Step one, put cocoa into your cup. Step two, add hot milk. Step three, pour in a dash of Bailey's. Step four, a dash of whipped cream. Sigh...
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sita Sings the Blues
A friend turnes us onto a lovely animated film called Sita Sings the Blues. It's quirky and delightful, full of wonderful old-time blues and jazz music. Nina Paley, the artist who wrote, animated, directed, edited and basically did it all is the creator of this beautiful, colorful film full of magic, mythology, love, cats, and wild imagination. It's hard to put into words except to say that I found it delightful.
When you visit the page you can learn more about buying a copy of the film or just making a donation to keep the artist and the art alive. I think you'll want to. We need to subsidize our geniuses.
A friend turnes us onto a lovely animated film called Sita Sings the Blues. It's quirky and delightful, full of wonderful old-time blues and jazz music. Nina Paley, the artist who wrote, animated, directed, edited and basically did it all is the creator of this beautiful, colorful film full of magic, mythology, love, cats, and wild imagination. It's hard to put into words except to say that I found it delightful.
When you visit the page you can learn more about buying a copy of the film or just making a donation to keep the artist and the art alive. I think you'll want to. We need to subsidize our geniuses.
Shoes
I bought a pair of shoes today. They look kinda like this:
I don't have that female gene that loves shoes, craves shoes, collects shoes, and all but has sex with shoes. I own nothing with a higher heel than these and I only buy new shoes when the old ones fall apart. I tend to wear only one pair of shoes during the week. I don't have a lot of variation. If they're comfy and work with jeans, I'll wear them to death. Like my last pair.
I love New Balance shoes. Not sure why. It's not like they fit better or are more comfy than other shoes I've worn, I just like them. Now I have a new pair and the old ones that I'll throw into my trunk. (I have a pair of shoes that I'll only wear at the Humane Society and I leave them in car so as not to track animal cooties in the house and get Cipher sick.)
When I bought the shoes today it was a big thing for me. For two reasons. First, I don't like spending money on anything other than books or music. Secondly I hate to shop for anything clothing-related. And we're not talking about dropping $500 on a pair of Italian heels. These shoes cost less than $50 and still I felt bad for spending so much money.
And, of course, after convincing myself that the shoes are a necessity and not a luxury I find I'm in for another expense. Anubis (my car) decided to crack his muffler pipe and now my car sounds like a souped-up muscle car. The poor thing does have 180,000 miles on it and is 10 years old...so I guess it's forgivable. But I just know we're talking big, expensive repair here. Since I'm not working we're a bit tight on money and I could really do without a couple of hundred bucks in car work. But it's so loud I felt conspicuous driving home on El Camino.
So here I am, feeling guilty for dropping $50 on shoes and just knowing the repair is going to make me wince. I'm thinking about selling my plasma.
I bought a pair of shoes today. They look kinda like this:
I don't have that female gene that loves shoes, craves shoes, collects shoes, and all but has sex with shoes. I own nothing with a higher heel than these and I only buy new shoes when the old ones fall apart. I tend to wear only one pair of shoes during the week. I don't have a lot of variation. If they're comfy and work with jeans, I'll wear them to death. Like my last pair.
I love New Balance shoes. Not sure why. It's not like they fit better or are more comfy than other shoes I've worn, I just like them. Now I have a new pair and the old ones that I'll throw into my trunk. (I have a pair of shoes that I'll only wear at the Humane Society and I leave them in car so as not to track animal cooties in the house and get Cipher sick.)
When I bought the shoes today it was a big thing for me. For two reasons. First, I don't like spending money on anything other than books or music. Secondly I hate to shop for anything clothing-related. And we're not talking about dropping $500 on a pair of Italian heels. These shoes cost less than $50 and still I felt bad for spending so much money.
And, of course, after convincing myself that the shoes are a necessity and not a luxury I find I'm in for another expense. Anubis (my car) decided to crack his muffler pipe and now my car sounds like a souped-up muscle car. The poor thing does have 180,000 miles on it and is 10 years old...so I guess it's forgivable. But I just know we're talking big, expensive repair here. Since I'm not working we're a bit tight on money and I could really do without a couple of hundred bucks in car work. But it's so loud I felt conspicuous driving home on El Camino.
So here I am, feeling guilty for dropping $50 on shoes and just knowing the repair is going to make me wince. I'm thinking about selling my plasma.
Photo of the day: The Air is Full of Spices
When cooking around here you throw in some spices and then throw in twice more than you did the first time. Flavor is the goal and you cannot have too much taste in your spaghetti sauce or chicken soup. We go through a lot of spices, Except for fennel, which just sits there, fossilizing in the jar.
When cooking around here you throw in some spices and then throw in twice more than you did the first time. Flavor is the goal and you cannot have too much taste in your spaghetti sauce or chicken soup. We go through a lot of spices, Except for fennel, which just sits there, fossilizing in the jar.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Big Thick Shakes
When I was in high school there was a hang-out spot called "Lyons." A 24-hour coffee shop with waitresses in actual uniforms and 5-page laminated plastic menus. Everything on the menu had a description. It wasn't just a hamburger, it was a "Fresh-Grilled Hamburger Sandwich Deluxe." Or you could get "Hot Pancakes." Because who wants cold ones? My favorite menu description was the milkshake, listed as "Big Thick Shakes in Tall, Shiny Shakers." My best friend, Steve, would always order one exactly like that. "I'd like a big, thick shake in a tall, shiny shaker, please." It would come in a tall parfait glass with the remainder in a frosty cup that ran condensation down onto the formica tables.
We'd sit in orange plastic booths and, at seventeen, feel grown-up ordering coffee. (Remember, this was before there was a Starbucks on every corner and 6-year olds sucked down lattes on their way to French school.) True to stereotypes, the local cops would come in and sit at the counter, downing slices of cherry pie or eating club sandwiches with those colored toothpicks holding them together.
There were plastic flowers in plastic planters and a plastic smell to the no-doubt asbestos-filled carpet. The really only safe things there were hamburgers and fries. Anything else was highly suspect. The fried chicken should have come with its own defibrillator paddles. The mysterious chicken fried steak (is it steak? is it chicken?) came in a lake-full of gravy you could swim in. And every breakfast tasted like fish. Everything. Eggs. The aforementioned hot pancakes. Not sure how they managed to make bacon taste like fish, but they did.
There was a "banquet room" where the local Kiwanis would meet and where we the drama department of my high school had an end-of-year dinner complete with speeches and trophys. Lyons even had a bar attached which I never went in. First because I was too young. Then because the place stopped being anyplace I would go. We used to joke about sneaking in and ordering martinis. A bit of alcohol made have made the fake rock-paneled walls and mystery carpet look more appealing and less like a waiting room for purgatory. There was always something dingy and vaguely moldy about the spot that, at times, seemed intriguing. But that was only because we lived in suburbia and were too young to know better. Once we all got driver's licenses we branched out and found new and better places to get our 2 am breakfasts and salt-and-grease-with-a-side-order-of-fries.
Lyons sadly closed ages ago and was torn down circa 2003. A Walgreens now stands at the place where we went for breakfast after grad night, burgers after band practice, and big, thick shakes in tall, shiny shakers. I don't miss the place, but I will always miss the place.
When I was in high school there was a hang-out spot called "Lyons." A 24-hour coffee shop with waitresses in actual uniforms and 5-page laminated plastic menus. Everything on the menu had a description. It wasn't just a hamburger, it was a "Fresh-Grilled Hamburger Sandwich Deluxe." Or you could get "Hot Pancakes." Because who wants cold ones? My favorite menu description was the milkshake, listed as "Big Thick Shakes in Tall, Shiny Shakers." My best friend, Steve, would always order one exactly like that. "I'd like a big, thick shake in a tall, shiny shaker, please." It would come in a tall parfait glass with the remainder in a frosty cup that ran condensation down onto the formica tables.
We'd sit in orange plastic booths and, at seventeen, feel grown-up ordering coffee. (Remember, this was before there was a Starbucks on every corner and 6-year olds sucked down lattes on their way to French school.) True to stereotypes, the local cops would come in and sit at the counter, downing slices of cherry pie or eating club sandwiches with those colored toothpicks holding them together.
There were plastic flowers in plastic planters and a plastic smell to the no-doubt asbestos-filled carpet. The really only safe things there were hamburgers and fries. Anything else was highly suspect. The fried chicken should have come with its own defibrillator paddles. The mysterious chicken fried steak (is it steak? is it chicken?) came in a lake-full of gravy you could swim in. And every breakfast tasted like fish. Everything. Eggs. The aforementioned hot pancakes. Not sure how they managed to make bacon taste like fish, but they did.
There was a "banquet room" where the local Kiwanis would meet and where we the drama department of my high school had an end-of-year dinner complete with speeches and trophys. Lyons even had a bar attached which I never went in. First because I was too young. Then because the place stopped being anyplace I would go. We used to joke about sneaking in and ordering martinis. A bit of alcohol made have made the fake rock-paneled walls and mystery carpet look more appealing and less like a waiting room for purgatory. There was always something dingy and vaguely moldy about the spot that, at times, seemed intriguing. But that was only because we lived in suburbia and were too young to know better. Once we all got driver's licenses we branched out and found new and better places to get our 2 am breakfasts and salt-and-grease-with-a-side-order-of-fries.
Lyons sadly closed ages ago and was torn down circa 2003. A Walgreens now stands at the place where we went for breakfast after grad night, burgers after band practice, and big, thick shakes in tall, shiny shakers. I don't miss the place, but I will always miss the place.
Cat of the week: No cat
I have decided to discontinue my Cat of the Week feature. Oh don't worry, I still have one, but for a variety of reasons I won't be posting them any longer. There are PHS rules about what volunteers can and cannot post on the internet and I don't want to violate those rules and, therefore, get canned. But if any of you are thinking of adopting a cat from PHS and want advice, please let me know. I get to work with them every week and would be happy to tell you more about the wonderful kitties they have.
I have decided to discontinue my Cat of the Week feature. Oh don't worry, I still have one, but for a variety of reasons I won't be posting them any longer. There are PHS rules about what volunteers can and cannot post on the internet and I don't want to violate those rules and, therefore, get canned. But if any of you are thinking of adopting a cat from PHS and want advice, please let me know. I get to work with them every week and would be happy to tell you more about the wonderful kitties they have.
Photo of the day: Choices
Every door is a choice. A choice to open the closet door or the linen closet. To open the kitchen door and take out the trash or open the door to the music office and get some reviewing done. I think there are entire horror movie genres about opening doors. Behind one the monster that will eat out your entrails. Behind another the option to be chased in your underwear through a snake-infested forest. Then there are the metaphysical, philosophical doors. Quitting a job is closing a door. Starting college again is opening one. But for now, I'm being literal. This is the knob to a door. My closet door, to be exact, Keeper of robes and jammies. Of jeans and boots. No monsters (unless you count the sweater I got from my mom for Christmas) but no model of fashion glory. Which is why the outside of the door is more attractive than the inside.
Every door is a choice. A choice to open the closet door or the linen closet. To open the kitchen door and take out the trash or open the door to the music office and get some reviewing done. I think there are entire horror movie genres about opening doors. Behind one the monster that will eat out your entrails. Behind another the option to be chased in your underwear through a snake-infested forest. Then there are the metaphysical, philosophical doors. Quitting a job is closing a door. Starting college again is opening one. But for now, I'm being literal. This is the knob to a door. My closet door, to be exact, Keeper of robes and jammies. Of jeans and boots. No monsters (unless you count the sweater I got from my mom for Christmas) but no model of fashion glory. Which is why the outside of the door is more attractive than the inside.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
On the trail
Up at Camp Sawyer Road the weather was perfect for a walk. Lots of bird, squirrels, lizards and, best of all, deer.
We also wandered along shady walks with trees curling overhead in suitably photogenic arcs.
With random flowers poking red heads out of green leaves. Looking more like Hawaii than California.
We even passed the tree of love and, in spite of our anniversary, refrained from adding our names to the roster.
I took about 50 more pictures. which I will spare you, but I urge you to up there sometime. Stand still, and watch the deer come out for lunch. It's magic.
Up at Camp Sawyer Road the weather was perfect for a walk. Lots of bird, squirrels, lizards and, best of all, deer.
We also wandered along shady walks with trees curling overhead in suitably photogenic arcs.
With random flowers poking red heads out of green leaves. Looking more like Hawaii than California.
We even passed the tree of love and, in spite of our anniversary, refrained from adding our names to the roster.
I took about 50 more pictures. which I will spare you, but I urge you to up there sometime. Stand still, and watch the deer come out for lunch. It's magic.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Nine Years
Nine years ago today Husband and I had our first date. Actually it was a few weeks before our previously scheduled first date, but fate intervened. I was doing a Saturday morning radio show at that time and he came to the station to hang out. And that was it. We said hello at about 10 am that morning and said goodnight at about 2 am that night. I woke up single and fell asleep in love.
It's been a great ride. We moved in together a few months later and we've been madly in love since that first day. Although it took him a few years to talk me into marrying him we have always been truly happy. Trust me, I know how rare that is and how lucky we are.
Neither of us ever wanted kids but both of us wanted a cat and, again, we got extremely lucky when we adopted Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) and our little family of three is thriving.
Thanks, Husband, for nine wonderful years. For putting up with me at my worst and still loving me in spite of myself. For killing ants, opening jars, teaching me about jazz, sharing your amazing family with me, and not minding that cheesesteaks make me sick.
Nine years ago today Husband and I had our first date. Actually it was a few weeks before our previously scheduled first date, but fate intervened. I was doing a Saturday morning radio show at that time and he came to the station to hang out. And that was it. We said hello at about 10 am that morning and said goodnight at about 2 am that night. I woke up single and fell asleep in love.
It's been a great ride. We moved in together a few months later and we've been madly in love since that first day. Although it took him a few years to talk me into marrying him we have always been truly happy. Trust me, I know how rare that is and how lucky we are.
Neither of us ever wanted kids but both of us wanted a cat and, again, we got extremely lucky when we adopted Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) and our little family of three is thriving.
Thanks, Husband, for nine wonderful years. For putting up with me at my worst and still loving me in spite of myself. For killing ants, opening jars, teaching me about jazz, sharing your amazing family with me, and not minding that cheesesteaks make me sick.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Nights in White Satin
What is sexy? And why is one thing sexy for one person and totally silly for another? Then there are the stereotypes, the icons of sensuality that society has placed on a platter and served up for our carefully programmed titillation.
Eons ago I spent the night at a friend's house. He wasn't there, it was a last-minute thing with me staying overnight with his dog who was recovering from surgery (don't ask). Because the friend hadn't been expecting me to spend the night his house hadn't been friend-proofed. I didn't care about the gay porn at the bedside or the sex toys on the bathroom counter. But the satin sheets drove me crazy. Don't get me wrong, the were clean and fresh -- it wasn't that which bothered me. It was the fact that I, quite literally, slid out of bed twice. No, really. It was like sleeping on Crisco (which, for all I know, might be an actual fetish).
But the stereotypical setting for seduction, the no-doubt costly satin sheets, were a hilarious disaster. How do people actually have sex on those things? Maybe the friction holds you down. All I know was that sleeping there was almost hazardous to my health.
There are other things that are almost comic-book sexy that I've never seen the attraction of. I don't, for instance, do sexy underwear. Victoria can keep her damned secret. I have no desire to squeeze into a bustier or put on stockings with garters. Garters, for god's sake! And why would I want to torture myself with a bra designed by the Spanish Inquisition? I'm sure men like it, and no doubt Husband wouldn't object if I owned something other than cotton, but I just can't see myself spending money on lingerie that I could be spending on books or music.
I realize that turn-ons are a very personal thing. And I logically understand that people have all sorts of interests that just fail to interest me. Some things I get, even if they don't "do" me. I see the sexiness of a Playboy centerfold, the playful sensuality of the Petty girl, the romance novel setting of candles and music. But I also get that if I walked into a room lit with candles, with fuck-me music on the stereo and rose petals scattered on the bed, I'd probably burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. Sorry, I just happen to find spontaneous bursts of lust to be far more enticing than a stage set, no matter how carefully choreographed.
It's like Valentine's Day. I can't be extra in love just because the calendar tells me to be. And I can't get in the mood if I'm sliding off the damned bed.
What is sexy? And why is one thing sexy for one person and totally silly for another? Then there are the stereotypes, the icons of sensuality that society has placed on a platter and served up for our carefully programmed titillation.
Eons ago I spent the night at a friend's house. He wasn't there, it was a last-minute thing with me staying overnight with his dog who was recovering from surgery (don't ask). Because the friend hadn't been expecting me to spend the night his house hadn't been friend-proofed. I didn't care about the gay porn at the bedside or the sex toys on the bathroom counter. But the satin sheets drove me crazy. Don't get me wrong, the were clean and fresh -- it wasn't that which bothered me. It was the fact that I, quite literally, slid out of bed twice. No, really. It was like sleeping on Crisco (which, for all I know, might be an actual fetish).
But the stereotypical setting for seduction, the no-doubt costly satin sheets, were a hilarious disaster. How do people actually have sex on those things? Maybe the friction holds you down. All I know was that sleeping there was almost hazardous to my health.
There are other things that are almost comic-book sexy that I've never seen the attraction of. I don't, for instance, do sexy underwear. Victoria can keep her damned secret. I have no desire to squeeze into a bustier or put on stockings with garters. Garters, for god's sake! And why would I want to torture myself with a bra designed by the Spanish Inquisition? I'm sure men like it, and no doubt Husband wouldn't object if I owned something other than cotton, but I just can't see myself spending money on lingerie that I could be spending on books or music.
I realize that turn-ons are a very personal thing. And I logically understand that people have all sorts of interests that just fail to interest me. Some things I get, even if they don't "do" me. I see the sexiness of a Playboy centerfold, the playful sensuality of the Petty girl, the romance novel setting of candles and music. But I also get that if I walked into a room lit with candles, with fuck-me music on the stereo and rose petals scattered on the bed, I'd probably burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. Sorry, I just happen to find spontaneous bursts of lust to be far more enticing than a stage set, no matter how carefully choreographed.
It's like Valentine's Day. I can't be extra in love just because the calendar tells me to be. And I can't get in the mood if I'm sliding off the damned bed.
Little Head, Big Window
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) loves to sit in our front window and watch the world go by. Whenever we walk or drive up to our house and see her in the window it always melts our hearts. There's just something so winsome about that little tiny head in the big window that is amazingly cute. Yeah, I know, crazy cat parents. But even without being smitten with the kitten, I think this is a cute picture.
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) loves to sit in our front window and watch the world go by. Whenever we walk or drive up to our house and see her in the window it always melts our hearts. There's just something so winsome about that little tiny head in the big window that is amazingly cute. Yeah, I know, crazy cat parents. But even without being smitten with the kitten, I think this is a cute picture.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Photo of the day: What the hummingbirds liked
Someone with an greener thumb than I could no doubt tell you what this is in both English and Latin. I was just lucky to get it in my sights while I took this week's walk. Rather harkens back to that first theme when yellow was my nemesis. The one would have filled the bill nicely. It's growing lovely in the hills along the trail.
Someone with an greener thumb than I could no doubt tell you what this is in both English and Latin. I was just lucky to get it in my sights while I took this week's walk. Rather harkens back to that first theme when yellow was my nemesis. The one would have filled the bill nicely. It's growing lovely in the hills along the trail.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Photo of the day: Sorrow
People really used to know how to mourn.
Death has lost some of its ritual in contemporary society. No black armbands or windows with the shades drawn. It used to be the whole world knew you had lost someone. The trappings of sorrow marked you out and, in some ways, helped the world to treat you with gentleness. Now there is no way to tell when someone is grieving.
Monuments, too, have lost their monumentality. When my father died in the early 80s the cemetery he was buried in had already instituted a rule against standing memorials. Only flat stones. Ease of groundskeeping had taken precedent over art and tradition. No mausoleums. No tombs. No weeping angels or vigilant cherubs. Just a stone flush against the grass.
But back then, people really used to know how to mourn. As this sorrowful shot attests.
People really used to know how to mourn.
Death has lost some of its ritual in contemporary society. No black armbands or windows with the shades drawn. It used to be the whole world knew you had lost someone. The trappings of sorrow marked you out and, in some ways, helped the world to treat you with gentleness. Now there is no way to tell when someone is grieving.
Monuments, too, have lost their monumentality. When my father died in the early 80s the cemetery he was buried in had already instituted a rule against standing memorials. Only flat stones. Ease of groundskeeping had taken precedent over art and tradition. No mausoleums. No tombs. No weeping angels or vigilant cherubs. Just a stone flush against the grass.
But back then, people really used to know how to mourn. As this sorrowful shot attests.
In the land of the rosary
I was raised Catholic. A strong Catholic family. Eight years of Catholic school. First Communion. Confirmation. Confession. Holy days. I received ashes on Ash Wednesday, got my throat blessed on St. Blaise Day, took palms on Palm Sunday and said the rosary when anybody died.
I stopped going to church in high school and honestly don't think I ever believed. But one thing I did like was rosary beads.
I never liked saying the rosary. All those endless Our Fathers and Hail Mary's. Kneeling for half an hour on uncomfortable wood. And it was always some sort of depressing occasion. But I loved the beads. When I was little I thought they were so beautiful. All the different types of beads, the colors and textures. Like jewelry. I wanted to wear them around my neck but was forbidden. They were sacred. Special. Not to be played with in spite of their enticements. And it seemed everyone in my family had a set that was so fitting to who they were.
My grandmother, the ascetic, had strong black beads, no-frills. Almost masculine in their holy simplicity. She kept them hanging from the post of her bed. Her room was just this side of a medieval chapel anyway, with a solemn wooden crucifix on the wall and a holy water holder hanging by the door. Every so often, when we went to church, she'd fill a small glass bottle with blessed water from the font at the door and use it to replenish the supply in her room. She would say the rosary on long road trips and once a week or so, sitting bolt upright in bed. Not the warmest of women, my grandmother.
My mother's set was blue. Fake crystals that shone in the light, with a silver crucifix hanging below. Hers were kept in her jewelry box. A white leather case filled with costume necklaces and earrings. The only real jewelry my mother owned, and still owns, is her beautiful wedding and engagement ring. Her beads were in a little velvet bag that nestled nest to her "aurora borealis" necklace and the green plastic clip-on shamrock earrings she wore once a year to our church's corned beef and cabbage dinner on St. Patrick's Day.
I don't recall mine as a child. I do know I have a set still hanging around. Two sets, actually. One of tiny pinkish beads in a small silver case. I have no idea where it is, but I do know I still own it. The other set is plain and cheap. I have no idea where it came from but I do know it lives in my sock drawer.
The last time I said the rosary was with this last set of beads. Husband's grandmother was raised Catholic. When she died I couldn't attend her funeral, which was not a Catholic mass. While the family gathered back east, I walked down to the local church. The same church where I had been baptized all those years ago, and said the rosary in her honor. She would have wanted someone to do that for her. So there I knelt, the old familiar beads in hand, and said the ancient words while my knees, once again, ached.
Cat of the week: Oslo
This week's CoTW is such a little heart-stealer that it's all I can do not to bring her home myself. Oslo is a tiny bundle of purr-fueled love. She can't snuggle close enough to suit her. She is small, cuddly, sweet, everything you'd want in a kitty. She's 2-years old, though she's so small you'll think she's a kitten. And so irresistible.
Oslo (ID #A442657) is one of those cats that just melts your heart. She looks at you with her big yellow eyes, purrs like a steam engine, curls into you and you become a puddle. Snatch her up before someone else does because this one is tremendously special.
You can find out more a the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
I love this girl.
This week's CoTW is such a little heart-stealer that it's all I can do not to bring her home myself. Oslo is a tiny bundle of purr-fueled love. She can't snuggle close enough to suit her. She is small, cuddly, sweet, everything you'd want in a kitty. She's 2-years old, though she's so small you'll think she's a kitten. And so irresistible.
Oslo (ID #A442657) is one of those cats that just melts your heart. She looks at you with her big yellow eyes, purrs like a steam engine, curls into you and you become a puddle. Snatch her up before someone else does because this one is tremendously special.
You can find out more a the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
I love this girl.
Photo of the day: The Easy Shot
Sometimes you just have to shut off your inner photographer and go for "pretty". Not that there's anything wrong with pretty, it's just not usually my style. But this view of Crystal Springs Reservoir on a beautiful day doesn't need any special effects or additional explanations. It's just a beautiful view, and one of the 8 million reasons why I love living in the Bay Area,
Sometimes you just have to shut off your inner photographer and go for "pretty". Not that there's anything wrong with pretty, it's just not usually my style. But this view of Crystal Springs Reservoir on a beautiful day doesn't need any special effects or additional explanations. It's just a beautiful view, and one of the 8 million reasons why I love living in the Bay Area,
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Lost and found
The universe create black holes in every home. Places where things appear and disappear. One moment you're turning the house over looking for your car keys, the next minute they're sitting in plain sight, right there on the table where you left them. Where you looked for them first, but they weren't there. Now they are. How does that happen?
Elves? Magic? No, as I said, black holes.
Black holes eat the book you are currently reading -- moving it from your bedside table, where you are sure you left it, to the top of your dresser, where it has no place to be. Black holes steal your shoes, vanish your checkbook, and have a particular fondness for magazines.
At times these black holes are extra mischievous. You will give up looking for green sweater and wear the blue one instead. Days later, when you are not looking for a sweater at all your green sweater will suddenly appear on the back of a chair.
When more than one person (or one person and one cat) share a home, it is easy to blame these disappearances on the other person. "What did you do with the scissors?" You will ask, only to be met with a blank stare and an assurance that the last time the scissors were used they were dutifully put back in the drawer where they belong. But from long experience I can attest that the other person is rarely at fault. It's the black hole.
After a week of looking for one particular book that I had all but given up on, I found it entirely unexpectedly on top of a bunch of other books -- where I am positive I searched days ago.
Damned black holes.
The universe create black holes in every home. Places where things appear and disappear. One moment you're turning the house over looking for your car keys, the next minute they're sitting in plain sight, right there on the table where you left them. Where you looked for them first, but they weren't there. Now they are. How does that happen?
Elves? Magic? No, as I said, black holes.
Black holes eat the book you are currently reading -- moving it from your bedside table, where you are sure you left it, to the top of your dresser, where it has no place to be. Black holes steal your shoes, vanish your checkbook, and have a particular fondness for magazines.
At times these black holes are extra mischievous. You will give up looking for green sweater and wear the blue one instead. Days later, when you are not looking for a sweater at all your green sweater will suddenly appear on the back of a chair.
When more than one person (or one person and one cat) share a home, it is easy to blame these disappearances on the other person. "What did you do with the scissors?" You will ask, only to be met with a blank stare and an assurance that the last time the scissors were used they were dutifully put back in the drawer where they belong. But from long experience I can attest that the other person is rarely at fault. It's the black hole.
After a week of looking for one particular book that I had all but given up on, I found it entirely unexpectedly on top of a bunch of other books -- where I am positive I searched days ago.
Damned black holes.
Photo of the day: Overhead
Taking the back way up to Sawyer Camp Road I crossed under the 280 bridge. This is what it looks like from the underside. It was a great day for walking and photos. I took nearly 300 at the reservoir. I tried to capture a hummingbird and got dozens of shots of blur. I tried to photograph a group of dear and got several pictures of brown blobs with ears. Sigh...
Taking the back way up to Sawyer Camp Road I crossed under the 280 bridge. This is what it looks like from the underside. It was a great day for walking and photos. I took nearly 300 at the reservoir. I tried to capture a hummingbird and got dozens of shots of blur. I tried to photograph a group of dear and got several pictures of brown blobs with ears. Sigh...
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Photo of the day: Roots
Sometimes you just have to go back to your roots for inspiration. Go WAY back and I'm in France, Scotland, Canada. But come about the 1860s and my great-grand parents are in San Francisco. My grandmother lived through the 1906 quake. My grandfather was a San Francisco fireman who died on duty. My father was born in the city, went to high school, worked there, left for the army from there, came back and met and married my mother. The first place was in San Francisco, on Leavenworth and Clay. My elder siblings were born in SF. I went to college there, spent most of my college life there. Now I'm back in suburbia, but sometimes you just need to touch base with the city you respond to. For me, it'll always be SF.
Sometimes you just have to go back to your roots for inspiration. Go WAY back and I'm in France, Scotland, Canada. But come about the 1860s and my great-grand parents are in San Francisco. My grandmother lived through the 1906 quake. My grandfather was a San Francisco fireman who died on duty. My father was born in the city, went to high school, worked there, left for the army from there, came back and met and married my mother. The first place was in San Francisco, on Leavenworth and Clay. My elder siblings were born in SF. I went to college there, spent most of my college life there. Now I'm back in suburbia, but sometimes you just need to touch base with the city you respond to. For me, it'll always be SF.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
In praise of the 21st century
I’ve been rewatching The Tudors on Showtime. Lovely eye candy. I mean it’s historically, well, hysterical. But the men are yummy to look at.
The other night I was thinking about what it would have been like to have lived back then and decided I was happy to be a 21st century woman. But today cemented it.
I woke up with a killer migraine this morning. I’ve been sick all day and only started to feel better about an hour ago. Serious pain. Nausea & vomiting. Swirling colors when I close my eyes. The cat walked across the bed and I cringed because the movement hurt. There was a blue jay in a nearby tree that I swear I would have shot had I been a member of the NRA. Eventually a few doses of Imitrix kicked in and I’m currently just OK. Still the fringes of a migraine. Still weak and wobbly. But nowhere near the pain I was in earlier. Sadly I had to cancel my St. Patrick’s Day special on KZSU, which sucks because I was looking forward to it.
But all I can say is thank god I live in a world with modern chemistry. With hot baths and penicillin. With shampoo and tampons and clean sheets and aspirin. I’m not talking about the luxuries (Ok, clean sheets are probably not one of life’s necessities, but they aredamned important.). But about the things in life that make life bearable. Thank god I don’t live in a time when a migraine would lay you in bed for a week while they bleed you because there was nothing else to do. When your mother would die in childbirth for lack of sanitary conditions. Where a minor flesh would could kill you due to infections that couldn’t be treated.
How lucky we are to live when and where we do. And how incredibly tragic that there are still places where these medieval conditions still exist. Where infant mortality is staggeringly high. Where poverty forces children to work in order to survive. Where simple things that we take for granted, like inoculations and dental care, are unbelievable luxuries.
How did we get so lucky?
I’ve been rewatching The Tudors on Showtime. Lovely eye candy. I mean it’s historically, well, hysterical. But the men are yummy to look at.
The other night I was thinking about what it would have been like to have lived back then and decided I was happy to be a 21st century woman. But today cemented it.
I woke up with a killer migraine this morning. I’ve been sick all day and only started to feel better about an hour ago. Serious pain. Nausea & vomiting. Swirling colors when I close my eyes. The cat walked across the bed and I cringed because the movement hurt. There was a blue jay in a nearby tree that I swear I would have shot had I been a member of the NRA. Eventually a few doses of Imitrix kicked in and I’m currently just OK. Still the fringes of a migraine. Still weak and wobbly. But nowhere near the pain I was in earlier. Sadly I had to cancel my St. Patrick’s Day special on KZSU, which sucks because I was looking forward to it.
But all I can say is thank god I live in a world with modern chemistry. With hot baths and penicillin. With shampoo and tampons and clean sheets and aspirin. I’m not talking about the luxuries (Ok, clean sheets are probably not one of life’s necessities, but they aredamned important.). But about the things in life that make life bearable. Thank god I don’t live in a time when a migraine would lay you in bed for a week while they bleed you because there was nothing else to do. When your mother would die in childbirth for lack of sanitary conditions. Where a minor flesh would could kill you due to infections that couldn’t be treated.
How lucky we are to live when and where we do. And how incredibly tragic that there are still places where these medieval conditions still exist. Where infant mortality is staggeringly high. Where poverty forces children to work in order to survive. Where simple things that we take for granted, like inoculations and dental care, are unbelievable luxuries.
How did we get so lucky?
Photo of the day: On the Fringe
Sometimes fringe is new. It swings when you brush by it. It might move when you do, or make a slight sound as beads knock against beads. It's fun. The swirl of a flapper dress. The accent on a tacky lamp.
But sometimes fringe is old. It is marble, immobile, serious. It adorns an angel or hangs in perpetual melancholy over plinth bearing a name and two dates.
Sometimes fringe is new. It swings when you brush by it. It might move when you do, or make a slight sound as beads knock against beads. It's fun. The swirl of a flapper dress. The accent on a tacky lamp.
But sometimes fringe is old. It is marble, immobile, serious. It adorns an angel or hangs in perpetual melancholy over plinth bearing a name and two dates.
Monday, March 16, 2009
First National Bank of Stupid
Now we all know banks are, especially these days, not known for their brilliance. But there's something going on with our bank that just makes me shake my head.
We'll call it the First National Bank of Stupid (or FNBS).
When Husband's beloved grandmother died, Husband was named as executor of her estate. To pay for estate costs, he opened an account at FNBS with our home address in the name of "The Estate of Greta Garbo". (No, that was not his grandmother's name, I'm just using it as an alias.)
So the only connection between our house and his grandmother's name was this account "The Estate of..." Now correct me if I'm wrong, but "Estate of Greta Garbo" means that Greta Garbo is dead. RIght? So why does FNBS keep sending credit card applications to Greta Garbo at our house?
Is this one of the reasons why banks are so seriously fuck up? Because they keep issuing Visa cards to the deceased? If I were of a larcenous bent I'd get the card, go on a spree, then inform FNBS that Greta is no longer with us, obviously did not apply for a card, and why are we responsible?
But I won't because I'm basically honest and definitely a coward.
But hey, FNBS "Estate of" means "not in a position to apply for a Visa card."
Now we all know banks are, especially these days, not known for their brilliance. But there's something going on with our bank that just makes me shake my head.
We'll call it the First National Bank of Stupid (or FNBS).
When Husband's beloved grandmother died, Husband was named as executor of her estate. To pay for estate costs, he opened an account at FNBS with our home address in the name of "The Estate of Greta Garbo". (No, that was not his grandmother's name, I'm just using it as an alias.)
So the only connection between our house and his grandmother's name was this account "The Estate of..." Now correct me if I'm wrong, but "Estate of Greta Garbo" means that Greta Garbo is dead. RIght? So why does FNBS keep sending credit card applications to Greta Garbo at our house?
Is this one of the reasons why banks are so seriously fuck up? Because they keep issuing Visa cards to the deceased? If I were of a larcenous bent I'd get the card, go on a spree, then inform FNBS that Greta is no longer with us, obviously did not apply for a card, and why are we responsible?
But I won't because I'm basically honest and definitely a coward.
But hey, FNBS "Estate of" means "not in a position to apply for a Visa card."
Sunday, March 15, 2009
More photos from the kitten nursery
By popular demand here are a few more shots of last year's residents of the first kitten nursery at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA. It was such a success that we'll be doing it again this year and I can't wait to get back to it.
It'll take some doing to fit my regular cat duties in with taking care of kittens, but totally worth it. So I'm planning on spending probably 3 days a week there this spring and summer.
I look at these adorable guys and wonder how they're doing. If their people love them as much as we did. If they're still being fun and crazy. Did the curious little one grow up to be a great Discoverer? Is the shy girl still a bit tentative around new people? Is Butch, my favorite, even now trying to bring down paper towel rolls twice his size.
Training for the kitten nursery is starting soon. If you are in the SF Bay Area, you can find out more at the PHS website. Or you can make a donation to keep these and other valuable programs going,
And yes, I promise lots of new kitten photos once the nursery opens.
By popular demand here are a few more shots of last year's residents of the first kitten nursery at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA. It was such a success that we'll be doing it again this year and I can't wait to get back to it.
It'll take some doing to fit my regular cat duties in with taking care of kittens, but totally worth it. So I'm planning on spending probably 3 days a week there this spring and summer.
I look at these adorable guys and wonder how they're doing. If their people love them as much as we did. If they're still being fun and crazy. Did the curious little one grow up to be a great Discoverer? Is the shy girl still a bit tentative around new people? Is Butch, my favorite, even now trying to bring down paper towel rolls twice his size.
Training for the kitten nursery is starting soon. If you are in the SF Bay Area, you can find out more at the PHS website. Or you can make a donation to keep these and other valuable programs going,
And yes, I promise lots of new kitten photos once the nursery opens.
Photo of the day: The Original Riddler
Another cemetery trip today. Well, you know me and cemeteries. I cut it short because it was bloody cold up there. I'd actually gotten into the car and was heading out when Husband spotted this Egyptian tomb. I may add more photos later today for but now I'll just tease you with one of the guardian sphinxes. Impressive how money can make death so artistic, isn't it?
Another cemetery trip today. Well, you know me and cemeteries. I cut it short because it was bloody cold up there. I'd actually gotten into the car and was heading out when Husband spotted this Egyptian tomb. I may add more photos later today for but now I'll just tease you with one of the guardian sphinxes. Impressive how money can make death so artistic, isn't it?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Corned Beef on the Internet
Sometimes you just find a website that makes you shake your head. I'm sure the creators of the Internet worked long and hard in the advancement of technology so that we could have easy access to cats that look like Hitler or read about some unknown woman's menstrual cycle.
This is one of those head-shakers. It's photographs of sandwiches.
Why? That's the big question. Why did someone say "I really want to build a website made up of photos of sammiches." It's one of those dull vs. creative questions (my vote is dull) that just beggars belief.
Sometimes you just find a website that makes you shake your head. I'm sure the creators of the Internet worked long and hard in the advancement of technology so that we could have easy access to cats that look like Hitler or read about some unknown woman's menstrual cycle.
This is one of those head-shakers. It's photographs of sandwiches.
Why? That's the big question. Why did someone say "I really want to build a website made up of photos of sammiches." It's one of those dull vs. creative questions (my vote is dull) that just beggars belief.
Photo of the day: The Sign of Four
I spotted this random triangle painted onto a low concrete wall at Stanford a few weeks ago. I have no idea what it means. Is it guerilla graffiti or does it mark a sewer line? Is it a protest against something or support for something else? Art major or Stanford Facilities crew? For some reason the mystery is what makes it for me.
I spotted this random triangle painted onto a low concrete wall at Stanford a few weeks ago. I have no idea what it means. Is it guerilla graffiti or does it mark a sewer line? Is it a protest against something or support for something else? Art major or Stanford Facilities crew? For some reason the mystery is what makes it for me.
Friday, March 13, 2009
More eavesdropping...
Overheard at the shelter
Man to girlfriend: Are you sure we need a cat? Can't we just get TiVo?
.....
Overheard at the drugstore
Man to woman in the dental section: Do we get the blue stuff or the green stuff?
Woman: We get the clear stuff.
Man: Can we get the blue stuff instead?
Woman: No, but we can get the green stuff.
.....
Overheard at the grocery store
Man to clerk: Where's your salad dressing?
Clerk: Aisle 9
Man: Thanks. Where's your salad?
Overheard at the shelter
Man to girlfriend: Are you sure we need a cat? Can't we just get TiVo?
.....
Overheard at the drugstore
Man to woman in the dental section: Do we get the blue stuff or the green stuff?
Woman: We get the clear stuff.
Man: Can we get the blue stuff instead?
Woman: No, but we can get the green stuff.
.....
Overheard at the grocery store
Man to clerk: Where's your salad dressing?
Clerk: Aisle 9
Man: Thanks. Where's your salad?
Cats of the Week: Kitty and Clipper
In honor of Friday the 13th I'm going against the black cat jinx and showing you two of them. The first, Kitty, is a sweet 10-year old girl who is the perfect lap cat. When I take her into the Get Acquainted Room she never leaves my lap. She's a non-stop purr girl who is gentle, sweet, affectionate, and almost Zen. She also has this knack of looking at you with ultimate trust in her beautiful yellow eyes. She makes eye contact like no other cat there. She looks at you and you just melt because that look says "I know you will never hurt me but if you could scratch me a little more to the right I will be your slave." Kitty's ID# is A436773 and she would make a wonderful, amazing companion for anyone.
My second cat is a rerun CoTW. Clipper is a big teddy bear of a cat with a lazy kind of charm. He wants a lap all his own. He's a bit of a goofball, who loves to head butt and roll around. He's mellow, loving, and such a gentleman. Again, a truly wonderful companion animal who deserves a loving home. His ID # is A404955 and he can be yours this weekend. Really! All you have to do is go in, meet him, and I guarantee you'll fall in love.
Find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
In honor of Friday the 13th I'm going against the black cat jinx and showing you two of them. The first, Kitty, is a sweet 10-year old girl who is the perfect lap cat. When I take her into the Get Acquainted Room she never leaves my lap. She's a non-stop purr girl who is gentle, sweet, affectionate, and almost Zen. She also has this knack of looking at you with ultimate trust in her beautiful yellow eyes. She makes eye contact like no other cat there. She looks at you and you just melt because that look says "I know you will never hurt me but if you could scratch me a little more to the right I will be your slave." Kitty's ID# is A436773 and she would make a wonderful, amazing companion for anyone.
My second cat is a rerun CoTW. Clipper is a big teddy bear of a cat with a lazy kind of charm. He wants a lap all his own. He's a bit of a goofball, who loves to head butt and roll around. He's mellow, loving, and such a gentleman. Again, a truly wonderful companion animal who deserves a loving home. His ID # is A404955 and he can be yours this weekend. Really! All you have to do is go in, meet him, and I guarantee you'll fall in love.
Find out more at the Peninsula Humane Society & SPCA website.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Random Kit Pix
Wonderful news! The kitten nursery at the Peninsula Humane Society will be on again this spring and summer. I've signed up to volunteer. In anticipation I went back and looked at the pictures from the first kitten nursery. And since you just can't have enough cute kitten photos of the internet, I pulled out a few favorites from my time there. I can't wait to get started again.
Wonderful news! The kitten nursery at the Peninsula Humane Society will be on again this spring and summer. I've signed up to volunteer. In anticipation I went back and looked at the pictures from the first kitten nursery. And since you just can't have enough cute kitten photos of the internet, I pulled out a few favorites from my time there. I can't wait to get started again.
Oh the trials of a heating contractor!
After 4 days of no heat we finally got our furnace fixed today. I am basking in warm. I am not wearing sweats and three pairs of socks to bed. I am not standing 2 feet in front of one of our space heaters because that's about as far as the heat goes. I am not one with the hot water bottle, electric blanket, or heating pad.
Happy, happy day.
Mr. Grumpyheat, however, had a bad day. The guy we called to fix our heater was apparently disappointed to find that it didn't work and that we expected him to fix it. I honestly think we were putting him out somehow.
First off, our heater is under the house. It's in a moderately sized crawl space with a dirt-lined floor. I've been down there. The PG&E guy spent 20 minutes there and came out smiling and chatting about the Giants. Mr. Grumpyheat looked into the crawl space as if it were lined with the bodies of lepers. Personally I thought those Dickie coveralls were there to get dirty, but I guess they're just there to impress the ladies. Meanwhile, this lady was wearing two sweatshirts in the house because it was 49 degrees this morning. I was not impressed by the coveralls. I was impressed that he had the magic bits to turn cold into heat.
Except he didn't. After moaning and sighing his way back to the heater, crawling over those lepers, he banged for a bit. Said one or two bad words under his breath, and then made the same death trek out to say he didn't have the right part. Wow...this is the company that put this furnace in 4 years ago, I had described the symptoms, you think they might just throw a few possible parts onto the truck in the morning. But, no, he had to go back to the office for the part. So off Mr. Crumpyheat goes leaving me hugging the space heater and putting on another pair of socks.
The return of Mr. Grumpyheater was heralded by much subterranean banging, which terrified Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who was already skittish because the space heater apparently hums in a way that disturbed her greatly.
And then it's done. He clomps up the porch and hands me a clipboard and says 'it's done." Um...you don't mind if I turn the heater on and actually see if heat comes out, do you? So while he's filling out the paperwork I'm crouched down over a vent, fingers crossed, nose nicely icicled. And....oh the bliss.....
On the paperwork he lists the job: Check frangometer. Change whopflange. Replace sleemvalve. And then it says, on the paperwork: Furnace is under house with dirt-lined crawl space. Like we had him working in the La Brea Tar Pits. Hey, you're a heating contractor, do you expect the heater to be next to the hot tub in the conservatory? Maybe in modern homes the comfort of repairmen is given the apparent consideration they deserve and all bit of mechanicals are easily accessible in warm, sunny place with posters of naked women and either coffee or Slurpee machines, depending upon the weather. But in earlier homes (ours was built in the late 1940s) things like a furnace was put under the house. I'd think having to do things like routinely crawl under houses was part of the job but Mr. Grumpyheater acted like I'd provided him with substandard dirt in substandard conditions and would, if ever called out on a job again, expect us to sweep the dirt and provide him with a nice carpet for him to crawl along. And, of course, get rid of the damned lepers.
Oh screw him, we've got heat!!!!
After 4 days of no heat we finally got our furnace fixed today. I am basking in warm. I am not wearing sweats and three pairs of socks to bed. I am not standing 2 feet in front of one of our space heaters because that's about as far as the heat goes. I am not one with the hot water bottle, electric blanket, or heating pad.
Happy, happy day.
Mr. Grumpyheat, however, had a bad day. The guy we called to fix our heater was apparently disappointed to find that it didn't work and that we expected him to fix it. I honestly think we were putting him out somehow.
First off, our heater is under the house. It's in a moderately sized crawl space with a dirt-lined floor. I've been down there. The PG&E guy spent 20 minutes there and came out smiling and chatting about the Giants. Mr. Grumpyheat looked into the crawl space as if it were lined with the bodies of lepers. Personally I thought those Dickie coveralls were there to get dirty, but I guess they're just there to impress the ladies. Meanwhile, this lady was wearing two sweatshirts in the house because it was 49 degrees this morning. I was not impressed by the coveralls. I was impressed that he had the magic bits to turn cold into heat.
Except he didn't. After moaning and sighing his way back to the heater, crawling over those lepers, he banged for a bit. Said one or two bad words under his breath, and then made the same death trek out to say he didn't have the right part. Wow...this is the company that put this furnace in 4 years ago, I had described the symptoms, you think they might just throw a few possible parts onto the truck in the morning. But, no, he had to go back to the office for the part. So off Mr. Crumpyheat goes leaving me hugging the space heater and putting on another pair of socks.
The return of Mr. Grumpyheater was heralded by much subterranean banging, which terrified Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) who was already skittish because the space heater apparently hums in a way that disturbed her greatly.
And then it's done. He clomps up the porch and hands me a clipboard and says 'it's done." Um...you don't mind if I turn the heater on and actually see if heat comes out, do you? So while he's filling out the paperwork I'm crouched down over a vent, fingers crossed, nose nicely icicled. And....oh the bliss.....
On the paperwork he lists the job: Check frangometer. Change whopflange. Replace sleemvalve. And then it says, on the paperwork: Furnace is under house with dirt-lined crawl space. Like we had him working in the La Brea Tar Pits. Hey, you're a heating contractor, do you expect the heater to be next to the hot tub in the conservatory? Maybe in modern homes the comfort of repairmen is given the apparent consideration they deserve and all bit of mechanicals are easily accessible in warm, sunny place with posters of naked women and either coffee or Slurpee machines, depending upon the weather. But in earlier homes (ours was built in the late 1940s) things like a furnace was put under the house. I'd think having to do things like routinely crawl under houses was part of the job but Mr. Grumpyheater acted like I'd provided him with substandard dirt in substandard conditions and would, if ever called out on a job again, expect us to sweep the dirt and provide him with a nice carpet for him to crawl along. And, of course, get rid of the damned lepers.
Oh screw him, we've got heat!!!!
A question of sexism
An e-mail thread recently came through on a list that I'm subscribed to with the subject "20 Things I Didn't Know About Women." The author, whom I know slightly, is a thoroughly immature idiot who insists on treating women as basically only about sex. In spite of the fact that he claims "to love women" and seemed to think many of his 20 things were actually complimentary, I found the whole thing to be insulting.
What I found interesting was the fall-out from this note. Many women objected. Few men did and the ones that did were accused by other men of basically kissing up to the women to try and score points. The subscribers to this list tend to be young and very liberal. Had the list been entitled "20 things I didn't know about African Americans" or "....homosexuals" I believe the flak would have been more dramatic and indignant. But sexism still seems to be the one acceptable prejudice amongst liberals.
Now I know I'm making huge assumptions here, but I find it interesting that a group who would slap someone down for making a racist joke would defend someone making sexist comments as "free speech." And yes, you do have the right to make idiotic comments. What bothers me is how few people objected to them or, in fact, saw anything objectionable in them. I guess that's what bothers me most -- that so many people (and all of them men, apparently) supported the writer as "just having fun" or "not meaning anything by it." Not meaning anything isn't the point, the point is that a large group of the recipients of this e-mail found it hateful and yet a larger group dismissed their offense as being unimportant.
It's hardly surprising that sexism still runs rampant. Society continues to support and foster a culture of sexual inequality by making women all about appearance. (You don't get on the cover of a magazine for being a good person or graduating with honors.) But if you consider yourself truly liberal, a humanist, a person who respects the rights of others, then you must speak up when you see disrespect in any form; gender-based, racial, religious, sexual, or other. You can't say one type of insulting humor is OK but another is offensive simply because you don't find it personally offensive. If others object, then the complaint has validity. You don't have to agree, but don't dismiss other's concerns.
Free speech means you have the right to be obnoxious. But if you want to respect yourself then you must respect others.
An e-mail thread recently came through on a list that I'm subscribed to with the subject "20 Things I Didn't Know About Women." The author, whom I know slightly, is a thoroughly immature idiot who insists on treating women as basically only about sex. In spite of the fact that he claims "to love women" and seemed to think many of his 20 things were actually complimentary, I found the whole thing to be insulting.
What I found interesting was the fall-out from this note. Many women objected. Few men did and the ones that did were accused by other men of basically kissing up to the women to try and score points. The subscribers to this list tend to be young and very liberal. Had the list been entitled "20 things I didn't know about African Americans" or "....homosexuals" I believe the flak would have been more dramatic and indignant. But sexism still seems to be the one acceptable prejudice amongst liberals.
Now I know I'm making huge assumptions here, but I find it interesting that a group who would slap someone down for making a racist joke would defend someone making sexist comments as "free speech." And yes, you do have the right to make idiotic comments. What bothers me is how few people objected to them or, in fact, saw anything objectionable in them. I guess that's what bothers me most -- that so many people (and all of them men, apparently) supported the writer as "just having fun" or "not meaning anything by it." Not meaning anything isn't the point, the point is that a large group of the recipients of this e-mail found it hateful and yet a larger group dismissed their offense as being unimportant.
It's hardly surprising that sexism still runs rampant. Society continues to support and foster a culture of sexual inequality by making women all about appearance. (You don't get on the cover of a magazine for being a good person or graduating with honors.) But if you consider yourself truly liberal, a humanist, a person who respects the rights of others, then you must speak up when you see disrespect in any form; gender-based, racial, religious, sexual, or other. You can't say one type of insulting humor is OK but another is offensive simply because you don't find it personally offensive. If others object, then the complaint has validity. You don't have to agree, but don't dismiss other's concerns.
Free speech means you have the right to be obnoxious. But if you want to respect yourself then you must respect others.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Photo of the day: Take a Rusty Pas
I've decided to scrap the theme for the week. I think that I take better photos when I'm not hemmed in by rules so I'm going back to no rules. This may change, but for now it's back to anything goes.
I took a walk yesterday up on Old Sawyer Camp Road by the reservoir. And, being me, surrounded by green hills, towering trees, wildflowers, and glistening water...I photographed barbed wire and rusty signs. And, being me, I liked them better than the pictures of the hills, trees, flowers, and water.
This was my favorite. What can I say? I like the unexpected. I like just looking around and seeing what's interesting as opposed to just what's there.
I've decided to scrap the theme for the week. I think that I take better photos when I'm not hemmed in by rules so I'm going back to no rules. This may change, but for now it's back to anything goes.
I took a walk yesterday up on Old Sawyer Camp Road by the reservoir. And, being me, surrounded by green hills, towering trees, wildflowers, and glistening water...I photographed barbed wire and rusty signs. And, being me, I liked them better than the pictures of the hills, trees, flowers, and water.
This was my favorite. What can I say? I like the unexpected. I like just looking around and seeing what's interesting as opposed to just what's there.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Photo of the day: Still Life With Our Share of the Bailout
This week: shapes and shadows. I'm starting with the perfect roundness of coins in a round jar. I'm going to have to get moving this week to fulfill the challenge, which is always fun. But tonight it's late and this was the first thing my eye came do. I shall improve as the week goes on.
And, as always, if you have an idea for future weekly themes, please let me know in the comments. Any and all suggestions welcome.
This week: shapes and shadows. I'm starting with the perfect roundness of coins in a round jar. I'm going to have to get moving this week to fulfill the challenge, which is always fun. But tonight it's late and this was the first thing my eye came do. I shall improve as the week goes on.
And, as always, if you have an idea for future weekly themes, please let me know in the comments. Any and all suggestions welcome.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
How to be dull
There's an ad currently on TV (for some company/store that I can't even recall) that proclaims "now your home can look like a picture in a magazine."
To which I reply, "why would I want that?"
Seriously, why is that a good thing? Personally, that sounds really sucky and incredibly dull. Why would I want my house to look like a picture in a magazine? I don't want to live with matchy-matchy pillows and color-coordinated accessories. I don't want to decorate from a "collection." (The Martha Stewart Collection, the Has-Been-Reality-Star Collection.) How sad to be so unimaginative that you need someone else to say "this goes with this, which goes with that." What's wrong with the I Live Here Collection?
The problem with Martha & Co is that unless you vote the party line you'll never be certain. Do you dare to mix this rug from the Martha Meets K-Mart Line with the table you bought from the Florence Henderson collection? Wouldn't that require independent thought? And if you're capable of that then can't you just screw the "Collections" and build your own? A rug in a color that reminds you of your first dorm room for a bit of fun factor, a cool table you found at an antique store for $100 that you stripped and refinished yourself. Some blue glass bottles (just because you like the colors) on a mantlepiece next to photos of the people you love. A random white feather picked up while hiking in the woods. That's interesting. That's what a room should be like. It shouldn't be someone you've never meet and who knows nothing about you trying to convince you that beauty can be found when you buy your rooms like Garanimals. Yes, just pair this lamp with the hippo sticker with any of our tables with the hippo sticker and you can't go wrong!
I like mismatched. I like different. I like interesting. I want to live in a house where people feel comfortable taking their shoes off; where they don't have to freak out if they accidentally spill something. OK, so our house will never make the cover of House Beautiful, but I like being the only ones with our particular and creative blend of, well, stuff. A replica Maltese Falcon. An antique radio. An African basket and a Native American pot. No, it's not beautiful (well, it is to me), but it's definitely not dull. And it's a visual representation of who and what we area. We're not trying to recreate a Nantucket beach house, a chic Parisian flat, a Manhattan loft, or Lindsay Lohan's Malibu Barbi Rehab Beach Party.
We're not trying to do anything, except live cozily surrounded by things we love. And Excrutiatingly Perfect Homes Monthly would have a nasty reaction to the old wicker wheelchair we picked up at a garage sale and the beautiful leather-topped table which came from beloved ancestors. A piece of sheet music autographed by Fred Astaire (yes, really) hangs on one wall while the others have North Western animal totems from our trip to Canada. Wanderings through an adored and now, sadly, defunct antique store yielded the ancient Dagurretypes and stashes of old photographs of people we never met, inclduing the huge wedding photo that hangs over our TV. These fictional arbiters of taste would also reject the hideously ugly candlestick from Mexico abut would then want the rights to reproduce the wonderfully beautiful carved hand from Malawi.
I never feel comfortable in rooms where everything is perfect. It doesn't look anything like life. I like piles of books and quirky items. It's a mark of personality and individuality. But rooms that look like, well, a picture in a magazine, they just seem soulless and boring. Like a waiting room in a hospital, not like someone actually lives there.
One of the great thing about my friends is they all have homes that reflect who they are. Some are classy, some are colorful. Others are full of toys or photographs of their travels. Of cats or of collections of spoons. But you walk in and you think "oh yeah, X lives here." You never think "gosh, this looks like a furniture showroom." If that's what I thought, honestly they probably wouldn't be interesting enough to be friends of mine. Because they wouldn't be interesting.
There's an ad currently on TV (for some company/store that I can't even recall) that proclaims "now your home can look like a picture in a magazine."
To which I reply, "why would I want that?"
Seriously, why is that a good thing? Personally, that sounds really sucky and incredibly dull. Why would I want my house to look like a picture in a magazine? I don't want to live with matchy-matchy pillows and color-coordinated accessories. I don't want to decorate from a "collection." (The Martha Stewart Collection, the Has-Been-Reality-Star Collection.) How sad to be so unimaginative that you need someone else to say "this goes with this, which goes with that." What's wrong with the I Live Here Collection?
The problem with Martha & Co is that unless you vote the party line you'll never be certain. Do you dare to mix this rug from the Martha Meets K-Mart Line with the table you bought from the Florence Henderson collection? Wouldn't that require independent thought? And if you're capable of that then can't you just screw the "Collections" and build your own? A rug in a color that reminds you of your first dorm room for a bit of fun factor, a cool table you found at an antique store for $100 that you stripped and refinished yourself. Some blue glass bottles (just because you like the colors) on a mantlepiece next to photos of the people you love. A random white feather picked up while hiking in the woods. That's interesting. That's what a room should be like. It shouldn't be someone you've never meet and who knows nothing about you trying to convince you that beauty can be found when you buy your rooms like Garanimals. Yes, just pair this lamp with the hippo sticker with any of our tables with the hippo sticker and you can't go wrong!
I like mismatched. I like different. I like interesting. I want to live in a house where people feel comfortable taking their shoes off; where they don't have to freak out if they accidentally spill something. OK, so our house will never make the cover of House Beautiful, but I like being the only ones with our particular and creative blend of, well, stuff. A replica Maltese Falcon. An antique radio. An African basket and a Native American pot. No, it's not beautiful (well, it is to me), but it's definitely not dull. And it's a visual representation of who and what we area. We're not trying to recreate a Nantucket beach house, a chic Parisian flat, a Manhattan loft, or Lindsay Lohan's Malibu Barbi Rehab Beach Party.
We're not trying to do anything, except live cozily surrounded by things we love. And Excrutiatingly Perfect Homes Monthly would have a nasty reaction to the old wicker wheelchair we picked up at a garage sale and the beautiful leather-topped table which came from beloved ancestors. A piece of sheet music autographed by Fred Astaire (yes, really) hangs on one wall while the others have North Western animal totems from our trip to Canada. Wanderings through an adored and now, sadly, defunct antique store yielded the ancient Dagurretypes and stashes of old photographs of people we never met, inclduing the huge wedding photo that hangs over our TV. These fictional arbiters of taste would also reject the hideously ugly candlestick from Mexico abut would then want the rights to reproduce the wonderfully beautiful carved hand from Malawi.
I never feel comfortable in rooms where everything is perfect. It doesn't look anything like life. I like piles of books and quirky items. It's a mark of personality and individuality. But rooms that look like, well, a picture in a magazine, they just seem soulless and boring. Like a waiting room in a hospital, not like someone actually lives there.
One of the great thing about my friends is they all have homes that reflect who they are. Some are classy, some are colorful. Others are full of toys or photographs of their travels. Of cats or of collections of spoons. But you walk in and you think "oh yeah, X lives here." You never think "gosh, this looks like a furniture showroom." If that's what I thought, honestly they probably wouldn't be interesting enough to be friends of mine. Because they wouldn't be interesting.
Photo of the day: Ancestors
Using a fancy digital camera to capture what was once the height of camera coolness. A collapsible Kodak, popular in the 30s for tourists and families. With money (and space) I'd have a large collection of antique cameras. But for now I'll just pay homage to the ancestor of the beautiful camera I'm using now.
Using a fancy digital camera to capture what was once the height of camera coolness. A collapsible Kodak, popular in the 30s for tourists and families. With money (and space) I'd have a large collection of antique cameras. But for now I'll just pay homage to the ancestor of the beautiful camera I'm using now.
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