I try to avoid cereal first thing in the morning. Apparently it does something horrible to one's blood sugar or whatever. I'm supposed to eat protein. Technically, I don't have a dog in this fight, because I only buy cereal for The Matilda and The Adrian.
Adrian, when he bothers with breakfast at all, only does it on the weekends. He buys about 18 sacks of sugar cereal like Marshmallow Mateys and demolishes the whole package before noon.
Matilda's taste in cereal is like that of a 65-year-old man: Heart to Heart, Oatmeal Squares, etc.
So really, this is nothing of which I'd normally speak. Thanks, Rebecca, for the prompt.
I've never liked Wheaties. They are that family of breakfast cereal that requires you blitz the bowl with a sandstorm of white sugar in order to choke it down. Otherwise, they taste like...the color brown. This being the food of potential champions makes no sense.
OTHER CEREALS REQUIRING SUGAR SANDSTORM:
Corn Flakes - Blah, said Toad.
Grape Nuts - Don't eat with your natural, human teeth. Borrow gramma's denture plate instead. Also, you'll notice that this cereal is almost like eating ACTUAL TEETH.
Rice Krispies - These don't hold the sugar well, though. And when they get soggy? Forget it. Normally I will eat soggy cereal. But not stupid boring Rice Krispies. If Rice Krispies were people, they'd live in the suburbs in a giant McMansion and hang out those dumb 'holiday' flags out of their front door and only have sex with the lights off.
Kix - I realize I'm supposed to choose Kix. Because Healthy Moms Choose Kix. Or something. Right? But they are like those palate-scraping Captain Crunch nuggets, sans the sugar kick. Stick it, Kix.
If I had a choice, I'd eat scrambled eggs with chopped scallions, soy sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes and goat cheese, covered in salsa. But only if someone else made it.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
On...what, exactly?
I am sick of writing about myself.
Give me a topic and I'll spout off my blowhard's best.
Give me a topic and I'll spout off my blowhard's best.
Monday, January 30, 2012
The Dictionary of American Slang, Ctd.
read one's plate: 1. To say grace or give thanks at mealtime. Southern hill use. 2. To eat in silence; to be forced to eat in silence as punishment.
Friday, January 27, 2012
On Self-Reliance
I went to the bathroom because I wished to clean deliberately, to front only the essential oils and astringent powders, and see if I could not learn what it had to bleach, and not, when I came to the underside of the toilet seat, discover that I did not want to live.
I did not wish to clean my person in a place that was not clean, being clean is so dear; nor did I wish to practise reflection, unless it was quite necessary to stop ignoring the toothpaste build-up on the mirror.
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not bathbombs and premium curl shampoo, to cut a broad swath and shave close my legs and armpits, to drive hairs into a corner, which I would frown at while taking a piss, and reduce to its lowest terms, carping at the husband to wipe the sink basin after he buzzed his neck, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, this tiny grim back-alley of a wash room, its mildewed caulk and chipped plastic tile, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, which it is not, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next exfoliation.
I did not wish to clean my person in a place that was not clean, being clean is so dear; nor did I wish to practise reflection, unless it was quite necessary to stop ignoring the toothpaste build-up on the mirror.
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not bathbombs and premium curl shampoo, to cut a broad swath and shave close my legs and armpits, to drive hairs into a corner, which I would frown at while taking a piss, and reduce to its lowest terms, carping at the husband to wipe the sink basin after he buzzed his neck, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, this tiny grim back-alley of a wash room, its mildewed caulk and chipped plastic tile, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, which it is not, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next exfoliation.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
The Dictionary of American Slang, Ctd.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
The Cocktail Chatter Trash Heap: Stuff I've Learned From Paid Writing Jobs
I used to write ad copy for a luxury website. Here are a few scintillating bits of trivia I learned from that job.
1. Old fashioned men's shaving brushes are made with badger hair.
2. Caffeine has a stimulating and tightening affect on skin.
3. There are four types of boxing gloves: fight gloves, for when you are in the ring, speed gloves for use with the speed bag, bag gloves for heavy bag training and sparring gloves, for use during, well, sparring.
4. SmartWool socks use the wool of New Zealand Merino sheep, who have adapated to both hot and cold climates over time.
5. Gin was first invented by the Dutch, from juniper berries, but perfected by the British. It was so cheap to make that it was the drink of choice in poor areas and was often called "Mother's Ruin."
6. Coco Chanel commissioned several bottles for her perfume line and the fifth one was the one she selected for Chanel No.5.
7. Seamstress and tailor apprentices must work for five years for the House of Pratesi before they can work on linens that will actually be sold.
8. The official tennis ball of Wimbledon is the Slazenger, which has been in use since 1881.
9. The Auvergne, the once-volcanic region in France where the Battle of the Bulge played out, is also the source for PyroLave countertops.
1. Old fashioned men's shaving brushes are made with badger hair.
2. Caffeine has a stimulating and tightening affect on skin.
3. There are four types of boxing gloves: fight gloves, for when you are in the ring, speed gloves for use with the speed bag, bag gloves for heavy bag training and sparring gloves, for use during, well, sparring.
4. SmartWool socks use the wool of New Zealand Merino sheep, who have adapated to both hot and cold climates over time.
6. Coco Chanel commissioned several bottles for her perfume line and the fifth one was the one she selected for Chanel No.5.
7. Seamstress and tailor apprentices must work for five years for the House of Pratesi before they can work on linens that will actually be sold.
8. The official tennis ball of Wimbledon is the Slazenger, which has been in use since 1881.
9. The Auvergne, the once-volcanic region in France where the Battle of the Bulge played out, is also the source for PyroLave countertops.
10. Silk is an excellent comforter filling because it naturally regulates temperature according to season.
Friday, January 20, 2012
On Avoidant Behavior
When I should be writing, I exercise.
When I should be exercising, I write.
When I should be either exercising or writing, I clean the house.
When I should be writing something for money, I look at clothes and shoes online.
When I should be listening in church, I contemplate sexual intercourse.
When someone is telling me a step-by-step process which I ought to learn, I think about how long it will be before they stop talking.
When someone is telling me their dream, I imagine stabbing them in the eye.
When I don't know what to do, I play Tetris on my phone.
When I lose at Tetris, I pet my dog and talk to him a whole bunch.
When I should call people, I email them.
When I should go to bed, I look online for naked photos of Micheal Fassbender.
When I should be exercising, I write.
When I should be either exercising or writing, I clean the house.
When I should be writing something for money, I look at clothes and shoes online.
When I should be listening in church, I contemplate sexual intercourse.
When someone is telling me a step-by-step process which I ought to learn, I think about how long it will be before they stop talking.
When someone is telling me their dream, I imagine stabbing them in the eye.
When I don't know what to do, I play Tetris on my phone.
When I lose at Tetris, I pet my dog and talk to him a whole bunch.
When I should call people, I email them.
When I should go to bed, I look online for naked photos of Micheal Fassbender.
On The Dictionary of American Slang
These posts are taken from this copy of The Dictionary of American Slang, compiled and edited by Harold Wentworth, Ph.D. and Stuart Berg Flexner, M.A., published in 1960 by the Thomas Y. Crowell Company.
I bought this book for less than a buck while I worked in my esteemed position as book pricer at a thrift store. It was probably less than a buck, with my employee discount, as it was priced at 99 cents, actually, being a discard from the library of Sibley Senior High School in West St. Paul.
(We usually priced discards lower, unless they were unusually rare, in which I removed the plastic cover to make this less obvious. Book dealers find library editions in poor quality so there's no reason to draw attention to this fact, though anyone with eyes could see the school stamp and check-out card pocket.)
ANYWAY.
The reason for the discard isn't just age, but is related to it. Much of this book uses slang that is highly offensive to us in the modern era. Not that we haven't evolved new forms of offense (cf. UrbanDictionary) but that we aren't as bald-faced about, with the notable exceptions of Newt Gingrich, I suppose. There are plenty of entries that describe someone who is 'cheap' or 'swindling' in ethnic or racial terms, as well as notations that indicate 'Some Negro use.'
Who knows? Maybe the GOP is still using this as a reference guide?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
My Marital Bargain
The plus in marrying someone who a) knows everything b) knows how to do most everything is that your half of the bargain is quite low.
Of course, that's not nice to contemplate sometimes, i.e. What is my purpose in this relationship? etc.
There are only a few things I offer Adrian that he would miss from me should we get divorced or I get hit by a bus.
(OBVIOUSLY SEX. I'M GOOD AT THE SEX. WHO ISN'T? IT'S NOT DIFFICULT. GOD.)
1) Spending his money. Not in that I Heart Shopping! way, like I buy Gucci purses and shit. But I'm very good at knowing what our household needs with respect to supplies and food. This sounds meager, but it's a big deal to Adrian, who finds repetitive tasks dull. He likes to be heroic and creative all at one crack. And buying toilet paper and knowing when we need more cinnamon doesn't fit that bill.
2) Getting The Matilda to sleep. He is better at waking her up. I am better at comforting her into a coma. And not helping myself to my own coma, like he often does. I'm pretty unfun in the rest of my child-rearing, and far from a super-Mom. I couldn't even breastfeed Matilda properly. And I hated pregnancy and birth and all that crap. And I hate 'playing' with her. Or any kids, really. I'm a grinch.
3) Writing thank you notes and buying gifts. Adrian for some reason doesn't understand the need for gift-giving to coincide with birthdays/holidays. He can never remember to write a little thank you note to the kind of people who appreciate them (grandparents, mostly) but he appreciates the hell out of it when I take care of this for him.
4) Having friends he finds attractive. For some reason, Adrian thinks all my friends are babes. Well, they ARE. I can't help it. I like the Beautiful People. But he also likes to talk to them and thinks they are all funny. Of course they are! Why would I keep them around otherwise? Plus they all tend to be brainy and creative and let him have his man fantasy of having a Big Love Harem of Smarty Pants/Artist Women.
5) Allowing the testing of new vocabulary without judgment. This is when he busts out a word he's read but hasn't ever used and then asks, "Did I use that right?" and I can tell him and then he doesn't feel dumb about going out into the big blue beyond and using it in front of strangers.
6) Planning stuff. Like, I plan The Matilda's life. What her activities are, when she goes to the dentist, whether she should start wearing bras or cleaning her room or whatever the hell. Also, I decide if we should do anything social, because he can't plan that shit, but he usually likes whatever I pick. He's very social. I also plan stuff like, How About We Get A New Sofa With The Money I Make Teaching Harry Potter Classes. And then I make that happen and he puts together my Ikea sofa. Also, he hates moving furniture. Not because he's a pussy about the task, but he's like a blind dog about it. Shifts in home decor in general upset him.
7) Also, I watch his one and only child. I forgot about that. I hang out with her while she's not at school and while he's at work. I feed her and stuff. Make her read. Yell at her to finish her homework. Take her to swim practice. All that junk. Oh, and I'm really good at getting her swim cap on her head. Probably he could handle that, but let me have my petty pride.
Of course, that's not nice to contemplate sometimes, i.e. What is my purpose in this relationship? etc.
There are only a few things I offer Adrian that he would miss from me should we get divorced or I get hit by a bus.
(OBVIOUSLY SEX. I'M GOOD AT THE SEX. WHO ISN'T? IT'S NOT DIFFICULT. GOD.)
1) Spending his money. Not in that I Heart Shopping! way, like I buy Gucci purses and shit. But I'm very good at knowing what our household needs with respect to supplies and food. This sounds meager, but it's a big deal to Adrian, who finds repetitive tasks dull. He likes to be heroic and creative all at one crack. And buying toilet paper and knowing when we need more cinnamon doesn't fit that bill.
2) Getting The Matilda to sleep. He is better at waking her up. I am better at comforting her into a coma. And not helping myself to my own coma, like he often does. I'm pretty unfun in the rest of my child-rearing, and far from a super-Mom. I couldn't even breastfeed Matilda properly. And I hated pregnancy and birth and all that crap. And I hate 'playing' with her. Or any kids, really. I'm a grinch.
3) Writing thank you notes and buying gifts. Adrian for some reason doesn't understand the need for gift-giving to coincide with birthdays/holidays. He can never remember to write a little thank you note to the kind of people who appreciate them (grandparents, mostly) but he appreciates the hell out of it when I take care of this for him.
4) Having friends he finds attractive. For some reason, Adrian thinks all my friends are babes. Well, they ARE. I can't help it. I like the Beautiful People. But he also likes to talk to them and thinks they are all funny. Of course they are! Why would I keep them around otherwise? Plus they all tend to be brainy and creative and let him have his man fantasy of having a Big Love Harem of Smarty Pants/Artist Women.
5) Allowing the testing of new vocabulary without judgment. This is when he busts out a word he's read but hasn't ever used and then asks, "Did I use that right?" and I can tell him and then he doesn't feel dumb about going out into the big blue beyond and using it in front of strangers.
6) Planning stuff. Like, I plan The Matilda's life. What her activities are, when she goes to the dentist, whether she should start wearing bras or cleaning her room or whatever the hell. Also, I decide if we should do anything social, because he can't plan that shit, but he usually likes whatever I pick. He's very social. I also plan stuff like, How About We Get A New Sofa With The Money I Make Teaching Harry Potter Classes. And then I make that happen and he puts together my Ikea sofa. Also, he hates moving furniture. Not because he's a pussy about the task, but he's like a blind dog about it. Shifts in home decor in general upset him.
7) Also, I watch his one and only child. I forgot about that. I hang out with her while she's not at school and while he's at work. I feed her and stuff. Make her read. Yell at her to finish her homework. Take her to swim practice. All that junk. Oh, and I'm really good at getting her swim cap on her head. Probably he could handle that, but let me have my petty pride.
The Dictionary of American Slang, Ctd
skull practice: In sports, a lecture session, often illustrated with films or blackboard diagrams, explaining a team maneuver or play, analyzing mistakes made in previous games, or detailing the weaknesses of future opponents. Chiefly football use.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
The Dictionary of American Slang, Ctd.
a harlot's hello: Something that doesn't exist; nothing; zero. 1951: "The silver ore left in our pits isn't worth a harlot's hello - beggin' your pardon, Rebecca." S. Longstreet, The Pedlocks, 75.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
On Good-Looking People
Usually, before I work out, I just wash the body and the hair and put on some eyeliner so my eyes don't disappear into my moon face. But a few days ago, I decided to put on the lady make-up and get Cute for some reason.
Which was a good move, as it turns out, because guess who I knocked into at the YMCA? Hot Tattooed Guy.
So, this time, because I wasn't sweaty yet and still had my Decent Face on, I went near him to get a good look.
You guys, he was not cute. His body was lovely, but the head wasn't working for me. I didn't really notice this on the first encounter. I must have been all googly-eyed by his tattoos and such.
But that first time, I also didn't look him in the face very close. Because whenever I'm around Really Good-Looking People (esp. males), I'm sort of afraid of them. I sort of want to erase away my footsteps like the Untouchables in Arundati Roy's The God of Small Things (fucking awesome book, by the way).
I'm embarrassed about how my disheveled appearance might disturb the Good-Looking Person. Not that they will start crying or something. But just that seeing someone who's ho-hum and meh would be kind of - I don't know - a bummer to them? Since they meet every mirror with so much delight, casting their gaze upon something less-than-stellar might really ruin their mood?
This is an inflated, simplistic conception of Really Good-Looking People, especially when I know that some of them are completely null in terms of personality, given that they must spend so much time considering their bodies and faces and clothing and such. Those concerns take away valuable time from other hobbies of note that make people worth talking to for longer than five minutes. Still, I have this strange worry about being around Really Good-Looking People. As if they're royalty or sensitive pregnant women or something, beings that must only listen to Mozart and Bach and contemplate faces that adhere to the standard of Perfect Greek Thirds. Like something filthy or wretched or even average might sully their own perfection in some way, like a beggar's dirty hand grabbing at the hem of a bejeweled dress.
I sound really crazy so I either suspect that I'm telling too much of the truth or that I'm not making sense. Here endeth the reading.
Which was a good move, as it turns out, because guess who I knocked into at the YMCA? Hot Tattooed Guy.
So, this time, because I wasn't sweaty yet and still had my Decent Face on, I went near him to get a good look.
You guys, he was not cute. His body was lovely, but the head wasn't working for me. I didn't really notice this on the first encounter. I must have been all googly-eyed by his tattoos and such.
But that first time, I also didn't look him in the face very close. Because whenever I'm around Really Good-Looking People (esp. males), I'm sort of afraid of them. I sort of want to erase away my footsteps like the Untouchables in Arundati Roy's The God of Small Things (fucking awesome book, by the way).
I'm embarrassed about how my disheveled appearance might disturb the Good-Looking Person. Not that they will start crying or something. But just that seeing someone who's ho-hum and meh would be kind of - I don't know - a bummer to them? Since they meet every mirror with so much delight, casting their gaze upon something less-than-stellar might really ruin their mood?
This is an inflated, simplistic conception of Really Good-Looking People, especially when I know that some of them are completely null in terms of personality, given that they must spend so much time considering their bodies and faces and clothing and such. Those concerns take away valuable time from other hobbies of note that make people worth talking to for longer than five minutes. Still, I have this strange worry about being around Really Good-Looking People. As if they're royalty or sensitive pregnant women or something, beings that must only listen to Mozart and Bach and contemplate faces that adhere to the standard of Perfect Greek Thirds. Like something filthy or wretched or even average might sully their own perfection in some way, like a beggar's dirty hand grabbing at the hem of a bejeweled dress.
I sound really crazy so I either suspect that I'm telling too much of the truth or that I'm not making sense. Here endeth the reading.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
My Nephews
Sid and Owen are my nephews. They are the mutt's nuts. Couldn't be more different. Couldn't be more excellent.
Example. Sid's nearly 16 and is on the high school swim team. We went to watch his meet and I couldn't get over how awesome he was, standing there in his gawky Ron Weasley glory with his giant fucking feet - they're like gunboats - and not wearing a cap and all shy and man-of-few words. Dives in the pool and rocks the motherfuck out of the 500 freestyle event. Wins that bitch. Then goes and sits down and acts like it was nothing.
For those of you who don't swim, that's 20 lengths of the pool. TWENTY LENGTHS MAN.
Meanwhile, Owen, his 12-year-old brother, is sitting on the bleachers with his nose in Hold Me Closer, Necromancer, which I bought for him. He had just rocked the junior high Geography Bee. He couldn't be more fucking bored at a sporting event, so he's got the classic coping mechanism of his aunt, which is to silently tell the world to hang in favor of the printed word.
My nephews are so funny. Not many people make me laugh but these two kids crack my shit up.
Sid and Owen are the preferred vendors when it comes to Matilda's babysitters. They will also defend the Matilda to the death. They are her fake brothers. Cousin brothers, is what we call them. Matilda once danced around the question of whether one could marry a cousin, because she didn't want Owen to ever move away from her, and figured if she married him, he'd stay put. Cuter.
Thank you, Kristin and Jeff, for having two kids.
So I could just have one kid and scrape by with my bare minimum.
So I could know what it's like to have boys when I only have a girl.
So I could watch all three of them be good siblings to each other, like I am with my own.
Example. Sid's nearly 16 and is on the high school swim team. We went to watch his meet and I couldn't get over how awesome he was, standing there in his gawky Ron Weasley glory with his giant fucking feet - they're like gunboats - and not wearing a cap and all shy and man-of-few words. Dives in the pool and rocks the motherfuck out of the 500 freestyle event. Wins that bitch. Then goes and sits down and acts like it was nothing.
For those of you who don't swim, that's 20 lengths of the pool. TWENTY LENGTHS MAN.
Meanwhile, Owen, his 12-year-old brother, is sitting on the bleachers with his nose in Hold Me Closer, Necromancer, which I bought for him. He had just rocked the junior high Geography Bee. He couldn't be more fucking bored at a sporting event, so he's got the classic coping mechanism of his aunt, which is to silently tell the world to hang in favor of the printed word.
My nephews are so funny. Not many people make me laugh but these two kids crack my shit up.
Sid and Owen are the preferred vendors when it comes to Matilda's babysitters. They will also defend the Matilda to the death. They are her fake brothers. Cousin brothers, is what we call them. Matilda once danced around the question of whether one could marry a cousin, because she didn't want Owen to ever move away from her, and figured if she married him, he'd stay put. Cuter.
Thank you, Kristin and Jeff, for having two kids.
So I could just have one kid and scrape by with my bare minimum.
So I could know what it's like to have boys when I only have a girl.
So I could watch all three of them be good siblings to each other, like I am with my own.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
The Dictionary of American Slang, Ctd.
piss call [taboo] The first call in the morning; the signal to get out of bed. Orig. USN use.
Friday, January 13, 2012
I Only Liked It Halfway
It's heart-breaking when movies or books are only partially good.
Like, the idea is stellar, but then the author fucks it up. Or you only want to watch the scenes or read the pages when a certain character arrives.
This happened to me with Crazy, Stupid Love the other night. Every time Ryan Gosling or Emma Stone came onscreen, I sat up straight. The rest of the film was like my bathroom break.
More heartbreaking is Russell Banks' Lost Memory of Skin. I can't decide whether to keep going or what. I love the character of the Kid. I would follow him anywhere. But now The Professor just walked in and I'm all, 'Get out of here, you're clogging up everything!'
How frustrating it is to have a story poised in one position and then go in another that doesn't appeal! It's not that I want the Kid to have everything turn out all right; it's that the Professor character does not intrigue me so I resent his intrusion into the plot. It almost makes me understand fan fiction. Though I'm quite sure there's no Russell Banks fan fiction. And if there is, on this particular title, which chronicles the lives of homeless sex offenders, I really don't need to seek it out.
Like, the idea is stellar, but then the author fucks it up. Or you only want to watch the scenes or read the pages when a certain character arrives.
This happened to me with Crazy, Stupid Love the other night. Every time Ryan Gosling or Emma Stone came onscreen, I sat up straight. The rest of the film was like my bathroom break.
More heartbreaking is Russell Banks' Lost Memory of Skin. I can't decide whether to keep going or what. I love the character of the Kid. I would follow him anywhere. But now The Professor just walked in and I'm all, 'Get out of here, you're clogging up everything!'
How frustrating it is to have a story poised in one position and then go in another that doesn't appeal! It's not that I want the Kid to have everything turn out all right; it's that the Professor character does not intrigue me so I resent his intrusion into the plot. It almost makes me understand fan fiction. Though I'm quite sure there's no Russell Banks fan fiction. And if there is, on this particular title, which chronicles the lives of homeless sex offenders, I really don't need to seek it out.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The Dictionary of American Slang
from hunger: Inferior; cheap; ugly; lowbrow; disliked; unwanted; corny; hammy...1951: "I started giving the three witches at the next table the eye again. That is, the blonde one. The other two were strictly from hunger." J.D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye, 56.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Attention, Men
SCENE: Carrie opens front door to front yard, where Adrian is using a very long pole to pull down Christmas lights from a tree. It's sunny, about 4:30 in the afternoon.
CARRIE: Hey, honey? Remember how I told you that thing? How women only ask you how you are, because they want YOU to ask how THEY are?
ADRIAN: Yeah.
CARRIE: Okay, so when we were talking about the whole weight loss challenge thing? And I said I think I'd probably lose?
ADRIAN: Yeah?
CARRIE: That's the part where you say, 'Oh, honey, don't say that!' and then proceed to offer multiple reasons why I won't fail.
ADRIAN: Ohhhhh.
CARRIE: Right. So I'll be inside, then. Give you a moment, you know, to revise your response.
CARRIE: Hey, honey? Remember how I told you that thing? How women only ask you how you are, because they want YOU to ask how THEY are?
ADRIAN: Yeah.
CARRIE: Okay, so when we were talking about the whole weight loss challenge thing? And I said I think I'd probably lose?
ADRIAN: Yeah?
CARRIE: That's the part where you say, 'Oh, honey, don't say that!' and then proceed to offer multiple reasons why I won't fail.
ADRIAN: Ohhhhh.
CARRIE: Right. So I'll be inside, then. Give you a moment, you know, to revise your response.
On My Fabled Hermitage
I know I always talk about how hermitty I am. How crowds and strangers bug me. How I wish I lived in the country with no neighbors or in the city with anonymity to protect me from all the skin-crawling social interactions that take place in driveways and yards.
But it's all a bullshit dream, I think. I don't think escaping into some Ted Kazcynski hole is the answer for me.
I mean, I teach classes. To people. In person. And I really like it.
Also, I'm inexplicably comfortable when it comes to public speaking.
Plus, how the hell do I ever make note of all these juicy tidbits involved in all the clutter that is Human Nature if I'm not around people?
So I'm here to stay, I guess. On this block, where I know most of my neighbors, who are all good, friendly, nice people that I'll run into at the grocery or the YMCA or Walgreens. Where I can have a backyard potluck with my friends Amber and Travis with all my leftovers and garden vegetables. Where my sister lives three doors down, a perma-babysitter, for my kid and my dog, both, and with whom we share a lawnmower and snowblower.
Being alone only feels good when it's a choice. Next time I get all misanthropic, remind me of this.
But it's all a bullshit dream, I think. I don't think escaping into some Ted Kazcynski hole is the answer for me.
I mean, I teach classes. To people. In person. And I really like it.
Also, I'm inexplicably comfortable when it comes to public speaking.
Plus, how the hell do I ever make note of all these juicy tidbits involved in all the clutter that is Human Nature if I'm not around people?
So I'm here to stay, I guess. On this block, where I know most of my neighbors, who are all good, friendly, nice people that I'll run into at the grocery or the YMCA or Walgreens. Where I can have a backyard potluck with my friends Amber and Travis with all my leftovers and garden vegetables. Where my sister lives three doors down, a perma-babysitter, for my kid and my dog, both, and with whom we share a lawnmower and snowblower.
Being alone only feels good when it's a choice. Next time I get all misanthropic, remind me of this.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
The Dictionary of American Slang
coffin varnish: Inferior whisky; esp. bootleg or home-made whisky. c1920.
Monday, January 9, 2012
from Daniel Handler's Why We Broke Up
"Don't tease me about math."
"I'm not teasing you. I'm just remembering. You won that prize last year, right?"
"Min."
"What was it?"
"It was just finalist. I didn't win. Twenty-five people got it."
"Well, but the point is-"
"The point is that it's embarrassing, and Trevor and everyone gives me shit about it."
"I don't. Who would do that? It's math, Ed. It's not, like, I don't know, you're a really good knitter. Not that knitting-"
"It's as gay as that."
"What? Don't - math's not gay."
"It is, kind of."
"Was Einstein gay?"
"He had gay hair."
-- from p. 44-45 of Daniel Handler's Why We Broke Up, Little, Brown, 2011.
"I'm not teasing you. I'm just remembering. You won that prize last year, right?"
"Min."
"What was it?"
"It was just finalist. I didn't win. Twenty-five people got it."
"Well, but the point is-"
"The point is that it's embarrassing, and Trevor and everyone gives me shit about it."
"I don't. Who would do that? It's math, Ed. It's not, like, I don't know, you're a really good knitter. Not that knitting-"
"It's as gay as that."
"What? Don't - math's not gay."
"It is, kind of."
"Was Einstein gay?"
"He had gay hair."
-- from p. 44-45 of Daniel Handler's Why We Broke Up, Little, Brown, 2011.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Alex Pettyfer Shirtless
The main driver of traffic to my blog appears to be those in search of shirtless photos of Alex Pettyfer.
So, I guess I could make the best of it. Come for the prurience, stay for the prose - something like that?
Enjoy!
So, I guess I could make the best of it. Come for the prurience, stay for the prose - something like that?
Enjoy!
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Words And Phrases I Dislike
Here are a few words and phrases I don't like. I'm not sure I can come up with a reason for disliking them. This list is by no means comprehensive.
1) Goofy, Goofball, 'Goofing Off' - I know why I hate this one. It makes you sound like a youth pastor.
2) Stink. In any sense. "That trash can stinks." or "I stink at baseball."
3) Egging one on. YUCK.
4) Horny. Actually, I think I've used this in writing. But it was only because the character would have used it. Which grossed me out. But still. I never say that word.
1) Goofy, Goofball, 'Goofing Off' - I know why I hate this one. It makes you sound like a youth pastor.
2) Stink. In any sense. "That trash can stinks." or "I stink at baseball."
3) Egging one on. YUCK.
4) Horny. Actually, I think I've used this in writing. But it was only because the character would have used it. Which grossed me out. But still. I never say that word.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
On Blog Content
My friend Ela was musing about what her blog's focus should be in the new year and that got me thinking, too. Mostly this blog is about whatever crosses my brain pan, though there seems to be some emphasis on reading. And running. And writing. And YA literature. And how great my daughter and husband are. And my ridiculous fantasy life. And things I watch on TV.
So - God. I don't know. I used to be a niche blogger but since I grew out of that phase (thrift store scores and green living, not that I don't go to thrift stores anymore, or recycle, but I just don't care to talk about it at length anymore), I realized that my main activities are 'reading' and 'writing.' That I don't really have any hobbies. Last year I decided that I only wanted to do what really blew my hair back and so I quit doing anything that I was only fair-to-middling at in terms of skill.
Like gardening. I like the idea of a garden. I used to be highly into herb gardening, because fresh herbs in your food really forgive a multitude of sins in terms of cooking ability. Plus I like eating fresh tomatoes in a sandwich. But I don't really want to think about gardening very much. And I hate weeding. And squatting. And watering.
(Okay, most yard work bores me. Except for hanging laundry. I like that because my hands stay nice and clean and soft. Also, free solar power! Also, the whites get so white! Also, Pablo lays underneath the laundry line and watches me approvingly! What's not to love?)
Being a person who enjoys eating, you'd think I'd love to cook. But actually, as I've said a million times, precision's not my thing. I get impatient with the steps and the recipes and the measuring and all that. I get sick of going to the grocery store for all the right ingredients. And technically, I would have to practice day and night to catch up to Adrian, who learned to cook from his mother, a Dutch lady who makes actual good food with real sauces and stuff from all over the world, things you'd pair wine with and whatever. My one culinary skill is canning peaches, pears and tomatoes (not all together) and my signature dishes are refried bean dip and pork chops smothered in cream of mushroom soup. No contest.
Crafting. I can crochet. But I don't know all the stitches. And I don't like to make anything beyond hats and scarves. I'm making a quilt for our bed out of squares, because that's repetitive and lets me watch TV while I'm doing it. All other crafts, I'm terrible at. I can't knit or sew. I don't make soap or candles or psyanky or papercrafts. I can paint...walls. But that's only because Adrian has Home Decor Blindness and doesn't seem to notice what our surroundings look like and I'm bothered by ugliness in that department (not bothered enough to keep things clean, of course).
So, what does that leave? Fitness? I'm sorta picky about my exercise, honestly, though I've played lots of sports, used to do aerobics, used to ski and swim. But I don't own skis anymore. I love swimming but am hesitant to get into the pool (all the undressing and redressing, getting wet and getting dry). I like riding my bike, but not in traffic. I hate bike commuters with a fierce passion, and see no reason why a painted line on the pavement would protect me from someone who shared that feeling. And if I'm with someone else, I don't bike fast, because I see it as a kind of rolling conversation. I don't like exercising with other people that much, as a rule.
You know, maybe I should come up with a new hobby for 2012. Because on paper I sound super boring. But another part of me knows that 'reading' and 'writing' are deceptively simple-sounding pursuits. So. Yeah.
So - God. I don't know. I used to be a niche blogger but since I grew out of that phase (thrift store scores and green living, not that I don't go to thrift stores anymore, or recycle, but I just don't care to talk about it at length anymore), I realized that my main activities are 'reading' and 'writing.' That I don't really have any hobbies. Last year I decided that I only wanted to do what really blew my hair back and so I quit doing anything that I was only fair-to-middling at in terms of skill.
Like gardening. I like the idea of a garden. I used to be highly into herb gardening, because fresh herbs in your food really forgive a multitude of sins in terms of cooking ability. Plus I like eating fresh tomatoes in a sandwich. But I don't really want to think about gardening very much. And I hate weeding. And squatting. And watering.
(Okay, most yard work bores me. Except for hanging laundry. I like that because my hands stay nice and clean and soft. Also, free solar power! Also, the whites get so white! Also, Pablo lays underneath the laundry line and watches me approvingly! What's not to love?)
Being a person who enjoys eating, you'd think I'd love to cook. But actually, as I've said a million times, precision's not my thing. I get impatient with the steps and the recipes and the measuring and all that. I get sick of going to the grocery store for all the right ingredients. And technically, I would have to practice day and night to catch up to Adrian, who learned to cook from his mother, a Dutch lady who makes actual good food with real sauces and stuff from all over the world, things you'd pair wine with and whatever. My one culinary skill is canning peaches, pears and tomatoes (not all together) and my signature dishes are refried bean dip and pork chops smothered in cream of mushroom soup. No contest.
Crafting. I can crochet. But I don't know all the stitches. And I don't like to make anything beyond hats and scarves. I'm making a quilt for our bed out of squares, because that's repetitive and lets me watch TV while I'm doing it. All other crafts, I'm terrible at. I can't knit or sew. I don't make soap or candles or psyanky or papercrafts. I can paint...walls. But that's only because Adrian has Home Decor Blindness and doesn't seem to notice what our surroundings look like and I'm bothered by ugliness in that department (not bothered enough to keep things clean, of course).
So, what does that leave? Fitness? I'm sorta picky about my exercise, honestly, though I've played lots of sports, used to do aerobics, used to ski and swim. But I don't own skis anymore. I love swimming but am hesitant to get into the pool (all the undressing and redressing, getting wet and getting dry). I like riding my bike, but not in traffic. I hate bike commuters with a fierce passion, and see no reason why a painted line on the pavement would protect me from someone who shared that feeling. And if I'm with someone else, I don't bike fast, because I see it as a kind of rolling conversation. I don't like exercising with other people that much, as a rule.
You know, maybe I should come up with a new hobby for 2012. Because on paper I sound super boring. But another part of me knows that 'reading' and 'writing' are deceptively simple-sounding pursuits. So. Yeah.
Breaking Bad
If you don't hear from me or Adrian, don't worry. We're not trapped underneath a piece of heavy furniture, but rather, find ourselves neck-deep in the lives in Walter White and Jesse Pinkman.
If you need us, we'll be glued to the tube in the living room, getting all giddy and tense and grossed out all at once.
I love this feeling, when you're into a new TV show or novel series and you've got a pile of episodes/books stacked up ahead of you. It makes me feel so excited and rich.
If you need us, we'll be glued to the tube in the living room, getting all giddy and tense and grossed out all at once.
I love this feeling, when you're into a new TV show or novel series and you've got a pile of episodes/books stacked up ahead of you. It makes me feel so excited and rich.
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