A beautiful day on the bay.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
I Am Not a White Supremacist
But my TiVo thinks I am. I recorded a program about hate crimes a week or so ago and since then it's recorded programs about skinheads, the Klan, fringe white supremacist groups and racial crimes in prison. I just saw an ad on the National Geographic channel entitled "American Nazis" and something tells me I'll find that in my TiVo suggestions within the week.
In the midst of all this I received the latest "Teaching Tolerance" from the Southern Poverty Law Center; a fine organization that Husband and I support. Oh the irony.
I'm amused at the Tivo brain that takes one program and then stuffs my "Now Playing" box with any show about racist, homophobic bigots. It's almost like it thinks I want to commit a hate crime and it's giving me all my options. I had no idea there were so many programs about people beating the crap out of anyone they feel is inferior. Kinda makes me want to beat the crap out of someone I feel is inferior (the aforementioned racist, homophobic bigot). (And yes, I'm kidding.)
But my TiVo thinks I am. I recorded a program about hate crimes a week or so ago and since then it's recorded programs about skinheads, the Klan, fringe white supremacist groups and racial crimes in prison. I just saw an ad on the National Geographic channel entitled "American Nazis" and something tells me I'll find that in my TiVo suggestions within the week.
In the midst of all this I received the latest "Teaching Tolerance" from the Southern Poverty Law Center; a fine organization that Husband and I support. Oh the irony.
I'm amused at the Tivo brain that takes one program and then stuffs my "Now Playing" box with any show about racist, homophobic bigots. It's almost like it thinks I want to commit a hate crime and it's giving me all my options. I had no idea there were so many programs about people beating the crap out of anyone they feel is inferior. Kinda makes me want to beat the crap out of someone I feel is inferior (the aforementioned racist, homophobic bigot). (And yes, I'm kidding.)
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Photo of the day: Wrapped Up in Cute
The nursery will be closing next week, though I might stay on as part of the skeleton crew to take care of the ones still in quarantine. But until then, I'm still free to post amazingly cute kitten photos. This is from one of the kittens in residence earlier in the season. He's already gone home with someone. Yay!
The nursery will be closing next week, though I might stay on as part of the skeleton crew to take care of the ones still in quarantine. But until then, I'm still free to post amazingly cute kitten photos. This is from one of the kittens in residence earlier in the season. He's already gone home with someone. Yay!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Football
I am outrageously happy that football season has started. Don't get me wrong, I'm still tuning in to watch my Giants play baseball. But there's something about football that, to me, signals the arrival of fall and the beginning on Sundays where I never want to leave to sofa. Typically there's only one game that I really care about; OK, sometimes two. As a native of the SF Bay area I naturally follow the Niners. As a native Philadelphian, Husband favors the Eagles. I've become an Eagles fan too (no offense, Niners, but the Eagles have been more fun and far less frustrating to watch the past few seasons). But this year we're boycotting the Eagles and not watching a single game because they stupidly went and signed noted prick and convicted dog hater, Michael Vick. We refuse to support any organization that hires him, so no Eagles for us this year. Which is sad, as I absolutely love Donovan McNabb.
But from the 10 am game, to the 1 pm game to Sunday Night Football (still have a hard time with it not being on Monday. Yes, there's a Monday game but it's not the same without Al and .... oh wait, he's retired. OK, Al and Kris.) I could easily sit there and not move except to get up to pee or get something to eat. And the thing is I'm not all that interested in most of the teams. I just the ritual of it all. Even if it's just on in the background as I'm doing something else, there's something surprisingly comforting about the familiarity of it all. The cheering. The bad beer ads. The truck commercials. The hilarious close up of the vapid cheerleaders and trying to figure out who has the skankiest of them all. (Here's a hint, I call the Eagles cheerleaders "the Ho-Hos."
But whether I'm actively engaged, swearing at the screen and making a general ass of myself (because they can't hear me and they're all dopes because they haven't had a passing game all day and yet they keep trying to connect). Or if I'm barely paying attention and focusing on making catnip socks or reading the Sunday paper, it's still a fall ritual that I love.
I am outrageously happy that football season has started. Don't get me wrong, I'm still tuning in to watch my Giants play baseball. But there's something about football that, to me, signals the arrival of fall and the beginning on Sundays where I never want to leave to sofa. Typically there's only one game that I really care about; OK, sometimes two. As a native of the SF Bay area I naturally follow the Niners. As a native Philadelphian, Husband favors the Eagles. I've become an Eagles fan too (no offense, Niners, but the Eagles have been more fun and far less frustrating to watch the past few seasons). But this year we're boycotting the Eagles and not watching a single game because they stupidly went and signed noted prick and convicted dog hater, Michael Vick. We refuse to support any organization that hires him, so no Eagles for us this year. Which is sad, as I absolutely love Donovan McNabb.
But from the 10 am game, to the 1 pm game to Sunday Night Football (still have a hard time with it not being on Monday. Yes, there's a Monday game but it's not the same without Al and .... oh wait, he's retired. OK, Al and Kris.) I could easily sit there and not move except to get up to pee or get something to eat. And the thing is I'm not all that interested in most of the teams. I just the ritual of it all. Even if it's just on in the background as I'm doing something else, there's something surprisingly comforting about the familiarity of it all. The cheering. The bad beer ads. The truck commercials. The hilarious close up of the vapid cheerleaders and trying to figure out who has the skankiest of them all. (Here's a hint, I call the Eagles cheerleaders "the Ho-Hos."
But whether I'm actively engaged, swearing at the screen and making a general ass of myself (because they can't hear me and they're all dopes because they haven't had a passing game all day and yet they keep trying to connect). Or if I'm barely paying attention and focusing on making catnip socks or reading the Sunday paper, it's still a fall ritual that I love.
Quarantine
The nursery is coming into its last month and, sadly, it's ending on a quarantine. Ringworm. We've already lost some kittens but I think the ones left will be fine -- aside from getting too big for their kennels and in desperate need to get out.
Quarantine presents many extra precautions and, as a consequence, a bit more work. We wear plastic gowns (lovely in the heat) and gloves. Everything has to be extra bleached after each litter (the scale, the tables, the food bowls, etc.) Plus lots of floor mopping, extra hand washing, and general cleanliness. We even have to step in bleach whenever we leave the nursery to we don't track ringworm to the rest of the shelter.
But with the nursery closing I'll have more time on my hands. I'm at the shelter every weekday now: three days at the nursery, three days with the cats. Once the nursery shuts down I'll be doing three days of cats. So that leaves me with two free weekdays to get involved in something else.
I'm trying to figure out where I'd like to volunteer next. I'm considering a local food bank, a homeless shelter network, or something with a local environmental group (Save the Bay, Peninsula Open Space Trust, that kind of thing). But if any of you know of a worthy organization, preferably in San Mateo County, that needs a day or two a week of volunteering, please let me know,
The nursery is coming into its last month and, sadly, it's ending on a quarantine. Ringworm. We've already lost some kittens but I think the ones left will be fine -- aside from getting too big for their kennels and in desperate need to get out.
Quarantine presents many extra precautions and, as a consequence, a bit more work. We wear plastic gowns (lovely in the heat) and gloves. Everything has to be extra bleached after each litter (the scale, the tables, the food bowls, etc.) Plus lots of floor mopping, extra hand washing, and general cleanliness. We even have to step in bleach whenever we leave the nursery to we don't track ringworm to the rest of the shelter.
But with the nursery closing I'll have more time on my hands. I'm at the shelter every weekday now: three days at the nursery, three days with the cats. Once the nursery shuts down I'll be doing three days of cats. So that leaves me with two free weekdays to get involved in something else.
I'm trying to figure out where I'd like to volunteer next. I'm considering a local food bank, a homeless shelter network, or something with a local environmental group (Save the Bay, Peninsula Open Space Trust, that kind of thing). But if any of you know of a worthy organization, preferably in San Mateo County, that needs a day or two a week of volunteering, please let me know,
Monday, September 21, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Go Left at Walgreens
Women give directions differently than men. This is not a news flash. But it constantly amazes me at how much easier it is for I, as a woman. to follow directions given to me by another women.
Females are associational and, to my mind, more helpful men when it comes to telling you how to get from A to B. "Turn left on Main, go two blocks. At Pierce there's a Bank of America, turn left. At the third stop sign, turn left on Center Street and then turn right, at the McDonalds, onto Walker.
Men will say "Go northeast on Main. Stay on Main for 2.3 miles and turn south onto Pierce."
Really? Northwest? South? Let me get my compass and sextant. Who the fuck am I, Magellan? Don't make me base my trip on the position of sun. Give me directions I can follow.
Women give directions differently than men. This is not a news flash. But it constantly amazes me at how much easier it is for I, as a woman. to follow directions given to me by another women.
Females are associational and, to my mind, more helpful men when it comes to telling you how to get from A to B. "Turn left on Main, go two blocks. At Pierce there's a Bank of America, turn left. At the third stop sign, turn left on Center Street and then turn right, at the McDonalds, onto Walker.
Men will say "Go northeast on Main. Stay on Main for 2.3 miles and turn south onto Pierce."
Really? Northwest? South? Let me get my compass and sextant. Who the fuck am I, Magellan? Don't make me base my trip on the position of sun. Give me directions I can follow.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Scenes from Silver Creek: Watson
Watson was a fat orange tabby owned by our next-door neighbors when I was growing up. One of the four redheaded Orr kids did the old “he followed me home” bits and Watson moved into their house and our street.
Watson e thought any yard with a sunbeam was fair game, any door open to the summertime heat an invitation, and any lap his rightful domain. He would follow anybody down the street, indignantly meowing at a lack of pets. During the morning parade of kids walking to school in the morning he would sit in front of the Orr house and we would all dutifully pat his head as we walked by. Once the first child made his appearance on the sidewalk Watson would pad over, plunk his plump butt down, and wait for the pilgrimage. Every kid on the street, even the ones who didn’t like cats, would bend down to stroke his head or scratch his twitchy ears. Then, the ritual completed to his satisfaction, he would head off to start his day. It was a busy life with butterflies to chase, birds to chirp at, squirrels to scold and other cats to intimidate.
Of the five or six cats on our block at any one time, Watson was definitely the ringleader. He was the one who always held his ground when another would dare to invade his turf. He was the one that cruised the lady cats who always seemed sadly unimpressed with his strutting bluster. Although fixed, he never seemed aware of the fact and his attempts to play Romeo were numerous and legendary. A conscientious would-be suitor, his best effort involved bringing the corpse of Rudy Gardoff’s hamster, Dutch (recently and too shallowly buried in the Gardoff’s rose garden) to the Arthur’s brown tabby, Mona. Mona, at that time enamored of a black monster of unknown parentage and ownership seemed pleased at the offering but still preferred to keep company with someone else.
In spite of his masculine bravado, Watson was endlessly patient with any bored child who wanted to play dress-up or war. One of my favorite childhood photos shows me holding him, overfilling my chubby child’s arms, as he looked with surly acceptance at the camera in a tiny sailor hat. When my Barbie married Melissa Garth’s Ken, Wilson was both flower girl and minister. And when the Orr kids reenacted by Battle of the Bulge, Watson was (for some reason historically incongruous reason) George Washington.
Watson lived to the ripe old age of 16 and when he died the whole street turned out for his funeral. Mr.Orr played “Amazing Grace” and “The Alley Cat Song” on the harmonica and Mrs. Baciagaloupi made a mouse-shaped wreath from the flowers in the back garden. (Although she had to explain it was a mouse because we all thought it was Idaho.) He was buried under their oak tree, in a spot where he would while away the hot summer afternoons in the shade. And for many years there was a small wooden cross on which was painted “Watson Orr. A fine cat.’
Watson was a fat orange tabby owned by our next-door neighbors when I was growing up. One of the four redheaded Orr kids did the old “he followed me home” bits and Watson moved into their house and our street.
Watson e thought any yard with a sunbeam was fair game, any door open to the summertime heat an invitation, and any lap his rightful domain. He would follow anybody down the street, indignantly meowing at a lack of pets. During the morning parade of kids walking to school in the morning he would sit in front of the Orr house and we would all dutifully pat his head as we walked by. Once the first child made his appearance on the sidewalk Watson would pad over, plunk his plump butt down, and wait for the pilgrimage. Every kid on the street, even the ones who didn’t like cats, would bend down to stroke his head or scratch his twitchy ears. Then, the ritual completed to his satisfaction, he would head off to start his day. It was a busy life with butterflies to chase, birds to chirp at, squirrels to scold and other cats to intimidate.
Of the five or six cats on our block at any one time, Watson was definitely the ringleader. He was the one who always held his ground when another would dare to invade his turf. He was the one that cruised the lady cats who always seemed sadly unimpressed with his strutting bluster. Although fixed, he never seemed aware of the fact and his attempts to play Romeo were numerous and legendary. A conscientious would-be suitor, his best effort involved bringing the corpse of Rudy Gardoff’s hamster, Dutch (recently and too shallowly buried in the Gardoff’s rose garden) to the Arthur’s brown tabby, Mona. Mona, at that time enamored of a black monster of unknown parentage and ownership seemed pleased at the offering but still preferred to keep company with someone else.
In spite of his masculine bravado, Watson was endlessly patient with any bored child who wanted to play dress-up or war. One of my favorite childhood photos shows me holding him, overfilling my chubby child’s arms, as he looked with surly acceptance at the camera in a tiny sailor hat. When my Barbie married Melissa Garth’s Ken, Wilson was both flower girl and minister. And when the Orr kids reenacted by Battle of the Bulge, Watson was (for some reason historically incongruous reason) George Washington.
Watson lived to the ripe old age of 16 and when he died the whole street turned out for his funeral. Mr.Orr played “Amazing Grace” and “The Alley Cat Song” on the harmonica and Mrs. Baciagaloupi made a mouse-shaped wreath from the flowers in the back garden. (Although she had to explain it was a mouse because we all thought it was Idaho.) He was buried under their oak tree, in a spot where he would while away the hot summer afternoons in the shade. And for many years there was a small wooden cross on which was painted “Watson Orr. A fine cat.’
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