tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-147392032024-03-23T14:43:21.481-04:00Reality ComputerMadness shall ensueUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger548125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-24297642085664947262011-04-12T21:05:00.003-04:002011-04-12T21:30:02.679-04:00Second Part<span class="Apple-style-span" >My father is a damnable man, so I shuck off his rage like the skin off corn. <br /></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br />There were nineteen of us borne to our mother and father. There we were in a Sears and Roebuck home built in the center of Saskatchewan. We piled on each other and yelled and scrapped the whole way through. When my mother couldn't have children anymore after the stillbirth, I was 24 and not a nickel to my name. I begged that old man for 100 acres and damned if he didn't deny me. He said he couldn't afford to take the loss but that was a lie. He spat that lie at me in his thick German. George and I looked at the books one night when my father was asleep. He had the pennies to set us up, George and me. All we wanted were wives and land to farm. But he wouldn't give us that. He wanted us to live and die on his farm without pay, without the company of women, without a chance in the world to stand on our own feet.<br /><br />When mother adopted the little one off the orphan train and set her to work washing floors and beating rugs, I knew some of my pennies went down the hungry maw of the ingrate. And when my sisters were married off, I know my pennies were packed into their marriage trunks along with all the frippery of weddings. And that bastard still didn't give me my land.<br /><br />When I went to church, I prayed to God and the Holy Mother to kill him. I imagined him trampled to death beneath the oxen pulling the plow. I saw him keeling into the soil and getting wrapped up in the short roots of wheat and suffocating. I saw myself with an axe...<br /><br />The winters are so terribly long and dark. Nothing moves for fear of getting colder. The sky gets wider and paler. Look far enough and watch the earth curve to the sides. The land goes dull. Winter is a hard time. <br /><br />Mother assuaged the little ones with stories of Alsace. She sung German and French songs. But when she started to smile and lose herself in the past, Father would curse her and remind her of the hellish Lutherans. Wars of kings. I cared little for history.<br /><br />George and I taught ourselves English by reading catalogs and an English Bible. We spoke well enough to trade at the general store. Soon, Father entrusted us with the negotiations, but never the books. George wasn't strong in the maths, but I knew my way with numbers. I knew Father was hiding money.<br /></span><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-16517456157437440822011-04-11T21:51:00.001-04:002011-04-11T21:53:56.386-04:00First Part<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> <meta equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css"> <title></title> <meta name="Generator" content="Cocoa HTML Writer"> <meta name="CocoaVersion" content="1038.35"> <style type="text/css"> p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica} p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px} span.s1 {letter-spacing: 0.0px} </style> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Brother Gil died of fever. His last view was from the bedroom window, looking over the hills. He was twelve. He burnt up and cooled off in one evening. He didn't make a sound. Our mother gathered him in her arms in the morning when the cock crowed. We buried him on a Sunday. The mound of fresh dirt looked like a promise. I helped our father dig the grave. We took special care to make it just so. Brother Gil had a nice box in which to lay; he liked right angles.</span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="s1"></span>
<br /></span></p> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Our mother’s face sunk onto her teeth. She blessed the Sunday meal with a flat voice and went to bed after one piece of cornbread. Our father kept silent except for the clicking of his chewing teeth. Afterwards, he lit a pipe and kept the fire stoked. He stayed rocking in the glider and made the floorboards creak. </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="s1"></span>
<br /></span></p> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I wiped the table down, watching the crumbs travel in the grooves of the wood. I shook my foot this way and that. Dust shot out from around the legs of the table. It didn’t seem right that Brother Gil was dead and dust could do whatever it pleased. I let loose a tear but sucked my lip over my bottom teeth. I sucked my lip so hard it bled a little.</span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="s1"></span>
<br /></span></p> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-style-span" >In town, people nodded to us knowingly. Most of them looked hungry. Some of the women wore clothes that draped their bony arms. Winter came hard and fast. Two of our cows wandered into a blizzard. We didn’t find them for two weeks. When we did, they were slick and bloated. Our father said it was a blessing we could not smell them--the cold air kept the flesh from stinking. John from the next farmstead came and helped our father drag the carcasses into the wood. The ground was frozen.</span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="s1"></span>
<br /></span></p> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-style-span" >In the middle of winter, four farmhouses were set on fire. John said one of them was likely an accident. The other three were the work of incendiaries. I felt sorry for people who were so cold they would set their house on fire. But our father said it wasn’t to stay warm, but to get a new start. </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="s1"></span>
<br /></span></p> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Our mother kept mostly silent that winter. She said a blessing every night. Her eyes wandered toward the horizon during the day. </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="s1"></span>
<br /></span></p> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-style-span" >In January, John came down and sat with our father in front of the fire. He drank whiskey straight from a glinting flash. He sang a few songs. His voice was like rustling wheat. John had walked from Canada to set a farm up in the territory. He told our father the land was worse than what he had heard in Calgary. He told our father it was too damned much to farm it. He also told our father he was thinking about a mail order bride from Germany. Our father said it was a bad idea. Then, John looked at me for a long time. I felt ashamed but curious.</span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="s1"></span>
<br /></span></p> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My hands shook the rest of the winter. </span></span></p> <p class="p2"><span class="s1"></span>
<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-28137317779673817742008-09-30T09:52:00.003-04:002008-09-30T10:15:47.004-04:00My husband might sue me for HIPPA violations.Michael found a painful lump in his mumble mumble area, so we went to the doctor. And the doctor did an ultrasound on his mumble mumble and it showed something weird, so the doctor referred Michael to a specialist of mumble mumbles. But this particular doctor was 'out-of-network', which is insurance speak for 'we-are-gonna-screw-you-hard'. And the specialist doctor said not to worry, Michael's mumble-mumble is fine but if it gets really painful, he can remove the source of the pain upon securing a credit report and a share of ownership on our first born child. And Michael had to go for a follow-up test at a hospital, and that test showed that everything truly is fine. And so Michael doesn't have cancer and still has his dignity (sorta), and we're all happy. Except that Michael's mumble still hurts from time to time. <br /><br />Then we got a bill from our insurance, which indicates that two ultrasounds and a magnetic imaging test actually comes to a total of 1.5 million dollars, and we have to pay about half of that based on our insurance policy. Now, of course, we are completely and wholly to blame for this deductible because I refused to join the 'Quit-the-Nic' program to receive better benefits. Yes, that's right, the insurance company grabbed my ovaries by my fallopian tubes and told me that in order to get decent insurance, I had to quit smoking because people who smoke are obviously not worthy enough of fair pricing. And I did go on several rants over the phone about how insurance companies should not legislate lifestyles because, after all, they don't cover jackshit anyway and if I do get lung cancer, it can't be correlated to JUST smoking, it could have to do with eating lead or breathing in methane and when I mentioned this to the insurance agent, she told me that Blue Cross does not cover alternative medicine for cancer. <br /><br />But Michael just got on the phone and talked turkey to some chick and got the bill reduced to $20. Which is great. It just proves that not only are insurance companies biased against smokers and drinkers and drug-users, insurance companies are also sexist.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-23520985710439129772008-07-27T18:36:00.004-04:002008-07-27T19:01:08.960-04:00Upon Finishing A ShrugThe weaving in of ends is tedious, and by the second sleeve, I'm exhausted. The whole shoulder might unravel. The sleeves hug my biceps too closely, and distort the lines of the fabric. One side of the cabling is larger than the other, because I lost count of the pattern, and went my own way. It's a crooked shrug.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIgFS-c8reZnC_4qnN2QDgHhNCRIbhMercK2ylf7cjeX6ONrH_6969zoqCKUgWdK4SmhrM6TMwwuCRFFiTkY7dFQ8gC7p8PpR6lzIqcCzVgIS7IUqRD4ScXMTtwRKEbSaTk9yOQ/s1600-h/IMG_0940.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIgFS-c8reZnC_4qnN2QDgHhNCRIbhMercK2ylf7cjeX6ONrH_6969zoqCKUgWdK4SmhrM6TMwwuCRFFiTkY7dFQ8gC7p8PpR6lzIqcCzVgIS7IUqRD4ScXMTtwRKEbSaTk9yOQ/s320/IMG_0940.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227826561376410226" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2aKpiwdQEkjJqPnFHyxFLlNdMqo6QwaS_rIPLY2-J77vJ1vGX4Jgja1Qme4Eve0ngC6LVRC6cxLjf5_4De31atI3SVOoRLVb7xFYFmxlVA3f4ZwlAHIcBnvG-XoCINFhcUF7Tg/s1600-h/IMG_0932.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2aKpiwdQEkjJqPnFHyxFLlNdMqo6QwaS_rIPLY2-J77vJ1vGX4Jgja1Qme4Eve0ngC6LVRC6cxLjf5_4De31atI3SVOoRLVb7xFYFmxlVA3f4ZwlAHIcBnvG-XoCINFhcUF7Tg/s320/IMG_0932.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227826880167188114" border="0" /></a><br /><br />See there? It's all a-tilt and hangs almost straight. <br /><br />I try it on in the afternoon, when the sun is highest, and the breeze through the windows does not penetrate the knit. I know it will be warm about my arms and back come fall, but the shrug seems oppressive, now. I'm lumpy in the mirror, this lopsided face of mine staring back and taking in the tomato color of yarn. I'm colorless in this bright poppy. Sanguinity has never been a feature of which I can boast.<br /><br />I pull on the edges a bit, trying to straighten them out. Knitting holds memory well, though, and the stitches refuse to budge, though I've dampened the hem and yanked and pulled. Ah, me. The past cannot be erased. What's done is done, what's made cannot go unmade unless I destroy the garment in its entirety.<br /><br />Even then, the yarn remembers the bumps and purls. It would take many washings for the cotton to relax. By then, the cotton would be little more than a shredded bit of fiber, lying like a pool of blood at my feet. So, unraveling is right out.<br /><br />Instead, I take the shrug off and fold it. It will live in my closet until the time is right to bring it out and wear it (one time) in the fall, at an anonymous place where no one knows I knit, and I can say: "A friend made it for me; it's an amateur attempt--see how badly the sleeves are set in?" <br /><br />But then, it occurs to me. Because of my scoliosis, my shoulders are uneven. I don the sweater again. Wait...yes, it's true. On my crooked frame, the sweater sits evenly. The bottom edges are aligned, as are the sleeves. Upon closer inspection, I see I have no problem with the shrug itself. It's the wearer of the garment of whom I am critical. <br /><br />So<span style="font-style: italic;"> I </span>shrug. So be it. I'm a crooked person, off kilter and tempo. My shrug is just right for me; I was knitting it correctly the whole time. I was making it for myself. And as I balance upon my slanted hips and quirky knees, I think for just a moment, if the world was righted on its axis, I would be standing straight, and everything else would just fall over in a heap.<br /><br />I do believe I'll wear this sad little thing, and be proud of it. My bent hands crafted it, and though it be awry, it be a-right for me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-16985982735471448132008-07-21T20:04:00.005-04:002008-07-21T20:53:00.678-04:00Bang.<span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.samizdata.net/blog/archives/self_defence_security/"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.samizdata.net/blog/%7Epdeh/mother_child_gun_fun.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygCvhWc6ZGtm81Ff4soQjK0uYiaJRpKGEjBBibAPG2gv4rr-BmN66zG8ZZGuFMgALVe8K1Rt5jXYfK3NVL1CSh5l7PRjwzNiVEq1PNNRzjpPXL0p7DG1tEG8uxkZO1Yu8kdaa/s1600-h/bobsguns.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhygCvhWc6ZGtm81Ff4soQjK0uYiaJRpKGEjBBibAPG2gv4rr-BmN66zG8ZZGuFMgALVe8K1Rt5jXYfK3NVL1CSh5l7PRjwzNiVEq1PNNRzjpPXL0p7DG1tEG8uxkZO1Yu8kdaa/s1600-h/bobsguns.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>The first time I shot a gun, I cried.<br /><br />See, the instructor was telling me to "squeeze the trigger--be gentle with it--like a baby--just squeeze it--" and I'm squinting at my sights and I'm trying to see my target and I'm just hovering on that trigger, nudging it back little by little and then BANG, the gun goes off.<br /><br />The barrel jerks upward.<br /><br />A hot shell flies down my shirt, burning my breast. Adrenaline rushes at the sound and the smell of the gun smoke and I am scared, I mean, fucking TERRIFIED of that sound still ringing in my ears, even with the orange headphones hugging my ears.<br /><br />Shooting a gun, even at a paper target, is a violent act.<br /><br />Owning a gun, whether it's a right, or a defense, or hunting paraphernalia, or a tactical sport, is engaging in violence. Teaching children how to safely handle firearms is teaching them about violence. If a gun lesson to a child does not begin with words like, "This is a machine designed to kill," then the lesson is incomplete.<br /><br />Before I shot a gun, I had never heard live fire before. The only bits of gunfire I had heard was on television. But on a firing range, the guns are very loud. The firing line is covered in spent shells. And there is a row of people with their fingers on the triggers. BLAM BLAM BLAM</span> <span style="font-size:130%;">BLAM! The air is acrid and smoky. Some people have multiple weapons; they are shooting Desert Eagles and Glocks and AR15's.<br /><br />A month earlier, a young man shot off his calf muscle at the same range as I. He didn't pull his finger out of the trigger guard. Sure, one would think that's obvious...get your finger off the trigger, get your finger off the trigger, don't do a GODDAMN THING with your finger in that trigger...but it's not always easy to remember. Sometimes, one forgets.<br /><br />Sometimes, a person isn't always sure of where the muzzle of his weapon is. Two lanes down, I see a guy shoot at a target and then wave at his teacher with his gun. "C'mere! Lookit what I did!" You almost shot someone dead, is what you did.<br /><br />After my first shot, I quit crying. I just started shaking.<br /><br />After one clip, my shooting was so terrible, the instructor asked me to stop for the day and go home.<br /><br />Two months later, I finally qualified with a Glock 17. I could go out in the field as a probation officer and not need any other officer to accompany me.<br /><br />I was a state certified officer with a weapon. I had a badge and a gun and handcuffs. I had a bullet-proof vest and a can of mace. I did my job for four years, supervising an average of 150 active adult felons. I went to their homes, at night, with no radio. I found that a smile, and a warm voice, could put these people at ease even though I was in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >their </span><span style="font-size:130%;">home, going through </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >their</span> belongings, sitting next to <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >their </span><span style="font-size:130%;">children.<br /><br />I pulled my weapon twice, and I regret each time I did, because that meant in my mind, I was ready to kill another individual. Kill a person. Take a person's life. Keep him from living. Keep his heart from beating. Keep his brain from functioning.<br /><br />I don't argue with people who own guns. It's still a Constitutional right. It will probably remain a right for a long time. Gun laws and gun control and rules and legislation don't stop people from shooting guns. None of that stuff will make a difference in America's love affair with weapons. Sadly, criminals will always be able to buy guns legally from private dealers or illegally from street dealers.<br /><br />I just remember the fear my gun invoked inside of me. I just remember being aware of it all the time </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >("There's a gun in my closet. There's a gun in my cabinet drawer. There's a gun on top of my refrigerator.")</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br />And I remember the relief of handing my gun back when I was fired. I remember crying then, too. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >It's over</span><span style="font-size:130%;">, I thought.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" ><br />I'll never have to fire this thing again.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br />And my face broke out into a smile.</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-66397393519595961022008-07-18T18:26:00.002-04:002008-07-18T18:53:06.856-04:00Friday RatsBummer.<br /><br />I was so geared up to see <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.apple.com/trailers/wb/thedarkknight/hd/">The Dark Knight</a> at our local <a href="http://www.esupply.co.uk/images/kaleidoscope.jpg">IMAX </a>theater. It would appear that even in the tumultuous <a href="http://www.theonion.com/content/node/46937">economy </a>of the metro-Detroit area, folks just love their Batman. Apparently, folks are out in droves going to see this movie. The last place I want to be is knuckle-deep in popcorn grease while three hundred adolescents fart their way through two and a half hours of film. Christian Bale deserves better. So do I.<br /><br />Therefore, we will dine at the illustrious <a href="http://foodpoisoning.pritzkerlaw.com/archives/norovirus-applebees-food-poisoning-outbreak.html">Applebee</a>'s so that I can benefit from their <a href="http://www.underwatertimes.com/news2/Paedocypris_progenetica.jpg">Weight Watcher's menu</a>. Then, we shall return home for knitting and <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/savages/">The Savages</a>. Tomorrow, I will see The Batman.<br /><br />Meanwhile: (Not VERY safe for work, completely offensive, all my gay friends hate me, etc.) Please see the following video.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/NysXikmga34&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/NysXikmga34&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-86832216690969009852008-07-16T21:41:00.002-04:002008-07-16T21:59:40.287-04:00AnticlimacticI am desperately trying to get the writing bug. I am not catching it. Therefore, I sit and whine and mope about not writing and then when I go to write, I can't access it. I have very little to report. I could tell you about my job, but that's gotten me fired before. I could make up stories about vacations and fabulous relaxing retreats in Europe, but none of that will ever happen to a girl like me. I could describe my garden in detail, but I think it's wilting a little bit. I could chat about me me me, but really, that's very ego-centric. <br /><br />Everything that gets me upset gets everyone else upset, too, and half the time, lots of other people have written about being upset in the same way I would describe my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">upsetness</span>, so that's out. Yes, Bush is bad. Yes, I am voting for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Obama</span>. Yes, I am disturbed how racist many voters are. Yes, teenage vampire whores are causing our children to suffer from ADD and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">PTSD</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">OCD</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Asperger's</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Meh</span>. Whatever. <br /><br />Here's the raw deal, I think. I've lost all my creativity to humdrum living. It's no one's fault but my own. I work myself into exhaustion, save just enough energy to knit, and the rest of my waking hours are spent wishing for the weekend to come and get me the hell up out of this rut. I need a break, man. Or a great big fat <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">doobie</span>. <br /><br />Also, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/17/health/nutrition/17diets.html">this </a>article depresses me, despite my 9 pound weight loss. I think I'm just going to be fat forever, dammit.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-45122915731136588032008-07-15T20:55:00.003-04:002008-07-15T21:20:07.136-04:00Well, that's Poopy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.greeneheaton.co.uk/assets_cm/FILES/images/book_the_children_of_men.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.greeneheaton.co.uk/assets_cm/FILES/images/book_the_children_of_men.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Borrowing from <a href="http://akugyaku.blogspot.com/">Nick</a>, I thought I would review one book. I would tell you that more reviews are to come, but that wouldn't be fair, because I re-read Jane Austen over and over since I'm too lazy to go to the library and pick out something new. And really, who needs another dissertation on <span style="font-weight: bold;">Pride and Prejudice's</span> <a href="http://www.vintage-adult-photos.com/img/women010.jpg">repressive sexuality</a>? No one, that's who.<br /><br />The other night, I watched the movie <a href="http://www.childrenofmen.net/">Children of Men</a>. After watching the movie, I went home and put my head in the microwave. Never had I watched something so cliche and so gruesome. It disturbed me greatly. I didn't want to, but I borrowed the book from a friend and read it in a day. <br /><br />While P.D. James is eloquent and well-written (in a very British way), she becomes so Victorian in her writing that one loses momentum. But the pages do get to turning as the reader waits (hopes! prays!) something interesting is going to happen. And interesting things do happen, eventually. Some people die, some other people have things happen to them, and in the end, some people get their just desserts. So, okay, for a read on the weekend, have a go at this book.<br /><br />But here's where I get disappointed. The pretense of the book is phenomenal. I love it. There are many places James could have gone with this book--it could have wound up as the next <a href="http://www.mooncostumes.com/image/979"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lord of the Flies</span></a> or <a href="http://www.appletreeblog.com/wp-content/2007/08/man-on-fire.jpg"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fahrenheit 451</span></a> or something else prolific and astounding and thought-provoking. But it doesn't. The punch doesn't follow through to the cheekbone. I'm waiting for the "WHAM" and all I get is the "whiz".<br /><br />I had this same problem with the movie "Jumpers". I know, tragically awful movie. But just think of what it COULD have been. This is the problem I have with this book. I recommend the book for a car ride or a really boring Sunday. But I would not try to replace Miss Austen with it.<br /><br />I have also decided that reviewing books is not my forte. I'll stick to mindless blather.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-26598795501749791432008-07-13T22:09:00.002-04:002008-07-13T22:40:47.965-04:00MalcontentTo hell with you, <a href="http://www.themoggy.com/olympics/internet-couch-hog.jpg">Weight Watchers</a>!<br /><br />I am eating my Dannon yogurt sprinkled with a <a href="http://candiedquince.ca/wp-content/fruitcakecrumbs061.JPG">one-point cardboard cake</a> from WW, and I am NOT TRACKING IT.<br /><br />Nope. It does not even exist, and it shan't appear on my hips. It is a MEASLY five points, and while I have exhausted all of my extra points for the week (and I'm several days away from weigh-in), I will not begrudge myself coffee yogurt. After all, I did not have a second glass of wine or my obligatory <a href="http://www.cocktailtimes.com/vodka/bloodymary.shtml">Sunday Bloody Mary</a>. <br /><br />I just finished eating my sub par dessert, and now I feel absolutely wretched. Here's to another week of not being able to curb my appetite. <br /><br />Additionally, some advice: If you are suffering from <a href="http://a4.vox.com/6a00d41446fb473c7f00d41442da4c685e-500pi">sciatica</a>, it is sagely suggested you stay far away from bicycles and their seats. Ow.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-11923594422500685092008-07-12T11:17:00.002-04:002008-07-12T11:35:42.339-04:00Name Calling<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z9iMgSNrwv4&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z9iMgSNrwv4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I work four ten hour days. That means I do not work on Fridays. I know, it rules.<br /><br />Here is the part that does NOT rule: leaving the house at 6:30 am. <br /><br />At that time of the day, I do not have the wherewithal, the chutzpah, the *verve* to make coffee. So, I go to <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Business/story?id=5288740">Starfucker's</a>. <br /><br />At 6:30 in the morning, there is rarely a line at Starfucker's drive through, because everyone else is sane and still in bed. There is just me, groggily staring over my steering wheel, hoping to coordinate my feet and my hands at the same time. <br /><br />And every morning, I show up at the drive-through, and the same lady asks me for my order. Every morning, I look UP AT THE CAMERA and tell her exactly what I want, and that order never changes. And EVERY SINGLE MORNING, she asks me for my name.<br /><br />Really?<br /><br />First of all, there's no one else with whom to confuse me. I'm the only one in line. Second of all, you have a monitor in which you can see my face. Thirdly, if this is some corporate attempt at getting to know me, she SUCKS, because I am there EVERY MORNING, and if she doesn't know my name by now, then clearly she cannot be trusted to make one (1!) grande bold coffee with two shots of espresso, two creams, and one Splenda. <br /><br />So: here has been the recent dialog:<br /><br /> Me: I'll have a grande bold coffee with two shots espresso, two creams, and one Splenda.<br /> SF's Employee: Will that be all?<br /> Me (Eye-rolling): YES.<br /> SF's Employee: And can I have your name?<br /> Me: Castro.<br /><br />Of late, I've been on a communist kick. Monday, I was Frida. Tuesday, I was Castro. Wednesday found me as Che G., and Thursday, I was Lenin.<br /><br />She never laughs. She never acknowledges my strange names. In fact the one time she guffawed at my name is when I said "Fritz."<br /><br />Why don't I just start giving my name out as "Grande Bold Coffee"?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-40537787663262200782008-07-12T01:29:00.002-04:002008-07-12T02:17:48.424-04:00Phat-Tee's<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://electricityandlust.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/wall-e.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://electricityandlust.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/wall-e.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Can we agree on some basic concepts, please?<br /><br />For example, can we agree that Americans eat too much? Is that really up for debate? Don't we live in a culture of face-stuffers? Face-stuffers who love fast food and bacon? Isn't that, like, totally apparent to every single person with five brain cells?<br /><br />And don't we, as a nation, use up resources five times as fast as everyone else? Don't we suck up natural resources and fossil fuels and hardwoods like a mega-consuming caterpillar working on its metamorphisis into the Titanic?<br /><br />Look. The calories I consume each day could probably sustain a pachyderm for a week. I'll admit it. I have an eating problem. I enjoy eating, and it's really easy for me to eat. If I'm too lazy to haul my big ass over to the grocery store, there's myriad opportunities to feast in other places. Like 7-11 or all these damn Coney Island joints; in a mile radius around my home, there are six--SIX--diners in which I can order one four-egg sausage and cheese omelette with a side of hashbrowns and toast. And every weekend, I eat at one of those establishments.<br /><br />And here we are, a nation of overwieght people with poor self-esteem, eating ourselves right into a food crisis. We eat and then feel guilty about it, and then we go buy clothing to fit our big butts. And then, we feel worse, so we drive our big cars over to our big supercenters where we buy diet food in bulk and when we're all done eating warmed-up cardboard, we poop in mega-toilets.<br /><br />I didn't think this was, like, news. Apparently, not everyone agrees with me.<br /><br />Over at <a href="http://www.slate.com/">Slate</a>, this uber-hip news/commentary blog thingy (I don't know, I just found out about it yesterday), some scrotal sac has condemned the movie <span style="font-weight: bold;">Wall-E</span> because it equivocates laziness with fat people and the end of the world. He claims that people who are fat are innocent bystanders in their self-destruction. It's all controlled by genetics! Just because we're fat doesn't mean we're guilty of massive consumption! Fat people aren't to blame! Wall-E mocks fat people! <a href="http://www.blogger.com/The%20new%20Pixar%20movie%20goes%20out%20of%20its%20way%20to%20equate%20obesity%20with%20environmental%20collapse.">"</a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="h1_subhead"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/The%20new%20Pixar%20movie%20goes%20out%20of%20its%20way%20to%20equate%20obesity%20with%20environmental%20collapse.">The new Pixar movie goes out of its way to equate obesity with environmental collapse!"</a><br /><br /></span></span>Um, actually, it talks about people being so lazy, they don't notice all the garbage they are creating until one day, when it's obvious that the trash ain't going away. But because they're so lazy, they decide to go into space and litter up there. And then people get used to sitting around and letting other little robot things do stuff for them, so folks don't really have a need to walk or move heavy objects and then....dum dum dum...humans get fat.<br /><br />I'm sorry, I thought this was an <span style="font-style: italic;">animated </span>film. Seems pretty true to life to me, yeah?<br /><br />Do we really have the time to convince ourselves that we are not to blame for the state we're in? Can we ignore our failing bodies and lack of health precautions, blaming big bones and bad genes? Or shouldn't we take some action now, and stop consuming so much, and start taking longer walks, and eat really good, really yummy, really healthy food?<br /><br />We cannot afford to make excuses for the way we live, and the destruction we're wreaking on our land? And if one stupid, silly animated movie makes us think about the future, then how can it be a bad thing?<br /><br />Thanks,<br />One of those FattiesUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-29216119992634020362008-07-11T12:56:00.005-04:002008-07-11T13:28:50.813-04:00My Most Delicious Lunch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kjxpgMCcSnN61cuKUU-E8J7P3l_m5t6gb2b_RJVEy2mWcTsIWDNjisIZ-1Fz5nipqYhwdiMHy_7udKZLsY-aajbezH3J6Ub-KKLPTWM4O8Qn86EPSHy7HlZcOiwpMyPVhhdcKQ/s1600-h/IMG_0744.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kjxpgMCcSnN61cuKUU-E8J7P3l_m5t6gb2b_RJVEy2mWcTsIWDNjisIZ-1Fz5nipqYhwdiMHy_7udKZLsY-aajbezH3J6Ub-KKLPTWM4O8Qn86EPSHy7HlZcOiwpMyPVhhdcKQ/s320/IMG_0744.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221809201646600146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I would have taken a picture of my lunch, but my camera's battery was apparently being borrowed by someone else. Ahem, honey.<br /><br />In mid-April, my dear friend <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ilex </span>of <a href="http://homesteadinginacondo.blogspot.com/">Homesteading in a Condo</a> came over and put in my first kitchen garden. A box made from untreated cedar harnesses the garden; she worked tirelessly and grew the plants herself from her own seedlings. All of this work and effort intimidated me--she is venturing into a new business selling gardens to people who rent or live in condos and apartments. She is also trying to educate individuals that gardening is not difficult. I don't believe her, as I am not a gardener. I have managed to slay hostas in a single week, and tulips wilt if I should come near. So, this kitchen garden was as much an attempt at keeping something alive as it was an opportunity to cut down on grocery and fuel costs and avoid salmonella. Lo and behold, my garden is flourishing.<br /><br />As are my squash plants.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioTlFevjRHVqZkt1zIPA26e6XfKqMARE8v49lidYWOc-KAg31NYx-BvVMyszbWPW1TpHyaEhOpQXw0hj255TTU6zCmoKOtRmXsLmdGq5bMJXNELgsk05Z_zxYVBg0H1_qLpXcj0g/s1600-h/IMG_0752.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioTlFevjRHVqZkt1zIPA26e6XfKqMARE8v49lidYWOc-KAg31NYx-BvVMyszbWPW1TpHyaEhOpQXw0hj255TTU6zCmoKOtRmXsLmdGq5bMJXNELgsk05Z_zxYVBg0H1_qLpXcj0g/s320/IMG_0752.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221803319676047042" border="0" /></a><br />My basil, while hidden underneath the squash plants (along with my beans and cucumbers and peppermint and eggplant) are doing quite well, too. So! With a perfect pesto recipe in hand, I went shopping for the rest of my meal, as my tomatoes still have a good month until they are ripe.<br /><br />Here's what I made:<br /><br /><a href="http://homesteadinginacondo.blogspot.com/2008/07/first-pesto-of-season.html">Perfect Pesto</a>:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(adaptation of Ilex's fresh pesto)</span><br /><br />1/4 cup chopped pine nuts<br />1/4 cup fresh grated parmigiano-reggiano cheese<br />1/3 cup extra extra extra virgin olive oil<br />1 clove of garlic<br />1 cup of fresh basil<br /><br />Chop up the basil leaves and pine nuts. Dump everything in a bowl and mix it up. Add a splash of balsamic vinegar and a couple dashes of salt. Set aside.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Italian Ratatouille</span> (Yes, I made that up)<br />Serves 2<br />1 organic Vidalia onion<br />1 fresh yellow squash, picked from your garden, preferably. (Pick them when they have grown 6-8 inches, or be like me, and wait for them to become huge phallic beasts and whack off one half of the end and toss...mmph)<br />3 Roma tomatoes.<br />Another clove of garlic, pressed.<br /><br />Parboil the tomatoes for about one minute. Take them out of the saucer and rub ice all over them. This allows the skins to separate from the fruit. Peel the tomatoes and slice in nice big chunks.<br /><br />Meanwhile, saute the onions and squash with more olive oil. Takes about five minutes on medium high. When done, dump everything in a bowl (or, for nice looks, place the tomatoes directly on top on the squash and onions). Splash it all with a teaspoon (or a cup, whatev) of olive oil. Sprinkle some of that fancy cheese on it. Let your eyes feast on the beautiful colors, but not for long, lest everything get cold.<br /><br />Sit down with a <a href="http://winegeeks.com/images/250/1272_250.jpg">glass of wine</a>. Red, preferably. Do this at noon on your day off, and you're already content.<br /><br />Cover your Italian Ratatouille with your homemade pesto. Have some bread on the side, to make it more pastoral.<br /><br />Enjoy the scintillating textures of nuts and soft squash, crunchy onions, and chewy basil. I don't think there is a better flavor than this--a meaty vegetarian dish including the product of your own labor.<br /><br />Ah, contentment.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-85627710041669474082008-07-08T20:41:00.002-04:002008-07-08T21:10:14.986-04:00Those Damn Punk Kids<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/153/856993%7EPunks-Not-Dead-Posters.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/153/856993%7EPunks-Not-Dead-Posters.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /> Last week, my car was burgled.<br /><br />All right, let me stop there. I really wanted to use the word 'burgled' in a sentence, but the truth is, we may as well have hung a sign over it reading, "Free Cycle!". We (and by saying 'we', I mean someone in my marriage who is not me) accidentally left the car unlocked and we parked it in the street.<br /><br />It is a good thing I do not allow my possessions to define me. If I did THAT, I would be extremely sore about the items stolen. I think I'll list those items, now:<br /><br />-My new navigation system. I was lost without it, quite literally. Now, I am all lost again.<br />-My older Nano.<br />-My silly RoadTrip device that allowed me to listen to my older Nano via the cigarette lighter.<br />-My D&G sunglasses that cost half of a paycheck. I mention these only for the sentimental value; Michael bought them for me the day before my wedding. What an ultra-ridiculous, glamorous gift!<br />-My body spray.<br /><br />Here's the real problem: I have a strong suspicion of 'hoo-done-it'. It's those punk kids down the street.<br /><br />Mmm hmm, I am aware that I referred to a group of teenagers as punk kids. These are the kind of67 kids whom I feared in high school. There is a leader, and he is skinny. He has a Bad Attitude. He smokes in front of his parents' home and swears at small animals. He Litters. His flock includes one severely overweight boy with thin lips, a cousin of small proportion, and a smattering of female teenagers, all drawn to this young man's 'charisma'.<br /><br />Last summer, the gang walked down the streets with baseball bats, swinging them threateningly at old ladies. They do not go to school, as far as I can tell, because they are out in the streets through every season. They have a gang vehicle--it is an aged Buick with wide headlights and cruft dents. It must not often have gas in it, because I am more likely to see them sitting in the car with the radio playing rather than tearing up and down the roads. These punk kids drive me bat-shit crazy.<br /><br />I give them the evil eye at every opportunity. I squint them with my laser eyeballs. I have stared them all down at least once, and I make sure they know I am watching them when I hang out in front of my house. I am convinced they despise me. This evening, as I pulled into my driveway, I revved the engine when I saw them and glared at them. And then, as I turned off my car, I realized:<br /><br />These kids were probably never going to get very far in life. They didn't have much of a chance, period. Their parents are never around, and have never instilled discipline. The opportunities for these punks to get jobs and make money and give back to the community are slim-to-none. In ten years, I could most likely drive down this same street and find them sitting in their car, listening to the radio. I know they have already experimented with drinking, as bottles are often strewn about their yard and one of them seems perpetually drunk. I don't think they are going to have many chances to succeed. They certainly don't seem very happy.<br /><br />In the end, I don't have any proof these punk kids are responsible for the theft of my items. I'd like to think they did it, because then I could carry around some anger and resentment towards them, and anger and resentment are key to living a fulfilling life. But then, I guess, there is a softer side. Perhaps, it's my role to smile at them. Perhaps, they are not safe and loved. Maybe I'm supposed to turn the other cheek and gently wish them well. It is one thing to steal from unlocked cars, but quite another to be robbed of a good life. Possibly, it might not be wise to get angry over this kind of thing. Rather, I should love my neighbors and their punk kids. I mean, what harm can a little love do?<br /><br />Also: I'll be much more vigilant about locking the car doors.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-91255371131117131082008-07-07T20:43:00.003-04:002008-07-07T20:55:34.073-04:00I have plenty of time.I keep telling myself that I am too old for grad school. I can't afford it! I'm not very bright! I don't know what I want to do when I grow up! I have a new kitten! I don't have the time!<br /><br />Well. I just took a 'life expectancy' quiz, and despite my weight, smoking, and cholesterol problems, I am going to live to the age of 102.<br /><br />Shit.<br /><br />I will never make enough money to sustain that kind of retirement. I better ante up on the smoking or consider a more lucrative career.<br /><br />Maybe I should just go to fu*king grad school.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-81190044704404957802008-07-03T21:01:00.000-04:002008-07-03T21:02:07.705-04:00Behold! The Power of Kittens!<div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br />Ever looked around at your sad lot in life and thought: "Geez, a kitten would really make this place a lot nicer"?<br />Well, we had that thought. So I would like to introduce the world to Persephone Hallifax.<br />That's Miss Percy, to you.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMj6gHm7QZI12e4lA3FcsZdvJ4_WOdkhnu500aS-l88qDk8ubXy5Kcq9h7kcnQptUIx68qV4PwtbdCohlSoA6LgLJT8UC5L86Ee-g5SpU4f78xaW3ZxO5VT02O0zAeSh-KjPpJQ/s1600-h/IMG_0025.JPG"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRMj6gHm7QZI12e4lA3FcsZdvJ4_WOdkhnu500aS-l88qDk8ubXy5Kcq9h7kcnQptUIx68qV4PwtbdCohlSoA6LgLJT8UC5L86Ee-g5SpU4f78xaW3ZxO5VT02O0zAeSh-KjPpJQ/s320/IMG_0025.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeeo9Oq8ZV5_rY5wtn2MNZhxeVVIqFpBk2syy6POTBaq7PEQXrG4BJtAYNjDonc_WK4TXcma51rmghsnQRp97pwxJPW9VkUp3TDNZG7h8eyidwP4W4j_vyeu0vYf-myjGv-rstg/s1600-h/IMG_0028.JPG"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeeo9Oq8ZV5_rY5wtn2MNZhxeVVIqFpBk2syy6POTBaq7PEQXrG4BJtAYNjDonc_WK4TXcma51rmghsnQRp97pwxJPW9VkUp3TDNZG7h8eyidwP4W4j_vyeu0vYf-myjGv-rstg/s320/IMG_0028.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAtTf7xeXiHTMWBTxH92X2KjxQZxp3-5Q7Uof0N0KDnug2MRN6fkDk7XYoU8kesUhcdN85M6XaBaAU-cl_DgZBHubQwTzLLymGhogr75sCXUt4XFj2JfQTL3QXgnAFUFryOnWaA/s1600-h/IMG_0039.JPG"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAtTf7xeXiHTMWBTxH92X2KjxQZxp3-5Q7Uof0N0KDnug2MRN6fkDk7XYoU8kesUhcdN85M6XaBaAU-cl_DgZBHubQwTzLLymGhogr75sCXUt4XFj2JfQTL3QXgnAFUFryOnWaA/s320/IMG_0039.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Oddly enough, Delilah does not seem to think kittens improve life that much. <br />She remains...bitter.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28k2yWnf9yKsFpwHeE5Jzt09x7DEiNTqEV9pMWRHQGvByi1S6O8blNgp4IUG0hyD_hoNgDWlLE2OTtm0kFGB4y13dEM4cbYa9QFM32tNqluN8zp5TJ7mUGI_tQsV0BL2WbriI5A/s1600-h/IMG_0034.JPG"><img alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg28k2yWnf9yKsFpwHeE5Jzt09x7DEiNTqEV9pMWRHQGvByi1S6O8blNgp4IUG0hyD_hoNgDWlLE2OTtm0kFGB4y13dEM4cbYa9QFM32tNqluN8zp5TJ7mUGI_tQsV0BL2WbriI5A/s320/IMG_0034.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style='clear:both; text-align:CENTER'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-83441749357782618742008-06-28T13:31:00.005-04:002008-06-28T13:59:42.389-04:00For My Friends<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEfHza8qsOUFxQyD0Q61CrWXsrEXVBCrILg_7Fs0YCzDDKNcXSfwLkeTLCNieSsDmB7c8MMHGaDg0vC9CN3vd-oa1PrnKT4kHHFB0AO5NrlIYzA6EJb-14oaVE-WJIN0Ua38Uf3w/s1600-h/IMG_3975.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEfHza8qsOUFxQyD0Q61CrWXsrEXVBCrILg_7Fs0YCzDDKNcXSfwLkeTLCNieSsDmB7c8MMHGaDg0vC9CN3vd-oa1PrnKT4kHHFB0AO5NrlIYzA6EJb-14oaVE-WJIN0Ua38Uf3w/s200/IMG_3975.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216993346300589442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >Photo: Mike <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Cottle</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;" class="huge">"Life is all memory except for the one present moment that goes by you so quick you hardly catch it going.</span><span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><br /><span class="bodybold">-Tennessee Williams<br /></span><br /><br />My existential crisis continues.<br /><br />I realize I have lost friends since I've moved to Michigan. My life is not long enough to keep them all. I have not continued to follow my friends' paths; I don't know what woods they find themselves in--I cannot take the same inroads to catch up. The grasses have grown up so tall and I can't whack enough weeds down, so I am going a different way.<br /><br />In the quiet moments, when I am knitting to the hum of the refrigerator, I think about the few people I've known who have died. I wonder about them; do they raise a glass for me, wherever they are? Or are they now so far along their roads that they cannot look back and find me here, sitting in my living room at daybreak, catching yarn between my needles, flipping my skeins this way and that? While I wonder about them, I smile. I put that smile into my garment, and hope that my finishing techniques do them justice.<br /><br />I think about my other friends often. What are they doing right now? Have I been replaced by newer, more exciting counterparts? Are my friends laughing or crying? Are they going on exotic vacations or fixing the roofs of their homes? Are they getting married? Perhaps some of them have become alcoholics. Maybe a few have broken up with longtime partners. Maybe some of them are extremely wealthy--maybe they are bankrupt. Does Maria still ride her motorcycle (ah, the long rides we would take in summer, the smell of cottonwood and baked asphalt in the Georgia heat, the shimmering skies above the hills, and the curves of Hwy. 118)?<br /><br />There is only time and memory behind me, and only time in front of me. I am absent without my friends--my existence is only validated by others--the comings and goings of relationships. Otherwise, it would be only quietness. So, I am quiet for my friends, wherever they may be, wherever they may go, whatever memories they make.<br /><br />I think I'll take up drop-spindling and watch roving become yarn, dropped to the floor, threading up like the Fates' linens. There, I will find myself, contemplating the simple act of time, spreading around my feet.<br /><br />This next stitch, then, shall be for my friends. The one after shall be for me. The following one shall be for the world. Then I shall make a stitch in time, too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-90646035386737496042008-06-10T21:09:00.003-04:002008-06-10T21:27:05.095-04:00Mandatory WritingSuddenly, I find myself 29 years old. Merciful heavens, but I am aging.<br /><br />There is this urge to reconnect, to look up people online and find out what all has been accomplished. So I get to moving: I sign up on three different 'networking' sites and browse by high school and college class and bam. I get what I ask.<br /><br />Pictures and blogs and citings and mishaps and photos and travels and babies and grad schools--people have been mightily industrious while I've been sitting around. People have been doing things. In fact, I'm aghast at how grown up we all are--that, in of itself, is a feat which I never considered. And so I sit, glancing at photos, a voyeur of these high school fellows. I am not much different now as I was then, staring at people walking down hallways, musing about their lives and hairstyles. Constantly comparing myself to their achievements and reckonings. So-and-so is in France, so-and-so is a lawyer and a social worker and a volunteer for Habitat for Humanity and in her spare time, she knits sweaters for children in Mongolia. <br /><br />I live in Detroit with a wonderful husband and a cat. I work forty hours a week at a job that is mildly interesting. After that, I am home, knitting or gardening or drinking coffee. This past weekend, Michael and I went to Chicago and did tourist-y things. That was the most thrilling thing we've done since last February, when we moved to this Godforsaken part of the world (N.B. I <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>love Detroit). <br /><br />I'm having an existential crisis, thanks to these damnable networking sites. Today, I joined Weight Watchers. Next week, I'm going to a Buddhist temple in order to master the refined art of deprivation and meditation. Next month, I'm enrolling in a graduate program (of what study, I know not. I just have to have more education). Three months from now, I'll be pregnant and learning how to trim topiary. In thirteen months, I will be in Indonesia (baby strapped to my breast), learning Sanskrit and strange yoga poses. One year from now, I will be on the cover of Time Magazine (husband and baby in tow), featured for solving the world's global food crisis (kitchen gardens, duh). <br /><br /><br />Maybe then, I can face the past.<br /><br />But the teachings of the Yogis proclaim I must guard myself from these thoughts--these misconceptions of the importance (or unimportance) of my own life. All of these things seem totally egocentric. So: I will meditate. I will try to control my food instead of my food controlling me. I will smile more and have faith in my smile. And maybe (just maybe) I'll think about going back to school. But most importantly, I will love and respect myself. <br /><br />I will look forward to seeing me in the mirror, and giving to that person as I would anyone else. God is good. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hamas</span>. I am That. <br /><br />I'm ALL that, and a bag of chips.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-28129167584311496732008-05-04T13:16:00.000-04:002008-05-04T13:16:56.987-04:00Yes, I Knit<div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center">The Chipotle Bag<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2MSqfT50Nn0ICOmByEZqvMzwPQvN8SQWYRaqm4xv8_9yl3edgljc4Zs4AiCcHNb3Z37B6-VDdMbhRgFQXyNcKgmYVO41RDEIkbVwcYbga0HXBW5IlHJjaomFjSfUqWCEjevmQQ/s1600-h/IMG_0192.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS2MSqfT50Nn0ICOmByEZqvMzwPQvN8SQWYRaqm4xv8_9yl3edgljc4Zs4AiCcHNb3Z37B6-VDdMbhRgFQXyNcKgmYVO41RDEIkbVwcYbga0HXBW5IlHJjaomFjSfUqWCEjevmQQ/s400/IMG_0192.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM33h5RTzldFvL9uSbEKM7HGXvGDW3j52xSkVEakRfrKa-8IkPcGyj7rkUpyEsLkf2uMK4Mxtz7D5cOYbByYnW2lDoFnuXEjXFfwlUu6cpMR1z3uLdozS6tnvLZGmyuAk2rsIh5g/s1600-h/IMG_0193.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM33h5RTzldFvL9uSbEKM7HGXvGDW3j52xSkVEakRfrKa-8IkPcGyj7rkUpyEsLkf2uMK4Mxtz7D5cOYbByYnW2lDoFnuXEjXFfwlUu6cpMR1z3uLdozS6tnvLZGmyuAk2rsIh5g/s400/IMG_0193.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLWr3J-xgWWl-Ln6F2O-kpZN2XmPie3hmohuTzssDb9BQULJkJBaX9jN0hbYYMAGR-L1SklmqQpVonj9Blb2mTMV4YLqUtQOJQGze3qjuZzuXJM7SQnsky0gvMqvLOV3wwtCC0jQ/s1600-h/IMG_0194.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLWr3J-xgWWl-Ln6F2O-kpZN2XmPie3hmohuTzssDb9BQULJkJBaX9jN0hbYYMAGR-L1SklmqQpVonj9Blb2mTMV4YLqUtQOJQGze3qjuZzuXJM7SQnsky0gvMqvLOV3wwtCC0jQ/s400/IMG_0194.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div style="MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4uIUrrRsRO85LUPdZU-9-xhsAQv0_Rtz_kwKeSZdui8-rWw_TXizky-wx8MPUa2wlswtWFSxf1JXSqHyvZzTBFCqZku_7Hv38F1-ewAvF2wYHrk1T-0EsV1L2BYJJv0ML2mrhg/s1600-h/IMG_0195.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4uIUrrRsRO85LUPdZU-9-xhsAQv0_Rtz_kwKeSZdui8-rWw_TXizky-wx8MPUa2wlswtWFSxf1JXSqHyvZzTBFCqZku_7Hv38F1-ewAvF2wYHrk1T-0EsV1L2BYJJv0ML2mrhg/s400/IMG_0195.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br />A bag for my mother, felted. Used <a href="http://www.cascadeyarns.com/cascade-220.asp">Cascade 220</a>; designed the bag myself based on various patterns found in the internet ether. The faux cable-cross stitch is taken from Nicky Epstein's <a href="http://www.sixthandspringbooks.com/product_info.php?manufacturers_id=12&products_id=156"><strong>Knitting Never Felt Better</strong> </a>book--<br /><br />Notes:<br />1. <a href="http://www.wallaceandgromit.com/characters/gromit.html">Grommets </a>are a necessary evil. Though useful, they prove to be tempermental.<br />2. Weighted cord in I-cord creates wonderful handles that will not stretch out.<br />3. No matter what I think, nothing ever shrinks up as much as I hope.<br />4. More fabric/yarn stores should be open on Sundays.<div style='clear:both; text-align:CENTER'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-19087546301078552242008-04-19T17:12:00.003-04:002008-04-19T17:42:50.488-04:00Shorts, The Garment That Leaves Me Wanting MoreIn Michigan, people take sunshine seriously. We get a good three months of the stuff before we all become troll-like hoody-wearing bums. So it's not surprising to see people in shorts when it's like...45 degrees out. Because 45, people, is considered 'balmy' here in Michigan.<br /><br />Now, I don't wear shorts for a number of cosmetic reasons. I have a theory that the friction created by my thighs rubbing together long enough could possibly create enough energy to power a small weed-trimmer, but I'm holding off on researching this until we either run out of power or I find myself needing to trim something. So, I stick to those abominable fashion mutants--capris and gauchos. But I do not begrudge others their shorts. Hell, if you wanna get melanoma all over your calves and knees, that's cool.<br /><br />Here's where I have the problem: shorts up to the ol' catamaracker. The fabric that makes up shorts is apparently threatened to the point of extinction, since no manufacturer is using enough to really create an appearance of modesty. Additionally, the shortness of the pant hem is also coupled with this horrible muffin-top fad...pants are sinking around the waistband. This leads to the undesirable affect of seeing all of the back of some overpriced thong when some broad is sitting down. Of course, by sitting, the broad's shorts ride even further up the leg into the black hole that is NOT what you are thinking, but that crease between the lower abdomen and the top of the thigh. The result? A picture worthy of National Geographic, except now, all the loin clothes are in the urban jungle, instead of the real jungle.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://creoleindc.typepad.com/rantings_of_a_creole_prin/images/2007/07/10/sh205350.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://creoleindc.typepad.com/rantings_of_a_creole_prin/images/2007/07/10/sh205350.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I was at an outdoor cafe last night. It was roasting hot (about 70 degrees), and I was sipping a gorgeous, lightly hopped micro-brew. I had the cigarette going, and the nachos were on their way. It could get no better. Then, a gaggle of broads in short shorts sat at the table next to mine. The chicky who sat directly behind me yanked her chair into mine and flung her obnoxiously bleached hair into my naturally (superior) blonde hair. I snorted loudly, slammed my beer down (jolting the head around, dammit), and spun around in my chair. Of course, she was completely oblivious to me, but I was not oblivious to the opportunity that presented itself. She had a two inch gap between her actual waist and her waist band.<br /><br />I finished my dinner in moderate comfort, though the giggling and smacking and general vulgarity of the party next to me was rather annoying, as was the foot traffic that suddenly increased to my part of the patio. (While I won't pretend to understand why, these kinds of women actually <span style="font-style: italic;">attract </span>men.) I paid my bill, smiled serenely at my husband, and took out a nail file from my purse.<br /><br />I turned around in my chair as I gathered my purse in my lap. I inserted the nail file into the gap of blonde chicky's waistband. I then stood up and walked quickly away.<br /><br />Now, I do not know if the girl in the atom-sized shorts actually felt me put the nail file there or if she merely ignored the sensation. I do know that my behavior was strange and pointless, but it felt wonderful to me. In fact, I wasn't even original in this--a friend of mine shared an experience about someone who knew someone who actually did this to someone else...<br /><br />I don't really know what more to say on this subject. Ladies, if you want to go around naked, then do it. But please. When wearing shorts, make sure you don't have to surgically extract them at the end of the day. And if you don't, you may find more in your crack than you bargained for.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-64216181710769676802008-04-08T19:19:00.002-04:002008-04-08T20:26:39.362-04:00Floggings.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bostonist.com/attachments/boston_caroline/032608-starbucks-and-weed.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://bostonist.com/attachments/boston_caroline/032608-starbucks-and-weed.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I was at Starfucker's today, getting my usual dose of over-priced caffiene which will most assuredly kill me in the end, when this asshole sidled up to the counter, asked for a cup of coffee, and began berating the barista (or whatever the hell coffee people call themselves) because she asked him 'too many questions'. That's what he said, right there in front of Allah and everyone: "I come in here every morning, and no one has ever asked me this many questions! Just give me the damn coffee!"<br /><br />It was 7 o'clock in the morning.<br /><br />Really?<br /><br />Who has the energy to be such a dick that early in the morning?<br /><br />I saw him climb into his (big fucking surprise) huge goddam SUV. From there, he clipped his bluetooth thingy on his ear, put the car in reverse, and almost mowed down two old ladies walking into the store. Instead of doing the easy thing (stick his pinhead out the window and say "Oh, man, am I sorry!"), he honked at them. Honked! As though it was their fault to be standing near his gigantor vehicle! The bastard!<br /><br />I ran outside with my coffee and threw my coffee on the back of his car. Not the cup, just the fluid. He didn't stop, probably because he didn't see me, but if he had, he would have seen my angry face. It's serious, people. I look like a gladiator when I put on my angry face. I've broken up a lot of fights at strip clubs with my angry face. But he didn't see my angry face, because his booster seat wasn't tall enough for him to look out the rear-view window.<br /><br />I went back into the Starfucker's and asked for another cup of coffee (but using the same cup--after all, I am conscious of our depleted Earth).<br /><br />Do you know, I didn't even get a free cup of coffee? After defending the honor of two old ladies and a barista, I couldn't even get a refill?<br /><br />What the hell is wrong with people?<br /><br />And now, for something completely different:<br /><br />I hate that show <a href="http://www.roloffsonline.com/images/2008/02/mattcourt.jpg">Little People, Big World</a>. Just because you need a footstool to get up to the sink does not make you worthy enough to have your own damn television show. If you're all about being included, then stop exploiting your 'handicap'. You're just short, you're not miraculous.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-81572023164879163162008-03-30T09:13:00.003-04:002008-03-30T09:58:14.220-04:00April 30, 1917My grandmother was born 91 years ago. Her name is Anne Gordon Doring nee Ross. I call her Grangie.<br /><br />My grandmother is dying. Right now, in Arizona, my mother sits by her side as hospice workers care for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Grangie</span> 'round the clock. <br /><br />She waited for my mother to get to Arizona before she fell silent. The morphine and methadone keep her comfortable enough, but she no longer eats nor speaks. For a few days, she suffered hallucinations. Her facial expressions mimicked those of a woman in labor; a nurse told my mother <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Grangie</span> is remembering those pains. My mother says she looks like a dolly, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Grangie</span> is no longer pliable. It is as though her mind has already escaped, and now we wait for her body to catch up.<br /><br />Pictures of my grandmother in her youth are refreshing reminders of her fabulous life. She was born into wealth, but she never 'acted' wealthy. She told me of her days in college, spent flitting around to parties, getting sauced, skipping classes, having fun, reading. Oh, she was always reading some wonderful novel or terrific commentary. She traveled extensively. She worked for the wife of the owner of Carson Pierre Scott, so her buying trips would take her to far-off Egypt, the Orient, Paris, Germany, England. Her summers (as well as my mother's and my own) found her at Madeline Island in Lake Superior, where the days were languid and filled with trees and lemonade and long walks along the beach. I remember her wading into that frigid Lake Superior water without batting an eye.<br /><br />My grandmother was a Daughter of the Revolution. She is a direct descendant of Queen Mary of Scots, as well as a Mayflower descendant. She was a gardener of pear trees and flowers. My grandmother was always an active member of her church, whether it be the Episcopal cathedral in Chicago or the quiet sanctuary in Tucson, Arizona. She adored my grandfather, a formidable and handsome man. When my grandmother met my grandfather, she was engaged to a doctor, but knew immediately that her heart belonged to a poor man with strong character. My grandfather joined the Marines and served in WWII; when he came home, he met his daughter (my mother) for the first time. <br /><br />She wrote such long letters, filled with bits of her days. She visited the sick weekly. She drank gin martinis and smoked; she never officially quit any of those activities because in her mind, it was still the catchy thing to do. In her younger days, she wore Chanel suits and riding boots. As she aged, she tended toward bright, tent-like dresses and loafers. But style was never of the utmost importance. Cocktail hour, though, was very important. Cocktails and bridge. My word, that woman has been playing bridge since 1925, and until recently, she was still cheating at it. "Oh, did I do that?" she would always ask with a glint in her eye as she <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">surreptitiously</span> switched cards around or accidentally dropped one in her lap. <br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Grangie</span> and I always lived far apart. By the time I was born, she and Grandpa had moved to Arizona, but I spent many weeks with them in the summertime. One summer, she and I were alone at the cottage on Madeline Island, and I remember how wonderful it was to be cared for by her. It meant lots of naps and strange food (like duck pate) for breakfast. It meant slow walks to town for ice cream and socializing with the neighbors. It was a pristine summer of sun and joy and many, many books. <br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Grangie</span> and I are duplicates. My mother laughs at our similarities. On a beautiful day, one could easily find <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Grangie</span> and I inside the house with the window open, snoozing, rather than doing anything productive. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Grangie</span> and I are social butterflies and like to be the life of the party, but we aren't concerned about details like cleanliness or fresh napkins. "After all," <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Grangie</span> would sniff, "that's what the help is for." Of course, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Grangie</span> hadn't had help for over sixty years when she was retired, but I believe she still thought she had help, and that was what counted.<br /><br />How can a life be wrapped up in one writing? It cannot. But for her, I wish wish wish I could show the world what an extraordinary life she led, what a kind soul she was, what an elf she could be. I wish I had known her as a young woman; I believe we would have gotten on fabulously. <br /><br />On Thursday, my mother held the phone to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Grangie's</span> ear while I told her goodbye. She made soft sounds, like she recognized my voice. I would like to think so. I would like her to know that I intend to carry on her legacy of divine class, outstanding humor, and reluctant task-completion. I would like her to know that I believe in reading, and in card games, and in beautiful gardens. I hope she knows that I love my husband with the same verve she loved hers. We are cut from the same cloth, and I am a lucky woman for having such a magnificent lady of a grandmother. <br /><br />Now, I only have the hope of my grandmother's heaven. I hope it is filled with songs of Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey, of good coffee and better wine, and of endless summer breezes that lift my grandmother's auburn locks and twist them round her bright blue eyes. And her friends. I hope she could be with them and her husband and all of them, chuckling at how wonderful it all is, how absolutely astounding life is. I hope with all my might she can go with a smile and some mirth, and that her beyond is as rich as her life. <br /><div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Wind on the Hill </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></span>No one can tell me,</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> Nobody knows,</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> Where the wind comes from,</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> Where the wind goes.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> </span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> It's flying from somewhere</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> As fast as it can,</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> I couldn't keep up with it,</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> Not if I ran.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> </span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> But if I stopped holding</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> The string of my kite,</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> It would blow with the wind</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> For a day and a night.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> </span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> And then when I found it,</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> Wherever it blew,</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> I should know that the wind</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> Had been going there too.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> </span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> So then I could tell them</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> Where the wind goes...</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> But where the wind comes from</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> Nobody knows. </span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> </span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--></span>-AA Milne<br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Arial; color: maroon;"> <!--[endif]--></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-53788807553501916002008-03-20T18:57:00.002-04:002008-03-21T15:55:26.094-04:00I Just Took The Lamest Quiz Ever...<!--Begin Militant Feminist Quiz Results--><br /><center><a href="http://www.spacefem.com/quizzes/militantfeminist"><br /><img src="http://spacefemmites.com/limg/0308/militantfeminist/92-badass.jpg" alt="I am a Badass Militant Feminist" border="0" /><br /></a></center><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:78%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">this would be the lamest quiz, ever</span></span><br /></div>...to prove a point.<br /><br />Feminism died in 1982. It was last seen stumbling around the <a href="http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/EPH/7864%7ELesbians-Posters.jpg">Agnes Scott</a> campus in Georgia, wearing a flannel shirt and smelling of Hot Damn! Yes, it was a terrible hangover, thanks to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrea_Dworkin">Andrea Dworkin</a> chaser to the <a href="http://archives.cnn.com/2000/US/09/05/steinem.marriage.ap/">Gloria Steinhem</a> 40 oz.<br /><br />I think I'm getting a head cold. Either that, or I have epilepsy. Everything tastes funny and I want to cry all the time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-8886108068442111262008-03-16T09:30:00.002-04:002008-03-16T10:09:25.896-04:00Hey, DJ, won't you play that song. The one that keeps me dancing. All night long.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blogs.pitch.com/wayward/bobby-brown-1992.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://blogs.pitch.com/wayward/bobby-brown-1992.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I went to a bar last night for the first time in ages. Actually, I went to two bars, but not a pub crawl. The first bar was filled to the gills with over-privileged children and Germans, I thought I had mistakenly crashed a college party (in Munich). The second bar was filled with community college students and old people. The second bar was more my style, thought it claimed it was an Irish bar and did not serve Harp Lager. Bud Light was the toasting ale of the joint. Icky pooh.<br /><br />Everything was fine until the DJ started playing music. Bobby Brown, y'all. Whitney Houston. Boyz II Men. A terrible time warp had occurred, and the universe started spinning backwards. Some white chick busted out in a Kid 'n' Play move.<br /><br />And while I was seething with the concept of 80's pop music being played to a generation of individuals too young to remember the actual horror of these songs, I realized something far, far worse: if the DJ had been playing current music, I would have been just as lost.<br /><br />I'm getting old.<br /><br />I went home drunk. That was the highlight of the evening. I think I also turned on some Flogging Mollies, just to prove a point. To whom, I can't say. Nonetheless, I have decided on one, very important choice. I am not going to bars anymore unless the venue includes somber chamber music and lots of port wine.<br /><br />Here are the ingredients for a Dirty Girl Scout:<br /><ul><li>1 oz <a class="ingr" href="http://www.webtender.com/db/ingred/205">White Creme de Menthe</a> </li><li>1 oz <a class="ingr" href="http://www.webtender.com/db/ingred/316">Vodka</a> </li><li>1 oz <a class="ingr" href="http://www.webtender.com/db/ingred/265">Kahlua</a> </li><li>1 oz <a class="ingr" href="http://www.webtender.com/db/ingred/270">Bailey's irish cream</a> </li></ul> <p>Mix the vodka, Kahlua and Bailey's and pour over ice. Pour the Creme de Menthe down the center of the glass.<br /></p>This is the culmination of the evening: sipping a beverage that vaguely resembles green Pepto Bismo. I think it was entirely appropriate.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-89315159635330118932008-03-14T18:12:00.004-04:002008-03-14T18:29:14.425-04:00Not Ironic<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zo_r06B4C3DWIg6NdGvZPJwMnHjX8x_R7hX7ewUZN4p8b8UUrrzLgArfzqz4Nv14xHKRNGfHTknQ-ToQbrc9WaAYgvhd-5wc3JQTkRe0yA7XTsJoO7IaW9LJXi4VaZPrzIYJjg/s1600-h/villagestreetwear_1992_131373116.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zo_r06B4C3DWIg6NdGvZPJwMnHjX8x_R7hX7ewUZN4p8b8UUrrzLgArfzqz4Nv14xHKRNGfHTknQ-ToQbrc9WaAYgvhd-5wc3JQTkRe0yA7XTsJoO7IaW9LJXi4VaZPrzIYJjg/s400/villagestreetwear_1992_131373116.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177724540281778146" border="0" /></a>Just really lame and unfortunate.<br /></div><br /><br />Firstly, glamorizing pornography is weak. Porn is boring; it all ends similarly. It's degrading, it's unimaginative, it's exploitative, it can be inhumane, it is certainly amoral, and I don't care how 'liberated' a chick you are, it can't be comfortable.<br /><br />Secondly, people who wear t-shirts that say 'Porn Star' are sad. Most of those people are not porn stars, but want to be porn stars. Wanting to be a porn star is even worse than <span style="font-style: italic;">being </span>a porn star. If you are reading this and you want to be a porn star, go down the street, find a drug dealer, ask him for a lethal dose of whatever it is he is selling, and eliminate yourself from the human race. You are useless. Go away.<br /><br />Most importantly, the people who should wear these shirts are people who look like this:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.politicsonline.com/blog/images/2005/rove2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.politicsonline.com/blog/images/2005/rove2.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Because that would almost be ironic. <br /><br /><br />Almost.*<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" >*Except for the fact that Karl Rove has managed to fuck us all in the ass, without benefit of a reach-around, and in broad daylight, to the tune of several million dollars of taxpayer money, and (even worse) I could almost guarantee that some of the money probably found its way to a Texas whorehouse or a porno production company because after all, aren't we dealing with the scum of the Earth?</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14739203.post-69752641960372738342008-03-13T18:17:00.002-04:002008-03-13T18:26:20.080-04:00PickledMy husband and I now work at the same facility. He's a property manager. I am not sure what I do, but I've been at it for a year. He has been a property manager for four days. <br /><br />It's weird. We talk to each other like automatrons at work. 'Hello how are you doing.' 'I am fine and you.' Like we don't know how we are doing. Like he didn't just see me wandering around the bedroom in the old bra and mismatched socks. Like I didn't just yell for him to either eat the lunch I pack for him or go and buy some other food, dammit! <br /><br />In other news: I hate parking structures. Last night, I drove around one for fifteen minutes. Each time I circled, I wound up at the ticket gate because I missed the five-foot-wide ramp to the next level. I would roll down the window and explain I need to park. The parking guy would look confused before he told me to 'hop the curb and swing left to go back into the structure.' It happened three times. Don't you think he would remember the woman who needed to park?<br /><br />And wouldn't he want to reach through the window and scratch out her very stupid eyes?<br /><br /><br />And also: my cat has pushed me off the bed three nights in a row. Does this give me allowance to eat her for dinner?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3