Words and Books
My fascination with the English language occasionally leads me towards speculations for which I cannot find an answer.
For instance, is there a word for a word where you have a negative but no opposite positive? As an example, you might here the word "unkempt" but no one is ever "kempt." You might be told that you look disheveled, but nobody will ever call you sheveled. You get the idea. Couth and uncouth. Gruntled and disgruntled. Someone suggested that the concept can be described as "lost positives" which sounds great. But I think there needs to be a word for something where you only hear the negative and never the positive.
Another example. Is there a word for those two-word rhyming nonsense phrases like hocus-pocus or helter-skelter? If not, there should be.
I also have this weird thing where I cannot continue with a book if I come across a word I do not know. I have to put the book down, get the dictionary, and find out what the word is. Usually this is not a problem as I have quite a large vocabulary (no doubt because I am forever looking up words). But every so often I come across a book where there are so many words I do not know that it's disruptive to be forever putting it down. Such was the case with Lempriere's Dictionary by Lawrence Norfolk. I read it many years ago and it is #2 on my all-time favorite fiction books of all time. (Number 1, for those of you who care, is Possession by A.S. Byatt. Rounding out my top three is Pride and Prejudice.)
Now, back to Lempriere's Dictionary. It is a dense and yet captivating story of John Lempriere, an actual 18th century mythologist who wrote about the stories of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The book follows his research and the weird parallels that occur in his life that seem to mirror the classic myths. It is most definitely not an easy read. And it is full of obscure and intricate words that were completely unfamiliar to me. Eventually I jotted down every word in a notebook and would look them all up at the end of the day, rather than having to constantly stop and lose the flow of the narrative. I picked up this book ages ago, and yet just the other day I ran across that notebook and knew instantly what this list of odd words referred to. Nobody I know has ever read this book. I can't even recommend it to them, as it's such an intimidating volume. You must love mythology, words, mysteries, and intricate plots. You have to be patient and willing to work for the outcome. But if you do, you will be highly rewarded.
In case you are even mildly interested, here are my favorite non-fiction books of all time:
1. Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain. Taken from the diary she kept during WWI. She was a sheltered student who volunteered as a nurse on the front lines. During the course of the war she lost her only brother, her fiance, and her two best friends. The loss of all she loved is beautifully captured. It made her one of my heroes. The way she turned such a negative into such a positive. After the war she became committed to the cause of pacifism and worked for it the rest of her life. She's not an entirely likable person, but you cannot help but respect her courage and strength.
2. Between Silk and Cyanide by Leo Marks. A fascinating look at British espionage during the second World War. Marks was one of the code-creators who came up with ways for British spies behind enemy lines to communicate information back to England. The fact that it's true only makes the nail-biting exploits of the brave men and women of the SOE more captivating.
3. The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. On the surface, an odd topic for a book - a look at the 1893 Chicago World's Fair combined with the story of one of America's first serial killers. But it works. It's a well-researched, well-written tale about a changing world, an amazing event, and an evil mind. It's full of fascinating information about how the fairgrounds were built and what an effect the fair had on both American and international culture. The crime section is equally interesting and you read how one man planned and committed a series of horrendous crimes.
OK, now I want to go book shopping. Thank goodness for Amazon!
Friday, February 05, 2010
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Another Lost Language
I came across this London Times article about the last surviving member of an Andaman Island tribe dying, taking with her 65,000 years of culture. And a language.
Languages are as endangered a species at the salt marsh harvest mouse or the giant panda. And equally worth saving.
In college, as a Classics major, I spent several years studying so-called "dead languages:" Latin, ancient Greek, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Sanskrit. Useful for nothing, but one obscure proud achievement -- I've read The Iliad in the original. I also studied one modern language, French, which I completely forgot the day after the final exam.
I'm fascinated by languages, and by the way they survive in spite of all odds. When Europeans took over North America and stole land from the native peoples, in addition to smallpox and Christianity, they also made it illegal to speak their own language. Children were forced onto reservation schools and told to speak English only. There were severe penalties for speaking in their mother tongue.
Ironically it was one of these indigenous languages, Navajo, that played a crucial role in the allied victory in WWII. If you don't know the story of the Navajo Code Talkers, you should. Using their ancient language, Navajo Marines set up communications stations throughout the Pacific and spoke to each other, openly over the radio, knowing full well the Japanese were monitoring their transmissions. But the Japanese were never able to decipher the code. It was a simple substitution code, using real Navajo words, (using "turtle" to mean "tank" for instance) but outside of the Navajo reservations, nobody knew their language -- certainly not the Japanese, and so valuable information was able to be transmitted without fear of the enemy catching on.
What I find amusing is that these young men who still spoke Navajo did so because they broke the law. They and their families thought it was important to keep their culture alive and so, in spite of laws against it, they spoke in the old tongue at home. And because so much of Native American culture is passed down orally, many other native languages still survive, thankfully.
For a while, they were in danger of dying. But a new renaissance and pride in native culture, combined with the establishment of tribal colleges, made it possible (and even admirable) for elders to pass on their knowledge. Not just of how to speak Hopi or Lakota, but of other cultural treasures, such as how to weave, make pottery or baskets, and the correct way to conduct tribal ceremonies.
And the ones that kept the flame going were the outlaws. Those who refused to do what they were told. In public they'd learn English, just as the Europeans insisted. But at home, with the doors closed, elders would pass on centuries-old stories in centuries-old languages. And because of that, we haven't lost these linguistic treasures.
Thanks to technology, we'll never truly lose another language. We can record the old ones telling the ancient tales. But it's not the same as having a native speaker around to teach their gift.
Many years ago I was touring the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon. At the time they were putting together an impressive archive of Shakespeare being read in every language on the planet. Everything from Hamlet in Swahili to Measure For Measure in Mandarin. I'll always remember the guide mentioning how people all over the world had gotten into the spirit of the challenge and gave their grandparents passages of the Bard to read in whatever language they spoke. They had dozens of African dialects, sonnets read in the many languages of India, and everything from Icelandic to Esperanto. They also had one tape that, up to that point, they had never been able to identify. They couldn't tell what play it was from, but it came from Canada and they thought it might have been Inuit or some other First Nations language of Canada. But they weren't sure. They said for a while they asked tour groups if anyone visiting spoke Inuit, hoping they could play the tape and get an "yes" or "no" as to whether they even had the right language. Identifying the play seemed an impossibility.
I have often thought about that, and wondered if they ever figured it out.
Some day I'd love to see a Cherokee version of Much Ado.
I came across this London Times article about the last surviving member of an Andaman Island tribe dying, taking with her 65,000 years of culture. And a language.
Languages are as endangered a species at the salt marsh harvest mouse or the giant panda. And equally worth saving.
In college, as a Classics major, I spent several years studying so-called "dead languages:" Latin, ancient Greek, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Sanskrit. Useful for nothing, but one obscure proud achievement -- I've read The Iliad in the original. I also studied one modern language, French, which I completely forgot the day after the final exam.
I'm fascinated by languages, and by the way they survive in spite of all odds. When Europeans took over North America and stole land from the native peoples, in addition to smallpox and Christianity, they also made it illegal to speak their own language. Children were forced onto reservation schools and told to speak English only. There were severe penalties for speaking in their mother tongue.
Ironically it was one of these indigenous languages, Navajo, that played a crucial role in the allied victory in WWII. If you don't know the story of the Navajo Code Talkers, you should. Using their ancient language, Navajo Marines set up communications stations throughout the Pacific and spoke to each other, openly over the radio, knowing full well the Japanese were monitoring their transmissions. But the Japanese were never able to decipher the code. It was a simple substitution code, using real Navajo words, (using "turtle" to mean "tank" for instance) but outside of the Navajo reservations, nobody knew their language -- certainly not the Japanese, and so valuable information was able to be transmitted without fear of the enemy catching on.
What I find amusing is that these young men who still spoke Navajo did so because they broke the law. They and their families thought it was important to keep their culture alive and so, in spite of laws against it, they spoke in the old tongue at home. And because so much of Native American culture is passed down orally, many other native languages still survive, thankfully.
For a while, they were in danger of dying. But a new renaissance and pride in native culture, combined with the establishment of tribal colleges, made it possible (and even admirable) for elders to pass on their knowledge. Not just of how to speak Hopi or Lakota, but of other cultural treasures, such as how to weave, make pottery or baskets, and the correct way to conduct tribal ceremonies.
And the ones that kept the flame going were the outlaws. Those who refused to do what they were told. In public they'd learn English, just as the Europeans insisted. But at home, with the doors closed, elders would pass on centuries-old stories in centuries-old languages. And because of that, we haven't lost these linguistic treasures.
Thanks to technology, we'll never truly lose another language. We can record the old ones telling the ancient tales. But it's not the same as having a native speaker around to teach their gift.
Many years ago I was touring the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford-Upon-Avon. At the time they were putting together an impressive archive of Shakespeare being read in every language on the planet. Everything from Hamlet in Swahili to Measure For Measure in Mandarin. I'll always remember the guide mentioning how people all over the world had gotten into the spirit of the challenge and gave their grandparents passages of the Bard to read in whatever language they spoke. They had dozens of African dialects, sonnets read in the many languages of India, and everything from Icelandic to Esperanto. They also had one tape that, up to that point, they had never been able to identify. They couldn't tell what play it was from, but it came from Canada and they thought it might have been Inuit or some other First Nations language of Canada. But they weren't sure. They said for a while they asked tour groups if anyone visiting spoke Inuit, hoping they could play the tape and get an "yes" or "no" as to whether they even had the right language. Identifying the play seemed an impossibility.
I have often thought about that, and wondered if they ever figured it out.
Some day I'd love to see a Cherokee version of Much Ado.
Things That I've Laughed At Lately
Because we all need a good laugh:
First up we have Charlie Brooker's Newswipe The World's Most Generic News Report, a hilarious parody of how predictable "news" stories have become. I've watched this three times now and it still cracks me up.
.....
Always good for a laugh, People of Walmart, which demonstrates why I do not shop there. It'll make your jaw drop at how few people seem to own mirrors.
.....
What happens when you have too much icing and not enough education? Cake Wrecks. Dedicated to showcasing the worst dessert errors ever served up at your local bakery counter.
.....
And finally, there's Totally Looks Like, which can be hit or miss. But when it hits, it's pretty funny.
Because we all need a good laugh:
First up we have Charlie Brooker's Newswipe The World's Most Generic News Report, a hilarious parody of how predictable "news" stories have become. I've watched this three times now and it still cracks me up.
.....
Always good for a laugh, People of Walmart, which demonstrates why I do not shop there. It'll make your jaw drop at how few people seem to own mirrors.
.....
What happens when you have too much icing and not enough education? Cake Wrecks. Dedicated to showcasing the worst dessert errors ever served up at your local bakery counter.
.....
And finally, there's Totally Looks Like, which can be hit or miss. But when it hits, it's pretty funny.
In Praise of Thelma Ritter
One of the things that connects Husband and I is our love for old movies. Further than that, our love for the character actors that made so many of those old movies memorable. Character actors seem to have died out. But "way back when" every hotel clerk, every waiter, every wise-cracking salesgirl was someone worth remembering. Fans of old movies love to play the "hey, that's..." game where you realize the guy driving Myrna Loy's cab was seen two movies ago serving Humphrey Bogart a slice of pie. Today you might recognize a waitress in a movie as a dancing toothbrush from a TV commercial, but these actors have no names and there are as forgettable as a waitress is in real life (with apologies to waitresses everywhere).
My all-time favorite female character actor was Thelma Ritter. She wasn't so much a bit-part player as she was a supporting actress, and every movie she was in was made magical by her dry wit and delicious line delivery.
She was a wonderful actress, earning four Academy Award nominations for Best Supporting Actress, starting with her role as Bette Davis' dresser in All About Eve. Her movie career covered everything from Hitchcock (Jimmy Stewart's nurse in Rear Window) to romantic comedies (the scene in Pillow Talk where she drinks Rock Hudson under the table is a classic) to musicals (acting as Fred Astaire's secretary in Daddy Long Legs. But she was always flat-out fabulous.
She specialized in the smart-aleck roles. The secretary who likes a shot of rye and a snappy come-back. The maid who doesn't hesitate to tell her mistress that she's making a fool out of herself by treating the nice guy like dirt. And there's always something so spot-on about the way she slips in her comments. Of course it helps that back then they wrote scripts with dialogue that was equally memorable. Sadly, that kind of rough diamond with a heart of gold character seems to have gone the way of stockings with seams in them and men in fedoras. But very few people could ever compete with Thelma Ritter for delivering just one line with such an air of dry disdain that she could infuse a word with a world of meaning. In today's movies, I think only Alan Rickman can match her for that ability to make a single word drip with venom.
Only with Thelma, the venom really had no lasting sting. Only a smartness that would make you stand up and take notice.
Oh Thelma, we miss you.
One of the things that connects Husband and I is our love for old movies. Further than that, our love for the character actors that made so many of those old movies memorable. Character actors seem to have died out. But "way back when" every hotel clerk, every waiter, every wise-cracking salesgirl was someone worth remembering. Fans of old movies love to play the "hey, that's..." game where you realize the guy driving Myrna Loy's cab was seen two movies ago serving Humphrey Bogart a slice of pie. Today you might recognize a waitress in a movie as a dancing toothbrush from a TV commercial, but these actors have no names and there are as forgettable as a waitress is in real life (with apologies to waitresses everywhere).
My all-time favorite female character actor was Thelma Ritter. She wasn't so much a bit-part player as she was a supporting actress, and every movie she was in was made magical by her dry wit and delicious line delivery.
She was a wonderful actress, earning four Academy Award nominations for Best Supporting Actress, starting with her role as Bette Davis' dresser in All About Eve. Her movie career covered everything from Hitchcock (Jimmy Stewart's nurse in Rear Window) to romantic comedies (the scene in Pillow Talk where she drinks Rock Hudson under the table is a classic) to musicals (acting as Fred Astaire's secretary in Daddy Long Legs. But she was always flat-out fabulous.
She specialized in the smart-aleck roles. The secretary who likes a shot of rye and a snappy come-back. The maid who doesn't hesitate to tell her mistress that she's making a fool out of herself by treating the nice guy like dirt. And there's always something so spot-on about the way she slips in her comments. Of course it helps that back then they wrote scripts with dialogue that was equally memorable. Sadly, that kind of rough diamond with a heart of gold character seems to have gone the way of stockings with seams in them and men in fedoras. But very few people could ever compete with Thelma Ritter for delivering just one line with such an air of dry disdain that she could infuse a word with a world of meaning. In today's movies, I think only Alan Rickman can match her for that ability to make a single word drip with venom.
Only with Thelma, the venom really had no lasting sting. Only a smartness that would make you stand up and take notice.
Oh Thelma, we miss you.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
The World is Xfinite
Comcast, the world's most expensive and useless cable/internet/media/phone sex/animal cracker company in the galaxy has decided to address its many problems by the cheapest and most ineffective way possible. They are changing their name.
Introducing Xfinity a word that means absolutely nothing, but seems cool, hip, and sexy. Hey, if it's cool, hip, and sexy it's gotta be good, huh? Forget that our cable bill costs about a much as Ghana's national debt. We're gonna have TV that goes to Xfinity. It'll be Xfinite!
Why do companies do that? Decide that the public is so stupid we won't notice that Xfinity is the same company as Comcast, only with a different name? Are our collective memories supposed to be that short? We won't care how much our bill is because, damn it, it's a whole new ball game. It's not just TV, it's Xfinite TV! Not only that, but Comcast's Executive VP of Operations has said "the new brand name communicates Comcast's constant product upgrades and innovation." Really? It does all that, does it?
First off, when has Comcast ever innovated? Secondly, this ridiculous nonsense word conveys all that? Sure it does! After all, putting "X" in front of something is edgy. It's eXtreme. It's like snowboarding, only you have to control the snowboard through the cable box that doesn't really work all that well and sometimes goes to the wrong channel. But other than that, it's just like snowboarding. The kind of snowboarding where you have 125 different channel of slopes to chose from and no snow on any of them. Endless choices. Nothing on. But fuck that, it's Xfinite nothing! And we're all going to forget about Comcast in the rush to be as hip and cool as Xfinite. And the bad service, outrageous bill, and useless technology...it'll all be a bad dream once we're living in a world where TV is Xfinite.
Comcast, the world's most expensive and useless cable/internet/media/phone sex/animal cracker company in the galaxy has decided to address its many problems by the cheapest and most ineffective way possible. They are changing their name.
Introducing Xfinity a word that means absolutely nothing, but seems cool, hip, and sexy. Hey, if it's cool, hip, and sexy it's gotta be good, huh? Forget that our cable bill costs about a much as Ghana's national debt. We're gonna have TV that goes to Xfinity. It'll be Xfinite!
Why do companies do that? Decide that the public is so stupid we won't notice that Xfinity is the same company as Comcast, only with a different name? Are our collective memories supposed to be that short? We won't care how much our bill is because, damn it, it's a whole new ball game. It's not just TV, it's Xfinite TV! Not only that, but Comcast's Executive VP of Operations has said "the new brand name communicates Comcast's constant product upgrades and innovation." Really? It does all that, does it?
First off, when has Comcast ever innovated? Secondly, this ridiculous nonsense word conveys all that? Sure it does! After all, putting "X" in front of something is edgy. It's eXtreme. It's like snowboarding, only you have to control the snowboard through the cable box that doesn't really work all that well and sometimes goes to the wrong channel. But other than that, it's just like snowboarding. The kind of snowboarding where you have 125 different channel of slopes to chose from and no snow on any of them. Endless choices. Nothing on. But fuck that, it's Xfinite nothing! And we're all going to forget about Comcast in the rush to be as hip and cool as Xfinite. And the bad service, outrageous bill, and useless technology...it'll all be a bad dream once we're living in a world where TV is Xfinite.
Terry Pratchett's Case for Euthanasia
British novelist Terry Pratchett is, sadly, suffering from a form al Alzheimer's called PCA. He and his "stunt Pratchett" (actor Tony Robinson....remember Baldrick from Blackadder?) deliver a powerful, funny, moving, and thought-provoking talk about assisted suicide. Watch the six-part video (part one is here - links to parts 2-6 on same page) or, for those short on time, read the edit transcript here.
British novelist Terry Pratchett is, sadly, suffering from a form al Alzheimer's called PCA. He and his "stunt Pratchett" (actor Tony Robinson....remember Baldrick from Blackadder?) deliver a powerful, funny, moving, and thought-provoking talk about assisted suicide. Watch the six-part video (part one is here - links to parts 2-6 on same page) or, for those short on time, read the edit transcript here.
Hospitalitis
Hospitals are in the business of over-reacting. That's what they get paid to do. And rightly so. When it comes to health, it makes sense to be a bit of an alarmist about things that concern you. Which is why I went into the emergency room on Saturday night, and ended up in one of their critical care units on Sunday morning.
Although I was never anything other than fine, they put me in their TCU (one step down from ICU). According to the website for the hospital, the Telemetry Care Unit is a "31-bed nursing unit provides care for patients who require monitoring such as cardiac surveillance following procedures including pacemaker insertion, cardiac or vascular surgery." They put me there because of a racing heart rate. (Which they eventually diagnosed as a combination of exhaustion, dehydration following a day of zarfing, anemia, and pain.) But since my family has a history of heart disease (my father died of a heart attack and my mother has already suffered one minor heart attack), the hospital went into over-react mode and set me up in a 4-bed critical care ward with a group of patients who all sounded like they were just this side of dying. They all seemed to be having breathing problems, one poor man had a cough that sounded like he was swimming in warm pudding and they had to (delightful) repeatedly suction phlegm out of his throat so he could breathe. That was my next-bed neighbor.
So there I am, begging for quiet, next to waterlogged guy. I felt terribly sorry for him, but the sound was both repulsive and loud, and went on several times an hour for the entire time I was there. He was also hardly lucid, so whenever people came to visit him they kept talking ever-louder in an attempt to get a response. Eventually they ended up yelling his name, trying to get him to understand they were there to take him for a CT scan, or to let him know that they were cousin Al and they were worried about him. The man in the bed next to him watched TV most of the night. Loudly. (We were in an open ward, separated only by curtains, so I could hear everything he watched.) And whenever waterlogged man would start coughing, TV guy would turn up the sound.
I was also by the door into the hall, next to the nursing station. So there were phone call and loud conversations all night long. And there I am, in spite of the ear plugs, hearing it all. Trying to sleep and failing. Wishing for darkness but by a window into the hallway where florescent lights glared all night long. Wishing somebody would hand me poor, migraine-wracked head an Imitrex. But nope, no migraine drugs. (t was like those jokes you hear about Amsterdam, where you can get heroin but can't find Nyquil. Here all I wanted was a migraine pill but all I could get was Delaudid, a lovely, warm, haze-inducing narcotic that is lovely for pain but not for all that long. It hits instantly (the good), but wear off about two hours later (the bad) needing you to request another IV dose. I could have all that I wanted, apparently. It was like a drug buffet, but nothing to actually treat the cause of the pain.
And yes, I realize I'm selfish to be all about me when I'm surrounded by obviously incredibly-sick people who don't seem to be in any state to be leaving the hospital later. But hey, this is my blog, it's all about me. If waterlogged guy had a blog it would be all about him. And I'm not minimizing the pain by any means. I know they're suffering more than I was and I did not begrudge them one moment of their treatment. It's just hard to be best by nausea, finally get an appetite back, and have them bring you lukewarm oatmeal for breakfast -- only to have them start vacuuming phlegm from the guy next to you. Truly unappetizing.
All of this was decidedly unnecessary. (I almost used the phrase "over kill.") All I had was a migraine, and there I was in the "I hope you have a will" section of the hospital. It wasn't until I got out that I realized I was in that section. I can't imagine what poor Husband thought when he found out his wife was in a critical care unit. Had the positions been reversed, I would have freaked out. When he left I was in the ER, they had just decided to admit me, it was 6 am, and I sent him home because he'd been up all night. He comes back a few hours later to visit and discovers I'm surrounded by pacemakers and things that go endlessly beep in the night. (Which is good, because when they stop beeping, it's not a good thing.)
As usual with this hospital, the staff was great. I was a bit pissed that I from 6 am on Sunday when they decided to admit me to 1 pm yesterday when the ward doctor released me, I never once spoke to a doctor. That bothered me because I knew I was fine to get out but couldn't get anyone to OK that. Nor could I get anyone to OK Imitrex, which was really all I needed (plus dark and no sucking next door). But the nurses were amazing. And, being in a CCU, when you hit the nurse buzzer they come running. The endless Delaudid kept the pain away for the most part. They do this "how is your pain on a scale from 1 to 10?" thing and, at one point, it was up to a brain-exploding 9. But the lovely cocktail made it go away. The one thing it didn't do, oddly enough, was make me sleep. I hade five doses of Delaudid in ER, from 10 pm Saturday to 6 am Sunday, and I was lucid and awake for the whole time. Man, can I hold my narcotic or what?
Hospitals are in the business of over-reacting. That's what they get paid to do. And rightly so. When it comes to health, it makes sense to be a bit of an alarmist about things that concern you. Which is why I went into the emergency room on Saturday night, and ended up in one of their critical care units on Sunday morning.
Although I was never anything other than fine, they put me in their TCU (one step down from ICU). According to the website for the hospital, the Telemetry Care Unit is a "31-bed nursing unit provides care for patients who require monitoring such as cardiac surveillance following procedures including pacemaker insertion, cardiac or vascular surgery." They put me there because of a racing heart rate. (Which they eventually diagnosed as a combination of exhaustion, dehydration following a day of zarfing, anemia, and pain.) But since my family has a history of heart disease (my father died of a heart attack and my mother has already suffered one minor heart attack), the hospital went into over-react mode and set me up in a 4-bed critical care ward with a group of patients who all sounded like they were just this side of dying. They all seemed to be having breathing problems, one poor man had a cough that sounded like he was swimming in warm pudding and they had to (delightful) repeatedly suction phlegm out of his throat so he could breathe. That was my next-bed neighbor.
So there I am, begging for quiet, next to waterlogged guy. I felt terribly sorry for him, but the sound was both repulsive and loud, and went on several times an hour for the entire time I was there. He was also hardly lucid, so whenever people came to visit him they kept talking ever-louder in an attempt to get a response. Eventually they ended up yelling his name, trying to get him to understand they were there to take him for a CT scan, or to let him know that they were cousin Al and they were worried about him. The man in the bed next to him watched TV most of the night. Loudly. (We were in an open ward, separated only by curtains, so I could hear everything he watched.) And whenever waterlogged man would start coughing, TV guy would turn up the sound.
I was also by the door into the hall, next to the nursing station. So there were phone call and loud conversations all night long. And there I am, in spite of the ear plugs, hearing it all. Trying to sleep and failing. Wishing for darkness but by a window into the hallway where florescent lights glared all night long. Wishing somebody would hand me poor, migraine-wracked head an Imitrex. But nope, no migraine drugs. (t was like those jokes you hear about Amsterdam, where you can get heroin but can't find Nyquil. Here all I wanted was a migraine pill but all I could get was Delaudid, a lovely, warm, haze-inducing narcotic that is lovely for pain but not for all that long. It hits instantly (the good), but wear off about two hours later (the bad) needing you to request another IV dose. I could have all that I wanted, apparently. It was like a drug buffet, but nothing to actually treat the cause of the pain.
And yes, I realize I'm selfish to be all about me when I'm surrounded by obviously incredibly-sick people who don't seem to be in any state to be leaving the hospital later. But hey, this is my blog, it's all about me. If waterlogged guy had a blog it would be all about him. And I'm not minimizing the pain by any means. I know they're suffering more than I was and I did not begrudge them one moment of their treatment. It's just hard to be best by nausea, finally get an appetite back, and have them bring you lukewarm oatmeal for breakfast -- only to have them start vacuuming phlegm from the guy next to you. Truly unappetizing.
All of this was decidedly unnecessary. (I almost used the phrase "over kill.") All I had was a migraine, and there I was in the "I hope you have a will" section of the hospital. It wasn't until I got out that I realized I was in that section. I can't imagine what poor Husband thought when he found out his wife was in a critical care unit. Had the positions been reversed, I would have freaked out. When he left I was in the ER, they had just decided to admit me, it was 6 am, and I sent him home because he'd been up all night. He comes back a few hours later to visit and discovers I'm surrounded by pacemakers and things that go endlessly beep in the night. (Which is good, because when they stop beeping, it's not a good thing.)
As usual with this hospital, the staff was great. I was a bit pissed that I from 6 am on Sunday when they decided to admit me to 1 pm yesterday when the ward doctor released me, I never once spoke to a doctor. That bothered me because I knew I was fine to get out but couldn't get anyone to OK that. Nor could I get anyone to OK Imitrex, which was really all I needed (plus dark and no sucking next door). But the nurses were amazing. And, being in a CCU, when you hit the nurse buzzer they come running. The endless Delaudid kept the pain away for the most part. They do this "how is your pain on a scale from 1 to 10?" thing and, at one point, it was up to a brain-exploding 9. But the lovely cocktail made it go away. The one thing it didn't do, oddly enough, was make me sleep. I hade five doses of Delaudid in ER, from 10 pm Saturday to 6 am Sunday, and I was lucid and awake for the whole time. Man, can I hold my narcotic or what?
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Monday, February 01, 2010
Photo of the day: I Do The Rock
Yeah, I know I missed a day. I ended up in ER Saturday night and they kept me in until this afternoon. Great fun. I'm fine now. I just had a 32-hour migraine that wouldn't go away. They wanted to observe me because every time I stood up my heart rate went through the roof. (Ignoring the fact that I was exhausted, in some pretty severe pain, and severely dehydrated they jumped right to "heart trouble") and put me in with the cardiac care unit. Great fun. Don't ever go there. Especially for a migraine. It's non-stop noise and light -- the worst things when you are light- and sound-sensitive. And they never did, in spite of my repeated requests, give me any migraine meds. What they did give me, however, was Delaudid whenever I was in pain. Which was great fun, but didn't really treat the problem. Anyway, I'm home and well and doing fine. Just need to get my strength back after a few days without eating or much sleep.
Yeah, I know I missed a day. I ended up in ER Saturday night and they kept me in until this afternoon. Great fun. I'm fine now. I just had a 32-hour migraine that wouldn't go away. They wanted to observe me because every time I stood up my heart rate went through the roof. (Ignoring the fact that I was exhausted, in some pretty severe pain, and severely dehydrated they jumped right to "heart trouble") and put me in with the cardiac care unit. Great fun. Don't ever go there. Especially for a migraine. It's non-stop noise and light -- the worst things when you are light- and sound-sensitive. And they never did, in spite of my repeated requests, give me any migraine meds. What they did give me, however, was Delaudid whenever I was in pain. Which was great fun, but didn't really treat the problem. Anyway, I'm home and well and doing fine. Just need to get my strength back after a few days without eating or much sleep.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Things I Love
My husband. My friends. Chocolate. Hot baths. Electric blankets. Bookstores. Packages from Amazon. Cashmere. Flannel jammies. Finding a new musician that I fall in love with. Picking up a much-loved book and have it open to a favorite page. The Philadelphia Story. Giving money to charity. Animals. Hot cocoa with Bailey's Irish Creme. My bed. Old sweaters that feel like a hug. Comfy jeans. Black leather boots. My kitty. Pot stickers. Mexican food. Being caught up on work. Hearing good news. Finding something other than bills in the mail. Old movies. Hash browns. Louis Armstrong. Taking photographs. Making my husband laugh. Baking. Watching the Olympics. Being on the radio. Lord Peter Wimsey. Popcorn. Turquoise. My wedding ring. Art. Words. Dictionaries. The SF Giants. Volunteering. Generosity. Good pens. Meerkats. Red pandas. Antiques. Sleep.
My husband. My friends. Chocolate. Hot baths. Electric blankets. Bookstores. Packages from Amazon. Cashmere. Flannel jammies. Finding a new musician that I fall in love with. Picking up a much-loved book and have it open to a favorite page. The Philadelphia Story. Giving money to charity. Animals. Hot cocoa with Bailey's Irish Creme. My bed. Old sweaters that feel like a hug. Comfy jeans. Black leather boots. My kitty. Pot stickers. Mexican food. Being caught up on work. Hearing good news. Finding something other than bills in the mail. Old movies. Hash browns. Louis Armstrong. Taking photographs. Making my husband laugh. Baking. Watching the Olympics. Being on the radio. Lord Peter Wimsey. Popcorn. Turquoise. My wedding ring. Art. Words. Dictionaries. The SF Giants. Volunteering. Generosity. Good pens. Meerkats. Red pandas. Antiques. Sleep.
Unwanted Relationship Advice
God knows why, but I turned on Dr. Phil. And there was some psycho woman on the show who is single (big surprise) because she has a 20 point list that the men she dates have to fulfill. Included in this list were:
- parents must still be married
- parents must live locally
- no medications or history of health problems in family
- must be earth or water sign
and on and on.
I've seen similar lists from other people. Men's lists usually include a mandatory bust size. Women's list often mentions a minimum income.
Here's my unwanted relationship advice....get over it.
How in the world can you pick someone from a list? I can understand having certain requirements (no convicted felons) that are pretty obvious. But trying to find someone who fits every item on a "must have" list just seems like a good way to remain single. Forever.
Back when I was single I had very few requirements, and none of them were outlandish. (Like parents must still be married. Why would I hold someone responsible for what their parents did?) My list was: must have a good sense of humor, must be smart, must like books and music. I think that was it. Not out of the question, is it?
Husband is a thoroughly wonderful man and I am most happily married woman I know. But there is no way we would have gotten together if I had some ridiculously arbitrary list. While I think he's beautiful, I know he's not Brad Pitt. While he has a good job, he's not Bill Gates. He's just a normal guy. But to me, he's extraordinary. I never cared about looks or income. (Sure, he has to brush his teeth regularly and had to have met a bar of soap on a regular basis.) What I wanted was a nice guy, someone who would treat me well, someone who was funny and smart, with a good heart. And that's exactly what I found.
So, if you're looking for love, tear up the list and open your eyes. The best matches for you are those that respond to your heart, not your list.
God knows why, but I turned on Dr. Phil. And there was some psycho woman on the show who is single (big surprise) because she has a 20 point list that the men she dates have to fulfill. Included in this list were:
- parents must still be married
- parents must live locally
- no medications or history of health problems in family
- must be earth or water sign
and on and on.
I've seen similar lists from other people. Men's lists usually include a mandatory bust size. Women's list often mentions a minimum income.
Here's my unwanted relationship advice....get over it.
How in the world can you pick someone from a list? I can understand having certain requirements (no convicted felons) that are pretty obvious. But trying to find someone who fits every item on a "must have" list just seems like a good way to remain single. Forever.
Back when I was single I had very few requirements, and none of them were outlandish. (Like parents must still be married. Why would I hold someone responsible for what their parents did?) My list was: must have a good sense of humor, must be smart, must like books and music. I think that was it. Not out of the question, is it?
Husband is a thoroughly wonderful man and I am most happily married woman I know. But there is no way we would have gotten together if I had some ridiculously arbitrary list. While I think he's beautiful, I know he's not Brad Pitt. While he has a good job, he's not Bill Gates. He's just a normal guy. But to me, he's extraordinary. I never cared about looks or income. (Sure, he has to brush his teeth regularly and had to have met a bar of soap on a regular basis.) What I wanted was a nice guy, someone who would treat me well, someone who was funny and smart, with a good heart. And that's exactly what I found.
So, if you're looking for love, tear up the list and open your eyes. The best matches for you are those that respond to your heart, not your list.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
CD Pick of the Week: Christopher Tin
Calling All Dawns is a song-cycle in three parts (life, death, and rebirth) featuring some shiver-inducing music with guest stars like the Soweto Gospel Choir, opera star Frederica von Stade and Anonymous 4. 12 songs in 12 languages, united by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Knock-your-socks-off good. Seriously powerful.
Calling All Dawns is a song-cycle in three parts (life, death, and rebirth) featuring some shiver-inducing music with guest stars like the Soweto Gospel Choir, opera star Frederica von Stade and Anonymous 4. 12 songs in 12 languages, united by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Knock-your-socks-off good. Seriously powerful.
Swimming Against the Tide
J.D. Salinger author of The Catcher in the Rye has died at the age of 91.
Personally, I don't care. Sure, I've read it. Fine book. But it's not my bible. And yet wanting-to-be-seen-as-sensitive-and-literate poseurs all over the world are in mourning. And I have to wonder if it's because the author of their favorite book has died, or because they want people to think that CITR was their favorite book. People like that burn my knickers.
I cannot stand people who pretend to like or believe something because they think it'll make them appear smart, or hip, or in. People who say Citizen Kane is their favorite film because critics say it's the best American movie ever. But, in reality, their favorite movie of all time is The Breakfast Club or Caddyshack. These same people are now posting all over Facebook that their lives are darker because Salinger is gone. The fact is, they read it in high school and didn't like it. Their favorite books is actually The DaVinci Code but only losers admit to liking Dan Brown.
Which brings me to music. As a DJ at a college radio station, I'm surrounded by people who pride themselves on being at the vanguard of music. The most indie or the indie pop. But, bless them, they also admit to liking cheese. In fact we just had a discussion about our guilty pleasures....the artists we like but would never play. (My guilty pleasure? Garth Brooks.)
It's weird when I look back at the music I've owned over the course of my life. I've realized that I've never owned the album. The one everyone else in the world owns. I was probably the only kid in my high school who didn't own "Frampton Comes Alive" or the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. I didn't own "Thriller", "No Jacket Required", or "Dark Side of the Moon." Nor did I own "Born in the U.S.A.", "The Joshua Tree", or "Like a Virgin." Which is not to say I didn't listen to this music on the radio, and even enjoy some of it. But I've always kind of swum against the stream when it comes to popular culture.
I don't watch reality TV (unless you count Mythbusers and Dirty Jobs). I've never seen "E.T." I've never cooked anything with sun-dried tomatoes. I have never gone on a diet. I have never read an Oprah book. In short, I'm a freak.
And The Catcher in the Rye? Overrated.
.....
P.S. The Internet is Made of Cats
J.D. Salinger author of The Catcher in the Rye has died at the age of 91.
Personally, I don't care. Sure, I've read it. Fine book. But it's not my bible. And yet wanting-to-be-seen-as-sensitive-and-literate poseurs all over the world are in mourning. And I have to wonder if it's because the author of their favorite book has died, or because they want people to think that CITR was their favorite book. People like that burn my knickers.
I cannot stand people who pretend to like or believe something because they think it'll make them appear smart, or hip, or in. People who say Citizen Kane is their favorite film because critics say it's the best American movie ever. But, in reality, their favorite movie of all time is The Breakfast Club or Caddyshack. These same people are now posting all over Facebook that their lives are darker because Salinger is gone. The fact is, they read it in high school and didn't like it. Their favorite books is actually The DaVinci Code but only losers admit to liking Dan Brown.
Which brings me to music. As a DJ at a college radio station, I'm surrounded by people who pride themselves on being at the vanguard of music. The most indie or the indie pop. But, bless them, they also admit to liking cheese. In fact we just had a discussion about our guilty pleasures....the artists we like but would never play. (My guilty pleasure? Garth Brooks.)
It's weird when I look back at the music I've owned over the course of my life. I've realized that I've never owned the album. The one everyone else in the world owns. I was probably the only kid in my high school who didn't own "Frampton Comes Alive" or the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever. I didn't own "Thriller", "No Jacket Required", or "Dark Side of the Moon." Nor did I own "Born in the U.S.A.", "The Joshua Tree", or "Like a Virgin." Which is not to say I didn't listen to this music on the radio, and even enjoy some of it. But I've always kind of swum against the stream when it comes to popular culture.
I don't watch reality TV (unless you count Mythbusers and Dirty Jobs). I've never seen "E.T." I've never cooked anything with sun-dried tomatoes. I have never gone on a diet. I have never read an Oprah book. In short, I'm a freak.
And The Catcher in the Rye? Overrated.
.....
P.S. The Internet is Made of Cats
Ambition
As a history buff, I find myself frequently caught up in history books or biographies about kings and presidents and the like. I've just finished one biography of Anne Boleyn, The Lady in the Tower by Alison Weir and I've just started another The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn but Eric Ives.
The Weir book is highly readable and provides insight into the rise and fall of the most famous consort of them all. The Ives book is already proving more scholarly, with endless footnotes that cite sources in Latin and such. But both books (and, surprisingly, the Showtime sex-and-blood-filled series The Tudors) have made me realize in a new way something which I have long ago acknowledged about myself. I have no ambition.
Now mind you, I do have ambitionS (plural). I'd like to write a novel. I'd like to buy a house someday. That sort of thing. But I have no ambition about the acquisition of power. I look at stories like Anne Boleyn's and I thank god that I live in the 21st century where my father couldn't marry me off for political reasons or, worse, whore me out in the quest to win king's favor. But I would never have the ambition to push myself into positions of authority just to flatter my ego and to have power over others.
I cannot imagine selling out my beliefs, morals, and self-respect in return for a title or a manor house. I can't imagine giving up life in a quiet setting with someone I love in favor of non-stop scrutiny, malicious gossip, and a naked scrambling for power that has friend turning on friend and families divided. I just don't possess that kind of ambition.
The Boleyns seem to have turned ambition into the family business. Anne's father, Thomas, was a noted courtier who learned how to play the game and earn his way into the inner circle. Along the way he pushed not just one, but two daughters into the path of Henry VIII in the hopes of currying favor. It worked. Anne's sister, Mary was Henry's mistress for a while (and rumor has it Mary also had an affair with King Francis of France and Burgundy). In fact, one of the excuses Henry had for declaring his marriage to Anne null and void was that he had had an affair with a close blood relative of his wife's and, therefore, the marriage was incestuous and against the laws of the church.
Anne herself became a willing participant in the ambition game, and seemed to have done a good job of stringing Henry along with the right amount of seduction and refusal to keep his interest for six years before they married. While queen she happily used her position to reward her brother and other family members but along the way alienated people with her high-handedness. It was the alienated ones that eventually got their revenge on Queen Anne.
All this lust for power is completely out of my scope of feeling. I know many people who have ambition. Who are willing to sacrifice family life in order to earn a bigger salary or a more important job title. I have known people who are total ass-kissing yes-men because that's what gets the rewards. How can you live with yourself when you're like that? Is it all worth it in the end.
I know I'm weird. I have quit two extremely well paying jobs because I was either bored or I hate the work/people/or atmosphere. I just wasn't willing to give up liking who I was in order to keep making six figures. So now I'm earning no money, have no job title, no fancy office, no sexy career. I had that. I worked for Apple, one of the sexiest companies around. But I was miserable. And now I'm incredibly happy. Why? Because I, apparently, have no ambition.
As a history buff, I find myself frequently caught up in history books or biographies about kings and presidents and the like. I've just finished one biography of Anne Boleyn, The Lady in the Tower by Alison Weir and I've just started another The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn but Eric Ives.
The Weir book is highly readable and provides insight into the rise and fall of the most famous consort of them all. The Ives book is already proving more scholarly, with endless footnotes that cite sources in Latin and such. But both books (and, surprisingly, the Showtime sex-and-blood-filled series The Tudors) have made me realize in a new way something which I have long ago acknowledged about myself. I have no ambition.
Now mind you, I do have ambitionS (plural). I'd like to write a novel. I'd like to buy a house someday. That sort of thing. But I have no ambition about the acquisition of power. I look at stories like Anne Boleyn's and I thank god that I live in the 21st century where my father couldn't marry me off for political reasons or, worse, whore me out in the quest to win king's favor. But I would never have the ambition to push myself into positions of authority just to flatter my ego and to have power over others.
I cannot imagine selling out my beliefs, morals, and self-respect in return for a title or a manor house. I can't imagine giving up life in a quiet setting with someone I love in favor of non-stop scrutiny, malicious gossip, and a naked scrambling for power that has friend turning on friend and families divided. I just don't possess that kind of ambition.
The Boleyns seem to have turned ambition into the family business. Anne's father, Thomas, was a noted courtier who learned how to play the game and earn his way into the inner circle. Along the way he pushed not just one, but two daughters into the path of Henry VIII in the hopes of currying favor. It worked. Anne's sister, Mary was Henry's mistress for a while (and rumor has it Mary also had an affair with King Francis of France and Burgundy). In fact, one of the excuses Henry had for declaring his marriage to Anne null and void was that he had had an affair with a close blood relative of his wife's and, therefore, the marriage was incestuous and against the laws of the church.
Anne herself became a willing participant in the ambition game, and seemed to have done a good job of stringing Henry along with the right amount of seduction and refusal to keep his interest for six years before they married. While queen she happily used her position to reward her brother and other family members but along the way alienated people with her high-handedness. It was the alienated ones that eventually got their revenge on Queen Anne.
All this lust for power is completely out of my scope of feeling. I know many people who have ambition. Who are willing to sacrifice family life in order to earn a bigger salary or a more important job title. I have known people who are total ass-kissing yes-men because that's what gets the rewards. How can you live with yourself when you're like that? Is it all worth it in the end.
I know I'm weird. I have quit two extremely well paying jobs because I was either bored or I hate the work/people/or atmosphere. I just wasn't willing to give up liking who I was in order to keep making six figures. So now I'm earning no money, have no job title, no fancy office, no sexy career. I had that. I worked for Apple, one of the sexiest companies around. But I was miserable. And now I'm incredibly happy. Why? Because I, apparently, have no ambition.
Photo of the day: Pebbles
Well, finally the weather was nice enough to go outside and take photos. I had planned on taking a walk but I had, with complete lack of forethought, failed to ensure my camera battery was charged. It wasn't. The result? No photo safari. Hopefully tomorrow will be clement enough for me to take a few shots.
Well, finally the weather was nice enough to go outside and take photos. I had planned on taking a walk but I had, with complete lack of forethought, failed to ensure my camera battery was charged. It wasn't. The result? No photo safari. Hopefully tomorrow will be clement enough for me to take a few shots.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Spinach vs. Parsley
Nowhere on earth is as mysterious as the produce section of your local grocery store. It's the one place where people will voluntarily admit ignorance and not feel bad about it. You'll often see men (and women too, let's be fair) wandering around with a glazed and pained look on their face as they consult a list and try to figure out what green thing might possibly correspond to this mysterious word on the shopping list.
I was in the produce section today when I was stopped by a man who pointed hopefully at the bundle of cilantro I was carrying and asked "is that spinach?" No, sir, it is not spinach, I explained. But I pointed to the spinach, whereupon he thanked me and wandered over to where I had pointed and picked up the parsley that was next to the spinach. "That's not spinach," I explained. "That's parsley. This is the spinach." And, so saying, I picked up a bunch of spinach to show the difference. He thanked me. Then he pointed to my cilantro one ore and asked "is that parsley?"
Nowhere on earth is as mysterious as the produce section of your local grocery store. It's the one place where people will voluntarily admit ignorance and not feel bad about it. You'll often see men (and women too, let's be fair) wandering around with a glazed and pained look on their face as they consult a list and try to figure out what green thing might possibly correspond to this mysterious word on the shopping list.
I was in the produce section today when I was stopped by a man who pointed hopefully at the bundle of cilantro I was carrying and asked "is that spinach?" No, sir, it is not spinach, I explained. But I pointed to the spinach, whereupon he thanked me and wandered over to where I had pointed and picked up the parsley that was next to the spinach. "That's not spinach," I explained. "That's parsley. This is the spinach." And, so saying, I picked up a bunch of spinach to show the difference. He thanked me. Then he pointed to my cilantro one ore and asked "is that parsley?"
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Fools and Horses
Not since the days when I worked in bookstores to put myself through college have I encountered such contact with the general public as I now experience as a volunteer at the shelter. I mean when I worked for IBM and Apple, the public was hardly likely to wander through the office asking stupid questions. But now I see them on a fairly regular basis and am constantly amazed by the folks I meet.
Most of them are normal human beings. They're polite and intelligent and ask regular questions about the cats. ("Can you recommend a cat that really likes to play?" or "Do you know if this cat gets along well with dogs?" kind of things.) But then you get the wackos. The ones who ask what do you have to feed cats. When I replied "um...cat food" they came back with "so you don't need to give them live mice or anything?" (Oh god, please don't let them adopt a cat.) Or the lady who asked specifically for a black and white cat and when I pointed out a particularly cute one she told me it wasn't black and white enough. (Oh, sorry I didn't know you had a ratio in mind. Can you give me numbers? Are we talking 50-50? 60-40?)
When confronted with the odd I find myself just sort of invisibly shaking my head in disbelief as to how these people function in the world. How do they hold jobs? And why, oh god why, do they breed? (Because many of the dumbest questions come from people with four or more kids in tow.) (Such as the lady who thought it would be fun to get five cats, so that each of her kids would have one to play with.) (No!!!)
But nothing tops working in a bookstore for stupid questions. For a while I actually kept a notebook with such gems as "do you have the yellow book that was on Oprah last week?" (Why yes, ma'am, we keep all our books filed by color. Please check our yellow section.) Or, one of my favorites, "has Jane Austen written anything new?" (Well, no, not since her death she hasn't.) A few more of my top idiot queries:
- Do you have that book, A Hundred Years of Solid Food? (No, but I've heard good things about A Hundred Years of Solitude?)
- I'd like that book by James and Harriet Yorkshire. (We're fresh out, how about a copy of James Herriott's Yorkshire?)
- I can't seem to find a copy of Shakespeare's "Death of a Salesman" can you order a copy? (Sure.)
- I need to read Jane Eyre for a class. Do you have any books like it, only shorter and not boring?
- Do you have any Sherlock Holmes books? -- Certainly, in the mystery section under Conan Doyle. -- No, Sherlock Holmes. That's the author's name. Do you have any books by Sherlock Holmes? (Oh yes, in our "books by fictional characters section over there on the invisible bookcase.)
And then there were the requests for such famous titles as:
- Lady Chatterley's Butler (a shocking tale of how to serve Port correctly)
- A Tale of Three Cities (the sequel)
- Uncle Fred's Cabin (which I think must be all about fishing)
- Donkey Hokey (this one gave me a moment's blankness before I led her to Cervantes)
- Anna Karimazov (finally Anna Karenena and the Brothers Karamazov together in one great novel!)
- For Whom the Bell Rises (Can I interest you in a copy of the Sun Also Tolls?)
- Sense and Prejudice (sadly, we were out of Pride and Sensibility)
And those are just the ones I remember without the aid of that infamous notebook.
Not since the days when I worked in bookstores to put myself through college have I encountered such contact with the general public as I now experience as a volunteer at the shelter. I mean when I worked for IBM and Apple, the public was hardly likely to wander through the office asking stupid questions. But now I see them on a fairly regular basis and am constantly amazed by the folks I meet.
Most of them are normal human beings. They're polite and intelligent and ask regular questions about the cats. ("Can you recommend a cat that really likes to play?" or "Do you know if this cat gets along well with dogs?" kind of things.) But then you get the wackos. The ones who ask what do you have to feed cats. When I replied "um...cat food" they came back with "so you don't need to give them live mice or anything?" (Oh god, please don't let them adopt a cat.) Or the lady who asked specifically for a black and white cat and when I pointed out a particularly cute one she told me it wasn't black and white enough. (Oh, sorry I didn't know you had a ratio in mind. Can you give me numbers? Are we talking 50-50? 60-40?)
When confronted with the odd I find myself just sort of invisibly shaking my head in disbelief as to how these people function in the world. How do they hold jobs? And why, oh god why, do they breed? (Because many of the dumbest questions come from people with four or more kids in tow.) (Such as the lady who thought it would be fun to get five cats, so that each of her kids would have one to play with.) (No!!!)
But nothing tops working in a bookstore for stupid questions. For a while I actually kept a notebook with such gems as "do you have the yellow book that was on Oprah last week?" (Why yes, ma'am, we keep all our books filed by color. Please check our yellow section.) Or, one of my favorites, "has Jane Austen written anything new?" (Well, no, not since her death she hasn't.) A few more of my top idiot queries:
- Do you have that book, A Hundred Years of Solid Food? (No, but I've heard good things about A Hundred Years of Solitude?)
- I'd like that book by James and Harriet Yorkshire. (We're fresh out, how about a copy of James Herriott's Yorkshire?)
- I can't seem to find a copy of Shakespeare's "Death of a Salesman" can you order a copy? (Sure.)
- I need to read Jane Eyre for a class. Do you have any books like it, only shorter and not boring?
- Do you have any Sherlock Holmes books? -- Certainly, in the mystery section under Conan Doyle. -- No, Sherlock Holmes. That's the author's name. Do you have any books by Sherlock Holmes? (Oh yes, in our "books by fictional characters section over there on the invisible bookcase.)
And then there were the requests for such famous titles as:
- Lady Chatterley's Butler (a shocking tale of how to serve Port correctly)
- A Tale of Three Cities (the sequel)
- Uncle Fred's Cabin (which I think must be all about fishing)
- Donkey Hokey (this one gave me a moment's blankness before I led her to Cervantes)
- Anna Karimazov (finally Anna Karenena and the Brothers Karamazov together in one great novel!)
- For Whom the Bell Rises (Can I interest you in a copy of the Sun Also Tolls?)
- Sense and Prejudice (sadly, we were out of Pride and Sensibility)
And those are just the ones I remember without the aid of that infamous notebook.
Photo of the day: Frieze
It's been too rainy to take my camera out on a date. And I'm getting the itch. If I go too long without taking photographs I get all squirrelly. Anyway, in the interest of my "post one photo every day" mantra, I pulled this one out of my library. It's from the Pulgas Water Temple down on the peninsula. Courtesy of the SF Water Department. I took lots of photos of the building itself, but for some reason I love this one for the design an the beautiful grey of the stone.
Hopefully I'll be able to go shooting soon. If not, I'll have to find interesting things inside.
It's been too rainy to take my camera out on a date. And I'm getting the itch. If I go too long without taking photographs I get all squirrelly. Anyway, in the interest of my "post one photo every day" mantra, I pulled this one out of my library. It's from the Pulgas Water Temple down on the peninsula. Courtesy of the SF Water Department. I took lots of photos of the building itself, but for some reason I love this one for the design an the beautiful grey of the stone.
Hopefully I'll be able to go shooting soon. If not, I'll have to find interesting things inside.
Monday, January 25, 2010
The Mysteries Mind of Mom
My mother's mind is a mysterious place. She just turned 87 and doesn't have much of a memory anymore. She can't remember the names of all her children and spent the afternoon calling me by one of my other sister's names. She couldn't recall which brother took her to dinner last night.
And yet...
I have satellite radio in my car and there's a channel that plays only 1940s music. I always put it on when she's in the car. Here's a woman who didn't remember the name of the street on which she's lived for the past 50 years, and yet she remembered all the words to "The Hut-Sut Song." No, really. And those lyrics don't make any sense, yet she knew every single one.
My mother's mind is a mysterious place. She just turned 87 and doesn't have much of a memory anymore. She can't remember the names of all her children and spent the afternoon calling me by one of my other sister's names. She couldn't recall which brother took her to dinner last night.
And yet...
I have satellite radio in my car and there's a channel that plays only 1940s music. I always put it on when she's in the car. Here's a woman who didn't remember the name of the street on which she's lived for the past 50 years, and yet she remembered all the words to "The Hut-Sut Song." No, really. And those lyrics don't make any sense, yet she knew every single one.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Mourning
Some people I love have just lost someone they love. They are, of course, in my thoughts. But there's really not much one can do except remind people that you love them and do whatever small tokens you can.
It got me thinking. however, about mourning. And how it has changed over the years.
In her fascinating book This Republic of Suffering author Drew Gilpin Faust write how the massive loss of life during the Civil War colored our view of funerals and loss. She writes eloquently about elaborate rites and humble services, and how the nation dealt with losing so many of its sons and brothers.
Throughout history, humankind has handled the dead with everything from great monuments to mass graves. But the feelings of those left behind are universal. As we watch poor, tragic Haiti deal with its devastation and as I contemplate one loss to one family I love, it occurs to me how unfair death is now. Not because we handle funerals any differently, but because we handle mourning so callously.
Gone are the days when a black armband signified bereavement, signaling to the world (without words) to treat the wearer with kindness. Black curtains used to mark a house in mourning. Servants would place hay on the street so the sound of carriages and horses would be muffled, thereby lessening the distractions of an uncaring world. Women, as evidenced by Queen Victoria, would dress in black so the whole would would know that a loss had happened. And all this would make the world go gently on the survivors.
But none of that exists today. The world goes on, loud and unknowning. When you lose someone you love you find it hard to believe that the rest of the world hasn't stopped. That people in the grocery store are just as rude. That other drivers may honk at you because you're distracted at a red light. You lose someone dear to you and, because life must go on, you find yourself at the drug store for more tissues or aspirin and you don't understand why strangers aren't nicer to you. Don't they know you've got a broken heart?
No, they don't. Because outward signs of loss are no longer part of our world. The only obvious signs you see anymore are women wailing on CNN or an incomprehensible loss of life due to a natural disaster. But the simple, personal, everyday losses are ignored in the wake of the modern world.
I wish black armbands were still in fashion. I wish there was some way of knowing that the sad-looking woman at the gas station is staring unseeingly at the pump because she's just about to drive to her brother's funeral. I want to be kind to those of have lost someone they love. But I cannot recognize them.
Which seems strange. Because I know what it is to lose a loved one. And you'd think there would be some sort of unspoken kinship. A sort of I remember that look -- I saw it on my own face when I looked in the mirror when my best friend died.
I send my love to my friends. And to Haiti. And to all those who are wearing invisible black armbands. Because we should all tread gently around them.
Some people I love have just lost someone they love. They are, of course, in my thoughts. But there's really not much one can do except remind people that you love them and do whatever small tokens you can.
It got me thinking. however, about mourning. And how it has changed over the years.
In her fascinating book This Republic of Suffering author Drew Gilpin Faust write how the massive loss of life during the Civil War colored our view of funerals and loss. She writes eloquently about elaborate rites and humble services, and how the nation dealt with losing so many of its sons and brothers.
Throughout history, humankind has handled the dead with everything from great monuments to mass graves. But the feelings of those left behind are universal. As we watch poor, tragic Haiti deal with its devastation and as I contemplate one loss to one family I love, it occurs to me how unfair death is now. Not because we handle funerals any differently, but because we handle mourning so callously.
Gone are the days when a black armband signified bereavement, signaling to the world (without words) to treat the wearer with kindness. Black curtains used to mark a house in mourning. Servants would place hay on the street so the sound of carriages and horses would be muffled, thereby lessening the distractions of an uncaring world. Women, as evidenced by Queen Victoria, would dress in black so the whole would would know that a loss had happened. And all this would make the world go gently on the survivors.
But none of that exists today. The world goes on, loud and unknowning. When you lose someone you love you find it hard to believe that the rest of the world hasn't stopped. That people in the grocery store are just as rude. That other drivers may honk at you because you're distracted at a red light. You lose someone dear to you and, because life must go on, you find yourself at the drug store for more tissues or aspirin and you don't understand why strangers aren't nicer to you. Don't they know you've got a broken heart?
No, they don't. Because outward signs of loss are no longer part of our world. The only obvious signs you see anymore are women wailing on CNN or an incomprehensible loss of life due to a natural disaster. But the simple, personal, everyday losses are ignored in the wake of the modern world.
I wish black armbands were still in fashion. I wish there was some way of knowing that the sad-looking woman at the gas station is staring unseeingly at the pump because she's just about to drive to her brother's funeral. I want to be kind to those of have lost someone they love. But I cannot recognize them.
Which seems strange. Because I know what it is to lose a loved one. And you'd think there would be some sort of unspoken kinship. A sort of I remember that look -- I saw it on my own face when I looked in the mirror when my best friend died.
I send my love to my friends. And to Haiti. And to all those who are wearing invisible black armbands. Because we should all tread gently around them.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thunder and Cats
I did extra cat duty today, because we haven't had a lot of visits this week. During my shift there was a thunderstorm which completely freaked out the cats. When it started I was working with a shy kitten who I had finally coaxed into my lap. He was purring and happy and then this ominous roll and you could actually see the fur on his back raise up. Then he high-tailed it (literally) back into his cage and the safety of his box.
Many of the other cats started pacing and looking uneasy, casting odd glances at the ceiling. Even the ones that are usually calm and relaxed got tense and uncertain. After shy kitten I went to one of our bigger cats (she easily weighs over 25 pounds) and, unlike the kitten, decided my lap was safety and leapt into it with an ease that belied her heft. She huddled into my lap, spilling out of both sides, and leaned into me like I was the second coming and she was born again. I talked to her and petted her and the thunder moved on. So I returned her to her cage. A few minutes later another boom and she pressed against the cage wall doing everything but rattling her tin cup against the bars and yelling "Attica!"
After one particularly loud crash all the dogs in the kennel area started barking like the end of days, which only made the cats more uneasy. I swear I was just this side of singing "My Favorite Things" to get them to calm down.
...
In other news, my insomnia has given rise to an unexpected problem. When I go too long without sleep I take an Ambien to give myself a respite. It works like the proverbial dream and I love knowing I can count on a good night's sleep every now and then. The problem is that I have one of the side effects of Ambien - sleepwalking. With my luck this also includes sleep snacking. I'll wake up in the morning to discover I've eaten the last of the cookies I made for book group or fixed myself some toast and left the jam out. I have also, to my extreme embarrassment, posted in my sleep to Facebook (full of nonsense and spelling errors). Now I've screwed myself big time. Apparently I've changed one of my passwords in my sleep and have no fucking clue what it is. I even gave myself a password hint, which means absolutely nothing to me.
Suddenly not sleeping doesn't seem too bad.
I did extra cat duty today, because we haven't had a lot of visits this week. During my shift there was a thunderstorm which completely freaked out the cats. When it started I was working with a shy kitten who I had finally coaxed into my lap. He was purring and happy and then this ominous roll and you could actually see the fur on his back raise up. Then he high-tailed it (literally) back into his cage and the safety of his box.
Many of the other cats started pacing and looking uneasy, casting odd glances at the ceiling. Even the ones that are usually calm and relaxed got tense and uncertain. After shy kitten I went to one of our bigger cats (she easily weighs over 25 pounds) and, unlike the kitten, decided my lap was safety and leapt into it with an ease that belied her heft. She huddled into my lap, spilling out of both sides, and leaned into me like I was the second coming and she was born again. I talked to her and petted her and the thunder moved on. So I returned her to her cage. A few minutes later another boom and she pressed against the cage wall doing everything but rattling her tin cup against the bars and yelling "Attica!"
After one particularly loud crash all the dogs in the kennel area started barking like the end of days, which only made the cats more uneasy. I swear I was just this side of singing "My Favorite Things" to get them to calm down.
...
In other news, my insomnia has given rise to an unexpected problem. When I go too long without sleep I take an Ambien to give myself a respite. It works like the proverbial dream and I love knowing I can count on a good night's sleep every now and then. The problem is that I have one of the side effects of Ambien - sleepwalking. With my luck this also includes sleep snacking. I'll wake up in the morning to discover I've eaten the last of the cookies I made for book group or fixed myself some toast and left the jam out. I have also, to my extreme embarrassment, posted in my sleep to Facebook (full of nonsense and spelling errors). Now I've screwed myself big time. Apparently I've changed one of my passwords in my sleep and have no fucking clue what it is. I even gave myself a password hint, which means absolutely nothing to me.
Suddenly not sleeping doesn't seem too bad.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Mark Twain is My Hero
Of all God's creatures there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the lash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.
- Notebook, 1894
.....
When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction.
- An Incident
.....
A home without a cat -- and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat -- may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?
- Pudd'nhead Wilson
Of all God's creatures there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the lash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.
- Notebook, 1894
.....
When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction.
- An Incident
.....
A home without a cat -- and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat -- may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?
- Pudd'nhead Wilson
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
What did we do?
What did we do before the internet? How did we satisfy our need for instant gratification? Most specifically in my case, what did I do before instant information?
I am a total information junkie. I'm the kind of person who loves learning new things. My favorite TV channels are the Discovery Channel and the History Channel. Teach me something I didn't know and I'm happy. I'm especially fascinated by reading history and biographies. But before the wonders of the internet (thank you Google and Wikipedia) I'd have to get out an encyclopedia or dictionary. The only problem is I didn't own an encyclopedia. I used to have a little notebook in which I'd write down things I needed to learn. I'd read a book and come across a reference that I didn't know, and I'd make a note. Every so often I'd go to the library and look up everything in my notebook. (I am making myself sound like the dullest person on the planet.)
But now I can just look things up with Google and get instantly informed. No longer do I have to wait for a few weeks to find out who Rebecca Nurse was or what was involved in the Royal Baccarat Scandal. Any obscure fact, any weird item in a moment of history can now be mine just by typing in the War of Jenkin's Ear. It's a great world.
What did we do before the internet? How did we satisfy our need for instant gratification? Most specifically in my case, what did I do before instant information?
I am a total information junkie. I'm the kind of person who loves learning new things. My favorite TV channels are the Discovery Channel and the History Channel. Teach me something I didn't know and I'm happy. I'm especially fascinated by reading history and biographies. But before the wonders of the internet (thank you Google and Wikipedia) I'd have to get out an encyclopedia or dictionary. The only problem is I didn't own an encyclopedia. I used to have a little notebook in which I'd write down things I needed to learn. I'd read a book and come across a reference that I didn't know, and I'd make a note. Every so often I'd go to the library and look up everything in my notebook. (I am making myself sound like the dullest person on the planet.)
But now I can just look things up with Google and get instantly informed. No longer do I have to wait for a few weeks to find out who Rebecca Nurse was or what was involved in the Royal Baccarat Scandal. Any obscure fact, any weird item in a moment of history can now be mine just by typing in the War of Jenkin's Ear. It's a great world.
Photo of the day: Blue Hawaii
A respite from the Hawaiian heat. A small shop playing Led Kaapana on the stereo and a old native Hawaiian woman who called me "darling" and then rhapsodized about San Francisco when asked where I was from. Blue and white cloth in a traditional pattern. The scent of star jasmine. I remember that day, that shop, that woman perfectly. And I will always have this cloth to remind me.
A respite from the Hawaiian heat. A small shop playing Led Kaapana on the stereo and a old native Hawaiian woman who called me "darling" and then rhapsodized about San Francisco when asked where I was from. Blue and white cloth in a traditional pattern. The scent of star jasmine. I remember that day, that shop, that woman perfectly. And I will always have this cloth to remind me.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
CD Pick of the week: Rumel Fuents
As the world music director for KZSU, it's my job to listen to all the new world music CDs we get at the station. And because I listen to so much music, it's easy to get blase about it as an art form. It's not until something bops you over the head that you remember how much power music can have.
Rumel Fuentes Corridos of the Chicano Movement is a perfect example of how music can help change the world. Recorded during the late 1960s and early '70s, the 13 tracks on this release are all wonderful examples of the Tex-Mex style, featuring rancheras and waltzes backed by guitar. Fuentes has a warm, though obviously untrained voice, but it's full of passion and persuasion. The songs range from odes to heroes of the revolution (such as "Corrido de Cesar Chavez") to stories about people taking action ("Walk-Out En Crystal City") and songs that relate the history of Anglo domination (El Corrido de Reies Lopez Tierina). It's a powerful release that captures the anger and the determination of a race fighting for equality. Wonderful music.
As the world music director for KZSU, it's my job to listen to all the new world music CDs we get at the station. And because I listen to so much music, it's easy to get blase about it as an art form. It's not until something bops you over the head that you remember how much power music can have.
Rumel Fuentes Corridos of the Chicano Movement is a perfect example of how music can help change the world. Recorded during the late 1960s and early '70s, the 13 tracks on this release are all wonderful examples of the Tex-Mex style, featuring rancheras and waltzes backed by guitar. Fuentes has a warm, though obviously untrained voice, but it's full of passion and persuasion. The songs range from odes to heroes of the revolution (such as "Corrido de Cesar Chavez") to stories about people taking action ("Walk-Out En Crystal City") and songs that relate the history of Anglo domination (El Corrido de Reies Lopez Tierina). It's a powerful release that captures the anger and the determination of a race fighting for equality. Wonderful music.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Stormy Monday
The SF bay area is bracing for a series of storms expected to dump up to 8 inches of rain in the next two weeks. All the local news agencies have been talking about where to get sandbags and listing emergency numbers in case of flooding.
The only problem is that the bay area has a history of storms not appearing. They tell you to prepare for Hurricane Sadie and you end up with a bit of a drizzle an maybe some wind. This "huge storm" was supposed to hit on Saturday. Then it was supposed to arrive Sunday afternoon. Then Sunday night. OK, last night there was wind and rain, but nothing like the Biblical deluge they were warning us about. It's rained off and on all day, but no wind and the rain hasn't ever been really hard.
Having been all doubting, though, I must confess that I hope we do get the big storm that is predicted. I love big storms. There is absolutely nothing cozier than being curled up in the world's comfiest bed with Husband lying warm next to me (He is always warm. I am always cold.) and a purring cat between us while a storm rages outside. Or sitting on the sofa under a blanket, with a fire in the fireplace and an old movie on TV. Plus, we need the rain.
We're technically in a drought, although there's been no official water rationing. But it's certain that our reservoirs could use a boost. So I'm hoping the promised 8 inches arrive. In spite of the fact that we still don't have a working garage door and I am now parking across the street -- perfect timing. The biggest storm in about 5 years is supposed to hit, and I don't have a warm, dry place to park. OK, neither does poor Husband, who always has to park on the street. But hey, I'm a delicate flower!
The SF bay area is bracing for a series of storms expected to dump up to 8 inches of rain in the next two weeks. All the local news agencies have been talking about where to get sandbags and listing emergency numbers in case of flooding.
The only problem is that the bay area has a history of storms not appearing. They tell you to prepare for Hurricane Sadie and you end up with a bit of a drizzle an maybe some wind. This "huge storm" was supposed to hit on Saturday. Then it was supposed to arrive Sunday afternoon. Then Sunday night. OK, last night there was wind and rain, but nothing like the Biblical deluge they were warning us about. It's rained off and on all day, but no wind and the rain hasn't ever been really hard.
Having been all doubting, though, I must confess that I hope we do get the big storm that is predicted. I love big storms. There is absolutely nothing cozier than being curled up in the world's comfiest bed with Husband lying warm next to me (He is always warm. I am always cold.) and a purring cat between us while a storm rages outside. Or sitting on the sofa under a blanket, with a fire in the fireplace and an old movie on TV. Plus, we need the rain.
We're technically in a drought, although there's been no official water rationing. But it's certain that our reservoirs could use a boost. So I'm hoping the promised 8 inches arrive. In spite of the fact that we still don't have a working garage door and I am now parking across the street -- perfect timing. The biggest storm in about 5 years is supposed to hit, and I don't have a warm, dry place to park. OK, neither does poor Husband, who always has to park on the street. But hey, I'm a delicate flower!
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Magical
Check out Haiku Distance by Susan August. It's a beautiful, gentle gift. Her haiku offer lyrical glimpses into the world around us. She takes the commonplace, and makes it magical. You'll find yourself looking at your own world differently, trying to find the poetry of your life. Everything from the neighbor's cat to watching the sun set with a loved one becomes a small, joyful event. At times funny, at other times moving, it's all wonderful and surprising. I've been enjoying picking a page at random and reading whatever poem I come to and it never fails to make me smile. Great stuff.
Check out Haiku Distance by Susan August. It's a beautiful, gentle gift. Her haiku offer lyrical glimpses into the world around us. She takes the commonplace, and makes it magical. You'll find yourself looking at your own world differently, trying to find the poetry of your life. Everything from the neighbor's cat to watching the sun set with a loved one becomes a small, joyful event. At times funny, at other times moving, it's all wonderful and surprising. I've been enjoying picking a page at random and reading whatever poem I come to and it never fails to make me smile. Great stuff.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Giving
I'm not sure where I developed my social conscience, because my family was never that altruistic. We didn't have much money, so I don't recall us supporting any charities when I was growing up. But to me, the best thing about money is being able to give it away to someone who needs it more. Seriously, I get the kind of high from making a donation to a non-profit that some women get from buying shoes at Nordstrom.
And yet it's amazing how there are so many people where it doesn't occur to them to give.
I think everyone I know can afford to skip a dinner out or a movie this month and give that money to help the people in Haiti. My favorite worthy organization in situations like this is Mercy Corps. They've already received a donation from me. And I'm sure most of my friends, if not all, have given to their favorite organizations. Red Cross. Doctors Without Borders. Whatever cause they feel like supporting.
And yet I'm sure there are some of you who might have stumbled across this blog by accident who haven't yet made their contribution. And I'm sure you won't come back because they only interesting thing I have to say today is "give." It doesn't have to be much, but I'm sure can all scrape up $10 or $20 to help ease the pain of those in need.
So please, look into your heart and do what you know is the right thing. And if you've already made your donation, thank you.
End of sermon.
I'm not sure where I developed my social conscience, because my family was never that altruistic. We didn't have much money, so I don't recall us supporting any charities when I was growing up. But to me, the best thing about money is being able to give it away to someone who needs it more. Seriously, I get the kind of high from making a donation to a non-profit that some women get from buying shoes at Nordstrom.
And yet it's amazing how there are so many people where it doesn't occur to them to give.
I think everyone I know can afford to skip a dinner out or a movie this month and give that money to help the people in Haiti. My favorite worthy organization in situations like this is Mercy Corps. They've already received a donation from me. And I'm sure most of my friends, if not all, have given to their favorite organizations. Red Cross. Doctors Without Borders. Whatever cause they feel like supporting.
And yet I'm sure there are some of you who might have stumbled across this blog by accident who haven't yet made their contribution. And I'm sure you won't come back because they only interesting thing I have to say today is "give." It doesn't have to be much, but I'm sure can all scrape up $10 or $20 to help ease the pain of those in need.
So please, look into your heart and do what you know is the right thing. And if you've already made your donation, thank you.
End of sermon.
Friday, January 15, 2010
CD PIck of the Week: Jazz Around the World
For any lover of world music, a new Putumayo compilation is always cause for a happy dance. This latest release does not disappoint. From established megastars such as Hugh Masekela to relative unknowns such as Chantal Chamberland (who does a dishy French version of the old Bobby Darren classic "The Sea") it's a CD that hits with every track. The most unexpected track is The Kora Jazz Trio doing the Latin jazz standard "Chan Chan" on African instruments. Wicked cool!
For any lover of world music, a new Putumayo compilation is always cause for a happy dance. This latest release does not disappoint. From established megastars such as Hugh Masekela to relative unknowns such as Chantal Chamberland (who does a dishy French version of the old Bobby Darren classic "The Sea") it's a CD that hits with every track. The most unexpected track is The Kora Jazz Trio doing the Latin jazz standard "Chan Chan" on African instruments. Wicked cool!
Photo of the day: To Cipher, From Santa
Santa left a present for Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) on Christmas. A wand with feathers on it and these lovely little crinkly plastic bits. She loves it so much she carries it around the house, meowing. She loves licking it. (As Husband says, the feathers are apparently bird-flavored.) But she loves it so much that it's already falling apart. Little trails of plastic streamers follow Cipher's nocturnal trail through the house. And random feathers keep appearing on the floor.
She's such a goofy girl. It makes a bit of a noise when she plays with it, because the plastic bits rustle. So she'll be doing this at 6 am in the bedroom, waking us up. I'll pick it up and take it into the living room. She'll follow and then a few minutes later we'll hear her patented "I'm meowing with my mouth full" meow signifying that she's carrying something with her And back into the bedroom comes the feather wand.
Cipher is a very determined cat.
Santa left a present for Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) on Christmas. A wand with feathers on it and these lovely little crinkly plastic bits. She loves it so much she carries it around the house, meowing. She loves licking it. (As Husband says, the feathers are apparently bird-flavored.) But she loves it so much that it's already falling apart. Little trails of plastic streamers follow Cipher's nocturnal trail through the house. And random feathers keep appearing on the floor.
She's such a goofy girl. It makes a bit of a noise when she plays with it, because the plastic bits rustle. So she'll be doing this at 6 am in the bedroom, waking us up. I'll pick it up and take it into the living room. She'll follow and then a few minutes later we'll hear her patented "I'm meowing with my mouth full" meow signifying that she's carrying something with her And back into the bedroom comes the feather wand.
Cipher is a very determined cat.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Photo of the day: When Good Bath Salts Go Bad
They turn into little rocks that catch the light. I turned this one into B & W because I thought the actual color of the salts (bright blue) made the whole photo look like a giant close up of Elmo. This way it could be anything from torn up concrete to, well, a black and white photo of clumps of bath salts. Sigh...I really must get out more.
They turn into little rocks that catch the light. I turned this one into B & W because I thought the actual color of the salts (bright blue) made the whole photo look like a giant close up of Elmo. This way it could be anything from torn up concrete to, well, a black and white photo of clumps of bath salts. Sigh...I really must get out more.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Constant Surprises
I am a non-stop reader. I always have at least one, usually two books going at once. At the moment I'm reading a very well researched bio of Anne Boleyn. (The Lady in the Tower by Alison Weir) plus I just received the copy of White Mischief by James Fox that was recommended to me by a loyal reader (thanks Kittie!).
In turning to the pages of White Mischief I found something I'd seen before, but never understood. The mention of (and I'm making this name up) Lord Hobnobble of that Ilk. Of that ilk? What the huh? I've seen this before and finally got around to looking it up. It refers to cases where a person's surname and the title of his estates are the same. In this case, it would be Lord Hobnobble of Hobnobble. So instead of, say, Lord Harfsniffle of Fleem, we have Lord Hobnobble of that Ilk. I want an ilk!
The next surprise came from The Maltese Falcoln. There's a character in the movie played by Elisha Cook that Sam Spade refers to as "a gunsel." And from its use hard boiled detective fiction, I assumed it meant some kid who carries a gun. Turns out that Dashiell Hammet used the word intentionally, assuming that editors (or censors) would take it to mean the same as I. Imagine my surprise when I looked up the word and found a definition that was completely different. According to Wikipedia a gunsel is "a young man kept for sexual purposes." This makes perfect sense in terms of the plot of the book and the movie. An older man who has a younger protege. But it came as a total shock to find out that this word I always thought was something out of crime noir fiction was specifically used to mislead people into thinking it meant one thing when it really means something completely different.
And finally, this obscure and vaguely horrible eye-opener. A term I'd seen in many history books is a household title, the Groom of the Stool. It was apparently a position of some trust and respect in the king's household. And, finally looking it up, I discover ... ewww ... the Groom "presided over the office of royal excrement." Ohhh...you actually mean "stool." Ugh.
I am a non-stop reader. I always have at least one, usually two books going at once. At the moment I'm reading a very well researched bio of Anne Boleyn. (The Lady in the Tower by Alison Weir) plus I just received the copy of White Mischief by James Fox that was recommended to me by a loyal reader (thanks Kittie!).
In turning to the pages of White Mischief I found something I'd seen before, but never understood. The mention of (and I'm making this name up) Lord Hobnobble of that Ilk. Of that ilk? What the huh? I've seen this before and finally got around to looking it up. It refers to cases where a person's surname and the title of his estates are the same. In this case, it would be Lord Hobnobble of Hobnobble. So instead of, say, Lord Harfsniffle of Fleem, we have Lord Hobnobble of that Ilk. I want an ilk!
The next surprise came from The Maltese Falcoln. There's a character in the movie played by Elisha Cook that Sam Spade refers to as "a gunsel." And from its use hard boiled detective fiction, I assumed it meant some kid who carries a gun. Turns out that Dashiell Hammet used the word intentionally, assuming that editors (or censors) would take it to mean the same as I. Imagine my surprise when I looked up the word and found a definition that was completely different. According to Wikipedia a gunsel is "a young man kept for sexual purposes." This makes perfect sense in terms of the plot of the book and the movie. An older man who has a younger protege. But it came as a total shock to find out that this word I always thought was something out of crime noir fiction was specifically used to mislead people into thinking it meant one thing when it really means something completely different.
And finally, this obscure and vaguely horrible eye-opener. A term I'd seen in many history books is a household title, the Groom of the Stool. It was apparently a position of some trust and respect in the king's household. And, finally looking it up, I discover ... ewww ... the Groom "presided over the office of royal excrement." Ohhh...you actually mean "stool." Ugh.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Ups and Downs. And then Up. Always Up
After a life of ups and downs our garage door died a sad and tragic death last week. It died in the up position. We can open the door, but we can't close it. At least not automatically. You can pull it down to close it. But this door remains when of the few wooden garage doors in the history of garage doors and weighs about as much as my Honda. It takes both me and Husband to close the door, and even then it's not closed all the way.
It's been like this for a week and it's amazing how annoying it is. Typically I park in the garage, which I haven't been able to do. So I park on the street. We do have a driveway, but it's nose-bleedingly steep and I live in fear of the parking brake on my 10 year old car going and Anubis (my car) rolling down the driveway, across the street, and crashing into the house across the way.
OK, so parking on the street is a minor annoyance. Except that I'm spoiled not having to carry bags of groceries up the hill, up the steps, and through the house. I'm used to being able to park in the garage and go straight into the kitchen. It's also hard going to the shelter because I have "shelter shoes" that never leave my car and, usually, I pull into the garage and close the door. Take off my shoes, leave my clothes out there, and come into the house and go immediately into the shower. Some of our shelter cats are sick and I want to do all I can to make sure I don't infect Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm).
I also haven't used my house key in 15 years because I come in through the garage. Last week, when I first started having to come through the front door, I actually didn't know where my house key was. I has to stand on the porch and take everything out of my purse to find it.
It's amazing, though, how dependent we become on something as obscure as an automatic garage door. Until we get a new door (and it's looking like that won't happen until next week) it's not life as usual. We have to go through the house to take the garbage out. I have to get all wet and cold heading into and out of my car on my way into the world. I'm shopping lighter because I don't want to take three trips from the street to the house carrying heavy things like a gallon of milk or a 15-lb box of cat litter.
Today a guy came by to give an estimate on the door. Here's a man who has spent his entire life installing and fixing garage doors. What an obscure way to make a living. He's in his late 60s and this is his entire business. Garage doors. Not one of those careers you dream of when you're a little kid. I want to be an astronaut. I want to be a cowboy. I want to install garage doors. And yet he seems quite happy with his business and I'm quite happy that there are people like him so that some day I can park in my garage again.
After a life of ups and downs our garage door died a sad and tragic death last week. It died in the up position. We can open the door, but we can't close it. At least not automatically. You can pull it down to close it. But this door remains when of the few wooden garage doors in the history of garage doors and weighs about as much as my Honda. It takes both me and Husband to close the door, and even then it's not closed all the way.
It's been like this for a week and it's amazing how annoying it is. Typically I park in the garage, which I haven't been able to do. So I park on the street. We do have a driveway, but it's nose-bleedingly steep and I live in fear of the parking brake on my 10 year old car going and Anubis (my car) rolling down the driveway, across the street, and crashing into the house across the way.
OK, so parking on the street is a minor annoyance. Except that I'm spoiled not having to carry bags of groceries up the hill, up the steps, and through the house. I'm used to being able to park in the garage and go straight into the kitchen. It's also hard going to the shelter because I have "shelter shoes" that never leave my car and, usually, I pull into the garage and close the door. Take off my shoes, leave my clothes out there, and come into the house and go immediately into the shower. Some of our shelter cats are sick and I want to do all I can to make sure I don't infect Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm).
I also haven't used my house key in 15 years because I come in through the garage. Last week, when I first started having to come through the front door, I actually didn't know where my house key was. I has to stand on the porch and take everything out of my purse to find it.
It's amazing, though, how dependent we become on something as obscure as an automatic garage door. Until we get a new door (and it's looking like that won't happen until next week) it's not life as usual. We have to go through the house to take the garbage out. I have to get all wet and cold heading into and out of my car on my way into the world. I'm shopping lighter because I don't want to take three trips from the street to the house carrying heavy things like a gallon of milk or a 15-lb box of cat litter.
Today a guy came by to give an estimate on the door. Here's a man who has spent his entire life installing and fixing garage doors. What an obscure way to make a living. He's in his late 60s and this is his entire business. Garage doors. Not one of those careers you dream of when you're a little kid. I want to be an astronaut. I want to be a cowboy. I want to install garage doors. And yet he seems quite happy with his business and I'm quite happy that there are people like him so that some day I can park in my garage again.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Photo of the day: Cheer
Is there any flower more cheerful than a yellow daisy? It's like the Muppet of the floral world. No matter how gray the day. No matter how thick the fog. Yellow daisies always look like sunshine. When I'm in one of my cynical and bitter moods, that insistent sunniness can be quite annoying. But not at the moment.
Is there any flower more cheerful than a yellow daisy? It's like the Muppet of the floral world. No matter how gray the day. No matter how thick the fog. Yellow daisies always look like sunshine. When I'm in one of my cynical and bitter moods, that insistent sunniness can be quite annoying. But not at the moment.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Friday, January 08, 2010
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Night of the Living Dead
Last night was seriously hellish. No sleep until about 9 am this morning, and a non-stop, horrid migraine that had me throwing up and actually moaning for most of the night. This morning Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was unusually vocal and active. Turns out we had a 4.1 earthquake in the bay area. I wonder if it's true that animals can predict these things because she was most unusual this morning. Of course it was during the worst of the head pain when silence and peace is most needed -- and here's Cipher, running around, meowing, generally raising a ruckus.
During the night, before the worst of the pain, when I was already having a severe case of insomnia, I turned on the TV and turned to one of my favorite distractions, cozy British mysteries. Lord Peter Wimsey took me until about 2, but I do not blame my headache upon him. A gentleman of his calibre surely cannot bring such ill-fortune.
So, as a result, I've been slug-girl all day. I didn't do any of the things I'd planned to do and, sadly, didn't make it to cat duty. I've stayed in bed, trying not to move. I did get up for a few hours to finish a project that I'd promised to do for Husband, and I do have dinner in the oven, but other than that it's just been me, bed, drugs, and a wondering why some people get migraines and others do not.
Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I had dinner with my family last night?
Last night was seriously hellish. No sleep until about 9 am this morning, and a non-stop, horrid migraine that had me throwing up and actually moaning for most of the night. This morning Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) was unusually vocal and active. Turns out we had a 4.1 earthquake in the bay area. I wonder if it's true that animals can predict these things because she was most unusual this morning. Of course it was during the worst of the head pain when silence and peace is most needed -- and here's Cipher, running around, meowing, generally raising a ruckus.
During the night, before the worst of the pain, when I was already having a severe case of insomnia, I turned on the TV and turned to one of my favorite distractions, cozy British mysteries. Lord Peter Wimsey took me until about 2, but I do not blame my headache upon him. A gentleman of his calibre surely cannot bring such ill-fortune.
So, as a result, I've been slug-girl all day. I didn't do any of the things I'd planned to do and, sadly, didn't make it to cat duty. I've stayed in bed, trying not to move. I did get up for a few hours to finish a project that I'd promised to do for Husband, and I do have dinner in the oven, but other than that it's just been me, bed, drugs, and a wondering why some people get migraines and others do not.
Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I had dinner with my family last night?
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Photo of the day: Right Place, Right TIme
On my way home from the shelter today I spotted two Snowy Egrets and two Giant Egrets on the bayside. Luckily I had time to pull over and grab a camera before they flew away. I was fortunate enough to catch this one right at take-off. It was a great day for bird watching. I also saw a flock of Plovers, some Whimbrels, and several cute but unidentifiable Ducks.
On my way home from the shelter today I spotted two Snowy Egrets and two Giant Egrets on the bayside. Luckily I had time to pull over and grab a camera before they flew away. I was fortunate enough to catch this one right at take-off. It was a great day for bird watching. I also saw a flock of Plovers, some Whimbrels, and several cute but unidentifiable Ducks.
Eavesdropping
It's been far too long since I've shared any eavesdropping with you. It's amazing what you overhear people say...
Overheard at the grocery store
Woman to man, looking at the fish counter: Will you be home for dinner tomorrow night?
Man: Not if that's what you're cooking.
Overheard at the shelter
Woman 1: Are you a cat person or a dog person?
Woman 2: I'm a Brad Pitt person.
Overheard at the shelter
Man on cell phone: All their dogs look like lesbians.
It's been far too long since I've shared any eavesdropping with you. It's amazing what you overhear people say...
Overheard at the grocery store
Woman to man, looking at the fish counter: Will you be home for dinner tomorrow night?
Man: Not if that's what you're cooking.
Overheard at the shelter
Woman 1: Are you a cat person or a dog person?
Woman 2: I'm a Brad Pitt person.
Overheard at the shelter
Man on cell phone: All their dogs look like lesbians.
Photo of the day: Ghost of Christmas Past
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Over a dozen years ago I was given this scarf as a Christmas present by a wonderful family whom I love. They gave me sanctuary at the holidays at a time when I really needed it. I have never worn this scarf, nor will I ever give it away as it will always remind me of the generosity and kindness that can magically appear when needed.
6.jpg)
Over a dozen years ago I was given this scarf as a Christmas present by a wonderful family whom I love. They gave me sanctuary at the holidays at a time when I really needed it. I have never worn this scarf, nor will I ever give it away as it will always remind me of the generosity and kindness that can magically appear when needed.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Monday, January 04, 2010
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Recent Reads
It's been far too long since I've shared with you what's been keeping me up past bedtime lately.
First off, a ripping good true yarn. The Bolter by Frances Osborne. It's the story of Lady Idina Sackville who led a scandalous life in England and Kenya in the 1920s and 30s. Full of affairs, drugs, marriages, divorces, and even murder, it's a total page-turner. A fascinating glimpse into the life of a rebel and the early days of the English occupation of Africa. Al though her life seems ultimately unhappy, the adventures she lives, the men in her life, and her controversial choices make for a great read. I'm a sucker for a book about tough, unconventional women so I devoured this one in a few days.
Our most recent book group selection was my choice, My Cousin Rachel by Gothic mistress, Daphne du Maurier. It's full of misdirection and unanswered questions, which usually bothers me. But in this case it was a fun mystery that leaves you wondering if Rachel was an innocent, misunderstood woman or a manipulative killer. Full of Cornish atmosphere and some interesting plot twists, it's a good stormy night book.
Being a Northern California native, I grew up visiting Lake Tahoe on a regular basis and hearing the tragic story of the Donner Party. Desperate Passage by Ethan Rarick does a good job of showing how the historic settlers were pretty much doomed from the start. By starting late in the season, taking an untried route, and making a variety of disastrous decisions, the group piled mistake upon mistake and ended up at the infamous pass which now bears their name. There are good guys and bad guys, there is heroism and selfishness, wisdom and stupidity. Though not the best-written history book I've ever picked up, it nevertheless lays out the story clearly and seems to be well-researched.
Because of Husband's wonderful generosity, I have several books waiting for me (he totally spoiled me at birthday and Christmas) so I'll have plenty of good reads in the weeks to come.
There is one problem, though. I finished The Bolter last night and now I find myself not interested in the next book in my to-be-read pile. I received a copy of Lady Jane Grey by Eric Ives (a book I requested) but now I just can't seem to pick it up. The Bolter was full of sex, drugs, scandal, more sex, intrigues, travel, and sex. A scholarly book on Tudor history just doesn't have that sense of fun.
It's been far too long since I've shared with you what's been keeping me up past bedtime lately.
First off, a ripping good true yarn. The Bolter by Frances Osborne. It's the story of Lady Idina Sackville who led a scandalous life in England and Kenya in the 1920s and 30s. Full of affairs, drugs, marriages, divorces, and even murder, it's a total page-turner. A fascinating glimpse into the life of a rebel and the early days of the English occupation of Africa. Al though her life seems ultimately unhappy, the adventures she lives, the men in her life, and her controversial choices make for a great read. I'm a sucker for a book about tough, unconventional women so I devoured this one in a few days.
Our most recent book group selection was my choice, My Cousin Rachel by Gothic mistress, Daphne du Maurier. It's full of misdirection and unanswered questions, which usually bothers me. But in this case it was a fun mystery that leaves you wondering if Rachel was an innocent, misunderstood woman or a manipulative killer. Full of Cornish atmosphere and some interesting plot twists, it's a good stormy night book.
Being a Northern California native, I grew up visiting Lake Tahoe on a regular basis and hearing the tragic story of the Donner Party. Desperate Passage by Ethan Rarick does a good job of showing how the historic settlers were pretty much doomed from the start. By starting late in the season, taking an untried route, and making a variety of disastrous decisions, the group piled mistake upon mistake and ended up at the infamous pass which now bears their name. There are good guys and bad guys, there is heroism and selfishness, wisdom and stupidity. Though not the best-written history book I've ever picked up, it nevertheless lays out the story clearly and seems to be well-researched.
Because of Husband's wonderful generosity, I have several books waiting for me (he totally spoiled me at birthday and Christmas) so I'll have plenty of good reads in the weeks to come.
There is one problem, though. I finished The Bolter last night and now I find myself not interested in the next book in my to-be-read pile. I received a copy of Lady Jane Grey by Eric Ives (a book I requested) but now I just can't seem to pick it up. The Bolter was full of sex, drugs, scandal, more sex, intrigues, travel, and sex. A scholarly book on Tudor history just doesn't have that sense of fun.
Saturday, January 02, 2010
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