Tuesday, September 30, 2008
with all due respect ...
Check out the Testimonial on this page.
Who is that fuzzy lady and what is her business here? That's one minimalist testimonial.
Who is that fuzzy lady and what is her business here? That's one minimalist testimonial.
Monday, September 29, 2008
one weekend in montana
I have new software and ... oh my. I am about to start having a lot of fun. Behold, my first self-produced audio slideshow. It's not perfect but I couldn't redo it one more time. It's time to press on.
Unfortunately, in the course of figuring out how to upload it (took all day today), I messed up my site a little. It looks bad and the Photos link is currently not working. But I've sent out an SOS and hopefully all my technology will play together nicely very soon.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
dillard's du jour
Dillard's could have the same impact if it simply ran an ad that said, "Dillard's. We're a department store and we sell stuff" as it does with this sad sack selection.
If you are morally opposed to advertising (and aren't we all, just a little?) and its calculated ability to make you crave things you don't need, then you must applaud Dillard's. I feel no pangs of deprivation when I look at this ad. Mostly, I think, "Hey, I have nicer stuff than that."
Perhaps Dillard's is positioning itself as shopping for the non-aspirational. Perhaps in solidarity with that anti-consumerist message, I should now shop only Dillard's. But I already have a hoodie and jeans.
I actually have a friend who shops the Dillard's sales racks frequently and always comes up with cute stuff. But I'm just fascinated, and bumfuzzled, by their marketing plan.
Friday, September 26, 2008
jack is a good dog
The other day, I was introduced by a friend/blog reader as an “animal nut” who has a “horrible dog.”
I’ve known people a lot nuttier about animals than I, but “animal nut” is a description I can live with. Compared to some, I’m loony, I guess.
But I feel bad for Jack, being called horrible. That’s my fault. My friend has never met Jack but I’ve told such terrible tales about him on this blog. My friend was clear that the kind of behavior I described would never be tolerated in her home. Her husband agreed while a large cat practicing lap yoga inserted a foot in his nose.
I promise Jack isn’t all bad. But writing about Jack’s wicked ways is simply more entertaining for everyone than if I wrote about the cute face he puts on when he thinks it will shake loose a treat. Or how, when you open the back door, he leaps to his feet from a dead sleep and streaks across the yard with purpose. I wasn’t sleeping! I’m on the job! Or how he climbs into my lap—as much as can fit in my lap, anyway—when I sit on the living room floor and brush him.
Jack is the Rorschach test of dogs. Some people look at him and see a ferocious beast, some want to throw their arms around his furry neck. (Not advised for anyone but me and Tom.) But either way, the real Jack is a chowhound and a goober and far from the noble beast I thought he was when we adopted him. When push comes to shove, he’d rather snack than fight.
He’s not a sociable dog but that’s partly a breed trait. (He appears to have Australian shepherd in him.) We’ve had lots of visitors in and out and if they do as we say and ignore Jack, he moons around them like they’re his long-lost loves. Try to pet him and he shows teeth. That’s just his little neurosis. Poor Jack is conflicted.
But he has changed. Really changed. Granted, he still doesn’t like his back feet touched and never will. We touch them sometimes just to annoy him. Mostly he just gives us a dirty look and leaves the room. He’s much more tolerant of tail touching these days, and with liberal application of weenie bits at the front end will let me vigorously brush his back end. He stills snap sometimes, but he doesn’t have his heart in it. It’s a method of communication for him. I bat him on the nose and he gives me puppy dog eyes.
Jack doesn’t lunge at fenced dogs anymore. His senses are alert as we pass his archenemies but no matter how they try to rile him, he just hustles past. He still barks at dogs on TV but that’s just cute.
There’s even one little dog on our evening route that Jack adores. He insists we pause at this yard every evening. If the little dog is asleep, we wait until he wakes up and toddles up a steep hill to greet us. He and Jack sniff each other and wag and swap a little urine.
We’ve been visiting this doggie for months. The dog often invites Jack to frolic along the fence. He assumes the playful doggie position then bounces in circles. Jack has mostly looked puzzled. It appears he never learned how to play with other dogs. But the other night, for the first time, he actually attempted a clumsy frolic of his own. I got all choked up.
Jack is playful in his own way. Sometimes we play a game I like to call “stick.” We go outside and I say “Where’s your stick Jack?” in that excited voice we were taught to use to engage him. He looks at me all happy and then bounds off into the woods and vanishes. I go back inside.
Tom has better luck with stick. They play each morning and Jack will sulk if Tom tries to cheat him out of his game. I think he’ll even return the stick to Tom a few times. When Jack tires of the game, he settles down to chew the stick into toothpicks.
We’re pretty satisfied with ol’ Jack. I mean, it does get on our nerves that he never closes the back door behind him, after butting it open with his giant head a million times day to stroll inside and see what we’re up. And it would be fun if he liked car rides so we wouldn’t have to lift his large ass into the car every time we want to haul him somewhere. And his plodding pace at the end of our walks makes me a little crazy every night. And I’d rather he didn’t wake me every morning barking his fool head off at squirrels. And he’s gloomy when it rains. We suspect seasonal affective disorder.
I suppose my affection for Jack reflects my allegiance to the underdogs of the world. Jack came from a troubled home. But he's conquered many of his demons and he’s a good boy. Yes, he is.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
why you should get happy
Research shows that the older we get, the happier we are. I know, it sounds counterintuitive. You never see old folks flailing around with uncontrolled glee in Mountain Dew commercials. At best, you might see them in Cialis ads, doing a gentle waltz before doddering off for a little missionary position. Sometimes you see them on sailboats because they’ve retired filthy rich by selecting the right investment counselor.
But as I enter my doddering missionary years, I find that I am, in fact, generally happier than I have ever been. Sure, I still wake in the middle of the night filled with free-floating anxiety and dread, still find myself racked with feelings of inadequacy, still fret far too much over the impression I make on others, but those are just hobbies. For the most part, when I step back and survey the life I’ve created, I have to say, “Not bad.”
In a way, though, this new found satisfaction is a liability because I'm increasingly impatient with gloomy people who have locked themselves into a misery schtick and don’t seem interested in finding their way out. This is a particular problem because in the past, these were kind of people I chose as friends. Misery does, in fact, like company. But now that I'm no longer miserable, I have a handful of friendships I don't know how to continue.
I’m not talking about people who, like me, enjoy recreational bitching and moaning. Again, I consider that a perfectly viable hobby, although I now prefer it be diluted with occasional happy talk. I’m talking about people who are chronically dissatisfied with their lives and refuse to take hold and make changes. Yeah, yeah, yeah. People suck. Life is disappointing. Money is tight. We haven’t lived up to our potential. Relationships are hard. George Bush is a butthead.
But the temperature here in Dallas probably won’t hit 100 again this year. The State Fair starts Friday. Sarah Palin provides ample fodder for recreational bitching and moaning. And there’s a new episode of Mad Men on Sunday night.
Life ain’t so bad in the day-to-day.
OK, I do feel bad about eating Popeye’s for dinner last night but this, too, will pass.
I’m sympathetic to misery. I’ve been headshrunk and medicated and self helped and group therapied and all that over the years. And it all works. So does exercise. So does identifying goals and working towards them. So does stepping back and taking inventory. (The expression “count your blessings” makes me want to hurl, so I won’t say that.)
I’m sure I’ll be unhappy again. I am genetically and temperamentally disposed to recurring unhappiness. But when I feel it coming on, I rally all the resources I’ve gathered over the years and fight back.
You can too and probably should because I promise you: If you’ve been unhappy for a long time, you’re friends are tired of hearing about it.
(Hm, I’m griping about gripey people. How confusing.)
OK, here’s some food for thought. My second-favorite podcast (after This American Life) is called All in the Mind. It’s an Australian radio show about all things related to the brain and mind. Natasha Mitchell is a wonderful interviewer, the topics are fascinating, the guests are top-of-the-line.
The show recently had a two-part series of brain plasticity, which is the ability of our brains to change even into adulthood. In Part 2 (here), Mitchell talks to psychiatrist Dr Norman Doidge about plasticity as it applies to psychotherapy. Think therapy is just a lot of self-indulgent blah-blah? Scientists are beginning to home in on actual neurological changes that take place in the brain as you do the work. (And yeah, it is work. Hard work.)
So there.
Get happy, people. Or risk getting on my nerves.
But as I enter my doddering missionary years, I find that I am, in fact, generally happier than I have ever been. Sure, I still wake in the middle of the night filled with free-floating anxiety and dread, still find myself racked with feelings of inadequacy, still fret far too much over the impression I make on others, but those are just hobbies. For the most part, when I step back and survey the life I’ve created, I have to say, “Not bad.”
In a way, though, this new found satisfaction is a liability because I'm increasingly impatient with gloomy people who have locked themselves into a misery schtick and don’t seem interested in finding their way out. This is a particular problem because in the past, these were kind of people I chose as friends. Misery does, in fact, like company. But now that I'm no longer miserable, I have a handful of friendships I don't know how to continue.
I’m not talking about people who, like me, enjoy recreational bitching and moaning. Again, I consider that a perfectly viable hobby, although I now prefer it be diluted with occasional happy talk. I’m talking about people who are chronically dissatisfied with their lives and refuse to take hold and make changes. Yeah, yeah, yeah. People suck. Life is disappointing. Money is tight. We haven’t lived up to our potential. Relationships are hard. George Bush is a butthead.
But the temperature here in Dallas probably won’t hit 100 again this year. The State Fair starts Friday. Sarah Palin provides ample fodder for recreational bitching and moaning. And there’s a new episode of Mad Men on Sunday night.
Life ain’t so bad in the day-to-day.
OK, I do feel bad about eating Popeye’s for dinner last night but this, too, will pass.
I’m sympathetic to misery. I’ve been headshrunk and medicated and self helped and group therapied and all that over the years. And it all works. So does exercise. So does identifying goals and working towards them. So does stepping back and taking inventory. (The expression “count your blessings” makes me want to hurl, so I won’t say that.)
I’m sure I’ll be unhappy again. I am genetically and temperamentally disposed to recurring unhappiness. But when I feel it coming on, I rally all the resources I’ve gathered over the years and fight back.
You can too and probably should because I promise you: If you’ve been unhappy for a long time, you’re friends are tired of hearing about it.
(Hm, I’m griping about gripey people. How confusing.)
OK, here’s some food for thought. My second-favorite podcast (after This American Life) is called All in the Mind. It’s an Australian radio show about all things related to the brain and mind. Natasha Mitchell is a wonderful interviewer, the topics are fascinating, the guests are top-of-the-line.
The show recently had a two-part series of brain plasticity, which is the ability of our brains to change even into adulthood. In Part 2 (here), Mitchell talks to psychiatrist Dr Norman Doidge about plasticity as it applies to psychotherapy. Think therapy is just a lot of self-indulgent blah-blah? Scientists are beginning to home in on actual neurological changes that take place in the brain as you do the work. (And yeah, it is work. Hard work.)
So there.
Get happy, people. Or risk getting on my nerves.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
are we cute when we age?
A friend an I are having a debate about using the words “cute” and “adorable” to describe older people.
I said that calling old people “cute” often is patronizing because it’s diminutive and, to my ears, infantilizing. My friend disagreed and considers it just another compliment.
For example, this couple in one of our new favorite blogs, Advanced Style.
This is a great-looking couple—classy and elegant, and the guy’s response to receiving a compliment was smart. But adorable? I don’t see adorable and I don’t think, if these two were, say, in their 40s, the word adorable would be applied. I think we often use cute and adorable for older people who continue to assert personality rather than just slinking quietly off into their dotage. (Unless we call them cranky or curmudgeonly, the alternate personality assertion.) Which is not to say it's impossible to be a cute older person. But to me, cute older people are those who were cute when they were younger, too. They're just cute people.
It seems to me that we go from “cute” and “adorable” childhood, through adulthood when we are not considered cute unless we are 5’ tall and snub-nosed (and I’ve been told by a friend who is under 5’ that she gets very tired of being called cute), then cycle back to “cute” and “adorable” in old age.
I certainly don’t suggest the words are used as intentional slurs—not in this blog or anywhere. I think we often use "cute" as shorthand--it's easier than thinking up more specific words. Once, a friend and I went shopping in the little gifty shops in a small Texas town and tried not to use the word "cute." It was just about impossible.
But in this context, the words just sound patronizing to me, however unintentionally. You rarely see them used in The Sartorialist, the influential blog which inspired Advanced Style.
My friend and I have agreed to disagree but now I’m curious at to what others think. Am I just a cranky old curmudgeon? (Well, yes. I'm spry, too. But what do you think anyway?)
I said that calling old people “cute” often is patronizing because it’s diminutive and, to my ears, infantilizing. My friend disagreed and considers it just another compliment.
For example, this couple in one of our new favorite blogs, Advanced Style.
This is a great-looking couple—classy and elegant, and the guy’s response to receiving a compliment was smart. But adorable? I don’t see adorable and I don’t think, if these two were, say, in their 40s, the word adorable would be applied. I think we often use cute and adorable for older people who continue to assert personality rather than just slinking quietly off into their dotage. (Unless we call them cranky or curmudgeonly, the alternate personality assertion.) Which is not to say it's impossible to be a cute older person. But to me, cute older people are those who were cute when they were younger, too. They're just cute people.
It seems to me that we go from “cute” and “adorable” childhood, through adulthood when we are not considered cute unless we are 5’ tall and snub-nosed (and I’ve been told by a friend who is under 5’ that she gets very tired of being called cute), then cycle back to “cute” and “adorable” in old age.
I certainly don’t suggest the words are used as intentional slurs—not in this blog or anywhere. I think we often use "cute" as shorthand--it's easier than thinking up more specific words. Once, a friend and I went shopping in the little gifty shops in a small Texas town and tried not to use the word "cute." It was just about impossible.
But in this context, the words just sound patronizing to me, however unintentionally. You rarely see them used in The Sartorialist, the influential blog which inspired Advanced Style.
My friend and I have agreed to disagree but now I’m curious at to what others think. Am I just a cranky old curmudgeon? (Well, yes. I'm spry, too. But what do you think anyway?)
Monday, September 22, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
rocket scientists for palin
Presumably, this guy thinks Sarah Palin goes to the supermarket because, you know, she's a chick. I have to wonder when she has time. I think this guy actually supports MR. Palin for vice president, since he probably handles that little household duty. Or maybe he supports the Palins' household help.
And that, of course, is aside from the whole question as to whether we want regular schlemiels in the White House. Me, I want very very smart people in there. People a whole helluvalot smarter than me. It doesn't take much intelligence to go grocery shopping so that's not on my list of requirements for political office.
Friday, September 19, 2008
flotsam friday
Pardon my lousy mood. I’ll try to keep it to myself and just toss a little cheery flotsam your way.
**
Cute Overload has a particularly great post today--check out the Prairie Dog smash-ups, here. Sound necessary. Some people have magical talents.
**
If I dug a hole in my backyard straight through the other side of the Earth, I would emerge in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Which doesn’t sound like a lot of fun. How do I know this? Worldhum turned me on to the cool and essentially useless Google Tunneling Tool. Just because. Beats working.
**
New model, same depressing style…
Evidently, there’s a small anti-Dillard’s movement brewing. Stockholders aren’t happy. Here’s a blogful of complaints. Evidently women don’t want to dress like Opal Pickles.
**
Speaking of fashion, if you’re a fan of The Sartorialist then check out the senior version, Advanced Style. The text can be patronizing at times but the intentions are good and the styles range from inspiring to merely impressively audacious.
The video below comes to us via Advanced Style and this lady rocks.
**
Another well-informed voter unleashes her ire on Charles Gibson’s glasses.
**
You can tell I reported this story about visiting the fabulous Best Friends Animal Sanctuary a long time ago, because l'il ZsaZsa (RIP) makes an appearance in the lede. But I'm glad the story has finally made it into print.
And here's a story about my most recent glamorous trip, to the Choctaw Casino in Durant, OK. Actually, we had a pretty good time. Oklahoma good.
**
OK, let’s all cheer up, because the renewed mind is the key. This is a must-watch, coming to me via my kooky friends at the United Methodist Reporter (via Best TV Week Ever). Warning: Earworm ahead.
**
Cute Overload has a particularly great post today--check out the Prairie Dog smash-ups, here. Sound necessary. Some people have magical talents.
**
If I dug a hole in my backyard straight through the other side of the Earth, I would emerge in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Which doesn’t sound like a lot of fun. How do I know this? Worldhum turned me on to the cool and essentially useless Google Tunneling Tool. Just because. Beats working.
**
New model, same depressing style…
Evidently, there’s a small anti-Dillard’s movement brewing. Stockholders aren’t happy. Here’s a blogful of complaints. Evidently women don’t want to dress like Opal Pickles.
**
Speaking of fashion, if you’re a fan of The Sartorialist then check out the senior version, Advanced Style. The text can be patronizing at times but the intentions are good and the styles range from inspiring to merely impressively audacious.
The video below comes to us via Advanced Style and this lady rocks.
**
Another well-informed voter unleashes her ire on Charles Gibson’s glasses.
**
You can tell I reported this story about visiting the fabulous Best Friends Animal Sanctuary a long time ago, because l'il ZsaZsa (RIP) makes an appearance in the lede. But I'm glad the story has finally made it into print.
And here's a story about my most recent glamorous trip, to the Choctaw Casino in Durant, OK. Actually, we had a pretty good time. Oklahoma good.
**
OK, let’s all cheer up, because the renewed mind is the key. This is a must-watch, coming to me via my kooky friends at the United Methodist Reporter (via Best TV Week Ever). Warning: Earworm ahead.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
maine journal
Any time I’m in Austin, I make a point of visiting the galleries of the fabulous Harry Ransom Center, which has one of the world’s premier collections of original manuscripts and cultural ephemera.
Last time I went, I saw the original scroll of Kerouac’s On the Road along with other fascinating stuff at an extensive exhibit on the beat writers. You can read my small story about it here.
Currently, the Center has an exhibit about archives in general-—their acquisition, uses, quirks. In truth, when I read about the exhibit I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept at all. But I was immediately and deeply sucked in when I got there. Along with the usual manuscripts, letters and photos, there were oddities that came long with various archives, such as horribly defiled photos of Gloria Swanson, sent to her by Kenneth Anger after she filed a lawsuit related to his book, Hollywood Babylon. I enjoyed reading a series of letters related to the acquisition of an archive and a slideshow about the arrival at the Center of John Fowles’ archive, which includes his desk drawers and their contents. (Brass knuckles?)
And all this got me thinking about my own archives. For someone who’s a nobody, I have a very well documented life. Hundreds and hundreds of travel photos. Dozens of sketchbooks. Old manuscripts, both in hard copy and on floppy disks. (I was gratified to learn at the Center that the archive of Isaac Bashevis Singer contains three unpublished novels. Nice to know even revered authors have unpublished manuscripts.) Boxes and boxes of newspaper clips of my articles, turning to dust in the garage. Ticket stubs from shows I don’t remember seeing.
Those of you who read me on MySpace probably remember my diaries. For newcomers, you may read about my exciting youth here, and my embarrassing youth here.
I decided to start exploring my own archives from time to time. This morning, I reached into a box and pulled out a little book that turns out to be a journal/sketchbook of a trip I took to Maine by myself when I was probably about 19 or 20 years old.
My own little exhibit of a few random excerpts and pages:
I’ve gotten myself a nice room on Sebago Lake. It’s called “Anderson’s Motel & Kitchenette Cottages” It’s within walking distance (I believe) of the beach. It’s run by an old Maine man. He sits on a lawn chair outside the office, which is a tiny one room shack. My room is all yellow with a couple of lawn chairs with cushions on them and pictures stuck on the wall with thumbtacks. One is a picture of a cowgirl & her horse.
Walking to the beach in the morning is one of those picture book experiences. All I hear are the pines rustling, & an occasional child’s voice or car engine. One sight that suddenly confronted me was a dirt road lined by pines with the lake in the distance and three little children meandering along.
The woman with the black beehive comes every day in a new bathing suit & big, plastic colour-coordinated earrings.
I saw a fox tonight! The first one I’ve ever seen running wild. I slowed down when I saw him & he stopped and looked at me.
Frogs kept hopping in front of the car. I think I must have killed a few. I tried to go over them.
Last time I went, I saw the original scroll of Kerouac’s On the Road along with other fascinating stuff at an extensive exhibit on the beat writers. You can read my small story about it here.
Currently, the Center has an exhibit about archives in general-—their acquisition, uses, quirks. In truth, when I read about the exhibit I couldn’t wrap my mind around the concept at all. But I was immediately and deeply sucked in when I got there. Along with the usual manuscripts, letters and photos, there were oddities that came long with various archives, such as horribly defiled photos of Gloria Swanson, sent to her by Kenneth Anger after she filed a lawsuit related to his book, Hollywood Babylon. I enjoyed reading a series of letters related to the acquisition of an archive and a slideshow about the arrival at the Center of John Fowles’ archive, which includes his desk drawers and their contents. (Brass knuckles?)
And all this got me thinking about my own archives. For someone who’s a nobody, I have a very well documented life. Hundreds and hundreds of travel photos. Dozens of sketchbooks. Old manuscripts, both in hard copy and on floppy disks. (I was gratified to learn at the Center that the archive of Isaac Bashevis Singer contains three unpublished novels. Nice to know even revered authors have unpublished manuscripts.) Boxes and boxes of newspaper clips of my articles, turning to dust in the garage. Ticket stubs from shows I don’t remember seeing.
Those of you who read me on MySpace probably remember my diaries. For newcomers, you may read about my exciting youth here, and my embarrassing youth here.
I decided to start exploring my own archives from time to time. This morning, I reached into a box and pulled out a little book that turns out to be a journal/sketchbook of a trip I took to Maine by myself when I was probably about 19 or 20 years old.
My own little exhibit of a few random excerpts and pages:
I’ve gotten myself a nice room on Sebago Lake. It’s called “Anderson’s Motel & Kitchenette Cottages” It’s within walking distance (I believe) of the beach. It’s run by an old Maine man. He sits on a lawn chair outside the office, which is a tiny one room shack. My room is all yellow with a couple of lawn chairs with cushions on them and pictures stuck on the wall with thumbtacks. One is a picture of a cowgirl & her horse.
Walking to the beach in the morning is one of those picture book experiences. All I hear are the pines rustling, & an occasional child’s voice or car engine. One sight that suddenly confronted me was a dirt road lined by pines with the lake in the distance and three little children meandering along.
The woman with the black beehive comes every day in a new bathing suit & big, plastic colour-coordinated earrings.
I saw a fox tonight! The first one I’ve ever seen running wild. I slowed down when I saw him & he stopped and looked at me.
Frogs kept hopping in front of the car. I think I must have killed a few. I tried to go over them.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
balinese room
Some of you might remember the mighty power I have to wreak havoc on places I visit.
I feel just terrible about Galveston.
I am particularly sad about the destruction of the Balinese Room, a historic nightclub that rambled out 600 feet from Seawall Boulevard. It was a gambling hotspot in the 1940s and '50s. After sitting neglected for years, it was being revived as a rock club. But then came Ike ...
I took a few photos of the Balinese on my recent visit to the island. Let's take a moment to pay our respects.
Such a pity.
A couple of regular readers here with a more intimate connection with the region have blogged about Ike and the coast. Here is Karen's post, and here is Cynthia's. I'm so sorry, friends. But Galveston arose from the rubble once before and we know it will do so again.
OK, to lighten the mood a little, here's the Letter to the Editor du jour:
I can just picture this guy with a long list of networks he's boycotting. ABC? Check. CNN? Check. NBC. Check.
All Fox all the time, I guess.
I feel just terrible about Galveston.
I am particularly sad about the destruction of the Balinese Room, a historic nightclub that rambled out 600 feet from Seawall Boulevard. It was a gambling hotspot in the 1940s and '50s. After sitting neglected for years, it was being revived as a rock club. But then came Ike ...
I took a few photos of the Balinese on my recent visit to the island. Let's take a moment to pay our respects.
Such a pity.
A couple of regular readers here with a more intimate connection with the region have blogged about Ike and the coast. Here is Karen's post, and here is Cynthia's. I'm so sorry, friends. But Galveston arose from the rubble once before and we know it will do so again.
OK, to lighten the mood a little, here's the Letter to the Editor du jour:
I can just picture this guy with a long list of networks he's boycotting. ABC? Check. CNN? Check. NBC. Check.
All Fox all the time, I guess.
Monday, September 15, 2008
on being cheap
I’m drinking a crappy cup of coffee. Know why? ‘Cause I’m cheap.
I’ve been house sitting in Austin for a few days. I brought along some good coffee from home but didn’t have enough for my last morning (today) so while I was at Target the other day, I grabbed a can of Maxwell House to tide me over. You know—a $4 pound of coffee. How bad can it be?
Bad.
“Why didn’t you just go to Starbucks and buy a bag of coffee?” Tom asked. “Oh, never mind...”
He knows the answer. It’s because I’m cheap. And now, choking down my crappy cup of coffee, I am chastising myself for the kabillionth time for my cheapness.
Frugal-good. Cheap-stupid.
Being frugal means you buy just what you need and don’t spend beyond your means.
Being cheap means you buy the cheapest version of whatever you need, bring it home and realize that it’s a piece of crap and you get what you pay for. And when it falls far short of your needs, or breaks down after two uses, or tastes like reheated swill that’s been sitting at the bottom of the coffee pot since last week, you have to replace it, thereby spending considerably more than you would have if you hadn’t been so damn cheap.
Essentially, I spent $4 on two cups of really lousy coffee because there’s no way I’m bringing this can o’ crap home. I’ll leave it at the house I’m sitting with a note of apology to my friends. And I’ll probably have to stop somewhere and get myself a decent cup of coffee before my drive home. Perhaps Starbucks, where my one cup of coffee will cost nearly as much as the pound of Maxwell House.
I do this to myself in restaurants, too. I might want the $15 entree, but I order the $8.95 one because I’m cheap. Then a have food envy, watching Tom dig into an “expensive” meals that look a lot better than whatever soggy afterthought has been tossed onto my plate.
I’ve done to myself over and over for as long as I can remember, and every time I do, I vow to change my ways. But cheapness is an extremely difficult habit to break. I need some sort of mantra to chant to myself every time I find myself drifting towards the bargain that isn’t.
Perhaps, “Don’t be so goddam cheap, Sophie.”
I’ve been house sitting in Austin for a few days. I brought along some good coffee from home but didn’t have enough for my last morning (today) so while I was at Target the other day, I grabbed a can of Maxwell House to tide me over. You know—a $4 pound of coffee. How bad can it be?
Bad.
“Why didn’t you just go to Starbucks and buy a bag of coffee?” Tom asked. “Oh, never mind...”
He knows the answer. It’s because I’m cheap. And now, choking down my crappy cup of coffee, I am chastising myself for the kabillionth time for my cheapness.
Frugal-good. Cheap-stupid.
Being frugal means you buy just what you need and don’t spend beyond your means.
Being cheap means you buy the cheapest version of whatever you need, bring it home and realize that it’s a piece of crap and you get what you pay for. And when it falls far short of your needs, or breaks down after two uses, or tastes like reheated swill that’s been sitting at the bottom of the coffee pot since last week, you have to replace it, thereby spending considerably more than you would have if you hadn’t been so damn cheap.
Essentially, I spent $4 on two cups of really lousy coffee because there’s no way I’m bringing this can o’ crap home. I’ll leave it at the house I’m sitting with a note of apology to my friends. And I’ll probably have to stop somewhere and get myself a decent cup of coffee before my drive home. Perhaps Starbucks, where my one cup of coffee will cost nearly as much as the pound of Maxwell House.
I do this to myself in restaurants, too. I might want the $15 entree, but I order the $8.95 one because I’m cheap. Then a have food envy, watching Tom dig into an “expensive” meals that look a lot better than whatever soggy afterthought has been tossed onto my plate.
I’ve done to myself over and over for as long as I can remember, and every time I do, I vow to change my ways. But cheapness is an extremely difficult habit to break. I need some sort of mantra to chant to myself every time I find myself drifting towards the bargain that isn’t.
Perhaps, “Don’t be so goddam cheap, Sophie.”
Saturday, September 13, 2008
anxiety du jour
What I’m wondering today: Are there really people in the world who can spend an evening socializing and then NOT go home and chew over everything they did or said or didn’t do or didn’t say that made them look like an dolt?
You would think at my advanced age I would be long past such pointless anxiety, but no. Every social occasion for me is an opportunity for varying degrees of self-loathing. I talked too much, I talked too little. I was too loud, I was too aloof. I asked too many questions, I didn’t ask enough questions. I acted like a dope, I acted like a smarty pants. It’s always something. After any social event, I wish desperately for a do-over, during which I would be an entirely different person. I promise. Just give me another chance.
It's a form of narcissism, this delusion that all eyes are on me. Rationally, I know most people are busy enjoying themselves or worrying about their own presentation or wondering when they can go home or thinking about what to make for dinner tomorrow. Everyone has a million better things to do than scrutinize my behavior. I’m incidental to the movies in which they star, their own lives, as I should be.
But irrationally, when I’m back home, my head is full of invented conversations about the cloddish and irritating embarrassment that is Sophie.
Geeze, I sound like a teenager. When I yearn to stay forever young, this is not what I have in mind.
What is the secret to self-confidence, please?
You would think at my advanced age I would be long past such pointless anxiety, but no. Every social occasion for me is an opportunity for varying degrees of self-loathing. I talked too much, I talked too little. I was too loud, I was too aloof. I asked too many questions, I didn’t ask enough questions. I acted like a dope, I acted like a smarty pants. It’s always something. After any social event, I wish desperately for a do-over, during which I would be an entirely different person. I promise. Just give me another chance.
It's a form of narcissism, this delusion that all eyes are on me. Rationally, I know most people are busy enjoying themselves or worrying about their own presentation or wondering when they can go home or thinking about what to make for dinner tomorrow. Everyone has a million better things to do than scrutinize my behavior. I’m incidental to the movies in which they star, their own lives, as I should be.
But irrationally, when I’m back home, my head is full of invented conversations about the cloddish and irritating embarrassment that is Sophie.
Geeze, I sound like a teenager. When I yearn to stay forever young, this is not what I have in mind.
What is the secret to self-confidence, please?
Friday, September 12, 2008
methodists have a sense of humor
Thanks to my friends at the United Methodist Reporter for leading me to this.
You must look. Yes, you must.
You must look. Yes, you must.
stop me if you've heard this
Having been blogging almost daily for a couple of years, I am reaching the point—it happens in every relationship—where I fear you have heard all my best stories already.
If you are married or in a similar long-term relationship, you know that this is where love is tested. Does your beloved still manage to feign interest when you launch into your story, again, about seeing the Talking Heads at CBGB before they hit big? (And by “you” I mean “me” and by “your beloved” I mean “Tom.”) Can she work up the slightest hint of sympathy when you lament again about how you were forced to take your cousin to the prom? (And by “she” and “you” I mean nobody I know—I just made that one up. Tom was a big hunk of boy candy in high school, with his denim jumpsuit and white boy fro. He did just fine.) And how about those favorite one-liners that have been worn so thin, you can see straight through them. Must we still laugh? Can we manage even a wan smile?
We must at least show common courtesy when our better halves trot out their stories at dinner parties because no matter how many times we have heard them, others may not have had the pleasure. And so we refrain from slumping face first into our enchiladas or rolling our eyes or finishing the stories for them. It is the right thing to do.
At least with this blog, you may simply click on to something more engaging when I get dull. And if you mock me, as long as you keep it out of the comments, I will never know.
I have been tempted to rummage around in my MySpace blog and rerun some of my favorite old posts, from back when I was fresh and interesting.
Every now and then, Tom manages to trot out a story or piece of information I’ve never heard before, even after 20-ish years of listening to him. This is always very exciting. I pump him for every last detail, wring all I can out of the revelation.
Long-term relationships have an ebb and flow. We get bored, we get interested. We fall out of love and back in and out and in. Of course, we always love each other, but sometimes that love is a low-level hum and sometimes it is a loud, joyful noise.
I’m sure I’ll have a second (or third or fourth) wind here. If I’m inconsistent about posting, it’s because I don’t want to bore you. Besides, most people coming to this blog these days are here to read about Dr. Phil. Speaking of boring.
If you are married or in a similar long-term relationship, you know that this is where love is tested. Does your beloved still manage to feign interest when you launch into your story, again, about seeing the Talking Heads at CBGB before they hit big? (And by “you” I mean “me” and by “your beloved” I mean “Tom.”) Can she work up the slightest hint of sympathy when you lament again about how you were forced to take your cousin to the prom? (And by “she” and “you” I mean nobody I know—I just made that one up. Tom was a big hunk of boy candy in high school, with his denim jumpsuit and white boy fro. He did just fine.) And how about those favorite one-liners that have been worn so thin, you can see straight through them. Must we still laugh? Can we manage even a wan smile?
We must at least show common courtesy when our better halves trot out their stories at dinner parties because no matter how many times we have heard them, others may not have had the pleasure. And so we refrain from slumping face first into our enchiladas or rolling our eyes or finishing the stories for them. It is the right thing to do.
At least with this blog, you may simply click on to something more engaging when I get dull. And if you mock me, as long as you keep it out of the comments, I will never know.
I have been tempted to rummage around in my MySpace blog and rerun some of my favorite old posts, from back when I was fresh and interesting.
Every now and then, Tom manages to trot out a story or piece of information I’ve never heard before, even after 20-ish years of listening to him. This is always very exciting. I pump him for every last detail, wring all I can out of the revelation.
Long-term relationships have an ebb and flow. We get bored, we get interested. We fall out of love and back in and out and in. Of course, we always love each other, but sometimes that love is a low-level hum and sometimes it is a loud, joyful noise.
I’m sure I’ll have a second (or third or fourth) wind here. If I’m inconsistent about posting, it’s because I don’t want to bore you. Besides, most people coming to this blog these days are here to read about Dr. Phil. Speaking of boring.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
life online
This NYT Magazine article about “digital intimacy” is long, but fascinating.
I was particularly interested in what they have to say about Twitter and my favorite part of Facebook, the status updates.
Social scientists have a name for this sort of incessant online contact. They call it “ambient awareness.” It is, they say, very much like being physically near someone and picking up on his mood through the little things he does — body language, sighs, stray comments — out of the corner of your eye.
I don’t Twitter yet, but I do update my Facebook status frequently and enjoy reading the minutia of my friends’ lives.
Of course, many of my friends are writers so their updates are often carefully crafted, which makes them even more fun, but it’s even more than that. As the NYT describes it:
Each little update — each individual bit of social information — is insignificant on its own, even supremely mundane. But taken together, over time, the little snippets coalesce into a surprisingly sophisticated portrait of your friends’ and family members’ lives, like thousands of dots making a pointillist painting.
A pointillist painting. What a wonderful description. And not only do the updates give me a sense of individuals’ lives, but they give me a sense of the whole world, buzzing along one little task and emotion at a time.
I haven’t given up face time for Facebook but frankly, I have more good friends across the country than across my city and if this is how I can stay connected to their lives, it will have to do. And it’s doing pretty well.
In a somewhat related story, this DMN story offers suggestions on how to focus in the multitasking hell in which we all live and work. One suggestion I particularly like is turning your back on your computer when someone is talking to you. I need to do that when I’m on the telephone.
In fact, I seem to have lost my headset and that might be a good thing, since I use it to keep my hands free while I’m on the phone, which means I can screw around on the computer. I’ll need to find it to do phone interviews, but it only allows me to be distracted when I’m not taking notes.
I did a speech last night to a very nice sorority alumni group and one woman told me about a trip to California she took recently. She noticed that there, people have become much more polite and restrained about using cell phones than they are here in Dallas. Evidently, Californians have learned better than to use their cell phones in restaurants. Nice.
I was particularly interested in what they have to say about Twitter and my favorite part of Facebook, the status updates.
Social scientists have a name for this sort of incessant online contact. They call it “ambient awareness.” It is, they say, very much like being physically near someone and picking up on his mood through the little things he does — body language, sighs, stray comments — out of the corner of your eye.
I don’t Twitter yet, but I do update my Facebook status frequently and enjoy reading the minutia of my friends’ lives.
Of course, many of my friends are writers so their updates are often carefully crafted, which makes them even more fun, but it’s even more than that. As the NYT describes it:
Each little update — each individual bit of social information — is insignificant on its own, even supremely mundane. But taken together, over time, the little snippets coalesce into a surprisingly sophisticated portrait of your friends’ and family members’ lives, like thousands of dots making a pointillist painting.
A pointillist painting. What a wonderful description. And not only do the updates give me a sense of individuals’ lives, but they give me a sense of the whole world, buzzing along one little task and emotion at a time.
I haven’t given up face time for Facebook but frankly, I have more good friends across the country than across my city and if this is how I can stay connected to their lives, it will have to do. And it’s doing pretty well.
In a somewhat related story, this DMN story offers suggestions on how to focus in the multitasking hell in which we all live and work. One suggestion I particularly like is turning your back on your computer when someone is talking to you. I need to do that when I’m on the telephone.
In fact, I seem to have lost my headset and that might be a good thing, since I use it to keep my hands free while I’m on the phone, which means I can screw around on the computer. I’ll need to find it to do phone interviews, but it only allows me to be distracted when I’m not taking notes.
I did a speech last night to a very nice sorority alumni group and one woman told me about a trip to California she took recently. She noticed that there, people have become much more polite and restrained about using cell phones than they are here in Dallas. Evidently, Californians have learned better than to use their cell phones in restaurants. Nice.
Monday, September 8, 2008
coney island: in memoriam
The amusement park at Coney Island was closed forever this weekend. (Story here.)
Coney Island figures in my childhood memories in a one-off way ... as you will read below, in a story that originally ran (in a somewhat altered version) in the Continental Airlines inflight magazine a few years ago.
My Coney Island memories
Grandma Annie came from a family of vaudevillians and brought theatrical flair to the bedtime stories she told my brother and me about Coney Island. Sitting on a straight-back chair placed between our beds, she would tell us about how riders would sit thigh-to-thigh on tiny seats on the Parachute Drop, to be pulled slooooowly up, up, up into the air and then – she would let out a great WHOOP! at this point in the story – free-fall hundreds of feet before cables caught and lowered them gently to the ground.
When Grandma Annie told us about a funhouse mechanical woman called Laffing Sal, she did her Laffing Sal imitation, rocking forward and back in her chair, hands in the air, hooting with laughter.
It was absolutely terrifying.
I don’t blame Grandma Annie, but in my 22 years living in New York City, I never once visited Coney Island. I grew up in Manhattan in the 1960s, when Coney Island was derelict, dangerous, gang-ridden, and seemingly on its last go-around. About the time Grandma Annie was giving me nightmares, Steeplechase Park – once a star attraction -- was closed and demolished. The Parachute Drop remained standing and the famous Cyclone roller coaster still rattled around its wooden track, but I never saw them. It wasn’t until I had lived away from the city as long as I’d lived in it that I finally made a pilgrimage to the south shore of Brooklyn during a holiday in New York.
Actually, I made two pilgrimages within a week of each other.
The first was with my husband on muggy, drizzly late spring Monday morning. The newly renovated Stillwell Avenue subway station – the end of the line for the F, Q, D, B and N trains – had just reopened but still was not quite complete. The sidewalk outside the station was an ugly landscape of cracked concrete and puddles of nefarious urban slime.
Nathan’s Famous – the original location of the well-known wiener stand -- was open, but the hour was too early for a hot dog, regardless of its historic significance. Most attractions were closed. The boardwalk was nearly deserted. A few families braved the damp sand of the beach but the Atlantic looked grey and uninviting. A smell that could excite only seagulls lingered over the scene.
My husband and I glanced around, made a couple of desultory stops in souvenir shops, watched the Cyclone clatter empty over its track a few times, and then beat it to more welcoming environs. Now, on top of the creepy memories I’d carried since childhood, I had a depressing image of Coney Island as dank and desolate.
Fortunately – surprisingly -- I didn’t give up. About a week later, I returned to Coney Island with a friend for Captain Bob’s Coney Island Tour. This time, it was a sunny Sunday afternoon.
And everything was different.
The lines were long at Nathan’s, where Captain Bob’s tours assemble. Captain Bob (a k a Robert McCoy), is tanned and craggy with a shock of white hair under his captain’s hat. He wore a red and white striped shirt a photographer’s vest and a handmade button decorated with the insanely grinning face that represented George Tilyou’s legendary, long-gone Steeplechase Park and has lived on to represent Coney Island.
Captain Bob grew up on Coney Island in the 40s and 50s and enjoyed all the park has to offer – almost. “We didn’t go to the beach. There were monsters in the water and things,” he said with a chuckle.
Before we started the tour in earnest, he warned us, “Some of the locals that come up to us during the tours are very much out of their minds. But very nice.”
Captain Bob is a local institution. He has led Coney Island’s kooky and increasingly famous annual Mermaid Parade as King Neptune – an honor that has also since been bestowed on celebrities such as David Byrne and Moby. He’s also competed a few times in the annual July 4th hot dog eating contest, although not anymore, since conceding that he could never keep up with the heavy eaters such as current and longstanding Takeru Kobayashi of Japan, who won in 2005 by wolfing 49 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes.
Although Coney Island still attracts sunbathers, roller coaster riders and hot dog eaters, a tour today of its greater glories is an exercise in imagination because so much of what made it an amusement dreamland extraordinaire is long gone. On his tours, Captain Bob provides memories for those of us who never experienced Coney Island in its heyday. His tour is a mixture of history lesson seasoned with personal reminiscences shared in endearing Brooklynese.
He described Luna Park – an elaborate hallucination of towers, minarets and so many lights that ships navigated by its glow – which burned down in 1944. Once Coney Island had 35 carousels and 28 roller coasters (all at once!), but the number has now dwindled to just one of each. The flea circuses that wowed the crowds of the past are gone, but Captain Bob led our group to fellow selling hermit crabs in whimsically decorated shells. “Not too far from flea circuses, eh?” he asked with a triumphant grin. And at the Coney Island Circus Sideshow on Surf Avenue and West 12th, a crowd gathered while barker urged them to step inside to see a fire eater, a contortionist, a tattooed man (hardly the novelty it once was) and other proud “Freaks, wonders and human curiosities!”
After Captain Bob efficiently ran through the history Nathan’s (Jimmy Durante and Eddie Cantor loaned Nathan Handwerker $300 to open the stand in 1916, and Brooklyn babe Clara Bow once worked the counter at Nathan’s) we paused on the boardwalk where he reached into a tattered envelope he carried and passed around vintage postcards to help us imagine scenes of yesteryear: The boardwalk a mass of happy people, beaches so crowded that each bather could count on only inches of real estate, the glow and excess of Luna Park, the thrills and practical jokes of George Tilyou’s madcap Steeplechase Park.
Nearby, kibitzers at a round plastic table outside a fried clam concession stand cheered Captain Bob. He gave a friendly wave to these beer-drinking locals exposing big sun-browned bellies to the breeze, but compared to these guys, he’s a serious working stiff with no time for idle chatter.
As we strolled the boardwalk, past holidaymakers wreathed in the scent of suntan lotion, Captain Bob reminisced about Steeplechase Park. It was easy to imagine him as a young boy dazzled by its raucous bells and whistles. The amusement park’s signature horse race ride -- mechanical horses running on guide rails -- ended with riders disembarking to brave Blowhole Theater, where puffs of air blew women’s dresses up and men were chased by a clown with an electric paddle while spectators roared. “My face hurt from laughing sometimes at Steeplechase,” Captain Bob recalled in a nostalgic reverie.
The Parachute Drop was saved from decay by the New York City Economic Development Corporation and, while no longer functional, it underwent a $5 million restoration and now looms over the new minor league Brooklyn Cyclones' KeySpan Park.
Ride on that thing?, I thought as I looked up at the 250-foot tower. No way, Grandma Annie.
We wandered with the Captain through Astroland, where a barker urged us to “Win your honey a bunny, a teddy bear for your love affair,” and tykes gleefully rang the bells on a little boat carousel that has thrilled toddlers for 60 years. We gazed up at the 84-year-old Deno’s Wonder Wheel, and finished the tour laughing at the panicky shrieks from the Cyclone, which has rattled the brains of the brave and devoted since 1927. (If I were a roller coaster type of person I’m sure I’d have ridden it, but I find coasters as terrifying as Laffing Sal and so I just watched.)
By the end of the tour, I’d recovered from my Coney Island phobia. My friend and I saluted Captain Bob, who rushed off to where another group was gathering for his next tour, and then celebrated the day with a Nathan’s Famous and fries before wandering a little more, finding further remnants of Coney Island’s past in battered sidewalk mosaics from the long-gone Seven Seas Oyster Bar. “Dere’s even beddah ones around da cawna,” a passerby advised – and he was right.
Oh yes – I did ask Captain Bob about Laffing Sal, but he didn’t remember her. Just as well, I suppose. I don’t think Grandma Annie meant to traumatize me, but I’m relieved that her scary memories of Coney Island’s past have been replaced by Captain Bob’s pleasanter ones. And now I have Coney Island memories of my own.
Captain Bob's Historic Coney Island Tour 2006 is every Saturday and Sunday, rain or shine, year ‘round. Meet at Nathan's famous Hot Dog Stand, Stillwell Ave. and Surf Ave. at noon or 2 p.m. $12 per person, Captain Bob (718) 907 0315
this is your brain on neurons
Who knew?
I was hanging out with friends yesterday and somehow the topic turned to perception, dreams and such. (Sunday afternoon, a patio and beer—conversation can take all kinds of odd turns.)
I was startled when a friend described something I’ve experienced but to which I’ve never given a second’s thought. Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, I hear a loud BANG that wakes me with a start. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just loud and it’s entirely in my head.
Susan described the same thing happening to her. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle—this strange experience has a name. It’s called, colorfully, exploding head syndrome. It’s a known, if not entirely understood, phenomenon. I suppose nobody is studying it because it's not harmful unless it badly interferes with sleep. At least that's what they say.
Brains are so innnnnnnnteresting. So are lazy Sunday afternoon conversations.
I've also had moments when the inside of my brain seems to get really, really big. As if all kinds of space has suddenly opened up inside it. I googled "expanding head syndrome" and didn't find anything.
I shouldn't tell you about how I sometimes hear a radio on in the other room. That's probably entirely due to the transmitter martians planted in my head.
I was hanging out with friends yesterday and somehow the topic turned to perception, dreams and such. (Sunday afternoon, a patio and beer—conversation can take all kinds of odd turns.)
I was startled when a friend described something I’ve experienced but to which I’ve never given a second’s thought. Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, I hear a loud BANG that wakes me with a start. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just loud and it’s entirely in my head.
Susan described the same thing happening to her. Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle—this strange experience has a name. It’s called, colorfully, exploding head syndrome. It’s a known, if not entirely understood, phenomenon. I suppose nobody is studying it because it's not harmful unless it badly interferes with sleep. At least that's what they say.
Brains are so innnnnnnnteresting. So are lazy Sunday afternoon conversations.
I've also had moments when the inside of my brain seems to get really, really big. As if all kinds of space has suddenly opened up inside it. I googled "expanding head syndrome" and didn't find anything.
I shouldn't tell you about how I sometimes hear a radio on in the other room. That's probably entirely due to the transmitter martians planted in my head.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
sunday rambling
Here’s my favorite story of the day in the DMN, about the epidemic of lousy spelling and grammar on signs.
Of course, not everyone is grateful when spelling nitpickers point out errors. One SMU student expressed irritation with a writing teacher, according to the article.
"There is nothing wrong with my writing, maybe it is her that doesn't know what she is doing," one student wrote.
The story is pegged to a story about a couple of vigilantes who were banned from national parks for correcting grammar on national park signs—historic national park signs, it turns out, which was a bad decision on the vigilantes’ part, much as I applaud the mission.
I have been tempted to keep a Sharpie handy, myself. I did point out a misspelling in a sign at my local Walgreen not long ago, but I don’t think the sales clerk cared—what do you think?
**
I’ve had an enormous spike in blog hits this week, almost all of them looking for information on Dr. Phil’s rumored divorce. I can’t figure out why the sudden surge in interest. Any thoughts?
A lot of people are looking for MILFs, too. That’s easier to understand. I’ve had a few people searching for information on cheek zits. I don’t know what to tell them about that except that mine is still clinging to life.
**
Palin video du jour:
Of course, not everyone is grateful when spelling nitpickers point out errors. One SMU student expressed irritation with a writing teacher, according to the article.
"There is nothing wrong with my writing, maybe it is her that doesn't know what she is doing," one student wrote.
The story is pegged to a story about a couple of vigilantes who were banned from national parks for correcting grammar on national park signs—historic national park signs, it turns out, which was a bad decision on the vigilantes’ part, much as I applaud the mission.
I have been tempted to keep a Sharpie handy, myself. I did point out a misspelling in a sign at my local Walgreen not long ago, but I don’t think the sales clerk cared—what do you think?
**
I’ve had an enormous spike in blog hits this week, almost all of them looking for information on Dr. Phil’s rumored divorce. I can’t figure out why the sudden surge in interest. Any thoughts?
A lot of people are looking for MILFs, too. That’s easier to understand. I’ve had a few people searching for information on cheek zits. I don’t know what to tell them about that except that mine is still clinging to life.
**
Palin video du jour:
Friday, September 5, 2008
politics n flotsam friday
I'll write what I can about last night’s RNC but it’s all so depressing.
One small consolation is that looking at McCain’s 96-year-old mom, I’d say there’s a very good chance that he has a lot of lively years left in him. She looks amazing, and when he introduced her, she fairly leaped out of her seat. So that means if the Republicans do win, McCain might actually live through his term and not saddle us with a lipstick wearing pit bull running the country into the ground.
Not that McCain would make me happy.
It’s going to be a very interesting, very stressful couple of months.
Here’s Gloria Steinem saying things I like about Palin. Too bad it’s Gloria Steinem, since she carries the stench of feminism. A friend who teaches college in the Bible belt told me that when she mentioned feminism in class the other day, a student actually stood up and walked out in a huff. And, she said, that’s not unusual—the only difference is that it’s usually girls who get offended and this time it was a guy.
A feminist speaking out against Palin only makes her more appealing to her voter base.
Ugh.
Let’s change the subject. Here are some links to cheer us up.
Cartoons for the week …
Love this one, especially since it differentiates between blogging and mindless barking. I thought they were the same things.
And this may be the most delightful depiction of marriage ever. I would venture to say that this is just how Tom feels about me and the feeling is mutual. Except he's a manly cupcake. No pink icing on him.
Yoga joke du jour. Have I posted this one already? The New Yorker repeats the cartoons it sends out. I know I’ve seen it already.
Speaking of yoga, I’m way off that program. In fact, maintaining my workout regime has become a major struggle. I have resumed power walking, which I gave up many months ago out of boredom. But now that the weather is marginally cooler than it’s been all summer, I’ve been back out there with my iPod. It’s still boring but it’s something. If I don’t ramp things up very soon, I’m going to start splitting seams. It’s that bad.
And finally, here’s a delicious blog my friend Mary turned me onto, in which an artist takes commissions and critiques from his three-year-old daughter, Tiny Art Director.
If that doesn’t cheer you up, I can’t help you.
One small consolation is that looking at McCain’s 96-year-old mom, I’d say there’s a very good chance that he has a lot of lively years left in him. She looks amazing, and when he introduced her, she fairly leaped out of her seat. So that means if the Republicans do win, McCain might actually live through his term and not saddle us with a lipstick wearing pit bull running the country into the ground.
Not that McCain would make me happy.
It’s going to be a very interesting, very stressful couple of months.
Here’s Gloria Steinem saying things I like about Palin. Too bad it’s Gloria Steinem, since she carries the stench of feminism. A friend who teaches college in the Bible belt told me that when she mentioned feminism in class the other day, a student actually stood up and walked out in a huff. And, she said, that’s not unusual—the only difference is that it’s usually girls who get offended and this time it was a guy.
A feminist speaking out against Palin only makes her more appealing to her voter base.
Ugh.
Let’s change the subject. Here are some links to cheer us up.
Cartoons for the week …
Love this one, especially since it differentiates between blogging and mindless barking. I thought they were the same things.
And this may be the most delightful depiction of marriage ever. I would venture to say that this is just how Tom feels about me and the feeling is mutual. Except he's a manly cupcake. No pink icing on him.
Yoga joke du jour. Have I posted this one already? The New Yorker repeats the cartoons it sends out. I know I’ve seen it already.
Speaking of yoga, I’m way off that program. In fact, maintaining my workout regime has become a major struggle. I have resumed power walking, which I gave up many months ago out of boredom. But now that the weather is marginally cooler than it’s been all summer, I’ve been back out there with my iPod. It’s still boring but it’s something. If I don’t ramp things up very soon, I’m going to start splitting seams. It’s that bad.
And finally, here’s a delicious blog my friend Mary turned me onto, in which an artist takes commissions and critiques from his three-year-old daughter, Tiny Art Director.
If that doesn’t cheer you up, I can’t help you.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
palin's big night
I sat through all the speeches last night, to get to know the other side a little better. What a crappy evening I had. There’s nothing likable about that bunch, as far as I’m concerned. And they like me no better. Evidently, as a liberal, I can’t even call myself an American.
According to one speaker (was it Huckabee? Giuliani? All the mean-spiritedness has blurred into one hateful creature) this election, “won’t be decided by the liberal media or Hollywood celebrities but by AMERICANS.” Hm, so are members of the media and Hollywood celebrities illegal aliens? Creatures from outer space? French?
The was something chilling about the enormous crowd chanting, “drill, baby, drill.” I expected to see pitchforks and flaming torches. KILL that environment! Drill it DEAD! We want HUMMERS!
Of course the star of the show was Sarah Palin, who was no more appealing to me than the rest of them, though I will concede her hotness. But the crowd loved her. They LOVED her. She’s a “hockey mom” and is there anything more exalted in this society than a mom of any sort? It’s a shortcut to credibility and lovability. Yes, well, it doesn’t mean anything in this context. Palin’s speech was full of entertaining one-liners and zingers but I didn’t hear anything that gave me any faith in her ability to be second in command of my country.
But I sure wish I felt more confident about Democrats’ ability to win this election. Yes, I have hope. Is that all I have, though?
Maybe if I were blinded by Obama’s light, I’d feel differently and could be as confident as my friends who have drunk the Kool-Aid. But while I see his appeal and support his candidacy, the smoke and mirrors aspect is even more frightening to me now that he has an equally appealing (to the other side) shadow opponent. It seems increasingly like rhetoric vs. rhetoric, a beauty pageant and popularity contest.
The evil, God-hating media is digging as hard as it can to find Palin’s skeletons, but I’m putting a lot of faith in the VP debate now. Go, Joe, go. Please.
On a related but basically irrelevant subject, I wonder what poor Levi Johnston was thinking as he stood there on that stage, chomping on gum, roped into a situation he couldn’t possibly have imagined when he pulled out his dick five months ago.
According to one speaker (was it Huckabee? Giuliani? All the mean-spiritedness has blurred into one hateful creature) this election, “won’t be decided by the liberal media or Hollywood celebrities but by AMERICANS.” Hm, so are members of the media and Hollywood celebrities illegal aliens? Creatures from outer space? French?
The was something chilling about the enormous crowd chanting, “drill, baby, drill.” I expected to see pitchforks and flaming torches. KILL that environment! Drill it DEAD! We want HUMMERS!
Of course the star of the show was Sarah Palin, who was no more appealing to me than the rest of them, though I will concede her hotness. But the crowd loved her. They LOVED her. She’s a “hockey mom” and is there anything more exalted in this society than a mom of any sort? It’s a shortcut to credibility and lovability. Yes, well, it doesn’t mean anything in this context. Palin’s speech was full of entertaining one-liners and zingers but I didn’t hear anything that gave me any faith in her ability to be second in command of my country.
But I sure wish I felt more confident about Democrats’ ability to win this election. Yes, I have hope. Is that all I have, though?
Maybe if I were blinded by Obama’s light, I’d feel differently and could be as confident as my friends who have drunk the Kool-Aid. But while I see his appeal and support his candidacy, the smoke and mirrors aspect is even more frightening to me now that he has an equally appealing (to the other side) shadow opponent. It seems increasingly like rhetoric vs. rhetoric, a beauty pageant and popularity contest.
The evil, God-hating media is digging as hard as it can to find Palin’s skeletons, but I’m putting a lot of faith in the VP debate now. Go, Joe, go. Please.
On a related but basically irrelevant subject, I wonder what poor Levi Johnston was thinking as he stood there on that stage, chomping on gum, roped into a situation he couldn’t possibly have imagined when he pulled out his dick five months ago.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
palin obsession
My friends and I can’t stop talking about Sarah Palin. The choice is so bizarre, so confusing, so insulting to thinking women, we are mesmerized. What was McCain thinking? It seems like a Hail Mary, but he didn’t need that yet.
Tom actually feels sorry for them. He’s so tender-hearted. He thinks the choice was such a monumental goof that McCain is probably already regretting it. And of course, Palin is already being dragged over the coals and the fun has just begun. Surely she’s going to wonder what she’s got herself into. And you gotta figure Bristol is none too pleased with her mom at the moment.
Of course you know that as avid a Hillary supporter as I was, there’s no friggin’ way I’d vote for the McCain-Palin ticket on the basis of genitalia. So put that idea out of your head right now, right here, immediately and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking it, if you did.
In truth, while nothing could persuade me to vote Republican, I could have respected McCain's decision to put a woman on the ballot if he had chosen, say Kay Bailey Hutchison or Olympia Snowe, who at least have some chops. That would have been a much better transparent play for on-the-fence Hillary voters than Palin. It wouldn't have worked, IMO, but it would have made a lot more sense and been a lot less insulting.
However, I suspect some of my friends think the seemingly misguided choice of Palin is a slam-dunk for Democrats (if I may mix my sports metaphors). I wish I could feel that confident but I am cautiously optimistic at best.
Maybe it’s easy to feel triumphant if you’re a liberal Democrat in Noo Yawk City, surrounded by others of your ilk. But down here in the Red State Bible Belt, things are not so clear cut. Maybe people who believe in the sort of weird family values folderol that the right wing spouts are just mythological horned creatures to my Yankee buds, but they are real down here.
You don’t think anyone can possibly believe Palin to be a good choice, but can you imagine thinking the way the extreme right thinks about, well, anything? That abstinence education is an effective substitute for sex education? That same-sex marriage is a threat to heterosexual marriage? That the right to bear arms should include AK-47s?
As insane as Palin seems as a running mate for one of the oldest first-term presidential candidates ever (Reagan was older when he ran for his second term), we cannot for a second forget that this nation elected W. Twice.
What are they thinking? I haven't a clue. Do you?
Don’t celebrate yet.
Here are some of the blog posts and op-eds that speak to me on this issue.
My friend Christine's blog post about Palin and her family values makes a lot of sense to me.
NYT columnist Bob Herbert suggests that Palin is just another clever distraction from the real issues of our time—she’s the flag burning gay marriage red herring of this year’s election. Yeah, we certainly are distracted.
And here, LAT columnist Sam Harris wonders why anyone would want an average person--even such a sanctified person as a mommy--in such a powerful position. An excellent question.
And in case you missed last night’s Daily Show, this just slayed me:
Tom actually feels sorry for them. He’s so tender-hearted. He thinks the choice was such a monumental goof that McCain is probably already regretting it. And of course, Palin is already being dragged over the coals and the fun has just begun. Surely she’s going to wonder what she’s got herself into. And you gotta figure Bristol is none too pleased with her mom at the moment.
Of course you know that as avid a Hillary supporter as I was, there’s no friggin’ way I’d vote for the McCain-Palin ticket on the basis of genitalia. So put that idea out of your head right now, right here, immediately and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking it, if you did.
In truth, while nothing could persuade me to vote Republican, I could have respected McCain's decision to put a woman on the ballot if he had chosen, say Kay Bailey Hutchison or Olympia Snowe, who at least have some chops. That would have been a much better transparent play for on-the-fence Hillary voters than Palin. It wouldn't have worked, IMO, but it would have made a lot more sense and been a lot less insulting.
However, I suspect some of my friends think the seemingly misguided choice of Palin is a slam-dunk for Democrats (if I may mix my sports metaphors). I wish I could feel that confident but I am cautiously optimistic at best.
Maybe it’s easy to feel triumphant if you’re a liberal Democrat in Noo Yawk City, surrounded by others of your ilk. But down here in the Red State Bible Belt, things are not so clear cut. Maybe people who believe in the sort of weird family values folderol that the right wing spouts are just mythological horned creatures to my Yankee buds, but they are real down here.
You don’t think anyone can possibly believe Palin to be a good choice, but can you imagine thinking the way the extreme right thinks about, well, anything? That abstinence education is an effective substitute for sex education? That same-sex marriage is a threat to heterosexual marriage? That the right to bear arms should include AK-47s?
As insane as Palin seems as a running mate for one of the oldest first-term presidential candidates ever (Reagan was older when he ran for his second term), we cannot for a second forget that this nation elected W. Twice.
What are they thinking? I haven't a clue. Do you?
Don’t celebrate yet.
Here are some of the blog posts and op-eds that speak to me on this issue.
My friend Christine's blog post about Palin and her family values makes a lot of sense to me.
NYT columnist Bob Herbert suggests that Palin is just another clever distraction from the real issues of our time—she’s the flag burning gay marriage red herring of this year’s election. Yeah, we certainly are distracted.
And here, LAT columnist Sam Harris wonders why anyone would want an average person--even such a sanctified person as a mommy--in such a powerful position. An excellent question.
And in case you missed last night’s Daily Show, this just slayed me:
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
theoretical money
I have lots of theoretical money right now. You know, money earned and invoiced but not yet paid. Every day I open my PO box with hope, every day those hopes are deflated. I actually cussed aloud today, startling a woman standing nearby.
Oh, I'll give a shout-out to the Dallas Morning News. They pay promptly. But they also pay on publication, so many stories I’ve written but have not yet run are as yet unpaid for. That’s frustrating but that’s the beast of pay on pub. Ordinarily, I don’t accept pay on pub work but the DMN is grandfathered in.
Other clients are just dragging their feet and now all the monthly bills are due and all my money is theoretical, which is making me crazy. One invoice is five days from the 60-day mark. I’m told the check is in the mail. Mm-hmm. Another is dated May 28. Another will hit 30 days on Thursday so it’s still within the bounds of on-time, but just barely.
I assume that these companies manage to pay their rent and utilities bills on time. Otherwise, they would be evicted or left to sit in the dark. But there’s nothing I can do but nag, wait and worry. One friend suggested we go on strike, but I fear nobody would notice if I did.
After inquiring about a late payment, this friend got an email from an editor saying, in essence, “if you need this money to pay bills, then we are not the client for you.”
Holy cow.
Sadly, the money owed me is long since spent. Once it arrives, it will fly right back out. And the cycle will start again.
Oh, I'll give a shout-out to the Dallas Morning News. They pay promptly. But they also pay on publication, so many stories I’ve written but have not yet run are as yet unpaid for. That’s frustrating but that’s the beast of pay on pub. Ordinarily, I don’t accept pay on pub work but the DMN is grandfathered in.
Other clients are just dragging their feet and now all the monthly bills are due and all my money is theoretical, which is making me crazy. One invoice is five days from the 60-day mark. I’m told the check is in the mail. Mm-hmm. Another is dated May 28. Another will hit 30 days on Thursday so it’s still within the bounds of on-time, but just barely.
I assume that these companies manage to pay their rent and utilities bills on time. Otherwise, they would be evicted or left to sit in the dark. But there’s nothing I can do but nag, wait and worry. One friend suggested we go on strike, but I fear nobody would notice if I did.
After inquiring about a late payment, this friend got an email from an editor saying, in essence, “if you need this money to pay bills, then we are not the client for you.”
Holy cow.
Sadly, the money owed me is long since spent. Once it arrives, it will fly right back out. And the cycle will start again.
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