On The Other Hand Recommends...

In the tradition on Peacebang, and even the Sartorialist's Sartolia List, I thought I might tell you about some things that I would recommend, and NOT recommend, based on my week at the beach.

First of all, OTOH Totally Recommends Hawaiian Tropic Baby Faces and Tender Places 50 SPF sunblock spray, which works brilliantly and stays on for a long long time. It doesn't really spray - it's lotion, and it squirts like a squirt gun, which is kind of amusing, and then you rub it in, so it doesn't keep your fingers pristine, but it's still a superior product.

Unfortunately, it only works if you APPLY IT. Carrying it down to the beach and back without squirting - not that effective. So OTOH Recommends the only thing that has ever kept her pale blue Celtic skin from peeling:
pure shea butter.

A few years ago, attending my first-ever pastor's conference, I had the rare (for me) opportunity to be driven from Long Beach to San Diego in a convertible. Yes, it was lovely, and yes I got sunburned, and yes, as soon as I had registered, I took off for a nearby open-air mall to find some cheap unguents of some sort.

Well, the mall was too nice to have a Rite Aid or a CVS, and so I ended up spending $30 (!! I practically fainted) on shea butter products. I walked back to the conference hotel, muttering all the way 'this better work...'

It did. It does. It does everything, from soothe sunburn to soften scraped knuckles to control cuticles to, in a pinch, style hair. It lasts a long time. It's indispensable.

On the other hand, if by some chance you're going to be spending the week chasing a child around, plus missing your dead parents and reflecting on 16 years of marriage and all the physical and emotional exertion that entails;
and if for the last year you've been taking not one but two multivitamins per day;
OTOH Cannot Recommend leaving your damn vitamins on the windowsill at home. Go back and get them. Go to Happy Harry's and buy another bottle for God's sake, of course it seems like a waste of money but once you have experienced the alternative, you'll know.

Also, OTOH Does NOT Recommend getting your period twice in one month. Under any circumstances. I'm just sayin'.

However, I can without reservations (ha ha) Recommend getting a room close to the beach, so you can run down for a swim carrying nothing more than your room key. As I have mentioned, we used to stay on the outskirts of town, in a lovely house. There were many things about that which were lovely; however, leaving for a day at the beach was like packing the conestoga wagon for the journey west. We took food, clothes, books, a tent, multiple towels, knowing that we wouldn't be back until after dinner.

Try the boardwalk hotel. So those aren't Egyptian cotton sheets. So there's a bus stop outside your window. Doesn't matter. At all. Completely immaterial, compared to the joys of walking around barefoot with a key and a five tucked into the waistband of your bathing suit.

And speaking of bathing suits, OTOH Recommends getting a new one after being pregnant. (Happily, the Lane Bryant outlet had a good one.)

However, I DO NOT Recommend taking a toddler to an outlet mall. And here's why.

by the way. before and after

got my hair cut about a week ago. First, my embarrassing lacrosse hair, shot in the ladies room at Clyde's (which is pretty appropriate, when you think about it.) And second, my kinda cute Kewpie doll cut, received from George at Cavallaro and Co in the Columbia Mall. (That's my kinda cute Kewpie doll facial expression, to go with it.)

tagged

we watch a lot of animal planet these days - even the commercials have animals in them, which thrills The Dude, who is in his I Can Name That Animal phase.

When you're tagged on Animal Planet, it means you have a radio collar, or maybe a tiny camera mounted (harmlessly, I guess) on your forehead or under your chin.

So Renee tagged me. (Rather recently, as opposed to when Flip tagged me and it took like 3 months for me to think of anything to say.)

rules to play

1. players start with 8 random facts about themselves.
2. those who are tagged should post these rules and their 8 random facts.
3. players should tag 8 other people and notify them they have been tagged.

my 8 random factoids:
1. I share my birthday with Penn Jillette, and my exact birth date with Craig and Charlie Reid, The Proclaimers.
(oh, come on, there must be a better picture than that!)
(Ah, here's one.

2. I am a huge fan of The Proclaimers, and I've seen them 4 times. (They don't tour in the US very often.) We saw them in Annapolis on September 10, 2001.

3.I'm a huge fan of Richard Thompson, and I've seen him at least 6 times. (He comes to the US all the time.)

4. When I'm bored, I make my way through Finslippy's blogroll. It's how I discovered Whoppee.

5. I'm sitting here crying, no lie, because I took a moment to read Finslippy's Minty Bear post.

6. My child uses 'Momma' and 'Dadda' interchangably. This secretly pleases me.

7. My favorite thing in the Bible is the Book of Tobit. This book may not actually be in your bible. I read it at a Catholic retreat center, because I had forgotten my NIV. You should definately find a copy and read it.
Here's the cool thing about the Book of Tobit - my experience of reading it really reminded me how many identities I put on the Bible (you know: research tome, mash note from God, Magic 8-Ball) and how often I (by all accounts a literary sort) forget one of the primary identities: Book of Stories. I sat down and leafed through the bible, and this section caught mt eye, and honestly, it was just like God took me aside and said "You will not believe this! Listen to this story!"

8. I have not missed an issue of Vogue since 1979. (No, I don't still have them all.)

8 people:
beth
Stacie
jen
Sandy, who can post them in the comments.
Lori, who can do the same.
Jeff
would April do this? (WWAD, anyway?)
Oh, what the hell - DJ and/or Rachelle, since they aren't busy at all.

Bonus factiod: My hair is no longer Special Effects USA Virgin Rose (as it was the last time I meme-ed.) It's now Feria Auburn Brown. This is very close to my pre-grey-patches natural color.

One more thought snotty thought about Live Earth

Kanye West is not a good addition to the Police lineup.

Nous ne sommes pas de Londres

La femme sur cet autobus a une coiffeure comme celle-là de Brian May

It's possible that this is the funniest thing I've ever read.

all y'all, it's sabotage

Watching Live Earth - because I've been puttering between the living room (with cable) and the bedroom (with a radio shack antenna), and because Bravo and NBD are showing different shows assembled from the same footage, I've seen the Beastie Boys twice and a bit of Kanye West a second time. This morning, when the had less big-name footage to throw around, Bravo showed what appeared to be the whole set by the reunited Crowded House.

They had played in Australia, where apparently they are still a big draw, and the crowd seemed to all be as over-the-moon to be singing along with Tim as I would be.

Me, I sat on the living room floor and cried. I have no idea why - it wasn't like they were performing the dead mom song or anything. (Selected parts of Woodface have been known to make me teary, but only rarely.) But for some reason, this morning I started during 'Fall at Your Feet' and just kept going. Who in the hell would cry over 'Don't Dream it's Over'?

One might cry over the raging terribleness of the new Madonna song. It's enough to make one reconsider saving the planet, if this is the sort of thing produced on it.

And Joss Stone should select her backup singers carefully, as one might question who ought to be singing lead and who ought to be backing up whom.

Who's this? Metallica? I was about to chide their grey hair, but I must say the Beasties grey hair made me love them more.

Mingle² -

this is what I get for writing headlines with the phrase "suck it" two days in a row.

c-c-c-c-c-coffeeeeee

Two summer ago, shared my a tale of woe (more like WHOA! about breaking my espresso machine. The post was called Why Baristas Wear Aprons, and it tells how I threw in the disgusting, stained towel on home creation of espresso drinks.

Well, I've switched to iced coffee, and on the very convincing advice of the New York Times Magazine plus a raft of questionable strangers on the internet, I am experimenting with cold-brewing coffee concentrate. This will be my second batch, and the first batch was quite decent - less acidic, just as all the propaganda promised, with the sort of strong flavor needed to stand up to milk.

Sites that talk about this process use words like 'mulch' to describe the coffee-grounds-and-cold-water goop, and that's not inapproprate. Actually, peat moss. Smells better, though.

Tonight, I have added some sugar to the peat moss, to see if it suspends evenly - actually, to see if it dissolves at all in cold water which is then kept in the fridge. If I can make sweetened iced coffee concentrate.......wooo.

The tough part is not making your iced coffee at home. See, when I spend the $3 a day for iced coffee at Starbucks, I'm drinking it either in the store (rarely), in the Prius (usually) or at my desk. Unmolested by one-year-olds.

The tough part is getting a chance to drink your iced coffee at home.

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Mingle² - Online Dating

I'm worth less than Flip, can you imagine?

You know I was just writing about Betsy Recipes? THIS could be the Betsy Apartment.

via Dooce.

I am searching, searching, searching the internet to see if I can find some version of the recipe I cooked tonight (without having to a)violate the copyright of a writer I admire and also b)type it myself.)

Because it is The Very Best Thing I Have Ever Eaten. Plus, I've made it several times, and it is easier to make well than it is to make badly. (I know, because I've done both. But it really is easy to make well.)

It's Chicken with Vinegar, from The Minimalist Cooks at Home, which was a Christmas gift several years ago and which I am finally working my way through. I don't have very many cookbooks. Since several of my favorite recipes were from Mark Bittman's Minimalist column in the NYTimes (print edition; the food section's on Wednesday) I thought this one might be a good bet. Well, yay me, and my excellent taste.

I love to cook, but I go through long phases where I can barely bring myself to toast a poptart. Lately, I've been cooking up a storm. Even more than cooking, I love grocery shopping, though when prices are high as they have been this spring, I get all mad, as if I was being insulted personally by mango growers and organic chicken farmers.

Rather than go on and on about the difficulty and frustration of trying to cook with a one-year-old standing between your feet, waiting patiently for you to put that knife down on the counter, instead I give you:

The cookbooks I use a lot:
My dad's 1955 Joy Of Cooking
The Best of Mennonite Fellowship Meals, which I'm thrilled to see is still in print. This is a weird compendium - but for every green jello salad with canned fruit, there's a great simple recipe that's got a place in my repetoir.
Brother Juniper's Bread Book my favorite baking book (and I've read them ALL.) Also thrilled to see this is still in print.

Easy Basics for Good Cooking, from Sunset, out of print but apparently there are plenty around. I need to take mine out and get it rebound, or drilled and kept in a looseleaf notebook.

I got out of my house basically able to scramble an egg. My dad was a terrific cook (in the 'big roasts surrounded by root vegetables' vein), and it was his main creative outlet. SO HE WOULD PHYSICALLY REMOVE ME AND MY BROTHER FROM THE KITCHEN so he could create in peace.

My brother was able to learn a little more from him than I was, and then worked in a bakery and at a lunch counter, so he had no such handicap as he faced adulthood. Me, I ate a lot of sandwiches, and a lot of eggs.

I don't really remember what made me want to learn to cook - I think it's connected to having this house and wanting to be hospitable. I do know that, before we were even really moved in, I made a big batch of chocolate chip cookies with walnuts for my brother and his friend, Wesley Paxton, who was visiting from England.

Our friend Chuck lived with us for years, and I think I learned mostly from him. He's a very ambitious and creative cook, who learned from both his parents; we've spent many happy hours talking food, now that he has his own kitchen.

Anyway, Easy Basics is exactly that, with lots of helpful photos (because the choux paste is SUPPOSED to separate like that when you add the eggs, but if you've never done it before, it totally looks like it has something has gone horribly wrong and you should throw it all out and order something instead.)

And because of Easy Basics - and because of choux paste, which is what creampuffs and eclairs are made of - I developed my peculiar area of speciality when it comes to cooking.

Which is: the recipes (and there are hundreds) which are simple and dependable, but which create a product all out of proportion to the effort involved. Which seem, to the person eating them, to be hard and time-consuming and to show immense skill.

Those are Betsy Recipes.

Ecumenism critqued

over here. I'm a fan of Kyle Potter; he's a divinity student, a terrific clear writer about some complex subjects, and incidentally, a devout Anglican. (All those guys who starts out as Southern Baptists make the best Anglicans.)

It's more than incidental for me, actually. I'm a cradle Episcopalian, who, after a very devout childhood and short periods as a Buddhist and a Quaker, grew up to be sort of a general-purpose evangelical who worshiped, and now serves, in independent churches. Trans-denominational...no, wait, Post-denominational churches. That's it.

My identity - my denominational identity - surges from foreground to background, from not-even-worth-mentioning to the primary fact of my identity, the first bullet point in my introduction. The last few years, it's come to the front again.

For one thing, it's a distinctive - it connects me to some people (Bob comes to mind) and sets me apart from others.

It sensitizes me to, and aligns me with, the victims of evangelicalism's tenacious anti-Catholic bullying.

I also suspect it's my primary qualification for my job.

Seriously, the Old Boss aside, hardly anyone in the congregation I serve has a sacramental background. The things I grew up believing and celebrating and doing are a part of what our church wants to give people - deep ritual, meaningful actions, a place to meet God beyond logic and sermonizing. The rhythm of the year; connections between this Lenten season and the one 5 years ago. Disciplines. Ancient poetry.

I haven't been to seminary; I never studied any of these things. I got them through immersion, through them being the only way I knew to be church.

And my background has plenty of holes. Growing up in my church, there was no moment of decision, of 'giving your life to Christ' - you were His already, obviously, baptised and raised under God's hand. Any decision - if one decided not to be confirmed, for example - would have been a refusal of the assumed order rather than a positive step. It was a little like the Columbia Record and Tape Club; it ran on negative consent.

The church I grew up in left lots of room for interpretation, so much so that famous Episcopal priests have published books debunking the virgin birth and the literal resurrection. Moral decisions were largely between you and God, but the directions for seeking God's guidance were pretty hazy. Also, if I had grown up 'born again' ("I've been born again my whole life!" as the character in "Saved!" says,)
I'd have a much better handle on the Bible, both as narrative and as compass.

Not to mention the class and gender baggage woven into the gigantic structure...the whole massive hierarchy (and its basis, apostolic succession) just seemed more of an impediment to God's work than a help. I couldn't sign on for that. And God was kind, and appears to have led me to a way to honor my 'calling' (I feel pretentious calling it that, but honestly, there's no other word) outside that structure.

And so I have made a commitment to an ecumenical, born-again community.

Nothing in my life has ever made me feel more Anglican. And more high church Anglican, at that.

I don't want to post a comment on Kyle's blog, cuz dude, they're all a bunch doctoral candidates and parish priests hanging out over there, and they'd eat me alive! Not in a mean way. They just know a lot of words that I didn't learn while getting my BA in theatre. I would be exposed.

But I will say this here (where I am constantly exposed) -

Kyle says that the differences between denominations are real, and to suggest that one is as good as another is disrespectful. Because we pick our denominational affiliations, at least in part, because we believe it to be

...the most faithful way, in this time and place, to respond to and embody the fact of God's reign in Christ?

And if you really think your church- say, the Baptist church - is the one that's 'the most faithful way', then to say

"I'm a Baptist, because that's what I think is right for me. I'm glad that you're a Methodist, because that's what God has called you to be. It doesn't really matter because we all love Jesus."

may be well-meaning and even kind, but it isn't truthful.

Here's where Kyle and I differ:

I think that I believe denominations were made for people, not for God.

People are limited. They're limited in their intellect and spiritual connectedness; they're limited by habit and taste and history.

God is enormous, majestic, passing understanding.

This may be the postmodernist in me -

I believe (and scripture and history support) that God reveals God's nature in many ways - scripture, creation, sacraments, supernatural happenings. Jesus was/is the most perfect revelation of God's character and nature.

Even people who knew Jesus in person, who walked with him 365 days a year for 3 years, did not get the fullness of God's revelation. They didn't even get the fullness of Christ. And he was right there. He ate with them, joked with them. They saw him rise from the dead.

Why, then, is it hard to imagine that Methodism might exist not because it's the best vehicle for revelation (and so everyone should get on board) but that it's the best vehicle for revelation to a certain type of people. Other people will be left cold by Methodism but love Roman Catholicism. Neither is 'the most faithful way' in God's eyes. Both are God-inspired but human-made, and so have truth and errors and beauty and hatefulness somewhere in there.

Does this make sense? It seems to me that God has done many things (Christ's incarnation, parables, Pentacost, to name three) to speak to people in a language they'll understand. Are denominations part of that?

Small Town Life cannot suck it quite as much today.

1. a triumph - 18-month pediatric checkup with NO SHOTS. This is especially good for me - he cries for 5 minutes, but having to hold him down is an emotional minefield for me and I'm messed up for the rest of the day.

plus lunch at the Japanese buffet - that's always good.

2. a serious miscalculation - I packed The World's Cutest in the car, and on our way to the hardware store, I stopped for a moment at the municipal pool. I wanted to check the hours and the prices and get a general idea of how things might go if, on some 100 degree day (they're coming, mark my words) I decided to take my toddler swimming.

The lifeguard behind the counter was polite and informative, and Ian and I peeked through the fence at the pool. "See?" I said to Ian. "That's a SWIMMING POOL. One day we'll come and play in the water. Okay, let's go to the hardware store."

And that, apparently, was the signal to unleash hell.

Ian, who has never in his life seen a pool (or a garden hose or even a particularly full bathtub) made up his tiny mind that he must not be separated from the pool. The pool is his destiny, his one true home. His Brigadoon. His Shangri-la. He completely, utterly flipped, and cried in a way that I have never heard him cry in his life. I was afraid he would injure himself - I wasn't sure how, but it just seemed immanent.

Okay, so change in plans - no hardware store. ("But you LOVE the hardware store!" I pleaded over my shoulder. Fresh wails. Okay, fine.) Drivethrough, followed by the lake, where we could eat and play on the playground and watch the DOG and DUCK SHOW.

2. The playground was an enormous success; his dinner less so, consisting as it did of 3 waffle fries, one nugget, a juice box and about half of my milkshake. (Yeah, call child protective services, I know.) He played decently with the other kids; he didn't hurt himself at all; he went down the big slide.

We witnessed a great deal of playground drama, mostly centered on a 10-year-old boy who smarted off to someone else's mom, who then detailed over the cell phone how she was going to call the police. "And WHERE is his MAMA???" she shouted from the top of the climber, where she sat with the 3 exhilerated, giggling daughters. There was also the requisite "I can't play with you/Ew she touched me" action, which made me tense even though none was directed at Ian. Yet.

3. DOGS were plentiful, varied and friendly (and Ian remembered How to Approach a Dog, I was thrilled.) DUCKS were scarce, though we were chased by several enormous farm geese, apparently setting a good example for the enormous fluffy gosling with them.

Not 'chased' exactly. (I am, as I have mentioned, from the country, and so I've been chased by a goose before. Plus I'm nuts, as I many have mentioned.) We walked toward the water, they saw us and approached us in a casual way. I picked up Ian and tried to act calm. Then I started to back away, you know, casually. Like, 'No, don't be silly, I'm not running away, I just see something kind of interesting OVER HERE BYE." I did drop our bag of leftover fries, which I thought would distract them but did not spark the smallest bit of interest. The fries were cold, I guess, while the backs of our thighs were warm and tender.

The geese evidently nest, or at least hang out, near the boathouse, which is pretty inconvenient.

4. Far from the boathouse (therefore safe from the geese...Good Lord, it's not enough that I have to do the Snake Check every time I step out of the house, now I have to monitor waterfowl as well? Sheesh) is the bandshell, where a band called Oracle was playing to a small crowd. They were pretty good and very weird; a couple of old rock guys in hawaiian shirts, two beautiful women in batik tank tops, flinging their long black hair in gypsy-ish ways, a young Latin guitarist, an excellent fiddler. They were skilled musicians; and clearly they prided themselves on their range. During the time that Ian and I were listening, they played:

A hooked-on-classics sort of instrumental
Black Horse and the Cherry Tree
Runaround Sue
a celtic ballad
and a country number with the lyric "She thinks my tractor's sexy."

And they were all pretty good! I mean, nothing was embarrassing or half-assed. Everyone on the front line sang lead, credibly; the fiddler and the acoustic guitarist were terrific. I think their identity problem is really working for them.
Gape in amazement at theirsong list.

Ian was totally digging it, dancing all around. And, in fact, I was curious to see what on earth was next on that set list, but it was already past his bedtime.

When we arrived home, 3 of the 5 little boys from 2 doors down - Isaiah, Kaleel and some other OT Prophet - came barrelling out the door because they had caught a glimpse of Ian, and thought he might like to play again - they had played for nearly an hour this afternoon already. So they all ran in circles screaming for several minutes before collapsing. I slung Ian over my shoulder and took him up to bed.

So I think we've proven that Laurel has plenty of entertainment for an 18-month-old. Who in turn, is rather entertaining himself.

Small Town Life can suck it.

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, I have (almost inadvertently) begun a sort of campaign to begin to appreciate my town a little more, rather than frittering away my days wishing I was somewhere more glamourous/funky/whatever.

In the last 24 hours, The Laurel Project has suffered two setbacks - neither really major, but both annoying.

1. Yesterday, in a yard about a block from our house, I spotted a great photo. A family had washed several of their childrens' stuffed animals, and hung them on the laundry line to dry - mostly held up by old fashioned clothes pins, pinned to their ears. Especially striking was a neon pink bunny with a (understandably) surprised expression.

It made a great photo - a fence behind, framed in a tall hedge, back corner of the house visible in the frame. Nice summer-y greenery.

I pulled over and took a few shots with my little snapshot camera. I was anxious to get them onto the computer and tinker with them, maybe make one the first post on a new photoblog.

But I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON.

And I did not wait long enough for the download, from camera to hard drive, to finish.

And then, before checking the target drive (did I mention that I am not a patient person?) I cleared the camera's memory.

So now this funny, nicely composed photo, which held a certain amount of meaning for me, exists as a thumbnail and a file name but not as an actual, accessible photo. This is perhaps the most frustrating thing ever. Why preserve the thumbnails, then, Kodak? Why not just skip the whole thing?

2. After settling the kid down, and watching way too many minutes of E! True Hollywood Story (Mickey Mouse Club! Ryan Gosling as a 12-year-old womanizer! Keri Russell looking exactly the same as she does now! It was kind of like a car wreck - you don't want to look, exactly, but you can't look away.)...I ran out to the library, thinking I'd have about 20 minutes to grab some magazines and books. That's plenty of time, right? I know where everything is. It's not like I'm picky. So 20 minutes should be a ton of time.

Except it's Laurel.

So everyone knows you.

And so they talk to you. Catch up on the baby's sleeping habits. Tell a story about their kid's (now 18 years old, but they remember it like it was yesterday) sleeping habits. And their own. And then the guy whose neighbors' dog keeps him up has a quandry (will calling animal control lead to dog poop on the porch? Magic 8-ball says YOU MAY RELY ON IT.)

And yes, of course I could have blurted out "Hi, great to see you, gotta run and get books." And I did not. Or, I did, but it was right after the library lady breathed all over the PA and said that it was 8:55 and the library would be closing in 5 minutes. I had made it to periodicals when they started turning out lights.

And I silently cursed small town life, and longed for the precious, precious anonymity of the city, where no one knows your name or give a shit about you and your little problems and you can die alone in your apartment and your cats will eat you and no one will know for weeks but at least you can get some freaking library books in peace.

Wendall Berry never mentions that part.




On the other hand, our Fox station just did a teaser for a news story where they'll be talking about, no lie, "the fight against violent crime." Well, I guess some things are worth fighting for....

A decade in the vocation by Peacebang.

Of course I'm not (and at this late date, and considering my level of misgivings about, well, practically everything, am unlikely to ever be) a parish priest. So my experience isn't really like hers. But my feelings surged right along with her as I read this.

3 thoughts while watching television

1. On America's Got Talent Which It's Keeping in a Top Secret Location And Then Showing Us This Crap Instead, a magician did a pretty inventive turn and advanced to the next round! Last year's auditions included some rather awful magic; Nathan Burton hung in until late rounds, and his act (IMO) is strikingly unoriginal.

Tonight's guy (I missed his name) ate fire, and then combined two classic effects (one of which is occasionally flashy but never deceptive) into one well-choreographed, fooling, totally surprising trick!

Magic - really, a lot of allied arts - has such exceptional potential for originality, surprise, the ability to bring beautiful metaphor and poetry to literal life. To embody really meaningful ideas. (Not that the guy on tv tonight had any beautiful ideas; he had 2 minutes to make people curious to see more, which worked.)
And so much is 100% soulless. So I was pleased to at least see something I hadn't seen before, and well-done.

2. Dude, I would totally RULE The Singing Bee.

3. Prince Harry's pretty darn hot.

wordless and hilarious.

Creative Nonfiction

I am about two-thirds of the way through RebeccaWalker Gives Privileged, Navel-Gazing Feminist Hypocrits a Bad Name. Honestly, with a subtitle like this book has - "Choosing Motherhood After a Lifetime of Ambivelence" - well! How could any book be more interesting? Ring more bells for me? Be more 'up my alley'?

I'm sorry, but this is crap. This woman delivers keynote speeches? Writes books that are required reading in gender studies? (So says the flap.) It's possible that her less-creative nonfiction is defensible, but this pile is just painful.

Plus there's the whole mother thing. The author's mom is Alice Walker, an intermittantly fine novelist and, apparently, a rather crap mother. A conflicted mother. A mother who saw her children as keeping her from her real life's work. And who, by all accounts, did not try too hard to keep that feeling a secret.

(Hmmm. Perhaps there's an unintentional insight for me in this book after all.)

Anyway, Rebecca and Alice have a strained relationship, and have decided to conduct it almost exclusively on paper, in published essays and interviews. Granted, pregnancy does bring all one's mother business to the top of the agenda. One could hardly write an honest memoir of pregnancy and not talk about mom stuff, especially if the old girl's still around.

But R. Walker, after pages of, alternately
"My mother was so disappointing. I am still reeling from the damage of a disappointing mother. As I detailed at length in my last 2 books."
and
"I cannot imagine why my mother is so petty and vindictive. (Here, let me give you some examples.) All I'm doing is claiming my truth. How can that make her so angry? All I want is a little love and approval."

writes something I find just jaw-dropping.

She had gone to visit her mother, and says that she was uncomfortable being alone with her. And then she says:
"but I kept thinking about Marvin Gaye and how he was killed by his own father."

Christ Almighty.

This woman is either a complete idjit, or disingenuous to the point of being shockingly evil. And I cannot tell which.

Many people seem to have a high opinion of her writing, which makes me lean towards the latter.

And it's not that I'm offended because it's Alice Walker, oooh, big feminist icon. I don't care who it is. You don't just casually drop 'I kept wondering if my mother was going to kill me over dinner' into a general interest hardback. As a little digression.

And then wonder why she's so upset.

On page 76, R Walker says:
"... For the twenty-five-thousandth time, I apologized for telling my truth in a way that hurt her, and told her that I tried to protect her the best way I knew ..."

The Marvin Gaye aside is 11 pages later.



But somehow, I can't stop reading it. The power of the pregnancy narrative, I suspect. But I kind of want to see what stunner she comes up with next.

Could this make me love my hometown?

I don't love my hometown.

I didn't love my original hometown, the one I grew up in, but now in my late adulthood I have begun to see that it had, and continues to have, many loveable qualities. It's the sort of town one could love.

The town I have lived in for 16 years, I do not love. It's considered a small town (though it dwarfs the one I grew up in) and though it's perched in the suburbs between Baltimore and Washington, it's a real town, with history and character and problems.

There are some things about it I love. I'm quite fond of our library. I like our main street, which never fails to make me think of Richard Scarry's Busy Town. I like the fact that you can know merchants; I like the fact that my kid always hugs the owner of the Indian restaurant, that the people at the Korean buffet make him little treats. I like that I know people who work at other churches, and we can occasionally 'talk shop' in the bagel line. People here are very kind to us.

But - maybe because of geography, or perhaps bad (dated) planning, it lacks a central focus, a walkable 'third place' for meeting and living in public. And, maybe as a result, I don't feel the same sort of 'sense of place' that I feel in places I really love, like Fells Point in Baltimore or Philadelphia's Queen City.

We have cheap ethnic restaurants, a farmer's market, a little theatre or two, writers groups, even a yarn shop for heaven's sake. I sure would like it if we had a Trader Joes, but that's not it....For some reason I can't put my finger on, this town just doesn't 'come to life' for me.

Maybe it's me, or us. I suspect that I'm wishing it were something it's not - either urban/funky or upscale/yuppie - instead of appreciating it for what it is and really digging in. Really - how would I know if the houses around me were full of hilarious bloggers, jazz musicians, world travelers, beat poets? I haven't really tried to find out.

Anyway, tonight I saw this gorgeous site, linked by Jen. (And, just as an aside, if Jen lived in your neighborhood, you'd be set for life, a full schedule of little adventures and porch parties and philosophical conversations during coaster bike rides to the art supply store. I know this because I actually know Jen in person. You should too.)

Anyway, the photographer of this beautiful site, Kathleen Connelly, describes it this way:

On January 3, 2003, I began this photoblog to visually document the residents, visitors, plants, animals, architecture, landscapes and farm life of Durham Township, Bucks County, Pennsylvania (where I live), and nearby areas in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Unless noted, all photos are taken within a ten-mile radius of my home.

Now, I love a photo safari - so much that I still occasionally take one, with toddler in tow. I'm forever nipping out to Baltimore, to SOMEPLACE INTERESTING, to take pictures. (and I've been to Bucks County, and it is noted for it's natural beauty and historic archetechure. And I bet they have a Trader Joe's.)

Still, I wonder - would looking through my camera make my town look better? More interesting?

Astonishing

Occasionally I complain about the books that Ian enjoys. We have a copy of Walt Disney's Jungle Book (because Rudyard Kipling's remains would spontaneously combust if anyone thought this was the real Jungle Book) which I have hidden under the bed, because Ian would see it on the pile and request it, and I could not stand to read it even once, let alone 3 or 4 times in a row. It lacks the literary qualities of a Go Dog Go.

But THIS! exceptional item makes my head spin.

Via the brilliant Whoppee.

Smarter than a 12th Grader

This list of 100 words that high school graduates should be able to define...scared me to death when I first saw it linked on the excellent Addison Road.

But a deeper look, at a more relaxed time, and I was able to scrounge up a vague idea of the meaning of everything except 'moeity'.

Speaking of dictionaries, what's a good slang dictionary? The other day, I used the phrase 'that'll cut no soap with me, young man' (meaning that Ian's whining would win him no sympathy) and I wondered where on earth that had come from.

A great many of the turns of phrase that come out of me were common in the 1920s and '30s, because I am a time traveler. That's also why I know all those old songs. Oh, you may THINK it's because my dad was born in 1914, and my mom in 1924, but I'm sticking with the time travel story.

The deed is done

The tale is posted at my baby blog. Some photos - not of the event itself, which was FAR too upsetting to be photographed - the only thing more shocking would have been an audio recording - anyway, some photos of the ambiance at the barber shop are at my Flickr account.

I cannot imagine finding a more satisfyingly old-fashioned barbershop anywhere.



Still sadly lacking in issues of Argosy or Soldier of Fortune, though.

exceptional

JUSTICE - D.A.N.C.E.
Uploaded by edbangerrecords

via bob, who else?

Linked on Parent Dish (the former Blogging Baby) under the headline "Toddlers as Contraceptive Tool."




It's working for us.

Friday nights at our place

Whoopee: Bedtime, again

Whoopee is brilliant.

Random

1. Hello Kitty Bento. from here via sweetney, of course.

2. I certainly would like to go to this. Even more so, since I went to the site to copy that URL and saw that Cheap Trick and the Beastie Boys were on the same day as the Police, Ben Harper and Fountains of Wayne.

Am I the sort of person who camps out to spend $100 on a concert ticket for an all-day-and-night show to which I would be going alone? I have a couple more hours to figure out the answer to that question...but I have a sneaking suspicion I know the answer, at least for this year.

3. I listen to the Beastie Boys on the stationary bike 3 times a week. Yes, your faithful coorespondant has been working out faithfully - cardio and lifting - 3 mornings a week since February. I feel strong, I feel accomplished, and, of course, I feel conflicted. Because I'M NOT DOING THIS TO LOSE WEIGHT. Because I LOVE MYSELF and OCCUPYING LESS SPACE IN THE WORLD IS NOT MY GOAL. And ALL WOMEN ARE BEAUTIFUL. And I REFUSE TO SUBMIT TO THE DIET-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX which makes MILLIONS on women's SOCIETALLY SANCTIONED SELF-HATRED. And exercise has many benefits to health and longevity not reflected on the scale.

But come on. One lousy pound? In 3 months?
Christ.

4. Work is very good. Parenthood is pretty good. I am going through a rather good patch with both, having a respite from the 'coping requires 110% of my energy' period earlier this year. Thank God.


5. It appears I have somehow grown a large mop of purple hair.

Well, that's silly. I know how it grew there (by me not cutting it since Christmas or so). (I also know how it got to be purple.) Still, when you're used to having hair that can be measured in fractions, having hair that you have to push out of your eyes, hair that brushes your collar, hair that can be MESSY...it's pretty strange.

A couple of months ago, I had decided, under the influence of one-too-many episode of What Not To Wear, that I would take a bold step and pay a professional person to give me a haircut. A woman's haircut. (I've been clipper-cutting my own hair for about 10 years.) This led me to consider what this professional person would have to work with (not much) which led me to let it grow for a while. In June, I said. In June, I will have my hair cut.

We're almost there.

Here's the thing - I'm not sure quite how to go about this. There's a lot riding on this haircut (WHY? If I hate it, I can just go home a shear it off, and look as I look every summer, and also cut about 8 minutes of product application and blow-drying off my gym routine.) and I want a nice one, a great one, a fabulous one. I want to look modern and cool, a little avant garde, but also be low maintenance. (Hmmm.) Clearly, I need an artiste, but in a low-to-medium price range. How do I shop for a haircutter?

6. Young master Ian also needs a haircut. His has been growing since...his conception. It's about as long as mine, actually.

For his first cut, I envision a barber shop like the one my dad and brother went to - the big chair with the booster, the cotton cape, the fat guy brushing his the little hairs off his shoulders with a little soft broom, the stack of Field and Streams and Argosys.

I don't imagine anyone will have a small black-and-white TV with a wire coathanger sticking out the top, playing westerns or a Yankees game. And I don't think there's Argosy anymore.(Wikipedia confirms that Argosy was last published when I was in high school.)

Anyway, how do I find that barbershop?

i don't want these...

but I'm digging the picture. They're here via Manolo.

He's bored with what he likes but scared to try anything new.

Good Lord.

That's a quote from Alice (yes, like she's my close personal friend Alice from down the street. She's not; she's the author of Finslippy, a blog I admire very much, whom I assume I will never meet in person or even exchange email with.)

So it's Alice, writing about her kid Henry and his relationship to food. (This week, he will only eat orzo. Please, Lord, let THAT particular cup pass us by.)

But orzo is not my point, though I am sympathetic. My point is that she has, in one matter-of-fact sentence, summed up my life. Maybe 'Life'. Sorry if that sounds melodramatic, but there it is.

Seriously! Don't you feel that way? At least intermittantly?

I haven't even finished reading her post - that phrase struck me so hard that I had to hop over hear and note it.

It's a good question.

via the great Manolo.

Look at this!

http://bighugelabs.com/flickr/onblack.php?id=214424928&size=Large

This is just a little thumbnail - click on it to go to the full-sized image on Flickr. It's an edit of 6 photos by Stephane Boisson.

It has to be asked whether 2000 years of religious photoshopping have remodelled Jesus almost out of recognition. We've added some tints (sure, he didn't speak about homosexuality, but if he had, we know what he would have said), a blurred edge (he didn't really mean we have to sell all we have for the poor), and made him as transparent as possible (put him there in the background, but not so obvious that we actually have to look at him). The trouble is, someone forgot to hit "save" right at the beginning, and we've got little hope of undoing the layers to get back to the original.

Cheryl Lawrie in the Austrailian newspaper The Age.

I just discovered Hold::This Space, a blog of an alternative worship project; via jonny baker.

Linkage,,,

These no-effort-at-all-on-my-part links posts would be a waste
EXCEPT THIS ONE which is freakin' hilarious. (Bad language alert, in case that bugs you.)

The linked post makes fun of Peyton Manning, kind of incidentally, which works for me as I am still mad at the Colts.

I believe I am the last holdout, the very REMNANT of Mad At The Colts. Even Gary thinks I should let it go. Even Phil.

Traitors.

THIS is funny.

Like, I'm afraid to take a sip of tea if I'm even sitting near the computer, just in case my eye happens to fall on the screen and I accidentally read something that makes me snarf hot Ginger Peach out my nose.

Again.

Happy Easter, everybody!



from the Daily Bunny. (Whatever will they think of next?)

Wednesday at 9:27pm

American Idol can bite me.

Again.

Great moment in old-school comics from YesButNoButYes

Yeah, I'm sure it's ripped off from Superdickery.com, as many people point out in the comments.
Yes, I disapprove of plagerism.
But if you go to this Superdickery site, you will INSTANTLY GO BLIND from the bad design and the hundreds of vile pop-ups. Which takes forever to load, which is annoying but also kind of a favor. Believe me, it is a far, far better place I'm sending you.

to add to my geekitude, i will mention that the cgi on Dresden tonight is way lame. It's usually good.

it's the most completely revolting time of the year

If you’re a snake looking for someplace with sheltered stony crevices, a ready supply of insects and occasional running water, our cellar comes up as the first result on Snoogle.

Someone else's snake story.

My snake story from last spring.

There's not enough free iced coffee or wild black cherry italian ice in the world to make me feel okay about this aspect of the season.

Last week, in yet another show about dieting, I heard Oprah say that she had wasted a large part of her 30’s worrying about food and weight. I’m thirty-seven. Only three years to go before I am undoubtedly, irrevocably ‘grown up.’ Will I still be carrying the neuroses of a thirteen year old? Will I still automatically convert calories into sit ups? Will I still waste precious minutes feeling guilty? Will my body remain my enemy?

I am so tired of being stuck in Jr. High.

Read the rest. at Rachelle's Magpie Girl.

from nothing to everything in no time at all

“Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring.
Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating.”
- Simone Weil

from here
via here.

post title from thisshockingly terrible film, which we're watching right now - and really, how bad does a James Bond film have to be to shock me?

dogs in elk.

been on this train too long

I'm watching the rock and roll hall of fame inductions on VH1, and I am ashamed to admit this - I was the world's most fervent REM fan for about 20 years, since Rob Davenport made me that mix tape back when we both worked at the girl's camp in 1984.

I'm not ashamed to admit THAT.

I am a little ashamed to admit that I kind of forgot.

I'm sitting here watching the mini-retrospective that played as Eddie Vedder was talking, and I'm thinking "God! I love that album! ...God!! That song's great! Jeez! I haven't listened to that in...years!"

How could I go more than two years without listening to 'World Leader Pretend'? or 'The Wrong Child'? How is that possible?


by the way - wanna see some really great pictures? These are some fucking great pictures.

This is great -

Interview with Moby at Sojourners. I'm listening to this right now, and I'm really enjoying it.

Something pretty

http://www.jenstark.com/work.html

via moleskinerie

# That's it! You people have stood in my way long enough. I'm going to clown college

50 great Homer quotes:

http://www.2spare.com/item_61333.aspx

via Bob.

(Though they did miss one of my favorites:
While listening to Prairie Home Companion:
"Stupid radio! Be more funny!"

We are feeling somewhat better today, thank God.

breifly - a couple, maybe 3 weeks ago, we had the Week of Vomit.

Ian started Saturday night. (Babies, it seems, are weirdly non-plussed by throwing up, though it freaks their poor mothers the F out. He had never thrown up before! I was busily paging through The 3am Book, a resource that tells you, in effect, when to take your kid to the emergency room. 3am, I'm sitting in bed, hyperventilating, trying to read this book. Ian, having surrendered his stomach contents and now feeling utterly fabulous, is standing beside me, naked, trying to wrestle the book out of my hands because it has a picture of a dog - a boy hugging a dog - on the cover."DAAAAH!!! he yells, and slaps the book.)

(So, while I may remember the night as the start of the Week of Vomit, Ian will recall it as the night that Mama wouldn't let him read the Dog Book. She's so mean.)

Anyway, he felt better immediately. I took the Tues-Wed-Thurs shift, and then Eric came in to finish the week strong, narrrowly missing a trip to the ER for intravenous fluids.

That was also the week that Betsy Misplaced the $600 Drugs. (I found them eventually.) They're actually very effective - it's a special anti-nausea drug that dissolves in your mouth, so you don't have to be able to keep water down in order to take them. They're rather miraculous. Chemo patients take them. Chemo patients, and my husband.

It's a good thing we have some left over.

It's back.

Grammy update III

The Chili Peppers are incredibly boring. There's really no excuse - I don't think that 'low energy' is their normal setting.


So here's a picture of someone interesting. Though he's not on the Grammys this year, he's been on in the past, since every one of his albums has been nominated, plus he was the RIA Vice Chair for several years:

Kurt rules. This is Kurt Elling, composer, poet, music historian, great great great jazz vocal talent. Charming fellow. Just lovely.
his website.

Grammy Update II

One day, the people who love James Blunt will shrug with embarrassment, unable to imagine what they could possibly have been thinking of.

Like people my age think of Leo Sayer, or Tommy Two-Tone.

Grammy Update.

I do believe that Ornette Coleman is going to die of a stroke from having to give Carrie Underwood an award.

Also, didn't Andy look pissed?

Worst dress: Natalie Mains' performance costume.
Best jacket: Common's grey leather Nehru.

OH WAIT! We have a new contender for worst dress: Smoky Robinson's outfit.
New Rule: If you are a man, and you are planning to wear a beaded lace blouse and satin leggings to perform, do not accessorize with two diamond hoop earrings.

Um, unless you're David Johannsen.

In 1974.

dance like a monkey

Video lights are not a friend to David Johannsen.

Caught a little bit of the reconsitiuted New York Dolls on Soundstage this afternoon.

I was kind a Dolls fan in theory. Which is to say, they broke up in like 1977, so I sort of missed them. Plus they only made 2 albums, and they weren't exactly the sort of thing that you'd find in the Sam Goody's in Selinsgrove. So I had read about them, gasped in nervous delight over their scandalous press photos in the Village Voice... but I hadn't really heard them.

Of course I like them. Their songs are kind of like Ramones discards - rejected for lacking subtlety - but for my money, thats's still pretty good. Only two of the original members (David Johannsen and guitarist Sylvain Sylvain) are still alive, but the replacement guys played great.

Johannsen not so much. His voice wasn't great in the 70s; on Soundstage, he was visibly winded a bunch of times. Also - seriously, dude, sleeveless was a bad idea. He's thin enough, but his 'Hi Helen' action could certainly have been managed better.

But hey look!


Check out the newsboy cap with the blue jean stitching. With the little pocket.

The first boy who I french-kissed was wearing that hat. At the time.

via Bob Carlton.

Had a lovely meandering phone conversation with a friend today - one who lives in upstate NY. I thought I would check on her, thinking that she was in the path of the snow. No snow to speak of, although it has been about -500 degrees there, so thst'a rather inconvenient. It's in the single digits here, which I thought was awful until talking to N.; I didn't even leave the house today. I of course am fearless in the face of icy blasts, being as I am from UP NORTH.

Confession: Of course, that's utterly bogus. In the first place, it's only central Pennsylvania that I'm from, not the Yukon; and, in truth, the weather where I grew up is milder on both sides, both warmer in winter and cooler in summer, than it is here.

Anyway, though I am fearless, I couldn't possibly expose my innocent baby to the skin-chapping, weenie-shrinking cold, even in his practically uncountable layers of adorable baby clothes.

Have you noticed my sarcastic new tags? It's my protest against the New and Allegedly Improved Blogger. You HAVE TO upgrade, and when you do, you HAVE TO get yourself Yahoo! account. THIS is why we will one day run out of bandwidth, people. Because I am REQUIRED to have 40 different identities in cyberspace.

Soon I will have another, since I will also be forced to upgrade my Flickr account, which will require me to add on a Google i.d.

Did you know my husband has 14 email addresses? I just chided him for not having a GMail address, and he hopped online, and now he has another.

The tags are also an homage toLaid-Off Dad.

How uncool am I?

...that I had to read about this in the freaking Sunday New York Times (EDIT: This was incorrect. It was the Washington Post. Which is probably worse, in the coolness area.) I had never seen it - or heard any mention of this video - until tonight.

I am old, old, old.

Did you catch David Byrne? It's quick, and a little obscure. I whooped so loudly when I saw him that Eric thought the cats were fighting.

okay, 5 things meme

I have given up trying to be profound or self-revelatory (if that's even a word.)
Here are 5 rather mundane things that you may not know about me.

1. I know the words to every song. This is my superpower - some people are polymaths, some people (like my brother) have an astonishing memory, some people have perfect pitch. I have the ability to recall the lyrics to literally several hundred songs. It's possible that I know more than a thousand. Everything. Camp songs, pop songs, long sections of chorales, all the verses of hymns, and entirely too many show tunes. Just to balance things out, I am completely unable to memorize telephone numbers, PIN codes, or the multiplication tables.

2. My parents met at the counter of a soda fountain in 1953. Sitting on those round chrome stools with red leather seats. I hasten to mention they were not teenagers - there were no bobbysocks or poodle skirts involved.

3. I grew up in a house where my father did all the housework, all the cooking (all the edible cooking, at least) and the lion's share of the child-tending.

4. My mother, father and brother were all professional photographers. I pretty much never took a picture in my life until I was in my 40s, when my husband gave me my first digital camera. I started to call that gift "the biggest change in my life.." and then I remembered that I had a baby 13 months ago, so I don't think I'm allowed to say that about taking pictures. Nonetheless, taking pictures (and sharing them on the web) has become kind of a big thing for me. (And I do have some awfully photogenic subjects sitting around my house.)
check out my brother's work.
and my Flickr stream.

5. My favorite dish is Tom Ka Gai. (PLEASE NOTE: I have not tested the linked recipe - I only include it to show what it is. Although it does have four-and-a-half stars, so I may in fact try it.) My favorite dessert is creme brulee, though I am also extremely fond of Tres Leche cake and Thai sticky rice.

Bonus:
The question I am most frequently asked is what kind of hair dye I use.
The answer is: Special Effects USA, available at Hot Topic ALTHOUGH it's totally worth the trip to freakin' NYC to buy it at the midtown Ricky's.
I use scary toxic powdered bleach, then Virgin Rose for the main color, and a little tasteful fingerful of Blue Velvet on the ends.

I never get tagged...

my friend Flip has tagged me to share what he called "five important details about myself that many of you may not know…or remember."
I blather on about myself so much that I cannot imagine that there are 5 things left to reveal.

....I'm thinking! I'm thinking!



Still thinking.





Nope. I got nothing. Maybe tomorrow.

wave your hands in the air like you just don't care

So I have learned, just in the nick of time, that it's De-Lurking Week. (I think I first saw this on the excellent Metrodad.)
Anyway, check in with a comment - I'm curious who's here.

And by the way, you know I have a mommyblog, right? You know that there's a place you can go to drink in the exceptional beauty and wonder of the World's Cutest Toddler? And hear about how he lays socks across the top of his head and then grins up at you with crazy expectancy until you ask the ritual question "Is that your HAT? Do you have a HAT?"

And he just laughs and laughs.

Oh, go ahead. You know you want to. It's right here. Comment there too.

about a purse

Okay, so as we all know, I've been feeling kind of pathetically dowdy since the birth of the World's Cutest Baby, just 55 weeks ago.

(Which is interesting, since, during my gigantic Volkswagen-van sized pregnancy, I felt absolutely fabulous - a little ungainly in the final weeks of December, maybe, but mostly 9 months of adorable, shiny, even kinda chic. Pregnant rocker girl.)

Well, my shape's not that different now from what it was last fall. That's the trouble - the pregnant rocker girl look doesn't work so much when you're not, you know, pregnant. I am utterly desparate for clothes - new clothes. I'd even settled for some of my 2-year-old clothes that don't button these days.

So I'm joining the cheap gym. I think this should help me get back into my old pants and put some roses back in my cheeks.

Since I'm planning to lose some inches, that helps diffuse some of my clothes desparation - no use buying trendy clothes that I'll be too small. I don't wear lots of jewelry, on account of the grabby baby.

So that leaves bags.

I am focusing all my desparate aquisitiveness on some ridiculously fashionable bag. Something huge and agressively trendy. Perhaps in a metallic finish. Something with buckles. Maybe a padlock.

I have practical bags. I have some cute small pre-baby bags (great for the rare trip out with no bottles, no diapers, no knitting...) I have bags that I've made, and they're artsy and creative, but they do not say "This Month's Interview Magazine!" or "Featured on Daily Candy.com!"

What I do not want is a 'real' bag. I don't want to go to Coach and spend $378 on a pink leather bag. Because I don't have $400, or even a quarter of that, to spend on...well, anything. That Betsey Johnson bag in the photo is great looking, and I'm sure its of fine quality. But if I spent $400 on a bag, I by God want to carry it for the next 10 years.

I don't want a 10 year bag. I want a right-this-minute, next-big-thing, where-on-earth-did-she-find-that-bag? bag.

For about $25.


In the midst of my attack of acquistiveness, I read this excellent paragraph in a book of personal essays by Nora Ephron. They're about being a woman of a certain age, as they say, given to me for Christmas by a fellow W of a C A.

About purses, Nora says:

I may not be good at purses, but I know that any purse that hangs stiffly on your arm...immobilizes half your body. In a modern world, your arms have to be free.

...If one of your hands is stuck carrying your purse, it means your not free for all sorts of exciting things that you could be using it for, like shoving your way through crowds, throwing your arms around loved ones, climbing the greasy pole of success, and waving madly for taxis.

- Nora Ephron, I Hate My Purse in I Feel Bad About My Neck, c. 2006, Knopf.

What made you cry today?

In your tears,
in your blood
in your fire
and in your flood
I heard you laugh
I heard you sing

....I wouldn't change a single thing.

For you I'd wait 'til kingdom come;
Until my days...my days are done.
Just say you'll come
and set me free.
Just say you'll wait for me.

Kingdom Come
Coldplay, on X&Y, 2002



My friend Sarah used this as a soundtrack on a video recently; our office's one mac is in my office, so usually, when there's multimedia stuff being created, I'm in the room. I cried the first time she played the song for me.

And the 60 or so times I've heard it since don't seem to be diminishing the effect.

I just previewed the finished video, and stood in the booth with tears streaming down my cheeks.

Is this a song about God? About somebody's girlfriend? It certainly made me think about my husband - the first 30 times or so. Then it somehow transmuted into a Jesus song - in my head, at least (it seems arguable, reading the lyrics.)

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Oh! So I have the radio on, and I'm just getting over my spiritual sniffling from the Coldplay revelation, and the crinimally trivial "Waiting on the World to Change" comes on my radio. This is a station-changer for me (Like "lips of an angel" or any Doors song except 'people are strange.') I recently argued that playing this song over the airwaves - it's a public trust, you know - is reason enough to withdraw a radio station's liscence. It's irresponsible. In every sense.

I am offended that anyone of voting age, selling records to people of voting age, could begin a song with "me and my friends, we're so misunderstood" and end it with "so we'll keep waiting for the world to change."

Barf.

I know you're young, John M., but seriously. You're more grown up than THAT.

Photo Friday: Best of 2006

...'one'?

Merry Christmas, dear people.

You People Scare Me

Did you know about this? I certainly didn't.

Greatness

Look at THIS!

The raging wonderfulness of Flickr never ceases to amaze me.

Dream Girl Indeed.

In my dream last night, I met Twisty Faster.

Twisty is the nom de blog the creator of I Blame the Patriarchy. She is the best writer on the internet, or at least currently active in the blogosphere.

(I do miss getupgrrl, especially now, around Hanukkah.)

In my dream, I was in Austin (which is indeed the home of IBTP), leaving some sort of a conference or summer camp or something, and needed to use a phone. I stopped at a smallish house, really a cottage, with the door standing mostly open. I knocked and stuck my head in, and there in a mudroomish sort of area were 3 women, laughing and talking, relaxed and happy, doing something like potting up seedlings. 2 had garden gloves and one was potting with her bare hands. She didn't speak while I was there, just smiled sort of shyly, distractedly. She had cropped brown hair, a face that was both long and broad, high cheekbones and a big bold handsome nose.

I don't know how I knew it was Twisty, since she and I didn't speak, and no one introduced anyone (and of course I've never seen her IRL) but in the dream, I felt abashed and a tiny bit starstruck - honored, even - to be standing in someone's mudroom with Twisty Faster.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

In other news, Christmas shopping is practically accomplished. I kicked ass, I took names, and, to paraphrase Stephen C, then I kicked the ass' names. It's the most wonderful time of the year.

for all your candlelight family service needs:

It's the Questionable Christmas Children's Word Find!

IF you go looking for printable children's Christmas activity sheets on the internet, you'll find that 80% of them focus on Santa, elves, penguins (trendy, sure, but Christmassy? Hmmm...I guess they live at a pole.)

Another 18% are designed for 8-year-olds who have a year or two of seminary behind them. 'Naphtali'? Really? In a children's circle-the-word puzzle? I had never seen that before. Perhaps the brand name for myrrh? In fact, it's an OT guy, who had land and lakes named after him, which figure in the Isaiah prohesy. So there. It's probably in the Messiah and I just never heard it.

And then, finally, you find a nice simple nativity-oriented word search, with some cute clip art and some words you're pretty sure that little kids will recognize.

Including for that one in the second row.

The kids will be coloring on Sunday night. And that's all.

(honestly, I am ashamed at how long and hard I laughed at this. I carried it around to other staff offices. No one is quite as immature as I am, but they did all snicker.)

me again

I am still alive.

I do not have a novel for you. Perhaps next year.

Though I am usually the family's designated Christmas shopper (because I love it, and because I am one of the world's most effective and efficient bargain hunters)I have not purchased ONE SINGLE PRESENT for ANYONE.

We do have the most beautiful tree ever; it's a small one (we chose to do a 5-ish foot tree on a table, to keep most of it away from the kid) and it is fragrant, perfectly shaped, and somehow just uniquely precious. I guarantee you that I will cry in January when we have to haul it out to the curb.

Unbelieveably, I am watching an old episode of Extreme Makeover because I am too lazy to get up and find the remote...even though I know House is on.

I should be designing our Christmas card.

Almost as good as Beth's

You are The Hierophant

Divine Wisdom. Manifestation. Explanation. Teaching.

All things relating to education, patience, help from superiors.The Hierophant is often considered to be a Guardian Angel.

The Hierophant's purpose is to bring the spiritual down to Earth. Where the High Priestess between her two pillars deals with realms beyond this Earth, the Hierophant (or High Priest) deals with worldly problems. He is well suited to do this because he strives to create harmony and peace in the midst of a crisis. The Hierophant's only problem is that he can be stubborn and hidebound. At his best, he is wise and soothing, at his worst, he is an unbending traditionalist.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

via my bff, bww.

and now this

from dethroner (viewer discretion advised: drug references)
via sweetney.

Our new office motto

I am so sad that this isn't available in my size.
buy one.

Incidentally, our other office motto.

Sorry, we're closed.

Thanks for stopping by. I am taking a break from blogging for the month of November. You can probably find me here, should you be so inclined.

If you're withering away without your daily dose of ME, you can check my archives here and at:
Flickr and
my baby blog.

See y'all in 50,000 words.

bon voyage

I'm going on blog vacation! (Ah, would that I were going on an ACTUAL vacation, but that's not in the cards at the moment. In church, as in retail, we're just barrelling into nutty season.) But I will be snubbing you all, turning my back on the blogosphere for a month, while I concentrate my energies on something really crazy.

Husband and I enjoyed Halloween. Our 10-month-old did not, particularly, until he could get home and peel off his lovingly-selected bunny costume and run around the living room in his diaper.

I heard this guy on the radio the other day; I think I'll be reading his book (at least one) in December.

Nobody do anything interesting for a month, okay?

the power of art direction -

I've declared my intention to write a novel in a month with NaNoWriMo, but I would be remiss if I didn't point out that NaBloPoMo has a really really really good logo.

And an even better motto.

couldn't possibly be lovelier:

I did not write this, sad to say. Unbelievably, it's a recruiting pamphlet from a college.

AT THIS VERY MOMENT, somewhere in the world. . . .
a woman is reading a letter from her son, announcing his engagement to a girl the mother has never met; a five-year-old boy is sitting in a Laundromat in front of a large commercial dryer, reading a comic book while a pink stuffed rabbit tosses around and around; it’s spring somewhere, and somewhere else it’s autumn and the papermakers go down to the railroad tracks to collect the dried milkweed stalks; a movie star is eating Chicken Vandalia out of a white cardboard container in a hotel room while watching a TV program about typecasting in ancient China; a large number of people have the same cold; a man writes a love letter, carefully shaping the letters on the creamy white paper, imagining his beloved’s face as she reads the words he is writing; an artist is loading slides into a carousel as he prepares to give a lecture about Japanese washi; a baby has just said his first word (doggy) and an old woman has just said her last words (Don’t forget–); a young graduate student is sewing together an Ethiopian style book, and humming to himself; a small group of women are sitting on a porch in a rural village watching a meteor shower, and a man in the same village watches the same cascade of meteors, and writes a poem about it; a man and a woman stand on opposite sides of a bed, smiling at each other; a third grader makes his first sheet of paper; books are burning; printing presses are churning out tomorrow’s news; at this very moment, somewhere in the world, you are reading these words, holding this slender pamphlet in your hands and thinking about the things you want to make, the ideas you haven’t turned into reality yet. Somewhere in the world there’s the perfect place to work on these ideas of yours; that place is here, at the Columbia College Chicago Center for Book and Paper Arts. Wish you were here.

The Columbia College Chicago Center for Book and Paper Arts

Good Lord. A college brochure made me cry.

It even has an excellent URL: http://bookandpaper.org/

via Notebookism



LINK

Something is badly wrong with me.

Just signed up to write a novel.

In the last 12 months, I have sewed 3 seams and knit not even 10 rows. I don't journal regularly, and as we can all see, I don't keep up on any of my blogs.

Here's what the website says:

The stylish icons immediately communicate two things: 1) I am a serious writer now, and, 2) As a serious writer, I will not have time for household chores until December.

It's the little things.

I've mentioned that I like the band Killers a lot. (I like all those effeminant neo-new-wave bands - Scissor Sisters, Panic at the Disco.) I knew I loved their song Mr. Bright Side, and I knew that one of the lines - "Open up my eager eye.." - was very evocative and might make a good blog title.

But it's even more than that.

It's a homage.

In the English version of 99 Luftballons (as I was reminded when I heard it on the radio yesterday) Nena sings that the war machine 'opens up one eager eye'...

AHA! HA HA HA HA HA!

God talks to me through the TV

We end up watching Inside the Actor's Studio rather regularly, since it comes on Bravo Mondays after The West Wing, which is perhaps the only real addiction my non-smoking, non-gambing, never-even-been-tipsy husband has ever had. He leaves his body in the ass-groove on the couch and goes to live with CJ and Josh for a couple of hours a week, and that satisfies him for another 7 days or so.

I have mixed feelings about ITAS - on one hand, it's more tiresome celebrity worship dressed up as culture and education; on the other hand, it's occasionally educated people talking about ideas without shouting, so we'd want to encourage that, right?

Even when I have no interest in the guest, I'm always riveted by the questions at the end - the Bernard Pivot questions. Since everyone knows what they'll be asked, they have plenty of time to think up sparklingly clever and self-aggrandizing answers, AND YET I feel like the answers they give are (I think unintentionally) incredibly revealing.

So tonight Dan Castelanetta - Homer Simpson - was asked "if heaven is real, what do you hope to hear God say when you arrive?"

And he replied "'Eh! What were you so worried about?'"

I did it -

the thing that good hosts and good cooks never do. I invited someone for dinner, and prepared a recipe I had never made before. From a magazine. Can you imagine?

In fact, I've never made a pork dish before. At all. I had to ask our guest how to tell when pork is cooked. (Luckily, he knew.)

I also bought a $10 bottle of wine based soley on the recommendation of a liquor store employee who admitted that she had never tasted it, and in fact, didn't like wine much. It had a pretty label.

Everything was absolutely excellent.

The dinner:
Pork Chops with Sweet-Potato Salad

The wine:

According to the terribly exciting Red White and Rose list of great wines under $10 (I just found this site while looking for an image of the wine label! I really am terribly excited! We may spend the next several months in a mild, delicious haze! You should be really nice to me and see if you can't get invited over! The house smells a little like cats, but I figure enough 'great wine under $10' will probably mitigate...)
)

Promessa Rosso Salento ... a blend of 85% Negroamaro and 15% Primitivo. This very spicy, rich wine has notes of plum, violets, anise, tobacco, and licorice. The tannins compliment the spicy nature of the wine.
Price and quality earn this wine one star (out of a possible three.)

I guess not everyone enjoys a ride in a convertible

from the very weird bunny yawn website. Via Sweetney.

Words Fail, and things get interesting.

Just saw Little Miss Sunshine, which is an very rewarding film, mainly about the limitations of language.

Please note: If you happen to be going through any sort of personal rough patch – family bickering, career disappointment, parent/child sadness, romantic loss – I might suggest that you wait for the video. This may not be the ideal film for you to see.
(On ‘date night.’)

(I’m just sayin’.)

But if you brave it, if you can hang in through some undeniably uncomfortable moments, you may have a fairly lovely and cathartic experience. It’s a bit like Napoleon Dynamite – words fail, and that’s when things get really interesting. There are no weak performances; Steve Carrell especially distinguishes himself, and especially with his physical work; it’s really excellent.


I’ve also been watching Studio 60 on The Sunset Strip, which I have begun to suspect is not excellent. I wanted very much to like it – I’m fond of Sorkin, my INSANE LOVE of Sports Night is well-documented. This show has theatre history jokes. Fatty Arbuckle jokes. (And not the obvious ones!) Gilbert and Sullivan parodies!

Really, I am the target market for this show. Me personally.

What’s good: well, the fact that there’s a show on TV that wants to make a non-dirty Fatty Arbuckle reference. The female characters seem smart, and when male characters who treat them otherwise, it’s evidence of untrustworthy character and bad judgment.

But by far the best thing – here’s the best thing about Aaron Sorkin. Sorkin understands something important.

He understands that work is more fun than fun.

This is the best thing about Sports Night, and it’s by far the best thing about this latest show. It’s a beautiful artistic tribute to adrenaline, to that moment when you’re working hard and surrounded by stimulating people who really care about what you’re doing and you are fairly confident but if we’re really honest NOT REALLY 100% SURE WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN IN THE NEXT 60 SECONDS….dude, that’s when you know you’re alive. Seriously.

When Sports Night was on broadcast, I used to cry every week as I watched it. Because someone got it.

So that’s good.

Here’s what, so far, seems pretty bad – one of the characters is a comedian and a Christian, not to mention a beautiful smart woman and a romantic lead. So far, I kinda like her, and I like that various men admire/love her. But honestly – I am in the God industry, and I don’t have as many conversations about Christianity in a week as this woman does. It is too early, for me at least, to tell how this peculiar bit of writing is going to work out.

And here’s what’s really bad already. The show is about the producers, and production, of a late-night sketch comedy show on a broadcast network. (But not Saturday Night Live! And you can tell its not about SNL, because people refer to SNL, to actual events in SNL history, by name. Matthew Perry’s character namechecked Wayne’s World on Monday. SNL is the competition for the show-within-a-show.)

If you’re going to have a show about a comedy show, and you’re going to make the very risky decision to include parts of the comedy show in the script….honestly, it has to be funny.

The parts where the producers are arguing about ratings are funny. The parts where the comedy writers are struggling to write jokes are funny.

The parts where the comedians are telling jokes on TV should be at least a little funny.

If they’re not, then nothing else makes sense. All the talk about the ratings, the focus groups, the switchboard lighting up, even the long (long long) montage of the studio audience laughing and applauding…complete nonsense.