, we're all getting fatter.
[Will obesity or global warming finally put an end to our society? -New Episode airs October 22nd!]
Damn those cliffhanger season finales!
When I was in Plymouth, MA last (last) weekend (and yes, I used gas to get there), my mom and I noticed that most of the beach-front property was for sale. I commented on it; it seemed odd. She told me about someone she knows who recently sold their beachfront property as well. But not because they wanted to relocate; no, they sold it so that they don't lose money on the property, you know, when the sea level rises the projected 12 feet or so and covers it.
There was something about that whole scenario that made me want to scream and bite. The bland assumption that the rising sea level is a foregone conclusion; the money-grubbing; the I'm-looking-out-for-me-and-the-rest-of-you-can-burn-in-hell attitude. Because it's exactly that mentality that's gotten us into this mess, and perpetuating it is not going to get us out. How can people not see that?! As things are going right now, we're ALL scheduled to burn in hell.
It all reminds me of Eddie Izzard's portrayal of kids eating chocolate at Easter while their parents try to instill in them a sense of the meaning behind the observance: The parents say "Remember, kids, Jesus died for your sins." And the kids [concentrating on the chocolate] say "Yeah, I know, it's great!" The parent, shocked, says, "No, no, it's bad!" And the kid (still eating) says "Yeah, it's bad, it's terrible. Whatever you want. Just keep giving me these eggs!"
Global warming? Yeah, it's terrible. Now pass me the lasagna.
And yeah, it's human nature. Sure. But it just ain't gonna cut it this time around.
So, are we going to make real sacrifices? HelloooooooooooooooOOOOOooooo?! Helloooooo out there! Are we ready to take a stand for ourselves and our planet? Is our government going to get off its ass and help us out? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!
As that famous guy once said, "We must all hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately."
I've done pretty much everything on the little checklist some office or other sent me awhile ago; I use compact fluorescent light bulbs and I bought a more fuel-efficient car. I recycle. I've written to politicians. The only thing I avoided doing was installing energy-efficient windows in my apartment; I wasn't sure my landlord would be very happy with that. Yeah, I've mushed my life around a bit, made a few changes, but I admit I don't think about the impending crisis every day, I haven't made huge strides to ensure that it doesn't happen; I'm not on a crusade.
Maybe I should be. I think we all should be.
Al Gore told us that we still have time to avert disaster. I hope he was right. I hope he's still right. I worry, though. We don't have Gandhi anymore, to fast in protest and get us all motivated; in fact I don't see anyone fasting. On the contrary, we're all getting fatter.
[Will obesity or global warming finally put an end to our society? -New Episode airs October 22nd!]
Damn those cliffhanger season finales!
When I was in Plymouth, MA last (last) weekend (and yes, I used gas to get there), my mom and I noticed that most of the beach-front property was for sale. I commented on it; it seemed odd. She told me about someone she knows who recently sold their beachfront property as well. But not because they wanted to relocate; no, they sold it so that they don't lose money on the property, you know, when the sea level rises the projected 12 feet or so and covers it.
There was something about that whole scenario that made me want to scream and bite. The bland assumption that the rising sea level is a foregone conclusion; the money-grubbing; the I'm-looking-out-for-me-and-the-rest-of-you-can-burn-in-hell attitude. Because it's exactly that mentality that's gotten us into this mess, and perpetuating it is not going to get us out. How can people not see that?! As things are going right now, we're ALL scheduled to burn in hell.
It all reminds me of Eddie Izzard's portrayal of kids eating chocolate at Easter while their parents try to instill in them a sense of the meaning behind the observance: The parents say "Remember, kids, Jesus died for your sins." And the kids [concentrating on the chocolate] say "Yeah, I know, it's great!" The parent, shocked, says, "No, no, it's bad!" And the kid (still eating) says "Yeah, it's bad, it's terrible. Whatever you want. Just keep giving me these eggs!"
Global warming? Yeah, it's terrible. Now pass me the lasagna.
And yeah, it's human nature. Sure. But it just ain't gonna cut it this time around.
So, are we going to make real sacrifices? HelloooooooooooooooOOOOOooooo?! Helloooooo out there! Are we ready to take a stand for ourselves and our planet? Is our government going to get off its ass and help us out? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!
As that famous guy once said, "We must all hang together, or most assuredly we shall all hang separately."
5/20/07
driving while delusional
The trip from Oneonta to my friends' house in New Jersey always makes me feel a bit schizophrenic. I begin to imagine that maybe I'm really still in California.
The fact of visiting them puts me in the mindset, for starters, since we all lived together out there. I can legitimately yell "I'M COMIN', C-KO!!" [our original moving-west mantra; Mark and Kurt and I would periodically shout it during our cross-country journey in an effort to telepathically reassure Mark's cat (who was already there) that we were on our way.] [Yeah, the explanation took longer than the joke; I shoulda left it out. Oh well.] [Next time I will annoy you by simply saying "inside joke" and not explaining anything, I promise.]
...And then there's the thing of taking Route 17 to I-85... no, I mean I-87, of course... then driving south in the dark on an 8-lane highway with trees and hills on my right, city lights on the left; I'm on 280! ... No, no, wait, it's 287. But I think I can almost see Colma! And now I'm looking for the exit to Highway 101... oh no, I mean 202.
Then I start passing signs for Oakland. Skyline. Sand Hill Road. Fair Oaks. What the hell is going on?! And is that really, can it possibly be, the very same Interstate 80 that crosses the Bay Bridge? It is! [Dear Readers, that is one of the oddest things about our interstate highway system; I still can't get my mind around it. It's like the yellow brick road; if I take that Del Water Gap exit (apparently the most spanish-sounding name that New Jersey can muster, but, hey, at least they're trying!) onto I-80, and I drive for awhile ('just minutes!', as Jamie might say), I will eventually find myself in San Francisco! It's too weird.]
And there you have it. The NJ-CA mindgame. It's fun! You should try it sometime.
The fact of visiting them puts me in the mindset, for starters, since we all lived together out there. I can legitimately yell "I'M COMIN', C-KO!!" [our original moving-west mantra; Mark and Kurt and I would periodically shout it during our cross-country journey in an effort to telepathically reassure Mark's cat (who was already there) that we were on our way.] [Yeah, the explanation took longer than the joke; I shoulda left it out. Oh well.] [Next time I will annoy you by simply saying "inside joke" and not explaining anything, I promise.]
...And then there's the thing of taking Route 17 to I-85... no, I mean I-87, of course... then driving south in the dark on an 8-lane highway with trees and hills on my right, city lights on the left; I'm on 280! ... No, no, wait, it's 287. But I think I can almost see Colma! And now I'm looking for the exit to Highway 101... oh no, I mean 202.
Then I start passing signs for Oakland. Skyline. Sand Hill Road. Fair Oaks. What the hell is going on?! And is that really, can it possibly be, the very same Interstate 80 that crosses the Bay Bridge? It is! [Dear Readers, that is one of the oddest things about our interstate highway system; I still can't get my mind around it. It's like the yellow brick road; if I take that Del Water Gap exit (apparently the most spanish-sounding name that New Jersey can muster, but, hey, at least they're trying!) onto I-80, and I drive for awhile ('just minutes!', as Jamie might say), I will eventually find myself in San Francisco! It's too weird.]
And there you have it. The NJ-CA mindgame. It's fun! You should try it sometime.
5/18/07
spring
I sent a donation to the National Arbor Foundation a few weeks ago. As a thank-you gift, they promised to send me ten live trees.
I wasn't sure how they were going to manage that; I imagined a large tractor-trailer pulling up in front of my house; men wearing thick canvas gloves, covered with dirt, pounding on my front door and saying "So where d'ya want 'em, lady?"
Instead, I got a thin, 2 ½ -foot-long white plastic envelope in the mail. I opened it. There were some sticks inside, with roots; just a few roots, covered in that kind of weird absorbent jelly you find inside baby diapers if you slice them open. The sticks looked totally dead.
Trying to feel hopeful, I put them in some dirt. I watered the dirt. I looked at the sticks. Nothing happened. I thought sadly about the loss of life; the last, awful, fatal trip of these tender saplings, their final surrender to the rough handling of the US postal system. I lined the pots up on the kitchen floor, and went to do some errands.
Yesterday, I glanced at the sticks again. To my amazement, there were little green leaves sprouting out of the sticks! They’re really growing, my ten little trees!
Of course, the same miracle has been going on outside my apartment for the last couple of weeks. And I still marvel at it every spring; watching the leaves come out is always an incredible experience. But I’ve also come to expect it. It’s an expected miracle.
There was something extra-astounding about the miracle going on inside my apartment. I hadn’t expected it. I thought I knew the scoop; I thought I had it all figured out. I had conceded to the inevitability of death. But life surprised me, yet again.
It’s a good thing to find that I can’t always predict how things will turn out. And to be reminded that even when things appear hopeless, there’s still a chance for a happy ending.
I wasn't sure how they were going to manage that; I imagined a large tractor-trailer pulling up in front of my house; men wearing thick canvas gloves, covered with dirt, pounding on my front door and saying "So where d'ya want 'em, lady?"
Instead, I got a thin, 2 ½ -foot-long white plastic envelope in the mail. I opened it. There were some sticks inside, with roots; just a few roots, covered in that kind of weird absorbent jelly you find inside baby diapers if you slice them open. The sticks looked totally dead.
Trying to feel hopeful, I put them in some dirt. I watered the dirt. I looked at the sticks. Nothing happened. I thought sadly about the loss of life; the last, awful, fatal trip of these tender saplings, their final surrender to the rough handling of the US postal system. I lined the pots up on the kitchen floor, and went to do some errands.
Yesterday, I glanced at the sticks again. To my amazement, there were little green leaves sprouting out of the sticks! They’re really growing, my ten little trees!
Of course, the same miracle has been going on outside my apartment for the last couple of weeks. And I still marvel at it every spring; watching the leaves come out is always an incredible experience. But I’ve also come to expect it. It’s an expected miracle.
There was something extra-astounding about the miracle going on inside my apartment. I hadn’t expected it. I thought I knew the scoop; I thought I had it all figured out. I had conceded to the inevitability of death. But life surprised me, yet again.
It’s a good thing to find that I can’t always predict how things will turn out. And to be reminded that even when things appear hopeless, there’s still a chance for a happy ending.
5/17/07
what the...?!?!
...in a fit of desperation, I pulled up Match.com and looked at some of the available dates in my area. And I swear to you, I swear on... whatever it is people usually swear on... that every single man on every single page of the 16 pages of men that came up; every single* man is looking for a woman who is turned on by thunderstorms! And, unbelievably, there was not one mention of romantic walks on the beach. Is it real? Is it fate? Is it possible that I have 256 perfect matches in the small city of Oneonta?!
I'm overwhelmed. I think I need some air.
(* this was not intentional, but worked out pretty well, as every single man is also, of course, single!)
(and that is the last time I'm going to use that word for at least a month.)
I'm overwhelmed. I think I need some air.
(* this was not intentional, but worked out pretty well, as every single man is also, of course, single!)
(and that is the last time I'm going to use that word for at least a month.)
election blues
Not to get onto a negative roll, but I gotta say that I like this Romney guy even less than I like harp music. A lot less. In fact, I’d feel better about the whole thing if he stopped trying to run for president, and put his energies towards learning how to play an instrument. The harp, for instance.
They say the Democrats don’t like him. That makes sense. I’m a democrat. I don’t like him.
They say that the evangelical Christians don’t like him either. Interesting.
(I can hear Rob saying, as is his wont, “Evangelical Christians? Some of my best friends are evangelical Christians!”)
I’ll be fascinated to see how this all plays out. If things get serious, will we suddenly have a Liberal Democrat-Conservative Christian alliance? Will the democrats start passing out flyers about Christian salvation in an effort to help more republicans see the light? To what lengths will people go to keep Mitt Romney out of office?
…Tune in next year; you might hear Rob say, “George W. Bush? Some of my best friends are George W. Bush!”
They say the Democrats don’t like him. That makes sense. I’m a democrat. I don’t like him.
They say that the evangelical Christians don’t like him either. Interesting.
(I can hear Rob saying, as is his wont, “Evangelical Christians? Some of my best friends are evangelical Christians!”)
I’ll be fascinated to see how this all plays out. If things get serious, will we suddenly have a Liberal Democrat-Conservative Christian alliance? Will the democrats start passing out flyers about Christian salvation in an effort to help more republicans see the light? To what lengths will people go to keep Mitt Romney out of office?
…Tune in next year; you might hear Rob say, “George W. Bush? Some of my best friends are George W. Bush!”
some early morning thoughts
1) Traveling is expansive. Traveling is expensive.
2) I'm glad my toes aren't permanently contorted from wearing tight shoes.
3) Those construction workers should have moved that fire extinguisher before stacking a 9-foot-high pile of wooden pallets in front of its housing.
2) I'm glad my toes aren't permanently contorted from wearing tight shoes.
3) Those construction workers should have moved that fire extinguisher before stacking a 9-foot-high pile of wooden pallets in front of its housing.
5/15/07
harping on harps
Sadly, I'm forced to conclude that I don't really like harp music very much. The instrument itself is really cool, and must be hellishly difficult to play and transport. (!) So those aspects redeem it slightly, but for the most part the sound is just too goopily sweet. Lacks backbone.
Although I'm sure it would sound better if I were getting a massage. Or if I were living the last scene of a romantic B-movie, holding hands with my lover at the front of a sailboat, looking out over the waves at our future together, the wind flowing through our hair, sunset in the distance. But I'm not getting a massage, nor am I on a sailboat. I'm at work, and I'm on the phone, holding for the next available representative. Damn.
Although I'm sure it would sound better if I were getting a massage. Or if I were living the last scene of a romantic B-movie, holding hands with my lover at the front of a sailboat, looking out over the waves at our future together, the wind flowing through our hair, sunset in the distance. But I'm not getting a massage, nor am I on a sailboat. I'm at work, and I'm on the phone, holding for the next available representative. Damn.
(re)commendation
This weekend I had a chance to 'read' Miriam Engelberg's incredibly honest, right-on, eye-opening and absolutely hilarious graphic novel, Cancer Made Me a Shallower Person. I would recommend it to anyone with any interest in the subject, and/or with an interest in human nature. In fact, I'll go so far as to suggest it as a good choice even for those of us who don't plan to have cancer.
5/12/07
a windshield romance
I've noticed recently (and not-so-recently, come to think of it; yep, for awhile now) a number of ads and commercials that don't make much sense. I either can’t figure out what they’re selling, or their message is completely random, and seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with what they’re trying to promote. These ads leave you with a ‘...huh?!’ kind of feeling. You turn to the person next to you and raise your eyebrows, and they turn to you, looking equally puzzled. (And then, ideally, you both burst into laughter, and talk the whole thing over for the next few minutes. Ad-bonding, I call it.)
-Then there are the commercials that are just hopelessly ridiculous, or have some bizarre element; they’re simultaneously hilarious and revolting. You writhe internally at the prospect of ever having to sit through them a second time, and yet you find yourself, uncontrollably, looking forward to the next viewing, because they’re just… so… compellingly awful. I’ve noticed that commercials in this category usually have to do with 1) local car sales, 2) local law offices, or 3) local mattress and furniture outlets.
Anyway, this is all a lead-in so I can tell you about the billboard I saw today on my drive over to Massachusetts. It read:
PAYLESS AUTO GLASS
Our place… OR YOURS?
-Then there are the commercials that are just hopelessly ridiculous, or have some bizarre element; they’re simultaneously hilarious and revolting. You writhe internally at the prospect of ever having to sit through them a second time, and yet you find yourself, uncontrollably, looking forward to the next viewing, because they’re just… so… compellingly awful. I’ve noticed that commercials in this category usually have to do with 1) local car sales, 2) local law offices, or 3) local mattress and furniture outlets.
Anyway, this is all a lead-in so I can tell you about the billboard I saw today on my drive over to Massachusetts. It read:
PAYLESS AUTO GLASS
Our place… OR YOURS?
5/11/07
savings schmavings! I'll lend ya a 20!
Our office just received notification from our bank of a transfer of funds from a parent's New York 529 College Saving Plan to cover tuition charges on their student's account. The amount transferred was $17.00.
I presume that I will soon be asked by our receptionist to explain to this parent why their account still has a balance due, and for once it'll be easy! I can simply point out that their last payment was three zeros short.
I presume that I will soon be asked by our receptionist to explain to this parent why their account still has a balance due, and for once it'll be easy! I can simply point out that their last payment was three zeros short.
healthy kids, healthy lawns
I just saw a TV commercial that concerned me greatly. Bayer, the trusted aspirin manufacturer, is now advertising their newest product: 24-hour Grub Killer Plus! I had to shut my eyes for a minute and look again. Yes, folks, it’s true! The Bayer graphic design team has produced a brightly-colored box for their delightful Grub Killer, complete with a prominent display of the Bayer aspirin logo to help create favorable associations in the mind of the viewer, and to ensure the continuation of our brand loyalty.
I regret to inform the Bayer graphic design team that their plan has been unsuccessful.
And I sincerely hope that the two products are not manufactured in the same facility. If factories cannot keep nut debris out of non-nut food products, to the end that they have to post warnings on their packaging alerting those with allergies that the deceptively innocent-looking canned pineapple they’re about to bite into may contain enough traces of peanut to send them into anaphylactic shock… I shudder to think about the possible cross-pollination scenario with these two products. So the next time you buy aspirin, make sure you read the fine print on the box. If there is any mention of grubs, or fire ants, or anything even remotely related to garden care, don’t think twice. Switch to Advil.
I regret to inform the Bayer graphic design team that their plan has been unsuccessful.
And I sincerely hope that the two products are not manufactured in the same facility. If factories cannot keep nut debris out of non-nut food products, to the end that they have to post warnings on their packaging alerting those with allergies that the deceptively innocent-looking canned pineapple they’re about to bite into may contain enough traces of peanut to send them into anaphylactic shock… I shudder to think about the possible cross-pollination scenario with these two products. So the next time you buy aspirin, make sure you read the fine print on the box. If there is any mention of grubs, or fire ants, or anything even remotely related to garden care, don’t think twice. Switch to Advil.
childhood
My grandmother had a round, blue flowered box labeled “Dusting Powder”. If you slowly lifted the lid, inside you would find a large puff; satin on one side, soft fur on the other, sitting lightly on top of a large amount of white powder. The powder smelled really good, and if you picked up the puff slightly and let it drop, a small, tantalizingly-scented cloud would rise and tickle your nostrils. It was a wonderful treat for the senses. What I never understood, however, was why anyone would want to use such a thing on furniture.
5/8/07
the upside of the downside of imagination
I came to the conclusion a number of years ago that worrywarts make the best defensive drivers (knock on wood), because we’re always imagining lots of horrible things that might occur, and trying to prepare for them. And when you’re in a car, the number of horrible situations that might occur at any moment is higher than pretty much anywhere else [except perhaps if you’re hiking that slippery rock trail to the deadly waterfall overlook in Yosemite]. But driving… driving is the ultimate high for worrywarts; just think of all the nightmarish things that can put their little grisly hands on you while you’re in a car… just think!
Good! I'm glad you're with me on that.
mi casa es su casa
Much of the time I live (as I think most people do) focused on work, or on friends, or on deciding what I need to pick up at the grocery store tonight so that I’ll have all the necessary ingredients to make that soup for dinner tomorrow.
But sometimes (and more and more often the older I get), the world seems to invert in my mind; all its assumptions and consistencies overturned. And then, for a short time, even the most mundane of daily things seems suddenly strange and wondrous.
I just experienced one of those turn-overs. I was lying on the couch, watching the cat lick his paws, watching his ears go back as he heard a car go by on the street; seeing his pupils narrow and his posture stiffen ever-so-slightly. And I thought – how bizarre that I share my life with an animal. An animal; a small thing with claws and fur and a rough tongue and a non-human brain, no ability to speak a language; a wild thing. There is a wild thing living in my apartment! Why is he here? And what does he make of it? Why is he so complacent? Doesn’t he find it strange to live high in the air, on the second floor, and have his food come in uniformly-shaped pellets? Doesn’t he think it odd to look out on houses and cars instead of jungle or forest? To hear church bells ring every hour? Has he memorized all of the Christian hymns they play?
And then… suddenly it seemed even stranger that I should be human, living in a humanly-constructed box, surrounded by humanly-constructed things. Not living outside with the trees, like all the other beings on this planet. I mean, it’s a simple thought, but doesn’t it ever strike you as odd that we live in houses? Or, maybe what I mean is, doesn’t it strike you as incredible that other animals don’t?! I was in New Jersey visiting Mark and Janice, watching these huge turkey vultures circle over their house and thinking – wow, those enormous birds just live out here! They’re not in a zoo, they don’t belong to the neighbors, they’re not on loan by the Chinese government as part of an educational exchange*; they actually live out here, in these trees! And when it rains, and snows – they’re just out there. They don’t ever go home and turn up the thermostat and take a nice hot shower and throw their sopping clothes in the dryer. They don’t pay rent, or property tax. They don’t own dishes, or clothing, or have boxes of Christmas ornaments stashed away in cupboards. They’re completely comfortable being just themselves, with no possessions but their own bodies, sitting out in the weather, all day and all night, every moment of their lives. Isn’t that the strangest and most amazing thing you’ve ever heard of?
4/29/07
in the obscurity
I have decided on a new rule: I am no longer allowed to post to this blog while I'm sick. My entries end up being way too dark.
4/28/07
psycho(logy)
There is a song written by Sting whose lyrics I often feel are very... applicable:
I've spent too many years at war with myself;
the doctor has told me it's no good for my health-
To search for perfection is all very well,
but to look for heaven is to live here in hell.
I've spent too many years at war with myself;
the doctor has told me it's no good for my health-
To search for perfection is all very well,
but to look for heaven is to live here in hell.
4/27/07
a long-winded Post-(Post)-Script
My post below (admittedly kinda over-the-top, even for me) is making me think about the nature of hatred, and fear, and intolerance, and racism, and all of the other negative -isms.
Some thoughts:
1) I can thank those generations of students for my healthy liver function and relative lack of facial wrinkles.
2) When one particular group of people has caused problems for you over the course of many years (or, as in the case of the Middle East, since the beginning of recorded time), it becomes easy to understand how hatred and misunderstanding can arise, and become cemented into a culture, or into a person's heart. And it's difficult (as that person) to not want to retaliate. I certainly retaliated against those students; in elementary school, I spent hours cleaning student-generated garbage off my street, and dumping it in piles on their porches. I felt bad about it, but I thought (in my elementary-school-aged logic) that it was what they deserved, and that it might teach them a lesson, get them to think about what they were doing. Of course, it probably just pissed them off, and made them more likely to deliberately throw their beer cans on the ground. Vengeance (as much as I love that movie) does not help anyone, and indeed only succeeds in widening the gaps between people.
3) In the same vein, I’ve found that approaching someone in anger [about a problem], or even with the self-righteous intention of ‘teaching them a lesson’ or 'helping them to be more self-aware', is much less productive than approaching them in love, and also ends up feeling pretty crappy. At first, there's a sense of exhilaration; the relief of having gotten something off your chest. But then (for me, at least) it quickly sours, often becoming a feeling of embarrassment at having exposed my own negative emotions and lack of control so publicly. And it usually makes the other person feel pretty crappy about themselves too, and often defensive or hurt (and therefore completely closed to the possibility of having any kind of personal revelation or positive learning experience).
Here endeth… today's sequence of fever-induced thoughts.
Some thoughts:
1) I can thank those generations of students for my healthy liver function and relative lack of facial wrinkles.
2) When one particular group of people has caused problems for you over the course of many years (or, as in the case of the Middle East, since the beginning of recorded time), it becomes easy to understand how hatred and misunderstanding can arise, and become cemented into a culture, or into a person's heart. And it's difficult (as that person) to not want to retaliate. I certainly retaliated against those students; in elementary school, I spent hours cleaning student-generated garbage off my street, and dumping it in piles on their porches. I felt bad about it, but I thought (in my elementary-school-aged logic) that it was what they deserved, and that it might teach them a lesson, get them to think about what they were doing. Of course, it probably just pissed them off, and made them more likely to deliberately throw their beer cans on the ground. Vengeance (as much as I love that movie) does not help anyone, and indeed only succeeds in widening the gaps between people.
3) In the same vein, I’ve found that approaching someone in anger [about a problem], or even with the self-righteous intention of ‘teaching them a lesson’ or 'helping them to be more self-aware', is much less productive than approaching them in love, and also ends up feeling pretty crappy. At first, there's a sense of exhilaration; the relief of having gotten something off your chest. But then (for me, at least) it quickly sours, often becoming a feeling of embarrassment at having exposed my own negative emotions and lack of control so publicly. And it usually makes the other person feel pretty crappy about themselves too, and often defensive or hurt (and therefore completely closed to the possibility of having any kind of personal revelation or positive learning experience).
Here endeth… today's sequence of fever-induced thoughts.
seeing red
My boss is taking a vacation day, so I'm at work, despite the fact that I feel like total crap, have a fever and chills and wish I could just be home in bed.
So, I will comfort myself by rambling randomly along on my blog….
I recently had an annual physical with a new primary care physician, and she asked me a ton of questions about my health and my history... routine fare, of course, but as I was answering 'no' to all her questions, I found myself thinking again about why it is that I've never once been tempted to try drugs or cigarettes, why I don't find stories about the antics of drunk people very funny, why I feel uncomfortable in bars. Through the years, there have been people who have concluded that I must have a prudish, puritanical conscience that won't allow me to 'let go' and 'have fun'. But really, my dislike of all things druggy stems from the fact that I was brought up in a 'drinking' college town, and that I developed, at a very early age, a hatred (and I don't use that word lightly) towards out-of-control college students and all that they stood for. And this, of course, includes all substances, legal and otherwise.
The students wander around Oneonta in packs every evening when the weather is good (every weekend when it's not), breaking off the tops of our picket fences, having loud arguments at 2am that wake up the whole street, walking through everyone’s yards, trampling flower beds in their drunken urgency to get from one party to the next. They throw down cigarette butts everywhere, leave empty plastic beer cups and bottles on your lawn, smash empty gin bottles on the sidewalk. Furthermore, they do unconscionable things like adopting kittens in September, keeping them for the academic year, and then putting them out on the street when they leave to go home in May, having no more use for them.
And the worst part, from my perspective growing up, is that they were old enough to know better. I was six, and I knew better. I could not understand why anyone 3 times my age would know less than me, and why there would be so many of them; more and more every year, and none of them ever learning from their mistakes; none of them ever maturing. (That’s the sad thing of living in a college town; you’re constantly stuck with people at the same maturity level; the students never get older; you never get to see them become mature adults; all you get is a fresh crop of headaches with every incoming class). And it was confusing, because I’d met many of them in person, and I could see that they were decent people at the core, so I concluded that their drinking and partying must have literally caused them to lose their minds, to lose all sense of who they were and what they believed in; I couldn’t think of any other explanation for what I witnessed on the streets at night.
And oh, how I hated everything they did! I hated it when they stole my Big Wheel; I hated it when they took my brother’s stroller and we found it a week later, mangled, and hanging on a street sign four blocks away. I hated it when they cornered my siblings in the park and threw snowballs at them until they were screaming and crying for help. I still hate it, even now, when they keep my father, who gave 31 years of his life to teaching and counseling them, from being able to sleep, night after night as spring creeps towards summer, because they’re standing on the street outside his window yelling and arguing with each other.
...And it made me even sadder when I met my neighbor on the sidewalk last week; she was kneeling on the ground, using a power drill to repair her fence; she gestured at the new boards, and then over at a For Sale sign on the lawn, and said "These damn students, they break my fence every weekend, and I just can't take it anymore. We're getting out!" It's just too bad.
Anyway, I vowed to myself, at the age of six, that I would never ever EVER let myself be ANYTHING like any of those students; that I would never let myself lose sight of my real, serious Self and become a rampaging, irresponsible, [drunk], lunatic 'college student'; not even for one minute. And, to date, I’ve kept that vow.
(I will leave for a subsequent entry my discourse on the irony of what I do for a living.)
So, I will comfort myself by rambling randomly along on my blog….
I recently had an annual physical with a new primary care physician, and she asked me a ton of questions about my health and my history... routine fare, of course, but as I was answering 'no' to all her questions, I found myself thinking again about why it is that I've never once been tempted to try drugs or cigarettes, why I don't find stories about the antics of drunk people very funny, why I feel uncomfortable in bars. Through the years, there have been people who have concluded that I must have a prudish, puritanical conscience that won't allow me to 'let go' and 'have fun'. But really, my dislike of all things druggy stems from the fact that I was brought up in a 'drinking' college town, and that I developed, at a very early age, a hatred (and I don't use that word lightly) towards out-of-control college students and all that they stood for. And this, of course, includes all substances, legal and otherwise.
The students wander around Oneonta in packs every evening when the weather is good (every weekend when it's not), breaking off the tops of our picket fences, having loud arguments at 2am that wake up the whole street, walking through everyone’s yards, trampling flower beds in their drunken urgency to get from one party to the next. They throw down cigarette butts everywhere, leave empty plastic beer cups and bottles on your lawn, smash empty gin bottles on the sidewalk. Furthermore, they do unconscionable things like adopting kittens in September, keeping them for the academic year, and then putting them out on the street when they leave to go home in May, having no more use for them.
And the worst part, from my perspective growing up, is that they were old enough to know better. I was six, and I knew better. I could not understand why anyone 3 times my age would know less than me, and why there would be so many of them; more and more every year, and none of them ever learning from their mistakes; none of them ever maturing. (That’s the sad thing of living in a college town; you’re constantly stuck with people at the same maturity level; the students never get older; you never get to see them become mature adults; all you get is a fresh crop of headaches with every incoming class). And it was confusing, because I’d met many of them in person, and I could see that they were decent people at the core, so I concluded that their drinking and partying must have literally caused them to lose their minds, to lose all sense of who they were and what they believed in; I couldn’t think of any other explanation for what I witnessed on the streets at night.
And oh, how I hated everything they did! I hated it when they stole my Big Wheel; I hated it when they took my brother’s stroller and we found it a week later, mangled, and hanging on a street sign four blocks away. I hated it when they cornered my siblings in the park and threw snowballs at them until they were screaming and crying for help. I still hate it, even now, when they keep my father, who gave 31 years of his life to teaching and counseling them, from being able to sleep, night after night as spring creeps towards summer, because they’re standing on the street outside his window yelling and arguing with each other.
...And it made me even sadder when I met my neighbor on the sidewalk last week; she was kneeling on the ground, using a power drill to repair her fence; she gestured at the new boards, and then over at a For Sale sign on the lawn, and said "These damn students, they break my fence every weekend, and I just can't take it anymore. We're getting out!" It's just too bad.
Anyway, I vowed to myself, at the age of six, that I would never ever EVER let myself be ANYTHING like any of those students; that I would never let myself lose sight of my real, serious Self and become a rampaging, irresponsible, [drunk], lunatic 'college student'; not even for one minute. And, to date, I’ve kept that vow.
(I will leave for a subsequent entry my discourse on the irony of what I do for a living.)
second question of the week
(prompted by the first question of the week)
...and what is up with the "known as Best Foods west of the Rockies" thing on mayonnaise?
East: Hellman's / West: Best Foods
East: McCormick / West: Schilling
East: Edy's / West: Dreyer's
There must be more, too, that I've forgotten or am not aware of. But it's weird.
...and what is up with the "known as Best Foods west of the Rockies" thing on mayonnaise?
East: Hellman's / West: Best Foods
East: McCormick / West: Schilling
East: Edy's / West: Dreyer's
There must be more, too, that I've forgotten or am not aware of. But it's weird.
question of the week
why do they sell real mayonnaise in plastic jars, and fat-free miracle whip in glass jars?
4/26/07
Thursday afternoon
In between posting Perkins loan deferments and requesting refunds for overpaid accounts, I went to the back room to re-heat my morning coffee (yes, I drink about one cup a day... all day) and poke around for any goodies that might have been left back there by some generous officemate, for general consumption by anyone looking for a snack. (Here I must confess that I'm more likely to deplete the supplies of said goodies than to contribute to them, but... people put up with me anyway because I'm nice to work with.)
...So it was with joy that I spotted a plastic take-out container filled with cookies, sitting on top of the Accounts Payable file cabinet. The cookies were of the pseudo-shortbread variety, made cheaply with some sort of lardish shortening rather than butter, extruded through some torturous device so as to form attractive potato-chippy ridges along their lengths, and finally dipped in colorful sprinkles that (from the way they left a greasy film on the roof of my mouth) were obviously more wax than chocolate. I am, however, not above eating such disgusting things, provided they contain a certain amount of sugar; and these cookies did. In fact, they also contained a delightful filling of dehydrated, gooey raspberry saucy stuff; so stiff that when I bit down on one side of the cookie, the body of it crumbled into my mouth, leaving a sort of raspberry ledge sticking out of the other half. Yummm... a perfect gross-cookie-eating experience!
But it was the raspberry filling that caused me to pause, and realize suddenly that I have always had a love-hate relationship with raspberries: I love raspberry filling inside cheap greasy cookies, yet I dislike having raspberry sauce dribbled over my cake. I love chocolate truffles with raspberry filling, yet dislike solid chocolate with raspberry flavoring. I love fresh raspberries, but cannot bring myself to eat frozen ones. I long for fresh rolls smothered with butter and raspberry jam, but cannot stand the taste of raspberry jam on muffins. Good on peanut butter sandwiches; bad on scones.
Is it the berry that's fickle? Or is it me?
...So it was with joy that I spotted a plastic take-out container filled with cookies, sitting on top of the Accounts Payable file cabinet. The cookies were of the pseudo-shortbread variety, made cheaply with some sort of lardish shortening rather than butter, extruded through some torturous device so as to form attractive potato-chippy ridges along their lengths, and finally dipped in colorful sprinkles that (from the way they left a greasy film on the roof of my mouth) were obviously more wax than chocolate. I am, however, not above eating such disgusting things, provided they contain a certain amount of sugar; and these cookies did. In fact, they also contained a delightful filling of dehydrated, gooey raspberry saucy stuff; so stiff that when I bit down on one side of the cookie, the body of it crumbled into my mouth, leaving a sort of raspberry ledge sticking out of the other half. Yummm... a perfect gross-cookie-eating experience!
But it was the raspberry filling that caused me to pause, and realize suddenly that I have always had a love-hate relationship with raspberries: I love raspberry filling inside cheap greasy cookies, yet I dislike having raspberry sauce dribbled over my cake. I love chocolate truffles with raspberry filling, yet dislike solid chocolate with raspberry flavoring. I love fresh raspberries, but cannot bring myself to eat frozen ones. I long for fresh rolls smothered with butter and raspberry jam, but cannot stand the taste of raspberry jam on muffins. Good on peanut butter sandwiches; bad on scones.
Is it the berry that's fickle? Or is it me?
4/19/07
I know what he means, but... what the hell does he mean?!
In a statement released by the White House, Bush applauded the court's move as a major step toward "building a culture of life in America."
4/17/07
irony
Being a somewhat anxiety-prone personality, I have occasionally contemplated taking anti-anxiety medication. I have, however, hitherto rejected the idea, as the thought of being on any kind of daily medication makes me feel anxious.
4/10/07
pounding the pavement? -politics&pow(d)er
My cousin Sherry just mailed me a newspaper cutting of the following:
Ecuador - July 1967
"During a recent local election campaign in Ecuador, a pharmaceutical firm ran the advertising slogan: 'Vote for the candidate of your choice, but if you want well-being and hygiene, vote for Pulvapies.'
When the votes were counted, the costal town of Picoaza, population 4000, had elected Pulvapies - a foot powder - as mayor, and voters in other municipalities had marked their ballots for the deodorant as well.
The national electoral tribunal is grappling with the problem, and dozens of defeated candidates are threatening to sue the company."
Ecuador - July 1967
"During a recent local election campaign in Ecuador, a pharmaceutical firm ran the advertising slogan: 'Vote for the candidate of your choice, but if you want well-being and hygiene, vote for Pulvapies.'
When the votes were counted, the costal town of Picoaza, population 4000, had elected Pulvapies - a foot powder - as mayor, and voters in other municipalities had marked their ballots for the deodorant as well.
The national electoral tribunal is grappling with the problem, and dozens of defeated candidates are threatening to sue the company."
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