I was randomly looking at blogs from a year ago, just to see where I was and what I was doing, and I hit upon my description of our wedding reception. Then today I was looking for a blank CD to burn Blondie's "Rapture" onto for a co-worker (a story for another day), and came across the CD of all our wedding photos. Well, I just want to say that I am as happy today as I was on that day, if not happier. I love being married, I love Sweetie, I love our life, and I'm so glad that we've travelled down this path together. I realize that that's important to about, oh, two people in the world, but I wanted to say it. Being married rules. Good relationships rule. Love rules. Look at our little picture -- aren't we happy? Yes, we are.
/Dorkiness.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Sailors take warning
As usual when I'm at work, this is soemone else's photo from Flickr, but that's what the sun looked like here this morning. It was wacky.
I drove 25 miles round-trip to get a bag of felt last night. Sigh. The dangers of Freecycle. I don't want to be one of those people who's like "Wanted: brand-new DVD player and flat-screen TV, must be in excellent condition." So my ad was like "Wanted: craft supplies for my drama class, wood, fabric, foam board, etc. It is easiest to pick up within ten miles of downtown." So when someone offers me something nice but they live in Gold River, I don't want to be an asshole and say "No thanks, you're too far away. Keep your craft stuff." So I find myself going to get it and, well, driving 25 miles round trip for a bag of felt. Could I have just paid for felt and not had to drive for almost an hour? Yes. Was it wise to drive out for this felt? Probably not. Did I do it anyway to avoid people thinking I'm a picky asshole? Yes.
Speaking of driving all over the goddamn planet... I hate driving outside my box. I know downtown, midtown, and east Sac really well. I know South sac and the Arden area well enough to get to places, but not well enough that you could say "You know that market by the blah blah?" and always have me say yes. If you expand the circle to about Watt Avenue on the East, Del Paso on the North, the river on the West and Florin on the South, then I can get just about anywhere. Other places further out? I almost never go there, or if I do, it's to the same place over and over. So when I have to go to a new place out there, I almost invariably get lost or frustrated or both. One reason? We have two freeways both called 80. Yeah, that's right. Different freeways that go to different places, both with the same name. Now, Mapquest calls one of them the Capital City Freeway, and so do many people including the traffic reporters. But the signs (most of them, anyway) don't. No, the signs say 80, and above most of them is, in small letters, the word "business." Sometimes it says "Business loop." The other one, theoretically, is called "Interstate 80." But the signs on it say "80." So I may be directionally challenged and quick to frustration, but this shit is not helping.
I drove 25 miles round-trip to get a bag of felt last night. Sigh. The dangers of Freecycle. I don't want to be one of those people who's like "Wanted: brand-new DVD player and flat-screen TV, must be in excellent condition." So my ad was like "Wanted: craft supplies for my drama class, wood, fabric, foam board, etc. It is easiest to pick up within ten miles of downtown." So when someone offers me something nice but they live in Gold River, I don't want to be an asshole and say "No thanks, you're too far away. Keep your craft stuff." So I find myself going to get it and, well, driving 25 miles round trip for a bag of felt. Could I have just paid for felt and not had to drive for almost an hour? Yes. Was it wise to drive out for this felt? Probably not. Did I do it anyway to avoid people thinking I'm a picky asshole? Yes.
Speaking of driving all over the goddamn planet... I hate driving outside my box. I know downtown, midtown, and east Sac really well. I know South sac and the Arden area well enough to get to places, but not well enough that you could say "You know that market by the blah blah?" and always have me say yes. If you expand the circle to about Watt Avenue on the East, Del Paso on the North, the river on the West and Florin on the South, then I can get just about anywhere. Other places further out? I almost never go there, or if I do, it's to the same place over and over. So when I have to go to a new place out there, I almost invariably get lost or frustrated or both. One reason? We have two freeways both called 80. Yeah, that's right. Different freeways that go to different places, both with the same name. Now, Mapquest calls one of them the Capital City Freeway, and so do many people including the traffic reporters. But the signs (most of them, anyway) don't. No, the signs say 80, and above most of them is, in small letters, the word "business." Sometimes it says "Business loop." The other one, theoretically, is called "Interstate 80." But the signs on it say "80." So I may be directionally challenged and quick to frustration, but this shit is not helping.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Both productive and relaxing...
Today was a goood day. I read the paper, shared a seeded baguette with feta and jam and honey, had a damn fine cup of joe, then went to yoga.
At home, I did a little dinking around and a little cleaning, then went to the old house to put in a handle and see if I could mess around with the plumbing. It had been squealing, and I found online that it was probably a problem with the valve, so I took a big monkey wrench and a couple tools over hoping it might be obvious and easy. It wasn't. I called my dad for advice and he came over (I really did just want advice, not to interrupt his Sunday afternoon, but I was glad he came over). I gave him the history, told him about all the troubleshooting and research I had done, and he took the valve apart, found that the round thing inside the valve that shuts off the water flow had been rubbing up against something and didn't close properly. He banged on it to re-shape it, then assembled it all. We waited (and talked) for several minutes, and it didn't even do the faint warbly hum it had been doing as it warmed up to the full-on squeal. So, problem solved! And no need for a $300 plumber visit.
Then I went to Tupelo and did some lesson planning for school. I meant to plan out the whole year for drama class, but instead of thinking big, I started doing very specific day-by-day planning for October. So even though I didn't do what I meant to do, I accomplished something really cool anyway. (October is "bring a character to life" month, so we're doing dialects and accents, stage make-up, costumes, and movement (including pratfalls, just for fun).
I came home and made dinner, then fussed around the garage for a while, rigging up one of those old people things so I know how far to pull the car in. This probably seems like a waste of time, since there's plenty of room for the car, but I had a reason. If I pull up too far, it's impossible to go from the kitchen door to the exterior door where the garbage can is. If I am too far back, I can't open the trunk to get the groceries out. So now I have a hula girl and a little souvenier from China hanging on a fuzzy pink ribbon. When it hits the windshield, I stop!
I did a few more things around here (not much, but folded laundry and stuff), then finished watching "The Fog of War," which I started last night. I like documentaries, but I don't watch them all that often. This one, although there was very little to it besides Robert MacNamara talking and still photos and text, was really fascinating. I mean, here is a guy saying "yeah, we firebombed Tokyo, yeah, we escalated the Vietnam conflict based on wrong information, yeah, we knew civilians were dying... but it was for the greater good, we thought we were doing the right thing, sometimes you have to do evil to do good." It was really interesting. The direction and editing were so subtle, but there were really effective choices made. For example, MacNamara would be trying to explain why he wasn't a war criminal. He says that if we'd lost (in WWII), he'd be called a war criminal, and actually asks why he would be called a war criminal if we'd lost, but not if we'd won. He then peters out, realizing, I guess, that there was no good answer. His face shows what seems to be a mix of emotions -- guilt, defeat, defiance, sadness -- and the camera just lingers there long after he stops talking.
Now I'm not doing a hell of a lot. I'm sort of watching Iron Chef, although I've already seen this one (battle eggplant). Sweetie's in bed with a headache. I'm considering just hitting the hay early tonight, too.
Hope you're all well.
At home, I did a little dinking around and a little cleaning, then went to the old house to put in a handle and see if I could mess around with the plumbing. It had been squealing, and I found online that it was probably a problem with the valve, so I took a big monkey wrench and a couple tools over hoping it might be obvious and easy. It wasn't. I called my dad for advice and he came over (I really did just want advice, not to interrupt his Sunday afternoon, but I was glad he came over). I gave him the history, told him about all the troubleshooting and research I had done, and he took the valve apart, found that the round thing inside the valve that shuts off the water flow had been rubbing up against something and didn't close properly. He banged on it to re-shape it, then assembled it all. We waited (and talked) for several minutes, and it didn't even do the faint warbly hum it had been doing as it warmed up to the full-on squeal. So, problem solved! And no need for a $300 plumber visit.
Then I went to Tupelo and did some lesson planning for school. I meant to plan out the whole year for drama class, but instead of thinking big, I started doing very specific day-by-day planning for October. So even though I didn't do what I meant to do, I accomplished something really cool anyway. (October is "bring a character to life" month, so we're doing dialects and accents, stage make-up, costumes, and movement (including pratfalls, just for fun).
I came home and made dinner, then fussed around the garage for a while, rigging up one of those old people things so I know how far to pull the car in. This probably seems like a waste of time, since there's plenty of room for the car, but I had a reason. If I pull up too far, it's impossible to go from the kitchen door to the exterior door where the garbage can is. If I am too far back, I can't open the trunk to get the groceries out. So now I have a hula girl and a little souvenier from China hanging on a fuzzy pink ribbon. When it hits the windshield, I stop!
I did a few more things around here (not much, but folded laundry and stuff), then finished watching "The Fog of War," which I started last night. I like documentaries, but I don't watch them all that often. This one, although there was very little to it besides Robert MacNamara talking and still photos and text, was really fascinating. I mean, here is a guy saying "yeah, we firebombed Tokyo, yeah, we escalated the Vietnam conflict based on wrong information, yeah, we knew civilians were dying... but it was for the greater good, we thought we were doing the right thing, sometimes you have to do evil to do good." It was really interesting. The direction and editing were so subtle, but there were really effective choices made. For example, MacNamara would be trying to explain why he wasn't a war criminal. He says that if we'd lost (in WWII), he'd be called a war criminal, and actually asks why he would be called a war criminal if we'd lost, but not if we'd won. He then peters out, realizing, I guess, that there was no good answer. His face shows what seems to be a mix of emotions -- guilt, defeat, defiance, sadness -- and the camera just lingers there long after he stops talking.
Now I'm not doing a hell of a lot. I'm sort of watching Iron Chef, although I've already seen this one (battle eggplant). Sweetie's in bed with a headache. I'm considering just hitting the hay early tonight, too.
Hope you're all well.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
You learn something new every day
I learned something from the Playboy Playmates, and now there's a good chance that you'll learn something from me!
First of all, I would like to say that I was not actually watching that show with the playmates. I often sit here and play on the internet while the TV is on, but if you asked me what program was on, I wouldn't even know. I just like background noise. I wish I were all zen, and like "Oh, I love the sounds of a silent house," but that's not me. Anyway...
Last year at school, the kids were teaching me slang in exchange for me teaching them vocabulary of a higher register. I learned lots of things, like what a scraper is, what stunnerz are, what it means to thizz... but I never quite got the hang of "ghost riding the whip." They explained that it means letting the car drive itself while you get out of it. But why would you do that? I asked. Do you put a brick on the gas pedal? Do you just let it drive until it hits something? Are you abandoning the car? Deciding that I was hopelessly unhip, they just sighed and shook their heads. I really didn't know why you would jump out of a moving car, especially if it were yours!
But as I looked up the other night, some trashy blondes on the TV screen were walking alongside their Lexus SUV and doing a very white sort of booty-dance. It was taking place at exceptionally slow speeds, like an automatic transmission that is in drive when you take your foot off the brake. I thought to myself "Who are these ditzes, and what the hell are they doing outside that car?" And just then, the girl explained! She was ghost riding the whip! That's what that means!
In light of that, I realized I had seen it before! On 65th street on the way home to my old house, I saw several teenagers in a car in the left hand turn lane slow down well before the limit line. They were maybe 15 yards back and almost came to a stop. I had my eye on them (hey, it's a crime-ridden area, and you never know when someone's going to do something stupid), so I watched as about four teens got out of the car, walked along side it as it rolled toward the limit line, did a halfhearted dance, then got back in. At the time, I thought it was a really odd and slow sort of Chinese fire drill (I apologize if that's insensitive, but I don't know another term for it), but in retrospect with my new Playboy knowledge, it all makes sense!
So, now you know what ghost riding the whip is. I suspect it would be a lot more difficult in a stick shift like mine, but I also have no desire whatsoever to try. I wonder if the originators of this unusual fad dance better, or if the whole point is a sort of lame and arrythmic booty shake? I guess I'll never know.
First of all, I would like to say that I was not actually watching that show with the playmates. I often sit here and play on the internet while the TV is on, but if you asked me what program was on, I wouldn't even know. I just like background noise. I wish I were all zen, and like "Oh, I love the sounds of a silent house," but that's not me. Anyway...
Last year at school, the kids were teaching me slang in exchange for me teaching them vocabulary of a higher register. I learned lots of things, like what a scraper is, what stunnerz are, what it means to thizz... but I never quite got the hang of "ghost riding the whip." They explained that it means letting the car drive itself while you get out of it. But why would you do that? I asked. Do you put a brick on the gas pedal? Do you just let it drive until it hits something? Are you abandoning the car? Deciding that I was hopelessly unhip, they just sighed and shook their heads. I really didn't know why you would jump out of a moving car, especially if it were yours!
But as I looked up the other night, some trashy blondes on the TV screen were walking alongside their Lexus SUV and doing a very white sort of booty-dance. It was taking place at exceptionally slow speeds, like an automatic transmission that is in drive when you take your foot off the brake. I thought to myself "Who are these ditzes, and what the hell are they doing outside that car?" And just then, the girl explained! She was ghost riding the whip! That's what that means!
In light of that, I realized I had seen it before! On 65th street on the way home to my old house, I saw several teenagers in a car in the left hand turn lane slow down well before the limit line. They were maybe 15 yards back and almost came to a stop. I had my eye on them (hey, it's a crime-ridden area, and you never know when someone's going to do something stupid), so I watched as about four teens got out of the car, walked along side it as it rolled toward the limit line, did a halfhearted dance, then got back in. At the time, I thought it was a really odd and slow sort of Chinese fire drill (I apologize if that's insensitive, but I don't know another term for it), but in retrospect with my new Playboy knowledge, it all makes sense!
So, now you know what ghost riding the whip is. I suspect it would be a lot more difficult in a stick shift like mine, but I also have no desire whatsoever to try. I wonder if the originators of this unusual fad dance better, or if the whole point is a sort of lame and arrythmic booty shake? I guess I'll never know.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Mostly irritable, with a chance of pride and gusts of irrelevance
Irritable: That lady who can give me my Highly Qualified gold star is on vacation until 10/3, and she's got her out-of-office automatic reply on. I wrote a letter, and it's Highly Cranky. I don't actually expect you to take the time to read it, but I'm including it at the end of this post just so you can admire my balance of snarkiness and professionalism. Well, I may need to edit to go more professional and less snarky.
Pride: I might have mentioned before that the one thing missing at my new school is a sense of camaraderie among the staff. Well, I could probably have made a life's work out of bitching about it, but that's the kind of path my dad would choose. I did something else: I invited everyone to lunch. I sent out an e-mail asking if people would be interested in a pot-luck salad, where each person brings one ingredient (lettuce, tomatoes, avocado, cheese, dressing...) and we all eat together. I got quite a few responses, and we did it today. I sat in the sunshine at a picnic table with my co-workers, eating a salad we'd created together and sharing conversation. Instead of, I should mention, in my room with 20 teenagers playing minesweeper while I eat a Weight Watchers frozen meal. It was nice. We're doing it again in two weeks.
Pride, part deux: My friend-who-is-sort-of-also-my-boss (in that he coordinates the program I teach in) has an extra prep period to do all his coordinating. He is trying to stop by everyone's classrooms periodically and just observe so he knows what's going on. It's a good idea, and I support it, but like anyone, I'm made a little nervous by professional observation. And I am a major goofball, so today I'm describing to the kids what kinds of oral presentations they can do, and acting out super-fast versions thereof when he comes in. I may, in fact, have been in the middle of something like this as he walked in; "You could be a character many years after the book ends reminiscing about those years, like, uh... 'Hi, I'm Jimmy Cross, and it's thirty years later, and I still regret not touching Martha's knee all night.'" So I'm imparting information, but I'm also jerking around. Afterwards, he came up to me and said "I always like watching you teach. You're so passionate." That felt good. At least he didn't say "goofy."
Pride part trois and three and a half: I got a note from one of our union reps asking me to join their ranks. The note was very flattering, saying that she thought I'd be really good at it. So I was proud of that. But I turned her down, knowing that at this point in my life I have about as much on my plate as I can handle, and I need to continue to devote time to myself and my relationship. So I'm also proud that I said no. Very few of my readers know why that's a good but difficult decision for me, but there's a history, too. See, my pop has been a site rep for years and years, and he's devoted a lot of evenings to it, a lot of hard work, and invested a lot of emotion into it. And it's pretty much made him crazy and unavailable. I can't be those.
Irrelevant: And finally, on a goofy note, I asked the kids in 6th period if they were done copying down the assignment from the overhead, and the student nearest the overhead reached for the off button. But another student said he still needed it, so I asked button-girl not to push it yet. She said "But I want to push the button." And I had a full-on Tiny Toons flashback to the episode when Plucky Duck pushes all the buttons on the elevator ("elelator") and possibly flushes the toilet countless times. I don't even remember it that well other than his voice saying "I wanna push the button!" Which I probably said to my closest high-school friends one thousand times. And I realized I couldn't do the little voice for my students, because they have never seen Tiny Toons. How old am I, fer chrissakes?
The letter I promised with identifying shit deleted:
9/22/06
Dear Ms. L,
I am aware that you are out of the office, but when you return, I would respectfully like to request a reply to this letter.
In the 2003/2004 school year, my school secretary, BLANK, requested my Highly Qualified Teacher paperwork. I turned it in at that time (we were using the “point” system) and never heard anything more about it.
In the 2004/2005 school year, I was informed that I was not a Highly Qualified Teacher, and therefore must submit the paperwork to prove that I was. At that time I was given the “flow chart,” which I promptly turned in. I never heard anything about it.
In the 2005/2006 school year, I moved to Horticulturalist High. I was informed by our assistant principal, BLANK, that I was not a Highly Qualified Teacher and I needed to submit my paperwork immediately. I had a flow chart, copies of all my credentials, test scores, and diplomas and a cover sheet signed by the principal, BLANK. I never heard anything about it.
On September 21, 2006, at the beginning of the 2006/2007 school year, I was summoned to a meeting in principal Blank’s office. I was again informed that I was not a Highly Qualified teacher, and must immediately rectify the situation.
As you can imagine, I am confused and frustrated. I have no way of knowing whether my paperwork was received or not, and no way of knowing whether I fit the qualifications or not. Is there something missing? When I am actually accepted as a Highly Qualified Teacher, is there some sort of certificate or letter of acknowledgement I should expect? To the best of my knowledge, I fulfill the requirements in any number of ways (I have a B.A. in my core subject, an M.A. in the same subject, have passed the Praxis, SSAT, and CBEST, and have been teaching for seven years). I feel as though I am doing my best to prove that I meet the requirements of No Child Left Behind, but have had woefully poor communication in return. If there is something missing, I will happily and promptly rectify it, but I need to know what it is. I am looking forward to your reply.
Thank you,
Count Mockula
Pride: I might have mentioned before that the one thing missing at my new school is a sense of camaraderie among the staff. Well, I could probably have made a life's work out of bitching about it, but that's the kind of path my dad would choose. I did something else: I invited everyone to lunch. I sent out an e-mail asking if people would be interested in a pot-luck salad, where each person brings one ingredient (lettuce, tomatoes, avocado, cheese, dressing...) and we all eat together. I got quite a few responses, and we did it today. I sat in the sunshine at a picnic table with my co-workers, eating a salad we'd created together and sharing conversation. Instead of, I should mention, in my room with 20 teenagers playing minesweeper while I eat a Weight Watchers frozen meal. It was nice. We're doing it again in two weeks.
Pride, part deux: My friend-who-is-sort-of-also-my-boss (in that he coordinates the program I teach in) has an extra prep period to do all his coordinating. He is trying to stop by everyone's classrooms periodically and just observe so he knows what's going on. It's a good idea, and I support it, but like anyone, I'm made a little nervous by professional observation. And I am a major goofball, so today I'm describing to the kids what kinds of oral presentations they can do, and acting out super-fast versions thereof when he comes in. I may, in fact, have been in the middle of something like this as he walked in; "You could be a character many years after the book ends reminiscing about those years, like, uh...
Pride part trois and three and a half: I got a note from one of our union reps asking me to join their ranks. The note was very flattering, saying that she thought I'd be really good at it. So I was proud of that. But I turned her down, knowing that at this point in my life I have about as much on my plate as I can handle, and I need to continue to devote time to myself and my relationship. So I'm also proud that I said no. Very few of my readers know why that's a good but difficult decision for me, but there's a history, too. See, my pop has been a site rep for years and years, and he's devoted a lot of evenings to it, a lot of hard work, and invested a lot of emotion into it. And it's pretty much made him crazy and unavailable. I can't be those.
Irrelevant: And finally, on a goofy note, I asked the kids in 6th period if they were done copying down the assignment from the overhead, and the student nearest the overhead reached for the off button. But another student said he still needed it, so I asked button-girl not to push it yet. She said "But I want to push the button." And I had a full-on Tiny Toons flashback to the episode when Plucky Duck pushes all the buttons on the elevator ("elelator") and possibly flushes the toilet countless times. I don't even remember it that well other than his voice saying "I wanna push the button!" Which I probably said to my closest high-school friends one thousand times. And I realized I couldn't do the little voice for my students, because they have never seen Tiny Toons. How old am I, fer chrissakes?
The letter I promised with identifying shit deleted:
9/22/06
Dear Ms. L,
I am aware that you are out of the office, but when you return, I would respectfully like to request a reply to this letter.
In the 2003/2004 school year, my school secretary, BLANK, requested my Highly Qualified Teacher paperwork. I turned it in at that time (we were using the “point” system) and never heard anything more about it.
In the 2004/2005 school year, I was informed that I was not a Highly Qualified Teacher, and therefore must submit the paperwork to prove that I was. At that time I was given the “flow chart,” which I promptly turned in. I never heard anything about it.
In the 2005/2006 school year, I moved to Horticulturalist High. I was informed by our assistant principal, BLANK, that I was not a Highly Qualified Teacher and I needed to submit my paperwork immediately. I had a flow chart, copies of all my credentials, test scores, and diplomas and a cover sheet signed by the principal, BLANK. I never heard anything about it.
On September 21, 2006, at the beginning of the 2006/2007 school year, I was summoned to a meeting in principal Blank’s office. I was again informed that I was not a Highly Qualified teacher, and must immediately rectify the situation.
As you can imagine, I am confused and frustrated. I have no way of knowing whether my paperwork was received or not, and no way of knowing whether I fit the qualifications or not. Is there something missing? When I am actually accepted as a Highly Qualified Teacher, is there some sort of certificate or letter of acknowledgement I should expect? To the best of my knowledge, I fulfill the requirements in any number of ways (I have a B.A. in my core subject, an M.A. in the same subject, have passed the Praxis, SSAT, and CBEST, and have been teaching for seven years). I feel as though I am doing my best to prove that I meet the requirements of No Child Left Behind, but have had woefully poor communication in return. If there is something missing, I will happily and promptly rectify it, but I need to know what it is. I am looking forward to your reply.
Thank you,
Count Mockula
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Gold star!
I'm so fucking frustrated. I had a meeting with the principal this morning and found out I am not a "Highly Qualified Teacher" according to the school district. Which, if I really weren't, wouldn't piss me off. Or if I had only submitted the paperwork to prove I am once? Maybe a little irritated. But no, this will be the FOURTH year in a row I've submitted the paperwork. And it should be so easy! You have to have three things -- a bachelor's degree, a credential, and proof you've passed an exam in your area of teaching.
Last year I was so frustrated I sent them copies of my B.A., my credential, my M.A., and THREE qualifying exams. But this year, same thing. Huff.
Last year I was so frustrated I sent them copies of my B.A., my credential, my M.A., and THREE qualifying exams. But this year, same thing. Huff.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Candy candy candy I can't let you go.
Sometimes my brain just goes places I wasn't expecting, and last night I started thinking about candy and I couldn't stop. I like candy. I started listing the kinds of candies I liked in my head (listing in my head, candy in my mouth!).
I like Skittles, Starburst, cinnamon bears, M&Ms (especially almond and peanut butter), Reeses (cups and pieces), Lemonheads, hot tamales, red hots, root beer barrels, saltwater taffy, Abba Zabbas, Mary Janes (taffy with peanut butter inside), butterscotches, starlight mints, those strawberry hard candies with the goo inside, conversation hearts, dinner mints, mint pastilles, the round ones that are vaguely foreign that have a shell and some chocolate and minty stuff inside, Junior Mints, peppermint patties, Red Vines, any See's candy that involves nuts or caramels and dark chocolate but not fruit, Milk Duds, Tootsie Rolls and Pops, Dum Dums, jelly beans (especially Jelly Bellies), chocolate covered almost anything (but especially almonds or cashews), toffee, Almond Roca, Jolly Ranchers, Nerds, Lik M Aid, Pop Rocks, about half the Necco wafers, ginger chews (Ting Ting Jahe), chocolate covered cherries,
Some candies I don't like include Sugar Babies and Daddies (feel like my fillings are going to pop out), Runts (preponderance of bananas, too crunchy), Now and Laters (fillings, banana), Dots (fillings, plus kind of flavorless), Airheads (just taste like sugar), Laffy Taffy (too horrible to consider, AND banana), the other half of the Necco wafers, most candy from the Asian market (it salty tamarind is your bag, enjoy).
What's funny is that there are probably hundreds in both categories that I'm forgetting. I feel like I should go blog from the candy aisle at the grocery store so I can remember everything. I really like candy. I find it hard to resist. Even if it's not my favorite candy, I'm likely to have just a little. Like those crappy chocolate balls in foil or marshmallow things in milk chocolate you get at Halloween? I'll eat those. Give me a valentine with a milk chocolate and puffed rice heart? It's in my mouth. It might not get eaten until I'm out of other, better chocolate, but I'll eat it. I didn't even put candy bars in the above list. Just straight candy. Mmm. Candy.
I like Skittles, Starburst, cinnamon bears, M&Ms (especially almond and peanut butter), Reeses (cups and pieces), Lemonheads, hot tamales, red hots, root beer barrels, saltwater taffy, Abba Zabbas, Mary Janes (taffy with peanut butter inside), butterscotches, starlight mints, those strawberry hard candies with the goo inside, conversation hearts, dinner mints, mint pastilles, the round ones that are vaguely foreign that have a shell and some chocolate and minty stuff inside, Junior Mints, peppermint patties, Red Vines, any See's candy that involves nuts or caramels and dark chocolate but not fruit, Milk Duds, Tootsie Rolls and Pops, Dum Dums, jelly beans (especially Jelly Bellies), chocolate covered almost anything (but especially almonds or cashews), toffee, Almond Roca, Jolly Ranchers, Nerds, Lik M Aid, Pop Rocks, about half the Necco wafers, ginger chews (Ting Ting Jahe), chocolate covered cherries,
Some candies I don't like include Sugar Babies and Daddies (feel like my fillings are going to pop out), Runts (preponderance of bananas, too crunchy), Now and Laters (fillings, banana), Dots (fillings, plus kind of flavorless), Airheads (just taste like sugar), Laffy Taffy (too horrible to consider, AND banana), the other half of the Necco wafers, most candy from the Asian market (it salty tamarind is your bag, enjoy).
What's funny is that there are probably hundreds in both categories that I'm forgetting. I feel like I should go blog from the candy aisle at the grocery store so I can remember everything. I really like candy. I find it hard to resist. Even if it's not my favorite candy, I'm likely to have just a little. Like those crappy chocolate balls in foil or marshmallow things in milk chocolate you get at Halloween? I'll eat those. Give me a valentine with a milk chocolate and puffed rice heart? It's in my mouth. It might not get eaten until I'm out of other, better chocolate, but I'll eat it. I didn't even put candy bars in the above list. Just straight candy. Mmm. Candy.
Oh geez
What a day. I was wearing a nice white button-down shirt and spilled voluminous amounts of coffee on it. So, since my room is locked and I'm wearing an undershirt anyway, I take my shirt off and try to wash out the coffee. I mostly get it out, but the shirt is soaking. So I dry it briefly in the microwave, but I have to go to my meeting! I put the damp shirt back on and attend my meeting. Afterwards, I make a quick potty stop, and for reasons that delicacy prevents me from disclosing, I find that I have to make an emergency run to Rite-Aid*, then back to the bathroom where I wad my underpants into a paper towel and shove them in my purse. So now I'm freeballing, which is fine. I've done it before. But today I am wearing a knee-length full pleated skirt and it is WINDY AS FUCK. I was sure all day that all my co-workers and about 1,500 teenagers were about to be treated to a shot of my naked snatch. Anywhere I walked today, I did so with huge handfuls of skirt wadded up in my fists. Nice.
*Incidentally, I am normally better-prepared for this sort of emergency, but having just withstood a practically Guinness record-worthy eighteen days of undisclosed reasons, I thought I had another day or two free.
*Incidentally, I am normally better-prepared for this sort of emergency, but having just withstood a practically Guinness record-worthy eighteen days of undisclosed reasons, I thought I had another day or two free.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Score
My grandma's crazy, and I love it!
She calls me yesterday and says "You like hats."
I say yes. It's not really a question, but that's her way. So she tells me that this friend of hers (to whom she gives pie when her live-in lover doesn't like it) has a lot of hats. And bags. And "big shoes;" if I know anyone with big feet, I should let them know. "Oh, what size are they?" They're 8 1/2. I'm a 9 1/2 or 10. Thanks, Grandma.
So how did he come across all this stuff and why is he getting rid of it? Well, it turns out that he was in a relationship with a woman who had a shopping problem, and he went to the trouble of building another room on the back of the house for her stuff. Well, they broke up (apparently amicably) and he introduced her to a new fellow. This fellow sold his house and they bought a mobile home together. Well, one day grandma's friend got a call from the woman wondering whether he had heard from the new boyfriend. No, he hadn't. Apparently the guy DROVE OFF with their home... So she tracks him down to L.A. and shoots him twice, once in the face. He lives. She's in jail.
Anyway, so now he has all this stuff to get rid of. My thing is actually vintage, not just people's wierd 80s cast-offs, but Grandma really seemed to want me to go, and Grandma often gets what she wants. I ended up taking several scarves, a bag, a couple pieces of costume jewelery, some vintage stockings in the packaging (I don't know if I'll wear them, but the packaging is cool), and a bunch of goofy sunglasses in the style that one of my students is ga-ga for. I can't wait to give them to her tomorrow.
Anyway, it was worth it for a good story, if nothing else.
She calls me yesterday and says "You like hats."
I say yes. It's not really a question, but that's her way. So she tells me that this friend of hers (to whom she gives pie when her live-in lover doesn't like it) has a lot of hats. And bags. And "big shoes;" if I know anyone with big feet, I should let them know. "Oh, what size are they?" They're 8 1/2. I'm a 9 1/2 or 10. Thanks, Grandma.
So how did he come across all this stuff and why is he getting rid of it? Well, it turns out that he was in a relationship with a woman who had a shopping problem, and he went to the trouble of building another room on the back of the house for her stuff. Well, they broke up (apparently amicably) and he introduced her to a new fellow. This fellow sold his house and they bought a mobile home together. Well, one day grandma's friend got a call from the woman wondering whether he had heard from the new boyfriend. No, he hadn't. Apparently the guy DROVE OFF with their home... So she tracks him down to L.A. and shoots him twice, once in the face. He lives. She's in jail.
Anyway, so now he has all this stuff to get rid of. My thing is actually vintage, not just people's wierd 80s cast-offs, but Grandma really seemed to want me to go, and Grandma often gets what she wants. I ended up taking several scarves, a bag, a couple pieces of costume jewelery, some vintage stockings in the packaging (I don't know if I'll wear them, but the packaging is cool), and a bunch of goofy sunglasses in the style that one of my students is ga-ga for. I can't wait to give them to her tomorrow.
Anyway, it was worth it for a good story, if nothing else.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
The couch -- now with pictures!
This is the before.
This is the after.
This is not even a particularly good photo of the damage it did to just one of the doorframes.
And here is just one of the spots where it damaged the floor.
This is the after.This is not even a particularly good photo of the damage it did to just one of the doorframes. And here is just one of the spots where it damaged the floor.You know you're jealous.
You like my laser pink streamers? 
I'm sorry you can't really see this one, but this is my sticker from CUSS. Thanks, Suzanne!Cool-ass shirt
This is the shirt I got at the AIDS walk. It's one of those mechanic-type ones with the patches over the pockets, but the patches have been taken off. I overheard some people behind me saying "Oh my gosh, how ironic. It's called Alive and Kicking, but there's a picture of a cow all carved up that's probably going to be made into hamburger!"
How ironic indeed! I'll bet in 20 years of producing that paper, Jerry Perry has never thought of that! You're clever...
How ironic indeed! I'll bet in 20 years of producing that paper, Jerry Perry has never thought of that! You're clever...
Yay, pictures!
Here's the hammock in which I read the paper. Perhaps this picture will give you an idea of what a nice day it is out.
Instant karma's gonna get you
Yea, and after the mighty struggle with the sofa bed, didst the good karma train come a-rollin' back in. I had a fabulous morning.
Got up early and rode my newly pimped bike to light rail, took light rail to the Capitol. Overcame a moment of confusion ("Holy shit, where is everybody! Oh, I'm approaching the South steps, not the West steps."). Hooked up with the Alive and Kicking group and got my shirt (they're super-cool this year). It seemed like kind of a small group this year. I don't know for sure what the numbers were, but there was a year (2000 maybe?) where we took up an entire section of the South steps and Jerry had to go WAY back to get us all in the picture. This time we filled two park benches with people standing behind them and a few people crouching in front. It's such a mixed emotion -- the reason less money is going to AIDS charities is because it's out of the public eye, and it's out of the public eye because fewer people are dying of it. Which is good. But there are new infections all the time and people don't see it, so they're giving less money. Which is bad. Anyway...
Soon, about 11 of my students showed up! Yay! I wasn't sure who was really coming and who was just considering it, but these are the best kids, and several of them were in the Notorious Mockula 5 on the Yosemite trip last year. Three of them actually did the 5K run, the rest of us just did the walk. I ended up walking with one of the kids the whole way, and had a really nice talk with her.
When it was over, they were debating whether to stay and hear the music, go to the mall, see a movie... I told them to be good, don't lie to their parents, and I was going home. I was hoping to catch Sweetie before he went to work. I caught light rail, but as we approached 16th street station (about 3 stations from where I got on) they announced that it was a train bound for the South area. I haven't ridden light rail much since they added the second line (the Blue Line), so I had forgotten that was an option. I got off, and considered what to do. I didn't have a watch and didn't see a train schedule, but decided there must have been a cosmic reason that I was off the train downtown with my bike on a lovely Sunday morning. I pinpointed it -- I was one block from my favorite coffee shop in town! I went to Naked Lounge, ordered a mocha, used the potty, and saw a guy in an "Iowa shucks" t-shirt which I will probably get for my mom. I hope she's not reading my blogs while she's in England, because it'd be a good surprise. The baristas always make the top of your coffee drinks look pretty, usually with little abstract swirls. I heard them talking today about one that was a "work of art." They called my name, and it was my mocha. Noah (head barista guy) said "check it out, she made a perfect apple." And it was!!! And for those of you who know me well, the apple is like my personal symbol!! Frickin' awesome.
I decided I would ride part-way home and if I was tired, I'd hop light rail when I got to 23rd street or something. But I wasn't tired. I think I was energized by my pink laser streamers. I rode all the way home, and it was great. It's a really pleasant day out -- sunny, but not hot. I feel relaxed, happy, energetic, young - and not young in the way I felt when I was actually young, but young like "Hey, I'm 30, relaxed, I can do anything I want, I have security, and that provides a little freedom." It's like being in your early 20s, but without all the anxiety. I'm really happy. Now I'm going to read one of my forums then read the whole paper in the hammock. Oh yeah, then all the grading. Then I think I'm making French toast for dinner. See? This is a great life.
Got up early and rode my newly pimped bike to light rail, took light rail to the Capitol. Overcame a moment of confusion ("Holy shit, where is everybody! Oh, I'm approaching the South steps, not the West steps."). Hooked up with the Alive and Kicking group and got my shirt (they're super-cool this year). It seemed like kind of a small group this year. I don't know for sure what the numbers were, but there was a year (2000 maybe?) where we took up an entire section of the South steps and Jerry had to go WAY back to get us all in the picture. This time we filled two park benches with people standing behind them and a few people crouching in front. It's such a mixed emotion -- the reason less money is going to AIDS charities is because it's out of the public eye, and it's out of the public eye because fewer people are dying of it. Which is good. But there are new infections all the time and people don't see it, so they're giving less money. Which is bad. Anyway...
Soon, about 11 of my students showed up! Yay! I wasn't sure who was really coming and who was just considering it, but these are the best kids, and several of them were in the Notorious Mockula 5 on the Yosemite trip last year. Three of them actually did the 5K run, the rest of us just did the walk. I ended up walking with one of the kids the whole way, and had a really nice talk with her.
When it was over, they were debating whether to stay and hear the music, go to the mall, see a movie... I told them to be good, don't lie to their parents, and I was going home. I was hoping to catch Sweetie before he went to work. I caught light rail, but as we approached 16th street station (about 3 stations from where I got on) they announced that it was a train bound for the South area. I haven't ridden light rail much since they added the second line (the Blue Line), so I had forgotten that was an option. I got off, and considered what to do. I didn't have a watch and didn't see a train schedule, but decided there must have been a cosmic reason that I was off the train downtown with my bike on a lovely Sunday morning. I pinpointed it -- I was one block from my favorite coffee shop in town! I went to Naked Lounge, ordered a mocha, used the potty, and saw a guy in an "Iowa shucks" t-shirt which I will probably get for my mom. I hope she's not reading my blogs while she's in England, because it'd be a good surprise. The baristas always make the top of your coffee drinks look pretty, usually with little abstract swirls. I heard them talking today about one that was a "work of art." They called my name, and it was my mocha. Noah (head barista guy) said "check it out, she made a perfect apple." And it was!!! And for those of you who know me well, the apple is like my personal symbol!! Frickin' awesome.
I decided I would ride part-way home and if I was tired, I'd hop light rail when I got to 23rd street or something. But I wasn't tired. I think I was energized by my pink laser streamers. I rode all the way home, and it was great. It's a really pleasant day out -- sunny, but not hot. I feel relaxed, happy, energetic, young - and not young in the way I felt when I was actually young, but young like "Hey, I'm 30, relaxed, I can do anything I want, I have security, and that provides a little freedom." It's like being in your early 20s, but without all the anxiety. I'm really happy. Now I'm going to read one of my forums then read the whole paper in the hammock. Oh yeah, then all the grading. Then I think I'm making French toast for dinner. See? This is a great life.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Ho Le Phuc. Or, Molehills into Mountains.
So remember that thing about me Freecycling a sofa bed? Well, somebody wanted it, so Sweetie and I decided to move it out to the garage so it would be easier for them to pick up. So, we moved the couch and there you have it. NOT, times ten thousand!!!
First we both crouch down so we can lift with the legs, and at the same time that an Ikea couch would lift to waist level, this couch is still sitting on the floor, and we are giving one another confused looks which say something like "Holy shit! My end is heavy! Is your end heavy? Am I just a pussy? Please let it not just be me..."
We stand up and dust our hands off. We devise a plan. The plan involves putting magic slidy coaster things on the feet and just sliding it out the door. It involves moving the bed in there a little, but we get it slid over to the door with a minimum of problems. But we can't get it out the door. There's a leg or something of the bed part inside (which we believe to be made of cast iron or lead) that is hooked on the doorjamb and has already scratched it slightly. We manouever, jiggle, adjust, push, remove legs, lift, and eventually (with a little more scratching) get it into the hall. Now, the layout of our house is such that the bedrooms are opposite each other across a hallway with the bathroom on one side and a door to the living room on the other. We are trying to angle it out the living room door, but it won't go. We push it towards our bedroom, thinking that then we will be able to angle it into the bathroom, then out the other door. It scratches the living shit out of the bedroom doorjamb. We are frustrated.
We try to unfold the bed and get the mattress out, thinking it will make the couch lighter. It does, but we are then COMPLETELY unable to get it to fold back up. We now have a couch folded out into a bed in the middle of our bedroom, and though it is a fairly spacious room, there is not enough room for that. We have to climb to get to one another. We flip it onto its back to try and slide it out like that, with the bed part pushed halfway in, but apparently some of the cast-iron legs (or hinges, or something -- we really lost all perspective on this thing) were sticking out the back and badly scratched our hardwood floors.
At this point, I call the person who wanted the couch and leave a message with her husband. I'm paraphrasing, but it was something like "Hi, I just wanted to let you know that we were trying to move the sofa bed out so it would be easier for you to get, but it has damaged two of our doorjambs and badly scratched our floors, so we're going to go ahead and destroy it in a fit of pique."
Which Sweetie promptly got to work on with a hammer and much cursing. I won't elaborate, but it was kind of scary. Unfortunately, it's surprisingly hard to destroy a cast-iron sofa bed. Bits were welded, other bits were screwed in tightly (and stripped when we tried to unscrew them. Other bits were a size we didn't have a socket wrench of. And all the bits were pointy and sharp. We had to take a break at one point to staunch my bleeding: we figured the floor had sustained enough damage. Anyway, 30 minutes later or so, we had it broken into manageable chunks and dragged it to the garage.
Anyway, I just wanted to say that I know it's probably not Wylda Fitch's fault -- she's old, and I believe it was her son/daughter-in-law MIKE and LISA FITCH, who failed to comply with the terms of the sale and failed to remove the couch, which we specifically asked them to do, and those are the people who suck and whom we hate. MIKE FITCH and LISA FITCH. Go ahead; Google yourself, bitches. You suck. You ruined our floor, hurt my toe, and fucked up our Saturday night. Not to mention all the other crapola you left around here. You're big crappy crapheads. I hope your new home, wherever it is, has radon. And mice with Hanta virus. And lead paint for your babies to chew.
I probably will feel better tomorrow, but I'm pretty cranky right about now.
First we both crouch down so we can lift with the legs, and at the same time that an Ikea couch would lift to waist level, this couch is still sitting on the floor, and we are giving one another confused looks which say something like "Holy shit! My end is heavy! Is your end heavy? Am I just a pussy? Please let it not just be me..."
We stand up and dust our hands off. We devise a plan. The plan involves putting magic slidy coaster things on the feet and just sliding it out the door. It involves moving the bed in there a little, but we get it slid over to the door with a minimum of problems. But we can't get it out the door. There's a leg or something of the bed part inside (which we believe to be made of cast iron or lead) that is hooked on the doorjamb and has already scratched it slightly. We manouever, jiggle, adjust, push, remove legs, lift, and eventually (with a little more scratching) get it into the hall. Now, the layout of our house is such that the bedrooms are opposite each other across a hallway with the bathroom on one side and a door to the living room on the other. We are trying to angle it out the living room door, but it won't go. We push it towards our bedroom, thinking that then we will be able to angle it into the bathroom, then out the other door. It scratches the living shit out of the bedroom doorjamb. We are frustrated.
We try to unfold the bed and get the mattress out, thinking it will make the couch lighter. It does, but we are then COMPLETELY unable to get it to fold back up. We now have a couch folded out into a bed in the middle of our bedroom, and though it is a fairly spacious room, there is not enough room for that. We have to climb to get to one another. We flip it onto its back to try and slide it out like that, with the bed part pushed halfway in, but apparently some of the cast-iron legs (or hinges, or something -- we really lost all perspective on this thing) were sticking out the back and badly scratched our hardwood floors.
At this point, I call the person who wanted the couch and leave a message with her husband. I'm paraphrasing, but it was something like "Hi, I just wanted to let you know that we were trying to move the sofa bed out so it would be easier for you to get, but it has damaged two of our doorjambs and badly scratched our floors, so we're going to go ahead and destroy it in a fit of pique."
Which Sweetie promptly got to work on with a hammer and much cursing. I won't elaborate, but it was kind of scary. Unfortunately, it's surprisingly hard to destroy a cast-iron sofa bed. Bits were welded, other bits were screwed in tightly (and stripped when we tried to unscrew them. Other bits were a size we didn't have a socket wrench of. And all the bits were pointy and sharp. We had to take a break at one point to staunch my bleeding: we figured the floor had sustained enough damage. Anyway, 30 minutes later or so, we had it broken into manageable chunks and dragged it to the garage.
Anyway, I just wanted to say that I know it's probably not Wylda Fitch's fault -- she's old, and I believe it was her son/daughter-in-law MIKE and LISA FITCH, who failed to comply with the terms of the sale and failed to remove the couch, which we specifically asked them to do, and those are the people who suck and whom we hate. MIKE FITCH and LISA FITCH. Go ahead; Google yourself, bitches. You suck. You ruined our floor, hurt my toe, and fucked up our Saturday night. Not to mention all the other crapola you left around here. You're big crappy crapheads. I hope your new home, wherever it is, has radon. And mice with Hanta virus. And lead paint for your babies to chew.
I probably will feel better tomorrow, but I'm pretty cranky right about now.
I was a DUDE today!
But still a total girly-girl.
I worked on my bike, changing a tire and stuff... the stuff included putting on pink "laser" streamers and a license plate with my name on it. I also cleaned up the basket and tightened the bell.
I cleaned out the garage and jury-rigged the garage door opener... but not very well, because now you have to have the light on to open the garage door.
I mowed the lawn... with a push mower. I still can't start a gas engine.
I was going to barbecue... veggie burgers with bleu cheese.
Incidentally, I didn't barbecue because I can't find any matches in the whole place. I have no idea what happened to the contents of our "junk drawer" at the old place which had handy shit like matches in it.
Anyway, that was the day. Tomorrow I do the AIDS walk. I still have a bunch of papers to grade and laundry to fold. If I really get my shit together, I'll clean up all the papers on my desk, too. There are stacks of mail I haven't dealt with yet -- mostly stuff I simply have to file, not actually respond to, but it's accumulating faster than I have been able to deal with it.
Ah well. I Freecycled some stuff today and I got rid of our moving boxes and a wine rack thing, but still have no interest in the abandoned sofa bed or the "household items" that might just end up in the trash. The previous owners just left stuff everywhere. It's like "Hey, thanks for the two half-empty bottles of Woolite and the big chrome eagle flag holder. Yeah, I could really use your old mop, too!" Oh well. We're still getting there. My other goal for today (although I don't know whether it'll happen or not) is to get more of our art hung up.
I did ride my new flashy bike to the store for dinner stuff. Yay bike riding! Yay living close to decent stores! Yay having cleaned up the house! Yay for listening to the Beatles all day, even though it's only because Sweetie's at work, which is sad.
Sigh, gotta go do alternate cooking of the veggie burgers.
Oh, wait -- funny note from last night: We walked down the street to Three Sisters, a sort-of Mexican restaurant (more "California" than their other place, Tres Hermanas). We had a nice dinner there (and for a moment, suspected a scandal! I saw one of my old English professors walk in a few moments after the Dean of the English department! Were they having a secret, torrid affair? But then another English professor walked in and I figured it was a meeting. Or a menage a trois, I guess. Longest. Parenthetical. Ever.), then walked another block and parted ways. Sweetie needed something from Trader Joe's and I needed something from the drugstore across the street. Well, I noticed they had Halloween candy, and since this is the only time of year they sell Milky Way Midnights in "fun-size," I bought a bag. Sweetie, when we met again, induced me to look in his bag, because he had bought two kinds of ice cream: "Chocolate AND coffee, so you can mix them together and have mocha!" I then showed him my purchase, and he said "Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one with no self control."
Okay, now I'm really done. Bye!
I worked on my bike, changing a tire and stuff... the stuff included putting on pink "laser" streamers and a license plate with my name on it. I also cleaned up the basket and tightened the bell.
I cleaned out the garage and jury-rigged the garage door opener... but not very well, because now you have to have the light on to open the garage door.
I mowed the lawn... with a push mower. I still can't start a gas engine.
I was going to barbecue... veggie burgers with bleu cheese.
Incidentally, I didn't barbecue because I can't find any matches in the whole place. I have no idea what happened to the contents of our "junk drawer" at the old place which had handy shit like matches in it.
Anyway, that was the day. Tomorrow I do the AIDS walk. I still have a bunch of papers to grade and laundry to fold. If I really get my shit together, I'll clean up all the papers on my desk, too. There are stacks of mail I haven't dealt with yet -- mostly stuff I simply have to file, not actually respond to, but it's accumulating faster than I have been able to deal with it.
Ah well. I Freecycled some stuff today and I got rid of our moving boxes and a wine rack thing, but still have no interest in the abandoned sofa bed or the "household items" that might just end up in the trash. The previous owners just left stuff everywhere. It's like "Hey, thanks for the two half-empty bottles of Woolite and the big chrome eagle flag holder. Yeah, I could really use your old mop, too!" Oh well. We're still getting there. My other goal for today (although I don't know whether it'll happen or not) is to get more of our art hung up.
I did ride my new flashy bike to the store for dinner stuff. Yay bike riding! Yay living close to decent stores! Yay having cleaned up the house! Yay for listening to the Beatles all day, even though it's only because Sweetie's at work, which is sad.
Sigh, gotta go do alternate cooking of the veggie burgers.
Oh, wait -- funny note from last night: We walked down the street to Three Sisters, a sort-of Mexican restaurant (more "California" than their other place, Tres Hermanas). We had a nice dinner there (and for a moment, suspected a scandal! I saw one of my old English professors walk in a few moments after the Dean of the English department! Were they having a secret, torrid affair? But then another English professor walked in and I figured it was a meeting. Or a menage a trois, I guess. Longest. Parenthetical. Ever.), then walked another block and parted ways. Sweetie needed something from Trader Joe's and I needed something from the drugstore across the street. Well, I noticed they had Halloween candy, and since this is the only time of year they sell Milky Way Midnights in "fun-size," I bought a bag. Sweetie, when we met again, induced me to look in his bag, because he had bought two kinds of ice cream: "Chocolate AND coffee, so you can mix them together and have mocha!" I then showed him my purchase, and he said "Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one with no self control."
Okay, now I'm really done. Bye!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
The novel is dead, long live the novel!
First of all, before we begin, I'd like to report that I'm writing under the influence of screw-top Pinot Blanc with ice cubes in it. The screw top is a Bonny Doon winery thing. The ice cubes are unusual for me, but my kitchen's like 90 degrees, so the wine is, too.
Anyway, I'd just like to address all you Ethan Frome, Great Gatsby, Red Badge of Courage, Crucible-haters. Everyone who's ever said "Gawd, I hated having to read BLANK in high school." Guess what? You win. In English class in high school now, we read articles from the newspaper, editorials, black-and-white-photocopied text, and NON-fiction. The novel is out. The article is the new novel.
In fact, we're so anti-novel that if you talk to someone in on campus and ask whether they're using novels... they look around to make sure the principal, the English Department head, and any representatives of Homeland Security aren't lurking around the corner listening before they guiltily admit to having "snuck in" a novel.
Are novels necessary? Let's make it easier -- is fiction necessary? I know there's room for debate here, but I come down strictly on the pro side. First of all, probably the cleanest argument is this: We are supposed to be preparing our students for college, and in college, they are going to have to take English 1B (or whatever it's called now), which is a literature class. If they have never studied literature, they will be woefully unprepared.
Second, and this is where it starts to get fuzzy, literature is FUN. If students are going to stay motivated throughout this four years of hormones and algebra, we need to give them an opportunity to relax and enjoy.
Third, literature encourages good moral values. Hey, Christian right, whatever you might think, the great majority of the books we read in high school end up with some sort of family value. Even the dirty-mouthed Holden Caulfield wants to save children from the F-word and ultimately is defined by his relationships with his family. It's the death of his younger brother that undoes him.
Fourth, literature teaches empathy. Read the Joy Luck Club -- you might not know a damn thing about Chinese culture, but when you read this story and find yourself relating to it? Maybe you have a better understanding of how other people live.
Fifth, literature helps you understand what other people are talking about. Ever heard that something was a Catch-22? Someone's in the catbird seat? He's a real Romeo? Some politician is Machiavellian? Someone is quixotic or tilting at windmills? Sure, it's possible to know what these things mean, but they make a damn sight more sense if you understand the context.
Sixth, it encourages a love of reading. You read a newspaper article and you're done. You get caught up in a story? You're hooked!
Seventh, it makes you smarter. I'm sure I can find statistics that back up "reading= smart," but that's not exactly what I mean. I mean, you end up making connections that you would not otherwise. Is a person who has not read "1984" ever going to make a connection between this administration and double-speak and the thought police? Is a person who's never read "The Crucible" going to really understand when something is a "witch hunt"?
Eighth, reading novels makes you a better problem-solver. Say you've read three or four books where the narrator faces an ethical crisis. Do you have a better chance of solving a similar crisis than someone who hasn't and has no experience in this area?
Ninth, reading novels makes you more interesting. My teenage cousin keeps insisting that he would rather have money for his Christmas and birthday presents, but I keep giving him books. I teasingly tell him that someday he will meet a woman and she will bring up the novels of D. Manus Pinkwater (I'm still buying him young adult books), and he will say "Oh yes, Lizard Music is one of my favorite books! And they will laugh and reminisce... and I'm only sort of kidding. At the very least, he will have more to talk about than some kid who spent the best years of his life playing Grand Theft Auto.
Tenth, reading novels makes you part of a broader cultural experience. You can go and join the rest of the Crucible-haters in the bars, clubs, grocery stores, book clubs, day-cares, and construction sites of America. When someone says "Man, I hated The Scarlet Letter!", you can say "me too," rather than "the what now?"
We've already severely cut music and art. We rarely if ever offer dance, Latin, radio production, jazz band, swimming... Our students take history, gym, math, science, English, foreign language, and an elective (often a "support") class. Are we now going to strip that curriculum of even more art, of literature? It makes me want to cry. If I were a student now, a student in these programs of essays and articles and black and white photocopies -- well, I can't say what I'd do, but I think my chances of being a teacher now would be dramatically lessened. I think it's much more likely I'd have been a drop-out or woiuld still be working in customer service. The literature was what I loved, what inspired me, what moved me to continue. I don't know who I'm addressing, but whoever you are, don't take it away.
Anyway, I'd just like to address all you Ethan Frome, Great Gatsby, Red Badge of Courage, Crucible-haters. Everyone who's ever said "Gawd, I hated having to read BLANK in high school." Guess what? You win. In English class in high school now, we read articles from the newspaper, editorials, black-and-white-photocopied text, and NON-fiction. The novel is out. The article is the new novel.
In fact, we're so anti-novel that if you talk to someone in on campus and ask whether they're using novels... they look around to make sure the principal, the English Department head, and any representatives of Homeland Security aren't lurking around the corner listening before they guiltily admit to having "snuck in" a novel.
Are novels necessary? Let's make it easier -- is fiction necessary? I know there's room for debate here, but I come down strictly on the pro side. First of all, probably the cleanest argument is this: We are supposed to be preparing our students for college, and in college, they are going to have to take English 1B (or whatever it's called now), which is a literature class. If they have never studied literature, they will be woefully unprepared.
Second, and this is where it starts to get fuzzy, literature is FUN. If students are going to stay motivated throughout this four years of hormones and algebra, we need to give them an opportunity to relax and enjoy.
Third, literature encourages good moral values. Hey, Christian right, whatever you might think, the great majority of the books we read in high school end up with some sort of family value. Even the dirty-mouthed Holden Caulfield wants to save children from the F-word and ultimately is defined by his relationships with his family. It's the death of his younger brother that undoes him.
Fourth, literature teaches empathy. Read the Joy Luck Club -- you might not know a damn thing about Chinese culture, but when you read this story and find yourself relating to it? Maybe you have a better understanding of how other people live.
Fifth, literature helps you understand what other people are talking about. Ever heard that something was a Catch-22? Someone's in the catbird seat? He's a real Romeo? Some politician is Machiavellian? Someone is quixotic or tilting at windmills? Sure, it's possible to know what these things mean, but they make a damn sight more sense if you understand the context.
Sixth, it encourages a love of reading. You read a newspaper article and you're done. You get caught up in a story? You're hooked!
Seventh, it makes you smarter. I'm sure I can find statistics that back up "reading= smart," but that's not exactly what I mean. I mean, you end up making connections that you would not otherwise. Is a person who has not read "1984" ever going to make a connection between this administration and double-speak and the thought police? Is a person who's never read "The Crucible" going to really understand when something is a "witch hunt"?
Eighth, reading novels makes you a better problem-solver. Say you've read three or four books where the narrator faces an ethical crisis. Do you have a better chance of solving a similar crisis than someone who hasn't and has no experience in this area?
Ninth, reading novels makes you more interesting. My teenage cousin keeps insisting that he would rather have money for his Christmas and birthday presents, but I keep giving him books. I teasingly tell him that someday he will meet a woman and she will bring up the novels of D. Manus Pinkwater (I'm still buying him young adult books), and he will say "Oh yes, Lizard Music is one of my favorite books! And they will laugh and reminisce... and I'm only sort of kidding. At the very least, he will have more to talk about than some kid who spent the best years of his life playing Grand Theft Auto.
Tenth, reading novels makes you part of a broader cultural experience. You can go and join the rest of the Crucible-haters in the bars, clubs, grocery stores, book clubs, day-cares, and construction sites of America. When someone says "Man, I hated The Scarlet Letter!", you can say "me too," rather than "the what now?"
We've already severely cut music and art. We rarely if ever offer dance, Latin, radio production, jazz band, swimming... Our students take history, gym, math, science, English, foreign language, and an elective (often a "support") class. Are we now going to strip that curriculum of even more art, of literature? It makes me want to cry. If I were a student now, a student in these programs of essays and articles and black and white photocopies -- well, I can't say what I'd do, but I think my chances of being a teacher now would be dramatically lessened. I think it's much more likely I'd have been a drop-out or woiuld still be working in customer service. The literature was what I loved, what inspired me, what moved me to continue. I don't know who I'm addressing, but whoever you are, don't take it away.
Extra Extra read all about it!
Okay, my bike needed more than just air, but I'm working on it. Today is good -- I made paella, actually got to leave school before 4, and got a lot of stuff done that I wanted done. Not everything, but we're getting in gear.
But even cooler is that three people dear to me, my mom, stepdad (Boompah), and good friend Gynagirl all skipped town and headed to Europe yesterday. And while it's not great that they're gone ('cause I'll miss them), it's great that I get to live vicariously through them here: http://adventr.blogspot.com and here: http://gynagirl.blogspot.com
Gynagirl hit land in Greece yesterday shortly after my folks hit Kensington. Neat, huh?
But even cooler is that three people dear to me, my mom, stepdad (Boompah), and good friend Gynagirl all skipped town and headed to Europe yesterday. And while it's not great that they're gone ('cause I'll miss them), it's great that I get to live vicariously through them here: http://adventr.blogspot.com and here: http://gynagirl.blogspot.com
Gynagirl hit land in Greece yesterday shortly after my folks hit Kensington. Neat, huh?
Monday, September 11, 2006
Mysterious asterisk
I realized after re-reading yesterday's post that I had left an asterisk hanging. To wit; "I need air in my bike tires*..."
Anyway, what I was going to say about that was that A: Mom had indeed offered me use of her air compressor before. In fact, it lived at my hosue for several weeks and I never used it. So this whole pressing need thing is probably exaggerated.
But second, I was going to say that I'm not some crazy avid cyclist that needs to be able to get air in my tires frequently because I go biking all the time* (I'll address that one, I swear), but rather because I have TERRIBLE luck with bike tires and always have. I can never seem to keep air in my tires for more than one decent ride. The next time I go get my bike, I almost always have a low, if not flat, tire. It's not just this set of tires or even this bike for that matter. I seem to have had the same issue since I was a teen.
*In fact, I don't think I've taken a bike ride in over a year. I used to ride my bike to work periodically, but I also lived less than two miles of quiet residential streets away from my old job. I changed jobs, Sweetie moved in (and hates to ride), and I never fixed a flat, and there you have it. But now that we're in a bike-friendly area again, I really want to ride more often. I bought myself a personalized name license plate, I might invest in streamers, and I'm seriously considering saddle bags.
Anyway, what I was going to say about that was that A: Mom had indeed offered me use of her air compressor before. In fact, it lived at my hosue for several weeks and I never used it. So this whole pressing need thing is probably exaggerated.
But second, I was going to say that I'm not some crazy avid cyclist that needs to be able to get air in my tires frequently because I go biking all the time* (I'll address that one, I swear), but rather because I have TERRIBLE luck with bike tires and always have. I can never seem to keep air in my tires for more than one decent ride. The next time I go get my bike, I almost always have a low, if not flat, tire. It's not just this set of tires or even this bike for that matter. I seem to have had the same issue since I was a teen.
*In fact, I don't think I've taken a bike ride in over a year. I used to ride my bike to work periodically, but I also lived less than two miles of quiet residential streets away from my old job. I changed jobs, Sweetie moved in (and hates to ride), and I never fixed a flat, and there you have it. But now that we're in a bike-friendly area again, I really want to ride more often. I bought myself a personalized name license plate, I might invest in streamers, and I'm seriously considering saddle bags.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Free air genius
I'm a genius. Not that I'm going to do anything with this idea, but wouldn't it be great if we could use this big ol' Interweb thing to share information about where you can get free air in your tires. See, I need air in my bike tires*, and I don't know where around here to get air. We're not near any gas stations, really. We're close to a Big O, but I've looked pretty carefully while driving by, and I don't see an air thing outside. I may have to go by when they're open and ask if I can use their air thing. But back to the main point, I guess I'd like to see some resource online where community members list where you can find free air in our town. Of course, I'd also like to see a community-run resource on where to get fresh-baked bread in the morning, where to get vegetarian pho, where to find a good omelette, whatever. I can search for "bread" and "Sacramento" and get 1.6 million hits. "Fresh baked bread Sacramento" has 138,000 hits, and they tend to be more specific, but none that I can see tell me where I can go to get fresh-baked bread still hot first thing in the morning. No, they just tell you the phone numbers and addresses of bakeries.
I don't know, most of the "local resources" type pages seem to be too general. I'd like to have a forum where you could ask "Hey, where can I get Diet Stewart's root beer," and someone would answer "Corti's." And then that would stay up in the history of the forums so that the next time someone was browsing that forum, they'd be able to see it.
Maybe that does exist somewhere. I should Google it.
I don't know, most of the "local resources" type pages seem to be too general. I'd like to have a forum where you could ask "Hey, where can I get Diet Stewart's root beer," and someone would answer "Corti's." And then that would stay up in the history of the forums so that the next time someone was browsing that forum, they'd be able to see it.
Maybe that does exist somewhere. I should Google it.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Where have you been Count Mockula? Joltin' Joe has left and gone away...
Hey hey hey.
So, where have I been? Well, we had a DSL issue, but I don't really want to go into the saga. There was also a truck rental saga. And a people-who-were-supposed-to-help-us-move saga. And a cable TV saga. And a phone saga. And at work there was the flea saga. And the computer saga. And the disgusting room saga. And the printer saga. Actually, let me just tell you what went RIGHT this week: My mom and dad both showed up to help and were very helpful. The new house is great. We now have phone, DSL and cable. We managed to round up a van to move. The electricity was on. I had students show up, except for the one I didn't want to (is that wrong? I don't care). Mostly everything is finally on track. It took lots and lots of phone calls and lots of my saintly mother waiting around the house while we were at work for this or that repair man. It took a lot of supervisors and specialists. But now I'm blogging from the hammock, so life is pretty good.
We bowled last night, and I really suck. I was fourth-suckiest, ahead the guy who was almost unbeliveably bad (we started clapping and cheering for him if he just didn't get a gutter ball) and the girl who eventually gave up and started granny-bowling. I know I'm not a good bowler, but I got a little cocky after my first game, wherein I made several strikes and spares. I think in the second game my arm and fingers were tired, and at one point I actually DROPPED the ball behind me as I was swinging it back. How embarassing! I'm glad I gave my bowling ball away earlier this year. I'm not worthy of having my own ball.
Well, I wanted to spend some time today arranging my office, putting a few more boxes away, and arranging the backyard (right now everything's just where we dropped it), but after my seven-hour ordeal earlier (see post below), I'm not up for much of anything. I'm going to just hang out and chill. Yay, chilling!
So, where have I been? Well, we had a DSL issue, but I don't really want to go into the saga. There was also a truck rental saga. And a people-who-were-supposed-to-help-us-move saga. And a cable TV saga. And a phone saga. And at work there was the flea saga. And the computer saga. And the disgusting room saga. And the printer saga. Actually, let me just tell you what went RIGHT this week: My mom and dad both showed up to help and were very helpful. The new house is great. We now have phone, DSL and cable. We managed to round up a van to move. The electricity was on. I had students show up, except for the one I didn't want to (is that wrong? I don't care). Mostly everything is finally on track. It took lots and lots of phone calls and lots of my saintly mother waiting around the house while we were at work for this or that repair man. It took a lot of supervisors and specialists. But now I'm blogging from the hammock, so life is pretty good.
We bowled last night, and I really suck. I was fourth-suckiest, ahead the guy who was almost unbeliveably bad (we started clapping and cheering for him if he just didn't get a gutter ball) and the girl who eventually gave up and started granny-bowling. I know I'm not a good bowler, but I got a little cocky after my first game, wherein I made several strikes and spares. I think in the second game my arm and fingers were tired, and at one point I actually DROPPED the ball behind me as I was swinging it back. How embarassing! I'm glad I gave my bowling ball away earlier this year. I'm not worthy of having my own ball.
Well, I wanted to spend some time today arranging my office, putting a few more boxes away, and arranging the backyard (right now everything's just where we dropped it), but after my seven-hour ordeal earlier (see post below), I'm not up for much of anything. I'm going to just hang out and chill. Yay, chilling!
NFL and TMI
The National Forensics League and Toastmasters International, of course! Sillyheads, why wouldn't you understand my specialized jargon?! I went to a seven hour ordeal earlier today that was supposed to be a new coaches training for Speech and Debate. Unfortunately, it was supremely confusing and unhelpful. I swear to god, most of the seven hours went exactly like this.
Speaker: On to the EOs. For EOs, you have to have a strong speaker, because they're going to need to be prepared for any kind of quotidians* that come at them.
Memberof the in-crowd: Do the opposing members have to knock in a quotidian or stand?
Another member: I thought quotidians were outlawed at MFA conference?
Speaker: Well, let me give an example. (Puts hand on head.) I'm holding my wig, you see. (In a British accent.) "Motor-car? What is this 'motor-car?'"
Me: Um, is that a metaphorical wig or a literal wig, and why are you wearing a wig? Do they have to wear a wig?
Member: It's a pretend wig, but they don't have to wear a wig.
Speaker : At Paloma they'd better wear a wig! In any case, see, they can't do a time-set at the varsity level. At college I know they do, but not in high school. but if they're thrown a wicked googly*, they need to have a defenestration* defense ready.
Make any sense to you? Me neither. (And I know I threw in a couple words that weren't actually S&D related, but it doesn't matter, because it sounded like they were speaking Esperanto about 80% of the time. Incidentally, the only things I threw in that were not actually said in the "training" have an asterisk. Everything else is as good a paraphrase as I can recall. Including all that shit about the motor-car and the wig.) I recognized some words, knew what others meant but apparently not in that context, and generally only had the vaguest idea what they were talking about. A couple other good examples include the time they were talking about proper dress, and someone chimed in "Lincoln city" and the speaker responded "E-mail me." Both giggle. Yeah, um, thanks for the context there.
Maybe the worst was one of the final speakers, who was actually applauded by several people in the room, and who apparently moved himself nearly to tears. He was supposed to be teaching us about Lincoln-Douglas debate, and from what I gathered, it has something to do with values and philosophy. He started somewhat randomly throwing out the names of articles and books on philisophy that we might find interesting, then told us about an article on Andre Agassi in a recent Sports Illustrated that apparently was quite interesting. He told us at the beginning of this anecdote that what was really killer was the ending of the article, then he told us a few of the things about Agassi's early childhood, then moved on to another anecdote, this one about a businessman travelling in Greece on 9/11. This anecdote, at least, ended with an interesting quote from the article, and if I make a LOT of the connections for this guy, I think his point was that L-D debaters ought to collect and memorize a stockpile of interesting anecdotes and/or quotes to use when appropriate in debates, but that was wholly unclear from what he actually said. He's the same guy earlier who was telling us why he had to leave to get his truck, which apparently involved him falling off a horse. I really don't know how. I think his brain might have been scrambled in the fall, quite frankly.
What really worried me about this, besides the fact that I still haven't a clue how to teach this Speech and Debate class, is that almost all the other people there today to disseminate this information are or were teachers. Could their students possibly follow what they were saying if I, a pretty competent learner with a couple graduate degrees, couldn't? Maybe they're different in their own classes and didn't use their usual style because they were dealing with adults, but I was thoroughly and completely lost most of the time. Literally, there were times when someone would give an example of a debater pretending to be in the 1800s, and someone else would ask whether you could establish a time-set and whether the other team had to abide by it, and they would start debating the bylaws of the league, and I'd have to raise my hand and say "What's a time-set?" And they would get distracted and still not answer me!
To use an example that came up in my class the other day, we were reading a chapter of Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried," and a paragraph began "They were called legs or grunts." Now, I said "Gee, that's interesting, why do you think they're called legs?" And the kids talked about why the legs of these soldiers were important, and I said it seemed like they were being reduced to just a small part of them, and then I introduced the term "synechdoche" and defined it (calling something by a part to represent the whole), and I wrote it on the board. We talked about a few other examples, like "head of cattle" and "hired hands," and then I gave a funny example (so memorable, apparently, that I overheard a student repeating it to a student who'd gone to the restroom and just returned), and then we kind of naturally moved on. If someone in this meeting today was trying to teach synechdoche, it would have been like "Now, this paragraph has synechdoche in it, which is pretty common, for example I called a guy a dick once, it's a Greek term, did you ever get to see the Minoan, the Minoan, what are they called? Well anyway, that's synechdoche."
Sigh. Anyway, I'm going to do some internet research, maybe check out a couple books, talk to some people who did Speech and Debate in high school, and go to a meet on the 23rd just to observe. I know I can get a handle on this thing, I just was hoping today was going to help. It didn't.
Speaker: On to the EOs. For EOs, you have to have a strong speaker, because they're going to need to be prepared for any kind of quotidians* that come at them.
Memberof the in-crowd: Do the opposing members have to knock in a quotidian or stand?
Another member: I thought quotidians were outlawed at MFA conference?
Speaker: Well, let me give an example. (Puts hand on head.) I'm holding my wig, you see. (In a British accent.) "Motor-car? What is this 'motor-car?'"
Me: Um, is that a metaphorical wig or a literal wig, and why are you wearing a wig? Do they have to wear a wig?
Member: It's a pretend wig, but they don't have to wear a wig.
Speaker : At Paloma they'd better wear a wig! In any case, see, they can't do a time-set at the varsity level. At college I know they do, but not in high school. but if they're thrown a wicked googly*, they need to have a defenestration* defense ready.
Make any sense to you? Me neither. (And I know I threw in a couple words that weren't actually S&D related, but it doesn't matter, because it sounded like they were speaking Esperanto about 80% of the time. Incidentally, the only things I threw in that were not actually said in the "training" have an asterisk. Everything else is as good a paraphrase as I can recall. Including all that shit about the motor-car and the wig.) I recognized some words, knew what others meant but apparently not in that context, and generally only had the vaguest idea what they were talking about. A couple other good examples include the time they were talking about proper dress, and someone chimed in "Lincoln city" and the speaker responded "E-mail me." Both giggle. Yeah, um, thanks for the context there.
Maybe the worst was one of the final speakers, who was actually applauded by several people in the room, and who apparently moved himself nearly to tears. He was supposed to be teaching us about Lincoln-Douglas debate, and from what I gathered, it has something to do with values and philosophy. He started somewhat randomly throwing out the names of articles and books on philisophy that we might find interesting, then told us about an article on Andre Agassi in a recent Sports Illustrated that apparently was quite interesting. He told us at the beginning of this anecdote that what was really killer was the ending of the article, then he told us a few of the things about Agassi's early childhood, then moved on to another anecdote, this one about a businessman travelling in Greece on 9/11. This anecdote, at least, ended with an interesting quote from the article, and if I make a LOT of the connections for this guy, I think his point was that L-D debaters ought to collect and memorize a stockpile of interesting anecdotes and/or quotes to use when appropriate in debates, but that was wholly unclear from what he actually said. He's the same guy earlier who was telling us why he had to leave to get his truck, which apparently involved him falling off a horse. I really don't know how. I think his brain might have been scrambled in the fall, quite frankly.
What really worried me about this, besides the fact that I still haven't a clue how to teach this Speech and Debate class, is that almost all the other people there today to disseminate this information are or were teachers. Could their students possibly follow what they were saying if I, a pretty competent learner with a couple graduate degrees, couldn't? Maybe they're different in their own classes and didn't use their usual style because they were dealing with adults, but I was thoroughly and completely lost most of the time. Literally, there were times when someone would give an example of a debater pretending to be in the 1800s, and someone else would ask whether you could establish a time-set and whether the other team had to abide by it, and they would start debating the bylaws of the league, and I'd have to raise my hand and say "What's a time-set?" And they would get distracted and still not answer me!
To use an example that came up in my class the other day, we were reading a chapter of Tim O'Brien's "The Things They Carried," and a paragraph began "They were called legs or grunts." Now, I said "Gee, that's interesting, why do you think they're called legs?" And the kids talked about why the legs of these soldiers were important, and I said it seemed like they were being reduced to just a small part of them, and then I introduced the term "synechdoche" and defined it (calling something by a part to represent the whole), and I wrote it on the board. We talked about a few other examples, like "head of cattle" and "hired hands," and then I gave a funny example (so memorable, apparently, that I overheard a student repeating it to a student who'd gone to the restroom and just returned), and then we kind of naturally moved on. If someone in this meeting today was trying to teach synechdoche, it would have been like "Now, this paragraph has synechdoche in it, which is pretty common, for example I called a guy a dick once, it's a Greek term, did you ever get to see the Minoan, the Minoan, what are they called? Well anyway, that's synechdoche."
Sigh. Anyway, I'm going to do some internet research, maybe check out a couple books, talk to some people who did Speech and Debate in high school, and go to a meet on the 23rd just to observe. I know I can get a handle on this thing, I just was hoping today was going to help. It didn't.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Moving sucks
We don't have DSL, so I'm sitting in a coffee shop, but I have to hurry home with breakfast and coffee, because we still don't have food at home, either (although that's more easily remedied).
They didn't have the truck I'd reserved and I had to rent a van from Uhaul.
The phone didn't work, and after two conversations with "customer service" personnel, they finally sent someone out. Only after, mind you, trying to get my to fix it myself by going outside with a screwdriver. I can do a lot of things, but apparently fixing phone line problems is not one of them.
They can't send anyone out about the DSL until Thursday.
I hate AT&T and the fact that they are a big giant monopoly that I tried for years to avoid, and now they have bought up everything in my life. And I don't for a minute believe that "Laura" and "Fred" are not actually Deepak and Chittendra.
Gah. Now I have to get coffee home to sweetie before it gets too cold.
See you around the web... I hope.
They didn't have the truck I'd reserved and I had to rent a van from Uhaul.
The phone didn't work, and after two conversations with "customer service" personnel, they finally sent someone out. Only after, mind you, trying to get my to fix it myself by going outside with a screwdriver. I can do a lot of things, but apparently fixing phone line problems is not one of them.
They can't send anyone out about the DSL until Thursday.
I hate AT&T and the fact that they are a big giant monopoly that I tried for years to avoid, and now they have bought up everything in my life. And I don't for a minute believe that "Laura" and "Fred" are not actually Deepak and Chittendra.
Gah. Now I have to get coffee home to sweetie before it gets too cold.
See you around the web... I hope.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
American Idol. I'm serious.
Hey Cockeyed fans, scroll way down.
Hey regular readers, I'm sorry it's been a while. I got so many dang hits from Cockeyed I didn't want to blog and disappoint those folks. Like, they'd click the link over here and wonder what the hell all this random bitching about traffic and home improvement and the life of a high school teacher was. Anyway, I do have stuff to say on all those topics and more (notably in the life of a high school teacher, some notes on my new classroom, including demolition and fleas), but first, I just can't NOT talk about last night.
First of all, let me just say that a month ago, I lost my wallet, inside which were my ticket stubs from a Patti Smith concert, a Violent Femmes concert, and a Nine Inch Nails concert. I no longer have those, and I’ll never be able to get them back, but at least I have my memories. The ticket stub I do have now, though, is for this year’s American Idol tour. That’s right. I went to the American Idol tour. I’m going to go ahead and refer to it as “AI” from now on, because it’s easier, and it seems fitting in the sense that those initials tend to remind one of artificial intelligence. And artificial it was.
Why did I go? Well, a year ago, a friend of my mom’s was getting rid of a vintage O’Keefe and Merrit stove, and gave it to me for free even though they can be sold for thousands of dollars. And that very woman bought something like 8 tickets to this concert, assuming that everyone she knew would want to attend. She had miscalculated, and now needed people to go with her and use the tickets. In a desperate bid, she asked my mom, and my mom asked me. We both thought it would be gracious to accept, and since we both like this friend and my mom’s other friend B, who was also attending, we decided to go. Sigh.
Well, I have seen two worse concerts than this one. The first was at the Distillery years ago. A Johnny Cash cover band called “Folsom Prison Blues” slaughtered the man in black’s songs for about 45 minutes, and I was ready to cry. Then a few weeks ago, I saw a GREAT show with Daycare, the Snobs, and the Skirts. The show leaned toward the rock/pop-punk side of things. Great bands, all. A surprise addition to the bill, however, called the Slick Boys, was rather a surprise -- they were synchronized-dancing R&B lip-synching drag kings. Now, I have nothing against drag kings, lip synching, or synchronized dancing per se, and although R&B is not my favorite genre, I don’t hate it, but the effect of all these things together, coupled with the facts that they are not very good and were stuck in the middle of an unsuitable show for them, and the result was pretty rotten.
But enough stalling. On to AI. Oh, do I have to? I hardly care to re-live the evening. I certainly have no intention of giving you a play-by-play, but rather some general impressions and notes. First of all, it was so incredibly scripted, choreographed, and over-produced as to have made me a little nauseated. Each one of the “Idols” had clearly been taught the same wave, for example; they reached one arm at a time straight out toward the crowd, then wiggled only their fingers from the knuckles down. No elbow, no wrist. It looked strange on the girls, but on the men, it was utterly emasculating. Every single performer went to one side of the stage, waved multiple times, then walked to the other side and waved there.
I also hated the “shout-outs” to our town. Perhaps the local girl really was happy to be here, but everyone else had certainly been coached backstage to say “I’m so excited to be here in SacTOWN.” The worst, really possibly EVER, was when Chris sang “Wanted: Dead or Alive,” and changed the lyric “I ride all night just to get back home” to “I ride all night just to get to Sacramento.” I mean, how insulting, really.
Other creepy things included the extreme close-up of Ace’s chest as the first strains of George Michael’s “Father Figure” began to play -- he was pushing his chest out towards the camera in an ooky impression of a heartbeat. And when he sang the lyric “To be bold and naked at your side,” he took his jacket off at the “naked.”
I have to say that Elvis, Freddie Mercury, Patsy Cline, and Judy Garland are all rolling in their graves. When the following artists die, I assume they, too, will commence to rolling: Bob Seger, Melissa Etheridge, K.T. Tunstall, Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, Beyonce Knowles, Axl Rose, Jon Bon Jovi, Robert Plant, Stevie Wonder, and even Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta. Hell, Uncle Kracker is probably on that list. I was seriously thinking as one of the guys sang -- “well, he’s no Uncle Kracker.” Is there any worse insult than “You’re no Uncle Kracker?” Really.
I just hate it when they cover songs I love, and I actually heard the first two notes of “Whole Lotta Love” and turned to Mom screaming “Not Led Zeppelin!!” Incidentally, my horrified screaming could not be heard (twice) over the enthusiastic screaming of the crowd.
Other surreal moments occurred when I heard songs like “Patience” and “Wanted: Dead or Alive.” Did anyone think, twenty years ago, that these songs would bring entire stadiums to their feet in twenty years’ time? Did anyone know that kids who had not been born when the songs came out, kids who, in all probability, have never even HEARD the original versions, would sing their lungs out when the microphone was pointed towards them during the chorus? So odd, really. Also, I could practically smell the pierogis in the Kit Carson middle school cafeteria, where we held our afternoon dances. I remember swaying in tiny circles, knees locked, with Tony Winter’s arms around me. “I been walkin’ the streets at night... just tryin’ to get it right...”
As the concert started rolling towards its conclusion, the winner, Taylor, came on stage and began doing his crazy dance. And I thought to myself, of all the thousands of people that auditioned for this show from all over the country, this bowlegged, funky dancing, bushy-eyebrowed Elvis-butchering motherfucker is the best they could do? He’s our American Idol? Really? This is it? Because I know that there are better singers, better performers, actual songwriters, and real artists playing in shitty bars in tiny towns all over the country every single weekend.
One of the saddest moments, I think, was watching one of these girls sing Aretha Franklin’s “Think.” Having seen Aretha perform this song in “The Blues Brothers,” I couldn’t help but see Aretha superimposed over whichever sad, pale imitation was performing there in front of me. It was like a palimpset of the real song, with the soulless, thin version there underneath. What a stark contrast. And I realized that the whole concert was like that -- a history of American (and, okay, British) music with all the passion, love, and soul surgically excised. It was almost like a horror movie, where you find yourself in a parallel universe with all the good parts of life removed. Have you read “A Wrinkle in Time”? There’s a part where Meg and her brothers are eating a fabulous spread of a meal. Her brother is brainwashed into thinking that it is all, indeed, gourmet food, whereas Meg tastes only sand. I was tasting sand, but everyone else around seeed to taste Turkish delight.
There is an upside, though. And that is this: AI is not actually representative of modern music or the pool of talent in this country at all. It couldn’t be, because they don’t foster art or creativity. They seem to think they are weeding out bad singers in favor of good singers, but what they will never have is great singers, because a great singer is something else entirely. Van Morrison? Not a good singer, but nevertheless a great singer. Hell, he’d never have made it to round one. He’s funny-looking and short and stalks across the stage in an odd manner, and his voice is gruff and strange. Janis Joplin? Breathy. Bob Seger? Awful. James Taylor? No stage presence. Joe Cocker? Don’t quit your day job. Chrissie Hynde? Not an accessible look. David Byrne? Pitchy. So you know what? Let’s let American Idol keep being what it is, and let music keep being what it is, and understand that they are two different universes. And next year if I get asked to go to Season 5’s concert? I’m afraid I’m busy that day.
Hey regular readers, I'm sorry it's been a while. I got so many dang hits from Cockeyed I didn't want to blog and disappoint those folks. Like, they'd click the link over here and wonder what the hell all this random bitching about traffic and home improvement and the life of a high school teacher was. Anyway, I do have stuff to say on all those topics and more (notably in the life of a high school teacher, some notes on my new classroom, including demolition and fleas), but first, I just can't NOT talk about last night.
First of all, let me just say that a month ago, I lost my wallet, inside which were my ticket stubs from a Patti Smith concert, a Violent Femmes concert, and a Nine Inch Nails concert. I no longer have those, and I’ll never be able to get them back, but at least I have my memories. The ticket stub I do have now, though, is for this year’s American Idol tour. That’s right. I went to the American Idol tour. I’m going to go ahead and refer to it as “AI” from now on, because it’s easier, and it seems fitting in the sense that those initials tend to remind one of artificial intelligence. And artificial it was.
Why did I go? Well, a year ago, a friend of my mom’s was getting rid of a vintage O’Keefe and Merrit stove, and gave it to me for free even though they can be sold for thousands of dollars. And that very woman bought something like 8 tickets to this concert, assuming that everyone she knew would want to attend. She had miscalculated, and now needed people to go with her and use the tickets. In a desperate bid, she asked my mom, and my mom asked me. We both thought it would be gracious to accept, and since we both like this friend and my mom’s other friend B, who was also attending, we decided to go. Sigh.
Well, I have seen two worse concerts than this one. The first was at the Distillery years ago. A Johnny Cash cover band called “Folsom Prison Blues” slaughtered the man in black’s songs for about 45 minutes, and I was ready to cry. Then a few weeks ago, I saw a GREAT show with Daycare, the Snobs, and the Skirts. The show leaned toward the rock/pop-punk side of things. Great bands, all. A surprise addition to the bill, however, called the Slick Boys, was rather a surprise -- they were synchronized-dancing R&B lip-synching drag kings. Now, I have nothing against drag kings, lip synching, or synchronized dancing per se, and although R&B is not my favorite genre, I don’t hate it, but the effect of all these things together, coupled with the facts that they are not very good and were stuck in the middle of an unsuitable show for them, and the result was pretty rotten.
But enough stalling. On to AI. Oh, do I have to? I hardly care to re-live the evening. I certainly have no intention of giving you a play-by-play, but rather some general impressions and notes. First of all, it was so incredibly scripted, choreographed, and over-produced as to have made me a little nauseated. Each one of the “Idols” had clearly been taught the same wave, for example; they reached one arm at a time straight out toward the crowd, then wiggled only their fingers from the knuckles down. No elbow, no wrist. It looked strange on the girls, but on the men, it was utterly emasculating. Every single performer went to one side of the stage, waved multiple times, then walked to the other side and waved there.
I also hated the “shout-outs” to our town. Perhaps the local girl really was happy to be here, but everyone else had certainly been coached backstage to say “I’m so excited to be here in SacTOWN.” The worst, really possibly EVER, was when Chris sang “Wanted: Dead or Alive,” and changed the lyric “I ride all night just to get back home” to “I ride all night just to get to Sacramento.” I mean, how insulting, really.
Other creepy things included the extreme close-up of Ace’s chest as the first strains of George Michael’s “Father Figure” began to play -- he was pushing his chest out towards the camera in an ooky impression of a heartbeat. And when he sang the lyric “To be bold and naked at your side,” he took his jacket off at the “naked.”
I have to say that Elvis, Freddie Mercury, Patsy Cline, and Judy Garland are all rolling in their graves. When the following artists die, I assume they, too, will commence to rolling: Bob Seger, Melissa Etheridge, K.T. Tunstall, Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, Beyonce Knowles, Axl Rose, Jon Bon Jovi, Robert Plant, Stevie Wonder, and even Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta. Hell, Uncle Kracker is probably on that list. I was seriously thinking as one of the guys sang -- “well, he’s no Uncle Kracker.” Is there any worse insult than “You’re no Uncle Kracker?” Really.
I just hate it when they cover songs I love, and I actually heard the first two notes of “Whole Lotta Love” and turned to Mom screaming “Not Led Zeppelin!!” Incidentally, my horrified screaming could not be heard (twice) over the enthusiastic screaming of the crowd.
Other surreal moments occurred when I heard songs like “Patience” and “Wanted: Dead or Alive.” Did anyone think, twenty years ago, that these songs would bring entire stadiums to their feet in twenty years’ time? Did anyone know that kids who had not been born when the songs came out, kids who, in all probability, have never even HEARD the original versions, would sing their lungs out when the microphone was pointed towards them during the chorus? So odd, really. Also, I could practically smell the pierogis in the Kit Carson middle school cafeteria, where we held our afternoon dances. I remember swaying in tiny circles, knees locked, with Tony Winter’s arms around me. “I been walkin’ the streets at night... just tryin’ to get it right...”
As the concert started rolling towards its conclusion, the winner, Taylor, came on stage and began doing his crazy dance. And I thought to myself, of all the thousands of people that auditioned for this show from all over the country, this bowlegged, funky dancing, bushy-eyebrowed Elvis-butchering motherfucker is the best they could do? He’s our American Idol? Really? This is it? Because I know that there are better singers, better performers, actual songwriters, and real artists playing in shitty bars in tiny towns all over the country every single weekend.
One of the saddest moments, I think, was watching one of these girls sing Aretha Franklin’s “Think.” Having seen Aretha perform this song in “The Blues Brothers,” I couldn’t help but see Aretha superimposed over whichever sad, pale imitation was performing there in front of me. It was like a palimpset of the real song, with the soulless, thin version there underneath. What a stark contrast. And I realized that the whole concert was like that -- a history of American (and, okay, British) music with all the passion, love, and soul surgically excised. It was almost like a horror movie, where you find yourself in a parallel universe with all the good parts of life removed. Have you read “A Wrinkle in Time”? There’s a part where Meg and her brothers are eating a fabulous spread of a meal. Her brother is brainwashed into thinking that it is all, indeed, gourmet food, whereas Meg tastes only sand. I was tasting sand, but everyone else around seeed to taste Turkish delight.
There is an upside, though. And that is this: AI is not actually representative of modern music or the pool of talent in this country at all. It couldn’t be, because they don’t foster art or creativity. They seem to think they are weeding out bad singers in favor of good singers, but what they will never have is great singers, because a great singer is something else entirely. Van Morrison? Not a good singer, but nevertheless a great singer. Hell, he’d never have made it to round one. He’s funny-looking and short and stalks across the stage in an odd manner, and his voice is gruff and strange. Janis Joplin? Breathy. Bob Seger? Awful. James Taylor? No stage presence. Joe Cocker? Don’t quit your day job. Chrissie Hynde? Not an accessible look. David Byrne? Pitchy. So you know what? Let’s let American Idol keep being what it is, and let music keep being what it is, and understand that they are two different universes. And next year if I get asked to go to Season 5’s concert? I’m afraid I’m busy that day.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
How Much is Inside My Fridge
A thoroughly unauthorized rip-off of Rob Cockerham
One of my favorite web sites is cockeyed.com. I think Rob, its creator, is brilliant. In fact, if you google my full name, the very first hit is for cockeyed on a page called “Critics rave about Cockeyed.com.” In any case, I have been reading the web site for years, and always wished I was creative enough to do something that Rob might link to. Then one day, I saw that he had linked to this:
Goofy college kids' "how much is inside" project.
I thought this was pretty lame, given that it wasn’t even a full-sized fridge. In true Crocodile Dundee style, I said out loud (with the Australian accent) “That’s not a fridge. THIS is a fridge!”
Now my fridge, I thought, would be worthy of a “How Much is Inside” experiment. However, I am criminally lazy, so I did nothing about it.
As many of my readers (two good friends, my husband and my mom) know, we’re selling our home. We are having an open house tomorrow, and I got to thinking. What could I do around here that would make the house look really great? Being naturally nosy, I decided that if I were going to an open house, I would look in the fridge. And then I thought about what my fridge looked like.
This is the fridge.
This is the door.
This is the freezer door.
And this is the freezer.
Now, we’re being generous enough to throw the fridge in with the house*, so I figured it was a good time to clean out the fridge so the potential new owners could see what a fabulous deal they are getting.
*This is not generous at all. The new house comes with a better fridge, and this way we won’t have to move it.
And that brings us to “How much is inside my fridge.” Because there’s nothing like goofing off and having fun while doing onerous housework.
First, I took everything out of the freezer and put it on the counter. I had to take the photographs in sections.
Phew! In no particular order, what those photos (and my freezer) contain is:
56 ice cubes in 4 trays. Two of the trays were inherited when Monkeygirl moved out. They are hard to get ice out of, which is probably why she left them.
Two heels of bread and one half a loaf. I don’t like the Bohemian Hearth bread much, but when I shop at Bel Air, that’s all they have in the way of mostly wheat. The rest of my bread is Alvarado St bakery, and I love it, but I don’t eat the heels. That’s why they’re still there. I keep my bread in the freezer because it doesn’t go stale as quickly as it would otherwise.
An open bad of Trader Joe’s Indian Potato Medley. Good, but probably now tastes like freezer.
Naked Lounge whole bean coffee. Our favorite, second only to the Hula Bean peaberry we brought back from Hawaii. Well, Stumptown in Portland is pretty good, too.
Arborio rice, brown basmati rice, white jasmine rice. We like rice around here. Arborio rice is the kind you use to make risotto.
Two paint rollers with paint. If you don’t want to wash them out, you can freeze them and thaw them later. I forgot these were in here.
Two full bags of frozen stir-fry mix. One half-full bag of carrots and peas.
Two flexible ice packs (for injuries).
Two blue ice bricks (for keeping foods cold in an ice chest).
One bag mixed berries, one bag blueberries, one bag containing about five frozen raspberries.
One container Morningstar Farms veggie sausage patties.
One zipper bag with one piece of my grandmother’s homemade candy.
One zipper bag with several pieces of my own homemade candy.
Frozen corn.
Tiny bottle Bombay Sapphire gin. I haven’t the faintest idea why we have this. I suspect it moved here from my husband’s old apartment.
One large bottle chocolate mint flavored liqueur. I know for sure this one moved in with my husband. Of course, since “the incident,” he’s a teetotaler, and I don’t really drink alone, so this just lives in the freezer now.
The incident.
One partial bag pecans. One partial bag walnuts. Both were for baking.
A few chopped almonds in a zipper bag. Left over from Ice Cream sundae and Muppets night.
Two frozen waffles.
Whole wheat English muffins.
Orange juice concentrate. For Mother’s Day faux mimosas.
Dreyer’s ice cream. Note that the canister seems short. Husband cuts down the carton and puts the lid back on to save space, and possibly to make it easier to eat out of the container with a spoon. Fairly ingenious. I’m not sure if the rest of this ice cream will ever be eaten, as Husband confessed that he had “mined all the fudge out of it.”
Double Rainbow sorbet.
Angel flake coconut (1/2 bag). Left from a German Chocolate cake.
Unsweetened coconut (3/4 bag). From a cabbage curry recipe that wasn’t as spectacular as it sounded.
1 container Fudgsicles. Mmm. Fudgsicles.
On to the fridge.
Well, I’ve been called the condiment queen, and for good reason. The fridge was a much bigger task than the freezer. Again, I had to empty it entirely, but I couldn’t do this all at once. It had to be done in stages. First, the door and part of the top shelf, then the top shelf and part of the middle. Then the middle drawer (where beets go to die) and the bottom shelves and finally the bottom drawers.
Here are the pictures of it all.
And here is the list of contents:
Chili-garlic paste
Tempura sauce
Rice vinegar
Soy sauce. Kikkoman Lite and regular, which I combined after this photo so that now it is half-lite.
Garlic marinade
Ginger marinade
Kim chee. So delicious, but not the kind of thing we end up eating a lot.
Sesame oil.
Red pepper dip
Barbecue sauce. Bone-sucking sauce is the best ever.
Strawberry sauce. This was left over from Muppet Sundae, and I haven’t touched it yet.
Balsamic glaze
Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. These are on a decorative little plate because I intended to give them to my next-door neighbors, but every time I saw them, I was doing something sweaty and dirty outside, so I didn’t want to touch the cookie plate with my hands. Instead, it stayed here until I started eating them myself. They’re really incredible. The recipe is here. Scroll down.
Cake flour. That’s just how I roll.
Fizzy water. One is husband’s, the other is mom’s. I think the stuff is foul.
Half and half
Tomato juice. This tends to last me forever, because I usually crave a tiny glass about once every two months, and I put a shot of hot sauce in it.
Pesto. I bought it for a recipe. It’s surprising how little I use it.
Tapenade
Marinara sauce
Tahini. This is sesame paste, which I primarily use to make hummus with, although I’ve used it for baba ghanoush, too.
Peppers. From husband’s coworker.
Watermelon. Yep, they come in yellow. I actually ate this later today.
Grapes. Green from Bel Air, purple from Full Belly Farm.
Ketchup. 2 bottles.
Twin Fin Chardonnay. A lovely, light, refreshing screw-top wine.
Dave’s Insanity Soyabi sauce
Salad dressing
Pepper plant hot sauce. My all-time favorite. They have it out on the tables at a local breakfast joint, and I can’t get enough.
Tofu. Yeah, tofu. What?
Olives
Tandoori paste
Bagel. From New York Bagel Boys, which we were comparing to Sacramento Bagel Company.
Yogurt
Tortillas. I purchased these to make enchiladas, but I haven’t had many opportunities to cook this week.
Salami
Bag of salad
Potatoes. Also from Full Belly Farm
Leftover yams. This looked like a great recipe (whiskey grilled yams), but it took a lot longer than I expected. I served these at a party, but they were done way after people had already eaten everything else. I threw them out after this photo.
Melons. Cantaloupes from Full Belly Farm.
Lemon juice
Mustard. Three traditional yellow mustards, one Sierra Nevada mustard, two that came in a gift pack at Christmas. I can explain all the yellow mustard: We like eating at Tower Cafe, but husband really prefers yellow mustard, which they do not have. So we have periodically bought a yellow mustard for him to sneak in in a pocket while on the way to Tower.
Mayonnaise
Shirazee salad. I made a recipe similar to this last week, only with cider vinegar instead of lemon juice.
Sauerkraut. Vegetarian households get very few opportunities to eat this, so it’s a good thing it lasts forever.
Brownies. I made brownies a few days ago, because, well... Don’t question a woman’s right to make brownies for no good reason!
Chutney
Cream cheese
Bacos
Pomegranate syrup
Orange flower water. It may have occurred to you that I have a lot of marginally exotic ingredients. That’s a fair assessment. I like to cook, especially ethnic foods.
Vinegars. Red wine vinegar, white vinegar, balsamic vinegar, rice vinegar, and red wine vinegar. I’d like to disclose that there is also cider vinegar in the cupboard. I don’t know why that one’s not refrigerated. They’re all different, I swear.
Margarine. This is a special cholesterol-reducing kind, that would have been a better idea if I actually used margarine.
Sweet and sour sauce. 2 bottles.
Gooseberry jam.
Fig jam
Blood orange marmalade
Butter
Cheese. Israeli feta, Tillamook jack (for the enchiladas), Tillamook sharp cheddar, chevre, low-fat string cheese. There’s not usually this much cheese.
Cilantro and lemongrass in a tube. I rarely use these in anything but soup, because the texture is awful.
Pickle relish
Tiny booze. We bought these at an ABC store in Hawaii because, well, because they were the right size to make it appear that our stuffed animals had their own bottles of alcohol.
Soy milk. Vitasoy Light Enriched Original is my favorite, but as you can see, I have the organic and the vanilla flavored. Why? Because Bel Air has been out of my kind for months. And I know they changed the packaging; they just really haven’t had it.
Chocolate syrup
Buttermilk. Thrown out after the photo. I have no idea how long that’s been in there.
Maraschino cherries. From Muppet Sundae.
Partially pollinated corn. I didn’t know how the heat affected corn.
Miso
Bruschetta sauce
Hummus. Husband’s favorite brand is Tribe, so we got this as an experiment at Costco, and at first he said he liked it, but then he stopped eating it.
Ricotta
Sriracha chili sauce. 3 bottles. We call it hot cock. I don’t know if everyone does.
Hot dog buns. Whole wheat, for the veggie dogs.
Veggie dogs
Homemade canned veggies. I know these moved from Husband’s apartment. His mom made them, and he claims to like them, but they haven’t been eaten.
48 of the above items could be considered condiments. There are 87 total items on the list. I counted the five mustards as five and any other item that had to be bought separately under the same standards (therefore, five bottles of vinegar, two of ketchup, etc.). However, if they came together (two melons, eight ears of corn, 12 tortillas), they were counted together. By these calculations, approximately 55% of the items in my refrigerator are condiments.
I also noticed while I was cleaning the fridge that the tempered glass plate that sits above the two crisper drawers in the bottom is marked with some sort of mystical measuring device. As the lines conform neither to the metric system nor the American customary measurements, I have deemed them “fridge units.” As generally it is the longest lines that indicate a whole unit and smaller ones mark fractions of units, I measured several items in terms of fridge units, which are just under 4 inches long. The fridge units are divided into 36ths.
This partially pollinated ear of corn is 2 1/2 fridge units (FUs). The perspective makes it unclear, but the left end of the ear is resting on a FU line.
This organic gypsy pepper is almost exactly 1 FU.
I was disappointed that both items were so close to the actual FU measurement, because I was hoping to find something I could measure in 36ths of an FU. I tried a coffee bean.
This is a really terrible picture, and on the basis of this alone Rob will probably disqualify me from a mention on Cockeyed.com, but I have to post it for scientific integrity.
One-ninth of a FU! I had to do fractions for that, so you know I care...
That nearly wraps up the “How Much is Inside My Fridge” experiment, but there are two more things of note.
First, one of the aforementioned close friends asked me whether I was actually bothering to clean the fridge in the process of finding out how much is inside. The answer is yes. The fridge is sparkling. Unfortunately, anyone looking in it will probably still think we are plum crazy*, since it is still overflowing with plums. They are growing from a neighbor's tree over our backyard and therefore “free.” Meaning, we must gorge ourselves on as many as possible.
*I’m sorry. I try to stay away from puns.
And second, although I already knew it, this project reinforced the fact that my cat needs a corn husk intervention. She’s crazy for them. I’m only sorry that this photo cannot include the “NARRNARRRCRUNCHMUNCHSCHLORP” sound effects that accompany my cat gorging herself on corn husks. In fact, she’s actually being rather delicate here, since she knows she’s being watched.
How many soda cans does my fridge hold? How many calories are in it? Lord knows. How many cubic feet? Ultimately, I could have saved myself some time by just posting this one photo...
...but it wouldn’t have been as fun, would it?
One of my favorite web sites is cockeyed.com. I think Rob, its creator, is brilliant. In fact, if you google my full name, the very first hit is for cockeyed on a page called “Critics rave about Cockeyed.com.” In any case, I have been reading the web site for years, and always wished I was creative enough to do something that Rob might link to. Then one day, I saw that he had linked to this:
Goofy college kids' "how much is inside" project.
I thought this was pretty lame, given that it wasn’t even a full-sized fridge. In true Crocodile Dundee style, I said out loud (with the Australian accent) “That’s not a fridge. THIS is a fridge!”
Now my fridge, I thought, would be worthy of a “How Much is Inside” experiment. However, I am criminally lazy, so I did nothing about it.
As many of my readers (two good friends, my husband and my mom) know, we’re selling our home. We are having an open house tomorrow, and I got to thinking. What could I do around here that would make the house look really great? Being naturally nosy, I decided that if I were going to an open house, I would look in the fridge. And then I thought about what my fridge looked like.
This is the fridge.
This is the door.
This is the freezer door.
And this is the freezer.
Now, we’re being generous enough to throw the fridge in with the house*, so I figured it was a good time to clean out the fridge so the potential new owners could see what a fabulous deal they are getting.
*This is not generous at all. The new house comes with a better fridge, and this way we won’t have to move it.
And that brings us to “How much is inside my fridge.” Because there’s nothing like goofing off and having fun while doing onerous housework.
First, I took everything out of the freezer and put it on the counter. I had to take the photographs in sections.
Phew! In no particular order, what those photos (and my freezer) contain is:
56 ice cubes in 4 trays. Two of the trays were inherited when Monkeygirl moved out. They are hard to get ice out of, which is probably why she left them.
Two heels of bread and one half a loaf. I don’t like the Bohemian Hearth bread much, but when I shop at Bel Air, that’s all they have in the way of mostly wheat. The rest of my bread is Alvarado St bakery, and I love it, but I don’t eat the heels. That’s why they’re still there. I keep my bread in the freezer because it doesn’t go stale as quickly as it would otherwise.
An open bad of Trader Joe’s Indian Potato Medley. Good, but probably now tastes like freezer.
Naked Lounge whole bean coffee. Our favorite, second only to the Hula Bean peaberry we brought back from Hawaii. Well, Stumptown in Portland is pretty good, too.
Arborio rice, brown basmati rice, white jasmine rice. We like rice around here. Arborio rice is the kind you use to make risotto.
Two paint rollers with paint. If you don’t want to wash them out, you can freeze them and thaw them later. I forgot these were in here.
Two full bags of frozen stir-fry mix. One half-full bag of carrots and peas.
Two flexible ice packs (for injuries).
Two blue ice bricks (for keeping foods cold in an ice chest).
One bag mixed berries, one bag blueberries, one bag containing about five frozen raspberries.
One container Morningstar Farms veggie sausage patties.
One zipper bag with one piece of my grandmother’s homemade candy.
One zipper bag with several pieces of my own homemade candy.
Frozen corn.
Tiny bottle Bombay Sapphire gin. I haven’t the faintest idea why we have this. I suspect it moved here from my husband’s old apartment.
One large bottle chocolate mint flavored liqueur. I know for sure this one moved in with my husband. Of course, since “the incident,” he’s a teetotaler, and I don’t really drink alone, so this just lives in the freezer now.
The incident.
One partial bag pecans. One partial bag walnuts. Both were for baking.
A few chopped almonds in a zipper bag. Left over from Ice Cream sundae and Muppets night.
Two frozen waffles.
Whole wheat English muffins.
Orange juice concentrate. For Mother’s Day faux mimosas.
Dreyer’s ice cream. Note that the canister seems short. Husband cuts down the carton and puts the lid back on to save space, and possibly to make it easier to eat out of the container with a spoon. Fairly ingenious. I’m not sure if the rest of this ice cream will ever be eaten, as Husband confessed that he had “mined all the fudge out of it.”
Double Rainbow sorbet.
Angel flake coconut (1/2 bag). Left from a German Chocolate cake.
Unsweetened coconut (3/4 bag). From a cabbage curry recipe that wasn’t as spectacular as it sounded.
1 container Fudgsicles. Mmm. Fudgsicles.
On to the fridge.
Well, I’ve been called the condiment queen, and for good reason. The fridge was a much bigger task than the freezer. Again, I had to empty it entirely, but I couldn’t do this all at once. It had to be done in stages. First, the door and part of the top shelf, then the top shelf and part of the middle. Then the middle drawer (where beets go to die) and the bottom shelves and finally the bottom drawers.
Here are the pictures of it all.
And here is the list of contents:
Chili-garlic paste
Tempura sauce
Rice vinegar
Soy sauce. Kikkoman Lite and regular, which I combined after this photo so that now it is half-lite.
Garlic marinade
Ginger marinade
Kim chee. So delicious, but not the kind of thing we end up eating a lot.
Sesame oil.
Red pepper dip
Barbecue sauce. Bone-sucking sauce is the best ever.
Strawberry sauce. This was left over from Muppet Sundae, and I haven’t touched it yet.
Balsamic glaze
Oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. These are on a decorative little plate because I intended to give them to my next-door neighbors, but every time I saw them, I was doing something sweaty and dirty outside, so I didn’t want to touch the cookie plate with my hands. Instead, it stayed here until I started eating them myself. They’re really incredible. The recipe is here. Scroll down.
Cake flour. That’s just how I roll.
Fizzy water. One is husband’s, the other is mom’s. I think the stuff is foul.
Half and half
Tomato juice. This tends to last me forever, because I usually crave a tiny glass about once every two months, and I put a shot of hot sauce in it.
Pesto. I bought it for a recipe. It’s surprising how little I use it.
Tapenade
Marinara sauce
Tahini. This is sesame paste, which I primarily use to make hummus with, although I’ve used it for baba ghanoush, too.
Peppers. From husband’s coworker.
Watermelon. Yep, they come in yellow. I actually ate this later today.
Grapes. Green from Bel Air, purple from Full Belly Farm.
Ketchup. 2 bottles.
Twin Fin Chardonnay. A lovely, light, refreshing screw-top wine.
Dave’s Insanity Soyabi sauce
Salad dressing
Pepper plant hot sauce. My all-time favorite. They have it out on the tables at a local breakfast joint, and I can’t get enough.
Tofu. Yeah, tofu. What?
Olives
Tandoori paste
Bagel. From New York Bagel Boys, which we were comparing to Sacramento Bagel Company.
Yogurt
Tortillas. I purchased these to make enchiladas, but I haven’t had many opportunities to cook this week.
Salami
Bag of salad
Potatoes. Also from Full Belly Farm
Leftover yams. This looked like a great recipe (whiskey grilled yams), but it took a lot longer than I expected. I served these at a party, but they were done way after people had already eaten everything else. I threw them out after this photo.
Melons. Cantaloupes from Full Belly Farm.
Lemon juice
Mustard. Three traditional yellow mustards, one Sierra Nevada mustard, two that came in a gift pack at Christmas. I can explain all the yellow mustard: We like eating at Tower Cafe, but husband really prefers yellow mustard, which they do not have. So we have periodically bought a yellow mustard for him to sneak in in a pocket while on the way to Tower.
Mayonnaise
Shirazee salad. I made a recipe similar to this last week, only with cider vinegar instead of lemon juice.
Sauerkraut. Vegetarian households get very few opportunities to eat this, so it’s a good thing it lasts forever.
Brownies. I made brownies a few days ago, because, well... Don’t question a woman’s right to make brownies for no good reason!
Chutney
Cream cheese
Bacos
Pomegranate syrup
Orange flower water. It may have occurred to you that I have a lot of marginally exotic ingredients. That’s a fair assessment. I like to cook, especially ethnic foods.
Vinegars. Red wine vinegar, white vinegar, balsamic vinegar, rice vinegar, and red wine vinegar. I’d like to disclose that there is also cider vinegar in the cupboard. I don’t know why that one’s not refrigerated. They’re all different, I swear.
Margarine. This is a special cholesterol-reducing kind, that would have been a better idea if I actually used margarine.
Sweet and sour sauce. 2 bottles.
Gooseberry jam.
Fig jam
Blood orange marmalade
Butter
Cheese. Israeli feta, Tillamook jack (for the enchiladas), Tillamook sharp cheddar, chevre, low-fat string cheese. There’s not usually this much cheese.
Cilantro and lemongrass in a tube. I rarely use these in anything but soup, because the texture is awful.
Pickle relish
Tiny booze. We bought these at an ABC store in Hawaii because, well, because they were the right size to make it appear that our stuffed animals had their own bottles of alcohol.
Soy milk. Vitasoy Light Enriched Original is my favorite, but as you can see, I have the organic and the vanilla flavored. Why? Because Bel Air has been out of my kind for months. And I know they changed the packaging; they just really haven’t had it.
Chocolate syrup
Buttermilk. Thrown out after the photo. I have no idea how long that’s been in there.
Maraschino cherries. From Muppet Sundae.
Partially pollinated corn. I didn’t know how the heat affected corn.
Miso
Bruschetta sauce
Hummus. Husband’s favorite brand is Tribe, so we got this as an experiment at Costco, and at first he said he liked it, but then he stopped eating it.
Ricotta
Sriracha chili sauce. 3 bottles. We call it hot cock. I don’t know if everyone does.
Hot dog buns. Whole wheat, for the veggie dogs.
Veggie dogs
Homemade canned veggies. I know these moved from Husband’s apartment. His mom made them, and he claims to like them, but they haven’t been eaten.
48 of the above items could be considered condiments. There are 87 total items on the list. I counted the five mustards as five and any other item that had to be bought separately under the same standards (therefore, five bottles of vinegar, two of ketchup, etc.). However, if they came together (two melons, eight ears of corn, 12 tortillas), they were counted together. By these calculations, approximately 55% of the items in my refrigerator are condiments.
I also noticed while I was cleaning the fridge that the tempered glass plate that sits above the two crisper drawers in the bottom is marked with some sort of mystical measuring device. As the lines conform neither to the metric system nor the American customary measurements, I have deemed them “fridge units.” As generally it is the longest lines that indicate a whole unit and smaller ones mark fractions of units, I measured several items in terms of fridge units, which are just under 4 inches long. The fridge units are divided into 36ths.
This partially pollinated ear of corn is 2 1/2 fridge units (FUs). The perspective makes it unclear, but the left end of the ear is resting on a FU line.
This organic gypsy pepper is almost exactly 1 FU.
I was disappointed that both items were so close to the actual FU measurement, because I was hoping to find something I could measure in 36ths of an FU. I tried a coffee bean.
This is a really terrible picture, and on the basis of this alone Rob will probably disqualify me from a mention on Cockeyed.com, but I have to post it for scientific integrity.
One-ninth of a FU! I had to do fractions for that, so you know I care...
That nearly wraps up the “How Much is Inside My Fridge” experiment, but there are two more things of note.
First, one of the aforementioned close friends asked me whether I was actually bothering to clean the fridge in the process of finding out how much is inside. The answer is yes. The fridge is sparkling. Unfortunately, anyone looking in it will probably still think we are plum crazy*, since it is still overflowing with plums. They are growing from a neighbor's tree over our backyard and therefore “free.” Meaning, we must gorge ourselves on as many as possible.
*I’m sorry. I try to stay away from puns.
And second, although I already knew it, this project reinforced the fact that my cat needs a corn husk intervention. She’s crazy for them. I’m only sorry that this photo cannot include the “NARRNARRRCRUNCHMUNCHSCHLORP” sound effects that accompany my cat gorging herself on corn husks. In fact, she’s actually being rather delicate here, since she knows she’s being watched.
How many soda cans does my fridge hold? How many calories are in it? Lord knows. How many cubic feet? Ultimately, I could have saved myself some time by just posting this one photo...
...but it wouldn’t have been as fun, would it?
Regarding "How much is inside my fridge."
Okay, regular readers. Don't be surprised if I re-arrange a tad in order to make the fridge project all one piece.
Should I happen to get new readers after mentioning this to Rob (not that I expect to, but just in case): Hi, and welcome. My name is Kara, and I'd just like to apologize to you right off if I kissed you at a pirate-themed party at Rob's house several years ago and then, upon running into you on the street later, did not remember you. A friend and I were having a little contest, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. So had the two bottles of Boone's Strawberry Hill an hour earlier.
Which reminds me -- back to my regular readers. Sorry, Mom and Husband, for the paragraph above. It's probably too much information. Just shake your heads like an Etch-a-Sketch and pretend you never read it.
Should I happen to get new readers after mentioning this to Rob (not that I expect to, but just in case): Hi, and welcome. My name is Kara, and I'd just like to apologize to you right off if I kissed you at a pirate-themed party at Rob's house several years ago and then, upon running into you on the street later, did not remember you. A friend and I were having a little contest, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. So had the two bottles of Boone's Strawberry Hill an hour earlier.
Which reminds me -- back to my regular readers. Sorry, Mom and Husband, for the paragraph above. It's probably too much information. Just shake your heads like an Etch-a-Sketch and pretend you never read it.
Open house
Hi all. Okay, I'm working on part 2 of "How Much is Inside My Fridge," but we were out of town all day. Today was our first open house, so we cleaned up, then ran away to distract ourselves. I think the place looks great, and apparently at least one couple came by after the open house for a tour with the realtor, so I guess that's all we can do, right?
Incidentally, if you want to see the pictures and the "virtual tour" with 360 spins (oooh, ahhhh), e-mail me and I'll send you the link. I'd just put it up here, but then every stalker and their grandma would have our address. If you can't find my e-mail address, but you actually do know me, e-mail yourmom AT thegynas DOT com
Okay, take care!
Oh, maybe later I'll tell you about our day in the Bay Area, too, and our 30 second protest march.
Incidentally, if you want to see the pictures and the "virtual tour" with 360 spins (oooh, ahhhh), e-mail me and I'll send you the link. I'd just put it up here, but then every stalker and their grandma would have our address. If you can't find my e-mail address, but you actually do know me, e-mail yourmom AT thegynas DOT com
Okay, take care!
Oh, maybe later I'll tell you about our day in the Bay Area, too, and our 30 second protest march.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
The Great Classroom Debate
So at the end of the year, the house leader in our small learning community asked whether I wanted room H10 or room J9 for next year. Here's the rundown:
In H10, there is no air conditioning. There are also no windows. It's a strangely long room, and the whiteboards are a little hard to get to. The benefit is that it's closer to the main part of campus, so it's closer to the bathrooms and closer to the area where I need to pick up my scantrons, mail, etc. It's also pretty close to some of my other coworkers.
J9 has air conditioning. But it also has fleas. Well, strike that; it HAD fleas. They've been exterminated, but apparently it has been somewhat an ongoing problem, and last year the teachers out there all had to move out to other rooms because of the problem. It's also a little further from the main part of campus and further from the bathroom (hey, I have a tiny bladder -- it's a real consideration!). It's closer to the agricultural area, which is a nice way of saying the pig pens. And yes, you can smell pig shit out there.
So the debate was between no AC, but close to everything, or AC, but stinky, far, and possibly flea-infested.
Sweetie says to me "Well, I think the choice is obvious." I didn't. He said he'd choose no AC over potential fleas. The thing is, I am perfectly capable of dealing without AC, but classrooms full of children don't usually feel the same way. Thirty-five teenagers often find they're not so interested in learning when it's 95 degrees inside (and this is Sacramento, so that can be up to four months of the school year).
I chose H10. But then the house leader pointed out that J9 is actually equidistant from the bathrooms (because of how far east H10 actually is, which I had overlooked), I went ahead and chose the other room. The other issue is that in seven years of teaching, I've had to pack up everything I own and move classrooms seven times. I was trying to figure out which room would make me least likely to move again, and the answer is neither. The H wing is undergoing "modernization" next year, and the J wing is almost certain to be demolished and replaced. So either way, I can probably look forward to moving again next year. Sigh. I'm considering becoming a minimalist.
In H10, there is no air conditioning. There are also no windows. It's a strangely long room, and the whiteboards are a little hard to get to. The benefit is that it's closer to the main part of campus, so it's closer to the bathrooms and closer to the area where I need to pick up my scantrons, mail, etc. It's also pretty close to some of my other coworkers.
J9 has air conditioning. But it also has fleas. Well, strike that; it HAD fleas. They've been exterminated, but apparently it has been somewhat an ongoing problem, and last year the teachers out there all had to move out to other rooms because of the problem. It's also a little further from the main part of campus and further from the bathroom (hey, I have a tiny bladder -- it's a real consideration!). It's closer to the agricultural area, which is a nice way of saying the pig pens. And yes, you can smell pig shit out there.
So the debate was between no AC, but close to everything, or AC, but stinky, far, and possibly flea-infested.
Sweetie says to me "Well, I think the choice is obvious." I didn't. He said he'd choose no AC over potential fleas. The thing is, I am perfectly capable of dealing without AC, but classrooms full of children don't usually feel the same way. Thirty-five teenagers often find they're not so interested in learning when it's 95 degrees inside (and this is Sacramento, so that can be up to four months of the school year).
I chose H10. But then the house leader pointed out that J9 is actually equidistant from the bathrooms (because of how far east H10 actually is, which I had overlooked), I went ahead and chose the other room. The other issue is that in seven years of teaching, I've had to pack up everything I own and move classrooms seven times. I was trying to figure out which room would make me least likely to move again, and the answer is neither. The H wing is undergoing "modernization" next year, and the J wing is almost certain to be demolished and replaced. So either way, I can probably look forward to moving again next year. Sigh. I'm considering becoming a minimalist.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Repent, California! and my own personal wicked ways, plus a sadist and Thor
We've been hemorrhaging money recently, and the most recent was the sprinkler guy. My sprinklers "work," but only marginally. Like, water comes out of them, but it doesn't cover the whole lawn or anything, and a couple of the sprinkler heads just kind of bubble. Anyway, I called a guy my mom recommended to service them so that the new owners don't call us up and say "Hey, I thought you said the sprinklers work!" and I have to show them the air quotes.
So Sprinkler Guy comes, and he looks like one of those guys that wears overalls and chews straw. Like, long flowing white beard, that kind of thing. And on the back of his truck is an orange paper that says "Repent, CA!" Oooo-kay. Well, he does a good job on the sprinklers and doesn't charge much, so whatever. He's kind of chatty, so every time I start to wander away, he starts talking again. Eventually I figure that I don't have anything better to do, so I just take a seat outside and settle in for some chatting. And while we chat, I offer him a glass of water. He declines, because he has water in his truck. He gets his water at the co-op. "You know the co-op?" "Yeah," I reply, "I go there all the time." "I get this brand of water -- it's from the foothills and it's been filtered three times. I know the guy who makes the water." "Oh yeah?" "God." There's a long pause, and all I can think to say (don't ask me why) is "I know the guy who makes the beer."
I've been meaning to write this for a long time. I had to log in to Blogger the other day, and had to use my "backup" password, which I had forgotten I used. Why, I wondered, had I used the backup password? Oh yeah! Because when Toltec 1 was here, he left himself logged in to Blogger, and I wrote a glowing post on his blog about how great and hospitable I was, and how cute and smart, too, I think.
Then I was hanging with a fellow teacher, and he said "I FINALLY got to change my password." Huh? Thought I.... Oh yeah -- he lent me his school computer on the day that the message came up "it is time to change your password. Enter your new password now." So I did -- Mockularocks.
Anyway, I think the moral of that is "Don't let Mockula around your computer. All of a sudden she gets a big head."
I got my brows done today, and I don't know why, but it hurt more than it has hurt EVER. Usually the brow lady pats the little muslin strip over the wax, stretches it out a little, then rips, then applies her cool fingertips to the area. It's not too bad at all. But this lady was like SmearPushYankSmearPushYankPushYankPatYankYank. It was in super-fast-forward! Then she plucked some strays, and she was the hurtingest plucker, too! I don't know how it was different, but I think she was grabbing the hair from the very end or something. Yikes! Brow sadist!
We had our first realtor come visit today. He left a card, as is the custom. And his name was Thor M. Realtor to the gods. I'm not kidding.
So Sprinkler Guy comes, and he looks like one of those guys that wears overalls and chews straw. Like, long flowing white beard, that kind of thing. And on the back of his truck is an orange paper that says "Repent, CA!" Oooo-kay. Well, he does a good job on the sprinklers and doesn't charge much, so whatever. He's kind of chatty, so every time I start to wander away, he starts talking again. Eventually I figure that I don't have anything better to do, so I just take a seat outside and settle in for some chatting. And while we chat, I offer him a glass of water. He declines, because he has water in his truck. He gets his water at the co-op. "You know the co-op?" "Yeah," I reply, "I go there all the time." "I get this brand of water -- it's from the foothills and it's been filtered three times. I know the guy who makes the water." "Oh yeah?" "God." There's a long pause, and all I can think to say (don't ask me why) is "I know the guy who makes the beer."
I've been meaning to write this for a long time. I had to log in to Blogger the other day, and had to use my "backup" password, which I had forgotten I used. Why, I wondered, had I used the backup password? Oh yeah! Because when Toltec 1 was here, he left himself logged in to Blogger, and I wrote a glowing post on his blog about how great and hospitable I was, and how cute and smart, too, I think.
Then I was hanging with a fellow teacher, and he said "I FINALLY got to change my password." Huh? Thought I.... Oh yeah -- he lent me his school computer on the day that the message came up "it is time to change your password. Enter your new password now." So I did -- Mockularocks.
Anyway, I think the moral of that is "Don't let Mockula around your computer. All of a sudden she gets a big head."
I got my brows done today, and I don't know why, but it hurt more than it has hurt EVER. Usually the brow lady pats the little muslin strip over the wax, stretches it out a little, then rips, then applies her cool fingertips to the area. It's not too bad at all. But this lady was like SmearPushYankSmearPushYankPushYankPatYankYank. It was in super-fast-forward! Then she plucked some strays, and she was the hurtingest plucker, too! I don't know how it was different, but I think she was grabbing the hair from the very end or something. Yikes! Brow sadist!
We had our first realtor come visit today. He left a card, as is the custom. And his name was Thor M. Realtor to the gods. I'm not kidding.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Buy me stuff!
No, don't really. There's no good reason to buy me stuff for another four months. Nevertheless, I would be deliriously happy if I had this: Alice necklace.
or almost anything else Alice-related from that eBay store. I like this one a lot too: Another Alice necklace.
I like a lot of the stuff she's got on there. Why am I up looking at eBay when I could be reading in bed by now? Who knows.
or almost anything else Alice-related from that eBay store. I like this one a lot too: Another Alice necklace.
I like a lot of the stuff she's got on there. Why am I up looking at eBay when I could be reading in bed by now? Who knows.
New hairdo
Hey all. Is my blog photo-heavy enough yet? Sweetie, I bet you're glad we bought a new camera for me to fuck around with, huh?
Anyway, I called up Monique, my personal hair goddess, and said "Monique, you may do absolutely whatever you want to my hair." She was excited, and agreed. This is the result.
Anyway, I called up Monique, my personal hair goddess, and said "Monique, you may do absolutely whatever you want to my hair." She was excited, and agreed. This is the result.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
House pics
Okay, you can now click on this photo and it will take you to Flickr, where the nine most recently uploaded photos are of this house, the one we've spent the last two months (well, two years, really) fixing up. I ran out of uploading room (it's my fault -- I didn't feel like resizing the files to make them smaller), so Sweetie's office isn't on there. I also didn't take pictures of the backyard or the cave, er, I mean "detatched home office." But maybe tomorrow I will and I'll use my other secret Flickr account to post them...
back porch
We're thinking adirondack chairs for out here. I'm sorry there aren't pictures of the bedrooms or the backyard, which is cute. I just jacked these off the web. I'll post more, of course, when we move in (only three weeks now!).
Also, keep your eye out for pictures of my new haircut and the old house all fixed up to sell!
Also, keep your eye out for pictures of my new haircut and the old house all fixed up to sell!
bath
Here's our cute little bathroom with original tile. There's a separate bath and shower. No medicine cabinet, so I'll add that. This is between the two bedrooms, which will be ours (on the left) and "the baby's room" (Bryan!) on the right.
kitchen
Here's the kitchen. I could stand to have the tile redone, but I really like everything else. I might add one of those little rolling butcher block islands, but we'll see... The hardwood in here is funky, but not hideous. The view is from the area where the table would go.
dining room
This is a small dining room. To the right is the kitchen, where there's also room to put a table. Through this dooor is the back porch.
living room 2
This view is from your POV if you've just walked in the front door and taken a few steps inside. The doorway there is approximately where you'd be standing to take that other living room photo. You can sort of see the doorway to the third bedroom (Reza's office/library).
living room
Okay, this is the view of the fireplace from the end of the long-ish living room. The built-in entertainment cabinet is to the left (you can see the edge of it), the dining room is beyond that to the left, two bedrooms are behind you from this view, and one is on the other side of the entertainment thingy wall.
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