I don't know how many of you there are reading this. I know Miss MM read it, and forwarded one post to Miss SS. I hope that's the extent of it.
Listen, I made this private and didn't give you the address or tell you about it for a reason. It's private. I have no intention of moving the page or deleting this and starting over, but I would like you to consider something:
First, you know me pretty well anyway. I am happy to share my views and things with you at school. There's no need to delve into all my random musings on the world.
Second, I don't go prowling the internet looking for your private lives. You'd find it creepy, and for good reason.
So although I can't keep you from reading this, I'd like to ask that you NOT pass it on to your friends. If you can find it within yourself, I'd like it awfully much if you wouldn't read it any longer. You know I'm a real person. I'll talk to you if you want to talk. But for the most part, this is here as more an online diary than anything, and I think it's not to much to ask that you respect the sanctity of that.
Thank you,
Ms. S
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Fat acceptance... or not
This might be controversial, and I'm not trying to hurt anyone's feelings. I just want to be honest.
There's a group called the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance.
I agree with them to an extent. For example, I don't think we should hire or not hire people based on whether they are overweight. I also don't believe that the stereotypes about fat people are particularly true. I think fat people are intelligent, energetic, kind, and good in the same proportion that the rest of the population is. There's no reason at all to look down on them.
But here's my problem: I don't think we should just go "Yay, fatness. There's nothing wrong with it."
In my pretty-immediate family, there are at least twelve people who are seriously overweight. And I love them, every one. Most of them, if something happened to them, I would be absolutely devastated. And yet, they are at risk. Sure, they could get hit by a bus like any of us could, but they're more at risk of stroke, heart disease, diabetes... In fact, several of them already suffer from health problems related to their weight. My grandmother just had the arteries in her neck cleared, because they were seriously blocked. My aunt just spent weeks in the hospital after a quintuple bypass after already having had a stroke. She's not even old -- only a couple years older than my mom.
Can you have a stroke, can you have heart disease without being overweight? Of course. But being overweight puts you at greatly increased risk. And, well, if it's a matter of eating better and increasing the amount of exercise you get, I would REALLY like those people I love to lose some weight. I want them to be healthy and be around for a long time. I'm not letting other types of self-inflicted harm off the hook: my dad's a smoker, and I've harangued him about it for years. In fact, the arrival of Peapod may finally be the impetus he needs to quit, as I told him flat out that he's not babysitting ever if he still smokes. Am I a tyrant? Sure, but it's because I love him and my child.
I also know that you can be overweight and healthy. I worked with a woman who probably weighed 250 pounds, but was solid muscle, ate well, worked out (had in fact been an Olympic-level kayaker)... and I can only imagine that though her BMI was high, her cholesterol, blood pressure, etc. were just fine. This isn't a black and white issue. You can be skinny and eat like hell and be at risk of heart disease.
Anyway, I struggle with my weight -- anyone who's known me for any length of time has seen my 45-ish pound up and down slide. And most of the time, I'm fat, too. And I'm all for loving your body. I don't want anyone reading this to think this is an image issue. I think many overweight people are absolutely beautiful, and I love my body, even when it's bigger. I just think that before we jump on a fat acceptance bandwagon, we should consider the health issues, too.
There's a group called the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance.
I agree with them to an extent. For example, I don't think we should hire or not hire people based on whether they are overweight. I also don't believe that the stereotypes about fat people are particularly true. I think fat people are intelligent, energetic, kind, and good in the same proportion that the rest of the population is. There's no reason at all to look down on them.
But here's my problem: I don't think we should just go "Yay, fatness. There's nothing wrong with it."
In my pretty-immediate family, there are at least twelve people who are seriously overweight. And I love them, every one. Most of them, if something happened to them, I would be absolutely devastated. And yet, they are at risk. Sure, they could get hit by a bus like any of us could, but they're more at risk of stroke, heart disease, diabetes... In fact, several of them already suffer from health problems related to their weight. My grandmother just had the arteries in her neck cleared, because they were seriously blocked. My aunt just spent weeks in the hospital after a quintuple bypass after already having had a stroke. She's not even old -- only a couple years older than my mom.
Can you have a stroke, can you have heart disease without being overweight? Of course. But being overweight puts you at greatly increased risk. And, well, if it's a matter of eating better and increasing the amount of exercise you get, I would REALLY like those people I love to lose some weight. I want them to be healthy and be around for a long time. I'm not letting other types of self-inflicted harm off the hook: my dad's a smoker, and I've harangued him about it for years. In fact, the arrival of Peapod may finally be the impetus he needs to quit, as I told him flat out that he's not babysitting ever if he still smokes. Am I a tyrant? Sure, but it's because I love him and my child.
I also know that you can be overweight and healthy. I worked with a woman who probably weighed 250 pounds, but was solid muscle, ate well, worked out (had in fact been an Olympic-level kayaker)... and I can only imagine that though her BMI was high, her cholesterol, blood pressure, etc. were just fine. This isn't a black and white issue. You can be skinny and eat like hell and be at risk of heart disease.
Anyway, I struggle with my weight -- anyone who's known me for any length of time has seen my 45-ish pound up and down slide. And most of the time, I'm fat, too. And I'm all for loving your body. I don't want anyone reading this to think this is an image issue. I think many overweight people are absolutely beautiful, and I love my body, even when it's bigger. I just think that before we jump on a fat acceptance bandwagon, we should consider the health issues, too.
The neighbors
I have what must be an unusual street. Where else, besides parts of Miami and actual senior citizen communities, could you find a street where almost all of the residents are home almost all the time? The woman across the street is semi-retired, and only occasionally leaves to do part-time real estate work. The rest of the time she spends on her putting-green-perfect lawn.
The woman next door works from home as a massage therapist.
On the other side, the forties-ish couple doesn't seem to do anything. He looks like Ed Begley Jr. She is not quite as hot, but very fit, as she's always leaving on long, well-equipped bike rides. Both their cars are almost always in the driveway. When we first moved in, we would frequently hear them dumping glass bottles into their recycling bins, and we made a joke of it, pretending they were all booze bottles. When we'd hear the glass crashing, we'd giggle and make that "tipping the bottle" gesture with our hands, delighted at how clever we were. Then one day, Sweetie was on that side of the house, and their recycling bins were in fact filled with booze bottles. Now it's not so funny. It's weird though, because they are incredibly fit, and they must somehow afford to live in this neighborhood. They're a mystery.
Lately I've been home all summer because of summer vacation, but I'm dropping off the roster on Tuesday. But a new guy moved in behind us. I first noticed when he and a friend were hanging a gigantic wind chime in the backyard. The chimes were like 5 feet long, and it went "clang, dong, bong" as he hung it. Then one day, Sweetie and I were in the hammock at night, and we heard him on the phone outside (he seems to take a lot of calls outside) and he had super-gay voice. Like, when straight guys pretend to be gay -- that voice. Lately I've noticed that he's frequently there at mid-morning, listening to what sounds like synthesized classical music. Ever heard the "voice" or "choral" option on a fancy keyboard? It sounds like that.
Anyway, it seems like a strange anomaly to me. Someday I hope I'll unravel all the mysteries.
P.S. I made a complete ass out of myself when I first met the next door neighbors. Their names are Tom and Laurie, and I immediately went to one of my old stand-bys -- the ancient song no one knows. "Oh! Like that song! You know, the one where the guy enters a stock car race to buy his girlfriend an engagement ring? You know, Tommy and Laura were lovers? Come on -- he dies in a fiery crash at the end, and then he's all 'Tell Laura I love her...'" I do realize I'm a freak.
The woman next door works from home as a massage therapist.
On the other side, the forties-ish couple doesn't seem to do anything. He looks like Ed Begley Jr. She is not quite as hot, but very fit, as she's always leaving on long, well-equipped bike rides. Both their cars are almost always in the driveway. When we first moved in, we would frequently hear them dumping glass bottles into their recycling bins, and we made a joke of it, pretending they were all booze bottles. When we'd hear the glass crashing, we'd giggle and make that "tipping the bottle" gesture with our hands, delighted at how clever we were. Then one day, Sweetie was on that side of the house, and their recycling bins were in fact filled with booze bottles. Now it's not so funny. It's weird though, because they are incredibly fit, and they must somehow afford to live in this neighborhood. They're a mystery.
Lately I've been home all summer because of summer vacation, but I'm dropping off the roster on Tuesday. But a new guy moved in behind us. I first noticed when he and a friend were hanging a gigantic wind chime in the backyard. The chimes were like 5 feet long, and it went "clang, dong, bong" as he hung it. Then one day, Sweetie and I were in the hammock at night, and we heard him on the phone outside (he seems to take a lot of calls outside) and he had super-gay voice. Like, when straight guys pretend to be gay -- that voice. Lately I've noticed that he's frequently there at mid-morning, listening to what sounds like synthesized classical music. Ever heard the "voice" or "choral" option on a fancy keyboard? It sounds like that.
Anyway, it seems like a strange anomaly to me. Someday I hope I'll unravel all the mysteries.
P.S. I made a complete ass out of myself when I first met the next door neighbors. Their names are Tom and Laurie, and I immediately went to one of my old stand-bys -- the ancient song no one knows. "Oh! Like that song! You know, the one where the guy enters a stock car race to buy his girlfriend an engagement ring? You know, Tommy and Laura were lovers? Come on -- he dies in a fiery crash at the end, and then he's all 'Tell Laura I love her...'" I do realize I'm a freak.
New teacher orientation
I just got home from the new teacher orientation. "Wait," I can hear you asking, "aren't you already teaching?" Oh yes. In fact, this will be my 8th year. I'm so much a veteran now that I'm on the freakin' welcoming committee! Isn't that amazing and weird? Every once in a while, one of my uncles will ask something like "Have you been teaching four or five years now?" No, eight. And I'm thirty-one, and married, and pregnant. Life is a trip.
I stopped by the area where my room is. It's full of ditch-witches and construction guys and rubble. I asked one guy how close I could get before I got yelled at, and he said he thought I'd be okay. I'm actually not sure which room is mine. They're not labeled yet. I suspect it's the middle one in a group of three -- my room is J2, and that seems like the second one in a rational numbering system. The nice thing about that is that if I'm right, I'll be closer to the nearest bathroom by 30 feet. It may seem small to you, but with only 7 minutes to go, and lots of other female teachers to race with, that's important.
I'm going to try to talk later about my wacky neighbors and fat acceptance (two separate issues), but I'm pooped.
I stopped by the area where my room is. It's full of ditch-witches and construction guys and rubble. I asked one guy how close I could get before I got yelled at, and he said he thought I'd be okay. I'm actually not sure which room is mine. They're not labeled yet. I suspect it's the middle one in a group of three -- my room is J2, and that seems like the second one in a rational numbering system. The nice thing about that is that if I'm right, I'll be closer to the nearest bathroom by 30 feet. It may seem small to you, but with only 7 minutes to go, and lots of other female teachers to race with, that's important.
I'm going to try to talk later about my wacky neighbors and fat acceptance (two separate issues), but I'm pooped.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Breaking up with a friend
I am eating Peanut Butter Panda Puffs, which I adore and hardly ever purchase. And they are making me think of a friend I broke up with.
Breaking up with friends is weird. When you break up with a boyfriend, there's usually a damn good reason -- he isn't treating you right, he's making you miserable, he's impeding your life's progress somehow... But friends aren't generally in that category. I mean, after all, they're just friends. They don't have the power to impede you or make you all that miserable.
But I did, in fact, break up with a friend a while back. I had tried ignoring and avoiding for a long time, and finally had to be straight, with a "we're on different paths" kind of e-mail.
Now, of course I had a good reason. "We're on different paths" is a generic reason. Without getting into all the specifics, I'll just say that after many years of friendship (many of those years long-distance), I realized that 100% percent of her conversation involved saying mean things about others, aggrandizing herself (often in well-rehearsed stories I'd heard 100 times), competing with me, slyly insulting my choices in life, bulldozing anyone else in the conversation, then bemoaning the fact that the rest of her friends had distanced themselves "for no apparent reason."
But it was still heart-wrenching to break up. Even after discovering that she, well, wasn't really a very nice person, I had no intention of hurting her, and if I'd thought I could get away with the occasional e-mail and NEVER seeing her again, I'd have kept up the friendly pretense. But I just couldn't sit through one more lunch where she was mean to the waiter, criticized the cafe, and asked for 16 substitutions. It was draining.
But as I eat my Peanut Butter Panda Puffs, I realize there are things I have to be thankful for from those years. For example, I have spent a lot of time in Santa Cruz because she used to live there. I went to the Virgin Islands to visit her, a trip I'd have never taken otherwise. I know about Bonny Doon wines because of her (and have been to the tasting room several times, an experience I highly recommend if you like wine and find yourself in the area). I first had Lindt chocolates at her house. I first tasted apples and pears with blue cheese on crackers with her. I think I went to sushi for the first time with her. I am almost certain I first tried hot chai at an Indian restaurant with her in San Francisco. When she lived in S.F., we went to several cool local cafes and movie theaters. She and her husband taught me mah jong, along with several other fun board and card games. I saw Totoro because she lent it to me. My life is enriched because she was in it. Now that some time has passed, I can be thankful for that. Not enough to call her (shudder!), but thankful.
Breaking up with friends is weird. When you break up with a boyfriend, there's usually a damn good reason -- he isn't treating you right, he's making you miserable, he's impeding your life's progress somehow... But friends aren't generally in that category. I mean, after all, they're just friends. They don't have the power to impede you or make you all that miserable.
But I did, in fact, break up with a friend a while back. I had tried ignoring and avoiding for a long time, and finally had to be straight, with a "we're on different paths" kind of e-mail.
Now, of course I had a good reason. "We're on different paths" is a generic reason. Without getting into all the specifics, I'll just say that after many years of friendship (many of those years long-distance), I realized that 100% percent of her conversation involved saying mean things about others, aggrandizing herself (often in well-rehearsed stories I'd heard 100 times), competing with me, slyly insulting my choices in life, bulldozing anyone else in the conversation, then bemoaning the fact that the rest of her friends had distanced themselves "for no apparent reason."
But it was still heart-wrenching to break up. Even after discovering that she, well, wasn't really a very nice person, I had no intention of hurting her, and if I'd thought I could get away with the occasional e-mail and NEVER seeing her again, I'd have kept up the friendly pretense. But I just couldn't sit through one more lunch where she was mean to the waiter, criticized the cafe, and asked for 16 substitutions. It was draining.
But as I eat my Peanut Butter Panda Puffs, I realize there are things I have to be thankful for from those years. For example, I have spent a lot of time in Santa Cruz because she used to live there. I went to the Virgin Islands to visit her, a trip I'd have never taken otherwise. I know about Bonny Doon wines because of her (and have been to the tasting room several times, an experience I highly recommend if you like wine and find yourself in the area). I first had Lindt chocolates at her house. I first tasted apples and pears with blue cheese on crackers with her. I think I went to sushi for the first time with her. I am almost certain I first tried hot chai at an Indian restaurant with her in San Francisco. When she lived in S.F., we went to several cool local cafes and movie theaters. She and her husband taught me mah jong, along with several other fun board and card games. I saw Totoro because she lent it to me. My life is enriched because she was in it. Now that some time has passed, I can be thankful for that. Not enough to call her (shudder!), but thankful.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Jeff the arrhythmic drummer part 52, continued
I almost forgot -- he bought a shiny new mid-life crisis, a 98 Jag. My uncle says something about his carbon footprint, just teasing, and a few minutes later, when it finally hits Jeff, he responds that it doesn't affect his carbon footprint, because he can only drive one of his three vehicles at once. NEWS FLASH! Producing the cars themselves has an impact on the environment, and you buy ones with shitty mileage. Dumbass.
And at dinner, he says he had an epiphany in church (which he later also calls an "apparition") that Mitt Romney could be the anti-christ. Oooookaaaaayyyyy.
Well, we're jamming later, and I start singing some shit about Mitt Romney being the anti-christ. I'm cracking myself up, and the other two guys are laughing, and fully half an hour later, Jeff is sincerely like "That song you were singing, about the anti-christ... isn't that a crazy coincidence that I was just talking about that at dinner?" I had to explain that I was MAKING IT UP AS I WENT ALONG (which is sort of the nature of jamming, right?), and that it was based on that conversation. The first line, in fact, was "Mitt Romney is the anti-christ."
And one more thing! At the last practice, he wanted to look up some song on the computer, so I helped him find it, and then we were trying to fast forward in YouTube, which doesn't really work because it hadn't completely loaded. He mentioned that he didn't have that problem with looking at porn.
DUDE! I have no problem with anyone looking at porn, but don't fucking mention in mixed company your computer-porn viewing while I am SITTING IN YOUR COMPUTER CHAIR. Freak.
And at dinner, he says he had an epiphany in church (which he later also calls an "apparition") that Mitt Romney could be the anti-christ. Oooookaaaaayyyyy.
Well, we're jamming later, and I start singing some shit about Mitt Romney being the anti-christ. I'm cracking myself up, and the other two guys are laughing, and fully half an hour later, Jeff is sincerely like "That song you were singing, about the anti-christ... isn't that a crazy coincidence that I was just talking about that at dinner?" I had to explain that I was MAKING IT UP AS I WENT ALONG (which is sort of the nature of jamming, right?), and that it was based on that conversation. The first line, in fact, was "Mitt Romney is the anti-christ."
And one more thing! At the last practice, he wanted to look up some song on the computer, so I helped him find it, and then we were trying to fast forward in YouTube, which doesn't really work because it hadn't completely loaded. He mentioned that he didn't have that problem with looking at porn.
DUDE! I have no problem with anyone looking at porn, but don't fucking mention in mixed company your computer-porn viewing while I am SITTING IN YOUR COMPUTER CHAIR. Freak.
Oh, are my pregnancy hormones making me irritable, Fucktard?
Well excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me!
This post is hereby subtitled "Jeff the arrhythmic drummer part 52."
Okay, so I'm sure I've mentioned how difficult it can be to get simple concepts across to Jeff, particularly when he's stoned. Last night, we had this conversation.
Me: [plays bass line]
Jeff: Hey hey hey. What's the rule?
Me: Is it 'tell the drummer what we're playing'?
Jeff: Yeah.
Me: Well kiss my ass, this is brand new, so just give me a beat.
Jeff: But I don't know this one.
Me: [still playing] I know. It's new. We're writing it right now.
Jeff: But I don't think I've ever heard this one.
Me: That's right. It's an original. It's new. We're writing it. You said you wanted to jam, so here we are, jamming.
Jeff: It's an original? By who?
Me: [under breath] Fuck.
Jeff: Is it one of ours?
Me: Yes!
Jeff: Have we done this one before? I don't recognize it.
Me: No, it's new. It's ours. It's a goddamn original -- that's what original means!
Deep sigh.
So even though we've sort of established that we won't bring other people to band practice, Jeff does it every other session or so, usually friends that I think he wants to impress with the knowledge that he's a real drummer, with a real band. Because they're often there on the pretense that they're doing something else (looking at the deck was last night's excuse), but then he'll encourage them to have a seat and listen to the band. Ugh. (And just in case this point has been lost, if he wants to impress people, drumming for them should be very low on the list of what to do. He is a sucky drummer.) So last night, Dewey or whoever is sitting listening to the band. We finish up, and Dewey and Jeff go in the kitchen and are talking as we pack up. I'm a fast packer, so I sit down on my amp for a minute. I hear Jeff and Dewey talking, and I hear "she's pregnant, so she's dealing with all those pregnancy hormones..."
Well. If I had been dealing with pregnancy hormones, I wouldn't have been able to pretend to ignore that. No, I'd have ripped his eyes out and skull-fucked him. But I ignore. He's an idiot, and not worth it.
But then as I'm leaving, he comes out to say goodbye, and gives me this speech, like "I won't see you again until after school has started, so have a good school year, and I hope something in your spirit touches those kids, and this is going to be a challenging time, blah blah..." In light of the pregnancy hormones, the clear subtext I hear is "I know you're feeling irritable, so don't take it out on the kids." Well FUCK YOU. I don't generally get irritated with the kids because they're not retarded* potheads! If they were as hard to get through to as you, I'd schedule a meeting with their parents. Furthermore, I like them better than I like you!
And since this post, I realize, sounds so incredibly irritable, I'm going to ask for confirmation -- the three people who are closest to me and spend the most time with me are Sweetie, Mom, and Monkeygirl. Would y'all please step up and tell the world that I have not been irritable?** If anything, I've been a little weepy and tired, but not cranky. I was cranky with cause last night. And that's not pregnancy hormones, that's pothead retards.
* I don't often use the word "retarded," because I realize how un-PC it is, and I would never use it in reference to someone who actually has special needs. In this case, think of it in the musical sense -- a retard in music is a slowing down, and Jeff, who is a retard in music, slows us down.
** I realize that if they post comments saying "no, she hasn't been irritable at all," all it proves is that they might be too scared of my irritability to piss me off. But seriously, I swear I've been in a good mood.
This post is hereby subtitled "Jeff the arrhythmic drummer part 52."
Okay, so I'm sure I've mentioned how difficult it can be to get simple concepts across to Jeff, particularly when he's stoned. Last night, we had this conversation.
Me: [plays bass line]
Jeff: Hey hey hey. What's the rule?
Me: Is it 'tell the drummer what we're playing'?
Jeff: Yeah.
Me: Well kiss my ass, this is brand new, so just give me a beat.
Jeff: But I don't know this one.
Me: [still playing] I know. It's new. We're writing it right now.
Jeff: But I don't think I've ever heard this one.
Me: That's right. It's an original. It's new. We're writing it. You said you wanted to jam, so here we are, jamming.
Jeff: It's an original? By who?
Me: [under breath] Fuck.
Jeff: Is it one of ours?
Me: Yes!
Jeff: Have we done this one before? I don't recognize it.
Me: No, it's new. It's ours. It's a goddamn original -- that's what original means!
Deep sigh.
So even though we've sort of established that we won't bring other people to band practice, Jeff does it every other session or so, usually friends that I think he wants to impress with the knowledge that he's a real drummer, with a real band. Because they're often there on the pretense that they're doing something else (looking at the deck was last night's excuse), but then he'll encourage them to have a seat and listen to the band. Ugh. (And just in case this point has been lost, if he wants to impress people, drumming for them should be very low on the list of what to do. He is a sucky drummer.) So last night, Dewey or whoever is sitting listening to the band. We finish up, and Dewey and Jeff go in the kitchen and are talking as we pack up. I'm a fast packer, so I sit down on my amp for a minute. I hear Jeff and Dewey talking, and I hear "she's pregnant, so she's dealing with all those pregnancy hormones..."
Well. If I had been dealing with pregnancy hormones, I wouldn't have been able to pretend to ignore that. No, I'd have ripped his eyes out and skull-fucked him. But I ignore. He's an idiot, and not worth it.
But then as I'm leaving, he comes out to say goodbye, and gives me this speech, like "I won't see you again until after school has started, so have a good school year, and I hope something in your spirit touches those kids, and this is going to be a challenging time, blah blah..." In light of the pregnancy hormones, the clear subtext I hear is "I know you're feeling irritable, so don't take it out on the kids." Well FUCK YOU. I don't generally get irritated with the kids because they're not retarded* potheads! If they were as hard to get through to as you, I'd schedule a meeting with their parents. Furthermore, I like them better than I like you!
And since this post, I realize, sounds so incredibly irritable, I'm going to ask for confirmation -- the three people who are closest to me and spend the most time with me are Sweetie, Mom, and Monkeygirl. Would y'all please step up and tell the world that I have not been irritable?** If anything, I've been a little weepy and tired, but not cranky. I was cranky with cause last night. And that's not pregnancy hormones, that's pothead retards.
* I don't often use the word "retarded," because I realize how un-PC it is, and I would never use it in reference to someone who actually has special needs. In this case, think of it in the musical sense -- a retard in music is a slowing down, and Jeff, who is a retard in music, slows us down.
** I realize that if they post comments saying "no, she hasn't been irritable at all," all it proves is that they might be too scared of my irritability to piss me off. But seriously, I swear I've been in a good mood.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Junk (no, literally)
We set up an appointment for the city to come pick up our junk. Some of it was wood from the closets we destroyed, some of it was all the weird concrete garden knick-knacks that were in the backyard when we moved in, there were a few odds and ends -- a torchiere lamp, a long piece of crown molding that was left in the garage -- that sort of thing. Oh, yes, mustn't forget the giant waste bin that is NOT from our city waste folks -- it was just sitting in the backyard, a huge rolling garbage bin.
Yesterday, Mom and I hauled it all out to the street for today's pickup, carefully measuring to see whether it fit in the 9'x4'x4' restriction the city had given us. A neighbor came over to ask if she could put something of hers on it, and we said we'd have to see... it might cause the pile to be too big. After measuring, measuring again, and stacking and pushing things into place, we were satisfied.
We needn't have worried. Within an hour, the scavenging began. I expect scavenging when it's a whole area's pick-up day, but this was a new by-appointment pickup the city is trying out. First, the neighbor's lawn guy took a good portion of the wood. He might have taken more had we not at that moment returned from Home Depot.
Later that evening, some other people came by. This morning, there was guy in a truck taking almost everything else. In fact, what remains of the pile is a rotted car floor mat (left here when we moved in), part of a broken shoe rack, the waste bin, the torchiere lamp (apparently even scavengers have standards), and one of the two sets of blinds we put out.
What makes me wonder is that our street is not a thoroughfare. In fact, the only reason you'd have to go down our street is if a: you lived here or b: you live on one of the other two streets (all three very short) that make up a sort of "w" shape off a main street. They are connected to nothing else. So what's happening? Did someone drive down the main street and see our pile from there? It's quite a ways down. Do these folks drive down every street in the hopes that there'll be something?
And just one more question to ponder: the people two doors down now have a big pile of junk in front of their house. Did I accidentally trick them into thinking it was junk pick-up day, or do they have an appointment, too? If I tricked them, I feel bad. Maybe I'll go down there later and offer to let them put their stuff on my (now almost non-existent) pile.
Yesterday, Mom and I hauled it all out to the street for today's pickup, carefully measuring to see whether it fit in the 9'x4'x4' restriction the city had given us. A neighbor came over to ask if she could put something of hers on it, and we said we'd have to see... it might cause the pile to be too big. After measuring, measuring again, and stacking and pushing things into place, we were satisfied.
We needn't have worried. Within an hour, the scavenging began. I expect scavenging when it's a whole area's pick-up day, but this was a new by-appointment pickup the city is trying out. First, the neighbor's lawn guy took a good portion of the wood. He might have taken more had we not at that moment returned from Home Depot.
Later that evening, some other people came by. This morning, there was guy in a truck taking almost everything else. In fact, what remains of the pile is a rotted car floor mat (left here when we moved in), part of a broken shoe rack, the waste bin, the torchiere lamp (apparently even scavengers have standards), and one of the two sets of blinds we put out.
What makes me wonder is that our street is not a thoroughfare. In fact, the only reason you'd have to go down our street is if a: you lived here or b: you live on one of the other two streets (all three very short) that make up a sort of "w" shape off a main street. They are connected to nothing else. So what's happening? Did someone drive down the main street and see our pile from there? It's quite a ways down. Do these folks drive down every street in the hopes that there'll be something?
And just one more question to ponder: the people two doors down now have a big pile of junk in front of their house. Did I accidentally trick them into thinking it was junk pick-up day, or do they have an appointment, too? If I tricked them, I feel bad. Maybe I'll go down there later and offer to let them put their stuff on my (now almost non-existent) pile.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Younger Mockula memory
First in a series?
When I was in about my sophomore year, I got to go to a low-key party. I believe it was Alex Golub's birthday, but I can't be sure. When I was younger, I was familiar with Tahoe Park, downtown and midtown, but almost anything else left me flustered, so I couldn't tell you where his house was. Probably College Greens. We started the evening by watching "A Clockwork Orange." Alex, Tim, and Moose began pouring milk for everyone. I'd never seen the film before (I've probably seen it 50 times since), and I didn't know what the milk was for, but took my glass to feel like I fit in. I was about 14, and really wanted these folks to think I was cool. The fact that they were enormous nerds didn't really cross my mind. Besides, I had a crush on Tim Hebert. (I'm sure Tom Metcalf was there, but I think we had broken up amicably.) If you haven't seen the movie, there's a scene early on in which the main character and his droogs (friends/gangmates) drink a drugged milk from a bar. We all drank our milk at the appropriate time and laughed.
Soon, we were antsy, and decided to walk to a nearby shopping center. It was dark, and I honestly don't remember what our aim was -- probably candy and another movie. I took a plastic duck that was poked into the Golubs' lawn on the walk with me and made several jokes about whether people might or mightn't want to hold my duck. We walked through a park that I remember going to on one other occasion with the same group and jumping off the swings. Halfway through the park, the sprinklers came on and we got soaked. It was a fairly warm night, though, so we didn't mind.
When we got back to the house, one of the guys (someone I used to know, but have forgotten) started playing Dueling Banjos on his guitar. Later, we sat in the living room and Alex turned on some music. It was a song that everyone obviously recognized, because there was a general murmur of approval and a settling in to listen. There were at least 5 people there besides me, although I don't think there were any other girls. If I had to guess, I'd say that besides Tim, Tom, Alex, Moose, and the guitar-player, Erik Dahl was probably there. It wouldn't have struck me as odd at the time, because I had mostly male friends. But I did feel left out -- I had heard the song, but wasn't able to start singing all the lyrics, as the guys in the room did at the moment they started. "Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste." What can I say? We were a Beatles household.
NB: I'm using real names, since a: I don't think I'm defaming anyone and b: what's the worst that could happen? An old friend Googles himself and gets back in touch with me after all these years...
When I was in about my sophomore year, I got to go to a low-key party. I believe it was Alex Golub's birthday, but I can't be sure. When I was younger, I was familiar with Tahoe Park, downtown and midtown, but almost anything else left me flustered, so I couldn't tell you where his house was. Probably College Greens. We started the evening by watching "A Clockwork Orange." Alex, Tim, and Moose began pouring milk for everyone. I'd never seen the film before (I've probably seen it 50 times since), and I didn't know what the milk was for, but took my glass to feel like I fit in. I was about 14, and really wanted these folks to think I was cool. The fact that they were enormous nerds didn't really cross my mind. Besides, I had a crush on Tim Hebert. (I'm sure Tom Metcalf was there, but I think we had broken up amicably.) If you haven't seen the movie, there's a scene early on in which the main character and his droogs (friends/gangmates) drink a drugged milk from a bar. We all drank our milk at the appropriate time and laughed.
Soon, we were antsy, and decided to walk to a nearby shopping center. It was dark, and I honestly don't remember what our aim was -- probably candy and another movie. I took a plastic duck that was poked into the Golubs' lawn on the walk with me and made several jokes about whether people might or mightn't want to hold my duck. We walked through a park that I remember going to on one other occasion with the same group and jumping off the swings. Halfway through the park, the sprinklers came on and we got soaked. It was a fairly warm night, though, so we didn't mind.
When we got back to the house, one of the guys (someone I used to know, but have forgotten) started playing Dueling Banjos on his guitar. Later, we sat in the living room and Alex turned on some music. It was a song that everyone obviously recognized, because there was a general murmur of approval and a settling in to listen. There were at least 5 people there besides me, although I don't think there were any other girls. If I had to guess, I'd say that besides Tim, Tom, Alex, Moose, and the guitar-player, Erik Dahl was probably there. It wouldn't have struck me as odd at the time, because I had mostly male friends. But I did feel left out -- I had heard the song, but wasn't able to start singing all the lyrics, as the guys in the room did at the moment they started. "Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste." What can I say? We were a Beatles household.
NB: I'm using real names, since a: I don't think I'm defaming anyone and b: what's the worst that could happen? An old friend Googles himself and gets back in touch with me after all these years...
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Oh yuck!
About ten minutes ago, I saw my cat drinking out of my water glass and said "Oh great, now I can't drink my water, grody-head."
And just now, I TOTALLY forgot, and drank after my cat.
And just now, I TOTALLY forgot, and drank after my cat.
An interesting dance class
Today I went, as I often do, to the 12:30 stretch class at my ballet studio. It lasts until 2 with a short barre at the end. Today at 2, there was a special master class offered by a former student of Bobbi Bader (who founded the studio and passed away last fall). He has done two previous classes there, and everyone says they're fun, but I think on both previous occasions, I had other Saturday plans. This time, it just happens that, well, I'm 9 weeks pregnant and tired and don't really have the stamina for a class like that. But I stayed for about half an hour to watch, and it did look really fun -- challenging, with a few mind-boggling combinations, some difficult promenades, etc., yet filled with great music. I had heard before from our teacher, Heidi, that he used "all sorts of music -- you'd probably know it." Indeed I did -- he began with Queen, went to Journey, and before I left, they were doing tendus to Another Brick in the Wall pt 1. I wished I had stayed, almost.
When he first walked in, we were in the middle of our stretch class. The whole studio is just a big rectangle, so you can generally see anyone not on the floor, although there are some chairs and things that create a divider. Well, there was already a woman in the waiting area that I presumed to be someone's mom. When this guy walked in, I wondered at first what he was doing there. He was wearing a tie-dye shirt with a guitar on it, and he had short hair and a goatee. He had earphones in and was, well, kind of headbanging. I'd have thought he was a sad retarded kid who wandered in off the street to look at the pretty ladies in leotards if he'd been looking at us. I soon figured it out, and as soon as our class was over and he began to move and talk, it was much less possible to mistake him for a pick-up driving stoner and more likely to mistake him for a Christopher Guest caricature.
This has been a good week -- the closet guy came yesterday and organized our closets, and they look great. It still seems like I don't have enough space, but that's more because I'm a clothes diva and a shoe whore than any fault of the closet guy's.
Monkeygirl came over Thursday to share two Chicago pizzas she'd ordered with us. They're under $20 each and there's no shipping charge! That makes them equivalent to any local pizza, but these are shipped on dry ice overnight from Lou Malnotti's in Chicago! Wow, huh? It was good. Later, MG and I went to Big Spoon yogurt and had DELICIOUS frozen yogurt.
No weird pregnancy updates but one -- it's not exactly a craving, but I thought the other day that some cottage cheese sounded good. I used to like it, but about 6 years ago, I ate some, then got sick (probably unrelated), and just haven't wanted any since. Well, I bought the smallest tub, thinking at least I'd try it. I ate the recommended serving size, 1/2 cup, and discovered that it is the BEST THING IN THE WORLD! Oh, the beautiful curds in their milky whiteness. I couldn't keep my hands off it, and ate the other half that afternoon. I have since bought the large tub and eaten most of it. Who knew?
PS (and I guess this is pregnancy-related, too) -- my nails usually break on a pretty consistent basis, so I keep them fairly short. But they're super-duper strong right now and I haven't broken one in ages, so they're REALLY long! In fact, I keep making typos because I can't hit the right row. Ah, the oddities of biology, huh?
When he first walked in, we were in the middle of our stretch class. The whole studio is just a big rectangle, so you can generally see anyone not on the floor, although there are some chairs and things that create a divider. Well, there was already a woman in the waiting area that I presumed to be someone's mom. When this guy walked in, I wondered at first what he was doing there. He was wearing a tie-dye shirt with a guitar on it, and he had short hair and a goatee. He had earphones in and was, well, kind of headbanging. I'd have thought he was a sad retarded kid who wandered in off the street to look at the pretty ladies in leotards if he'd been looking at us. I soon figured it out, and as soon as our class was over and he began to move and talk, it was much less possible to mistake him for a pick-up driving stoner and more likely to mistake him for a Christopher Guest caricature.
This has been a good week -- the closet guy came yesterday and organized our closets, and they look great. It still seems like I don't have enough space, but that's more because I'm a clothes diva and a shoe whore than any fault of the closet guy's.
Monkeygirl came over Thursday to share two Chicago pizzas she'd ordered with us. They're under $20 each and there's no shipping charge! That makes them equivalent to any local pizza, but these are shipped on dry ice overnight from Lou Malnotti's in Chicago! Wow, huh? It was good. Later, MG and I went to Big Spoon yogurt and had DELICIOUS frozen yogurt.
No weird pregnancy updates but one -- it's not exactly a craving, but I thought the other day that some cottage cheese sounded good. I used to like it, but about 6 years ago, I ate some, then got sick (probably unrelated), and just haven't wanted any since. Well, I bought the smallest tub, thinking at least I'd try it. I ate the recommended serving size, 1/2 cup, and discovered that it is the BEST THING IN THE WORLD! Oh, the beautiful curds in their milky whiteness. I couldn't keep my hands off it, and ate the other half that afternoon. I have since bought the large tub and eaten most of it. Who knew?
PS (and I guess this is pregnancy-related, too) -- my nails usually break on a pretty consistent basis, so I keep them fairly short. But they're super-duper strong right now and I haven't broken one in ages, so they're REALLY long! In fact, I keep making typos because I can't hit the right row. Ah, the oddities of biology, huh?
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Hey look!
The people from a company called Photrade (motto: "No, we don't have anything to do with Vietnamese noodle soup") were wandering around Blogher taking photos of groups of people. They finally posted them all.
>
>
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Oh, so tired!
I wanted to provide you with lengthy posts filled with details about the last week or so's activities, but I'm sleepy and lazy, so I'm going with summaries.
Wednesday: Mom and I met Monkeygirl for lunch, then did some shopping (for baby stuff). Nice lunch, too.
Thursday: Had my first doctor's appointment, saw ultrasound pics, had a glucose test & blood work (all normal), then went to Dad's to tell him. That night, Sweetie and I went to dinner (the Maloufs are happy for us, too), then I had band practice.
Friday: Sweetie and I went to S.F. Had a great day -- took BART in from Berkeley, which meant I didn't have to drive. We did some shopping, ate at King of Thai, went to the Haight, then BARTed back to the car. It took 3 hours to get home, 'cause traffic almost never got above 20 mph. Lord knows why.
Saturday: I met some friends from an online forum at the zoo. We had a great time, and one of them brought me a HUGE box of maternity clothes, so now I don't have to shop much.
Sunday: Mom and I started dismantling the closets. The closet dudes are coming Friday, and we have to take the clothes out, take the shelves down, patch, prime, and paint. In two closets, mind you. And frankly, I'm not being that much of a help, because I'm not supposed to breathe paint fumes. I've been sanding and resting and taping and resting and cleaning and resting. Mom's a dynamo, though. She got the first coat of primer done today.
Monday & Tuesday: I've had work meetings from 9-4 (and another tomorrow). They're fruitful, so I don't feel resentful, but I am tired and wish I could be more help at home with stuff.
Okay, sorry for the brevity (you're probably breathing a sigh of relief, actually). Take care,
CM
Wednesday: Mom and I met Monkeygirl for lunch, then did some shopping (for baby stuff). Nice lunch, too.
Thursday: Had my first doctor's appointment, saw ultrasound pics, had a glucose test & blood work (all normal), then went to Dad's to tell him. That night, Sweetie and I went to dinner (the Maloufs are happy for us, too), then I had band practice.
Friday: Sweetie and I went to S.F. Had a great day -- took BART in from Berkeley, which meant I didn't have to drive. We did some shopping, ate at King of Thai, went to the Haight, then BARTed back to the car. It took 3 hours to get home, 'cause traffic almost never got above 20 mph. Lord knows why.
Saturday: I met some friends from an online forum at the zoo. We had a great time, and one of them brought me a HUGE box of maternity clothes, so now I don't have to shop much.
Sunday: Mom and I started dismantling the closets. The closet dudes are coming Friday, and we have to take the clothes out, take the shelves down, patch, prime, and paint. In two closets, mind you. And frankly, I'm not being that much of a help, because I'm not supposed to breathe paint fumes. I've been sanding and resting and taping and resting and cleaning and resting. Mom's a dynamo, though. She got the first coat of primer done today.
Monday & Tuesday: I've had work meetings from 9-4 (and another tomorrow). They're fruitful, so I don't feel resentful, but I am tired and wish I could be more help at home with stuff.
Okay, sorry for the brevity (you're probably breathing a sigh of relief, actually). Take care,
CM
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Well, guess what?
I'm 8 weeks pregnant! We wanted to wait to tell everyone until I'd had my first pre-natal appointment and seen the heartbeat and just generally knew for sure that everything was okay. We got that happy confirmation on Thursday. Now we've told almost everyone (I still have some friends to call, but they don't read the blog, so I'll still surprise them), so you, anonymous blog readers, are last.
Here's a recap of the interesting bits:
In June, someone sent me a Peruvian fertility god, and I got two fortune cookie fortunes, one of which was "no obstacles will stand in the way of your success this month." I also had my HSG test, and it's generally agreed that there's a higher rate of conception after the test.
On Wednesday, July 11th, I woke up four times in the night to pee. That was weird. The next day, Thursday, was a day that I could have (how do I put this delicately?) found out conclusively that we were not pregnant. That did not happen. Also, I was STARVING all day. I got suspicious, but I've certainly gotten my hopes up before only to have them dashed.
On Friday the 13th, I was still starving, and the, erm, conclusive proof had still not shown up. I had told myself before that I was going to wait until I was REALLY late (Saturday) to test, but I just couldn't wait. I ran out to Rite Aid and bought a two-pack. It was already late morning, and you're supposed to do them first thing (because all the hormones are more concentrated). I took it anyway, then ran out of the bathroom so I wouldn't sit and obsess. Two minutes later, I went in, uncovered my eyes, and there, as clear as anything, were my two lines.
I told Sweetie that afternoon. It went something like this:
Well, you're going to be a dad!
What? How do you know?
Your other girlfriend called.
...
I took a test!
Oh! Oh, well this is good. (Pause) We'll have to start a college fund.
I think Mom and Boompah are on that.
Orthodontia, then.
That night, he called me Sweetpea (he often does), then poked my belly and said "and Peapod." So the baby has had the nickname Peapod ever since the first day we knew.
Getting to tell Mom was a real thrill. I wrapped a little package with booties and a bib, and handed it to her. She said "For me? But I haven't done anything!" I said, "It's for something you're going to do..." She still looked puzzled until she opened a little corner and gasped. "You're going to be a grandma." We both cried. Boompah just said "So, I can shop now?" (Note: Peapod is less than two centimeters, and already has a Ziggy Stardust onesie, some tiny Smartwool socks, and an "I killed a man in Reno just to watch him die" t-shirt.)
Monkeygirl is already planning my shower. For someone to supposedly doesn't like kids, she's VERY excited for me.
I told my BlogHer pals, because I just didn't think I could pass off the constant eating and peeing over a weekend of sharing a hotel room. It was funny -- I said something about painting the nursery, and Suzanne and Des kept their heads bowed, like "Awkward!" But Alex got it, and then there were many yays and congratulations.
We told my family and Sweetie's family on Thursday, and everyone has been really overjoyed for us. It's been really fun sharing this, and I know how much everyone loves us and how much Peapod is already loved.
How I'm feeling? Good, delighted, blissful... and tired. It's not a complaint, because I know this comes with the territory, but I have been surprised at how fatigued I feel. I've been taking up to TWO naps a day and going to bed early and sleeping in late. But, I'm so fortunate, because A: I'm on summer vacation, so I have the luxury of giving in to the fatigue and B: Sweetie has been really patient with me and been picking up my slack.
I'm also HUNGRY! Ridiculously hungry. Famished, even. Let's give an example: Today I ate a moderate breakfast, then at 10:30, I had a yogurt, and at noon, I got out of yoga class and stopped at the grocery store. By the time I got home (12:30) the phrase "in imminent danger of starving to DEATH" was ringing in my head as I lunged for the microwave. While I waited the 3 1/2 minutes for my frozen meal to heat, I ate two pieces of baguette. And it's been like that for the last month.
How's the baby? Well, it's just over 1.3 centimeters, has all the organs it's going to get, has a big head in comparison to its body, has a heartbeat... Just this week, it graduated from embryo to fetus.
Are we going to find out the sex? I don't know. Sweetie wants to, and I've heard some good arguments on that side (you can start using "he" or "she, pick out a name, feel like you know the baby...), but I've sort of always dreamed of hearing "It's a..." at the birth. I mean, is there any greater surprise in your life? And the people I know who chose not to find out say that it was indeed a wonderful surprise, and they recommend it. We still have a while to decide, but right now, I don't know.
Have we talked about names? Well... yes. But I'm afraid it may come to fisticuffs. Sweetie's favorite names thus far run towards Menzes (pronounced Mingus), Konnor, Ghazal and Maude. I have visions of throwing something down the hall and saying "Oh, honey, could you grab that?" while I furiously fill out the name portion of the birth certificate. I wouldn't hate Konnor except that it was recently the 38th most popular boy name in the U.S., and almost 2,400 babies born out of every million have that name. Which means that for this kid's entire life, he's going to have to be "Konnor P." And every time I shout "Konnor!" on the playground, six kids will come at me wanting a juice box. And it doesn't really matter that it's Konnor-with-a-K, since that just means it's spelled wrong.
Now, I know that not everyone needs to know every little detail of my pregnancy, so I promise not to overwhelm the blog with this stuff. In fact, I've put most of the ooey-gooey feelings stuff on another blog altogether ( http://countmomula.blogspot.com ). But it is part of my life now, so I expect it'll show up here sometimes.
Anyway, I'm just excited to finally share our good news. Thanks to everyone who's been wishing me well through this whole journey. Love you all,
Count Mockula
Here's a recap of the interesting bits:
In June, someone sent me a Peruvian fertility god, and I got two fortune cookie fortunes, one of which was "no obstacles will stand in the way of your success this month." I also had my HSG test, and it's generally agreed that there's a higher rate of conception after the test.
On Wednesday, July 11th, I woke up four times in the night to pee. That was weird. The next day, Thursday, was a day that I could have (how do I put this delicately?) found out conclusively that we were not pregnant. That did not happen. Also, I was STARVING all day. I got suspicious, but I've certainly gotten my hopes up before only to have them dashed.
On Friday the 13th, I was still starving, and the, erm, conclusive proof had still not shown up. I had told myself before that I was going to wait until I was REALLY late (Saturday) to test, but I just couldn't wait. I ran out to Rite Aid and bought a two-pack. It was already late morning, and you're supposed to do them first thing (because all the hormones are more concentrated). I took it anyway, then ran out of the bathroom so I wouldn't sit and obsess. Two minutes later, I went in, uncovered my eyes, and there, as clear as anything, were my two lines.
I told Sweetie that afternoon. It went something like this:
Well, you're going to be a dad!
What? How do you know?
Your other girlfriend called.
...
I took a test!
Oh! Oh, well this is good. (Pause) We'll have to start a college fund.
I think Mom and Boompah are on that.
Orthodontia, then.
That night, he called me Sweetpea (he often does), then poked my belly and said "and Peapod." So the baby has had the nickname Peapod ever since the first day we knew.
Getting to tell Mom was a real thrill. I wrapped a little package with booties and a bib, and handed it to her. She said "For me? But I haven't done anything!" I said, "It's for something you're going to do..." She still looked puzzled until she opened a little corner and gasped. "You're going to be a grandma." We both cried. Boompah just said "So, I can shop now?" (Note: Peapod is less than two centimeters, and already has a Ziggy Stardust onesie, some tiny Smartwool socks, and an "I killed a man in Reno just to watch him die" t-shirt.)
Monkeygirl is already planning my shower. For someone to supposedly doesn't like kids, she's VERY excited for me.
I told my BlogHer pals, because I just didn't think I could pass off the constant eating and peeing over a weekend of sharing a hotel room. It was funny -- I said something about painting the nursery, and Suzanne and Des kept their heads bowed, like "Awkward!" But Alex got it, and then there were many yays and congratulations.
We told my family and Sweetie's family on Thursday, and everyone has been really overjoyed for us. It's been really fun sharing this, and I know how much everyone loves us and how much Peapod is already loved.
How I'm feeling? Good, delighted, blissful... and tired. It's not a complaint, because I know this comes with the territory, but I have been surprised at how fatigued I feel. I've been taking up to TWO naps a day and going to bed early and sleeping in late. But, I'm so fortunate, because A: I'm on summer vacation, so I have the luxury of giving in to the fatigue and B: Sweetie has been really patient with me and been picking up my slack.
I'm also HUNGRY! Ridiculously hungry. Famished, even. Let's give an example: Today I ate a moderate breakfast, then at 10:30, I had a yogurt, and at noon, I got out of yoga class and stopped at the grocery store. By the time I got home (12:30) the phrase "in imminent danger of starving to DEATH" was ringing in my head as I lunged for the microwave. While I waited the 3 1/2 minutes for my frozen meal to heat, I ate two pieces of baguette. And it's been like that for the last month.
How's the baby? Well, it's just over 1.3 centimeters, has all the organs it's going to get, has a big head in comparison to its body, has a heartbeat... Just this week, it graduated from embryo to fetus.
Are we going to find out the sex? I don't know. Sweetie wants to, and I've heard some good arguments on that side (you can start using "he" or "she, pick out a name, feel like you know the baby...), but I've sort of always dreamed of hearing "It's a..." at the birth. I mean, is there any greater surprise in your life? And the people I know who chose not to find out say that it was indeed a wonderful surprise, and they recommend it. We still have a while to decide, but right now, I don't know.
Have we talked about names? Well... yes. But I'm afraid it may come to fisticuffs. Sweetie's favorite names thus far run towards Menzes (pronounced Mingus), Konnor, Ghazal and Maude. I have visions of throwing something down the hall and saying "Oh, honey, could you grab that?" while I furiously fill out the name portion of the birth certificate. I wouldn't hate Konnor except that it was recently the 38th most popular boy name in the U.S., and almost 2,400 babies born out of every million have that name. Which means that for this kid's entire life, he's going to have to be "Konnor P." And every time I shout "Konnor!" on the playground, six kids will come at me wanting a juice box. And it doesn't really matter that it's Konnor-with-a-K, since that just means it's spelled wrong.
Now, I know that not everyone needs to know every little detail of my pregnancy, so I promise not to overwhelm the blog with this stuff. In fact, I've put most of the ooey-gooey feelings stuff on another blog altogether ( http://countmomula.blogspot.com ). But it is part of my life now, so I expect it'll show up here sometimes.
Anyway, I'm just excited to finally share our good news. Thanks to everyone who's been wishing me well through this whole journey. Love you all,
Count Mockula
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Singing Bee
Wait, let's get it out of the way -- I'm not PROUD that I watched this show. I do find it entertaining, though, because I'm a bit of a lyrics-a-holic, and I know way more lyrics than it is useful for a grown woman to know. Anyway, I was watching it last night, and I'm pretty good at it. I'd perform well, I think. But something struck me as unfair last night.
One guy's prompt was "We're losing control
Will you turn me away or touch me deep inside?
And before this gets old, will it still feel the same?
There's no way this will die
But if we get much closer, I could lose control
And if your heart surrenders, you'll need me to hold"
Now, by itself you might not recognize it, but with the music, it was clear that this was Pat Benetar's "Love is a battlefield."
What does he have to sing in response?
"We are young, heartache to heartache we stand
No promises, no demands
Love is a battlefield
We are strong, no one can tell us we're wrong
Searchin' our hearts for so long, both of us knowing
Love is a battlefield"
That's right -- six lines of the song. In fact, when the music kept playing after he sang the first bit, he even made a WTF? face.
Now the guy that he was battling against had to get a lyric right in order to stay in the game. Let's look at his prompt:
"It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to."
And what the other dude had to sing in response? "You would cry too if it happened to you."
How is that fair? One dude sang 40 words from a song that, while far from obscure, is also not exactly dripping from everyone's lips. The other guy had to know NINE words from one of the most pervasive songs I've ever heard. How could you NOT know that line?
Okay, I feel better.
One guy's prompt was "We're losing control
Will you turn me away or touch me deep inside?
And before this gets old, will it still feel the same?
There's no way this will die
But if we get much closer, I could lose control
And if your heart surrenders, you'll need me to hold"
Now, by itself you might not recognize it, but with the music, it was clear that this was Pat Benetar's "Love is a battlefield."
What does he have to sing in response?
"We are young, heartache to heartache we stand
No promises, no demands
Love is a battlefield
We are strong, no one can tell us we're wrong
Searchin' our hearts for so long, both of us knowing
Love is a battlefield"
That's right -- six lines of the song. In fact, when the music kept playing after he sang the first bit, he even made a WTF? face.
Now the guy that he was battling against had to get a lyric right in order to stay in the game. Let's look at his prompt:
"It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to."
And what the other dude had to sing in response? "You would cry too if it happened to you."
How is that fair? One dude sang 40 words from a song that, while far from obscure, is also not exactly dripping from everyone's lips. The other guy had to know NINE words from one of the most pervasive songs I've ever heard. How could you NOT know that line?
Okay, I feel better.
On a roll!
Well, this morning I:
Set up an appointment to switch my home insurance to State Farm (cheaper, and a discount on the car, too).
Called the heat & air people about a loose duct Sweetie noticed during the great phone line adventure. They came out and fixed it already!
Called the closet guy and scheduled a date for them to come organize our closets.
Made a date with MG for lunch tomorrow.
Got my copy of my transcript so I can FINALLY renew my credential (although the woman in charge is on vacation, so I'll have to do the actual renewing tomorrow or Thursday).
Folded two loads of laundry.
Watered the backyard.
Okay, that's it, but it's better than just napping.
Set up an appointment to switch my home insurance to State Farm (cheaper, and a discount on the car, too).
Called the heat & air people about a loose duct Sweetie noticed during the great phone line adventure. They came out and fixed it already!
Called the closet guy and scheduled a date for them to come organize our closets.
Made a date with MG for lunch tomorrow.
Got my copy of my transcript so I can FINALLY renew my credential (although the woman in charge is on vacation, so I'll have to do the actual renewing tomorrow or Thursday).
Folded two loads of laundry.
Watered the backyard.
Okay, that's it, but it's better than just napping.
d&k
Dove had a free photo booth at the cocktail reception. Suzanne and Alex were talking, but Des and I jumped right in. I really liked this photo strip.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Let's talk about roasted vegetable focaccia sandwiches
I can't recall now whether I mentioned the hellish, disgusting sandwich I purchased in the O'Hare airport Starbucks my first night in Chicago. It was after my McDonald's bun -- I was still hungry, so I was delighted to find an actual vegetarian sandwich.
This goes not just for Starbucks, but for any establishment that makes a sandwich of this type.
First of all, no one likes eggplant. Okay, I know there are a few people who do, but I would venture to say it's pretty rare for people to see a sandwich and go "Ooh! Eggplant!" It's the rare soul who's doing jazz hands over eggplant. Even vegetarians really don't think it's a good meat substitute.
Second, put some fucking cheese on there. The vegans aren't going to eat it anyway, because the focaccia almost certainly isn't vegan, so don't worry about them. They're packing tempeh. It doesn't even have to be special cheese -- swiss, provolone, cheddar -- all are fine. But really, bread with zucchini and eggplant is not that great.
Third, why focaccia? With rare exception, it's fluffy and crumbly and impossible to eat. You know how meat eaters complain when they have a big burger and it's on some fluffy bun that doesn't stand up to the burger? We have the same problem. These roasted veggies are heavy -- give me some real bread.
Fourth, aioli? Do we have to? Aioli is just Italian for mayonnaise, but for some reason, it has the terrible tendency to sort of... separate and sink into the bread, leaving an oily sheen. I think it wouldn't be as noticeable if we were served these sandwiches fresh, but if they sit in a refrigerator case, we are going to have oily aioli residue. Bad, bad, bad.
Fifth, why this sandwich at all? I know you feel like you have to have a token vegetarian sandwich, and for that, I am truly appreciative. But seriously, I suspect 90% of us would take two slices of wheat bread, some cheese, mustard, lettuce, maybe cukes, avocado, tomatoes if they're in season... Doesn't that sound good? I mean, that sounds fucking appetizing, doesn't it? I know you'd have a harder time charging $8 for it, but people would like it and want to eat it.
Thank you, food industry. I have no expectations that you'll change, but I will be on the lookout for Subways.
This goes not just for Starbucks, but for any establishment that makes a sandwich of this type.
First of all, no one likes eggplant. Okay, I know there are a few people who do, but I would venture to say it's pretty rare for people to see a sandwich and go "Ooh! Eggplant!" It's the rare soul who's doing jazz hands over eggplant. Even vegetarians really don't think it's a good meat substitute.
Second, put some fucking cheese on there. The vegans aren't going to eat it anyway, because the focaccia almost certainly isn't vegan, so don't worry about them. They're packing tempeh. It doesn't even have to be special cheese -- swiss, provolone, cheddar -- all are fine. But really, bread with zucchini and eggplant is not that great.
Third, why focaccia? With rare exception, it's fluffy and crumbly and impossible to eat. You know how meat eaters complain when they have a big burger and it's on some fluffy bun that doesn't stand up to the burger? We have the same problem. These roasted veggies are heavy -- give me some real bread.
Fourth, aioli? Do we have to? Aioli is just Italian for mayonnaise, but for some reason, it has the terrible tendency to sort of... separate and sink into the bread, leaving an oily sheen. I think it wouldn't be as noticeable if we were served these sandwiches fresh, but if they sit in a refrigerator case, we are going to have oily aioli residue. Bad, bad, bad.
Fifth, why this sandwich at all? I know you feel like you have to have a token vegetarian sandwich, and for that, I am truly appreciative. But seriously, I suspect 90% of us would take two slices of wheat bread, some cheese, mustard, lettuce, maybe cukes, avocado, tomatoes if they're in season... Doesn't that sound good? I mean, that sounds fucking appetizing, doesn't it? I know you'd have a harder time charging $8 for it, but people would like it and want to eat it.
Thank you, food industry. I have no expectations that you'll change, but I will be on the lookout for Subways.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Nice weekend
Yesterday I went to ballet, then came home and had a nap. Sweetie and I went out for delicious sushi and got to watch the sushi chef blowtorch a bug. After we came home, I headed out to a co-worker's birthday party. The couple actually both work with me, and they're really nice, cool people. I was glad I didn't beg off because I was tired.
This morning, Monkeygirl came over and we went to Fox and Goose for breakfast (I had strawberries with devonshire cream, an ollalieberry scone, and some potatoes). Then I came home and read some of the paper. This afternoon, Mom and I saw the Bourne Ultimatum, then did a little shopping and had dinner at Tower Cafe.
The movie was good -- I mean, you know what to expect going into a movie like that, and we got it -- action, fighting, chase scenes, intrigue -- all the good stuff. I think this has been a great franchise. Matt Damon makes a good Jason Bourne, and they've done a really commendable job with the supporting cast. I mean, it's involved Franke Potente, Joan Allen, Chris Cooper, David Strathairn... Those last two are actually some of my favorite actors, and if you need to know why, you need to head over to Netflix and get Passion Fish, Limbo, Good Night and Good Luck (Strathairn), and Lone Star, Adaptation, and American Beauty (Cooper). I honestly think they are two of the most talented actors working. Sorry, that was a total tangent. Anyway, good movie if you like that sort of thing. I'm not usually first in line for action-adventure flicks, but I've really enjoyed all three of these.
This morning, Monkeygirl came over and we went to Fox and Goose for breakfast (I had strawberries with devonshire cream, an ollalieberry scone, and some potatoes). Then I came home and read some of the paper. This afternoon, Mom and I saw the Bourne Ultimatum, then did a little shopping and had dinner at Tower Cafe.
The movie was good -- I mean, you know what to expect going into a movie like that, and we got it -- action, fighting, chase scenes, intrigue -- all the good stuff. I think this has been a great franchise. Matt Damon makes a good Jason Bourne, and they've done a really commendable job with the supporting cast. I mean, it's involved Franke Potente, Joan Allen, Chris Cooper, David Strathairn... Those last two are actually some of my favorite actors, and if you need to know why, you need to head over to Netflix and get Passion Fish, Limbo, Good Night and Good Luck (Strathairn), and Lone Star, Adaptation, and American Beauty (Cooper). I honestly think they are two of the most talented actors working. Sorry, that was a total tangent. Anyway, good movie if you like that sort of thing. I'm not usually first in line for action-adventure flicks, but I've really enjoyed all three of these.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
The great pizza bill debacle.
So, on Friday night of the conference, we went out for deep dish pizza, as I've already mentioned. There were ten of us -- Suzanne, me, Des, Alex, One Weird Mother, Plain Jane Mom, Steph (Suzanne's friend), Snigda (a young woman we met at the conference) and someone named Catherine (whom I'm not sure I'd recognize now, because it was a damn big table). Oh, and the woman in question, whom I shall call Prince Valiant, or Val for short. She looks more or less like this guy: 
So we go to Gino's East, which used to be a Planet Hollywood, which is now covered in graffiti, every inch. They encourage it. It looked cool. Anyway, we order our pizza, and the larges are between about $20 and $28 each, and I believe we ordered three, which works out to about a third of a pizza per person. Most of us (but not all) also got drinks and salads. It was quite a long evening, and in the course of it, five more Blogher gals joined us at the far end of the table, and Snigda and Catherine left. I was at the end of the table nearest Plain Jane Mom, One Weird Mother, Steph, and Suzanne. When we finally finished eating and were ready to go, we sort out the bill. $200. Ouch! But it still amounted to only twenty bucks per person, which was the easiest way to split it. Tip was included so that was easy. We all tossed cash in, and Suzanne counted. We were WAY short. Something like $40 short. Well, Val said her portion was only $8 -- her math appears to be calculated on her no-drink, no-salad status and disregards tax and tip. She throws in her 8, but we're still short.
We then realize that the five people at the next table were added to our bill, even though they came in about an hour late. So we sorted that out more or less. We passed the money back and ended up at something like $17 a piece. But we were still short. Finally we realized that Snigda and Catherine had left. We all started asking whether they'd left money with anyone, and everyone (including Val) shook their heads. Then Des, guilelessly, said "Oh, wait! I saw Catherine give you money, Val!" "Oh yes," Val remembered suddenly. She handed over the money. We assumed that Snigda had just had a brain fart or didn't have the cash, but we knew we'd see her the next day, so Suzanne put the rest of the bill on her card, and we left.
But... (cue the Dunh Dunh Dunhhhhh music) when we ran into Snigda, she HAD given Val money! It's just that no-one saw it and was able to call Val out as Des had with Catherine's money.
I would just like to say, there's nothing wrong with finding yourself in a dinner situation where you were sort of pressured into spending more than you planned. And there's nothing wrong with wanting to split the bill exactly according to what you had (although it's more complicated). Certainly, no one wants to be the dummy who had salad when everyone else had black truffle steak and fruity drinks and be expected to split the bill evenly. To refuse to pay at least tax and tip -- well that's sketchy all by itself. But to have two people give you their portion of the money and not fess up and try to keep that? Well, that's just theft, and frickin' immoral. So if you see a girl with a Little Lord Fauntelroy hairdo and she wants to go out to dinner, say no and run!
By the way, this is a Count Mockula exclusive. There are benefits to being the blog no one reads. Suzanne and Des are far too polite and circumspect to post this.
So we go to Gino's East, which used to be a Planet Hollywood, which is now covered in graffiti, every inch. They encourage it. It looked cool. Anyway, we order our pizza, and the larges are between about $20 and $28 each, and I believe we ordered three, which works out to about a third of a pizza per person. Most of us (but not all) also got drinks and salads. It was quite a long evening, and in the course of it, five more Blogher gals joined us at the far end of the table, and Snigda and Catherine left. I was at the end of the table nearest Plain Jane Mom, One Weird Mother, Steph, and Suzanne. When we finally finished eating and were ready to go, we sort out the bill. $200. Ouch! But it still amounted to only twenty bucks per person, which was the easiest way to split it. Tip was included so that was easy. We all tossed cash in, and Suzanne counted. We were WAY short. Something like $40 short. Well, Val said her portion was only $8 -- her math appears to be calculated on her no-drink, no-salad status and disregards tax and tip. She throws in her 8, but we're still short.
We then realize that the five people at the next table were added to our bill, even though they came in about an hour late. So we sorted that out more or less. We passed the money back and ended up at something like $17 a piece. But we were still short. Finally we realized that Snigda and Catherine had left. We all started asking whether they'd left money with anyone, and everyone (including Val) shook their heads. Then Des, guilelessly, said "Oh, wait! I saw Catherine give you money, Val!" "Oh yes," Val remembered suddenly. She handed over the money. We assumed that Snigda had just had a brain fart or didn't have the cash, but we knew we'd see her the next day, so Suzanne put the rest of the bill on her card, and we left.
But... (cue the Dunh Dunh Dunhhhhh music) when we ran into Snigda, she HAD given Val money! It's just that no-one saw it and was able to call Val out as Des had with Catherine's money.
I would just like to say, there's nothing wrong with finding yourself in a dinner situation where you were sort of pressured into spending more than you planned. And there's nothing wrong with wanting to split the bill exactly according to what you had (although it's more complicated). Certainly, no one wants to be the dummy who had salad when everyone else had black truffle steak and fruity drinks and be expected to split the bill evenly. To refuse to pay at least tax and tip -- well that's sketchy all by itself. But to have two people give you their portion of the money and not fess up and try to keep that? Well, that's just theft, and frickin' immoral. So if you see a girl with a Little Lord Fauntelroy hairdo and she wants to go out to dinner, say no and run!
By the way, this is a Count Mockula exclusive. There are benefits to being the blog no one reads. Suzanne and Des are far too polite and circumspect to post this.
My kind of town... Chicago
I promised I'd say more about Chi-town (is that as dorky and indicative of tourist status as people who call San Francisco "Frisco"?). First of all, I was really impressed with the architecture. I especially loved the Chicago Tribune building, which I made a point to touch all over.
Here's the top:
And here's one of the MANY bricks and building materials that are at street level:
I also liked the Wrigley building:
I also thought the public art was fantastic. Maybe I'm inured to our local public art or maybe there just isn't really as much cool stuff, but in one brief walk around the city, we saw this:
(note the Adventures in Babysitting building in the background).
And this:
And this:
(Yeah, it's a Picasso)
And this:
(Yeah, it's a Miro.)
Also, there was almost no graffiti. I don't know what their graffiti abatement program must be like, but seriously, there was nothing! I was totally amazed. It wasn't even like there were those square painted-over patches. Just nothing. It was a very clean city, especially for such a big city.
There were panhandlers, as you'd expect, but in most cases, they were at least doing something -- playing a horn, singing "Roxanne"... It was kind of a nice change.
Okay, fine, I got startled by the robot guy! In S.F., we have robot guys and we have statue guys, but never the twain shall meet. So when what I thought was a statue guy (he hadn't moved the whole time we were approaching up the block) suddenly emitted robot sounds and moved, I jumped a little. So what. Screw you guys. And there is another difference about Chicago -- moving robot statue guys.
Chicago was enormous. The drive from downtown to the suburb, or the suburb to the airport, was 40 minutes or so! I'm sure part of it was that we were taking streets so we could see the sights, but I was still impressed at the size of the place.
I liked the weather. I don't think I'll ever quite get used to humidity, but it wasn't really uncomfortably hot. The evening we spent on the waterfront was perfect.
I thought it was pretty pedestrian-friendly. With the exception of one night that we got stuck under a bridge and had to cross six lanes of traffic and climb a flight of stairs to get to the real street, everything was easy to navigate. In several places, the sidewalk was extra-wide to accommodate foot traffic, especially near the river. Wacker Street was interesting: apparently there is a Wacker street that runs North-South, but it also turns and runs East-West, and there is an upper and lower Wacker Street, which you access via stairs. We had to go downstairs (though not on Wacker) to go to our Thai restaurant that night. It was quite different for me.
I suppose that's all, unless I think of more later. To follow is the pizza bill debacle.
Here's the top:
And here's one of the MANY bricks and building materials that are at street level:
I also liked the Wrigley building:
I also thought the public art was fantastic. Maybe I'm inured to our local public art or maybe there just isn't really as much cool stuff, but in one brief walk around the city, we saw this:
(note the Adventures in Babysitting building in the background).And this:
And this:
(Yeah, it's a Picasso)And this:
(Yeah, it's a Miro.)Also, there was almost no graffiti. I don't know what their graffiti abatement program must be like, but seriously, there was nothing! I was totally amazed. It wasn't even like there were those square painted-over patches. Just nothing. It was a very clean city, especially for such a big city.
There were panhandlers, as you'd expect, but in most cases, they were at least doing something -- playing a horn, singing "Roxanne"... It was kind of a nice change.
Okay, fine, I got startled by the robot guy! In S.F., we have robot guys and we have statue guys, but never the twain shall meet. So when what I thought was a statue guy (he hadn't moved the whole time we were approaching up the block) suddenly emitted robot sounds and moved, I jumped a little. So what. Screw you guys. And there is another difference about Chicago -- moving robot statue guys.
Chicago was enormous. The drive from downtown to the suburb, or the suburb to the airport, was 40 minutes or so! I'm sure part of it was that we were taking streets so we could see the sights, but I was still impressed at the size of the place.
I liked the weather. I don't think I'll ever quite get used to humidity, but it wasn't really uncomfortably hot. The evening we spent on the waterfront was perfect.
I thought it was pretty pedestrian-friendly. With the exception of one night that we got stuck under a bridge and had to cross six lanes of traffic and climb a flight of stairs to get to the real street, everything was easy to navigate. In several places, the sidewalk was extra-wide to accommodate foot traffic, especially near the river. Wacker Street was interesting: apparently there is a Wacker street that runs North-South, but it also turns and runs East-West, and there is an upper and lower Wacker Street, which you access via stairs. We had to go downstairs (though not on Wacker) to go to our Thai restaurant that night. It was quite different for me.
I suppose that's all, unless I think of more later. To follow is the pizza bill debacle.
This post brought to you by the letter P
I went to the store this morning, because we really need some fruit around here. I bought bananas, figs, nectarines, and then pudding and popsicles (well, as long as I was there, right?). It's my usual habit to buy the most easily-bruised fruit when I'm on my bike and have to shove the fruit into my bike basket. I think it's a good plan.
It was some sort of opening reception for the Sav-Mart, and they plied me with pastry when I walked in. Leaving, I found myself in the line of sight of a guy taking a picture of a big balloon arc in the storefront. Seeing a cute girl on a bike in front of the store would probably be good publicity; it makes it look like a neighborhood store. On the other hand, they probably wouldn't use it, because I'm sporting a big-ass Trader Joe's logo on my tote bag.
Anyway, all this pastry, popsicle and pudding talk made me re-think a long-held philosophical belief of mine. For many years, I was in agreement with the majority opinion; that if one had to live on foods beginning with only one letter for the rest of one's life, that letter would clearly be C. There are good arguments to be made for C, most specifically cheese, cake, cookies, and cereals. But P holds some interesting possibilities. For example, one of the other tenets of my belief is that if I could only eat one FOOD for the rest of my life, it would be pizza. That's a slam-dunk: pizza is delicious hot or cold, and there are such things as breakfast pizza and dessert pizza. The possibilities are nearly endless. So how, I wondered, could I choose a letter that did not include pizza? I began to reexamine my beliefs. although I could no longer have cheese alone, I could have it on pizza. I could also enjoy many of my favorite fruits -- pears, plums, pineapple... What about desserts? Well, pudding and popsicles of course, but I have a craving for baked goods. What could I do? Ah, the loophole is petit-fours. I could also have pasta and pastries.
Also consider: pad thai, polenta, pancakes, potatoes (mashed, fried, chips), pistacios, plaintains, pecans, profiteroles, peanut butter, pho, peas, parsnips, pecorino cheese, pumpkin pie (and pie in general), pound cake, portobellos, pilaf, persimmons, pesto, passionfruit, popcorn, pretzels. All told, I think P is a strong letter for this kind of important decision.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
It was some sort of opening reception for the Sav-Mart, and they plied me with pastry when I walked in. Leaving, I found myself in the line of sight of a guy taking a picture of a big balloon arc in the storefront. Seeing a cute girl on a bike in front of the store would probably be good publicity; it makes it look like a neighborhood store. On the other hand, they probably wouldn't use it, because I'm sporting a big-ass Trader Joe's logo on my tote bag.
Anyway, all this pastry, popsicle and pudding talk made me re-think a long-held philosophical belief of mine. For many years, I was in agreement with the majority opinion; that if one had to live on foods beginning with only one letter for the rest of one's life, that letter would clearly be C. There are good arguments to be made for C, most specifically cheese, cake, cookies, and cereals. But P holds some interesting possibilities. For example, one of the other tenets of my belief is that if I could only eat one FOOD for the rest of my life, it would be pizza. That's a slam-dunk: pizza is delicious hot or cold, and there are such things as breakfast pizza and dessert pizza. The possibilities are nearly endless. So how, I wondered, could I choose a letter that did not include pizza? I began to reexamine my beliefs. although I could no longer have cheese alone, I could have it on pizza. I could also enjoy many of my favorite fruits -- pears, plums, pineapple... What about desserts? Well, pudding and popsicles of course, but I have a craving for baked goods. What could I do? Ah, the loophole is petit-fours. I could also have pasta and pastries.
Also consider: pad thai, polenta, pancakes, potatoes (mashed, fried, chips), pistacios, plaintains, pecans, profiteroles, peanut butter, pho, peas, parsnips, pecorino cheese, pumpkin pie (and pie in general), pound cake, portobellos, pilaf, persimmons, pesto, passionfruit, popcorn, pretzels. All told, I think P is a strong letter for this kind of important decision.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
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