If a blogger writes a post but has nothing to say, does anyone leave comments? This age-old question has vexed philosophers since time immemorial...
Yesterday, the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice was on cable. I missed the first three hours, but the second three hours were great anyway. The first time I'd seen this production was about 10 years ago on a friend's 13-inch TV, so I had missed the key visual detail: the passion, torment, yearning, tumult, love, and regret in Mr. Darcy's eyes pretty much any time he was on screen. Maybe he overdid it a teeny bit, but now I understand the reason for all the fuss about Colin Firth as Darcy. The guy who plays Darcy in the new P&P movie looks like a callow youth, and he has bad hair, so what's the point of seeing it? I will wait for Brokeback Mountain to slake my yearning-man jones.
Wouldn't that be a heckuva thing, if they got rid of the annual Burning Man oddball arts fiesta and changed it to Yearning Man? Match.com could be the corporate sponsor. Speaking of which, did you hear about the people who are suing Match.com and Yahoo's dating service because they think the companies are tricking them into subscribing by showing them fake profiles? One guy actually thinks Match.com sent an employee out on a date with him to keep his $29.99 a month rolling in. The dating service has something like 15 million members. How many employees do you think it has? Enough to send them on dates with impatient subscribers? Sure, that sounds reasonable.
If you're tired of pumpkin pie and want some beefcake, Avatar posted a link to some artful photos of French rugby players sans uniform, covering their bits with rugby balls or small towels. Wouldn't that be a lovely calendar to hang on the wall? Update! Orange has received word that Italy's national rugby team consists of firemen, and they are also hot.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Awaiting Brokeback Mountain
Am I the only straight woman who can't wait to see Brokeback Mountain? I'm not a huge fan of Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal, or of cowboys, or of westerns. But there's just something magnetic about those two men dressed up as cowboys and filled with the yearning of a forbidden love. (It must be the yearning thing.) I plan to see the movie, swoon, and cry. Who's with me?
After writing that paragraph, I watched the preview via the link above. It confirms: Yes, I don't care for rodeos and smoking cowboys and whatnot. But the relationship part of the movie looks just stunningly heartbreaking. The movie opens December 9.
After writing that paragraph, I watched the preview via the link above. It confirms: Yes, I don't care for rodeos and smoking cowboys and whatnot. But the relationship part of the movie looks just stunningly heartbreaking. The movie opens December 9.
Obama's speech on the war in Iraq
Senator Barack Obama spoke at length to the Chicago Council on Foreign Relations today. The full text of his speech is available here. Key excerpts from the Tribune report by Jeff Zeleny follow:
Sen. Barack Obama (D-Ill.) rejected Tuesday the call for an immediate withdrawal of American troops from Iraq, declaring: "I believe that U.S. forces are still a part of the solution in Iraq."
"During the course of the next year, we need to focus our attention on how to reduce the U.S. military footprint in Iraq," Obama said in Chicago. "Notice that I say 'reduce,' and not 'fully withdraw.'"
"The Administration has narrowed an entire debate about war into two camps: 'cut-and-run' or 'stay the course'," Obama said. "If you offer any criticism or even mention that we should take a second look at our strategy and change our approach, you're branded 'cut-and-run.' If you're ready to blindly trust the Administration no matter what they do, you're willing to stay the course."
"We don't necessarily need a timetable, in the sense of a precise date for U.S. troop pull-outs, but a time-frame for such a phased withdrawal," Obama said. "We need to say that there will be no bases in Iraq a decade from now and the United States armed forces cannot stand-up and support an Iraqi government in perpetuity."
After the parliamentary elections in Iraq, which are scheduled for Dec. 15, Obama said the United States should begin devising a strategy for the gradual withdrawal of the more than 160,000 troops in Iraq. He offered general recommendations, but conceded there were no "magic bullets for a good outcome in Iraq."
Still, the Democratic senator chastised the administration for failing to encourage debate or give an honest assessment of the war in Iraq.
"The president could take the politics out of Iraq once and for all if he would simply go on television and say to the American people: 'Yes, we made mistakes. Yes, there are things that I would have done differently. But now that I'm here, I'm going to work with both Republicans and Democrats to find the most responsible way out,' " Obama said. "Imagine if he did that, how it would transform the politics of our country."
Sen. Barack Obama (D-Ill.) rejected Tuesday the call for an immediate withdrawal of American troops from Iraq, declaring: "I believe that U.S. forces are still a part of the solution in Iraq."
"During the course of the next year, we need to focus our attention on how to reduce the U.S. military footprint in Iraq," Obama said in Chicago. "Notice that I say 'reduce,' and not 'fully withdraw.'"
"The Administration has narrowed an entire debate about war into two camps: 'cut-and-run' or 'stay the course'," Obama said. "If you offer any criticism or even mention that we should take a second look at our strategy and change our approach, you're branded 'cut-and-run.' If you're ready to blindly trust the Administration no matter what they do, you're willing to stay the course."
"We don't necessarily need a timetable, in the sense of a precise date for U.S. troop pull-outs, but a time-frame for such a phased withdrawal," Obama said. "We need to say that there will be no bases in Iraq a decade from now and the United States armed forces cannot stand-up and support an Iraqi government in perpetuity."
After the parliamentary elections in Iraq, which are scheduled for Dec. 15, Obama said the United States should begin devising a strategy for the gradual withdrawal of the more than 160,000 troops in Iraq. He offered general recommendations, but conceded there were no "magic bullets for a good outcome in Iraq."
Still, the Democratic senator chastised the administration for failing to encourage debate or give an honest assessment of the war in Iraq.
"The president could take the politics out of Iraq once and for all if he would simply go on television and say to the American people: 'Yes, we made mistakes. Yes, there are things that I would have done differently. But now that I'm here, I'm going to work with both Republicans and Democrats to find the most responsible way out,' " Obama said. "Imagine if he did that, how it would transform the politics of our country."
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Recipe blogging, Thanksgiving edition
This is completely unlike me, but I am going to share a holiday recipe with you because it doesn't seem like Thanksgiving to me without it.
I was such a picky eater until adulthood, the first time I ever ate sweet potatoes was when I first had Thanksgiving dinner at the house where Mr. Tangerine grew up. We've been together since the late '80s, so these sweet potatoes and I, we go way back. My mother-in-law makes the world's best turkey—even the white meat is tender and juicy—but it's her sweet potatoes I can't get enough of. They could double as dessert.
This year, we're having Thanksgiving Day brunch at my sister's, which means that there will be no giant turkey dinner—but dammit, I will have my mother-in-law's sweet potatoes because I've got the recipe now.
Mom's Sweet Sweet Potatoes
8 medium sweet potatoes
1 cup of brown sugar
1 stick of butter (or 1 1/2 sticks if you like 'em buttery)
1 cup of orange juice concentrate
Boil the sweet potatoes for about 45 minutes until they're soft when you poke them with a fork. Drain and cool. Peel the sweet potatoes. Mash with a potato masher and pull out any stringy bits you run into.
Melt the butter and brown sugar together and mix into the mashed sweet potatoes. Then add the OJ concentrate.
Scoop the mixture into a casserole dish, smooth the top, and bake at 375° for 30 to 45 minutes or until the edges turn brown.
Serve to great acclaim.
Modifications to recipe, or
How I Actually Made the Sweet Sweet Potatoes
(Should I call it Orange's Sweet Potatoes?)
6 medium sweet potatoes
1 cup of brown sugar
1 stick of butter
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
almost 1 cup of orange juice concentrate (thawed)
Peel the sweet potatoes and cut them into halves or thirds. Boil for about 30 to 35 minutes or until they're soft when you poke them with a fork. Drain the pan and let one chunk of sweet potato fall into the sink. (Leave it there.) Mash the surviving potato chunks with a potato masher.
Melt the butter and brown sugar together (30 seconds in the microwave should do), stir in the vanilla, and mix into the mashed sweet potatoes. Then add the OJ concentrate and stir it up.
Scoop one serving of sweet potatoes into a bowl for yourself and eat it. Dump the rest of it into a casserole dish (it looks a tad shallow in a 9x13 pan, so maybe a 9x9 would be better) and smooth the top. Store it in the fridge.
Tomorrow, bake it at 375° for 30 to 45 minutes or just until the edges begin to turn brown, really just to reheat the sweet potatoes ('cause they taste perfectly fine without this step). Serve to great acclaim.
I was such a picky eater until adulthood, the first time I ever ate sweet potatoes was when I first had Thanksgiving dinner at the house where Mr. Tangerine grew up. We've been together since the late '80s, so these sweet potatoes and I, we go way back. My mother-in-law makes the world's best turkey—even the white meat is tender and juicy—but it's her sweet potatoes I can't get enough of. They could double as dessert.
This year, we're having Thanksgiving Day brunch at my sister's, which means that there will be no giant turkey dinner—but dammit, I will have my mother-in-law's sweet potatoes because I've got the recipe now.
Mom's Sweet Sweet Potatoes
8 medium sweet potatoes
1 cup of brown sugar
1 stick of butter (or 1 1/2 sticks if you like 'em buttery)
1 cup of orange juice concentrate
Boil the sweet potatoes for about 45 minutes until they're soft when you poke them with a fork. Drain and cool. Peel the sweet potatoes. Mash with a potato masher and pull out any stringy bits you run into.
Melt the butter and brown sugar together and mix into the mashed sweet potatoes. Then add the OJ concentrate.
Scoop the mixture into a casserole dish, smooth the top, and bake at 375° for 30 to 45 minutes or until the edges turn brown.
Serve to great acclaim.
Modifications to recipe, or
How I Actually Made the Sweet Sweet Potatoes
(Should I call it Orange's Sweet Potatoes?)
6 medium sweet potatoes
1 cup of brown sugar
1 stick of butter
1 teaspoon of vanilla extract
almost 1 cup of orange juice concentrate (thawed)
Peel the sweet potatoes and cut them into halves or thirds. Boil for about 30 to 35 minutes or until they're soft when you poke them with a fork. Drain the pan and let one chunk of sweet potato fall into the sink. (Leave it there.) Mash the surviving potato chunks with a potato masher.
Melt the butter and brown sugar together (30 seconds in the microwave should do), stir in the vanilla, and mix into the mashed sweet potatoes. Then add the OJ concentrate and stir it up.
Scoop one serving of sweet potatoes into a bowl for yourself and eat it. Dump the rest of it into a casserole dish (it looks a tad shallow in a 9x13 pan, so maybe a 9x9 would be better) and smooth the top. Store it in the fridge.
Tomorrow, bake it at 375° for 30 to 45 minutes or just until the edges begin to turn brown, really just to reheat the sweet potatoes ('cause they taste perfectly fine without this step). Serve to great acclaim.
Monday, November 21, 2005
December 1 is "Blog Against Racism" day
Chris Clarke of Creek Running North wrote this recently:
Which is all a very long-winded way of declaring December 1, 2005 - the 50th anniversary of Rosa Parks' heroic act of civil disobedience on that Montgomery bus - "Blog Against Racism" day, in which people post something on the very broad and complex subject of racism. You don't need to have a political blog to participate. Race, after all, affects almost every aspect of life in one way or another. Your post might be literary in nature, or historical, or concern current issues in need of political attention. You might take the opportunity to debunk scientific racism, or write poetry or essays about personal experiences, uplifting or depressing.
I don't have a clue what I'll write (any ideas??), but I want to do it. If you're interested in taking part too, mention the date on your blog and leave a note in Chris's comments section.
Which is all a very long-winded way of declaring December 1, 2005 - the 50th anniversary of Rosa Parks' heroic act of civil disobedience on that Montgomery bus - "Blog Against Racism" day, in which people post something on the very broad and complex subject of racism. You don't need to have a political blog to participate. Race, after all, affects almost every aspect of life in one way or another. Your post might be literary in nature, or historical, or concern current issues in need of political attention. You might take the opportunity to debunk scientific racism, or write poetry or essays about personal experiences, uplifting or depressing.
I don't have a clue what I'll write (any ideas??), but I want to do it. If you're interested in taking part too, mention the date on your blog and leave a note in Chris's comments section.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
It's a party!
Young Ben just summoned me to the bathroom, having pooped. (I keep forgetting that wiping is really something he should be doing for himself.) Now, typically he doesn't editorialize about the day's production, but this time? "It's a party poo." Meaning the toilet bowl contained a festive assortment of discrete nuggets, and when that many of them gather in one place, it's gotta be a party! I honestly don't know where he came up with that.
(I think he may need to drink more water.)
In the course of doing some medical editing, I encountered a handy new word, and I want you all to start using it. There are a few equivalent versions, so I'm sure you'll find one you're comfortable with. Stercoraceous, stercorous, or stercoral, all with the stress on the first syllable, meaning "having to do with excrement." Why call someone on their BS when instead you can impugn their rhetoric as being stercoraceous? Don't call that lousy movie merely "crappy"—call it "one of the more stercoraceous films in the director's oeuvre."
(I think he may need to drink more water.)
In the course of doing some medical editing, I encountered a handy new word, and I want you all to start using it. There are a few equivalent versions, so I'm sure you'll find one you're comfortable with. Stercoraceous, stercorous, or stercoral, all with the stress on the first syllable, meaning "having to do with excrement." Why call someone on their BS when instead you can impugn their rhetoric as being stercoraceous? Don't call that lousy movie merely "crappy"—call it "one of the more stercoraceous films in the director's oeuvre."
What kind of woman are you?
We have all sorts of phrases to describe men who like a certain type of woman or, more particularly, a certain anatomical feature. Most commonly, there are ass men, leg men, and breast men. Some fellows prefer women with a certain hair color, or they like a general build (curvy, slender, or fat), or maybe they have an elbow fetish.
Colloquially, you don't much hear talk of "an ass woman" or "a shoulders girl," and yet most women who are attracted to men can highlight their favorite physical details. (This is in addition to the standard criteria like "must have a sense of humor," "has to get along with his mother...but not too well," etc.) It could be broad shoulders, a certain height, great eyes, wavy hair, delicious abs, a muscular butt, lush lips, strong legs, impressive but not overly large biceps, a really hairy back (okay, I made that one up), fantastic cheekbones, a great chest, or something else entirely.
What particular part(s) do you like enough to call yourself an [insert part here] woman?
Colloquially, you don't much hear talk of "an ass woman" or "a shoulders girl," and yet most women who are attracted to men can highlight their favorite physical details. (This is in addition to the standard criteria like "must have a sense of humor," "has to get along with his mother...but not too well," etc.) It could be broad shoulders, a certain height, great eyes, wavy hair, delicious abs, a muscular butt, lush lips, strong legs, impressive but not overly large biceps, a really hairy back (okay, I made that one up), fantastic cheekbones, a great chest, or something else entirely.
What particular part(s) do you like enough to call yourself an [insert part here] woman?
Friday, November 11, 2005
Closed on Sundays
When did this open? "The Holy Land Experience" is one of Orlando's newest attractions, apparently, as I hadn't heard of it before seeing billboards last week. Apparently it's like Epcot-does-Jerusalem.
The website itself is a hoot: While loading the buttons for the left sidebar, there was a little fine print that said "Holyland Buttons Loading." (Thanks for the explanation! But why so slow? I've got high-speed access, baby. Holiness must gum up the works.) The Oasis Palms Café (variously called "Oasis Palm's Café," in a holy case of apostrophe misuse) features a genuine vegetarian Mediterranean Sampler (tempting!), plus the Goliath Burger. (Of course. But why no Jumbo All-Beef Jesus Dog?) They've got the theme-park shop, the Old Scroll Shop, set up for online retail. You want audiobooks on the end times? This is the place.
They show a short movie in the Theatre of Life, "The Seed of Promise." I don't think it has to do with the spilling of seed, though. Different seed. And there's a "New! Exhibit!" (Jesus would weep to see such punctuation abuse), "A Day in the Life of a Monk." (I'm not sure, but I think it usually involves Monk cracking the case when the police can't, owing to the phenomenal attention to detail that accompanies his OCD.) Cognitive dissonance, though: If the theme park's supposed to put visitors in touch with what it was like in Jerusalem 2,000 years ago, what's the medieval monk doing on the premises? Can we get some consistency here, folks?
I got pretty excited when I saw the Holyland Button for job opportunities. Sadly, there are currently no job openings. I'll keep checking...
The website itself is a hoot: While loading the buttons for the left sidebar, there was a little fine print that said "Holyland Buttons Loading." (Thanks for the explanation! But why so slow? I've got high-speed access, baby. Holiness must gum up the works.) The Oasis Palms Café (variously called "Oasis Palm's Café," in a holy case of apostrophe misuse) features a genuine vegetarian Mediterranean Sampler (tempting!), plus the Goliath Burger. (Of course. But why no Jumbo All-Beef Jesus Dog?) They've got the theme-park shop, the Old Scroll Shop, set up for online retail. You want audiobooks on the end times? This is the place.
They show a short movie in the Theatre of Life, "The Seed of Promise." I don't think it has to do with the spilling of seed, though. Different seed. And there's a "New! Exhibit!" (Jesus would weep to see such punctuation abuse), "A Day in the Life of a Monk." (I'm not sure, but I think it usually involves Monk cracking the case when the police can't, owing to the phenomenal attention to detail that accompanies his OCD.) Cognitive dissonance, though: If the theme park's supposed to put visitors in touch with what it was like in Jerusalem 2,000 years ago, what's the medieval monk doing on the premises? Can we get some consistency here, folks?
I got pretty excited when I saw the Holyland Button for job opportunities. Sadly, there are currently no job openings. I'll keep checking...
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Shocking but true: I want to start a new meme
C'mon, let's all play! Write 10 things about your dating/sexual history (in the comments or at your own blog) that are shocking but true. Here's mine:
1. Nobody asked me out in high school.
2. My first kiss was in freshman year...of college.
3. In sophomore year of college, I went out with a guy named...Binks.
4. One summer during the college years, I stayed on campus to work and generally avoid living with my parents. I had a ten-guy summer—but it was just making out, since I was a virgin at the time. People who didn't know I was a virgin thought I was a total slut.
5. I lost my virginity at age 21, just before senior year of college began. His member was curved, and his mother fucked up Kraft Macaroni & Cheese with onion flakes. (You can't do that.)
6. I once made out with a guy named Thor. (In Minnesota, these things happen.)
7. My interracial involvements have included two or maybe three Asians, a South Asian (a Bengali from Nepal, I think), and one guy who was part American Indian. I slept in a black guy's bed for six weeks, but he wasn't there.
8. I've never done anything with another girl or woman.
9. My total number of sexual partners stands at two.
10. I have been monogamous for 17.5 years.
1. Nobody asked me out in high school.
2. My first kiss was in freshman year...of college.
3. In sophomore year of college, I went out with a guy named...Binks.
4. One summer during the college years, I stayed on campus to work and generally avoid living with my parents. I had a ten-guy summer—but it was just making out, since I was a virgin at the time. People who didn't know I was a virgin thought I was a total slut.
5. I lost my virginity at age 21, just before senior year of college began. His member was curved, and his mother fucked up Kraft Macaroni & Cheese with onion flakes. (You can't do that.)
6. I once made out with a guy named Thor. (In Minnesota, these things happen.)
7. My interracial involvements have included two or maybe three Asians, a South Asian (a Bengali from Nepal, I think), and one guy who was part American Indian. I slept in a black guy's bed for six weeks, but he wasn't there.
8. I've never done anything with another girl or woman.
9. My total number of sexual partners stands at two.
10. I have been monogamous for 17.5 years.
Obama via satellite
Senator Barack Obama did appear on "The Daily Show" last night, but via satellite from Washington. Obama was having a good time—his broad smile threatened to split his head open. Jon Stewart cracked him up, and he cracked Jon up. The good senator is a funny man—who knew? You can either catch one of the reruns today, or read about their conversation here.
Monday, November 07, 2005
So much to report, but none of any import
Howdy! Did you miss me? Let me tell you what I've been up to. Friday, Mr. Tangerine and I hauled Ben out of a sound sleep and into a taxi to O'Hare Airport for an early flight to Florida. While traversing the airport, the Chicago Sun-Times cover leapt out at me from a bank of newspaper vending boxes. What's this? "Daley's War on Poetry"? The mayor, who encourages the entire city to read the same book each summer, is anti-poetry?!? It can't be! And it isn't. The headline actually said "Daley's War on Poverty." I kinda like it better the first way.
We rented a shiny new convertible in Orlando and began driving to my in-laws'. Wouldn't you know it? We missed our exit. Twice. (I blame poor signage, as is my wont.) Getting ourselves turned back around involved getting stuck in a roadwork-related traffic jam that chewed up a lot of time, so one of our several turnarounds took us through an Arby's drive-through. Would you believe they had run out of roast beef? At Arby's! (I suspect a recall or a case of rotting meat.) My no-mayo turkey sandwich came with both turkey and mustard, which are vile condiments that should not pass my lips. (Fuckers.)
On Saturday, we went to a "festival of the arts" in Inverness, Florida. First of all, a large ceramic frog that dispenses toilet paper like an endless white tongue? Not art. A large portrait of George and Laura Bush, looking 15 years younger and blander? Not art. Margaritaville/parrothead wooden signs? Not art. Silk flower arrangements? Not art. Kitchen towels cut in half with a crocheted loop sewn on so you can hang the half towel from a fridge or oven handle? Not art. There were occasional flourishes of art, but mostly crap.
But Inverness is lovely. Near the "historic" courthouse (It dates all the way back to 1912! Which is when my grandma was born, so it's not like it's from The Land Before Time.), there was a small law-firm office. The junior guy with his name on the door? Last name: Evilsizer. Seriously.
And across the road from the Evilsizer office, there's a barbershop that sells t-shirts reading "Save a fish, eat a cooter." That's right, people: Inverness is the home of the Cooter Festival we all learned about last year on "The Daily Show." 'Round those parts, a cooter is a small turtle, and the town leaders blithely organized a festival without regard, apparently, for the popularity of "cooter" as slang for a woman's genitals.
On the road between Inverness and my in-laws' place, there's a furniture store called Badcock. Sadly, I did not get a picture of the sign proudly emblazoned with the store's name. Mr. Tangerine wondered if Mr. Evilsizer has had any doings with Badcock.
And speaking of "The Daily Show," I have some sad news. Yesterday, Barack Obama's spokesman reported that the good senator must remain in Washington today to vote on a defense spending bill, alas, and thus will not be making his "Daily Show" debut today. Deep sigh.
Back on the home front, there is some good news. For the last two weeks, my UPS packages had been delivered by rather homely fellows, and I began to despair that the regular guy, the one I've enjoyed seeing every week since 1997, had been transferred. But today he was back—he and the missus had sold their house and had to pack boxes. Apparently he packed his hair because the auburn curls are gone, replaced by a crew cut. I can wait for the hair to grow back in...
We rented a shiny new convertible in Orlando and began driving to my in-laws'. Wouldn't you know it? We missed our exit. Twice. (I blame poor signage, as is my wont.) Getting ourselves turned back around involved getting stuck in a roadwork-related traffic jam that chewed up a lot of time, so one of our several turnarounds took us through an Arby's drive-through. Would you believe they had run out of roast beef? At Arby's! (I suspect a recall or a case of rotting meat.) My no-mayo turkey sandwich came with both turkey and mustard, which are vile condiments that should not pass my lips. (Fuckers.)
On Saturday, we went to a "festival of the arts" in Inverness, Florida. First of all, a large ceramic frog that dispenses toilet paper like an endless white tongue? Not art. A large portrait of George and Laura Bush, looking 15 years younger and blander? Not art. Margaritaville/parrothead wooden signs? Not art. Silk flower arrangements? Not art. Kitchen towels cut in half with a crocheted loop sewn on so you can hang the half towel from a fridge or oven handle? Not art. There were occasional flourishes of art, but mostly crap.
But Inverness is lovely. Near the "historic" courthouse (It dates all the way back to 1912! Which is when my grandma was born, so it's not like it's from The Land Before Time.), there was a small law-firm office. The junior guy with his name on the door? Last name: Evilsizer. Seriously.
And across the road from the Evilsizer office, there's a barbershop that sells t-shirts reading "Save a fish, eat a cooter." That's right, people: Inverness is the home of the Cooter Festival we all learned about last year on "The Daily Show." 'Round those parts, a cooter is a small turtle, and the town leaders blithely organized a festival without regard, apparently, for the popularity of "cooter" as slang for a woman's genitals.
On the road between Inverness and my in-laws' place, there's a furniture store called Badcock. Sadly, I did not get a picture of the sign proudly emblazoned with the store's name. Mr. Tangerine wondered if Mr. Evilsizer has had any doings with Badcock.
And speaking of "The Daily Show," I have some sad news. Yesterday, Barack Obama's spokesman reported that the good senator must remain in Washington today to vote on a defense spending bill, alas, and thus will not be making his "Daily Show" debut today. Deep sigh.
Back on the home front, there is some good news. For the last two weeks, my UPS packages had been delivered by rather homely fellows, and I began to despair that the regular guy, the one I've enjoyed seeing every week since 1997, had been transferred. But today he was back—he and the missus had sold their house and had to pack boxes. Apparently he packed his hair because the auburn curls are gone, replaced by a crew cut. I can wait for the hair to grow back in...
Friday, November 04, 2005
This is terrible
I will be forsaking the Orange Tangerine universe for a few days. Nobody but Kathie paid any attention to the last post, so I can't just leave that one up top for three days. I need something zippy, something that spurs lively conversation in the comments zone. But what? I lack inspiration.
Sex, food, and potty talk are always big hits. How about kidblogging? My kid has taken to calling me "Mommom" lately. I think it's adorable, but I won't hold it against you if you don't.
Potty talk? The Feral Mom pointed me toward ratemypoo.com, which is completely horrifying. If you like that sort of thing, check it out. But I'm warning you, it's gross. It's photos of non-empty toilets, and you're supposed to rate the poo, and it looks like every single poo averages about a 5.1 to 5.8. So that's kinda pointless. Nothing rates a 1 or a 10? Feh.
Food? Nah. I'm all sandwiched out. I'm still not sure which is worse, though: Puffintoad's peanut butter and mayo, or Psycho Kitty's peanut butter and sauerkraut. Both appall me.
That leaves sex. Let's see what we've got. For position recommendations, visit The Lowland Seed to find out what's working for Sergei and Mona. You can't beat their patented Astronaut—if you're in a male/female relationship, try it out tonight. In other personal topics, I just bought this trimmer to keep my bits tidy. Haven't tried it yet, but it looks promising. Last but not least, two of my famous boyfriends are going to be on TV together. That's right: Senator Barack Obama, whom I love, will be on "The Daily Show" Monday night with Jon Stewart, whom I dreamed about (in the dream, we were totally making out, but then I put a stop to it because my subconscious, apparently, is scrupulously monogamous). As my friend Flea pointed out to me, "Women all over the country will explode as soon as those two shake hands." Gentlemen, you can take it easy Monday night. Barack and Jon will take care of the foreplay for you.
Have a great weekend, people!
Sex, food, and potty talk are always big hits. How about kidblogging? My kid has taken to calling me "Mommom" lately. I think it's adorable, but I won't hold it against you if you don't.
Potty talk? The Feral Mom pointed me toward ratemypoo.com, which is completely horrifying. If you like that sort of thing, check it out. But I'm warning you, it's gross. It's photos of non-empty toilets, and you're supposed to rate the poo, and it looks like every single poo averages about a 5.1 to 5.8. So that's kinda pointless. Nothing rates a 1 or a 10? Feh.
Food? Nah. I'm all sandwiched out. I'm still not sure which is worse, though: Puffintoad's peanut butter and mayo, or Psycho Kitty's peanut butter and sauerkraut. Both appall me.
That leaves sex. Let's see what we've got. For position recommendations, visit The Lowland Seed to find out what's working for Sergei and Mona. You can't beat their patented Astronaut—if you're in a male/female relationship, try it out tonight. In other personal topics, I just bought this trimmer to keep my bits tidy. Haven't tried it yet, but it looks promising. Last but not least, two of my famous boyfriends are going to be on TV together. That's right: Senator Barack Obama, whom I love, will be on "The Daily Show" Monday night with Jon Stewart, whom I dreamed about (in the dream, we were totally making out, but then I put a stop to it because my subconscious, apparently, is scrupulously monogamous). As my friend Flea pointed out to me, "Women all over the country will explode as soon as those two shake hands." Gentlemen, you can take it easy Monday night. Barack and Jon will take care of the foreplay for you.
Have a great weekend, people!
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Missives from Spamland
Okay, I understand that spammers have programmed their spam machines to generate random pairs of words for subject lines to elude the filters. I understand there is no meaning to them. But sometimes I love what they send me! There was one that featured the new phrase, "anus bolster." It occurs to me that such an item, if it existed, might be just what my grandma needs to remedy a couple of her complaints. More recently, I received a hot stock tip with the subject line "RE: warty creamery." I like to get Heath bars and pecans mixed into my ice cream at Cold Stone Creamery; what delights await me at Warty Creamery?
Someday, someone somewhere is sure to Google these phrases, and they'll be so sad to see I know so little about these subjects. So they'll return to the Google results and see ads for "shop for warty creamery at eBay" and "find books about anus bolster." They will click on those links and be disappointed anew, won't they?
I've also been having a hard time deleting the one with the subject line, "Launch an appearance of success with one of our imitation watches." What provides the veneer of status better than an imitation watch? They're not claiming to have imitation Rolexes; for all I know, it could be an imitation Casio with a painted-on digital readout.
Thank you. That is all.
Someday, someone somewhere is sure to Google these phrases, and they'll be so sad to see I know so little about these subjects. So they'll return to the Google results and see ads for "shop for warty creamery at eBay" and "find books about anus bolster." They will click on those links and be disappointed anew, won't they?
I've also been having a hard time deleting the one with the subject line, "Launch an appearance of success with one of our imitation watches." What provides the veneer of status better than an imitation watch? They're not claiming to have imitation Rolexes; for all I know, it could be an imitation Casio with a painted-on digital readout.
Thank you. That is all.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
For you naysayers
For those of who looked askance at my selection of Brad Pitt for a position on my freebie-lay list—who said either "He's merely good-looking" or, alternatively, "He doesn't do anything for me," check this out: Brad Pitt is now using his stardom to bring more attention to the issues of African poverty and disease. He's narrating six hour-long episodes of a PBS documentary, ""RX for Survival: A Global Health Challenge."
In other updates to the freebie list, I'm thinking of replacing Bill Clinton with Robert Downey Jr. Two reasons: Downey, who's 40 now, should look like Keith Richards after all his years of drugging, and yet...he's just plain hot. And when he was interviewed recently in Entertainment Weekly, the writer kept exclaiming about how smart and verbally adept Downey is. I will always love Bill Clinton as the bestest president ever, but he's looking a little too...statesmanlike, too elder-statesmanlike, these days.
So, to recap: Brad Pitt and George Clooney, for looks combined with political activism; Bruce Willis, with the lights off, for that yummy voice; Russell Wong, in the obligatory handsome-Asian position; and Robert Downey Jr., for getting better with age. Also, I understand there's a kissing scene in his new movie, "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang", and that kiss is between Downey and Val Kilmer. Delicious!
In other updates to the freebie list, I'm thinking of replacing Bill Clinton with Robert Downey Jr. Two reasons: Downey, who's 40 now, should look like Keith Richards after all his years of drugging, and yet...he's just plain hot. And when he was interviewed recently in Entertainment Weekly, the writer kept exclaiming about how smart and verbally adept Downey is. I will always love Bill Clinton as the bestest president ever, but he's looking a little too...statesmanlike, too elder-statesmanlike, these days.
So, to recap: Brad Pitt and George Clooney, for looks combined with political activism; Bruce Willis, with the lights off, for that yummy voice; Russell Wong, in the obligatory handsome-Asian position; and Robert Downey Jr., for getting better with age. Also, I understand there's a kissing scene in his new movie, "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang", and that kiss is between Downey and Val Kilmer. Delicious!
Monday, October 31, 2005
I read a book! I read a book!
I love to buy books, but don't often make the time to actually read them. (Far too busy reading blogs, dammit.) This month, though, I read a new book, Dan Savage's latest: The Commitment: Love, Sex, Marriage, and My Family.
Savage, of course, writes the internationally syndicated sex advice column, Savage Love, and wrote the incisive and entertaining book Skipping Towards Gomorrah.
In his new book, he examines the issue of same-sex marriage as he and his partner Terry wrestle with the idea of getting married (or getting "Property of..." tattoos) as their tenth anniversary approaches. Savage also looks into the general institution of marriage, the conventions of monogamy, and the real-life marriages, divorces, and relationships in his family. Although many of the reviews have focused on the issue of gay marriage, I thought the book had just as much to say about the meaning of plain ol' straight marriage.
I strongly recommend The Commitment to anyone with an interest in love and relationships, straight, bi, or gay. Buy it, check it out of the library, or borrow my copy—but read it. I could ramble on about the book, but I'd rather you just read it yourselves, okay?
Savage, of course, writes the internationally syndicated sex advice column, Savage Love, and wrote the incisive and entertaining book Skipping Towards Gomorrah.
In his new book, he examines the issue of same-sex marriage as he and his partner Terry wrestle with the idea of getting married (or getting "Property of..." tattoos) as their tenth anniversary approaches. Savage also looks into the general institution of marriage, the conventions of monogamy, and the real-life marriages, divorces, and relationships in his family. Although many of the reviews have focused on the issue of gay marriage, I thought the book had just as much to say about the meaning of plain ol' straight marriage.
I strongly recommend The Commitment to anyone with an interest in love and relationships, straight, bi, or gay. Buy it, check it out of the library, or borrow my copy—but read it. I could ramble on about the book, but I'd rather you just read it yourselves, okay?
Friday, October 28, 2005
Mr. Tangerine strikes again
When you blow your nose, do you ever take a look at the tissue to see what you're dealing with? Sure you do. If you check a baby's dirty diaper for color and consistency to monitor his health, why wouldn't you give your snot a cursory inspection as well?
I have a slight cold, so when I blew my nose last night during the baseball game, I had a little look-see. "Are you reading tea leaves there? Can you predict the future?" Mr. Tangerine asked. This made me laugh. Hard. Did you ever try to blow your nose while laughing? I daresay it's impossible. (Is his comment riotously funny, or is it one of those "you had to be there" things? 'Cause I couldn't stop laughing.)
Anyway, I took a good close look at my used Puffs, but it did not reveal the outcome of the ball game. What good are boogers if they won't tell you the obvious, that the White Sox would win Game 4? Sheesh. I've got to work harder on this prognostication thing.
I think Ben may be able to tap into these powers, too. When he wipes his butt, he always swipes the paper all the way around (I know: ack!) so he can see what he's working with. I'm going to start asking him to foretell the future in the poop smears on the TP.
Join us, won't you?
I have a slight cold, so when I blew my nose last night during the baseball game, I had a little look-see. "Are you reading tea leaves there? Can you predict the future?" Mr. Tangerine asked. This made me laugh. Hard. Did you ever try to blow your nose while laughing? I daresay it's impossible. (Is his comment riotously funny, or is it one of those "you had to be there" things? 'Cause I couldn't stop laughing.)
Anyway, I took a good close look at my used Puffs, but it did not reveal the outcome of the ball game. What good are boogers if they won't tell you the obvious, that the White Sox would win Game 4? Sheesh. I've got to work harder on this prognostication thing.
I think Ben may be able to tap into these powers, too. When he wipes his butt, he always swipes the paper all the way around (I know: ack!) so he can see what he's working with. I'm going to start asking him to foretell the future in the poop smears on the TP.
Join us, won't you?
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Why I don't buy my kid toys at Wal-Mart
When Ben was home sick for a few days last week, he watched a lot of TV (because I'm a good parent!) and thus saw a lot of commercials. One of his favorite advertised items was a big green car that kids can drive on their spacious suburban lawns, and the car is a Wal-Mart exclusive (doesn't that sound like an oxymoron?). Every time the ad came on, he said he wanted to buy that car at Wal-Mart, and every time, I told him we don't shop at Wal-Mart (aside from the fact that we don't have room for a car that size and he wouldn't have a good place to ride in it, us being urbanites and all).
Why don't we shop at Wal-Mart? Because when I read this NYT article, my eyebrows were often arched sharply upward and my mouth was agape in response to what I was learning. Wal-Mart's executive VP for benefits, M. Susan Chambers, wrote a memo to the board of directors with her suggestions for ways to minimize benefit costs. Chambers had a lot of creative ideas to convey. Like adding physically strenuous work to every job description to keep those expensive unhealthy people from even applying for jobs. (Cashier? Excellent job for someone with limited mobility. Cashier who also is required to gather up carts? Those with a bad back, bad knees, or mobility problems need not apply.) I'm sure Wal-Mart could find a way to get around the Americans with Disabilities Act, but could they be bigger assholes?
As at most employers, people with more seniority get paid more than new employees in the same job. Many employers like to reward loyalty and minimize turnover. Wal-Mart's Chambers points out that someone with 7 years of experience costs the company 55% more than a new employee, but is no more productive a cog in the Wal-Mart machinery. Sacre bleu! At least, the NYT reports, "she stopped short of calling for efforts to push out more senior workers."
In the memo, Chambers did acknowledge that "our [health] coverage is expensive for low-income families, and Wal-Mart has a significant percentage of associates and their children on public assistance," and that 46% of the children of Wal-Mart employees are uninsured or on Medicaid.
How about that new health plan Wal-Mart ballyhooed this week, the one that costs the employee as little as $11 a month? Keep in mind that employees signed up for this plan could face $2,500 or more in annual out-of-pocket expenses, on an income of $17,500. But whatever plan the employees manage to afford, "The memo noted that 38 percent of Wal-Mart workers spent more than one-sixth of their Wal-Mart income on health care last year."
I do feel fortunate that my closest Wal-Mart is a lot farther than multiple Target stores and Costco, and that I can afford Target prices. Makes it a lot easier to be a pollitically correct shopper...
Why don't we shop at Wal-Mart? Because when I read this NYT article, my eyebrows were often arched sharply upward and my mouth was agape in response to what I was learning. Wal-Mart's executive VP for benefits, M. Susan Chambers, wrote a memo to the board of directors with her suggestions for ways to minimize benefit costs. Chambers had a lot of creative ideas to convey. Like adding physically strenuous work to every job description to keep those expensive unhealthy people from even applying for jobs. (Cashier? Excellent job for someone with limited mobility. Cashier who also is required to gather up carts? Those with a bad back, bad knees, or mobility problems need not apply.) I'm sure Wal-Mart could find a way to get around the Americans with Disabilities Act, but could they be bigger assholes?
As at most employers, people with more seniority get paid more than new employees in the same job. Many employers like to reward loyalty and minimize turnover. Wal-Mart's Chambers points out that someone with 7 years of experience costs the company 55% more than a new employee, but is no more productive a cog in the Wal-Mart machinery. Sacre bleu! At least, the NYT reports, "she stopped short of calling for efforts to push out more senior workers."
In the memo, Chambers did acknowledge that "our [health] coverage is expensive for low-income families, and Wal-Mart has a significant percentage of associates and their children on public assistance," and that 46% of the children of Wal-Mart employees are uninsured or on Medicaid.
How about that new health plan Wal-Mart ballyhooed this week, the one that costs the employee as little as $11 a month? Keep in mind that employees signed up for this plan could face $2,500 or more in annual out-of-pocket expenses, on an income of $17,500. But whatever plan the employees manage to afford, "The memo noted that 38 percent of Wal-Mart workers spent more than one-sixth of their Wal-Mart income on health care last year."
I do feel fortunate that my closest Wal-Mart is a lot farther than multiple Target stores and Costco, and that I can afford Target prices. Makes it a lot easier to be a pollitically correct shopper...
Monday, October 24, 2005
I know what you like
What captures the fancy of the Orange Tangerine crowd? What brings out the commenters in droves? Three things, apparently: sandwiches, boobs, and toilets. Are you proud of yourselves? Often only one or two of you respond to something Important, but sandwiches? Everybody's got something to say. That's fine, really. I don't mind. But if this blog became a three-topic site—Orange Tangerine: Eat Sandwiches, See Boobs, Poop—would my traffic soar or plummet? I like to think y'all love me for my mind, and I'd appreciate it if none of you would disabuse me of that notion. (My vote for most horrifying sandwich from the previous thread: peanut butter and mayonnaise. And I love PB. It's the mayo combo that is so off-putting.)
You don't seem to love the puke posts quite so much, but I've got one for you anyway. Ben is a savvy, smart kid who likes to figure out how to work the system. Since kindergarten started, every now and then he asks, "What if I throw up at school?" He's just trying to figure out what he has to do to get a free pass to stay home from school. (Even though he enjoys school, particularly the hot lunches.) I was determined to send him to school on Friday, after he'd spent three days home from school with a fever, cough, and laryngitis, and had advised him of this Thursday evening. So Friday morning, before he even got out of bed, he asked, "What if I throw up?" Two can play that game; "They'll see if you're really sick to your stomach and going to throw up again, and if you're really sick, they'll call me and I'll pick you up. But if it's just a one-time thing, you'll stay in school." (Probably a total misrepresentation of school policy, but I don't want to encourage him to try to outwit me vomitously.) He got out of bed, walked to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, made a dreadful face, and proceeded to throw up in the sink. Without even gagging himself! Just by thinking about it, the kid made himself throw up! (There is no limit to what he can accomplish in life with will power like that.) I assured him he was fine and gave him cough medicine and ibuprofen. He brushed his teeth, got dressed, and went to school. He was totally fine after school—running, scampering, and whatnot. (The footnote is that then he started having this incessant dry cough that led to repeated mini-pukes the last two evenings, but hey, it's totally unrelated to the make-a-face puking.) Apparently he even told his teacher that he'd thrown up, and he reports that she replied, "Oh, okay." I can't believe I didn't get a call from the nurse's office after that, but I imagine he was acting so perky the teacher didn't think he was any sicker than I did.
You don't seem to love the puke posts quite so much, but I've got one for you anyway. Ben is a savvy, smart kid who likes to figure out how to work the system. Since kindergarten started, every now and then he asks, "What if I throw up at school?" He's just trying to figure out what he has to do to get a free pass to stay home from school. (Even though he enjoys school, particularly the hot lunches.) I was determined to send him to school on Friday, after he'd spent three days home from school with a fever, cough, and laryngitis, and had advised him of this Thursday evening. So Friday morning, before he even got out of bed, he asked, "What if I throw up?" Two can play that game; "They'll see if you're really sick to your stomach and going to throw up again, and if you're really sick, they'll call me and I'll pick you up. But if it's just a one-time thing, you'll stay in school." (Probably a total misrepresentation of school policy, but I don't want to encourage him to try to outwit me vomitously.) He got out of bed, walked to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, made a dreadful face, and proceeded to throw up in the sink. Without even gagging himself! Just by thinking about it, the kid made himself throw up! (There is no limit to what he can accomplish in life with will power like that.) I assured him he was fine and gave him cough medicine and ibuprofen. He brushed his teeth, got dressed, and went to school. He was totally fine after school—running, scampering, and whatnot. (The footnote is that then he started having this incessant dry cough that led to repeated mini-pukes the last two evenings, but hey, it's totally unrelated to the make-a-face puking.) Apparently he even told his teacher that he'd thrown up, and he reports that she replied, "Oh, okay." I can't believe I didn't get a call from the nurse's office after that, but I imagine he was acting so perky the teacher didn't think he was any sicker than I did.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Recipe blogging!
We went to a family party this weekend where the entrées were rigatoni and Italian beef sandwiches. Ben loves pasta—indeed, noodles of all kinds—but he was also drawn to the sandwich rolls beside the pot o' beef. He insisted on having his pasta in sandwich form, asked for seconds, and then had another pasta sandwich for breakfast the next day.
Pasta Sandwich
Ingredients:
1 sandwich roll
1 scoop of pasta with sauce
Assembly:
Spoon pasta onto roll. Serve.
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Of course, there are many other sandwich options to suit every taste. As a kid, I liked a good ketchup sandwich: ketchup spread on white bread. A friend of mine reports eating mayonnaise sandwiches. And you can't beat the simplicity of a butter sandwich.
What's your favorite nontraditional sandwich?
Pasta Sandwich
Ingredients:
1 sandwich roll
1 scoop of pasta with sauce
Assembly:
Spoon pasta onto roll. Serve.
------------------
Of course, there are many other sandwich options to suit every taste. As a kid, I liked a good ketchup sandwich: ketchup spread on white bread. A friend of mine reports eating mayonnaise sandwiches. And you can't beat the simplicity of a butter sandwich.
What's your favorite nontraditional sandwich?
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Drat, do I have to support American Girl now?
Although American Girl started off with the promise of girl-centric books, I haven't been a fan of the product line since downtown Chicago became infiltrated by hordes of well-off women and children bearing American Girl Place shopping bags filled with overpriced dolls and matchy-matchy clothes for girls and dolls alike. And the concept of special seating for dolls at the AGP restaurant? Ick. Whenever I encounter yet another group of AGP acolytes on Michigan Avenue, I express gratitude that I don't have a daughter and will probably never be beseeched, wheedled, or cajoled into going to the mecca that is American Girl Place.
The American Girl company now faces a boycott by Don Wildmon's American Family Association and Ann Scheidler's Pro-Life Action League. Why? Because American Girl is raising money for Girls Inc., a nonprofit group whose stated mission is "inspiring girls to be strong, smart and bold." So what's the problem? Scheidler says, "While Girls Inc. has some good programs, they also support abortion, oppose abstinence-only education for girls, and condone lesbianism." Lawd ha' mercy! Not that!
Girls Inc. has been around for 140 years and serves 800,000 girls, most of them from low-income families. They also support women's rights. According to their website, "Girls Inc develops research-based informal education programs that encourage girls to take risks and master physical, intellectual and emotional challenges. Major programs address math and science education, pregnancy and drug abuse prevention, media literacy, economic literacy, adolescent health, violence prevention, and sports participation." How controversial!
Now, you can buy all the American Girl dolls you want, but the money that goes to Girls Inc. is from their sales of "I Can" wristbands. Why not save yourself the trouble of buying another rubber bracelet and just donate to Girls Inc. instead?
Another grand idea: Mr. Tangerine asks, "Where's the American Boy Place?" He wants a place he and Ben and a doll can go, all three of them wearing matching outfits. That would be lovely, wouldn't it?
The American Girl company now faces a boycott by Don Wildmon's American Family Association and Ann Scheidler's Pro-Life Action League. Why? Because American Girl is raising money for Girls Inc., a nonprofit group whose stated mission is "inspiring girls to be strong, smart and bold." So what's the problem? Scheidler says, "While Girls Inc. has some good programs, they also support abortion, oppose abstinence-only education for girls, and condone lesbianism." Lawd ha' mercy! Not that!
Girls Inc. has been around for 140 years and serves 800,000 girls, most of them from low-income families. They also support women's rights. According to their website, "Girls Inc develops research-based informal education programs that encourage girls to take risks and master physical, intellectual and emotional challenges. Major programs address math and science education, pregnancy and drug abuse prevention, media literacy, economic literacy, adolescent health, violence prevention, and sports participation." How controversial!
Now, you can buy all the American Girl dolls you want, but the money that goes to Girls Inc. is from their sales of "I Can" wristbands. Why not save yourself the trouble of buying another rubber bracelet and just donate to Girls Inc. instead?
Another grand idea: Mr. Tangerine asks, "Where's the American Boy Place?" He wants a place he and Ben and a doll can go, all three of them wearing matching outfits. That would be lovely, wouldn't it?
Master plan progress report
According to a new Gallup poll, hardly anyone under the age of 30 is opposed to interracial dating. While less than half of the old farts over the age of 65 approve, 95% of the 18- to 29-year-olds do. Roughly half of the people surveyed have dated outside their own race. Go check out the stats in the article if you don't believe me.
Phase 1: Acceptance of interracial dating. Status: Nearly complete.
Phase 2: More interracial marriages. Status: Work in progress; pockets of resistance remain.
Phase 3: Creating a superrace of multiracial people*. Status: Hey, I did as much as I could. It's up to the rest of you now.
*'Cause everybody knows that mixed-race kids are, on average, at least 40% better-looking than their parents, not to mention they've got a greatly reduced risk of genetic diseases.
Phase 1: Acceptance of interracial dating. Status: Nearly complete.
Phase 2: More interracial marriages. Status: Work in progress; pockets of resistance remain.
Phase 3: Creating a superrace of multiracial people*. Status: Hey, I did as much as I could. It's up to the rest of you now.
*'Cause everybody knows that mixed-race kids are, on average, at least 40% better-looking than their parents, not to mention they've got a greatly reduced risk of genetic diseases.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Wow, that's a lot of repression
Over at Tertia's blog, it turns out that a lot of people would rather do things like constipate themselves for two weeks than generate a #2 in the same household as a romantic partner. Tertia used to race home from her future husband's place on the freeway to get to her own toilet, and still demands bathroom privacy. There are people who refuse to poop at someone else's house, or anywhere away from home. There's a woman who was too embarrassed to get out of the bath she was sharing with her man when she had to pee, so instead she peed in the tub and turned the water yellow (nice!). I never once heard my dad pass gas or burp, and there were two results: (1) wicked halitosis, and (2) early death. I'm telling you, the heart can't take so much stifling. It's not healthy.
On the other hand, some couples will have farting contests, I learned in Tertia's comments area. Somebody else has a mother-in law who is "so proud of her farts, she'll walk into a crowded room, say loudly, 'Your attention, please! A moment of silence!' She'll fart, dramatically, then say 'you may now continue,' and leave." (That woman is my hero.) There's one woman who farts in front of her husband, which distresses him, but she's doing it to avenge his farts.
We're a pretty relaxed family here in the Maison Tangerine. Those of you in the total-repression camp, I beg you: Loosen up before it's too late. Now, I'm not saying you should pull the Dutch oven trick or anything—that's just cruel to your bed partner—but life is too short to be all angsty about tooting and depositing logs.
On the other hand, some couples will have farting contests, I learned in Tertia's comments area. Somebody else has a mother-in law who is "so proud of her farts, she'll walk into a crowded room, say loudly, 'Your attention, please! A moment of silence!' She'll fart, dramatically, then say 'you may now continue,' and leave." (That woman is my hero.) There's one woman who farts in front of her husband, which distresses him, but she's doing it to avenge his farts.
We're a pretty relaxed family here in the Maison Tangerine. Those of you in the total-repression camp, I beg you: Loosen up before it's too late. Now, I'm not saying you should pull the Dutch oven trick or anything—that's just cruel to your bed partner—but life is too short to be all angsty about tooting and depositing logs.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Oops, she did it again
Remember the evangelical Christian couple that was featured on a cable show, "14 Kids and Pregnant Again!"—the Duggars from Arkansas? Julie at A Little Pregnant had a nice write-up of the show back in February. Well, apparently the Lord wanted Michelle Duggar to have yet another baby, because kid #16 was born this week.
What do you reckon over a dozen pregnancies and deliveries does to a woman's body? And is there any chance that Jesus will see fit to bring on early menopause?
As is the Duggars' wont, they went with another J name (though one of their past choices is arguably not really a J name), giving them this lineup: Joshua, 17; John David, 15; Janna, 15; Jill, 14; Jessa, 12; Jinger, 11; Joseph, 10; Josiah, 9; Joy-Anna, 8; Jeremiah, 6; Jedidiah, 6; Jason, 5; James, 4; Justin, 2; Jackson Levi, 1; and newborn Johannah. I'm not sure the household needed a Johannah when they already had a Joy-Anna, though. Or a Josiah on top of Joseph and Joshua. If the Lord doesn't serve up a timely dose of menopause, I really hope the Duggars get to use some great J names they've neglected thus far. Jehoshaphat, for one. Jezebel. Judas. Jethro Tull. Jemima. Job. Jibberish. Jesus. Not to mention a Jim Bob Jr., named after the dad, because that would be a proud legacy to carry on.
For all the infertile people who are told that maybe it's God's will that they not have children, ain't it lovely that the Lord is giving their allotment of children to the Duggars instead?
What do you reckon over a dozen pregnancies and deliveries does to a woman's body? And is there any chance that Jesus will see fit to bring on early menopause?
As is the Duggars' wont, they went with another J name (though one of their past choices is arguably not really a J name), giving them this lineup: Joshua, 17; John David, 15; Janna, 15; Jill, 14; Jessa, 12; Jinger, 11; Joseph, 10; Josiah, 9; Joy-Anna, 8; Jeremiah, 6; Jedidiah, 6; Jason, 5; James, 4; Justin, 2; Jackson Levi, 1; and newborn Johannah. I'm not sure the household needed a Johannah when they already had a Joy-Anna, though. Or a Josiah on top of Joseph and Joshua. If the Lord doesn't serve up a timely dose of menopause, I really hope the Duggars get to use some great J names they've neglected thus far. Jehoshaphat, for one. Jezebel. Judas. Jethro Tull. Jemima. Job. Jibberish. Jesus. Not to mention a Jim Bob Jr., named after the dad, because that would be a proud legacy to carry on.
For all the infertile people who are told that maybe it's God's will that they not have children, ain't it lovely that the Lord is giving their allotment of children to the Duggars instead?
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Blogroll additions
Okay, I don't have time to both tell you about these bloggers and add them to the blogroll template, so for now, I'll just tell you about some men who merit your attention. (I'll do the women another day.)
Michael Bérubé Online: Michael Bérubé's a liberal professor of literature and cultural studies at Penn State. He's a brilliant writer and can be savagely funny. I admit I skip the deeper theory and academia posts, but there's so much more. Plenty of politics, plenty of life in general, all adroitly described. My pal Kristin's Sexy Mind concept is displayed aptly in Michael Bérubé. I forget how I first chanced upon his blog—maybe via comments at Bitch Ph.D.? The comments at Michael's site are packed with smart people, so they're a good read, too.
QWMaine: Maine is smart and he always makes me laugh. Who else covers all-important issues like pythons trying to eat alligators, the sociology of Waffle House, and much, much more? I liked his comments on Mona's Barbaric Yawp and now check his site just about every day. Sometimes several times a day.
The Assimilated Negro: He's just a baby—only been blogging for a month—but he's got him some chops. Chops with the hippity-hop, to boot. He came recommended by Maine (see above).
Big Monkey, Helpy Chalk: Rob teaches philosophy out east and writes about ethics, politics, and sometimes the female orgasm (I don't know why, as I haven't read his 11-part series on the topic yet). I followed him home from his comments over at Bitch Ph.D.
Michael Bérubé Online: Michael Bérubé's a liberal professor of literature and cultural studies at Penn State. He's a brilliant writer and can be savagely funny. I admit I skip the deeper theory and academia posts, but there's so much more. Plenty of politics, plenty of life in general, all adroitly described. My pal Kristin's Sexy Mind concept is displayed aptly in Michael Bérubé. I forget how I first chanced upon his blog—maybe via comments at Bitch Ph.D.? The comments at Michael's site are packed with smart people, so they're a good read, too.
QWMaine: Maine is smart and he always makes me laugh. Who else covers all-important issues like pythons trying to eat alligators, the sociology of Waffle House, and much, much more? I liked his comments on Mona's Barbaric Yawp and now check his site just about every day. Sometimes several times a day.
The Assimilated Negro: He's just a baby—only been blogging for a month—but he's got him some chops. Chops with the hippity-hop, to boot. He came recommended by Maine (see above).
Big Monkey, Helpy Chalk: Rob teaches philosophy out east and writes about ethics, politics, and sometimes the female orgasm (I don't know why, as I haven't read his 11-part series on the topic yet). I followed him home from his comments over at Bitch Ph.D.
It all makes sense now
You remember that dream I had a month or two ago, in which I ended up playing volleyball in the pool with a wet t-shirt? And I didn't know what it meant?
I may be clairvoyant.
I may be clairvoyant.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Hello, I'm back
Best invention ever: DVD players for cars.
Remember those long, boring hours driving cross country on vacation when we were kids? Playing roadside bingo, getting carsick from trying to read? Seeing this great land of ours through the car window and realizing how dull the vast majority of it is? (And I love nature, I do. But let's be honest: One hour of Midwest often looks a hell of a lot like the previous hour of the Midwest.) The endless "When are we going to get there?" whines?
And now, you bring a bunch of movies and the kids watch them, sitting quietly, thoroughly entertained, and the grown-ups can talk. The grown-ups are still left to note such highlights as exotic license plates and what color cows that farm has compared to the last herd we passed, but at least the whining is greatly reduced. Technology rocks.
Observations: Not only do I have some issues with the treatment of livestock much of the time, but I also have issues with the smells that emanate from the farms with animals. A handful of sheep stink plenty—I hope I never have the opportunity to smell one of those vast factory farms with pigs. There are those who say big cities stink; to them I say, I will see you a garbage truck and raise you the manure from a herd of cattle.
Here is one bizarre thing from my trip: My mom, my sister, and our kids had dinner at Applebee's in a farming/meatpacking town in Minnesota with some old family friends. We fought over the check and my family lost the battle, so my sister offered to leave the tip. Our friend chided her for trying to leave a generous tip: "You're not in a big city here. It's different in small towns"—apparently, in small towns, people tip like cheapskates? Anyone familiar with this rural tradition?
It is good to be home.
Remember those long, boring hours driving cross country on vacation when we were kids? Playing roadside bingo, getting carsick from trying to read? Seeing this great land of ours through the car window and realizing how dull the vast majority of it is? (And I love nature, I do. But let's be honest: One hour of Midwest often looks a hell of a lot like the previous hour of the Midwest.) The endless "When are we going to get there?" whines?
And now, you bring a bunch of movies and the kids watch them, sitting quietly, thoroughly entertained, and the grown-ups can talk. The grown-ups are still left to note such highlights as exotic license plates and what color cows that farm has compared to the last herd we passed, but at least the whining is greatly reduced. Technology rocks.
Observations: Not only do I have some issues with the treatment of livestock much of the time, but I also have issues with the smells that emanate from the farms with animals. A handful of sheep stink plenty—I hope I never have the opportunity to smell one of those vast factory farms with pigs. There are those who say big cities stink; to them I say, I will see you a garbage truck and raise you the manure from a herd of cattle.
Here is one bizarre thing from my trip: My mom, my sister, and our kids had dinner at Applebee's in a farming/meatpacking town in Minnesota with some old family friends. We fought over the check and my family lost the battle, so my sister offered to leave the tip. Our friend chided her for trying to leave a generous tip: "You're not in a big city here. It's different in small towns"—apparently, in small towns, people tip like cheapskates? Anyone familiar with this rural tradition?
It is good to be home.
Friday, October 07, 2005
See you in a few days
I'm heading out this afternoon for an extended-family trip. I can't say I'm looking forward to the water park, or to the theme park at the Mall of America, or the many hours of driving in a vehicle with three kids, but I'm sure Ben will have a fantastic time. It'll be great to finally see my friend K.'s house in Minneapolis (she's the one who's been keeping me supplied with Paul Krugman twice weekly since the NYT started charging money—the one who loves men like Hendrik Hertzberg and Charlie Rose), but I reckon I'll be jonesing for the internets and their many fine entertainments.
So. Until Monday night, be good, my dears.
So. Until Monday night, be good, my dears.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Beautiful kids
Seeing the kindergartners playing together and lining up to go into school each morning is a highlight of my day. Gather together 160 kids of all colors, nationalities, and religions, and watch them interact as if they've never heard of bigotry, bias, and racism. See the spectrum of skin colors: the dark brown kids and the medium brown kids and the light brown kids and the olive kids and the pale-skinned kids all chase each other before it's time to line up; in line, the differences they note pertain to who has Spider-Man and who has Star Wars on his backpack. Even the diversity is diverse: the Asian kids include South Asians, mainland Asians, Filipinos, Asian kids adopted into American families, and mixed kids. The "African-American" kids include just that, as well as kids whose families immigrated from assorted African nations; there are assorted mixes in this group, too. As for the kids labeled as Hispanic, some speak Spanish at home, some speak English at home, some are black, some are various mixes. Even the white kids are a diverse group, with some of the kids hailing from European-immigrant families. (There's also a dad with horn-shaped jewelry in his piercings who shaves the top of his head. His daughter? She wears as much pink as anyone.) I assume that many different religious traditions are represented, too, though they're visible only on the Muslim girls who opt to cover their hair. And the kindergartners' families cover a range of income levels. The school enrollment forms ask parents to pick a single ethnic descriptor for their kids; what do you suppose the Peruvian mom and German/Chinese dad put down for their kid? Or the parents of an Asian/African-American kid? I hate the "pick one" forms; they're so retro, so inaccurate. But I love this school.
After Ben's tryout in the gifted class last week, they pronounced his work "not quite there." Ben was pleased to return to his homeroom, because (a) the gifted class's teacher gave handouts that were "too hard," and (b) he knew the kids there already. (And I'm glad he'll get the exposure to Spanish. "Buenos dias!" he tells me each morning) They tracked the kids into language/reading groups last week, and he's in the highest group below the gifted class (together with a few kids from his homeroom). For two hours a day, he's with a different teacher for language—and the boy is already learning about sentences! (He ended his name with a period one day.) Legible printing continues to elude him, but we're working on it. Someone was telling my mom that back in the day, kindergarten was for learning the ABCs and how to play well with others. Ben mastered that in pre-K, so I'm glad he's moving on to words and sentences. After that? Crossword puzzles. I have high hopes.
The first inkling of gentle anti-atheist bias has cropped up on a worksheet page. Ben was supposed to color in all the pictures of things starting with the letter A. He was going to skip the winged, haloed girl because he though the angel was a fairy, which most certainly does not start with A. Pfft! (I passed up the chance to explain to him what an angel is.)
After Ben's tryout in the gifted class last week, they pronounced his work "not quite there." Ben was pleased to return to his homeroom, because (a) the gifted class's teacher gave handouts that were "too hard," and (b) he knew the kids there already. (And I'm glad he'll get the exposure to Spanish. "Buenos dias!" he tells me each morning) They tracked the kids into language/reading groups last week, and he's in the highest group below the gifted class (together with a few kids from his homeroom). For two hours a day, he's with a different teacher for language—and the boy is already learning about sentences! (He ended his name with a period one day.) Legible printing continues to elude him, but we're working on it. Someone was telling my mom that back in the day, kindergarten was for learning the ABCs and how to play well with others. Ben mastered that in pre-K, so I'm glad he's moving on to words and sentences. After that? Crossword puzzles. I have high hopes.
The first inkling of gentle anti-atheist bias has cropped up on a worksheet page. Ben was supposed to color in all the pictures of things starting with the letter A. He was going to skip the winged, haloed girl because he though the angel was a fairy, which most certainly does not start with A. Pfft! (I passed up the chance to explain to him what an angel is.)
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Pony up, people
There has been a tiny clamor for me to post the photo I submitted to the Blogger Boobie-Thon. Sadly, a tiny clamor won't get a wet-shirt picture on this blog. I will need a more rousing clamor. Let's say...15 comments on this post. And each comment must contain a true confession. What do you say?
Celebrity baby name alert
According to this snarky report, Nicolas Cage and his 20-years-younger wife Alice just named their baby boy Kal-el. For those of you who are not geeks, Kal-el is the original Kryptonian name of Superman, from before he landed on Earth and got adopted by the Kents.
Poor kid. His middle name is Coppola, so it looks like he's really stuck with this Kal-el moniker.
If I ever had another baby boy, I would name him Mork.
Poor kid. His middle name is Coppola, so it looks like he's really stuck with this Kal-el moniker.
If I ever had another baby boy, I would name him Mork.
No comment
This blog is listed third in the msn.com search results for the query can i eat orange while i'm pregnant.
And sixth for the query grandma sex preview page (the page hit here is columnist Clarence Page).
And sixth for the query grandma sex preview page (the page hit here is columnist Clarence Page).
Okay, I'm doing it!
Two of my blogging pals, Lisa and Mona, have been known to post photos of their tremendous semi-clad bosoms. I've been contemplating joining their quietly exhibitionist ranks, but I kept sitting on the contemplative fence. But then Maine hit on the idea of alerting his readers to the existence of the Fourth Annual Blogger Boobie-Thon—the blogosphere sends in their chestal portraits, and the Boobie-Thon folks collect donations for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation and, this year, the Red Cross too. You can view most of the pictures for free, but if you want to see the nekkid boobies, you'll have to pony up a donation.
I'm doing the Walk for Hope later this month, but dammit, I can do more! So tonight, Mr. Tangerine will help me choose the best wet-shirt photo to send in to the Boobie-Thon. It's for a good cause. Better yet, two good causes. (One good cause per breast.)
Anyway, the Boobie-Thon is going on this week and this week only (through Saturday, October 8). So far, they've raised about $3,700, putting them on course to match last year's total of about $8,700. So go visit Boobie-Thon, see some pictures, donate some money, and get the specifications for submitting your own photo (that goes for you men, too). Don't delay!
The Boobie-Thon photos are posted anonymously and link-free, though, so you won't know which one's mine unless I post it here too...
I'm doing the Walk for Hope later this month, but dammit, I can do more! So tonight, Mr. Tangerine will help me choose the best wet-shirt photo to send in to the Boobie-Thon. It's for a good cause. Better yet, two good causes. (One good cause per breast.)
Anyway, the Boobie-Thon is going on this week and this week only (through Saturday, October 8). So far, they've raised about $3,700, putting them on course to match last year's total of about $8,700. So go visit Boobie-Thon, see some pictures, donate some money, and get the specifications for submitting your own photo (that goes for you men, too). Don't delay!
The Boobie-Thon photos are posted anonymously and link-free, though, so you won't know which one's mine unless I post it here too...
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Nature vs. knits
This week at kindergarten, Ben's been getting a tryout in the gifted class. Today, he brought a batch of uncompleted first-grade worksheets home for homework, and I'll be damned! He's getting the knack of it. (Where did he pick this up? Phonics, addition problems, word order—what?!?) I don't know if the teachers have made a final placement decision—no note has been sent home—but Ben is under the impression that he's being transferred to the new group.
Mr. Tangerine asked Ben, "How did you get to be so smart?"
Ben replied, "From school."
Mr. Tangerine prodded, "Oh, not from Mommy and Daddy's genes?"
"No, from school, and maybe from Mommy and Daddy's sweaters." (Rim shot.)
Mr. Tangerine asked Ben, "How did you get to be so smart?"
Ben replied, "From school."
Mr. Tangerine prodded, "Oh, not from Mommy and Daddy's genes?"
"No, from school, and maybe from Mommy and Daddy's sweaters." (Rim shot.)
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Broke vs. poor
The Tribune's Clarence Page addresses the class divide in today's column, "Poverty IQ: Po' vs. broke". It's a good read.
Obstetric fistula
A couple years ago, the NYT's Nicholas Kristof wrote about the continuing crisis of obstetric fistula in sub-Saharan Africa. Today, a news article in the NYT tells us the problem is far from solved. In Nigeria alone, hundreds of thousands of women have unmended fistulas.
Obstetric fistula is what happens when a woman (usually in her teen years) is in labor for days without access to modern medical care. The baby can't fit through the birth canal, and the woman's urethra, bowels, or both sustain damage such that the body's waste products constantly drip out. A woman with a fistula is often abandoned by her husband and ostracized by her community and even her own family.
There is a straightforward cure for fistula, though: surgical repair. Unfortunately, there are nowhere near enough surgeons and facilities to handle all the cases that arise. Two groups that are working on this issue are the UN Population Fund and American Friends Foundation for Childbirth Injuries (the latter was featured on "Oprah" a couple years ago and is associated with a fistula hospital led by an inspirational surgeon named Catherine Hamlin). According to the NYT, the Population Fund managed to raise only $11 million in their two-year campaign; both groups need more money. The surgery costs only a few hundred dollars, but when there are so few surgeons and thousands upon thousands of impoverished patients in need. While ideally women would never sustain fistulas in the first place, that's a far bigger problem. In the meantime, we can help the women who have already been injured in childbirth, allowing them to return to meaningful lives in their communities.
Obstetric fistula is what happens when a woman (usually in her teen years) is in labor for days without access to modern medical care. The baby can't fit through the birth canal, and the woman's urethra, bowels, or both sustain damage such that the body's waste products constantly drip out. A woman with a fistula is often abandoned by her husband and ostracized by her community and even her own family.
There is a straightforward cure for fistula, though: surgical repair. Unfortunately, there are nowhere near enough surgeons and facilities to handle all the cases that arise. Two groups that are working on this issue are the UN Population Fund and American Friends Foundation for Childbirth Injuries (the latter was featured on "Oprah" a couple years ago and is associated with a fistula hospital led by an inspirational surgeon named Catherine Hamlin). According to the NYT, the Population Fund managed to raise only $11 million in their two-year campaign; both groups need more money. The surgery costs only a few hundred dollars, but when there are so few surgeons and thousands upon thousands of impoverished patients in need. While ideally women would never sustain fistulas in the first place, that's a far bigger problem. In the meantime, we can help the women who have already been injured in childbirth, allowing them to return to meaningful lives in their communities.
Science education, kindergarten style
Here's what my boy claims he learned in school on Monday: The baby bird drinks milk from the mama bird's nipple. We've tried clarifying the facts here, but the boy is having none of it, because the teacher said. Man, I hope the teacher just talked too fast when explaining the various and sundry ways in which mammalian and avian creatures eat, and Ben was too bored to pay attention to the details.
Funky words the English language needs
Some dude named Adam Jacot de Boinod scoured foreign dictionaries for words that lack a precise equivalent in the English language and gathered the best ones into a book, The Meaning of Tingo: And Other Extraordinary Words from Around the World. According to Amazon, the book will not be available in the US until next March.
For a sneak preview, the review from The Independent offers a selection of these words. Here are some highlights:
mamihlapinatapei is from the Fuengian language in Chile, meaning "a shared look of longing between parties who are both interested yet neither is willing to make the first move"
tingo, from Easter Island's Pascuense language, means "borrowing things from a friend's house, one by one, until he has nothing left"
pomicione is Italian for "a man who seizes any chance of being in close physical contact with a woman"
senzuri is the Japanese word for male masturbation, or literally "a hundred rubs"—compare the word for women's good times, shiko shiko manzuri, literally "ten thousand rubs" (did they get the math right?)
fucha is a Portuguese verb meaning "to use company time and resources for one's own purposes"
buz-baz is ancient Persian for "a showman who makes a goat and monkey dance together"
mata ego, from Rapa Nui, Easter Island, means "eyes that reveal that someone has been crying"
desus is Indonesian for "the quiet, smooth sound of somebody farting but not very loudly," which I always thought was spelled pssssssffft
seigneur-terrasse is the French term for "someone who spends time, but not money, at a café"
And the beautiful xiaoxiao is Chinese for "the whistling and pattering of rain or wind"
(Thanks to Elise at After School Snack for the lead.)
Update: The folks at Language Log, as usual, have more on the topic.
For a sneak preview, the review from The Independent offers a selection of these words. Here are some highlights:
mamihlapinatapei is from the Fuengian language in Chile, meaning "a shared look of longing between parties who are both interested yet neither is willing to make the first move"
tingo, from Easter Island's Pascuense language, means "borrowing things from a friend's house, one by one, until he has nothing left"
pomicione is Italian for "a man who seizes any chance of being in close physical contact with a woman"
senzuri is the Japanese word for male masturbation, or literally "a hundred rubs"—compare the word for women's good times, shiko shiko manzuri, literally "ten thousand rubs" (did they get the math right?)
fucha is a Portuguese verb meaning "to use company time and resources for one's own purposes"
buz-baz is ancient Persian for "a showman who makes a goat and monkey dance together"
mata ego, from Rapa Nui, Easter Island, means "eyes that reveal that someone has been crying"
desus is Indonesian for "the quiet, smooth sound of somebody farting but not very loudly," which I always thought was spelled pssssssffft
seigneur-terrasse is the French term for "someone who spends time, but not money, at a café"
And the beautiful xiaoxiao is Chinese for "the whistling and pattering of rain or wind"
(Thanks to Elise at After School Snack for the lead.)
Update: The folks at Language Log, as usual, have more on the topic.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Douchebag!
Squeamish Reader Alert: If you are easily squicked out, do not read this post. Really.
When's the last time you heard someone use the word douchebag but they weren't impugning anyone's character?
The other day, I drove my 93-year-old grandma to the gynecologist to get a pessary (s'posed to keep her uterus from popping out—she's got a wicked case of uterine prolapse going on) inserted. I'm guessing most of you don't quite know what a pessary is; this model basically looked like a diaphragm with vent holes. Anyway, the doctor advised Grandma to use a nonmedicated douche twice a week to basically, um, flush out stanky discharge. 'Cause the pessary, it stays in for 1 to 3 months at a time, unlike a diaphragm.
The next day, Grandma tells me she's gonna have to see what sort of douches they sell at Wa1-Mart. And "I'm not sure if I still have that douchebag around here. I'll need a new hose, anyway." Aaaagh! My ears! My ears are bleeding! I assured her that she could probably buy a handy-dandy douche with a self-contained squeeze bottle or something (what the hell do I know about such things?), and that I really didn't think she'd need to track down a douchebag. Much less a new hose. (Aaagh!)
Yes, I spoke the word douchebag aloud to my grandmother, and she didn't tell me to wash my mouth out with soap. Honestly? I don't think she has any idea how the modern generation uses that word.
When's the last time you heard someone use the word douchebag but they weren't impugning anyone's character?
The other day, I drove my 93-year-old grandma to the gynecologist to get a pessary (s'posed to keep her uterus from popping out—she's got a wicked case of uterine prolapse going on) inserted. I'm guessing most of you don't quite know what a pessary is; this model basically looked like a diaphragm with vent holes. Anyway, the doctor advised Grandma to use a nonmedicated douche twice a week to basically, um, flush out stanky discharge. 'Cause the pessary, it stays in for 1 to 3 months at a time, unlike a diaphragm.
The next day, Grandma tells me she's gonna have to see what sort of douches they sell at Wa1-Mart. And "I'm not sure if I still have that douchebag around here. I'll need a new hose, anyway." Aaaagh! My ears! My ears are bleeding! I assured her that she could probably buy a handy-dandy douche with a self-contained squeeze bottle or something (what the hell do I know about such things?), and that I really didn't think she'd need to track down a douchebag. Much less a new hose. (Aaagh!)
Yes, I spoke the word douchebag aloud to my grandmother, and she didn't tell me to wash my mouth out with soap. Honestly? I don't think she has any idea how the modern generation uses that word.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Need a laugh? Yes! You do!
This is the funniest piece of writing I've seen in a month. Or maybe two months. Or three. To tempt you, I will say only that it's about the Mormon guidelines for youths who like to touch themselves, and Francis makes many incisive and entertaining comments. You'll love it!
Friday, September 23, 2005
National Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month
The eloquent cancerbaby has devoted a post to the early signs of ovarian cancer, screening/diagnostic methods, and the importance of being a strong advocate for yourself when you have symptoms that haven't been fully explained. Yes, it's National Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month. Go read cancerbaby's post—I mean it, go read it all right now—and then come back here and click on the link up there on the right if you'd like to support ovarian cancer research and education.
If your doctor suspects ovarian cancer, there are two important things to know, cancerbaby says: First, don't consent to a biopsy, as a biopsy can inadvertently spread ovarian cancer cells within your body. Second, if you need surgery, insist on referral to a gynecologic oncologist who is specially trained in treating ovarian cancer, and don't settle for a regular gynecologist or a general surgeon.
If your doctor suspects ovarian cancer, there are two important things to know, cancerbaby says: First, don't consent to a biopsy, as a biopsy can inadvertently spread ovarian cancer cells within your body. Second, if you need surgery, insist on referral to a gynecologic oncologist who is specially trained in treating ovarian cancer, and don't settle for a regular gynecologist or a general surgeon.
What you can end a sentence with
A preposition. Really and truly. A learned Language Log linguist, Geoffrey Pullum, says so in a post this week. If you don't believe me, go read it yourself.
The short version of the story is that we can blame John Dryden for getting ranty about ending a sentence with a preposition, way back in 1672. Dryden gave no rationale for his judgment, and in fact ended sentences with prepositions in his own writing. A century after Dryden, a grammarian picked up the idea, and gradually other grammarians started to preach it, too. And today, of course, plenty of people who consider themselves educated writers meticulously strive to torture their sentences to put prepositions in highfalutin places, peppering their writing with pointless whiches.
You want to know where you can stick that preposition? You can stick it right at the end of a sentence. Really. It works. Let me show you: "What are you waiting for?" See? Compare that to "For what are you waiting?" Ick. "I couldn't find what you were looking for." Compare what the New Yorker web site will tell you if your search query comes up empty: "I'm sorry I couldn't find that for which you were looking." Eww! (The latter was what spurred Pullum to write his defense of putting prepositions where they naturally belong.) I've always enjoyed the tortured construction, "up with which I will not put"—I forget where I first read that one.
The short version of the story is that we can blame John Dryden for getting ranty about ending a sentence with a preposition, way back in 1672. Dryden gave no rationale for his judgment, and in fact ended sentences with prepositions in his own writing. A century after Dryden, a grammarian picked up the idea, and gradually other grammarians started to preach it, too. And today, of course, plenty of people who consider themselves educated writers meticulously strive to torture their sentences to put prepositions in highfalutin places, peppering their writing with pointless whiches.
You want to know where you can stick that preposition? You can stick it right at the end of a sentence. Really. It works. Let me show you: "What are you waiting for?" See? Compare that to "For what are you waiting?" Ick. "I couldn't find what you were looking for." Compare what the New Yorker web site will tell you if your search query comes up empty: "I'm sorry I couldn't find that for which you were looking." Eww! (The latter was what spurred Pullum to write his defense of putting prepositions where they naturally belong.) I've always enjoyed the tortured construction, "up with which I will not put"—I forget where I first read that one.
Donahue 1, O'Reilly 0
Via Elise at After School Snack, a link to a transcript of Phil Donahue's evisceration of Bill O'Reilly on "The O'Reilly Factor." Hoo-wee! That's some gooood stuff.
Mmm, that sounds about right
| You are a Social Liberal (75% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (10% permissive) You are best described as a:
Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid |
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Curses!
Over in the United States Senate—isn't that where Dick Cheney let loose with the F word?—they're pondering a 15-fold hike in fines for naughty words that get broadcast. (Yes, apparently the Senators do have too much time on their hands. Idle hands, etc., etc.) It's time for some frank talk about, well, frank talk. In today's NYT, the fabulous Natalie Angier surveys the history and science of swearing a blue streak.
In general, men swear more than women, though there certainly are outliers like me who have been known to swear like the proverbial longshoreman. Personally, I love words so much, I'm not going to exclude these exquisitely useful oaths from my vocabulary. Fuck and shit are more utilitarian than, say, copulate and feces, as they can serve so many roles in a sentence and carry so many different meanings. "I am so sick of this copulating feces"? No. "Fee-i-cees!"? No. "Shee-it!"? Absolutely.
According to Dutch linguist Guy Deutscher, "In some cultures, swear words are drawn mainly from sex and bodily functions, whereas in others, they're drawn mainly from the domain of religion." And in cultures that emphasize women's purity and honor, "it's not surprising that many swear words are variations on the 'son of a whore' theme or refer graphically to the genitalia of the person's mother or sisters." Isn't it splendid that our culture encompasses all of the above? Those people who hype English as a rich language owing to the sheer number of words we have are onto something—our swearing partakes of that abundant wealth.
What happens physiologically when someone hears swear words? Angier writes, "Their skin conductance patterns spike, the hairs on their arms rise, their pulse quickens, and their breathing becomes shallow." Let's try it out. Goddamn fucking shit! Did you feel anything? No?
Angier's article was accompanied by a sidebar listing curses through the centuries. Among my favorites: In the 1400s, scullion meant a servant of the lowest class. The 1500s ushered in slangrill (oaf) and brock (rotten man). The 1600s gave us gadzooks (God's hooks, whatever that means), sfoot (to have sex), and criminy (Christ). Moving along to the 1800s, Jesus was transformed into both Jiminy Cricket and Gee whillikins, and drat abbreviated "God rot." Apparently, somewhere in the 1900s, meddle was used to mean "to have sex." Go figure.
In general, men swear more than women, though there certainly are outliers like me who have been known to swear like the proverbial longshoreman. Personally, I love words so much, I'm not going to exclude these exquisitely useful oaths from my vocabulary. Fuck and shit are more utilitarian than, say, copulate and feces, as they can serve so many roles in a sentence and carry so many different meanings. "I am so sick of this copulating feces"? No. "Fee-i-cees!"? No. "Shee-it!"? Absolutely.
According to Dutch linguist Guy Deutscher, "In some cultures, swear words are drawn mainly from sex and bodily functions, whereas in others, they're drawn mainly from the domain of religion." And in cultures that emphasize women's purity and honor, "it's not surprising that many swear words are variations on the 'son of a whore' theme or refer graphically to the genitalia of the person's mother or sisters." Isn't it splendid that our culture encompasses all of the above? Those people who hype English as a rich language owing to the sheer number of words we have are onto something—our swearing partakes of that abundant wealth.
What happens physiologically when someone hears swear words? Angier writes, "Their skin conductance patterns spike, the hairs on their arms rise, their pulse quickens, and their breathing becomes shallow." Let's try it out. Goddamn fucking shit! Did you feel anything? No?
Angier's article was accompanied by a sidebar listing curses through the centuries. Among my favorites: In the 1400s, scullion meant a servant of the lowest class. The 1500s ushered in slangrill (oaf) and brock (rotten man). The 1600s gave us gadzooks (God's hooks, whatever that means), sfoot (to have sex), and criminy (Christ). Moving along to the 1800s, Jesus was transformed into both Jiminy Cricket and Gee whillikins, and drat abbreviated "God rot." Apparently, somewhere in the 1900s, meddle was used to mean "to have sex." Go figure.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Baby-name nerd
I admit it. I'm a baby-name nerd. When I was a kid, I'd buy those teeny 49-cent books sold in the grocery-store checkout lanes, and I'd read through them, studying the derivation and meaning of each name, the variations (Margaret, from the Greek for pearl: Maggie, Peggy, Margarita, Meg, Margo, Marguerite, etc.). And now the Internets, they bring us so much more. There's the interactive graph thingy at Baby Name Wizard, the Social Security Administration's baby-names database, and a hilarious snarkfest mocking the ridiculous names people concoct these days.
That last link is especially juicy. From section 13 (and it takes hours to get through all the content at this site!) comes this listing of oddball spellings and associated snark: Skylar Makinzy, Jayden Mokol, Karryllinne Sweet ("I must've stared at this for five minutes before I figured out it's just Caroline."), Schuylar Daymen, Dominick Kaaynen, Duglass Link, Kenadeigh Aiden ("I never, in a million years, would have thought someone would have screwed with 'Kennedy.' Yes, caconomenology is a field of limitless suprises."), Jarret Kaylub, Nicklaus Santana. Then there are freaky names, like Celestial Rage and Gunnar Blayz, Crimson Tobias and Sloe Harlotte. Head over to this site whenever you need to laugh repeatedly. If your eyes should begin to bleed, though, please turn off your monitor.
Today in the New York Times, there was an article on baby naming trends in NYC. While Brooklyn has become the 101st most popular name for baby girls throughout the country, whaddaya know? New Yorkers, dey ain't having none of dat. In New York, names like Fatoumata (West African girl's name) and Moshe (old-school Jewish) are coming on strong, while the cockamamie naming trends that sweep the rest of the nation scarcely pop up.
Closer to home, I find that my son Benjamin's name is pretty common in yuppie circles. But in the Chicago Public Schools? There might be another Ben among the 165 kindergartners. But the Madisons and Olivias and the Dylans and Austins tend to blend in with the kids named Miguel, Reda, Oumar, Ousaf, Maham, Darion, and Tinuola. Frankly, I'm glad Ben's not traveling in the circles where there's always another kid by the same name. I grew up with such a common name, there were four of us with the same name in my tenth-grade English class. Who needs that?
Am I the only baby-name nerd here? I bet I'm not...
That last link is especially juicy. From section 13 (and it takes hours to get through all the content at this site!) comes this listing of oddball spellings and associated snark: Skylar Makinzy, Jayden Mokol, Karryllinne Sweet ("I must've stared at this for five minutes before I figured out it's just Caroline."), Schuylar Daymen, Dominick Kaaynen, Duglass Link, Kenadeigh Aiden ("I never, in a million years, would have thought someone would have screwed with 'Kennedy.' Yes, caconomenology is a field of limitless suprises."), Jarret Kaylub, Nicklaus Santana. Then there are freaky names, like Celestial Rage and Gunnar Blayz, Crimson Tobias and Sloe Harlotte. Head over to this site whenever you need to laugh repeatedly. If your eyes should begin to bleed, though, please turn off your monitor.
Today in the New York Times, there was an article on baby naming trends in NYC. While Brooklyn has become the 101st most popular name for baby girls throughout the country, whaddaya know? New Yorkers, dey ain't having none of dat. In New York, names like Fatoumata (West African girl's name) and Moshe (old-school Jewish) are coming on strong, while the cockamamie naming trends that sweep the rest of the nation scarcely pop up.
Closer to home, I find that my son Benjamin's name is pretty common in yuppie circles. But in the Chicago Public Schools? There might be another Ben among the 165 kindergartners. But the Madisons and Olivias and the Dylans and Austins tend to blend in with the kids named Miguel, Reda, Oumar, Ousaf, Maham, Darion, and Tinuola. Frankly, I'm glad Ben's not traveling in the circles where there's always another kid by the same name. I grew up with such a common name, there were four of us with the same name in my tenth-grade English class. Who needs that?
Am I the only baby-name nerd here? I bet I'm not...
Friday, September 16, 2005
If Bob Newhart were in The Aristocrats
As imagined by Tabetha Wells at McSweeney's Internet Tendency. Including the line, "Uh-huh. Balloon animals. I see. You put them in your ... oh ... oh dear ..."
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Good news for anyone who's uncomfortable with the insertion of the phrase "under God" into the Pledge of Allegiance: U.S. District Judge Lawrence Karlton has ruled that the phrase is an unconstitutional violation of schoolkids' right to be "free from a coercive requirement to affirm God." Michael Newdow filed the case on behalf of families in three California school districts after he was deemed to lack standing to sue on his daughter's behalf.
A "religious rights" group called the Becket Fund plans to appeal the ruling. If the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals doesn't overturn its precedent, the Becket Fund plans to take the case to the U.S. Supreme Court.
A "religious rights" group called the Becket Fund plans to appeal the ruling. If the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals doesn't overturn its precedent, the Becket Fund plans to take the case to the U.S. Supreme Court.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Moyers on fundamentalism
Bill Moyers recently spoke at the Union Theological Seminary on the topic of religious fundamentalism and the American government. The text of his address is must reading. I'd excerpt and describe the article, but I couldn't do it justice. Just go read it.
Link via the nut.
Link via the nut.
"Look, Mom! I'm classical!"
That's what Ben said as he stood in his Gap Kids boxer briefs, waving a pencil like a conductor's baton.
That is all.
That is all.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Advice, anyone?
First request for your wise counsel: What do those overexposed-at-the-swimming-pool dreams mean? I dreamt I was heading to the pool with my friend Kristin, who assured me it was fine to wear a white tank top in lieu of a swimsuit top since we'd just be sitting out in the sun. Then we ended up in the pool playing mixed-doubles volleyball—and me in a scarcely adequate, thin, wet tank top! Why?
Second request: That dream ended quickly, probably because Ben kept finding new ways to wedge his feet against me from about 5 a.m. on. He sleeps soundly throughout, but destroys any chance that I'll get a good night's sleep since my bedtime isn't 8:00. Would it be bad for me to use my kid's-in-school productive time to nap every day? I suspect Ben's wandering into my room and poking me incessantly with his feet is tied to kindergarten adjustment stress. The World's Most Independent Little Boy has been clingy for the past week, and I don't know what to do. Do I just wait it out, keep asking him if anything specific is troubling him, and reassure him that everyone else is feeling the same way? Or is there something more I should do? Do I talk to the teacher?
Second request: That dream ended quickly, probably because Ben kept finding new ways to wedge his feet against me from about 5 a.m. on. He sleeps soundly throughout, but destroys any chance that I'll get a good night's sleep since my bedtime isn't 8:00. Would it be bad for me to use my kid's-in-school productive time to nap every day? I suspect Ben's wandering into my room and poking me incessantly with his feet is tied to kindergarten adjustment stress. The World's Most Independent Little Boy has been clingy for the past week, and I don't know what to do. Do I just wait it out, keep asking him if anything specific is troubling him, and reassure him that everyone else is feeling the same way? Or is there something more I should do? Do I talk to the teacher?
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Busy weekend, sleepy head, quick links
Busy weekend: Why haven't I been posting anything? I went out for a belated group birthday dinner with two old friends last night (the Moroccan chickpea/sweet potato tagine at Lula Café is indeed delicious, but would benefit from the addition of some dried fruit). It was a sad little gathering. Three women, all sleepy, going to dinner at 7:00 and ordering iced tea instead of wine so we could stay awake. Ben keeps meandering down the hall into my bed in the late wee hours and jostling me awake while he returns to sleep, and then I can't get back to sleep. Seriously, five or six hours of shut-eye is nowhere near enough. (This is why I have zero interest in ever adopting a newborn. Sleep deprivation sucks.)
Ben's first soccer game was this morning, in the hot sun, on a dusty, dry field (it hasn't rained in a good three weeks here). I spent the second half sitting on a park bench in the breezy shade, yapping on the phone. I have no idea if Ben's team (The Revolution!) won, or if a victor was even declared. He was too hot and sweaty to really enjoy the game—and I can totally relate. I'm hoping to get back to the health club now that Ben's in school, and I've got my eye on the Hydro-Fit class so I can avoid sweating while supposedly getting a cardio workout with a bunch of elderly women who are arguably in better shape than me.
After we hosed Ben off, it was time to take a scheduled tour of Wrigley Field. Any of you local Cubs fans should look into that—on weekends when the Cubs aren't playing at home, they have tours to support the Cubs Care charity, and you learn a lot of ballpark trivia and history. (Take the kids only if they're good at behaving for two hours straight.) I sat at the Associated Press's assigned seat in the press box. I sat in the home and visitor dugouts, wishing I had something to spit or a Dusty Baker toothpick to gnaw on. I learned that the three to six people who work inside the manual scoreboard during each game are always men. The guide explained that first, women are too smart to work inside a steel box that becomes an oven on warm days and a refrigerator on cold days. That, plus the limited plumbing facilities for the scoreboard staff—basically a funnel connected to a pipe. We also toured the Cubs clubhouse. Did you know that in the narrow hallway that leads from the clubhouse to the field, there's a little alcove containing a grungy sink and a urinal? With no door? Lovely, just lovely.
Then we had a late lunch at Heaven on Seven, Chicago's outpost of New Orleans cuisine. The poboys were shockingly underwhelming, but the creamy garlic mashed potatoes? All three of us enjoyed them. And the Tangerine Man and I did our share to support a Louisiana business by ordering Abita beers (the dark-brown Turbo Dog for the Mr., the Amber Ale for me). The culinary highlight for Ben was using my wee dish of balsamic vinaigrette as a dipping sauce for everything. Who needs ketchup for your tater tots when there's balsamic on hand?
Tomorrow, I have to haul ass to Target and get a birthday gift for a Sunday afternoon kid party. I asked the mom what her daughter likes. "Oh, she likes the same stuff Ben likes," she assured me. "Trucks and cars?" I asked. "And Spider-Man?" Actually, no, as it turns out. The birthday girl prefers Barbie and Bratz to vehicles and superheros. Ben likes the concept of Barbie more than the dolls themselves. Barbie toothbrush? Check. Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus necklace from a Happy Meal? Check. Pink, in general? Check. But when the girls pull out Barbie dolls, he loses interest quickly. You know, when I was a kid, my sister and I had a Barbie doll (might've been her redhead friend Stacy) with an inverted nipple. Seriously. Our dog chomped down and left an inverted-nipple tooth mark.
Sleepy head: The only reason I'm not sound asleep right now is that I took a much-needed nap from 6 to 8:30 tonight. I'm still sleepy, but feel compelled to put out for you, even though it's been less than 48 hours since I last posted. Is that OCD? An overly acute sense of blogger duty? Self-defeating behavior keeping me from actually catching up on my sleep, even though I've been complaining of sleepiness for days?
Quick links: Check out Mona's funny brain poems.
And Francis Heaney finally ponied up some delicious new Six Things cartoons.
There's a new blogger in blogtown: DoctorMama. She's got me on her blogroll, so clearly she's a woman of great discernment. The comments she's left here indicate that she'd totally fit right in with my circle of friends. Here are her qualifications: She shares my friend Kristin's fondness for the New Yorker writer Hendrik Hertzberg; she reads magazines while brushing her teeth, as I do; and she's a heathen like me and most of my closest friends.
Okay, I thought this was going to be a 5-minute post, and it's taken me an hour. I really must go to bed. G'night!
Ben's first soccer game was this morning, in the hot sun, on a dusty, dry field (it hasn't rained in a good three weeks here). I spent the second half sitting on a park bench in the breezy shade, yapping on the phone. I have no idea if Ben's team (The Revolution!) won, or if a victor was even declared. He was too hot and sweaty to really enjoy the game—and I can totally relate. I'm hoping to get back to the health club now that Ben's in school, and I've got my eye on the Hydro-Fit class so I can avoid sweating while supposedly getting a cardio workout with a bunch of elderly women who are arguably in better shape than me.
After we hosed Ben off, it was time to take a scheduled tour of Wrigley Field. Any of you local Cubs fans should look into that—on weekends when the Cubs aren't playing at home, they have tours to support the Cubs Care charity, and you learn a lot of ballpark trivia and history. (Take the kids only if they're good at behaving for two hours straight.) I sat at the Associated Press's assigned seat in the press box. I sat in the home and visitor dugouts, wishing I had something to spit or a Dusty Baker toothpick to gnaw on. I learned that the three to six people who work inside the manual scoreboard during each game are always men. The guide explained that first, women are too smart to work inside a steel box that becomes an oven on warm days and a refrigerator on cold days. That, plus the limited plumbing facilities for the scoreboard staff—basically a funnel connected to a pipe. We also toured the Cubs clubhouse. Did you know that in the narrow hallway that leads from the clubhouse to the field, there's a little alcove containing a grungy sink and a urinal? With no door? Lovely, just lovely.
Then we had a late lunch at Heaven on Seven, Chicago's outpost of New Orleans cuisine. The poboys were shockingly underwhelming, but the creamy garlic mashed potatoes? All three of us enjoyed them. And the Tangerine Man and I did our share to support a Louisiana business by ordering Abita beers (the dark-brown Turbo Dog for the Mr., the Amber Ale for me). The culinary highlight for Ben was using my wee dish of balsamic vinaigrette as a dipping sauce for everything. Who needs ketchup for your tater tots when there's balsamic on hand?
Tomorrow, I have to haul ass to Target and get a birthday gift for a Sunday afternoon kid party. I asked the mom what her daughter likes. "Oh, she likes the same stuff Ben likes," she assured me. "Trucks and cars?" I asked. "And Spider-Man?" Actually, no, as it turns out. The birthday girl prefers Barbie and Bratz to vehicles and superheros. Ben likes the concept of Barbie more than the dolls themselves. Barbie toothbrush? Check. Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus necklace from a Happy Meal? Check. Pink, in general? Check. But when the girls pull out Barbie dolls, he loses interest quickly. You know, when I was a kid, my sister and I had a Barbie doll (might've been her redhead friend Stacy) with an inverted nipple. Seriously. Our dog chomped down and left an inverted-nipple tooth mark.
Sleepy head: The only reason I'm not sound asleep right now is that I took a much-needed nap from 6 to 8:30 tonight. I'm still sleepy, but feel compelled to put out for you, even though it's been less than 48 hours since I last posted. Is that OCD? An overly acute sense of blogger duty? Self-defeating behavior keeping me from actually catching up on my sleep, even though I've been complaining of sleepiness for days?
Quick links: Check out Mona's funny brain poems.
And Francis Heaney finally ponied up some delicious new Six Things cartoons.
There's a new blogger in blogtown: DoctorMama. She's got me on her blogroll, so clearly she's a woman of great discernment. The comments she's left here indicate that she'd totally fit right in with my circle of friends. Here are her qualifications: She shares my friend Kristin's fondness for the New Yorker writer Hendrik Hertzberg; she reads magazines while brushing her teeth, as I do; and she's a heathen like me and most of my closest friends.
Okay, I thought this was going to be a 5-minute post, and it's taken me an hour. I really must go to bed. G'night!
Friday, September 09, 2005
Presidential prayer pandering
Straight from President Bush's official Proclamation comes this beaut: To honor the memory of those who lost their lives, to provide comfort and strength to the families of the victims, and to help ease the burden of the survivors, I call upon all Americans to pray to Almighty God and to perform acts of service. Yes, that's right. Dear Leader is urging every citizen to "pray to Almighty God." I completely support the idea of a Day of Remembrance for the victims of Hurricane Katrina and the ensuing governmental bungling, of course—just as Bush once said he thinks about Iraq every single day, I've been thinking about the victims of Katrina each day. What I object to is specifically calling September 16 a Day of Prayer as well, given that not every American is inclined to pray.
Of course, Bush presumably believes in his heart of silver-spoon hearts that a Day of Prayer makes sense for everyone. And heck, it's exactly what his "base" asked for. The Christian Defense Coalition and the National [Christian] Clergy Council specifically lobbied for it, writing this: "Americans are people of faith. Please use your post to once again unite us at the deepest level of our common life." Bush's Proclamation even mentions "the promise of the Scripture." So, who exactly is Bush uniting here? I'm kind of thinking that everyone who doesn't buy into Christian Scripture might feel a tad excluded, as I do. But the folks who really matter—Bush's conservative Christian base—are probably feeling mighty gratified.
So, if you share my distaste for the "Day of Prayer" concept, and even if you appreciate it, please join me in marking September 16—and September 9, and the days in between and the days that follow—as a time for remembrance and service. National organizations such as the American Red Cross and the many local groups that are aiding evacuees throughout the nation could all use our continuing help.
(Proverbial hat tip to Kristin for telling me about the Day of Prayer business.)
Of course, Bush presumably believes in his heart of silver-spoon hearts that a Day of Prayer makes sense for everyone. And heck, it's exactly what his "base" asked for. The Christian Defense Coalition and the National [Christian] Clergy Council specifically lobbied for it, writing this: "Americans are people of faith. Please use your post to once again unite us at the deepest level of our common life." Bush's Proclamation even mentions "the promise of the Scripture." So, who exactly is Bush uniting here? I'm kind of thinking that everyone who doesn't buy into Christian Scripture might feel a tad excluded, as I do. But the folks who really matter—Bush's conservative Christian base—are probably feeling mighty gratified.
So, if you share my distaste for the "Day of Prayer" concept, and even if you appreciate it, please join me in marking September 16—and September 9, and the days in between and the days that follow—as a time for remembrance and service. National organizations such as the American Red Cross and the many local groups that are aiding evacuees throughout the nation could all use our continuing help.
(Proverbial hat tip to Kristin for telling me about the Day of Prayer business.)
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Tiptop spam
Every now and then, I like to clear out my bulk mail box and trash the spam. But it's getting so genteel now! Case in point: A subject line reading "Receive a significant discount on your medications" is followed by another reading "Be given a considerable markdown on your medicine." How thoughtful, you think. Then you're totally ripe for the picking by the time the quaint "These tiptop goods are provided at lovely prices" note arrives. Damn! I don't know anyone who doesn't appreciate tiptop goods. And at such lovely prices, who can resist?
I don't know how Bukowski wrote drunk. I'm tempted to write another story featuring the spam sender names, but the four ounces of beer I've already downed are quashing my creativity and addling my pate. (Yes, I'm a lightweight.) I know there's got to be a great story about Chang Boswell, Roderick Shindle, Sean Tulip, Jimmy Polisky, and Thaddeus Cartagena but...I got nothin'. Sean "Tiptop" Tulip?
I don't know how Bukowski wrote drunk. I'm tempted to write another story featuring the spam sender names, but the four ounces of beer I've already downed are quashing my creativity and addling my pate. (Yes, I'm a lightweight.) I know there's got to be a great story about Chang Boswell, Roderick Shindle, Sean Tulip, Jimmy Polisky, and Thaddeus Cartagena but...I got nothin'. Sean "Tiptop" Tulip?
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Phase 2
We are pleased to announce the grand opening of Phase 2 of the Orange Tangerine parenting development. It's just past 8 a.m., I'm showered and dressed, and I've got the house to myself until 1:45. Hooray for kindergarten!
Just imagine how productive I could be today if the mood strikes. If the mood doesn't strike, eventually my client will smite, so the mood will just have to strike this morning. The beautiful part of this full-day kindergarten business is that even if I fritter away three full hours, I'll still be able to crank out some work for a couple hours and take a much-deserved lunch break. Phase 2 looks extremely promising.
Hmm, I wonder how the teachers are doing right now, sorting 165 kindergartners into six homeroom groups within one giant "pod" classroom...
Just imagine how productive I could be today if the mood strikes. If the mood doesn't strike, eventually my client will smite, so the mood will just have to strike this morning. The beautiful part of this full-day kindergarten business is that even if I fritter away three full hours, I'll still be able to crank out some work for a couple hours and take a much-deserved lunch break. Phase 2 looks extremely promising.
Hmm, I wonder how the teachers are doing right now, sorting 165 kindergartners into six homeroom groups within one giant "pod" classroom...
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Coming to terms
Over at Shades of Grey, Charlie’s written a thought-provoking essay defining nonmonogamy and infidelity. What Charlie means by a nonmonogamous relationship is a serious relationship in which all parties involved consent to having multiple sexual partners.
What is infidelity, then? In Charlie’s view, there can be infidelity in a nonmonogamous relationship, but the two are not tantamount. In most monogamous relationships, there is an assumed promise between both partners that each will have sex only with the other. Charlie writes. With such an assumption, it is easy to see how sex becomes the focus of infidelity. But in a nonmonogamous relationship, both partners recognize that it is not the sex itself that is wrong, it is the broken promise. “Cheating” is anything that breaks a promise to one’s significant other. For a nonmonogamous couple, that could mean violating the terms of the agreement the couple has reached (e.g., no sex with exes, or no outside relationships without talking about it first).
Jettisoning the automatic assumption of complete monogamy that permeates our society would encourage couples to hash out the terms that work for them. How much flirting is okay? What about porn? Are strip clubs okay or off-limits? What constitutes cheating? Many couples probably define things differently from one another, and clear communication of their expectations is key to avoiding hurt feelings or a sense of betrayal. If a husband thinks it’s cheating only if there’s sex involved but his wife thinks that kissing or romantic conversations also constitute cheating, it’s going to get ugly if he’s making out at the office party.
I think it’s crucial for any couple to discuss where their comfort zones are and how they define the limits. Just as couples strive to reach agreement on where they’ll live, how or if they’ll raise children, how they save and spend money, and who does the laundry, it makes sense to talk about where they draw the lines on sexual matters. Many couples commit, at least nominally, to traditional “forsaking all others” monogamy, but they do still need to hash out the particulars on issues like flirting and how they define cheating.
I’m sure every one of you has examples from your own relationships of conflicts that arose as a result of differing definitions and expectations. Were you able to talk it out and reach an agreement, or were your views so divergent that you couldn’t get past the issue? In a minor example, I finally gave up asking Mr. Tangerine to unroll his rolled-up shirt sleeves before tossing a shirt in the hamper; it pissed me off for a few years that he’d never do that, but eventually I realized that it was a stupid thing to make an issue of. And he finally realized it wouldn’t kill him to put the bottle opener back where he found it. On the bigger issues, he and I generally reach a mutual agreement. With the little things we argue about chronically (e.g., who dawdles in which troublesome fashion before road trips), we really ought to come to terms once and for all, and quit having the same routine spats. Really, after 17 years together, shouldn’t we be over the routine-spat thing? Gotta work on that.
What is infidelity, then? In Charlie’s view, there can be infidelity in a nonmonogamous relationship, but the two are not tantamount. In most monogamous relationships, there is an assumed promise between both partners that each will have sex only with the other. Charlie writes. With such an assumption, it is easy to see how sex becomes the focus of infidelity. But in a nonmonogamous relationship, both partners recognize that it is not the sex itself that is wrong, it is the broken promise. “Cheating” is anything that breaks a promise to one’s significant other. For a nonmonogamous couple, that could mean violating the terms of the agreement the couple has reached (e.g., no sex with exes, or no outside relationships without talking about it first).
Jettisoning the automatic assumption of complete monogamy that permeates our society would encourage couples to hash out the terms that work for them. How much flirting is okay? What about porn? Are strip clubs okay or off-limits? What constitutes cheating? Many couples probably define things differently from one another, and clear communication of their expectations is key to avoiding hurt feelings or a sense of betrayal. If a husband thinks it’s cheating only if there’s sex involved but his wife thinks that kissing or romantic conversations also constitute cheating, it’s going to get ugly if he’s making out at the office party.
I think it’s crucial for any couple to discuss where their comfort zones are and how they define the limits. Just as couples strive to reach agreement on where they’ll live, how or if they’ll raise children, how they save and spend money, and who does the laundry, it makes sense to talk about where they draw the lines on sexual matters. Many couples commit, at least nominally, to traditional “forsaking all others” monogamy, but they do still need to hash out the particulars on issues like flirting and how they define cheating.
I’m sure every one of you has examples from your own relationships of conflicts that arose as a result of differing definitions and expectations. Were you able to talk it out and reach an agreement, or were your views so divergent that you couldn’t get past the issue? In a minor example, I finally gave up asking Mr. Tangerine to unroll his rolled-up shirt sleeves before tossing a shirt in the hamper; it pissed me off for a few years that he’d never do that, but eventually I realized that it was a stupid thing to make an issue of. And he finally realized it wouldn’t kill him to put the bottle opener back where he found it. On the bigger issues, he and I generally reach a mutual agreement. With the little things we argue about chronically (e.g., who dawdles in which troublesome fashion before road trips), we really ought to come to terms once and for all, and quit having the same routine spats. Really, after 17 years together, shouldn’t we be over the routine-spat thing? Gotta work on that.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Today in the Times
In Paul Krugman's column today, he writes about the administration's "general hostility to the role of government as a force for good. And Americans living along the Gulf Coast have now reaped the consequences of that hostility." A strong and capable FEMA, as we see clearly now, is vital to America's security and safety. The man in charge of FEMA, Michael ("Brownie") Brown, was appointed director after his college roommate left the post. That roommate, Joseph Allbaugh, was himself a political confidant of George Bush rather than a seasoned emergency-management professional. That's right: Brownie is a crony of a crony.
Krugman mentions a Chicago Tribune article I saw yesterday morning: The U.S.S. Bataan is a Navy hospital ship sitting off the Gulf Coast, where it rode out the hurricane en route from Panama to Norfolk. The ship remained in place for days but, to my knowledge, still has not been mobilized to help Katrina's victims. On board that ship are 1,200 good folks in the Navy, ready and willing to help out, and 600 empty hospital beds. Gee, doesn't that sound mighty convenient? And yet while hospital patients grew sicker and died, that hospital ship was never called into service. I don't like to see my tax dollars blown on foolishness like the missile defense pipe dream, or on the prosecution of a war I don't believe should have been started. And here's a way to make use of those defense dollars to help save American lives, and instead the administration dawdled and bungled and blamed the victims.
The Bush administration and I have a core difference in our beliefs about the purpose of the federal government. Silly optimist me, I thought one of the government's roles was to keep the citizenry safe. The politicians and ideologues allied with Bush want to "starve the beast" of federal government; in so doing, we see, some citizens may end up starved as well, drowning or dying of thirst. It's every man, woman, and child for themselves, and if they didn't happen to be born with privilege, the government sure isn't going to help them get it.
One thing that gives me hope for the future is the lack of outspoken support for Bush and FEMA. Republicans and Democrats alike have called for full investigation of the many deadly failures of the past week. I hope more Americans now understand that those Republicans who want to starve the beast threaten every American's safety net—and will quit voting them into office.
As Bob Herbert concludes in his column, "this is not about politics. It's about competence. And when the president is so obviously clueless about matters so obviously important, it means that the rest of us, like the people left stranded in New Orleans, are in deep, deep trouble."
From the NYT's news section rather than Op-Ed comes this article, "After Failures, Officials Play Blame Game." Fucking FEMA officials obstructed relief efforts in a multitude of ways. Rather than asking businesses to help out, FEMA turned back three Wal-Mart trucks filled with bottled water. The Coast Guard wasn't allowed to deliver 1,000 gallons of diesel fuel. They turned down the City of Chicago's offer of personnel and equipment (FEMA agreed to accept a single tanker truck from Chicago). Michael Chertoff, the director of homeland security, naturally enough blames the flood-damaged local government for the delays. The local authorities, of course, have example after example of requests that sat unanswered by FEMA, promises made but not kept.
The lead paragraph of this article says it all: "Under the command of President Bush's two senior political advisers, the White House rolled out a plan this weekend to contain the political damage from the administration's response to Hurricane Katrina." Does it seem a little early for that? Like maybe they could have the respect to wait until the bodies have been counted and finally accorded a mote of dignity?
On another subject, John Roberts is now up for Rehnquist's spot rather than O'Connor's. What? Oh, I guess it makes perfect sense for a man with a couple years of experience as a judge to be Chief Justice. (Boy, I'll bet Scalia is pissed.)
Krugman mentions a Chicago Tribune article I saw yesterday morning: The U.S.S. Bataan is a Navy hospital ship sitting off the Gulf Coast, where it rode out the hurricane en route from Panama to Norfolk. The ship remained in place for days but, to my knowledge, still has not been mobilized to help Katrina's victims. On board that ship are 1,200 good folks in the Navy, ready and willing to help out, and 600 empty hospital beds. Gee, doesn't that sound mighty convenient? And yet while hospital patients grew sicker and died, that hospital ship was never called into service. I don't like to see my tax dollars blown on foolishness like the missile defense pipe dream, or on the prosecution of a war I don't believe should have been started. And here's a way to make use of those defense dollars to help save American lives, and instead the administration dawdled and bungled and blamed the victims.
The Bush administration and I have a core difference in our beliefs about the purpose of the federal government. Silly optimist me, I thought one of the government's roles was to keep the citizenry safe. The politicians and ideologues allied with Bush want to "starve the beast" of federal government; in so doing, we see, some citizens may end up starved as well, drowning or dying of thirst. It's every man, woman, and child for themselves, and if they didn't happen to be born with privilege, the government sure isn't going to help them get it.
One thing that gives me hope for the future is the lack of outspoken support for Bush and FEMA. Republicans and Democrats alike have called for full investigation of the many deadly failures of the past week. I hope more Americans now understand that those Republicans who want to starve the beast threaten every American's safety net—and will quit voting them into office.
As Bob Herbert concludes in his column, "this is not about politics. It's about competence. And when the president is so obviously clueless about matters so obviously important, it means that the rest of us, like the people left stranded in New Orleans, are in deep, deep trouble."
From the NYT's news section rather than Op-Ed comes this article, "After Failures, Officials Play Blame Game." Fucking FEMA officials obstructed relief efforts in a multitude of ways. Rather than asking businesses to help out, FEMA turned back three Wal-Mart trucks filled with bottled water. The Coast Guard wasn't allowed to deliver 1,000 gallons of diesel fuel. They turned down the City of Chicago's offer of personnel and equipment (FEMA agreed to accept a single tanker truck from Chicago). Michael Chertoff, the director of homeland security, naturally enough blames the flood-damaged local government for the delays. The local authorities, of course, have example after example of requests that sat unanswered by FEMA, promises made but not kept.
The lead paragraph of this article says it all: "Under the command of President Bush's two senior political advisers, the White House rolled out a plan this weekend to contain the political damage from the administration's response to Hurricane Katrina." Does it seem a little early for that? Like maybe they could have the respect to wait until the bodies have been counted and finally accorded a mote of dignity?
On another subject, John Roberts is now up for Rehnquist's spot rather than O'Connor's. What? Oh, I guess it makes perfect sense for a man with a couple years of experience as a judge to be Chief Justice. (Boy, I'll bet Scalia is pissed.)
New Orleans, Louisiana: October 1994
In October 1994, I traveled to New Orleans for the first and only time. I had an editorial board meeting and dinner to host, so Mr. Tangerine and I made a company-subsidized vacation out of it.
It was Halloween that Monday when we were there, so we went to a dime store in search of quasi-costumes; we chose felt jester hats with bells. We still have the hats, though the bells are long gone; Ben actually pulled one out for dress-up this morning. Walking the tourist route through the French Quarter, fighting the congestion (both on the streets and in my sinuses—I had a nasty cold), we stopped at a to-go bar (a refreshing difference from Chicago with its ban on open containers of alcohol). On the bar TVs, we saw the Bears playing the Packers in a cold downpour back in Chicago, and we were delighted to be enjoying the Louisiana warmth and clear skies. (The Packers pounded the Bears, much to Mr. Tangerine’s delight.) Bourbon Street on Halloween was nuts—hordes of people, crazy costumes, partying and dancing in the street. I imagine it held but a fraction of the decadence of Mardi Gras.
We’d booked a table at NOLA, which I think was Emeril’s first restaurant there, but cancelled because I was feeling lousy and wouldn’t have been able to taste anything. This was before I ever heard his catchphrase “Pork fat rules!” (um, unless you don’t eat pork) and before Emeril became totally overexposed on the Food Channel, so it’s just as well, eh?
I met with my editorial board, a group of esteemed physicians, in a meeting room at the convention center. As we planned out the next year for our publication, we had a duck-breast salad for lunch. The convention center’s caterers made some surprisingly good food.
One of the physician editors was from Shreveport, so he was my go-to guy for picking a restaurant for the editorial board dinner. Most everyone was staying at the Hilton, so he’d suggested one place (I forget the name) that he described—and you must drawl this out—as being “hahhrrribly convenient,” but rather stodgy and beef Wellingtonny. When he learned that the budget would allow a nicer joint, he was delighted to recommend Commander’s Palace. So I took four doctors and their dates (three wives plus a beard) to Commander’s Palace. I had a delicious piece of pecan-crusted fish, just perfect. Everyone at the table but me had ordered the bread pudding soufflé for dessert; having never so much as tried bread pudding, I opted for a flourless chocolate cake. When the waiter brought out the soufflés for everyone else, he cracked each one open and spooned a vanilla cream sauce into the molten center. My cake? Far too dense. The doctor seated next to me was a sweetheart, though, and happily shared his soufflé with me. Best. Dessert. I’ve. Ever. Had. Ever ever ever. No bread pudding can compare.
Mr. Tangerine and I didn’t get to replace our NOLA reservations with anywhere fabulous (and he missed out on my Commander’s Palace dinner), and went out for a merely decent dinner at a forgettable place. Mr. Tangerine more than made up for missing NOLA, though, with biscuits and debris at Mother’s and a poboy at Uglesich’s. And we loved walking around town. The beignets—oh, the beignets—and chicory coffee at Café du Monde, the ground dusted with sugar. Voodoo shops. The beautiful, if a tad fussy, architecture. The quiet and the stink at 10:00 a.m. when the sidewalks got rinsed off after the night’s carousing had finally ended. The gallery with the blue-dog paintings. A long stroll by the river as the night cooled.
I hope we can take our son to New Orleans some day and share the city with him. But will it seem like the same city at all? I hope it will. And I hope it will again feel like home to the people of New Orleans.
It was Halloween that Monday when we were there, so we went to a dime store in search of quasi-costumes; we chose felt jester hats with bells. We still have the hats, though the bells are long gone; Ben actually pulled one out for dress-up this morning. Walking the tourist route through the French Quarter, fighting the congestion (both on the streets and in my sinuses—I had a nasty cold), we stopped at a to-go bar (a refreshing difference from Chicago with its ban on open containers of alcohol). On the bar TVs, we saw the Bears playing the Packers in a cold downpour back in Chicago, and we were delighted to be enjoying the Louisiana warmth and clear skies. (The Packers pounded the Bears, much to Mr. Tangerine’s delight.) Bourbon Street on Halloween was nuts—hordes of people, crazy costumes, partying and dancing in the street. I imagine it held but a fraction of the decadence of Mardi Gras.
We’d booked a table at NOLA, which I think was Emeril’s first restaurant there, but cancelled because I was feeling lousy and wouldn’t have been able to taste anything. This was before I ever heard his catchphrase “Pork fat rules!” (um, unless you don’t eat pork) and before Emeril became totally overexposed on the Food Channel, so it’s just as well, eh?
I met with my editorial board, a group of esteemed physicians, in a meeting room at the convention center. As we planned out the next year for our publication, we had a duck-breast salad for lunch. The convention center’s caterers made some surprisingly good food.
One of the physician editors was from Shreveport, so he was my go-to guy for picking a restaurant for the editorial board dinner. Most everyone was staying at the Hilton, so he’d suggested one place (I forget the name) that he described—and you must drawl this out—as being “hahhrrribly convenient,” but rather stodgy and beef Wellingtonny. When he learned that the budget would allow a nicer joint, he was delighted to recommend Commander’s Palace. So I took four doctors and their dates (three wives plus a beard) to Commander’s Palace. I had a delicious piece of pecan-crusted fish, just perfect. Everyone at the table but me had ordered the bread pudding soufflé for dessert; having never so much as tried bread pudding, I opted for a flourless chocolate cake. When the waiter brought out the soufflés for everyone else, he cracked each one open and spooned a vanilla cream sauce into the molten center. My cake? Far too dense. The doctor seated next to me was a sweetheart, though, and happily shared his soufflé with me. Best. Dessert. I’ve. Ever. Had. Ever ever ever. No bread pudding can compare.
Mr. Tangerine and I didn’t get to replace our NOLA reservations with anywhere fabulous (and he missed out on my Commander’s Palace dinner), and went out for a merely decent dinner at a forgettable place. Mr. Tangerine more than made up for missing NOLA, though, with biscuits and debris at Mother’s and a poboy at Uglesich’s. And we loved walking around town. The beignets—oh, the beignets—and chicory coffee at Café du Monde, the ground dusted with sugar. Voodoo shops. The beautiful, if a tad fussy, architecture. The quiet and the stink at 10:00 a.m. when the sidewalks got rinsed off after the night’s carousing had finally ended. The gallery with the blue-dog paintings. A long stroll by the river as the night cooled.
I hope we can take our son to New Orleans some day and share the city with him. But will it seem like the same city at all? I hope it will. And I hope it will again feel like home to the people of New Orleans.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Christmas in September
Chicago Tribune columnist John Kass is sharing an idea from one of his readers, a writer and English profressor named Virginia Brackett: "Instead of buying gifts for each other around Christmas," says Brackett, "we're going to donate that to the relief for the hurricane victims. They need so much help now. That's why we're calling it Christmas in September in our family."
Brackett explains, "It's a way for family members, for children, to talk about the disaster. And it gives us something to do. Right now, there's this feeling of desperation among so many. This gives people a way to act right now. And it also helps build bonds among family."
It's a great opportunity for teaching our children about the importance of giving, of helping those less fortunate than us. And when the holiday season rolls around and we're not running around to crowded stores, stressing about about picking out cool gifts for our friends, feeling the inevitable time pressure that holiday shopping involves—we will have the time to reflect on how fortunate we are, and how good it feels to give to people in need, when it counts most, rather than just giving fun toys to kids who have too many toys already, or a thoughtful gift to a friend who already has everything she needs. And from a purely selfish standpoint, what could be easier than making a donation and skipping the whole holiday-shopping hassle?
Some people can afford to make generous donations without having to sacrifice holiday shopping. For others, that looming $500 budget for Christmas shopping means there's $500 they can't afford to donate. Christmas (or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa, or New Year's, or solstice, or Ramadan, or whatever) in September could free up a lot of resources to help the people affected by Katrina to start rebuilding their shattered lives.
I admire the work done by the Red Cross; in addition to their comprehensive responses to a multitude of emergency situations, they provide much-needed psychological counseling for disaster victims (I've got a relative who volunteers for them as a trauma counselor). America's Second Harvest is dedicated to feeding the hungry and the displaced. If you prefer faith-based giving, this list includes plenty of links besides Red Cross and Second Harvest.
Christmas in September. Think about it. Give what you can, and talk it up. See if you can persuade your family and friends to give your holiday gift to Katrina's victims instead.
Brackett explains, "It's a way for family members, for children, to talk about the disaster. And it gives us something to do. Right now, there's this feeling of desperation among so many. This gives people a way to act right now. And it also helps build bonds among family."
It's a great opportunity for teaching our children about the importance of giving, of helping those less fortunate than us. And when the holiday season rolls around and we're not running around to crowded stores, stressing about about picking out cool gifts for our friends, feeling the inevitable time pressure that holiday shopping involves—we will have the time to reflect on how fortunate we are, and how good it feels to give to people in need, when it counts most, rather than just giving fun toys to kids who have too many toys already, or a thoughtful gift to a friend who already has everything she needs. And from a purely selfish standpoint, what could be easier than making a donation and skipping the whole holiday-shopping hassle?
Some people can afford to make generous donations without having to sacrifice holiday shopping. For others, that looming $500 budget for Christmas shopping means there's $500 they can't afford to donate. Christmas (or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa, or New Year's, or solstice, or Ramadan, or whatever) in September could free up a lot of resources to help the people affected by Katrina to start rebuilding their shattered lives.
I admire the work done by the Red Cross; in addition to their comprehensive responses to a multitude of emergency situations, they provide much-needed psychological counseling for disaster victims (I've got a relative who volunteers for them as a trauma counselor). America's Second Harvest is dedicated to feeding the hungry and the displaced. If you prefer faith-based giving, this list includes plenty of links besides Red Cross and Second Harvest.
Christmas in September. Think about it. Give what you can, and talk it up. See if you can persuade your family and friends to give your holiday gift to Katrina's victims instead.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Links about Katrina
John Scalzi on the FEMA director blaming the people who couldn't evacuate.
Bitch PhD shares Mayor Ray Nagin vs. the feds.
Also via Bitch PhD, President Bush has a good chortle about how nice Trent Lott's rebuilt house will be, here.
My friend Rob at Un-apologetic Atheist lost a friend who was shot by a looter in his New Orleans bait shop.
Michael Bérubé on government-shrinking Republicans and the current disaster.
The Rude Pundit, over here, writes: But the Bush adminstration has broken the basic social contract in New Orleans, the one that goes all the way back to Thomas Hobbes and John Locke, the one that says we adhere to laws because you agree to protect us, and thus the city and its citizens have returned to the state of nature, which is to survive, motherfuckers, just survive.
Bitch PhD shares Mayor Ray Nagin vs. the feds.
Also via Bitch PhD, President Bush has a good chortle about how nice Trent Lott's rebuilt house will be, here.
My friend Rob at Un-apologetic Atheist lost a friend who was shot by a looter in his New Orleans bait shop.
Michael Bérubé on government-shrinking Republicans and the current disaster.
The Rude Pundit, over here, writes: But the Bush adminstration has broken the basic social contract in New Orleans, the one that goes all the way back to Thomas Hobbes and John Locke, the one that says we adhere to laws because you agree to protect us, and thus the city and its citizens have returned to the state of nature, which is to survive, motherfuckers, just survive.
Friday, September 02, 2005
People are dying
I just read something that shatters me on the Tribune website. Their TV blogger, Maureen Ryan, gives the transcript of an NBC photojournalist's report from the NO convention center (it was on NBC Nightly News early this evening). People were instructed to go to the convention center, so thousands of them did. And yet apparently there was no thought given to what would happen next. These people have no food, no water, no support, no information. People are dying of dehydration. Babies dying. Adults sitting dead in their lawn chairs. Right here in America, folks. What are these helpless people supposed to do? How will they survive? Certainly I don't condone the use of violence, but the whole situation is violent at its core. The violence of nature, compounded by poor planning and grossly inadequate disaster response. People are dying of thirst while trapped by filthy flood waters. Right here in America. It is just a complete shock that three and a half days after a hurricane hit, so many people could still be left utterly helpless.
Don't forget to go to the Red Cross site and donate what you can. I know it will be too little and too late for many people, but what else can we do from afar?
Don't forget to go to the Red Cross site and donate what you can. I know it will be too little and too late for many people, but what else can we do from afar?
Mind-boggling
I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around the vast implications of the disaster down south. Hundreds of thousands of people left without homes, without access to...everything. Their banks, their schools, their jobs, their stores, their friends and neighbors and relatives. Their stuff. Their daily routines. No checking their e-mail. No stopping by the gym. No TV. No phones. No lights. No fresh water. No indoor plumbing. Hell, some of these people are probably still trapped on roofs and inside attics. WIth much of New Orleans and the Mississippi coast essentially uninhabitable for the near future, the diaspora of displaced persons is just...beyond my ability to conceptualize in practical terms.
It's easier to conceive of a disaster in a far-off land, stricken by war or famine. NGOs will come in, set up refugee camps, and make do until the situation improves, trying to save as many lives as they can. But here in America, it's such a foreign concept to have so many people in such desperate straits. It's one thing to be homeless in a city with a functioning infrastructure and economy—the average homeless American faces terrible risks, yes, but he or she lives at the edges of a society where food is plentiful.
My city was largely destroyed in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Yes, it was rebuilt, bigger and better than it had been, but there were only a few decades of development to replace; New Orleans has so much more history than Chicago had in 1871. Interesting fact, though: The population of Chicago was about 330,000 when the fire hit. Seeing how solidly the city grew after a catastrophic fire gives me hope that the hurricane- and flood-damaged areas can rise again, too.
It's easier to conceive of a disaster in a far-off land, stricken by war or famine. NGOs will come in, set up refugee camps, and make do until the situation improves, trying to save as many lives as they can. But here in America, it's such a foreign concept to have so many people in such desperate straits. It's one thing to be homeless in a city with a functioning infrastructure and economy—the average homeless American faces terrible risks, yes, but he or she lives at the edges of a society where food is plentiful.
My city was largely destroyed in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Yes, it was rebuilt, bigger and better than it had been, but there were only a few decades of development to replace; New Orleans has so much more history than Chicago had in 1871. Interesting fact, though: The population of Chicago was about 330,000 when the fire hit. Seeing how solidly the city grew after a catastrophic fire gives me hope that the hurricane- and flood-damaged areas can rise again, too.
Thursday, September 01, 2005
I am appalled
Have you seen these Barbie and the Magic of Pegasus toys? Ben's been intrigued by the commercials. The Barbie dolls have a "fashion transformation feature" (rotate the dress for a new look?), and I wasn't really paying attention but it's possible the alternate dress is a wedding gown. Barbie is marrying Pegasus, or Pegasus is introducing Barbie to eligible bachelors? It's not clear to me. The mini version is now a Happy Meal toy, and I bet Ben would love to have one. Sparkly! And pink!
There is a frightening customer review at Amazon: "My daughter loves this doll! She was a huge fan of the Princess and the Pauper dolls last year, but I just bought her this one and she loves it even more. The dress is gorgeous and the fact that it comes with two dresses in one is great! She can't wait for the Magic of Pegasus movie now, and she wants the entire line - I guess I know what I'm getting her for Christmas. At least I feel like this line helps keep my daughter young and dreaming about what's possible - and those Barbie movies are great for teaching her about morals and the arts (unlike those Bratz dolls!)."
Yeah. Right. The Magic of Pegasus is all about achieving what's possible. And the arts education in those Barbie movies—splendid! (Not like I've watched one. They could be truly great. I'm just being bitchy and skeptical about the feminist bona fides of the latest Barbie craze.)
There is a frightening customer review at Amazon: "My daughter loves this doll! She was a huge fan of the Princess and the Pauper dolls last year, but I just bought her this one and she loves it even more. The dress is gorgeous and the fact that it comes with two dresses in one is great! She can't wait for the Magic of Pegasus movie now, and she wants the entire line - I guess I know what I'm getting her for Christmas. At least I feel like this line helps keep my daughter young and dreaming about what's possible - and those Barbie movies are great for teaching her about morals and the arts (unlike those Bratz dolls!)."
Yeah. Right. The Magic of Pegasus is all about achieving what's possible. And the arts education in those Barbie movies—splendid! (Not like I've watched one. They could be truly great. I'm just being bitchy and skeptical about the feminist bona fides of the latest Barbie craze.)
Obligatory slumgullion post
The other day, I finally read another article about Supreme Court nominee John Roberts. (I'd stopped reading anything about him a couple days after he was nominated.) What drew me to the subject? It was Roberts' propensity for proper grammar and usage. (He uses awesome words like slumgullion!) I haven't been closely following the reports of his political and legal opinions, but this? It's almost enough to give me a crush on him. The Language Log people, of course, picked up on the story in this post.
P.S. Slumgullion means "a watery meat stew." It also sounds very Tolkien, doesn't it? The Slumgullion Silmarillion?
P.S. Slumgullion means "a watery meat stew." It also sounds very Tolkien, doesn't it? The Slumgullion Silmarillion?
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