feedback

The Chronicle, like most newspapers, gets its fair share of irritated reader feedback. Here is one that I particularly enjoyed (edited to maintain this moron's anonymity):

I have a comment on bad or poor taste. On Sunday's paper there was a half naked pregnant woman on the front page. My daughter commented on it. And I am tired of seeing Mexicans in your paper and reading about foreigners.

Reminds me of a friend of a friend who, after telling a wealthy client over the phone that her items were ready, the woman actually said, "Good, I'll have my Mexican come by to pick them up."

There's so much material here I'm stymied. Where do you start?

anti-depression

Maureen Dowd's op-ed in the NYT today:

According to the General Social Survey, which has tracked Americans’ mood since 1972, and five other major studies around the world, women are getting gloomier and men are getting happier.

I'm not making judgments on these studies and their scientific or social accuracy. For all I know they are solid studies. For all I know, they're quackery. It's the reaction to these publications that I find disturbing.

Personal observations can be dismissed as anecdotal and tainted by a lack of objectivity. Be that as it may, I've noticed that reports like these tend to give many women (and men) something to point at and say, "See, proof that women ARE depressed!" and snuggle down into what they now see as justifiable malaise.

Yes. Women often juggle two demanding jobs. Yes. Women are not treated equally in the workplace. Yes, yes, yes, women are judged on their looks in ways that critically devalue their talents and intelligence.

It sucks and it's wrong.

But it's external. EXTERNAL. And the only way for that gross unfairness to destroy you is if you let it in and make it comfortable.* Forgive the annoying self-help sound of that. We are not helpless. And the old adage is true: Living well is the best revenge. If you're not happy, stop sulking and sighing. Figure out how to get happy. Or happier.

Happiness is not something presented to you, wrapped up in a pretty, beribboned box. It's not something that you experience and keep forever. It's not something that solves all your problems. It's not a automatic perk of financial success or physical beauty. Common sense, right?

Start small. Do something that makes you happy. Focus on that. Repeat.

*I have met so many people who seem invested in misery. They invite it in, serve it some nice tea and make sure it feels right at home. When good things happen to them, they are reminded by their permanent house guest of all the wrongs done to them or that something shitty is just around the corner. Many people look at their past and bemoan that they should have appreciated their youth, enthusiasm, potential or health. Whatever patience I once had has been worn thin on this. Boot your inner hand-wringer and stop investing in your own gloom.

huntsville via nyt

Building AND Recycling! In Huntsville, Texas of all unexpected spots. God I love this place.

But I really love this roof. Made from salvaged roof shingles.

Dan Phillips started Phoenix Commotion, a company that makes low-income housing out of construction leftovers and salvaged materials. (I just read this article on the New York Times website...a long way get to a city just a few hours north of here.)

He also says that mobile homes are a blight on the planet...can't argue with that.

I've been researching solar roof panels. I'm interested in finding ways to combine long-term money-saving and, you know, not accelerating the polluting of our little planet here. But I would also like to have some decent aesthetic, in addition to frugality and conservation...most of the solar panel solutions I saw were butt-ugly (and expensive). I mean, a beautiful clay roof with dozens of large blue-black reflective slabs plopped on top like an afterthought? What a shame. I'm hoping solar panel technology advances in manner of the microchip-smaller, faster, stronger. It's a great concept, especially for those of us living right next door to the sun.

i confess

I went to see Julie & Julia and like dozens of clichés under which I am loathe to fall, I am yet another blogger who loved it.

• Not just because I happen to love writing and cooking.
• Not just because I believe fresh bread is divine but may have been created for the sole purpose of conducting sacred butter into our pastry holes.
• Not just because Meryl Streep is fucking amazing and enchanting as Julia Child.
• Not just because there were two love stories I could relate to and empathize with.
• But all these things and a Saturday afternoon matinee with my own St. Barbara.

I'm a little embarrassed to say I'm making hamburgers for dinner. Half ground beef and half ground turkey at that. Oh, I'll saute onions, add beautiful ripe tomato slices and place them on a bed of fresh romaine but we're still talking hamburgers here.

I also have another confession. Some of you are aware of this and seem to have forgiven me but...I'm seeing another blog. Yes. It's true but I love you best and this is only a fling. A three-month infidelity that makes me love you more. I understand if you are irritated. Maybe you won't want to have anything to do with the other blog.

But just in case you do...it's all about DIY. Fixing up the place. No. I mean that's what it's called. I talk about tools and fixing my house. See, you aren't even interested! It's a very narrow scope and is no threat to anyone or anything right here. There are some good diagrams, however, I must admit to that.

PS. About that movie. You know, if you filled a life-sized glass cow to the brim with butter and cream and floated it in a olympic pool of wine that's probably close to what Julia Child consumed in her life. And she lived to 91! Fuck all the hater dieters. Julia sneers at your Lean Cuisine.

thought for the day

From today's A.Word.A.Day:

There will be no Homeland Security until we realize that the entire planet is our homeland...
-John Perkins, economist and author (b.1945)

food for thought; pie for poetry

Another delicious morsel from [today's] Writer's Almanac.

Blackberry Pie

by Jennifer Rae Vernon

is kernels of juice
blue, mom makes it do
magic heat to vanilla ice cream
purple dream

there were many nice things,
the corduroy pinafore
the daily notes in lunch sack
of a smiley face and curly cue hair
your mama loves you, and do great
with a thermos of homemade soup

dad too, he rocked me on front porch
after seven yellow jacket stings
i howled through the valley
in baking soda paste
while he sang, in the big rock candy mountain...

but just like grandma vernon always said
don't bother doing anything nice for your children
they'll only remember the bad things, anyway
like when she tethered my dad
to the front yard tree
so he could play when she was at work

was that bad? a ruined childhood?
bless her heart
and pie too, is sometimes
tart

sexy, sexy salad

From yesterday's Writer's Almanac. Poetry that makes your veggies blush.

Vegetable Love

by Barbara Crooker

Feel a tomato, heft its weight in your palm,
think of buttocks, breasts, this plump pulp.
And carrots, mud clinging to the root,
gold mined from the earth's tight purse.
And asparagus, that push their heads up,
rise to meet the returning sun,
and zucchini, green torpedoes
lurking in the Sargasso depths
of their raspy stalks and scratchy leaves.
And peppers, thick walls of cool jade, a green hush.
Secret caves. Sanctuary.
And beets, the dark blood of the earth.
And all the lettuces: bibb, flame, oak leaf, butter-
crunch, black-seeded Simpson, chicory, cos.
Elizabethan ruffs, crisp verbiage.
And spinach, the dark green
of northern forests, savoyed, ruffled,
hidden folds and clefts.
And basil, sweet basil, nuzzled
by fumbling bees drunk on the sun.
And cucumbers, crisp, cool white ice
in the heart of August, month of fire.
And peas in their delicate slippers,
little green boats, a string of beads,
repeating, repeating.
And sunflowers, nodding at night,
then rising to shout hallelujah! at noon.

All over the garden, the whisper of leaves
passing secrets and gossip, making assignations.
All of the vegetables bask in the sun,
languorous as lizards.
Quick, before the frost puts out
its green light, praise these vegetables,
earth's voluptuaries,
praise what comes from the dirt.

why pink and blue annoy me

Interesting article in today's New York Times on Caster Semenya, a South African runner who won gold at the world track and field championships in Berlin but who is being gender-tested because she was 2-seconds faster than the rest of the runners (though she did not break the world record) and it seems, she just doesn't look female enough.

First of all, let me get the wordplay out of my head: Her name is Semenya and I want her to be from Kenya. Okay. Thank you. Moving on.

Two quotes from the article were particularly fascinating:
It turns out genes, hormones and genitals are pretty complicated,” Alice Dreger, a professor of medical humanities and bioethics at Northwestern University, said in a telephone interview. “There isn’t really one simple way to sort out males and females. Sports require that we do, but biology doesn’t care. Biology does not fit neatly into simple categories, so they do these tests. ”

Dreger...said the doctors could examine genes, gonads, genitalia, hormone levels and medical history. “But at the end of the day, they are going to have to make a social decision on what counts as male and female, and they will wrap it up as if it is simply a scientific decision,” Dreger said. “And the science actually tells us sex is messy. Or as I like to say, ‘Humans like categories neat, but nature is a slob.’ ”

Nature is a slob. That's my kind of science.

hats off to dad

Last year I wrote a post about my father. It was, in part, about waterboarding. His retired police friends have a habit of sending mass emails about this or that. Last week they sent him an email that accused the Obama administration of arbitrarily denouncing waterboarding and taking away this effective interrogation tool. This is his response and it makes me proud:

The worst mistake we make as free thinking human beings is that of allowing others to lead us by the ears. Waterboarding is torture and its classification as such predates The Inquisition in the 13th century. It has been denounced for 700 years, give or take a hundred. Neither President Obama nor Nancy Pelosi had anything to do with the promulgation of this as torture, they are just not that old.

Waterboarding is an attractive interrogation technique because it causes great physical and mental suffering without leaving any marks on the body.

In the past when law enforcement authorities in the U.S. (Texas 1983) use[d] waterboarding, a sheriff and his deputies were convicted and sentenced to four (4) years in prison.

In 1947, the U.S. charged a Japanese officer, Yukio Asano, with war crimes for waterboarding a U.S. civilian. Asano was sentenced to 15 years in prison at hard labor.

We are the good guys, we do not torture even our enemies.

frontal lobe combustion

Did you ever deal with an issue so confusing, contradictory and demanding that you were sure the problem-solving part of your brain was about to burst into flames? It feels like I've had a couple of those every day this week. All I've got upstairs is soot and ashes. And, mixed-metaphors be damned, a cranial charlie horse.

Not that I'm alone. My family members have had a trying week and mine can't even compare. I just think the wisps of smoke coming out of my head holes deserve some 'splainin', Lucy.

Speaking of 'splainin': Supreme Court Justice Sotomayor–the sound of that makes this Puerto Rican woman stand a little prouder.

saturday morning solace

"At the worst, a house unkept cannot be so distressing as a life unlived."
—Rose Macaulay, from today's Writer's Almanac

Last weekend I was in Michigan visiting my sister. Grand Rapids in July (fleeing Houston) is a delight. Houston in December (fleeing Grand Rapids) is likewise. The berries were abundant and the mornings were cool. I was thrilled to have four whole days with my sister. Just two sisters and the occasional child, grandchild or friend stopping by. [I, not too subtly, also celebrated the absence of her rod-up-his-ass, soon-to-be ex-husband.] We tinkered around her new/old (1925) and completely beguiling Craftsman bungalow. Fixing this, unsticking that. In between we dined and napped and talked and laughed.

This weekend I'm facing a little post-visit slump. And the return of the What Am I Doing with My Life Short and Long Term Goal Review. I probably go through this too much, but time passes and a girl wants something to show for it.

So I review. And remember to count that time spent relaxing with partner or self is not wasted time. Inner Puritan be silenced. But there are items ahead. Projects. Travel. Health care. House Repair. Writing. Reading. Major and Minor Expenses. And I want to do it all and do it really well. Which is a key to my inaction.

When I was a girl, I joined the ranks of band fags everywhere and took up the french horn. I loved the horn. I loved the sound it produced (when I didn't make it sound like an elephant in rut). I loved the design of it. I loved the way it blended in the orchestra and I loved when it rose above the ensemble. But I was a mediocre horn player. That was clear for 8 years. It was one of the only activities I persisted at, knowing that I would never excel.

I remind myself of this when I am unwilling to complete something that isn't exactly what I wanted. When I become mired in perfection. Which is part of the reason I am writing this mediocre, self-serving post. Blogging can be a tiresome examination of all things mundane. It's not my goal. But I'm getting out of practice, so this is my response to just writing something.

I have some lumber that needs cutting. I refuse to go outside and work in this bloody heat. I ought to clean the mess in the rest of the house...but hell, why not haul in the miter saw and cover that back room in sawdust anyway? Unkept or unlived? It's a pretty easy choice.

the perils of overenthusiasm

Bought a new shredder. Isn't it a beaut? Felt quite droll using the registration card for my first shred. Ha, ha, so ironical am I.

Then, we went to town on the bag of accumulated sensitive paperwork. Worked pretty well, only overheated twice (it has a temperature sensor and I appreciate the heads-up...rather than other shredders which just stopped for no apparent reason).

Damned if I can't find the manual now.

not related to the previous post

Sometimes when you cook, the simple joy of Nature's bounty is payoff enough:

The only disappointment was that the yolks weren't conjoined. Now that would have been amazing. Still in all my years of baking, I've never run into a single twin (hehe) egg, so three two cheers for mitosis.

step 1: admit that you are powerless over the flesh

via passiveaggressivenotes.com

More important than the immature, yet decidedly funny, retort to the Vegan support group flyer is the alt tag to this image: soyfuckers anonymous.

From the famous (I assume) passive-aggressive note I loved so much.

I only regret that I haven't started the Houston chapter of Soyfuckers Anonymous. Or designed the Bacon is Life logo.

what they said

Religions are founded on the fear of the many and the cleverness of the few.
-Stendhal
via Wikiquote

A belief which leaves no place for doubt is not a belief; it is a superstition.
-Jose Bergamin, author (1895-1983)
via A.Word.A.Day

What gods are there, what gods have there ever been, that were not from man's imagination?
-Joseph Campbell
via Wikiquote

Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich.
-Napoleon Bonaparte
via quotdb.com

If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.
-Voltaire
via Wikiquote

Do you, good people, believe that Adam and Eve were created in the Garden of Eden and that they were forbidden to eat from the tree of knowledge? I do. The church has always been afraid of that tree. It still is afraid of knowledge. Some of you say religion makes people happy. So does laughing gas. So does whiskey. I believe in the brain of man. I'm not worried about my soul.
-Clarence Darrow, American Lawyer and Civil Libertarian
via wikiquote

I have always felt that doubt was the beginning of wisdom, and the fear of God was the end of wisdom.
-Clarence Darrow, American Lawyer and Civil Libertarian
via wikiquote

a few of my favorite things

There are times that I can feel great despair over the human condition. Then I see something like this and, difficult as it may be for some of you to join in my glee, I feel hope.

Rather than choose shame or self-loathing for a genetic condition that falls outside the norm (syndactyly), this person takes their particular set of assets, marries form to function and infuses (an offering, oh mighty pun-gods.) the whole thing with humor. What a marvelous tat, indeed.

Then there is this. I want my driveway covered with lizards.

Have I mentioned that I adore Cory Doctorow? I don't read sci-fi as a rule but most of the random boingboing posts I am drawn to are authored by him.

I'll read his stuff...got to get through Moby Dick first. Which, by the way, is great but not quick read. Halfway there.

In the meantime, I will dream and plot all the ways I can surround myself with beautiful, well-crafted, funny things.

the muse is probably not amused

After writing about creativity and divine inspiration, I feel a little crass posting this. Like trading out A Muse for amuse. But I kind of have to. For balance.

Okay, you know this happens regularly. A graphic behind the talking head is not the breaking news. A photo is published that doesn't match the story. Two stories are published side by side that produce an unintended (most of the time, I assume) irony.

Okay, so it's not funny that people died in the ConAgra plant in North Carolina. It's not funny but the juxtaposition of the image is amusing. Not hysterical, just amusing.

Amusing. Like one of the first eyewitness quotes that started: "I was getting ready to pick up a piece of meat off the line and I felt it [the explosion]..." said worker Chris Woods.

Amusing like the atypical comment (as the comment section following most articles is a huge fetid pile of human brain waste) I read: "Explosion...what the heck is in those Slim Jims anyway?"

But my favorite thing about this unfortunate event was the image of a building spewing forth cellophane-encased Slim Jim spears like so many fireworks streamers. That amuses me.

fucking genius

I've kept this particular talk on the back burner of my must-see TED talks. A back burner piled high right now. My daughter just emailed me this same link and helped me reduce that pile by one. Worth far more than the 18 minutes it took to watch...

I don't believe in daemons or spirits but all my life I have felt that creative inspiration was as close to (my limited understanding of) divinity as anything I have ever experienced. I don't feel the need to overanalyze that notion because atheism is just as much anti-certainty about the unknown as it is anti-god.

It is good to feel proud of your "work." But whatever it is, absolute credit is the flipside of total blame...it's not all you. If you believe in the spiritual component, give it due. If you believe in the collective experience of history, share the spotlight. If you believe in capricious Fate (as I do), make room on the podium or the gallows.

So, I add my "Olé!" to hers. And Olé! to the creative souls of my daughter and my son.

awad of words

From yesterday's A.Word.A.Day:

If your morals make you dreary, depend on it they are wrong.
-Robert Louis Stevenson, novelist, essayist, and poet (1850-1894)

Take that, Puritans.

And from Monday's A.Word.A.Day:

PURLICUE (PUHR-li-kyu)
noun:
1. The space between the extended forefinger and thumb.
2. A flourish or curl at the end of a handwritten word. Also known as curlicue.
3. A discourse, especially its summarizing part.

I've highlighted my favorite definition.

five years later

On Saturday, May 29, 2004, I gingerly launched into this blog thing in an internet cafe in Madrid. I wasn't even sure I was doing it "right."

For the past five years (minus the one-year hiatus following my exchange student experience when I didn't think this blog was necessary anymore) I have raged, snarked and confessed here. I have waxed poetic, verbose and danced the happy dance. I have made friends and rediscovered the absolute joy of writing. For my dozen faithful readers, lurking and not, I am grateful and touched by your companionship on this journey. For those of you who stopped reading or didn't find my entries compelling, I am grateful to you for stopping by anyway.

For those I've offended, well, move along. Go on.

Jesus, it's starting to sound like I'm breaking up with my blog. I'm not.

[Note: No, I haven't lost my mind and reposted. Last month, thanks to the miracle of setting the publish time for a blog entry to a specific date in the future, I wrote this post.
Then, promptly forgot about it.
So, yesterday morning I dashed off the previous and now redundant post. This is what happens when you try to out-organize yourself. I'm going to go check the draft section of my blog now.]